Sweetest Of All

All He Wanted Was A Simple Birthday Dinner…

2012-02-02T05:44:00.000-06:00

Seven Baked Potatoes, Fresh Chopped Chives, Thick Cut Fried Bacon, Sour Cream, Cheddar & Provolone…
…Smashed Baked Potatoes

Whole Bulb Baked Garlic & Red Mashed Potatoes

Salt Licked Chipotle BBQ Sauce Chicken Drumsticks

Bacon & Wilted Spinach Salad With Red Pepper Fingers & Cranberries

Buttered Corn on the Cob with Spiced Seasoning

Fluffy & Sweet Rolls

Five Layer Chocolate Candy Bar Cake

Plus Gluten Free Chocolate Cake with Dutch Chocolate Frosting

…but first I had to convince Big Guy to push the cart at the grocery store. Sister ran relays for items. Moose was sequestered in the cart. Their was a dump truck involved in the loading and unloading, plus an assembly line. Once the ice cream was on ice…well, then so was I. Enough rest and the cooking began. I had help hauling the vats of boiling water. Frightening. And the whole meal was cooked while the last dish was washed, so dad could eat in perfect peace.

Then we lit our chocolate boats a-fire.

…And lit.

Thirty Seven Candles IS a fire HAZARD.

Naturally, the kids sang…and sang…and sang.

Can you believe he blew them all out in a breath and a half, the single shot of the camera.

I will never understand their fascination with chocolate…the slack faces and rolling eyeballs. But they sure enjoyed themselves. And I’m guilty of stealing a rolo – which is plastic chocolate and palatable for its caramel core. But I did my best not to ruin the cake ecstasy, especially since dinner was a running dialogue about my certainty that I could nearly taste the death in my drumstick and pictured that animal running through the yard screaming about me nibbling its gristle.

I didn’t eat my drumstick after that.

Happy Birthday Burns

2012-02-01T17:01:00.001-06:00

I have four layer chocolate cake with chocolate frosting with chocolate candy bar border…waiting for you when you get home.

What on earth to say about this day…

2012-02-01T00:28:00.001-06:00

What on earth to say about this day…

Should I tell you about crying in the kitchen? No. Should I tell you about…nope on that one too. Ugh. I feel trapped by reality and writing, readers, honesty and imperfection. Hmmm.

So I will tell you about some afternoon moments, before things became complicated and after they were sublimely beautiful.

The afternoon was slightly upside down. Moose actually slept, drooling and snuffle breathing in the crook of my arm. I slept too, with a rolled up towel in my lower back. I did so to the hum of an electric spine. For the first time in many months I wasn’t the backup for all the neighbors and I let someone else pick up my children. Sweet Big Guy called me to make sure it was okay to go home with a neighbor…dear boy.

I made blueberry pancakes for the children after school, then announced my intention to NOT cook dinner. We had soup coming out of our ears and the fridge was bulging with leftovers. Sister was delighted by afternoon pancakes. Big Guy was not. Moose asked for a cookie, then a brownie, then a cookie. Thankfully friends showed up to distract his sugared mind.

Burns was supposed to be working, so he planted himself on the floor in the middle of the family room. He looked tired, burdened, possibly not in love with his for now job, overwhelmed with being tossed in a financial sea of student loans and pay cuts. He mostly wanted to be left alone, to grumble and muse his way through the next chore. So I planted myself nearly on top of his laptop, right in his lap. There wasn’t room for the two of us, the lap top and myself, so I made myself quite indispensible. And for an hour I tried to wiggle and flirt the grumbles right out of him. I’d like to say that I won, temporarily. However, eventually he retired to the bedroom where no one could distract him as effectively as I distract. So then I lost, perhaps.

The children were racing through the house. Sister was disciplined for telling the neighbor girls about Big Guy’s adoration of slumbering with stuffed animals. It was a perfect opportunity to implement a gag order on further information - on any subject that had to do with her brother. Mostly because none of us wanted to see Big Guy’s crush dwindle into horror in case his baby sister unfolded his sentiments publicly. We were all sort of holding our breath that sweet sister could keep his private thoughts private and at the same time reminding Big Guy to breath. Each time he walked through the room I gave him encouragement to just play, just be a boy, don’t apologize for loving stuffed animals, don’t kill your sister, don’t trip over the sweet blond girl who also loves catching lizards in the backyard, and don’t bring the lizard in the house because he is spitting blood all over the shirt I have to iron.

