Play Day.

We are going to Graeagle today to see Daelynn and Chuy and the girls. I can't wait!! The boys are already up there, which is why I am enjoying an incredibly quiet morning on the couch in my bathrobe with my coffee and the blog.
It's very nice.
The holidays were lovely. It's a little much, all the gifts, but at the same time it gives us a reason to come together and laugh and smile while watching the kids open, open, and open the presents. Noah's reactions this year were priceless: lots of wide eyes and "ooo's" and hand clapping, lots of hand clapping. When he'd get really excited he'd get his whole body into it, squatting low and jumping, up and down.
We are celebrating Ethan's birthday today with my side of the family. He wants a cake with chocolate frosting and a snowman made out of marshmallows on top.
It hasn't snowed yet. I don't mind, seeing as I can wear whatever shoes I want and I don't have to worry about driving the new car on ice.
But it seems a little odd, like we are stuck in fall, almost like we are living in Groundhog Day. I feel like when it finally does snow time will pick back up and bring us up to date. Joey hasn't been able to use his snowboard pass.
Maybe it will make it seem like summer will come sooner than later. Now that the holidays are over, the long wait begins. In winter it's hard to recall the warm days of summer, and even harder to imagine them ever being a reality again.
But they do come, every year, the earth slowly rotating steady and sure even when we are unaware that every second is bringing us closer to the warmth of the sun that washes the skies in oranges and pinks.

Love Song.

I am on this kick now of listening to country love songs when I go for my weekend runs, the sultry, sexy voices of Brad Paisley, Keith Urban, Josh Turner, and Dirks Bentley to keep me company. The best part though, other than all those sexy males, is thinking of my sexy male at home, watching the kids so I can get some exercise.

Isn't he sexy? The one on the left of course. Although Ethan's a little stud himself.

                                                        
In a surprising and somewhat unbelievable way it hits me on these runs how amazing it is we are still in love. A deep, steady, gracious love. I feel blessed.
It hasn't always been and isn't always like that, of  course. We miscommunicate and get on each other's nerves and scream and yell just like everybody else. (Um, have you read my blogs from 2009?) But in all our time together, eight years, two thousand nine hundred and twenty days, more or less, we've at least learned how to work through the shit.
Now when we fight, if I can keep some perspective, there's a purpose: to come out with a better understanding of each other. To make our life together better.
I, being the passive aggressive one, have learned to bring things that bother me up sooner-like the moment it happens versus five and half years later. For example, on our way to the gym the other morning Joey told me to put the extender out on the vizer to keep the sun out of Noah's eyes. I couldn't find it and said I didn't have one on my side, to which he responded, "It's right here, dear."
And it was in fact, right there. Now, a couple years ago, or maybe even a couple of months ago, I would let that little "dear" irritate and fester and hurt me, but this morning I said, "Whenever you call me dear I assume you may as well be saying "stupid, as in, 'it's right here, stupid'."
Bringing things up in real time may seem small, but it's kinda like me getting water from a rock-I consider it close to a miracle.
I know they tell you not to but we fight in front of the kids. I'm a little bit sensitive and worry it might ruin them forever, so I take little moments every five minutes or so during the argument to make sure they are OK and not scared and that they know mom and dad love each other and that we love them and that it's not their fault. The last time this happened Ethan told me, "You know mom, I'm not even paying attention to you guys."
Well, OK then.
But it's so much more than even these practical little tricks that make a relationship better. It's something deeper, something stronger, a current, wild and and at the same time ultimately safe, carrying us along in this mystery of us, together.
Part work and effort, part grace, I can't help but feel like I a being swept along by a force much greater than just me, or Joey. There's a certain "umph" behind us together, a strength. You know how it goes,  "Two is better than one, for when one falls down, the other can pick them  back up"-or something close to that. And boy have we both fallen. Sometimes I'm the strong one, sometimes he is.
OK, mostly he is.

But there's a certain safety in knowing that Joey has my back; he's a safety net to catch me when otherwise there would be only darkness.
Of course it's never quite that cut and dry, and sometimes the "two is better than one" can seem like such a farce-what if all my partner does is trip me up? Throw me down? Hold me back?
I don't know.

How could I ever handle this bundle of craziness on my own anyway????

All I know is that for me,  working through those times it felt like all Joey was doing was tripping me up has somehow got me here: in awe at what an amazing person he is, thankful for our marriage holding us together, lost in the sweet lyrics of country love songs in my ears, his face on my mind, his presence deep in my bones.

"And when I can't stand, you are where I land..."

He is goofy and quirky. When he passes gas he tells anyone in earshot he is 'Tooty McFarlin'.  It has no reference whatsoever which is why it is all the more precious and him.

He is always in another world, winning wars and saving whole societies. His art makes me want to cry it is so precious and free and he can sing so beautifully. This morning he was singing "Home Means Nevada" but to a new tune. It was better than the original, more pep. I asked him where he learned it and he said he didn't like the old way so he made a new way up. I'm still trying to pick my jaw up off the floor.

 

 

 

Did I mention someone is two?

 

It's pretty amazing, building this family, day by day together.

 

                              

A Week of Recovery. Or Damage.

