First Day without Diapers.

OK. So yesterday wasn't so bad. I mean, if you don't mind waking up to a room reeking with pee, having to start a load of laundry before you can even get your coffee, having to change his pants and underwear and socks again a half an hour later, then driving to church wanting to bite all your fingernails off wondering if warm pee is seeping into that nice car sear back there, and then at church going through all THREE pairs of underwear and change of clothes that you brought for him, thinking you were bringing WAY to many, I mean, how many accidents can the kid have in two hours? Three, obviously. But is wasn't so bad. I think the highlight was that he was telling me all morning he had to poo, which makes sense because yesterday he didn't go. So we tried and tried and tried. And he didn't go poo in his pants at church, which is always a good thing, and then when he got home, he told me again he had to go poo. So we tried some more. Nothing. I felt for sure that he was going to be one of those boys I have heard about, the kind the go potty fine on the toilet until it comes to poo--then they go hide in a corner to do the smelly business. Well, Ethan just seemed he was going to be one of those kids. He has never once wanted to go poo in the potty. So I just knew we were going to have a poo-in-the-corner kid on our hands.
Well, he was playing fine in his room when all of a sudden he poked his little head around the door with this curious look on his face-- tense, a little scared, and very concentrated. His voice was constricted but he squeaked out, "I have to go poop."
So off to the little potty we went. And lo and behold, the little kid did it, beautifully, holding his Thomas the Train book in his hand, turning the pages between the cutest little grunts you ever heard. For a moment I felt what it must feel like for a mother to be there for her daughter through labor--all this emotion, struggle, and desperateness for them to succeed, but you just have to be there. You can't make them do it and you can't do it for them.
And then the icing on the cake is that he did it two more times later that day. So the whole morning really didn't even compare to the victory in the afternoon. The battle may not be won entirely, but there is no way we are going to lose.
Then this morning I was sure I was going to wake up to another load of pee soaked bedding and the kid was dry as a bone. I kept touching his bottom and the sheets because I couldn't believe it. I almost laughed. He acted like it was no big deal--"yeah, I didn't pee." Then we went to the little potty again, and he filled it up. I about died.
I am still being careful though. I don't want to dehydrate the poor kid but when he asks for milk, I fill just the bottom of his sippy cup (which, o my gosh, when do you have to take those away? O Lord help me.) and then every fifteen minutes I ask him, "Do you have to pee?" Or "Let's go pee!" Like any normal person, he almost always shakes his head no, but I have to ask again, just to make sure, "But honey, are you sure you don't have to go pee?" The irony is when he does go, he is usually the one to initiate it.
More than anything, this has been a lesson for me to trust my two year old. It's enough to fry your nerves almost to the point of burning them charcoal black.

Underwear!

He cried. He rolled on the floor. I told him he would stay in his bed until he decided to put them on. When he did decide, I knew everything would be fine. He wanted to check himself out in the mirror. As he looked at himself he said, "I look like that super hero, just like that guy with the red ones". I agreed. Just like the guy with the red ones.

Christmas Woo Hoos and Boo Hoos.

Santa and his elf.

A cereal bar! What could be better!!

The red nail polish is chipping, which means that Christmas is over. It was good and bad, like all things are.

Watching Ethan was joyfully good. He can't help but be happy, and his happiness reaches anybody in eye or ear shot. That is him playing Santa in his sleigh, delivering toys to "all the children"-his phrase, not mine. For a very old two year old, he handled the present over load very well. By the end when he'd open a gift, I'd start to say, "Ethan, go say tha--..." and he'd start reciting, "thank you thank you thank you" about fifteen times to nobody in particular, in a trance-like tone. I felt so bad for him I just let him be. I'll send a "thank you" in the mail on his behalf.

The bad is that I still feel tired, even with the new eight hour sleep schedule I am on. I feel old. What a horrible feeling. Maybe some of it has to do with my short hair--when I wake up I look like a drunk off the street. Seriously. With my missing half eyebrow and crazy hair and blotchy skin. So the rest of the day, after I shower and cover my face with color, I still feel old and worn underneath it all.

My marriage feels old too, quiet. Not really sure what to do about it--I feel like I have tried all the tricks I know over the last five years to try and liven things up, and none of them have any lasting effect. It's just me and Joey, same as we've always been. He's practical and consistent and hard working and boring, and I am emotional and inconsistent and looking for a thrill somewhere.

And then sometimes I look over at his profile in the car, when we are driving, and it's like all these petty feelings come to a cosmic explosion of a different reality, a reality of Joey as my provider and leader and companion, even if I don't feel the slightest mushy gushyness at all. The realness of this reality is gone in an instant, and then we are just driving again, trying to get somewhere.

Christmas Sunday.

I feel blessed to be sitting at the table with Ethan, to have spent the last week with him. The days still go by quickly, only I am much more relaxed most of the time. I think about work less and less and less, although my thoughts still drift there, mostly when I am in bed alone, trying to fall asleep.
I am re-reading a book on biblical discipline and it is so good. I have already seen tiny fruit, like the size of a berry. I realize one of the reasons I tend to hate disciplining Ethan is because I have always tended to hate discipline in my own life. The revelation is this: I am getting just as much "training" when I correct Ethan as he is. Everything I am trying to teach him, I need to learn; the only way I can effectively teach him to obey, is if I am seeking obedience in my own life. Every time he needs correcting it's a reminder of my own need. Without remembering a loving Father, this gets wearisome.
All the more reason to focus on the God-child born in a manger, that "tiny heart whose blood will save us".

Cheerios and the Chills.

We are eating breakfast. Ethan wants some Tylenol because he thinks it will help his runny nose, so I half heartily give him a couple squirts out of the little dispenser, even though it makes me feel like a lazy mother who can't tell her child no. I did have his breakfast ready though, something we are working on so that he doesn't get up and want to lay on the living room floor with just a sippy full of milk while he cuddles his blankies.
He stuffs a couple of Cheerios into his mouth and then lifts his little fist in the air and drops a couple more for the doggies waiting expectantly. He does this a couple of times before I warn him he's about to start his day with a good morning spanking. He stops.
It is cold cold cold outside. Just looking outside gives me the chills. I think we will get dressed and go try to find the last two Christmas gifts, then we will be ready.

Snow Days.

I have not regretted one second of this white coat. Ethan's first Frosty.

"Isn't this great Mom? Come lay down in the snow. Lay down in the snow in the sun. It feels so nice Mama, come'on."

I don't know how I thought I could live without these days with Ethan and Joey. Days we are home together, with nothing in particular to do.

Ethan loves the snow. Makes me kinda like it again too. In fact, I have a fire in my pants to go snowboarding. I want a new hobby, something I have never really got into yet. Painting, crocheting, and even decorating the house all seem a little boring right now. I want to fly down a mountain with my cheeks burning from the cold.

Winter.