He breathed. Sister apologized and reconfirmed her commitment to just ‘be cool’. Moose sprayed the water on my shirts and watched in fascination as I pressed the wrinkles into smooth cloth. Yesterday’s soup simmered on the stove. The cornbread reheated in the oven. The whites were nearly done, just as the towels were folded. My pain was level enough not to turn my face gray and gaunt, but pressing enough that I didn’t notice when my fingers touched the hot iron, all three times. And dad worked away in the other room. I wondered if I were him, carrying his burdens…if I’d work in the other room or if I’d let my wife sit in my lap until I burst into a thousand giggles.

At the end of it all, Sister threw her brother under the bus by exposing his slumbering addictions to fluffy creatures, but held his secret safe. Big Guy managed two hours in the presence of an angel and only fell into a few pieces. The lizard was caught, tortured and released, as with any wild creature in our captivity. Moose was a super trooper when his siblings were distracted with good-bye’s, helping me iron, setting the table, letting me tickle him until he burst into a thousand giggles. And I? Well. I hurt. But I accomplished much. I made a few delightfully happy. And doing so gave me a measure of peace.

In Comparison

2012-01-31T07:27:00.001-06:00

my weird plastic smile with no teeth – probably cause I’m thinking
“snap the dumb photo, I’m eatin’ queso here!?

A couple weeks ago we attended our old ward with some friends and afterwards had a lovely brunch at their house. There was a new couple there who had this grand idea of moving to Boise, Idaho because her husband works from home and they have been trying to find the perfect city in which to raise their family. After all the comparisons were done, Boise had ample shining points.

Every couple in the room sent them to us for confirmation. It was a good thing that Big Guy wasn’t in the room. All you have to do is mention Boise and his eyes gleam like he’s just been twinkled into the Valhalla. Our Boise years were good years. The grass is thick and lush, and it is a beautiful thing when you can jump and roll upon it like an outside carpet. We loved the parks and river system running through town, the wilderness just beyond, the barely four seasons that came in delicate expression just enough to make you feel like you were living change but not with any great ferocity that made the season a permanent blight upon your days. Mostly Boise was very family oriented, the zoo was inexpensive, each season heralded a new festival or family event. There was much to love.

They asked, of course, what we thought of Texas and my answer escaped my lips before I even thought about it. “It is what I imagine Hell is like, you are being boiled so slowly you hardly realize that you are in it until it is too late.” This look of horror spread across their faces, but it was too late to soften my response. And I had to explain that our first few years here were not a gentle introduction. Is it better? In some ways. In many ways it is the hardest place we have ever lived and we feel hardened for it. But I think that has less to do with Texas itself and more to do with how we were delivered here and then how we were wrapped and unwrapped in this place. It was more like a violent nine year old birthday party. We were pert and tightly little wrapped gifts that have been shredded, ransacked and left scattered upon the ground. Lessons learned in Texas are hard. The drought is severe. The fire ants are an unholy terror and have ruined the ground for me forever. The grass is tough like straw. The spiders are gigantic beasts with armored skin. The snakes fill the ravines, crevices, even the lake has a host of snakes slithering through it. The weather can only bear winter for two weeks, there is a fall with no colors for one month, spring with bluebell carpets for one month and summer for the rest.

But then Texas does have its good points. There is nothing more exciting than a tornado warning, or a general every day storm which truly feels like it might rain us right into the un-diggable ground. The sky is mesmerizing. I try not to stare straight at it while driving for fear that it’s beauty may captivate me and I’ll drive right through a field of cedar. There is nearly every kind of food on the earth here, even in our small grocery store. Sometime I still want to lie down in the produce aisle and make pretend snow angels in an aisle full of vegetables. Friday Night Football is more intense here, there are always enough days in summer, we can be active year round and I almost NEVER EVER have to wear socks, or pajamas to bed. You can stand in the rain without getting cold, you can eat brisket and sausage until your pores ooze bbq sauce, is there any other place in the world where the bats congregate by the hundred thousands? And the good people…are like water to a starving man in the desert…I could drink wisdom from my good friends for all my days. And in the end, I wonder sometimes if I could ever move away now that I’ve boiled myself good and tender. Then I remember the cries from my most recent neighbor who found herself moved to Park City, Utah. She mourned over the phone…for queso…her kingdom for some queso!

I have to admit, it would be very difficult to leave behind the queso.