We are back from the hospital. We went to Shriner's in Sacramento last Sunday afternoon, the first of three or four surgeries to reconstruct Ethan's little ear.
I was expecting to come home Wednesday but Ethan didn't get released until Friday morning.
We're home and doing normal things, things like taking a shower in my own bathroom and putting product in my hair and driving my car, which all seem really really special.
Ethan was a trooper despite waking up from surgery with surgical soap in his left eye. Apart from having his cartilage scraped off his ribs and then implanted in his head, his real problem was not being able to open his eye, which was swollen and purple on the outside and red and terrifyingly opaque on the inside. As his mother I kinda wanted to kill someone, like maybe the person who didn't shield his eyes from the surgical soap, which the nurse said was "anti-bacterial soap times a hundred."
I thought I was handling things pretty well until Wednesday night. After two days of his eye not getting any better and his demeanor getting worse due to the ongoing pain and irritation of his eye (his ribs and ear didn't seem to bother him at all)  I was at my own ropes end. Joey went home Monday to be with Noah, so I was by myself, just me and grumpy Ethan, surrounded by the the green and pink walls of the hospital, the beep beep beep of all the little machines, and the sirens of all the ambulances bringing people to the UC Davis Emergency room across the street at all hours of the day and night.
I think what was getting to me more than anything-besides not getting any adequate explanation for Ethan's eye and no remedy for it either-was the lack of privacy. The constant publicity of being in a hospital, the shuffling of feet outside the door, the wails of other patients next door at two in the morning, the constant use of a public bathroom since the one in our room was "FOR PATIENTS ONLY".  The latter was especially frustrating because Ethan could not get out of bed to use it. So it just sat there, empty, clean, private, while I made my way down the hall and around the corner three or four times a day to a stall. Showering was even more irritating and I only did it once in the hospital due to the fact I kept thinking about all the disgusting little germs everywhere (it was a public shower as well) and what if the lock didn't work and the shower curtain just gave me the creeps. At least I got clean, but it was nothing like a hot twenty minute shower in my own bathroom. Plus, I forgot my shampoo (I can't go anywhere without forgetting something) and what was supplied in the bathroom was a small yellow bottle of Johnson and Johnson's baby shampoo, which doesn't really clean your hair it just sorta separates it.  Anyway, when my hair dried it didn't look any different then before the shower.
Wednesday afternoon the "toy" lady came, a pleasant woman named Melissa who was supposed to make things fun for the kids, bring them toys and movies and portable PlayStation's on wheels. Ethan didn't really want to have anything to do with her since number one he couldn't open his eye to see anything anyway and number two he couldn't open his eye to see anything anyway. Oh, and did I mention his eye kinda looked like someone had doused it with antibacterial soap, times a hundred, and then let it sit there for eight hours? The only pain he complained of was his eye.
Melissa, the toy lady, said his demeanour was "concerning" as most kids want to play with something. I started crying and Melissa suggested I get out of the hospital for awhile-she'd stay with Ethan.
I knew this was probably a good idea; I had only been there three days but I was starting to feel like I was in prison. They only trips out of our hospital room I was taking were to the bathroom; I was barely making it down to the cafeteria in the morning for coffee because I was surviving off the left overs on Ethan's meal trays (another reason why I was feeling like I was in prison).
Reluctantly (Ethan teared up when I told him I was going out for a bit) I grabbed my purse and headed toward the elevators. Outside the fresh air felt heavenly, the sun warm and alive on my cheeks. I walked a block down to a local coffee shop run by christian Asians; they had a picture of who I can only assume to be Jesus, laughing, in a cheap frame and a one page calender that at the bottom read, Revival Christian Fellowship.
I ordered a chai which was too sweet but comforting anyways and sat looking out the window. I can't remember what I thought about, maybe nothing, and then I got up and walked back to the hospital. Melissa was sitting by Ethan, her toys unopened. Ethan was awake and quiet on the bed.
That afternoon we got a roommate.
His name was Lawrence and he was six years old but looked like he could have been four. He had warm brown skin and his dark hair was curly and stood up all over his head. He was pleasant and friendly, having just came from surgery on his hand to correct his thumb which bent unusually backward, making it hard for him to learn how to write although his PlayStation skills were extraordinary.
His hand was the least of his problems, though, as he was born with no rectum, no genitalia. He has to wear a diaper and a colostomy bag all the time. The diaper is never dry because he has no control to hold his pee; it just leaks out like a faucet all day long. To top it off, he has an advanced stage of liver failure.
Grandma though, was the real paradigm. He called her "Gaga" (like the Lady) and she called him "JuJu". I don't think they were actually related by blood as she was white, and I later learned he was half mexican half black, but she definitely had the role of caregiver in his life. She talked to both mom and dad on the phone but JuJu seemed totally disinterested in speaking with them.
"Gaga" was on the phone a lot, coordinating what seemed to be a house filled with a lot of kids, making sure the dogs were taken out and the dishes were being done.
The dish conversation was the first of many that perked my ears and made me thankful we don't usually have to be paired with strangers, especially ones where we are both confined to the same room twenty four hours a day. In the middle of what seemed like a very normal conversation on making sure chores were being done, Gaga says, "Yeah, there's not a clean dish in the house....I was thinking of paying [whoevershesaid] twenty bucks to do them-it's been over a week...well, if you do them, make sure you use some bleach and Ajax to kill all the maggots, we don't want to be getting sick..."
Yeah, take a moment to process that one.
Then in the middle of the night, while holding JuJu who had started to whimper or say something, she says to him in a loud whisper, "SHUT UP JUJU! IF YOU DON'T SHUT UP I'M GOING TO CALL THE FUCKING NURSE IN HERE TO GIVE YOU A SHOT!" This was even more disturbing as I heard her tell the nurse earlier that day the only thing he was afraid of was shots.
I was relieved to see Ethan was still sleeping soundly. I, on the other hand, was seriously damaged. And poor JuJu...although they seemed to have a very loving relationship otherwise. He wanted to sleep with her and they cuddled a lot. She cared for him, changed his diapers constantly, even through the night.
Thankfully he only had to stay for one night as things came to a head twenty minutes before they were supposed to be released. Gaga wanted JuJu to be able to watch a movie but there was only one TV and Ethan wanted it off so he could sleep. Joey was back by this time and soon the tension in the air was palpable. Joey turned the volume of Shrek 2 all the way down to zero. Lawrence didn't really seem to care, but the next time Gaga was on the phone she says, "This guy over here, he's something else!"
As they left I wished Lawrence well and said a silent prayer to never ever have to meet Grandma Gaga again.
Thursday was better, having the room back to ourselves and Ethan's eye showing signs of improving for the first time since Monday. Also, Joey was with us so I could leave to the Ronald McDonald house and zone out in the shower for twenty minutes.
I was disappointed when the doctor wouldn't let us go home Thursday afternoon, but I managed to get through one more night on Old Betsy (the roll away vinyl mattress I had been sleeping on all week which made an incredible amount of almost fart like noised every time I moved, which didn't matter anyway because I always ended up back in the sunken middle, the sides folding up all around me like it was about to swallow me up) knowing that we were probably going to be released in the morning. 
The next morning as we headed out I felt as happy as if it were Christmas. For the first time in my life I knew the feeling of walking away from something and having no desire to look back on it.  Just leave it all there; all the tubes, all the cold bedding, all the drafty windows, the sirens.
And if by chance, you are wondering about Ethan, he's fine. Children are extremely resilient, as they say, and he can't wait to go back. They have PlayStation! Mama, on the other hand, may take a couple of weeks to recover, and heal.

Saturday.

Well things have been going swimmingly since the truck incident. Days like that make you in love with ordinary days, days when nothing completely shitty happens.
Joey's been trying to sleep off a cold, especially in light of Ethan's first ear surgery on Monday. I've been trying to stay away from my husband, which is unusual for me; usually even if he's sick his nearness is more important and I'll sacrifice being sick too for some lov'in. But this time Ethan's surgery, and my ability to be there with him, wins out.
I have no idea what he's going to look like after this first surgery. I guess I am picturing a lump, or bulge, behind his little ear. Anyhow, I know it's not going to be pretty. He's strong though, and if anyone has to go through it God gave him the characteristics to make it easier: he gave his class a whole presentation on it, and can't wait to go back and give them the follow up after the surgery.
I'm a little anxious over what the heck I will be doing down there, seeing as they won't let both of us stay in the room, so Joey has decided to come home in between. I need a good book.
I am excited for the holidays, excited to be with family. We are planning on going up to Graeagle too; the thought of the big trees and clean air quiets me, makes me want to take a walk.
I miss my sister, the older one, terribly. She's so. far. away. I miss the little one too, and her girls. If I can't make it to SA, at least I may be able to make a trip to SD work...
Tonight Joey and I get to go out with friends. I'm looking forward to a big glass of wine, or two. I'm also hoping to get a run in this weekend, despite looking out the window and getting the chills from the trees blowing in the wind, the white clouds covering the sky. Winter has arrived and now it's time to bunker down, gather up every grace I have with in me, and wait it out.  Things that I have found help: running, even in the cold, laying in a tanning bed and coming out brown, and going on a weekend get-a-way to somewhere where the tentacles of winter can't reach, like Vegas. The last option is especially a luxury, but one I hope we get to do again sometime in February or March, when the winter seems like it will never end. Visiting somewhere warm is a reminder things change.
It's a perfect Saturday. Still. Time to go curl up in bed, and rest.

Warming up the Truck.

