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.

New do.

So here's the new do. It has taken me a little time to get used to it, to not feel like all my feminine juices were poured out of me with the sweeping up of my hair off the floor, however ridiculous that sounds. Then I see myself in this picture I took, somehow, and I'm like, girl, what you talk'en about?
Honestly, being self conscious makes you so obsessed with yourself.
Work has been the same--meeting new people, learning new things. I am always last to finish whatever task our training manager has us doing. I've never been last. There is a lot of self doubt going on and it's scary.
Joey bought me a rose and card and hangers (Random, yes. Useful, yes.) The card had Tweety Bird on it and it said: OOOOh, dat was weally weally tweet of you! (open card) Thanks a wot!
And then a little note, "I am so proud of you and your new job...Thanks for working so hard to help our family"and I just wanted to sob. I am so flipping torn about what is the right thing for me to be doing right now.
Ethan sings, using a stick of some sort to make a drum out of his door.

Worst Mommy Moment Yet.

**Saturday, around noon, busiest shopping time ever**
Well, he didn't want to get in the van, first off. He kicked and screamed so I grabbed his feet with one hand and his hands with the other until he submitted to my mommy authority. I guess that is what you do in those situations.
But boy was he mad at me. I apologized when we got to Longs if I had hurt his little hands by squeezing them too hard. We seemed to have made up; he was calm and sweet.
In Longs I told him he either had to hold my hand or I would carry him because we didn't have a basket--I just was getting one thing. One sort of embarrassing, feminine hygiene thing. So I am at the counter checking out with my one sort of embarrassing thing and he lets go of my hand so I pick him up. He wails and whines, "Put me down!" I tighten my grip and his voice gets louder and whinier. I hold on tight, trying to get my credit card out of my wallet and through that darn machine while the cashier looks the other way.
We get out of there in on piece and I think the worst is over, but it's not.
At Trader Joe's he doesn't want to get in the basket. I tell him to sit down. He won't. I start to push him down, and he starts crying. Tears, snot, spit, all start running down his lobster red face. He is really upset.
I think about going home. But with the price of gas and an empty refrigerator, I decide to be tough and in control and ride it out. He continues to wail, and to try to stand up in the cart seat, despite being strapped in.
We're in the produce section and everyone is trying desperately to politely ignore us, but his screams continue to elevate, filling the high ceiling with Ethan-devilness. I decide for the sake of others, I need to get out of here. I reach in to undo the strap and he barfs all over me, right there next to the Fuji apples.
The world stops.
In slow motion I think, he did not just barf.
But he did and it's warm in my hands.
I take a deep breath and with the barf in my hands use my knee to push the cart all the way over to the bathrooms. The good thing about all this is it distracted Ethan from his fit and he is quiet now. He holds his barfy hands out to me and says, "I need to wash my hands."
"Yes you do."
I somehow clean myself and him and our cart and finish shopping in peace, even though we both stink.

Anyways.

Well I cut my hair very short again, and as I sit here and look in the mirror I actually really like it. It makes me feel a little crazy and spunky. In fact I have been thinking about getting a tattoo.
This is the last official day of my "vacation". It all went very fast. It was really good to be with Ethan and Joey. Joey and I only fought a little, and I only was aware of losing my patience once with Ethan, and that was this morning. He can be SUCH a bugger.
Fiebe is officially not house trained. Neither is Ethan. I feel like I'm newly blind in these respects, not knowing what to do or when to do it. Neither seem interested at all, despite, treats, stickers, and movies. I mean, we all get house-trained, dogs and everyone, but how? What's the trick here?
Patience comes to mind. Well, all-right.

Labor, Re-Lived: EXHAUSTED.

I just re-wrote my experience of labor for a friend considering home birth and I am completely wiped out and scared out of my pants to push another baby out.
Sign me up for the epidural, heck, schedule the c-section. As long as my baby is OK--(But o crap, do you think epidurals cause autism?) and I can walk after I deliver it, I will be a happy camper.
The thing is with all this hospital vs home birth crap is that what really matters is trusting God in the process and with the outcome.
Let me explain my blanket statement.
Whether you have a baby at home or in the hospital, you have to be trusting God that at home, if something goes wrong, or if your labor goes long, that God is in control and holding you and your baby. If you are at the hospital, and you have the drugs or the c-section, you have to trust God that they will not ruin you or your baby, and that He is still holding you and your baby. And with the outcomes too: at home, you come to terms that your baby could die. You could die. The same thing happens in the hospital. The same thing happens to all of us.
My point is it doesn't matter where you labor. You do what you want to do--what your heart and mind and soul tells you will be the best for YOU and YOUR BABY, and then you say, "That's my decision God. Now hold me." Your trust is not in pain medication or lack there-of, in c-sections or lack there-of, or even in "a healthy baby". Your trust is in the Creator, who gives us life, and takes it away. All the details are quite stupid to get hung up on, not saying they aren't important. But they are not ultimately important.
I hate the fighting, back and forth. It is what it is: a baby, a mama, a miracle and one of life's most memorable moments, no matter how it happens.

