First day of School, 2010

Ethan and I had our first day of school today. Ethan being in the mornings now seems much more legit than when he used to only go in the afternoons. Legit enough to take a picture. His lunch was packed the night before (I tried to get as much done as I could the night before; still we were rushed to get out of the house by seven). He tried on every pair of pants he owns and then I ended up having to go get a smaller pair out of the tub I had packed away for Noah because all of his pants were too big. Somehow we skipped completely the 4T. All he has is 5T. He ended up wearing his trustee 3T jeans, which fit him quite nicely in the waist but leave much to be desired in the ankles. Plainly speaking, they are high-waters. And he loves them. I let him wear them because there really were no other options but I worried he'd look like some poor, neglected child and his teachers would be documenting for social services the length of his pants on his first day.
Other than the pile of pants on the floor and a change of babysitter last minute, the morning went quite smoothly.
I am surprising myself by finding I like this colder weather. The gray clouds, the chill accompanied with warm tea and a fall scented candle. Quite nice, really. Makes me want to curl up on the couch and sleep. I must of liked fall at some point, however, because I have a box full of fall decorations. A wreath, a cornucopia, a bowl full of apples. I got everything out yesterday like I said I was going to and then realized it will be 95 degrees in two days and it's not quite September yet.
I like to think I live in the moment and that it is not entirely a bad thing. If it's cold, I decorate for fall, even in August. If I'm having a bad day, the whole world is ending. The two go hand in hand, don't you see? At least it makes me feel better about my bad days.
I have also promised myself I will go tanning this winter, at least once. I like myself so so soo much better with a little color--OK, with a lot of color--and being all pasty white is one of the reasons I believe winter and I butt heads so adamantly. Getting a pedicure in the the throes of February might not be such a bad idea either. It's the little things, people, that keep us out of the loony bin.
And then yesterday while I was driving in my car I was just thankful. For my boys, for my house, for my husband. It was genuine and it came out of nowhere, and I thought to myself, Now where did that come from? It passed quickly but it was real, it was air, it was color, like when Dorthy wakes up in Oz. If my life, my future, is colored more and more with small random moments like that, we just might make it through.

This Saturday feels like Fall.

What a wonderfully lazy Saturday. The boys let us sleep in 'till eight o'seven, which was just heaven. We got up and had coffee and sourdough toast with butter and strawberry jam. The morning passed quickly but with no rush. Noah went down for his first nap, Ethan and Joey went to the golf course to hit a few balls, and I cleaned the house like a chicken with her head cut off, which is my custom, jumping from one chore to the next until I realized I never finished the one before, so then I'll jump back to that one. Somehow some of it gets done, completely. The bed is changed and made. The laundry is dry (but not folded). The dishes are in the dishwasher. I think I swept the kitchen.
When the boys came home we all went to Costco. I took a long nap when we got home. So did Noah. Ethan should have, but didn't. And now Ethan is playing in his sandbox, Noah is talking in his crib, and it's Joey's turn to sleep.
Daelynn's matevanna tea is keeping me warm and cozy because today feels like fall has arrived. The skies are gray with clouds and the wind is blowing. I never mind the first few days of fall, as long as I have my tea, and can re-decorate a bit. Which is what I think I will do right now.

Ethan.

He loves music, especially "church music". He wants "How Great is Our God" and "Indescribable" every time we get in the car. Did I mention every time?
He is very into rockets, ever since my dad showed him a youtube video of one taking off. He knows all about Buz Aldrin and the boosters and that rockets "dissinigrate"; however, he believes that astronauts have special space suits just in case the rockes blows. I let that one go.
He's just a ham. Always imagining. Always. We are either dinosaurs or motorcycles or mailmen.
Ethan's teacher Miss Fawn took these pictures of him last year in her class. Thanks Miss Fawn!

Walking through the Haze.