I just finished my Christmas shopping, except for Dad. I met Jess out at the mall and we walked around in the cold from store to store. We got free hot cocoa from a lady dispensing it from what looked like a box on her back. It was so good, just the perfect temperature.
Ethan was a doll. I bought him a hat and mittens because all I had dressed him in was a hoody and too-short cords, so his ankles were showing. His new hat is the kind that have those flappies that go over his ears, and it's a little too big. Priceless, really.
I bought myself a soft, white down coat. I have about a bazillion coats, but not one that I can wear with whatever anywhere. So I bit the bullet and bought it. It was on sale, and I was cold too.
Did I mention Ethan was a doll?
It felt good to be outside, even though it was cold. My ears are still cold.
I came home to wrap and realized I was out of a key ingredient in this wrapping business: tissue paper. So I will have to pick some up. And some deep boxes.
It was a surprise to wake up to snow this morning. It was very pretty. I drove to kickboxing on side streets that were covered in huge sheets of ice, but we got there OK. I hate driving on ice. We only passed one accident on the freeway, the SUV like a dead bug flipped upside down.

Home.

I quite my job two days ago. There are a lot of things swimming around in my head.
A "big weight" has not been lifted off my shoulders, like I thought. Although in a sense a lot of pressure is gone--it's just been replaced with new pressure, pressure to train Ethan.
I know going to work for me was easier than being a "full time" mom; the problem was I couldn't handle working full time and even being a "part time" mom. I was getting crazy thoughts and dealing with Ethan was on the verge of making me violent.
I am in my bathrobe and it is two fifteen in the afternoon. I am sipping jasmine green tea. My nails are freshly painted.I've already taken a nap-my right eye is not twitching from lack of sleep. These are my luxuries now.
But Ethan is still awake, whining his room. He's been in there for a solid two hours. And you know what? He will do the same thing tomorrow.
I know staying at home will be good. I can remember what it's like to want to make a home really homey, to want to learn to cook good meals, to be a blessing to my husband (who's he?) and to Ethan, to have time to go to dinners and graduations and birthday parties without feeling like these "extra" things were going to make me snap.
I fought so hard to make this job work--I didn't realize that while I was fighting for it, it was digging itself a big whole in the middle of my heart. I didn't realize that I had actually succeeded in building good relationships with my customers. I thought we all hated each other, deep down. The emails and responses I got from them were so frustrating: "you will be missed" "please keep in touch" "if you ever come back, please call me" " I hope the next person treats me as well as you do"...I wanted to punch the computer screen, throw the telephone.
But it's done and over, and I am trusting that even though my heart is heavy, God guides us. Even when we are unsure.
Since I have not been working, I have had the chance to read Ethan stories without skipping pages because I'm afraid I'll fall asleep before we get to the end. We've danced together. When I kiss him goodnight, I don't question if I am wasting this time I have with him now. I'm starting to get to know him again; he's grown into quite a different boy from a year ago. Smart and persistently stubborn. He sings, even when he is in time out.
It scares the heck out of me to think he's training depends on me.
It scares me like work use to scare me, the same insecurity--Can I do this? Maybe the responses from my customers is one way of God telling me that I can do things that I think I suck at. Even being a mom.

Maybe.

The other day I was walking on my lunch break because I am trying to become more physically active and I stepped in fresh dog poo. The ironic thing is that the exact moment my tennis shoe hit the mushiness, I was thinking how strange it was that I saw two stray dogs roaming around.
The neighborhood I found was out of a story book--big, wide, winding streets lined with trees with houses that all had three car garages and double doorways welcoming you inside. It was quiet and almost eerie the more I kept walking, like I had just stepped into one of those fake worlds where all the people are beautiful and plastic. A good few of the houses had yard workers blowing leaves and cleaning out flower beds.
So anyway I sat down and cleaned the poo out of my shoe with a little stick. Then I walked back to work.
After work I had a mini meltdown, was over it by the time I picked up Ethan, and then it came back when I realized what a grumpy mood the little man was in.
The thing is I would really like to have another baby, I think. And also I feel overwhelmed right now with my responsibilities, so maybe I want to have a baby not only for the smell of new baby hair and everything but also so that I can quit all these responsibilities I have and focus on ONE thing--the baby.
OK, and Ethan and Joey.
This feeling has been growing for quite some time, so maybe it's time I do something about it instead of just feeling overwhelmed all of the time. Maybe.

Undies and the Kickoff to the Holidays.

He will wear them on his head, but he will not wear them like we all do. He's terrified of them. I mention the word "underwear" and he freaks. His diapers have become a necessity, like his blankies. This three year old marker is fast approaching and I am freaking, at least on the inside.
Starbursts have helped. He is way excited about those--when he goes tinkle on the potty he can choose one out the humongous bag I bought, and he always chooses the light pink ones.
Which by the way when I bought the bag I thought to myself, this is not such a good idea...being that I have always loved Starbursts, especially the pink ones. And the bag is humongous.

We went to a friend's Thanksgiving dinner last night. Joey was able to take a couple of hours off work so he could go too. It was nice to see old friends, the group that we hung out with when we very first were together.
There were babies and toddlers everywhere. All these young mothers, sitting on the couch with

bright, colorful apron like cover ups breastfeeding. Their was one tiny girl, just two weeks old, sleeping in her pink and brown car seat, her eyes clenched shut like she was forcing herself to stay asleep, like she wasn't ready for all the commotion and hoopla of the holidays. I guess sometimes we can all feel like that.

Heat.

It's Sunday morning. I slept in till a quarter to seven, fed the doggies, made coffee, and Ethan still isn't up, so it's quiet. I have come to appreciate, no more than that, hold very dear, like an old piece of jewelry, times such as these.
It's getting cold, most of the pretty yellow and orange and red leaves are all on the ground now. The cold air makes me want more coffee than ever and the sound of the heater coming on reminds me of growing up on Stardust St; when I smell that warm, heater air coming up through the vents (what is that smell? like fire, sort of?) it is very comforting to me in my grown up life, here in my own home. When I was a little girl, we used to keep the house pretty darn freezing. I wore pass-me-down nightgowns that I'm sure started out very soft, but by the time they got to me had taken so many turns in the washer they felt more like felt pajamas than anything else. There were elastic in the wrists that would leave red indentations in my skin. My socks would usually have a hole here and there. I'd wake up in that huge, cold house and the second I'd hear that loud heater warming up, I'd get to a heating vent as soon as I could, sit down, tuck my nightgown around me so no air could escape, and within seconds my nightgown would blow up around me like a balloon.

Purple Sky, Creepy Train, and Neighbors.