Insecurity

2012-01-30T00:13:00.001-06:00

I went to Target this weekend with Sister. She needed a gift for her favorite neighbor friend. He is a boy, but NOT her boyfriend. Although whenever another kid comes to play with the two of them, I usually have to extend several warnings on this subject. What is it with a girl and a boy being friends? I guess they will always be teased.

Anyway, we found some sweet treasures for her excursion – a surprise for her and a gift for Tru. We wandered the whole length of the store and found the most adorable ruffled swimsuit on the clearance rack for her. She had to swear that she wouldn’t beg me for another suit. She also had to promise dad over the phone. He needed some convincing. But I was sold when her eyes twinkled and she twirled right in the middle of the aisle while holding the suit like a new baby. I had a coral suit once. I still love it in memory.

Of course, then she wanted to be twins so I found my own coral suit and humored her in the dressing room. I shouldn’t have done it. I’ve encountered Target’s dressing room lights before and fulfilling her curiosity was not worth the psychological damage that was done in there. I’m aware that my poor body has been through some rough phases in the past years. And while my weight loss was super on target as I made strong progress toward my end goal, the back injury sort of threw me under the bus. I’m so atrophied that when my husband tried to rub the tight muscles in my back he couldn’t find any…not tight muscles…he couldn’t find any muscles. My weight loss plan did NOT include nine to ten hours lying flat in the agenda and it has done some flattening to say the least. Ugh. But I felt like I’d made some peace with that. I saw some back flab the other day and about had a heart attack until Burns confirmed that it was worse before… but now at least I’m gaining some muscle again. Yep. I wanted to punch him. But what could I do back then but flaccidly survive. And so I did. Except then I stood in front of that two way mirror and stared straight at my back side. There was screaming…mostly inside my head…but only because I’m building a web of lies for my daughter that I love my body just the way it is.

It was a little heart-rending. Even seeing my little Miss twirl around in my grown up coral suit couldn’t cheer me up. Of course, I pretended anyway. And we had a lovely time. But my ego took a hit from the wicked presentation of reality. I’m going to let that battle wage in my head for a bit. And until then, you get shadows. Shadows don’t show cellulite, atrophy, two year battles with gravity.

But shadows are still real, enough. And I love my shadow.

Friday Nights

2012-01-28T09:56:00.001-06:00

By Friday I feel like a caged animal.

I have a speech therapy box, and a physical therapy box which rounds out my week. I GET to go read to the kids at the school but it feels so short I’m still a starving women when I’m finished. I GET to do the art program in Big Guy’s classroom, but making fun of twenty kids while we pretend to be artistic just gets my juices flowing, never fills me up. So by Friday I’ve made three trips into town for spine care, two trips into the other town for speech therapy…and I feel boxed…like a caged animal.

I have to break out. Although this week I did hit the grocery store with Moose. I made him push the cart. So while I bagged limes, he walked halfway across the deli section thinking it was terribly funny to see me do laps back to our cart. I’m still not really allowed to grocery shop. And I felt really dumb asking for help to take my measly groceries to the car, worse when I called the neighbor to load them in the house, and better when Moose’s dumper truck did the trick. But still people!….caged animal.

I called Burns from the road. “Where should we meet you?”

“I’m already on my way home.” He remarked.

“We are already on our way out!” I responded quickly. He sighed. We made a plan. At first it was going to be a burger joint. But I’ve had this need for macaroni and cheese that is base in nature and I probably shouldn’t talk about my compelling addiction in public. NEvertheless, we found Carino’s and had some tolerable mac and cheese. It did not fill me up and the children were pretending to be caged animals.

The next place we visited…er, ransacked…was a warehouse store for shoes. Except we broke through the ‘window shopping’ experience and went inside. Of fourteen thousand shoes, Burns saw none he liked on him, one he loved on me, and I found none I liked on either of us. But the children were allowed to run the length of the aisles in a constant game of sweaty chase…assuming they neither ran around other customers, raised their voices, or found themselves in anyone’s way. Breaking any of those rules meant they were sequestered at our sides. Would you believe it, they lasted like forty five minutes. We wandered the store together, whispering whenever we passed by a stranger about those children who were left unattended to silently race each other. It was delicious even if the window shopping was not.