It started at five AM when my phone went off, telling me to get out of bed even though my body said, "No, please, God, no..." I pushed the boundaries and didn't actually get out of bed until five thirty, stumbling into the bathroom and fumbling until I was in a hot shower, where I stood, for another ten or fifteen minutes or so before I remembered I was supposed to actually do something in there, like wash my hair.
Getting ready went smoothly despite the anticipation and stress of having to get to FOUR different locations (pick up Joey, drop of Noah, drop of Ethan, pick up a car for me) before my meeting at eight thirty. We were down to one vehicle because mine was getting fixed in the shop--someone slammed their door into mine a couple of weeks ago.
It's been getting colder so I thought I'd go out before hand and start the truck, warm it up for my two little spaz attacks.
I went back inside to grab them and all our gear: hats, jackets, diaper bags, lunch bags, work bags, purses...and we tromped outside to the waiting truck, humming lowly in the quiet morning air. I reached for the handle to open the door and it didn't open.
I tugged on it again. Nothing. So I tugged on it ten more times, before running around to the other three handles only to find the same thing: the truck was locked.
And this is when my heart dropped into my shoes and I wanted to scream.
The truck was locked. Running. And the spare key was with my subaru, at the shop. And Joey was at work, without a vehicle. And there was no way I was going to make my meeting.
And did I mention the truck was running?
We ended up waiting over an hour before Joey finally came home with my spare key, after borrowing a car, going down to the shop to get it, and then driving all the way back home. I sat on the couch and had a mental breakdown while the boys played in the living room, still with their beanies on. Every once in a while I'd get up and go look at the truck, the exhaust filling the now bright morning, and want to kick something really, really, hard.
Fourteen hours later I still need a massage and acupuncture to undo the stress build up in my neck.

The Eyes of Jesus.

I felt blessed today, talking to five different women in my church. We are all such cute little things. Our smiles, our sweetness, our bright eyes, despite the unexpected life has rolled our way.
Behind those eyes are commitments to marriages and children, education  and work, friendships and even strangers. Behind those eyes are hearts searching for their Creator, hearts who want to love like He loves, serve like He serves.
It's a blessing to be surrounded by such women, to know I am in such amazing company. I love how open I can be with every one of them, how accepting they are of me.
I found grace this morning, sufficient for the hour, in the eyes of five different women at church. It was as if Jesus was looking right back at me.

The Present.

 We took both the boys to swim lessons this morning.  Trying to keep Noah occupied for forty five minutes after his lesson so Ethan could have his was not one of my finer moments as a parent. He simply makes me mad. He's stubborn and loud and unsafe. I find myself just wishing the time away until he's five and can handle himself a little better.
I came home and opened a new book by Kathleen Norris. She is a life saver for me, amongst other honest and funny writers who look at life square in the face and find beauty in the middle of it's ordinariness. Or anger-ness. Or depression-ess. Or whatever it is that fills it, they find beauty there. They remind me to believe, to look for the grace that is available to me at any given place and time, including  a loud swimming pool with an ornery two year old on Saturday morning.
My heart wasn't in a state to find it this morning at the pool, although I'm sure it was there...a prayer away. Where I did find it was out on our patio, four hours later, the fall sun hot on my cheeks despite the light chill in the air. Noah was still down for his nap and Joey and Ethan were in the front. I listened to Ethan's voice, riding his bike, effortlessly happy in the present moment, drifting back to me over the house.
Just minutes before I had forced myself to get out of bed, even though I didn't want to. I wanted to sleep, but even when I tried I couldn't sleep soundly. My heart lately has felt like fingers are squeezing it, making my chest hurt.
I'm not sure what was luring me to stay in that bed, although the one word that came to mind was fear. I am afraid. Afraid to get up and feel the same monotony, the same blahness in every act I do. The children make it worse because not only do I feel nothing when I think I should be enjoying them, guilt follows suit, adding to the onslaught. It's much easier to stay in bed.
Maybe pride, ("I'm not going to be that woman!"), maybe grace; whatever it was something got me to swing my legs out of bed, grab my journal, a pen and Norris' book, and head outside.
Norris writes largely about monastic life and for whatever reason it has always grabbed me, pulled me in. I've never had quite the direct and explainable connection to it like she has, but as I get older I am beginning to see more how the monastic life is so similar to my own. Maybe that's what drew me in even when I couldn't begin to explain it.
Norris writes about the similarities of a monastic vow and a marriage vow, and I am beginning to see how the parallels jump over to parenting as well.
For a large part parenting is repetition, doing the same thing, over and over. Bedtime routines. Morning routines. Reminding them over and over and over again to pick this up or don't spill that or stop saying that! Now! Damn it!
It easily becomes so boring and tedious you just want to jump out the window. This is how I feel most days. And then I read this afternoon, "A generation that cannot endure boredom will be a generation of little men...unduly divorced from the slow processes of nature, in whom every vital impulse withers..." Noah is definitely a "slow process of nature" and I was convicted at how easily "divorced" I become to my children, with their constant demands. My eyes glaze over and my heart feels like a piece of dry wood but I get them dinner! and clean their messes! and sing them songs before kissing them goodnite, almost running out of the room to peace and quiet, only to be left alone with my dry heart.
 It's the dryness, my heart's true state, that's enough to keep me under the covers, wanting to sleep it away on a beautiful three day weekend when Joey is home and we are all in excellent health.
After reading and writing a bit, looking at the sky, really seeing it, for the first time in a while, I could joke with Joey. Laughing almost hurt, but it happened and then I was able to grab my stuff and head inside to my two and five year old, my life, and the present moment in all it's messiness and pain and see the edge of God's arms, open and waiting for me to jump in.

Writing, I've Missed You.

I don't have time to write anymore. But I think about it quite often, and I still get out my personal journal whenever I can.
So today, the lazy Sunday afternoon that it is, I had prepared to take a nap, to try and catch up on the sleep I feel so deprived of during the week. I took my contacts out, took my jewelry off, my boots, and climbed into bed with Joey who is napping before he goes into work all night. But lying there all I could think about was if sleeping was really what I wanted to do with this time, this precious, rare time, when the house is quiet--mostly; both the boys are talking to themselves in their beds, supposed to be napping. (Does any mother not feel like their chest is going to explode from the anxiety of their children not sleeping when they are supposed to? I've learned this is not going away; I just recognize it now as something I cannot control, like, um, everything really, and then I pray for some grace in the moment to stop from morphing into complete lunatic and breath things out instead.)
Anyway, there I was lying in my bed, thinking about my poor, neglected blog, dreaming about writing in a quiet house with a cup of hot chai on a crisp, fall day...and I just had to throw the covers back and get out here to write. And it really is wonderful, transferring these thoughts onto the screen...if only Noah would shut up and my chest would release that feeling of wanting to explode.
I've often (OK, not often. Like one or two times) been asked if I have ever thought of writing a book, and the answer is yes, but then not long after is followed by why?
I've got my blog! And it's so easy to "publish" whenever I damn well please! And there is no accountability per say, nobody telling me it sucks and they won't publish it.
Isn't that the most pitiful thing you've ever heard? But it's true.
Through the blog I get to write, get to quench that need of mine to articulate in words what I see going on around me and inside of me. I think I've said it before and I will say it again: I feel the best when I am writing, and when I am writing well I may as well be flying. Writing well is like putting the perfect outfit together, like the feeling of summer turning to fall with a cup of chai in your hands, like the smell of gingerbread and cinnamon with a Christmas tree twinkling in the background. A good, honest sentence is like the love of your life kissing you outside in the cool night and your whole body being flooded with warmth. It's that good.
And I don't know when but at some point in the last recent years I came to think of myself as a writer, not because I have ever or will ever be published, but because I can't live without doing it. I take that back, I can, but writing helps me live everyday, ordinary life better, richer. When I write about my life, suddenly what is normally black and white turns to vivid colors, reds, oranges, yellows. Writing helps me stop and recognize little tid bits of meaning in all this non stop madness; of all the go go go, tying shoes, wiping bottoms, blow drying hair, applying eyeliner, and washing undies that is my life.
Writing can release the hold of the fingers of whatever is gripping my heart; be it control (like today), or fear of not being good enough (most days), or loneliness (Sundays through Thursdays, when Joey works).
As dumb as it sounds, writing is like a friend. A very close, intimate friend who lets me be as honest as I need to, helps me to sort out the things inside that feel like a tight twisted knot, and who never ever ever judges me.
I didn't necessarily plan on getting up just so I could come out here and write and entire blog on writing. If anything though it's a reminder to me how what precious thing it is to be able to have the time to write about life and how much I enjoy it.