I drove home from work last night in my gold minivan and the sky was turning that pretty purple color, right before it goes dark. It made me a little sad. There is something about not being with your kid all day and then going to pick him up when it's dark--it seems sadder than before, in the summer, when it was still light out at five.
Some lady at work was selling her used DVD's, so I picked up the Polar Express, thinking Ethan would LOVE it because of that big 'ole train. I hadn't seen it but I heard it was good.
Well, no one told me it was freaking scary as hell. I mean, this movie is CREEPY. Ethan for the most part sat on the couch with his eyes the size of saucers and his mouth open a little. The only time his mouth closed and he relaxed was when they light up this huge, gorgeous Christmas tree at the end. Then he said, "Ahhh, Christmas!" and it broke my heart because he's just so dang pure and precious, and the rest of this supposedly wonderful Christmas film was dark and strange.
Fiebe is finally potty trained. Not trustfully potty trained, but I can't remember the last time I had to wipe up the stinky yellow puddles on my kitchen floor. Every time I see her race out the door, headed right for the lawn, and then assume the position, I want to clap my hands and jump up and down.
Ethan, on the other hand, is much slower at this. He'll go on the potty, if he wants to. Which is about point five percent of the time.
Candy, stickers, and movies have only helped a little.
To be quite honest this part of parenting has scared me since the moment I first held Ethan in my arms. I have absolutely no clue how to handle this transition, and good lord what if he is still loading his pants when he is three and a half?
We grew up with a little neighbor boy, the youngest of seven, who was still crapping his pants IN SCHOOL.
So don't tell me this won't happen.
Anyway--
Brian and Jamie move just down the street a ways this weekend. God has answered my prayers once again. It's so lonely to not live by friends--I hope that life won't be too busy for random dinners, things like that.
I really enjoy their company, and with Jamie having a baby, there will be even more things to connect us.

Wear it.

The frog keeps coming back. Even this morning, laying on the mat, outside the door when I go to feed the doggies. It's about half its original size now, and very much weightless. Not even recognizable as a frog, save for the fact that I know what it was. I believe Feibe is the culprit that won't let this frog lie in peace. I sweep his crusty decaying body into the wood chips and low and behold, she brings him back to me.
What does this mean?
Is the frog me? In some way? This is what happens when you major in English and everything is a metaphor for something else.
Well, I don't feel like a crusty, decaying frog but I do feel bloated and like my pants are too tight.
I bought some new sweaters, in a larger size than I was last year, and they feel like heaven, like I can breath. I guess I am waiting on the jeans because for some reason it is so much harder to buy a bigger size in jeans than in a shirt. Jeans seem so definitive. So for sure--YOUR BUTT IS BIGGER THAN IT USED TO BE.
And I guess I am thinking maybe I will be pregnant soon and it will be so much less painful to buy a bigger pair of pants then, versus now, because there would be a legitimate reason as to why my pants don't fit: the teeny, tiny, microscopic baby in my womb.
It doesn't make any sense whatsoever but that's how it is.
Work was nuts, what's new? I am learning that I am a freaking NICE person. This sales world is quite brutal, like everyone wants everyone else to just die so they can have their customers. And the customers think that I want to gouge them every chance I have, which is just not the case. I am learning though. To communicate, to not shake or sweat, or want to cry, whenever some hard situation presents itself. The growth is good, but very painful...makes me feel like a wet kitten. Like a beaten, wet kitten.
Maybe someday I will look back and see how all this made me stronger, but now I just feel weak.
It's a hard lesson for a nice, straight A girl like me to learn that business is not about being nice. Fair, yes. Nice, not so much. Not everyone is going to love you to pieces, and in fact, some people might think you are dumb or rude or or just plain annoying.
Wear it, that's what they say. It means move on, get over it (or yourself).
Wear it.
And that's what I tell myself, over and over and over: wear it girl. Move on.

Frog update.

Later, when I checked on him, he had turned charcoal black. I grabbed the broom and swept him into the garden, and I was surprised his body still had wet weight to it. I guess I was expecting him to be weightless, like a chip.

Frog.

It's early Saturday morning, one of my favorite times. Quiet. Coffee. Bathrobe.

Last night I came home late and let the doggies out, and right before I closed the door I saw something on the pavement. It was a frog, on it's back, legs outstretched in the most unnatural way, dead. It surprised me, and I felt sad and grossed out at the same time. "Good grief," I said to myself and then shut the door, musing on how random and disgusting that was.

Then this morning when I let the doggies out again, there was that frog, same place, only this time right side up and with his legs in a normal position. He still looked sick, and one of his foggy feet looked like it was smashed onto the pavement and he was slowly trying to drag his body away from it. There was a dark wet spot all around him, like he was in the middle of a circle.

I just checked on him again and he still there, quiet and not moving. It's seriously upsetting.

Remember?

Everything is OK if I am dressed up and around people. Especially if it is people that don't know me especially well, even friends. It's easy to feel proud and strong in a stupid way; proud that he is doing what he is doing and that I am doing so darn well ALONE.

At the park, at church, at family dinners, at birthday parties, at weddings.

It's when I get in the car that it settles. The quietness, the loneliness. I don't cry very often, maybe twice a year, and this year each time has been while I am accelerating on the on ramp of the free-way. By the time I am actually on the free-way, I am all dried up again, even though I wish I could bawl all the way home.

Always, it's, Where's Joey?

I went to a wedding yesterday and in the vows each said to the other,

I will love you when we are together, and when we are apart.

The words hit me like a stick in my gut, and I wondered if any other married person in the room was feeling as uncomfortable as I was, self pity turning slowly into conviction.

I read Hosea, a book that has always grounded me in my marriage, reminding me of the unsettling truth that me marrying Joey had quite little to do with my own happiness and everything to do with God's ways; ways that are eternally good, ways that start with my own brokenness--

That's how I was brought to Joey. I was broken, I saw God's goodness, and I let myself, "be

chosen, blessed by love, as if anointed."

I forget this like it was a dream, and instead live everyday thinking that I direct my own paths. I create my own happiness.

Which is exactly what leads to the pitiful scene on the on ramp:

me teary-eyed, my heart like a dead weight in my body.

It's not that I have fallen out of love, it's that have forgotten my own vows, the promises of the God who is leading my every step, the blessing of the company of my soul mate, even if it's not on the weekends.

Push to hush.

I woke up early this morning. Fiebe is sitting on my lap, nestled like a hen. She licks the table constantly, which is as annoying as the BEEP! of the fire alarm yesterday, going off every fifteen seconds because it was time to change the batteries or something, but I couldn't figure out how to take the dumb thing apart to do it. Two days of that and I was ready to do whatever it took to rip the darn thing out of the ceiling and take a hammer to it, pulverizing it into powder. I got up on Ethan's dresser because with the ottoman I was still to short to reach it, and Ethan immediately told me, "Mama, you are going to fall." He ran away and then came back, carrying a heavy stool that was as tall as he was. "Here Mama, you need the stoo-el." His dad would have been incredibly proud of him, and extremely annoyed at me.

Anyways, I stayed on the dresser and I finally was able to read the teeny, barbie size lettering-after twisting and turning my neck and head in unbearable positions-near the flashing green light:

Push to hush.

It should read, Push to hush before you want to shoot yourself.

I pushed it and it made one final, piercing BEEEEEEEEEEEP and has been silent ever since.

Does it still work? I don't know. Do I care right now? Absolutely not.