I have been uber depressed lately. To the point of insanity, to voices in my head, voices that won't shut up without a real fight from the part of me that still is sane, that still wants beauty and meaning. It takes tremendous focus when the voices are jabbering away, after every move I make, every word I say, every thought I think. I always mess around that I am crazy, but this last week I realized I do dip into some serious depression at times. That's why I have not been writing; I have bee confused, floating, my head in la la land, but not the happy place.
I have come out of it a bit; my first weekend with my husband could not have come at a better time. We went out with friends to see Tom Russel, a cowboy singer, then came home and made love, slept in, (the boys were at moms), got up and went for a run together, picked up the boys and then drove out to a swim center for the afternoon. Somewhere in all of that we had some time alone and I got to talk to him for the first time ever about these times where I feel like I can't get out of my own head. The physical world fades and I am not really living anymore, not really feeling. My children seem fake, my responsibilities take a tremendous effort and all seem meaningless.
And yet this afternoon I am motivated to come here and write, for a couple of reasons: one, I remember that friends read this. And though I sometimes torture myself with all the info I write I here that is so personal, so inside, so not the person I feel I portray in "real life" (like I know I will feel after, if, I publish this post), I know that others connect to the words on here. There is nothing more satisfying to me than to get a note from someone saying, I feel that.
Second, I read an essay by Elie Wiesel this week about sharing our stories. That we must:"When we endure an experience, the experience cannot stay with me alone. It must be opened. It must become an offering. It must be deepened, and given, and shared."
And so my story lately is this (not, of course, to be compared to anything he went through): life has not turned out how I've planned. I have not turned out how I planned. Sometimes I scare the shit out of myself. But I keep on keeping on, wondering what the future holds-relief? growth? redemption? My husbands soft eyes and quiet embrace as I sit at the kitchen table, letting him know I may need his help if I dip into a haze in the future and can't pull out of it myself, is a comfort like no other.
This is all quite new and scary, as I am recognizing it for what it is: plain ole' dumb depression. Or maybe I am bored. Or hormonal. It doesn't help when I read a post on facebook of someone's grandpa who said, quote: "Only dumb people get depressed." Really not helping. But hilarious at the same time, so maybe it did help.
Here is a sampling of stuff I have been writing while walking through the haze.
Well, I can tell you what I have not been doing, and that's blogging. Oh for crying out loud. I just put the boys to bed, it's been quiet (finally) for about ten minutes, and now Noah is screaming his head off.
I really want to be one of those mothers who look back on this time and say Oh! the babies! How I miss their sweet preciousness! but right now I am really not feeling it.
Noah is fantastic when he is not crying. Also, four is the new two. Four has not been fun. Four year olds can be downright cruel they are so rude. If you're fat, they'll let you know. If they don't like the present you spent all afternoon and thirty dollars on, they'll let you know. If you have a mole on your face, they won't let you forget it. Then, when you try to be nice and let them get the pancake with whipped cream and a soda at IHOP instead of milk, they complain of a tummy ache and threaten to throw up in your car the whole ride home.
I dunno. I guess tonight has just been one of those nights, but let's face it, most nights are. I am trying to survive the best I can, the best I know how. I take care of myself, I work out, I get dressed. But the constantness of these little boys is dreadful. Maybe I just am still not ready to grow up.
The other night I watched a movie that was sad, so I got to cry a little, got to get in touch with that side of myself that is sad about things, and let some of it out (when Joey wasn't looking). After the movie I went into Ethan's room to tuck him in, and looking at his little face, hearing the air go in and out of his little mouth, like a bird's, made me a weeping mess. I feel like I have failed him, that I will fail him. I had such high hopes when I first found out I was pregnant, about how I was going to be as a mother and what I was not going to do and now I can't even remember what it was I wasn't going to do, but I am sure I have done it and then some. When I see him struggle, I blame my parenting (or for the really bad stuff, Joey's).
When I see his confidence dip, I blame me. When he's a whiny mess, me. When he's rude, me.
As far as expectations go, Noah is different. I don't have any with him and he seems to adjust rather well to whatever life is throwing at him. He is timid though. I blame myself, of course.
He's scared to death of the vacuum cleaner. Flashbacks, maybe? Of when he was the size of a rollypoly and they were vacuuming out my insides in the ER from the oozing appendix? Probably.
Isn't it lovely? Here's a little more. It just gets better:
Sometimes you feel like somebody just picked you up and is holding you by the ankles while all the change is falling outta your pockets, like your whole world is suddenly upside down and jolting back and forth and you just might throw up at any second. Suddenly, it's been seven years and you have two kids and a mortgage on a piece of shit house you bought the day before the market crashed and two dogs who sleep all day and occasionally still piddle on the floor or barf up an acidic hairball now and then and your marriage is as rocky and unpredictable as all those other peoples and you think, When did all this happen?
When did it go from being something incredible, something that filled your insides with so much freaking happiness you could barely sit still, to this?
Also, the baby thinks the dog bed is his personal play cushion, and is constantly covered in their black hair as if it were Halloween and I was trying to make him be a baby werewolf. Disgusting.
Thank God I am outta that funk. Jeez. That must of been a really bad day.
Which, as I am looking back at these now, I realize we all have. Today wasn't a bad day. I don't feel like a piece of poo today. I feel good. I got to hang out with friends and went to Whole Foods. I wore a little black dress I love with a cuff bracelet and long turquoise earrings from San Fransisco. I just finished a grilled cheese sandwhich that would lighten even the darkest of days and even though Noah is crying in his crib, I am not too irritated. Life goes on. Redemption is waiting.

Good Morning.

Noah has decided instead of talking a bottle and going back to sleep at 6am, he wants to get up and eat something, like a graham cracker or applesauce. This means that I have to get my bootie out of bed and be somewhat functional, enough to pick him up out of his crib, wipe the big boogers off his nose, change his heavy, damp diaper, and get him in his high chair, all while my back feels like it might just break if I bend over.
I usually give him a cracker to gnaw on while I get the coffee maker going, and then we just sit there and and look at each other, our eyes and cheeks still swollen from sleep.
I know it is always easier when I get up before he starts wailing from his crib, but there is something in me that resists that, like I shouldn't have to, that it is my right to get sleep. Maybe it's leftover residue from the infant stage where everything revolves around the little, gawd awful spurts of sleep you manage to squeeze in whenever. I still have the mentality I am fighting for my sleep. And I won't lose one extra minute of it.
So until his majesty decides he doesn't need his parfait at six o'clock in the morning, the routine will be exactly the way it is.
After he eats I pick him up and he smells sweet like pie. I can't keep my nose away from his doughy cheeks.