Summer Lov'in.

Determined...

Staying up late and talking on the deck. And drinking wine, obviously. Wine eyes.

This one is long over-due. It's Ethan's First Day of Kindergarten Picture. And just a quick up-date: he is rocking it, just like his mama knew he would!

Swimming! Lots of good swim time with daddy in the Millpond.

Basically though this was an amazing summer. We spent so much wonderful time together, at Tahoe, at Graeagle, at home. 



A family comes so quick. I am so blessed by these three men in my life!



It's been a month since we have been there, but Noah still wakes up and says, "Millpond! Wader wings! GO!"

The one thing I've learned working full time is to appreciate every non-working moment I have with my kids. 

I love this new role I am in as a "working mother"-forget the labels, I am Danae, walking in the ways God has guided me in.  

I am slowly climbing out of the box I had built for myself, of what I thought my life would look like, of what I thought my life was supposed to look like, and I am letting myself try new things. I'm getting to know myself it seems for the first time. Or maybe not so much getting to know, maybe just not shooting down every want and desire that springs up inside me. I'm letting them simmer, praying about them, giving them room to grow if they are good things. And lots of them are, imagine!

 I can't believe what this has done, how different my life is tonight from four months ago. I'm not afraid anymore. I'm not afraid to be honest with God. I'm not afraid of how He put me together in my mother's womb. I'm not afraid to screw up and learn and move on, enjoying every second of everyday I get with my family and the people I love.

 

 

 

Joining In the Crickets' Chorus.

I am home alone, sort of. Noah is sleeping. The crickets are chirping in the black night. I remember a time I was listening to the crickets not too long ago, maybe a year, maybe two-it really is amazing how they pass! I remember having trouble: trouble in my heart, trouble in my marriage, trouble in my place in life.  The crickets were the background sound to the chaos going on in my heart. I specifically remember ending my post with, "And the crickets are chirping like they've all gone mad."
Tonight the crickets are chirping, just like that other night, only tonight they are soothing, calming. Peaceful. Like they are right where they are supposed to be, doing exactly what God made them to do.
Their chant tonight is background noise to a extremely grateful and anticipating heart. A trusting heart. A heart in awe in how big God is, how good He is to me. How personal.
Maybe six months ago I laid my heart down. I prayed. I told God how unhappy I was, but that I was going to trust Him and push through, even though the years seemed so long ahead. I told Him I trusted that He was good. That He loved me.
I didn't expect anything.
It reminds me of when I was growing up I asked God over and over and over again for a dog. A black and white one, please.
For years I prayed this. I prayed but it was a hopeless prayer. Desperate. I didn't ever really expect my want to be met.
 My dad, bless his soul, finally gave in and we were told about ONE homeless dog who needed a family. The dog happened to be black and white.
I remember this same feeling I'm feeling tonight the first night I got dog;  this feeling of incredible thankfulness that number one, He's there;  and number two, He remembers me, cares for my heart's desires. And He gives them,  like a father, wanting to give his child the world.
It makes me wonder why I ever doubt, but I do. And, shaking my head, I know I will again. But maybe it will be less frequent. Maybe as I get older and see His grace poured out on me in such a personal way over and over and over again it will begin to sink in deeper into my soul: the fact that, number one, He's there; and number two, He remembers me and cares for my heart's desires.
I know this doesn't mean I have arrived anywhere. New battles will be born in my heart; I will have to learn to trust, over and over and over again. But I think what I am so thankful for tonight is the surety I feel in my heart of God and His immense love and knowledge of me, of my heart that most of the times I can't even figure out.
Tonight the crickets are singing, and so am I.

Trust Me (from God). And Don't Look in the Mirror in Zumba Class (from me).

Well, after suprisingly not feeling so horrible after a long day I happened to read my friend Emery's (wonderful!) post on motherhood and now I feel very close to tiny ball of deer shit.
hmph.
And then there's the thinking side of me, the side that more than a couple of times a week or a day says in my little brain, "It feels so good to be doing what GOD has called me to do. WORK!".  Then I kinda shake my baffled head. Because that's not what I pictured myself doing. I pictured myself at home, with four or five  kids at my feet, and a pitbull. In an apron of course! I even blogged about that, way back when. Too bad I don't know how to tag it here.
Instead I have two amazing little dudes and I find myself working. And loving it. Growing. Becoming more confident in who God made me to be. I see my skills and talents blossoming and maturing.
And that's not to say I don't fight a horrible gnawing feeling of guilt  parallel to every thought of every second of everyday, but I am beginning to learn that listening to those feelings of guilt and fear is the worse thing I can be doing.  I might as well put a bullet to my brain for all the good they are doing me. They suck the life right out of me, out of everything good that is happening in my world.
I think it's neat how God works so differently in our lives. How he shakes up our expectations and says, Trust me.  Not your emotions. Not your situation. ME.
And that is for every mama out there; those at home full time, those that work, those whose children are grown, those that have lost their children, or heck, it's even for those women who don't have children.
 Trust me.
God, that is so comforting to my weak, tired heart right now.
In other news I took a Zumba class tonight, my third or so. The number one rule in Zumba is this: don't ever, everevereverever look in the mirror at yourself during class.
I thought I could dance. I am, you know, the last one on the dance floor at weddings and stuff. But there is something about Zumba...I look like I should be in the River Dance instead. Stiff as a board! I have WHITE GIRL all over me. Maybe a long black sexy wig would help? A red, sequence dress, with fringe on the bottom?
That would be completely awesome.

Chicken Nuggets, Right or Left?

Just a couple of thoughts today; like images of clarity in the blur of my life.
One, we went to Sonic last night for dinner and I got my usual, chicken fingers with ranch, topped off with fries and a Oreo shake. Yum! I don't know if it was mid bite or maybe after the little feast did the thought occur to me that the backs of my legs resemble  a chicken nugget. I've eaten chicken nuggets since I was a little girl. They are my go-to if you know what I mean.
Been pondering that one.
And number two,  today while we were driving Ethan says to me, Mom. I hate leaning in the car.(**Don't you remember when you were little and had to use your entire body weight to not fall over on the twirly on-ramps on the freeway?**) I just hate it. When you turn left, I have to lean right. And when you turn right, I have to lean left.
That's what he said to me. I have always had a  hard time differentiating between my right and left. That's the cold hard truth, no exaggeration there. Maybe the day I was supposed to learn the difference between the two I had some horrible tragedy happen in my life that I have completely erased from my brain? It's the only explanation. 
So as his mom who gets all hibbly jeebily when I have to use "right" or "left" to hear him say something like that so confidently, like it is nothing,  makes me think he has to grow up to be a genius, or an astronaut if we still had those around. 
Yep, those are my two clear thoughts I've had today. Now it's time this sleepy, exhausted, cloudy brain girl went and got some sleep. And don't ask me what side of the bed I sleep on. 

Big E!

Little pre-run intimidation.

Getting warmed-up.

Showing off the guns.

And yes, he does look like me.