My Poor, Neglected Blog

The weather out is absolutely beautiful. The trees are red and air has just a little brrr! to it, but nothing to get in a tissy about.
Ethan is growing up, just as they say they do, before my very eyes. He is rough and funny. The time I am with him feels stolen. More and more, I can't believe he is mine.
He sings constantly. He plays the guitar ("Can I make it bling, mommy?") I do my best to show him how to hold it but his little hand isn't big enough to cradle the neck. So he lets the neck rest on the floor and strums the strings with his other hand while singing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider." Which, by the way, is the song he requested I do for worship next Sunday.
Other than that life is insane.
I find myself in quiet moments repeating the 23rd Psalm or just telling myself to breath deeply.
I miss writing terribly but more so miss being aware of what is going on around me.

Veggie Tales.

I guess the fall isn't so bad. It's pretty darn beautiful, and still hot as of this weekend. But the mornings and evening are cool, and it's getting darker a couple of minutes sooner each night. I've bought a couple of cute jackets, one classy red one the color of my husband's Igloo lunch pail and another more casual grey, emperor cut one. When I wore it for the first time my dad asked with his still child-like bluntness and curiosity, "Are you pregnant?"
Ethan and I went to his cousin's birthday party yesterday. There was a garden, and Ethan was absolutely enthused. Jenny gave him one tomato and one cucumber and he carried them around, one in each hand, showing anyone who would listen, " See? They came from the garden."

By the end of the party total strangers where taking pictures of him with his vegetables.

Warning! Make Sure to Lock Up POWDER with All Posionoius and Otherwise Non-kid Friendly Items!

Well, what can I say. It happened again. I don't even hardly use powder, but Ethan has managed to empty a Costco size container in his bedroom. Twice. This time was worse than before. The thing with vacuuming up powder is it comes back out as a cloud of dust. It has been a good week now and your mouth still gets all chalky just walking into his bedroom. I hate to think he is sleeping in that, what it is doing to his young, cancer-free lungs, but what else do you do?

You still get a *puff* of powder rising around you when you sit in the chair. You just can't get this stuff out. I mean, at least it isn't red, right?

He had a blast, I can tell. He told me how he climbed up onto his kitchen in order to reach the powder that was on his dresser. When I found him, he was cooking with it in his kitchen sink. Then he showed me how he was using it as soap to *wash* the ottoman, chair, and all of his toys. You should have seen his toy rocking horse. Looked like a ghost. As with all colossal messes Ethan has made, he was very proud.

I was too, sorta.

*cough*cough*

Ooo! Ooo! Ooo!

I think it is the change of weather but I can't stop thinking about how I would like to make over my house. I spoke with my friend Angel and she said she is thinking of the same thing. The scary thing about make-overs is every time I get an idea, it's a different one. But the one I had yesterday was something like this:
My bedroom has black and cream bedding. Right now I have a piece of black furniture and a couple pieces of brown. I have a big picture of some lilies that are blues, greens, and creams. I have two big green plants. And I have gold and cream curtains hanging behind my bed, serving as a headboard in a silly way.
My favorite style is older, quaint, cottage-ish. I like my bedroom to be pretty and romantic, but not over frilly. I would like to do is find a pretty, older looking pea green that I could paint my two pieces of brown furniture. Paint the walls a cream instead of white, and (dreaming) finish it off with hardwood floors, the kind that have both light, dark and even blackish tones in them. Then I would get back out my cream shag rug. Not sure if I would keep the gold and cream curtains behind my bed, maybe replace the gold with something else, although I think they would still work as is. So that's the bedroom.
For the hallways I would like to re-paint them a cream versus the tan they are now, lighten things up a bit. And of course, hardwood floors.
The office already has a very peaceful Green on one wall that looks so slick with black furniture. So maybe I will paint my book cases, and desk, black instead of brown.
Ethan's bedroom....this one I am still debating. But I love the molding you can put on the walls halfway down, or even those cottage looking boards that go halfway up the wall...you know what I am talking about? And then you paint the top? I just want to make his room super special for him, and I am not sure how to do it. I want to do something that he will grow into, so Cars or a Nemo theme is sorta out. I did see two awesome pictures at TJ Max that I could actually try to to replicate in my amateur way; they were just boxes and circles with all sorts of fun colors.
So that is still up in the air.
The living room....every wall but the big one that goes into the dining area the cream, with the larger wall a dark brown. On this wall I would have to have my cream wood furniture to contrast with the dark wall. Finish it with hardwood floors, a new rug....and curtains. Dark brown curtains, contrasting with my cream walls.
So sorry if that was boring but I needed to get it down so I would remember it. Rarely can I see the whole house like that.

Two Worlds.

Ethan slept with me last night. And last Friday night too. Now he just falls asleep--instead of rolling and flopping all over the place like a fish on a rock. Both mornings I woke up barely hanging on to six inches of a California King size bed, but it's cool. He likes to stay close.
And yes, it did rain last night. So the color of things outside look darker and clean. It's definitely colder, just cold enough to where a cup of coffee tastes so good, the warm cup in your hands like a cozy fire.
Writing has been increasingly difficult. I don't have time to pay attention anymore to how I am feeling about what is going on, I just ride it out. My mother told me once working full time "takes you in an entirely different direction" than not working. I'm seeing a little bit of that, a little bit of being in one world forty hours a week and then trying to switch over to a different one the other remaining hours, which are few, really, if you take out sleeping. I find myself thinking of the "work" world on my weekends, waking up Saturday morning worrying about the problems waiting for me Monday morning.
And then there's Ethan. Sleeping like a picture beside me. His hair smells like Bisquick and his cheeks are soft like a white rose pedals. He's got his blankey, and when I roll out of bed he reaches his hands in the air, fists closed, eyes still shut tight, and then lets them fall with a sigh of his little breath. It's early morning dark and quiet when I leave the room, shutting the door quietly behind me.

Fiebe's surgery and Drawing.

Fiebe had her tiny tubes tied this morning and I miss her and I think Riley does too. We are both in the kitchen now, very quiet, only the hum of the refrigerator and the wind outside to listen to. I think we miss Fiebe's peppy-ness, her unassuming eyes and crazy, uncontrollable hair. I can't wait to hold her little, tired body, her big bat wing ears sinking low behind her head. She is the most pitiful thing you ever saw anyway, but after this surgery I think she will be like a wet cat.
It's stormy outside, windy, maybe rain? I like the change, the trees shaking.
I haven't talked with my little sister in weeks it seems. And I've started drawing. Yes, the painful process of trying to create something on paper with a pencil. It has been dreadfully frustrating, I hate the two portraits of Ethan I have started: in one he looks like a devil child out of a horror movie and the other he looks like a sorta cute alien with an oblong head. But I haven't ripped them up. I know good drawings take time and patience, something I suck at, I am realizing.

Santa Cruz

My husband planned the most amazing weekend. Being back in Santa Cruz felt like a different kind of home. Like a time warp: my hair was short like it used to be, we didn't have a kid, the streets and shops all looked the same. But I kept having to remind myself, slow down. You don't have a babysitter waiting for you to come pick him up. You don't have to be worrying about tomorrow, or the next day. Breath for gosh sakes.