On our way home, we chatted ear piece to ear piece. So when the raging man behind me sped up so that I couldn’t merge onto the freeway, Burns wandered dangerously out of his lane in front of me to freak him out. It was nearly as funny as when I pulled in front of him, despite his attempt to box me out. He blows his horn, flashes his light, matches my brilliant smile and wave with a single finger and then gets edged off the road in front of me by an equally obnoxious stranger. Oh don’t worry. There was plenty of room for him. But he did have to turn in the u-turn lane when the colluding citizen in front wouldn’t give him access to the merge lane he so desired. Ugh. Sometimes driving brings out the worst in us.

At home, I made Burns keep the earpiece on. He thought I was ridiculous. But this way I could still talk to him while I hunkered down in the laundry room. We scrambled to massage the house through the Saturday’s chores in under an hour. It was family movie night and while the children danced like wild animals in the shower, I figured we could get the first two hours of Saturday out of the way tonight. Burns smacked dishes around in the kitchen while I stuffed clothes into the gaping mouth of the washer. It was a violent episode while we talked politely into our earpieces about…who can remember.

Most of the work was finished by the time a naked drippy Moose burst on the scene ripe for some bum pinchies. He angled toward the train table making a flip turn twice before he was flanked on both sides. Burns had him sailing through the air before he could tuck into a ball and proclaim ‘lumpy bumpy’ status, thereby making himself an unassailable island off limits. My job is to catch cheeks during the sailing with my fingernails and squeeze tickles out of him. It was a success.

The big kids came to his rescue with light sabers and an equally delicious desire to have their cheeks squeezed as well. Some were spanked in fun. Others I could not bend low enough to catch, and one little Jedi was smacked in the head by his Obiwan. It was a devastating and traitorous act. There were tears, hugs, and more bum pinchies. Of course.

I don’t even remember what the movie was. They asked for a movie which was already loaned across the street. Burns and I made popcorn on the stove while we debated over the stale debacle. Sometimes the kernels pop slow and careful, resulting in a less stiff popcorn. Other times, they pop fast and furious and create the most perfect bowl of crisp butter-less popcorn. We can’t figure out the perfect technique. Same pan, same oil, same temperature, same timing, same kernels…different results. Oh well. I ate four handfuls, placed my lap top across my body and fell straight to sleep. I have no idea how the movie ended, when the three floor children were returned to their rooms, what time the rest of the house drifted off to sleep.

Instead I dreamed of people I care about finding happiness enough for me to feel at peace. It was just what I needed. That and to break out of the cage!

Crunchy Yogurt & Tearing Discs

2012-01-28T03:05:00.000-06:00

I cooked brisket for two days, dressed adorable for dinner and made sensational enchiladas with spinach salad. And when burns came home he was frustrated. A few kids cried. He slammed a door. The kids and I ate dinner alone. My back hurt. I probably shouldn’t have stood so long toast roasting the chili peppers. But it sure was nice having Sister help me. She grated cheese and we giggled together about how dinner was going to turn out with our Spanish rice bubbling and the refried beans cooking softly behind the chipotle bbq brisket.

It didn’t turn out the way I hoped.

Oh well.

Hope is a tricky thing anyway isn’t it.

I woke up this morning, hoping to shake off yesterday. HA! Hoping! It wasn’t going to badly until Moose asked why he couldn’t steal cookies from the cookie jar anymore. I cried a little, maybe a lot. The lid is broken and I can so understand how that feels, to see shards of yourself scattered across an earthen floor. The broken cookie jar was a sad story too. And my back hurts.

So rather than talk about sad stories out of my control, I will tell you a sad story within my control. Sound good?

Three weeks ago I was AMAZING. Not perfect, mind you. But I was making progress. I’d moved way past shaving my legs and putting on my own shoes. I could stand nearly all day. I could sit for several hours. The neuropathy was probably more an issue than pain anymore and although there was still pain, it was slight. Oh my! I even lifted a thirty pound weight five times in rehab. I held that weight like a new baby or my old baby and cradled it just so until Jude thought I was strange and told me to drop it straight to the floor before hurting myself. Things were good. I could see that vision which had been painted before me. Get the surgery. Sew up your stomach. And watch! Your back will heal.