Ethan starts school next week. All thirty three pounds of him. I'm not all mushy gushy teary eyed. That's not the relationship I have with Ethan (we'll see how Monday morning goes...). I'm just proud of the firecracker. He's going to take this world by the horns and they are not going to know what hit it, exactly what he did to me five and a half years ago.
I had Ethan at home, a home birth. It was the beginning of a new life for me, one that started out so nice and clean and cozy.  I loved being pregnant, loved setting up the nursery, hanging the perfect, unused clothes in the closet by size so I could stare at them and imagine how perfect life was going to be after the baby came. How perfect of a mother I was going to be. The perfect life I would give my child, who at that time I didn't even know was male or female.
The first time I felt any real labor pain I was opening the fridge to get something for my midwife to eat. She was hungry. I remember trying to cover it up, trying to not let the electrifying pain surrounding my abdomen and shooting down my legs show on my face. In my head, though, was the truth: what the hell? Up until that point I was in denial. None of this was supposed to be painful. I had always been spared. I don't get pain, I don't get real consequences. I dodge them, live in denial until they go away. Despite what your life may look like,  my life was supposed to be easy, painless.
For nine months I anticipated my labor. I planned for pain theoretically. But deep down I was in denial that any of this would ever cause any pain, but of course it did. Motherhood has caused me excruciating pain. But it has also caused so much growth. So much realness.
This is how my labor was supposed to go: I'd be a perfect hostess and eventually we'd all be sitting around munching on olives and I'd say it was time and push out a perfect little baby.  And then what? I hadn't thought that far ahead. Probably sleep.
The pain did come though, of course. And after what I can honestly say was the worse night of my life (labor is a B. end of story) Ethan Lear made his way into this world. His name means strong, firm. It fits his demeanor exactly.
He's been strong and firm right from the beginning. He's outgoing and imaginative. He's assertive and displays very natural leadership qualities (which his mother has to counteract every second of everyday). He can be maddeningly bumptious (if you don't know what that means, go look it up. It's a wonderful word to describe your children ages 2-5).  He is also incredibly loving and cuddlable, on a good day.
And when I think about him starting kindergarten, starting the rest of his life, I'm proud of him, excited for him. Whatever he wants, he will conquer it.
Last night we ran in the Moonlight Madness Race at Rancho San Rafael. It was mostly for Ethan; he's been dying to run in his first race. Joey ran with him and although I couldn't see them (I had to stay back with the stroller and Noah) Joey said he started out like a bat outta you know where until he realized the finish line was not right in front of him.  He realized he'd have to slow down and keep a steady pace, and take walk breaks when he needed them.  I was worried about a full-on break down but overall he ran really well and finished strong. Just like he'll do for the whole rest of his life:  take a couple of walk breaks when  needed,  but overall he'll finish strong. I'm sure of it.

Listening to God's Grace Rustling in the Aspens' Leaves.

So after a sweet time at church today Ethan got up from his nap and we went outside and had lime popsicles together. Ethan decided they taste like 7-Up, one of his favorite sodas. I agreed.
We sat on the side of the house in the only shade available at this time of day. It's just a small bit of shade provided by the house, but in this heat you need it, otherwise you feel like your skin is melting off your body, like the lime popsicles sliding off our sticks.
As I sat over there I couldn't help but listen to the lone aspen on that side of the house, it's leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. Sounds like a waterfall.
I love aspens. I have six of them at my house, two of which were successful transplants from Graeagle (I mention the "successful" part because we tried so many that didn't make it). This particular aspen on the side of the house was actually a left over; the mother tree had died, but when I went to pull it up, I noticed a lone branch, no bigger than a stick the boys would use as a sword in an outside game, sticking out near the bottom of the trunk. For some reason it still had give to it unlike the rest of the tree which was dry and would crack off if you tried to bend it.
I pulled up the rest of the tree but I left the branch at the bottom. It was growing sideways so I stuck a rock near it's side to make it stand straight up. There was no hope of it ever surviving but at least until it died its natural death it would be straight; at that point in my life I just couldn't put a live branch in the trash can. Seemed wasteful. I'd let it die naturally and then throw it out.
Here's the thing; it didn't die. Ever. It's now one of the most healthy aspens I have ever seen. It's big and bushy and beautiful. That stick in five years has grown into one of our biggest trees on the lot.
There is no rhyme or reason. There was no toil on my part, unlike the work I had put into the many trees before it that didn't make it.
And whenever I look at this particular aspen I hear God's grace rustling in it's leaves, telling me to rest and stop worrying so much. Telling me that no matter how much I plan and prepare and seek advice and do everything  possible a human can do to make good decisions, God's will will be done.
He holds me, he cares for me, he loves me. He knows what trees will grow and what trees will die. So today I am trying to tell my little heart to listen to the shhhhh shhhh shhhh of the leaves, of God's heart toward me.

Maybe Jesus Had Eyes Like Tahoe.

I have the urge to write. That means there is stirring in my soul, conflict, unresolved items floating around, waiting to be sorted out, answered, somehow.
We have been taking advantage of these hot July weekends. We made it up to Sand Harbor again yesterday. That lake is so damn beautiful  you have to let your worries go when you look at it's clear, unbelievably turquoise waters, when you hear it's cold waves landing on the sand. How can you not? It's beauty is overwhelming and leaves no room for worries.
But then of course we drove back down the mountain.
And then, today in church, the song we sang in worship, 'Turn your eyes upon Jesus, look full in his wonderful face (what the does Jesus look like? He must be beautiful, maybe his eyes are like Tahoe), and the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of his glory and grace'.
The things of this earth: mortgages, the housing market, pay cuts.
They can all seem so overwhelming.  I can't just FORGET about them. They exist and are as real as the skin on my bones;  it is our roof and our food and our livelihood. Our life. Yet, somewhere in the midst of all those gnawing details there is beautiful truth I can be overwhelmed with, Jesus and his beauty and eternalness, and still be a good steward and responsible little human, wrestling with the choices we have to make down here on earth.
I haven't figured out how to live the paradox. But at least I know it exists. That's as good as it gets right now.

The Hardest Thing.

The truth of the matter is I have everything I've ever dreamed of and I still feel like shit tonight. I have the self esteem of a broken eggshell that just got crushed by an old brown boot.
I have a (two!) jobs I love, I have the best husband in the world for me, I have two adorable healthy boys, I'm not an ugly betty (although I have the confidence of one) and yet tonight I really am feeling low.
I don't get a ton of time with my boys and tonight was going alright until number one decided to play games with his mama's mind at nine PM. By nine PM I am done. I can handle getting off my second job at seven PM, after leaving the house twelve hours earlier to start our day, grabbing my two starving monkeys and driving the thirty minutes it takes to get to our humble abode. I can handle making dinner in chaos, Noah hanging off my right leg, Ethan's non-stop chattering asking me to look! play! watch! see!, all of our tummies growling. I can handle two bed time routines done by yours truly, the fifteen minutes it takes to change Noah's diaper because he somehow manages to wiggle away from me as I try with dainty fingers not to get poop all over myself or the floor, brushing his toddler teeth as he screams like someone is trying to circumcise him sans anesthesia. I can handle falling asleep in the rocking chair as I sing Noah song after song, even though it won't matter: one or twenty, he still wails when I shut the door to say goodnight. I can manage playing "flip up" with Ethan (his favorite 'wrestle' game before bedtime) even though I know it gets him all riled up instead of calming him down. I can manage tickling his back and singing him songs (again, even though it is never enough and he wines for more every. single. night.) but when I walk out his door at nine PM or so, I am done.
Done.
And this is when he decides to play games.
He'll say he has a question, or has to poop, or has an emergency, like he found a bugger on his blankie.
I can handle one or two after tuck-in interruptions, but by three I hear a voice coming out of my mouth I don't recognize, and I can only imagine what I look and sound like to him.
There's so many things going into play here.
Number one, he's not obeying. I clearly laid out the rules that when I walk out his door, there is no more talking.
Number two, my confidence as a mother, leading, guiding. I suck at it! I think the worst thing I did ever in my whole life was read parenting help books. Or maybe I need to read more of them. At any rate, I never feel like what I am doing is right unless I can step back and tell myself, "You're doing OK honey. You're voice was a little rough there, but at least he's safe and has a bed and jammies and dinner."