That's what was different. They way I felt. Five years ago when I was in Santa Cruz I wasn't having to remind myself to breath or to just enjoy the afternoon without thinking about tomorrow. It took conscious effort this go around.

We only had one episode, one blowout in the car parked in the parking garage. It actually started at the brewery we went to for dinner, I was sipping on a cocktail waiting for my salad, trying to fill the crazily annoying married silence that hovers over "date" dinners by asking Joey questions.

"So, do you remember your first kiss?"

Joey hates this question. He also hates all other questions involving past girlfriends. I find it giddy and exciting to talk about, like when I was in seventh grade.

"So do you remember where you did it? Behind the mobiles maybe?"

He glared back at me.

"I don't like these questions."

I laughed off his frustration for a little bit, wishing he would just lighten up. Jeese. I tell him I am just trying to get to know him. I asked him if it feels like I am squeezing his head in a vice, a reference from an old cartoon.

He didn't find it funny.

But then he continued to press the subject, asking me why I am never satisfied, why he can offer me the world, or Santa Cruz, and I still want more.

And instantly, I am quite ticked. Suddenly the only thing I can see are individual pieces of lettuce on my plate, a crouton. I stabbed each one deliberately before chewing it and swallowing it. It tasted like dirt.

Everyone around us is having a good time. Drinking, laughing. My cheeks are hot. I dab my eyes because they are wet.

I want to leave so bad. Our poor waitress doesn't know what to do with us; she approaches us with caution to ask if everything, food wise, is OK. I can't look at her.

So anyway, back in the car, in the parking garage, we just let it out. I can't remember what I said, something about being pregnant, even though I don't think I am pregnant, but that is just what came out.

I don't get emotional like that very often. Joey asked me, "Is something really wrong, or are you just emotional?" and I wanted to punch him in the face, but thought better of it. Looking back, I think what made me emotional was just being there. Transported back into a time of singleness, possibility, freedom, youngness, juxtaposed to our crazy life back in the burbs of Reno, lovely Stead, NV. Just brought up emotions usually buried deep under responsibilities.

But that was it. One little *bleep* and then the rest of the weekend was so amazing. Running through Capitola, smelling the thick air of Mount Hermon, curling up in bathrobes on our bed.

The bed and breakfast was luxurious, a type of once in a lifetime place. I felt like a queen.

Wake up!

I miss my son like crazy. Joey took me on a trip this weekend (Santa Cruz! Amazing!) so I didn't see Ethan all weekend and then two times this week he fell asleep on the way home from babysitters and didn't wake up all evening, sleeping right on into the night.
I go in to see if by opening the door I will wake him up, but he just stirs, and then breaths deep. I dip down and smell his sweaty cheeks and I want to cry.
That is what he is doing now. Sleeping. I feel all depressed, like my dog died, only worse because he is my baby and he is changing everyday, growing up, even strangers say it--wow, he's a big two year old.
Not really. They don't even know what they are talking about because Ethan is absolutely teeny, but still it is a big gong in my head: YOU ARE MISSING IT! and then jabs of guilt, deep in my gut.
It about makes you go crazy, like when someone asks me to do something on the weekends, which is my time with Ethan, I want to scream and tell them to back off, leave us alone, like I am defending out lives. Like they were trying to kill us when really they just want us to come over for dinner.

Crash?

I don't know how to start this post, I don't even really have a clue what I want to say, but my favorite writer says in times like these, you just take it bird by bird; in other words, just start typing.
I've been in one of those moods lately, filled with lots uncertainty, like I'm deaf and blind, suddenly, trying to make my way day to day without messing everything up. By everything I mean my life, what I think it is supposed to look like.
We are twenty five and have a house and two cars and a kid and two dogs and two good full time jobs. This is what we have been strving for since we got married, four and a half years ago. And it works. It's working now, but it doesn't have any of the glitter it had when we were dreaming it up five years ago. It's comfortable, and I can be content here, but there is a yearning for something different.
It seems there are two yearnings, to desires pulling at the heart: to settle, and to fly. Maybe someday I will feel like I am doing both, settling into something that makes me fly, if that makes any sense.
Our dreams are sensitive, vulnerable things.
"God works all things for the good to those who love Him and are called according to His purposes...."

hello.

I am tired, it's Friday, but I am happy. When Ethan wakes up, I have just enough energy to get him in the stroller and go for a run, as long as I don't thing about anything besides just putting him the stroller.
My nails are a crazy pink color, one of those buys when you are at the store looks so cool and fresh and then when you get it home and on it just looks eighties, or old or something.
I feel old.
I am trying to be healthier, I've slowly drifted very far away from where I used to be, in regards to food, drink, and exercise. It shows. I feel it.
Ethan's screams.

Four Days.

Four days, and I can sleep past four-forty a.m., which means I can take a shower without falling asleep.
Four days, to bathing suits and flipflops and sun baths.
Four days, filled with Joey and Ethan and family--no work!
Four days, to long, drawn out breakfasts where I can re-fill my coffee cup at least three times.
Four days, and I can see Ethan's eyes get big at the sight of an ape, and see him build and scrounge and splash at the ocean.
Four days until the stress of tomorrow and the weariness of today are replaced with carefree in-the-moment-ness.
Four days to long, summer nights outside.
Four days to treats.
Four days, and I am on vacation!

Summer.

On Wednesday we spent the evening at King's Beach. We drove up around five thirty, sat on the beach a while, then drove over to Tahoe City and had the thinnest, most tastiest pizza right on the Truckee River. Then we drove around the Lake so Joey could show me the legs he runs in his races. It was so nice, but still, yesterday was the most relaxing day of the summer for me, August 2, 2008. Two parties, late in the day, after Ethan and I had napped for two and a half hours. The parties were with family and friends from church, and I got to talk and visit the afternoon and evening away, the best part when sunset came and the air got cooler, relaxingly darker, and still. That is summer to me, what I have been waiting for since around January. I still feel relaxed from it.
Also, though Joey was not with me, I realized Ethan is at the independent age now of two and a half, and I am not nearly as "on call" as I used to be. He plays happily by himself or with his friends, and I only have to step in to give him dinner or take him to time-out for whining, or being mean to Andrew.
I also got to hold my friend's baby boy, this big, warm, heavy mound of sweetness dressed in baby blue jammies. He fell asleep, and I could have sat in that swinging chair out on the patio with him for days, looking down at the up-curl of his dark eyelashes.

I can't hold still.

