Undies and the Kickoff to the Holidays.

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

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

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

Heat.

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

Purple Sky, Creepy Train, and Neighbors.

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

Wear it.

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

Frog update.

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

Frog.

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

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

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

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

Remember?

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

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

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

Always, it's, Where's Joey?

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

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

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

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

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

chosen, blessed by love, as if anointed."

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

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

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

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