Tonight, after three horrible back and forths with him, I finally just shut his door. Pissed as I was, I knew I couldn't control him. He's only five, and you think you could. But I already see he's on his own, him and the world and God. And I have to be ok with that as a mother, as a person. He'll do things in life I don't agree with. He'll disrespect me.  And somewhere I have to let it go, have the grace to not let my heart harden and hate him.
I've read enough parenting books to know that is a no no.
And I can't live like that anyways. He's my baby boy and now he's in there sleeping with his mouth open, his tiny little legs sticking out of his super hero undies.
This parenting thing is the hardest thing. That's all.

Winning the Big One.

That was the best forth of July since I was a little girl rolling down the lawn at my rich uncle's house. Me and Joey met the boys, my parents, and a whole crew of extended family and friends up at Graeagle. We spent the day at the millpond, relaxing in the hot sun,getting out legs wet up to our knees in the the icy water to cool off, and floating around in circles on floaties. We played my favorite game of all times: water wiffle ball. If you want to have a good time, and forget about what your rear looks like in your bather (ok, that never is going to happen but it at least takes your mind off of it for a bit) and actually get it in the water like you used to before the mascara/hair/wussieness set in from growing up, wrap a wiffle bat with duct tape. Grab some tennis balls and  get at least three people. Batter stands in the water up to their ankles, pitcher is up to their knees or so, and the outfielder gets ready to swim for balls. I love this game, hearing the balls pop as I  whack them  high the air,  watching them splash into the water, and then eventually having to swim out to help retrieve them. It's the only thing that makes me get in the water and swim and I love it.
The boys were fantastic, and by that I mean the day seemed normal: not crazy, not messed up, not frustrating. It went like you think a fourth of July should go. I think that has to do with two things mostly: numero uno, my kids are growing up. Ethan is very self sufficient and I don't have to worry about him killing himself if I lose track of him for two minutes. And although I still have to worry about that with Noah, he's still old enough to enjoy the water. Plus with all the help from everyone who thinks the little guy is just too cute to resist (or they are just being merciful to me), the day went incredibly smoothly. **note to self: when you're old and have nothing better to do feed some poor frazzled mama's two year old dinner for her so she can sit and talk and drink a beer, and maybe even eat a hot hamburger. I love gracious souls who do this for me. I feel indebted to them with my life, and would, in fact, step in front of a bullet for them if it came down to that.
I think the best part of all of this, besides my children not have meltdowns, besides spending the day with Daelynn and her family, besides just being in Graeagle with it's tall dark trees against the sky melting into dusk, was having Joey there with me.
We've spent so many holidays and family gatherings apart that having him there with me is like the difference going on a week long tropical vacation with your favorite person or going alone; or it's like winning the lottery or going bankrupt. With him there I feel like I've won something big, like the World Series. Without him there I feel like I've lost.
We were told that his job would do this. That it would be "hard on the family". When you're young, or at least when I was young, I took so much for granted, especially time. Saturdays, Sundays, evenings, weekends. I thought it would be no big deal to give those up for other times together (why should it matter?) but for whatever reason that I can't explain it does. It matters to have Joey there when everyone else is celebrating.
And yesterday he was (ironically it wasn't even the forth but in Graeagle they celebrate early, which worked out fabulous for us because in real life Joey works tonight and tomorrow).
So yesterday, due to a stroke of luck, Graeagle deciding they celebrate the fourth on the second, and grace, we won big.
Happy  (pre) Fourth.

All Alone.

Came home boy-less (the little boys are camping with Nawnie and Ampa, and the bigger one is golfing) and the first thing I did was strip off my shirt. It's wonderful to be able to walk around in just my bra with no boys around. Haven't been able to do this in years, and I miss is terribly. There is something so freeing and  comfortable about it, especially when it's hot and I've been dealing with sweat pools in my pits all day. (o boy. Have I said to much? I am sure Joey has loved the small hiatus on the blog. But I'm back now, sweat pools and all).
It's funny coming home to a quiet house, my ears ringing to the silence. I'm loving my alone time but all it takes is to walk by Noah's room, see his empty crib, and I am suddenly missing him, reminded how blessed I am to have my boys.
But now back to the alone time. It's fabulous. My body feels like it can relax, there is no noise, no needs needing to be met, just me, walking around in my bra, eating snacks.

Waiting on the Weekend.

Today was typical, long. I teach Balletone after work. I have time to kill, which is fine by me because that means I can drive stress free over to Saint's, instead of driving like a mad woman, white knuckling it through yellow lights. I took a step class tonight before my class. I realize I am joining the step craze a little late but it's fun. I like the teal, pink, and black steps. Makes me feel like a real bonifide woman doing step. I don't know, maybe you aren't really a woman until you've mastered step aerobics.
I met my friend for lunch, which made my day a little brighter, a little shorter. We sat and talked in the sun. I felt a sisterly bond towards her as I said goodbye; maybe because I've known her for a while now, or maybe I just miss my sisters, especially the older one, so much right now. Of the three of us, she is the last one I thought would live outside the US, but there she is, halfway across the world. There's a nine hour time difference which makes telephone calls tricky. One or the other of us is either just getting up and the other is doing the bedtime routines for our boys.
I'm looking forward to this weekend. Daelynn and Chuy and the girls are in town; I love seeing my little sister's beautiful  family. It's so fun to have girls around.  Ethan is going to be camping with Nawnie and Ampa, and we will join them for one or two days.
I'm sort of in a funk, if you can't already tell. I think it could be one of a hundred of things, including but not limited to: busyness (haven't I just been talking about how I love that?), not seeing my husband, my period on her way, my body adjusting to half the amount of exercise it's been used to getting, my butt expanding due to the previous mentioned,  nobody caring about my expanding butt except for me and my extra tight pants, and busyness. I feel like I need a vacation, time to do nothing, read, connect with my boys, make love with Joey, and pray. The weekend is only two days way, thank God.

Just Stuff.

Haven't written in a while because there is no time, no energy. During the week I see Joey for minutes at a time and our weekends are jammed packed with tball, family bbq's, shopping, and house cleaning.
But in all the busyness I feel like we have a functional routine and I like feeling productive. It also makes the relax times that much more relaxing. I cherish my Sunday afternoons: after putting the boys down for their naps, I wiggle into my bikini, grab my tanning oil and head up to our patio with a icy drink.  I rest (or talk with Joey if he comes up with me) while I let the sun sink into my skin, relaxing my muscles.
For some reason I'm living with less fear, less of a death grip on life as I thought it would be. As unsettling as it is, I'm seeing that things don't have to be the way they always were, that things can change and that's alright-more than alright, change in a lot of ways brings new life.
I know that's all vague and weird, but it's just something that I've been realizing lately and it's exciting because it means there's opportunities for newness. Which I always need, being so afraid of growing old, having already had the best years of my life, etc etc.  You know, all that bullshit.
My boys are growing up right before my eyes. They look so similar it's almost a little creepy, even to me and I am their mother. I'm still trying to figure Noah out-I think he's still trying to figure himself out. He has to have any seat he's in buckled, he will throw food at any chance he gets and this evening he dumped a full salt shaker all out on the kitchen floor.
And we are supposed to survive this? And still be functional adults?
**note to self: if you want to feel like the worst mother ever to walk our planet earth,desperately put ear plugs in at two in the morning (after listening to your two year old scream for two hours) and then wake up two and a half hours later to him still screaming. Go in his room and find him behind the rocker, alternating between hitting his head on the wall and the chair like some person in an insane asylum getting weened off crack. Then wonder how long he's been out of his bed in the pitch black screaming his head off, and realize the clunk you heard two and a half hours ago when you decided you were done and put the ear plugs in was not his sippy cup of milk like you thought it was but actually it was him, falling out of his crib for the first time. Two and half hours ago. Yeah, think about that. It's a lovely thought.
But you know, other than that sort of stuff life over here is actually going really well. As I was leaving work today I thought, probably for the hundredth thousandth time since I started working how much I like to work and how much more functional this is for our family.
I'm still seriously dealing with mommy guilt but I kinda just tell it to shut up because I know this is better for us. I try to take advantage of the time I get with my little guys: the bed time stories, games after work, and fun filled weekends (which reminds me! I got myself Joey a fire pit for Father's Day and I love it! We've used it twice and it's like camping, only right in our backyard! I get to watch the dusk turn into night, listen to the crickets come out, enjoy a glass of wine while watching the warm flame do it's mesmerizing dance right before me! It's absolutely perfect as long as our neighbors decide not to blast eighties rock music out their back door. That kinda ruins it.)Where was I? Mommy guilt. So yeah, besides right now, I try to spend most of my off time with the boys. Which, sigh, reminds me I need to go do that now. It's bedtime, baby.