I used to think that once you got to a certain age, say, 17, you pretty much had your life, and all your opinions about things, including war and child birthing, figured out.
But the thing is I have changed the way I look at the world and what I think is right and wrong, it seems like at least five times since the time I thought I was through figuring things out. It makes me restless and uneasy, dizzy almost. Guilty.
It's like I have to take a deep breath and say, "It's alright girl. Jeese. Change is alright. Growth is alright. Stop freaking out."
But it still seems wrong for some reason. Maybe hypocritical, but more so just flighty.
For example I used to think I couldn't drink alcohol. I didn't need it to have a good time and really good Christians had no desire for it. Well, I don't know if Jesus was drinking at that wedding, but HE was supplying the boos. I mean no disrespect, and I understand cultural differences here, but still, wine is wine. And I'm pretty sure, OK, a hundred percent sure, He was drinking wine at the Last Supper. So all I mean to say is I was abstinent not because it was what the bible said; I didn't drink because I grew up thinking that if you drank you were, or would be very soon, an alcoholic.
So that's one thing that has changed. Even still, I am paranoid that I will become an alcoholic, and that Joey maybe already is one. It's ironic and kinda silly but when I drink I have to preach truth to myself, "this is OK, Danae..." even though my sensitive, soft conscious is screaming at me, you bad girl!
Another?
Marriage. Never really wanted it. Wanted lots of boyfriends, lots of dates and attention, but not so much marriage.
Of course that changed (with A LOT of convincing), and Joey is the best friend I could ever hope for. The intimacy I have in marriage is so deep and comforting and warm its presence hangs over the bed when I fall asleep next to him.
Same with children. I didn't want any. Then I wanted five. Now that I have had one, I am good with two, maybe three, if I survive the second without my hair turning gray, my bags under my eyes over taking my face, and my rear sagging down to my knees. And that's not saying anything about my emotional state.
But Ethan in my life is like candy, like a party. The feeling I feel when he laughs or gives me a smooch is the same feeling I got when I saw the Falls do Igacu in Brazil: awe, amazement, wonder. In my living room, everyday. He makes life special.
Care for another?
I was hard core natural childbirth, natural parenting, cloth diapers. I had my baby at home without so much as a Tylenol, even SIX, SIX months after, even though I was in so much pain I couldn't stand for more than ten minutes at a time, because I thought if I took "pain medicine" I would be cheating and couldn't really say I had a natural birth. I was this close to using cloth diapers all the time and glass bottles to hold my breast milk when I couldn't be with him. I lugged around a breast pump for eight months and pumped in a tiny, tiny dark closet at work every two to three hours because I wouldn't think of giving my baby formula. I'd watch people walking by through the light coming in the slits of the wooden door. If I could have figured out those baby wrap things that look like you are in Africa I would have worn it all the time. But I never could figure it out, and Ethan would cry the whole time whenever I tried anyway.
I'm not so much about this anymore. It's a good conviction, but it doesn't work for me. I'm learning you don't have to do everything the hard way to prove yourself, and, once again, that having an epidural, or giving your baby formula, doesn't mean you suck as a mother, or a christian.
I could go on and on. I guess the thing is holding on to Christ; that verse that says He never changes has new meaning to me now.

Learning.

We came home from church and had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with dark cherries. On our way home I asked Ethan if he had had a good day at church and he said yes.
"Did you sing songs?"
"Yes, we prized the Lord."
"You praised the Lord?"
"No, we prized the Lord."
"I think you mean you praised the Lord."
"Yes, mama, we praised the Lord." Jeese.
As we ate lunch all of a sudden I had this frantic feeling like I wasn't teaching him about God like I should. I chewed my sandwich trying to think of something to say, of something to teach him.
"Ethan, do you know who made you?"
No answer, just cherry eating.
"God made you!" I say it big and raise my eyebrows and he looks back and me and smiles and raises his eyebrows.
"Yeaahh!"
"And He loves you too."
"Yeaahh!"
"Do you know who made mama?"
No answer. He looks at me, acting like he is excited about all of this because I obviously want him to be.
"God did!"
"Yeaahh!"
"Do you know who made Daddy?" I'm hoping by now he will have caught on.
No answer.
"God made Daddy too!"
Ethan just smiles and kicks his feet under the table, his tiny fingernails dyed with the same cherry juice that drips off his chin.
We are also working on our phone number.

The weekend sort of.

It's quiet and it's the weekend. I feel like I can let my defenses down, like I can breath. Stress from the week makes my lower back hurt. OK, that and maybe my high heels.
I initiate a conversation with over a hundred strangers a day. No wonder I am a little tense. I come home on the weekends and want to barricade in my house, me, Ethan, the doggies, and nachos. And fruit roll ups.
I look forward to my time at home, to vacuuming and getting two loads of laundry done, and grocery shopping.
It's sad because I don't see Joey, but then God never said that life includes getting weekends off with your husband. We are blessed beyond words because on his weekend, we can go out after I am off work, and we have Nawnie and Ampa and Grandma Patty and Grandpa Shaun and even aunts and uncles and friends who will watch Ethan for us, even if it's kind of a pain, or it butts in on their free time.
This is grace beyond words.

Just three things.

*Thank you friends, for reassuring me about that whole ex girlfriend scene. I am trying to love her. It's hard.

*Joey shaved Ethan's head yesterday and now he looks like a turtle. He's adorable.

*I called 119 people today at work, and my ear is red and feels a little swollen.

And the Rains Came, and Washed it All Away.

Before the rain:

My dad said to me this afternoon, "Danae, you all right?" There is something about my dad walking up to me, looking at me right in the face, and asking if I am all right that releases the floodgates. I will not even know I am not alright until he asks me in that very caring way of his. "It seems like you are holding the weight of the world on your shoulders."

Would he just stop please?

The thing is sometimes I feel like life is gobbling me up. Like it's overtaking me like a flood of rain and mud, and I'm struggling like a kitten in an ocean to keep from drowning. Like I am holding the world, somewhere in between the right and left shoulder blades.

Life seems to just come so dang fast, like this flash flood which took out our backyard in a matter of fifteen minutes.

I used to sing a song when I was a little girl. I got it off the Salty tapes, which were red, by the way. It was the sweetest song, and as a little girl I thought it was just beautiful:

I cast all my cares upon You

I lay all of my burdens

down at Your feet

And anytime, I don't know, what to do

I will cast all my cares upon You.

It's not just the yard. It's living in a place we don't want to. It's being tied to a mortgage so big I can't even comprehend it. It's my husband having a job that has made him serious and callused and tired, even though he fights it like a warrior. It's my new job, opening me up to the cares and concerns and stresses of hundreds of people across the United States, and I have no idea what I am doing. It's sweet little Ethan, who watches me cry in the car from place to place, his young face so full of concern and worry when I look back in the rear view mirror, my eyes red and watery.

I can't remember the last time I prayed, the last time I laid my burdens down at His feet. I don't know how.

Meeting Her.