Artists and a little bit of Fiebe.

I interviewed two artists yesterday who are living downtown in the Riverside Lofts. Their apartment was filled with nick-nacky figurines, bugs of all shapes and sizes framed and hanging on the wall, paintings, curtains, and the like. Exactly what you'd think an artist's apartment would look like.
He was quiet, with a cute grin, and she was shy but very sweet. I liked meeting them very much.
His portrait paintings were absolutely phenomenal, you kept thinking the person in the painting was going to pitch in on the conversation we all were having they looked so dang real and glossy.
For a fifth of a second I had the desire to paint, and then ZAP! it was gone, like Christians in those rapture books.
It's just too messy and expensive and time consuming and disappointing when it looks like crap.
But mostly time consuming and expensive.
***
Joey came down to work today to show Fiebe off. The ladies smiled and cooed like she was a brand new baby. Babies and puppies, and probably kittens too, bring out the sweetest sides of even the grumpiest of people. I'd show her off all day if I could.

Photo Up-date!

After the rain, the backyard looks so clean and pretty.

I love to be out here.

This is Ethan's helmet. Then he gets on the guitar case and acts like it's his 'motorcycle'.

This boy is still for sale.

Meet little Fiebe. All 2.6 pounds of her.

This is a little tiny bed we bought for Fiebe but she won't have anything to do with it. Riley, on the otherhand, will take whatever is handed to her. She is pitiful.

This is how it was for the first two days. Riley has warmed up now though and lets Fiebe snuggle into her.

Blog Renovation.

So what do you think? Is it hard on the eyes? Hard to read the text? Let me know. I wonder if the background color is to harsh. I love it but don't want anyone needing an Advil after looking at my blog.
If only it were this easy to paint my living room!

Growing Pains of Love.

We went for a walk last night, bundled up good with sweatshirts and hoodies because it was cold. Joey looked cool in his new shorts, black vest and sunglasses. I looked scrubby and tired in my plaid pajama bottoms and high school sweatshirt, which I eventually pulled the hood up over my head and tied the little strings together in a bow to keep my ears warm.
We talked. Something that I noticed I would like to do more of.
After Ethan went down we got in a fight about hurt feelings and mean comments like "Phone Patrol", which is what I called him after he told me my phone needed to be charged soon. I threw out my usual line: "Don't treat me like a five year old!" and he threw back his: " I can't say anything to you in our marriage besides I love you and You are beautiful!"
And I thought to myself, that would be so nice if that is all you ever said.
But I realized, after a good two hours or so of getting angry and yelling and then trying to be nice until one of us said something that sent the other off and getting angry all over again, that what I have perceived as Joey's control freakishness and demeaning comments to me are actually comments of love, if you can believe that.
I am still kinda baffled, but I see it.
This morning my phone, keys, and purse were on the counter, all ready to go. I did not put them there, he did. Usually this would make me slightly annoyed and angry at him, because I am so darn sensitive and insecure. But this morning instead of feeling like I hated him for treating me like a parent taking care of a child, I felt his love for me.
It's a wonderful feeling, but also painful because I see how much hurt I have caused him by hating the way he loves me.
It was a rare revelation, one of those that you hold on to as the days and weeks continue to go by and its so easy to forget how much is at stake.

Little Phoebe.

I went to look at an adult miniature pinscher yesterday and instead came home with an eight week old pinny poo.

Before I left I asked Joey if he trusted my judgement and he said yes, then rolled over and went back to sleep. I wonder if he is regretting that now, home with the new little puppy and Ethan.

She cuddled on our laps all evening, snuggling up into our necks or burring her nose into any little crease she could get into. She slept curled in my armpit all night (I was half awake all night, not wanting to get into a deep sleep and then crush the pitiful thing) and she hasn't had one real accident in the house since four o'clock yesterday afternoon. She's perfect. Compared to Truman, she is a dream.

And she might be even cuter. She's definitely smaller, probably only about three or four pounds. She looks like the tiniest black lab you ever saw. I'll get a picture of her up as soon as I can. I swear you won't believe how tiny she is.

I have, after a very long and debated search, decided to name her Phoebe (FEE-BE) which means shining. She doesn't really shine, but she makes me happy, and somehow that relates to sun-shining, so it works, even though she is black as night. Her dark, thumb-tack size eyes are like deep pools of shaded water.
I am so happy to have her but there is a part of me that is keeping a little bit of distance, an unconscious fear that somehow I will lose her. I have to remind myself that I can hold her and cuddle her as much as I want to, that it is good for her, good for me.
She is a dream, a fat little, piggy looking dream.