Pukies and Blanket Jealousy.

I spent the better part of yesterday (as in on the hour, every hour) puking my brains into the toilet bowl. Thankfully Joey had decided to take the night off anyway so he was able to take care of the children.  I still vote that the hardest thing in life (besides maybe being in a cave alone and chopping your pinched arm off with your own pocketknife) is trying to take care of young children while you are puking your brains out, on the hour, every hour.  I tried my bestest to get up and get going this morning ( I want to eat! I keep fantasizing about ice cream floats, and coffee, and Hot Tamales),  but my body won't have it. I am weak and get the chills if I stand for too long and when I tried a bite of bagel it sent me running back to the toilet. Ugh.
It feels like Oregon in Reno today, all wet and grey. I once thought I'd like it up there, all the green (it is so beautiful!) but I miss my sun. By the end of the week it is supposed be in the mid seventies and sunny. I can't wait to feel the sun on my skin, soak it up, be done with this sickness and this forever winter we seem to be having here in Reno. I'm ready for bathers and bbq's, sand and a cold, fizzy drink.
Joey ran in the RTO this weekend (so glad I wasn't puking then!).  The boys and I went over to Jen's for dinner on Friday night. They made me a pink birthday cake and white frosting and pink and purple sprinkles, picked out especially for me by Ethan. He's such a doll.
On Saturday morning we got up and I taught a Balletone class (I am loving this format more and more every time I do it! Plus somebody once told me ballet is good for the wrinkles on your bootie. Anything to help Operation BHandT!). Then we went to Ethan's t-ball game. The little guys are actually playing now: we even had a chase from third to home with a slide in to score!! It was awesome. Ethan's still picking up the game. He plays outfield and the other day he tells me, "Mom, when I play baseball, sometimes the ants are going into the ground, and then sometimes they are coming out of the ground."  I reminded him it's more important during a baseball game to know where the ball is than what the ants are doing. I think he sorta got it.
Noah has morphed into a delightful two year old. His favorite and most often used word is "Nooooooooo!" in the whiniest voice imaginable. He says this while swatting at the air with his right hand. We've got the throwing of the food onto the floor under somewhat control. He has become very attached to his blankie, a symptom of what I as his working mother can only attest to separation anxiety. Every time he asks for it ("Bankie! Bankie!") it's like a stab to my guilty heart. The other day he actually did cry when I left him at child care and the pain I felt as I shut the door on his teary face was tortuous. I liked it better when he was interested in the play dough. So now we are trying to limit the blankie time, otherwise he is Linus from Charlie Brown: pulling the blankie everywhere behind him, inside, outside, he even wants it in the bathtub. I have to tell myself over and over, "He has not replaced you with the blankie. He has not replaced you with the blankie." But when the first thing he says when I pick him up from day care is "Bankie! Bankie!", his chubby little finger pointing to it in his cubbie,  it makes a mama wonder.

Memorial Day Weekend.

Joey took me out for my twenty eighth birthday last night. I'm not even at the age old people want to go back to (as in when you ask them how old they are turning and they say "29!") and yet I think I am old. I feel old. I blame that entirely on my children.
Even still we both looked smok'en hot in our black, dress-up attire: my tiny black dress (which I am sure made my dad's insides turn over when we dropped the boys off. Joey says I need to seriously get over this. Not really sure how at the moment, but I think he's right.) and Joey in his black button up shirt and leather jacket. You'd never know at home we're just a bunch of old married fogies who barely can hold their farts in anymore. 
We went to Harrah's Steak House and enjoyed the extra polite service ("m'am" and "sir")and delicious food: fresh white bread with crunchy crust smeared with creamy butter, red wine in an extra large glass, steak cooked exactly how each of us likes it, strawberry cheesecake for dessert. Ugh. I still feel full and that was almost twenty four hours ago.
Then we rented a movie (a horrible, horrible movie)and got Hot Tamales (my favorite) and some chocolate candy (for him) to top the night off.
The movie was Black Swan, picked out by yours truly. I like Natalie Portman and I like ballet, so I thought it was a no brainer.
Well. I should have actually used my brain and read the back of the movie which said it was a "psycho sexual thriller" or something gross like that. Maybe I would have chosen something else, or maybe not. I don't think I would have believed, before I watched it, that any movie with a ballet base and Natalie Portman could be so awful. I mean, the Natalie Portman movie we watched in my house over and over and over is Mr Magoriam's Wonder Emporium about a magical toy store for gosh sakes.
Black Swan was completely disgusting on so many levels. I kept thinking she was going to pull through, get out of all of her emotional, psychological problems and overcome (comm'on Natalie! You can do it! I need you to do it! Be my hero!); but instead she just ends up killing herself. (Oops! But, no-see, now you don't have to go through the torture of watching it because you already know: she kills herself. The End.) It was more of a horror film, really. I give Joey crap all the time for renting the F-bomb throwing, shooting, bad guys movies, and then I go and rent the worst movie we have ever seen in all our nine whole years together.
I have officially been banned from movie picker forever, which is fine by me. That choice made absolutely clear I am totally inept at choosing a quality movie. Or at least at my next attempt I will read the back of the DVD case.
So anyways, right now it is so quiet. All the boys are sleeping. It won't last long though; nap time is like a baby chick about to hatch: the first whimper from the bedroom like the first crack in a previously silent eggshell. 
It's not a bad thing, it just happens.
Once we are all up Joey is bbqing steak and we'll fix corn and potatoes too. A couple of more hours to spend together before the start of another week, which will be short thankfully. And please, summer, get here!! This weekend was like Narnia: winter and no Christmas.

Saturday Bliss.