The night was warm and the air felt soft. Joey and I decided to have a drink at the Chocolate Bar before dinner with Brian and Jamie. I was happy Joey suggested it, happy to be on a date, sort of, in that married way.
We drove the mini van.
We were stressed about the yard, stressed about his work, my work, when to have more kids. Before we left he put on a new, brown plaid shirt with jeans. When I saw him in his new shirt I thought I'd better freshen up just a little, but didn't bother to change out of my work clothes because I thought, what the hay, I'm just going out with my husband.
We sat outside and ordered our drinks, a white wine for me and a dark beer for him. Our waiter was a guy from Spanish class years ago, and we laughed remembering our crazy old teacher, who we called, Gooey-elmo.
I saw her out of the corner of my eye, tan, petite, tight black clothes. Cute as hell. I tried not to stare at all, but it's hard to keep your eyes off people who are working a room with looks and charm. She was. You could tell she always did.
And that was that. Cute waitress. Whatever.
And then I saw Joey catch a glimpse of her, and I thought, what the...and then I saw him smile shyly and wave to her.
I don't remember what happened immediately after that, but I knew like a mother knows her child who she was. She came over, all bubbles and smiles, and immediately all feeling dropped out of my legs. She said something absolutely amazing about noticing Joey only because she first noticed me, and how cute my haircut was, and I thought, you are gooooood. You are really good. I wanted to kick myself for not putting on some super sexy outfit.
I plastered a smile on my face as quickly as I could while at the same time trying to not look like I just plastered a smile on my face. As she talked, all I could think was, man, she's got white teeth. And perfect boobs. And her hair. How does she get that body in her hair? She's beautiful. She's a freaking snob. She must take hours to do her hair and eye make-up. But dang she's beautiful.
And of course I was thinking about them doing it.
It made it hard to follow her conversation.
Also, I felt suddenly five months pregnant. I swear.
Somehow we got through a polite little conversation, and then she said, "I'll say bye later, " before she turned around and bounced off.
"AWKWARD," I said.
Joey just shrugged and said I did fine. (What the heck is that supposed to mean?)
As we finished our drinks, I thought about all this. A growing feeling of incredible ownership was talking over my body. He's mine.
All of a sudden I realized I had just witnessed, for the first time in years, the boy I fell in love with. Ironically, I saw him when he was talking with her, his sweet quietness, his irresistible smile, but I didn't care. I was just happy to see that side of him return, like something coming back from the dead, or a very long vacation.
I was happy that he looked so good when he saw her, happy he had put that new shirt on. I was proud when he told her he was a deputy. I was proud I had the flipping ring on my hand.
Joey seemed totally cool and unscathed by the whole thing, but I noticed when I brought it up again at dinner with Brian and Jamie, that same wonderful smile return to his face. I really miss that smile.
It's not that I am worried he still likes her, or wants her back, or still thinks about her. I'm sure he does to one degree or another. What makes me somber, sad even, is how our life together doesn't include that smile anymore. Instead it includes a day to day grind that sometimes seems to have no end.
Still, the way I got out of that mini van that evening was not the way I got back into it. I got out of it a tired, working mom. I got into it Joey's girl, my love for him renewed suddenly and surprisingly in a way I had forgotten existed, my body so full of emotion for him I felt lightheaded. He didn't notice, and I didn't, and still don't know, how to tell him.

Mercy.

Friday, 3:30 P.M.
The first and only two day camping trip starts off like all great family trips do, with an argument. Something about the way I pack an ice chest vs. the way Joey does. We go through the usual routine: me, hurt by Joey's comment. Joey, (not really sure why, but-) mad at my response. About ten minutes of avoiding each other. Then, quiet "sorries" and we are good to go. Just like clock work.
I feel like poop. My bi-yearly cold/flu sickness has decided to invade my ear, throat, and sinus this weekend. I take as much cold medicine as it says on the bottle to take, but I want to take more, only I am afraid it will kill me or something. I count the hours since I last took some on my fingers, and slam the syrupy liquid down like a shot. The pressure in my head seems to be building by the hour, and my body is weak and weary. I try not to focus on it, try to not say anything about it, because I know how much time and planning Joey has put into this trip. And if the roles were switched, I would be furious if he were sick.
So I pack Kleenex and NyQuil and consider the Vic's Vapor Rub, but decide against it. The smell draws too much attention if worn in public, almost as it you are constantly farting or something. Except with that minty smell of course.
Friday, 5:45 P.M.
Nawnie and Ampa watch Ethan as Joey and I set up the tent. We pick a spot away from everyone, and the second time I make the trip with from our van to the designated spot, I feel like I just walked across a football field. I tell Joey I can't do it anymore; I will make the beds.
The tent goes up relatively easily (I just love whoever invented the whole all-the-poles-that-go-together-are-connected-by-a-string-thing) except for the fact that Joey has tied the dogs to a pole and in a matter of fifteen minutes Fiebe has bitten clear through her rope. That and the fact that dogs attract children who are the sweetest but also the most annoying things in the world, children who ask a bazillion trillion questions and tell you over and over how much they love your dog and want your dog and that your dog really likes them. I'm not dissing, I'm just saying. Heck, I was one of those children. Still, as I stood there trying to put the right pole in the right pocket and trying to not lose both of my precious pups as well as trying to be nice and answer at least one out of every five of the questions coming from the peanut gallery about the dogs, all I could think was, Oh Lord, have mercy.
Friday, 11:30 P.M.
No games, but pleasant conversation around the campfire. It's hot. My head feels ready to explode, and my nose is pink and raw and dry from blowing it six hundred times since we got here. I've been waiting for games, or at least something fun that would remind me why I love camping so much, but nothing happens. We go to bed, dirty.
Midnight
I can't breath out my nose so I can't fall asleep. It's quiet and still. Then there is a buzzing sound near my left ear.
Saturday, 12:03 A.M.
There it is again. This time, I hear the darn bug smack into the side of the tent. I want to scream.
Saturday, 12:15 A.M.
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Smack. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Smack. Smack.
I feel it hit my neck. I grab it like it's a grenade and throw it across the tent as hard as I can, but it's like throwing an un-used Kleenex; there just isn't any force to it. I hope I at least paralyzed it from ever flying again.
Saturday, 12:18 A.M.
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Smack. Buzzzzzzzzzzzz-"Joey! Joey! Are you awake? There's a bug Joey..."
He roles over and looks at me like he wants to kill me. "Don't you hear that bug?" I ask.
"No."
"I need a light. It's by my pillow."
He shines the light and there is no bug. He hits the flashlight off and turns over to go back to sleep. I lay still and listen. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz-"Joey!" We go through the light routine three more times, never finding the darn bug. Joey thinks I'm nuts and is about to tell me so when we both hear it. He shines the flashlight towards the sound and sees the brown beetle. He smashes it with his index finger.
"Did you kill it?"
"Yes."
Praise God.
I close my eyes and Ethan whimpers.
Oh no.
It gets louder and louder. I have to get up. I walk over to his bed and whisper "Shhhhhhhh," and "It's OK," until he quiets down. I only have to do this one more time before he wakes up for the day, at six a.m.
Saturday, 7:30 A.M.
Joey has made a fantastic breakfast with eggs and sausage and bacon and french fries, and I can't taste any of it. I tell him it is fantastic. The coffee from the french press is heaven to me, and I drink at least four cups.
Joey cooks, cleans, takes care of Ethan, and is amazing. I walk around in a DayQuil daze, trying to remember to be helpful but always one step behind.
Saturday, 2:00 P.M.
We go down to the water. It's painfully rocky, quick-sandy muddy and crowded with tatted teenagers and dogs. Ethan wades in to his ankles, and I do the same. I keep just looking around, wondering how I ever thought this was fun. Even if I weren't sick, would I really be having a good time? You can't even sit down without a pointed little rock invading your rear, let alone walk around. The dogs take over the towels, and their tongues hang out.
Saturday, 5:00 P.M.
Ethan is walking around holding his side, and says, "I have a tummy ache."
Saturday, 5:20 P.M.
Ethan barfs.
Saturday, 9:30 P.M.
We play Mexico, and I laugh at my silly friends and feel a little better for the first time. I make a s'more and drink it with a glass of red wine, and the combination is perfect. Joey finishes a cigar on a table away from the group, and I join him. He looks super sexy smoking. I have never been brave enough to try any form of smoking, but would have tonite had I not been sick too. I am afraid I will have a coughing fit and draw everyones attention to the PK's daughter trying her first cigar at the church camp out. It is just too risky.
Sunday, 6:00 A.M.
Ethan is up and happy and ready to "go to the camping". Joey gets up and lets me sleep. Did I mention he is amazing?
Sunday, 9:25 A.M.
I get up. I feel groggy.
Sunday, 10:00 A.M.
Another amazing breakfast.
Sunday, 11:45 A.M.
Church. We can share what the Lord is teaching us. How we are growing in our faith in Christ. I share this:
This morning Joey told the kids the dogs need a break, to leave them alone for awhile. Two of the little girls stopped touching them, but continued to bring them sticks to play with. A very loving Grandma took the girls to time outs and then made them individually come over to Joey and I and apologize to us for continuing to play with the dogs when he had told them not to.
I could see in their downcast eyes and pouty lips how hard it was for each of them to do this, to face up to their sin, to look a person in the eye and say, "I sinned against you, and I am sorry." It would be much easier and less shameful to take a time out. My heart went out to the girls and I just wanted to hold them and tell them it was OK, that we loved them. And it hit me that I am that girl, still, not wanting to go to God and look Him in the face and say, "I'm sorry. I sinned against You." It's much easier to put myself in time-out, feel a little guilty for awhile, and then move on. To leave God out of it completely.
But by doing this I miss everything. I miss God and the relationship He wants with me. I miss His love and forgiveness, the depth of His fatherly care and protection over me. I miss the gospel, and the depth of human emotion only it can bring out. The sweet sorrow of repentance, the overflowing joy of salvation.
OK, so not in so many words, and I blubber and cry through the couple of coherent sentences I do manage to sob out, but that is what I wanted to share. That is what is in my heart, so real it burns.
Sunday, 4:15 P.M.
I pack my things, and Joey drives me home. We get stuck in traffic for forty minutes. I tell myself to take advantage of the time sitting by him, and eat a handful of the saltiest sunflower seeds I've ever tasted. They put a whole in my tongue. I have nothing to wash the dryness out of my mouth.
Sunday, 6:00 P.M.
My house looks exceptionally clean.
Sunday, 6:20 P.M. Joey leaves to go back up with Ethan while I am still in the shower, trying to wash my feet for the fifth time to get the black creases out of my toenails.
"Bye."
"Bye."
And just like that he is gone. When I get out of the shower, the silence is deafening in my ears, ringing and echoing, the only thing I hear.

Mommy Patience.

When I talked to Joey on my break at work and he told me he was having a bad day with Ethan, I listened patiently, thinking all the while, Poor Ethan. He just needs his mama. He's not feeling good, he just needs the patience of his mama. And then I told Joey that he just wasn't feeling well, and that he needed to be patient with him.

I got home and the house was quiet. I had some time to talk to Joey about my day at work, which went better then I would have ever expected, and then I heard Ethan wail from his bed.

Joey warned me not to go in, but my motherly instincts could not help it.

His head was drenched and so was his pillow. His diaper was saggy and worn looking, like he'd had it on for days. He looked homeless. He was crying.
"Ohhh, come to mama, " I said. "Come see mama."

"No!"
"Oh, you're feeling puny?" I said, soft and sweet as I could.
"No!" He shoved his palms my direction, indicating for me to leave.

I would not give up. I picked him up and and he became a board in my arms.

"NO!"
I took him into the kitchen and he wailed. I couldn't even get the pink syrupy Tylonol down him.
That's when I started to get frustrated.

Three hours later, I'm yelling at him to KNOCK IT OFF at the table when he throws the tantrum of the century because I put his grapes too close to his tomatoes on his dinner plate.

Hard day with Ethan? Please. Seriously, did my parents hate (I say that with all the love I have in me) me too? Was I this much of a pain? So much for my mommy patience.

I put him to bed at a quarter to seven, a good two hours early. Sometimes I don't know what to do now, in times like these. He is wailing.

***LATER***

I took him some milk and he wanted to sing. We sang his favortie song these days, about having love like an ocean, joy like a fountain, and peace like a river. Then he wanted to sing "that hot cross buns song", another lifelong favorite of his. I did the "This little piggy" thing on his toes three times, and said goodnight. He is quiet.

Shower Time.

This time we were in the shower. I'm late, as usual, for church, stressed, and on the brink of becoming totally insane. Ethan keeps telling me the water is in his eyes, and that he needs a towel. I'm sympathetic for the most part, but he keeps turning and looking right into the water so I'm not entirely sympathetic with him. In fact, the more he keeps telling me the water is in his eyes, the more impatient I become. Get out from under the water, ding dong! When he's not telling me he wants out of the shower, he's taking the cover off the razor, or opening the conditioner and dumping it all over the sides of the tub.
I am scrubbing and shaving as fast as I can, being careful not to let the soap drip off my legs into his eyes, even though he insists on standing directly under my leg that I am shaving. I tell him to move, just a little, so he will be in the soap-and -water-free-zone and he gives me a very defiant, "I CAN'T MOVE." Of course he could, but he won't. (side note: I have countered Ethan's new favorite saying (I CAN'T) by telling him he can say, "I'd rather not". It's kinda cute when he says it--for now anyway).
He keeps telling me to pick him up and that he needs a towel. I am about ready to tackle leg number two when I can't stand it anymore. I sweep his slippery body up and he blinks at me. There are water drops on his darkened eyelashes. I brush my thumb over his eyes to wipe them off.
"All better?"
"Yeah." He's still looking at me, almost curiously. I give him a "What?" look and he says, "You have nice hair," as he moves his fat little fingers through my wet hair which looks like a punk rocker's hair out of the 80's, full of gel and aqua net and sticking out every which way. Seriously, that's what I look like in the shower.
"Thank you," I tell him, overwhelmed by his presence in my life, and that he would tell me in the most sincere and random way that I have nice hair, even with raccoon eyes from my mascara dripping all down my face.
I'm still kinda overwhelmed by his compliment when I put him back down, until he starts opening the curtain so that he can use the tub side rail as a highway for his truck. I ask God to PLEASE give me patience, so I don't throw him out of the tub. But then I remember his little voice, You have nice hair, and I like him a little bit, enough at least to finish the shower without exploding.
I tell you, this toddler thing is a ride.

One More Thing.

I love my doggies.