Sunday morning and I'm missing my blog (writing) more than I'm missing working out. So that's a lot. Work is going fabulous, the boys have adjusted just fine, my breakdowns have been minimal. I'm heading into week four and that seems just impossible it's gone by that quickly.
Yesterday was a super fun day. We went to Saint's to work out; I did a sculpting class which I always love because when I leave my muscles feel stronger than they did before. Joey did his own thing and than he swam; I love that he gets to swim now because I work there. Makes me feel like I am giving him something, you know? He loves to swim. I used to like swimming too before I wore eye make-up and spent forty minutes on my hair every morning. Now the thought of swimming, well, you might as well line me up on a brick wall and spray me down with a fire hose. But he can still love it; he's bald and never wears mascara.
After the gym we went straight to Ethan's t-ball game. It was one of the rare ones that's been warm and bearable, which actually made it relaxing and enjoyable. On the way home we stopped and did some grocery shopping at Scolari's with the kiddie fire engine carts that Joey always lets the boys get. I hate those things. Not only is it as embarrassing as driving a light teal Astro minivan in the store, turning into the isles is almost impossible and you can completely forget about turning around mid-isle-not going to happen. Plus, you always have the risk of taking out whole center displays with it's non-u-turn radius. On top of that it's grimy as hell and I'm sure has sicknesses growing all over it like a high school science project.
Once we got home and got the kids in bed I made brownies for our after-dinner-dessert and then hopped in the shower while Joey went for a run.
The best part of the day was getting out the shower to a quiet house that smelled like brownies and lying down on the couch in my bathrobe, my wet hair wrapped in my towel like a turban, and resting for fifteen minutes without so much as a peep from the boys bedrooms. Ahh, bliss.
Then I got all dolled up and as soon as Joey got home ran out the door to meet my friend for drinks at the local Mexican restaurant just down the street. It felt great to be getting out and doing something which felt so normal but really is such huge, abnormal thing for a mom to do: get all dolled up, leave her husband and children on a Saturday afternoon, and go have drinks with a friend from work, just for the heck of it.
When I came home Joey looked like the Gladiator had gotten a hold of him. His left eye especially was all bloodshot and looked like there was a golf ball underneath of it. He explained that he must of breathed in some awful plant that gave him an allergic reaction on his run. He was a total stud tho and still went over to our friends for dinner.
So we finished the day over at Jen and Sam's, relaxing with friends with the occasional sniffle and sneeze from Joey, my heart thankful.

Healing: the End of Mommy Guilt, Part One of Many I'm Sure.

So after maybe spending the whole day after I wrote that last post in a foggy depression bubble in which I maybe was a little too sensitive and barked at my husband over a simple little comment that maybe turned in to a full blown why'd-i-ever-marry-you fight which maybe led to me leaving the house and crying in my car for an hour because I didn't have a bra on and couldn't go to Starbucks or anywhere else, a good friend reminded me I could read my bible and pray, and that God would answer me, somehow, someway.
See, sometimes I forget I am a christian and can do these things. Or maybe I don't forget, I just don't believe any of it.
Anyway, after a day like that even I am desperate? enough to sit down and open my bible, despite all the baggage I carry around it.
Because I am having such a hard time figuring this whole mother/wife/woman thing out, I listened to the little voice (this time I'm pretty sure it was the spirit) reminding me of Proverbs 31, the place where it talks about what a woman who is following God looks like. I wasn't expecting much; like many other "church" people I've read this passage so many times I can easily pass it off like a Hallmark card but I listened to that little voice anyway and flipped there.
Two verses in and my heart was so soft I could feel it melting in my chest : "Her husband has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value. She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life." After that big'ole piece of humble pie **see middle of first paragraph** the writer goes on, verse after verse after verse of...her working. Yes, yes, it's work that is pretty home-makery except for maybe when she buys the field (that's pretty business like, like maybe in today's world she'd have a business degree or even better, a finance one) and some could argue it all has to do with her home, but the freeing part for me was that this woman was BUSY. She worked really really hard. I can't imaging she was sitting around all day satisfying every whim of her children. In fact, the only time children are mentioned is near the end when it says, "Her children arise and call her blessed".  She's getting up early and doing a whole bunch of hard, tiring things that make her house a functional home, one where at the end of the day her children and her husband praise her. (YES! this is what my little heart cries out. I WANT THAT!)
I also want to mention the part where it says, "She provides food for her family and portions for her servant girls." I hadn't ever paid attention to that part before, that she had servants, as in plural. Who knows? This lady could've had a full time nanny for each one of her children!
In all seriousness it just made me realize I need to give myself a break. The standards I hold myself up to are so ridiculous and because I can never meet them I end up believing lies:
You got married too young. Your first baby was a naive mistake. You doubled that mistake by having another. You are not responsible/emotionally stable/old enough to be a mom. In short: Your life is wrong.
And then in church today Louie talked about carrying around unforgiveness (of ourselves) and sin (lies) on our backs like when Paul says in Romans 6, "Who will rescue me from this body of death?" He explained that back then murderers would have their victims' bodies chained onto their backs and eventually the rot from the deceased would seep into their own bodies and kill them. (BTW, I think this is a great idea!) It was a perfect picture of how I am walking around these days with a "body of death" chained to my back, it's rot (lies) seeping into my heart, making my life stink.
So. This has all combined to make for a very emotionally draining weekend but I feel like I at least broke through some of the lies I've been unconsciously listening to, and that I also can now start to replace them with truth: Nothing about your family is a mistake. You are the exact mama God chose for your boys. You are working hard, for the good of your family. Get some servant girls (haha just kidding).

Mommy Guilt, Part One of Many I'm Sure.

Ahhh Saturday! I remember the weekends being such a refuge when I worked fulltime before and here they are again. I appreciate days off so much more, I appreciate sleep so much more, I appreciate wine so much more.
Let's start off by letting you know I have been dealing with chronic back pain. There's a part of me that just wants to ignore it but the other part of me can't because, well, it hurts. All the time. I don't know what it's from but I have a feeling it's from overuse particularly in kickbox and also maybe yoga and then there's my whole cracking-every-crackable-joint-in-my-body issue that I've had for fourteen years. That could be it. Anyway, I'm worried.
So I guess I will just ignore it because who wants to pay for an MRI or CT? Not me. I've already had to do that once when my appendix decided to blow (while I was prego with Noah) in between insurances. Great timing, God.
ANYWAY.
Even while I sit here trying to ignore it the pain from my neck is giving me a headache in the lower back of my skull. AWESOME!
I'm sort of looking forward to cleaning today, getting my house looking nice and smelling good. Ironically it's so much less dirty then when I was working part time because WE AREN'T HERE TO MESS IT UP FIVE MILLION TIMES A DAY. So it should be a relatively quick clean.
I am still loving my new job. It's a great fit for me and I am excited to be fully off training and on my own.
I still am having fits of mommy guilt over it, lying in bed unable to sleep wondering if this is all a big mistake, and I am only doing this to take the easy way out. Being  a fulltime stay-at-home mom is not my cup of tea but I feel like kaka over it. Instead of looking at this work opportunity as something totally awesome and fulfilling and financially helpful and an answer to my desperate prayers, I lie in bed wondering if it's an opportunity from the devil himself and the beginning of the end for me and my children.
I'd like to think the pressures I feel are from outside of myself but they're not. They are from my own gut, my own soul. They are from this awful habit I have of comparing myself to every other mother out there and  coming up short every time even though no other two moms' lives look the same, but for some reason everyone else is doing it right and I am the only one royally messing things up in the maternal area.
I have to consciously remind myself that all those wonderful above feelings are from my own insecurities, period.
And then of course, looking at reality also helps. Like the fact that I noticed last night, after too weeks of working fulltime,  I was able to laugh and enjoy both my boys for the first time in what seems like a very long time. That I am not rushing out of the bedtime routines to fall on the couch completely exhausted and overwhelmed by their questions and crying. That I linger while singing them songs, tickling their backs, pulling the covers up close. That when Ethan is procrastinating and delaying his bedtime as long as he possibly can, I can laugh it off with my husband and say, "That kid!" instead of wanting to shoot myself in the head.
The flip side to all of this is that annoying little voice (my conscience? a book I read? the spirit? the devil?) in my head telling me you are running away from your children because it's hard! you are taking the easy way out and it will eventually come back to bite you in the butt, like maybe your children will end up in the state prison because of it! And you will be perpetually unfulfilled for going after things that aren't really important (like financial security and a fulfilling job) instead of raising your children twenty-four-seven! I could go on-the little voice in my head certainly does-but I will spare you.
Man, this is all putting me in a depressing mood.
Maybe it's time I go grab my lemon scented Lysol and fill the air with clean happiness.