I seriously didn’t believe it. The first two months were sheer hell. The next three months were very painful and challenging. I felt like everything was broken. But then suddenly my body began to function. I still can’t feel most of my belly. My torso stretches out long like cadaver flesh. Guess you can’t be skinned alive and afterward all is well. My scars are dreadful. The stretch marks over the scars caused by an aggressive surgery on a skinny belly are more dreadful. The belly button that was re-sewn when the old one was lost to the giant hernia’s behind it…is most dreadful. No. I take that back. Not feeling is dreadful. And looking at my torn belly is dreadful. Having had such a dangerous surgery that has about a thousand drawbacks (girls do not believe a thing people tell you about plastic surgeons – it is a nightmare in real life). BUT my back began to heal after my stomach reconstruction. So I was starting to believe. Ugh. That darn hope is a tricky thing. And I didn’t have to tuck my intestines back into my belly anymore! Woot Woot!

And one day I was at the clinic and the doc wanted to try a therapy that I didn’t feel was right. I wasn’t hurting, I appeared to be doing well enough but that little voice in my head said, “NO!! STOP!!”

I just didn’t say it. At least not audibly. And you want to know why? I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. When the therapy was done I knew it was wrong, but I breathed a sigh of relief that my legs didn’t fall of and I went my way. On the way home, my back began to burn, my legs stung until I had to itch the biting bee stings covering my skin. I pushed the thought out of my head. It won’t be that bad. I won’t let them talk me into that again. I’ll recover. My body recovers now. I can put my own shoes on for heavens sake!

For the next three weeks there have been good days and there have been bad days. And by bad days I mean like September pain, with October burning, and my nerves in my belly screaming at me all day long because clearly my spine is pissed and the back muscles are screaming at the belly muscles. I had another doctor check it finally. He thinks the disc is re-torn. Isn’t that a shame…a terrible shame.

Jude told me that no one has endured more setbacks than me. I should be professional at it. I just shrugged. I’ve been so disciplined with my body, so careful, for so long and it is SO UNBELIEVABLY unlike me that I wish I’d hurt myself. I wish I’d gotten reckless and tried to skate - something adventurous and worth the setback.

But I didn’t. I trusted. Someone made a mistake. Someone feels horrible about it. No one can agree how ouchy it will be or how long it will take. I’m not sure if it was all that therapy, but I know it started there.

I should have spoken up, or tried skating. Either one would have been fine. But I didn’t. So I can put on my shoes, stand to cook dinner but that old companion is back. Like an ice pick in my vertebra it drips its poison vengeance down my backside and all I can do is go on with my day.

Chin up. The cookie jar is broken. My grandma isn’t coming back to life to buy me a new one. I was blamed for its’ demise in a most hurtful way. I cooked a lovely dinner and watched my three children sob through the prayer. And my herniated disc is re-torn open, whatever that means.

Maybe tomorrow will be better. If not, I will pretend it to be so while I eat crunchy pineapple yogurt on the counter with the most exquisite gentlemen that I know. Then I will wipe his boogers, his bum, and let him snuggle me in bed until he snores sweet whispers into my waiting ears.

Aren’t We All Just A Little Bit Allergic To Texas?

2012-01-27T03:53:00.000-06:00

He hates his nose.

He hates his eyes.

He hates his tears.

He hates his cough.

But really? He just hates cedar fever.

Trading Trials For Tornadoes?

2012-01-26T15:48:00.001-06:00

I was all tucked into bed, especially tucked because I’ve been cold for weeks so I borrowed Moose’s lime green fuzzy blanket and wrapped it right against my skin so the smooth sheets wouldn’t trap the icy air that is a relatively warm Texas night. Burns was over on his side making a sauna and I shivered like the North Pole.

I was still laughing about the last punch lines on 30 Rock when I turned to my side and tucked my hands in prayer style beneath my cheeks. With the pillow between my legs I could feel an angry disc in my spine but it was not seething. There I waited for the night to capture me and draw me into a disjointed adventure lasting until morning. However, I could not find sleep. I could not find peace. And it had nothing to with the tornado watch over our county, all night long. To avoid my own disquiet, I pictured that funnel cloud dropping into our neighborhood and ripping the roof off our our house in the silent hours of morning. So when I was finally released and fell into sleep, the tumultuous noise of the storm woke me with that same vision. I waited for hours as it thundered and rocked the house. I waited first for destruction, wondering always what terror that must feel like. Yet, it seemed unlikely even if I half expected it to happen. Next, I waited for the children to round the corner, lips fevered and eyes vacant of all security. They never came.

By morning we learned that the children had gathered into each others’ beds for comfort. When so many nights they climb into my own for far lesser reasons I was most surprised by their absence, yet grateful they found each other. I realized that the reason it bothered me so, to wander through the eve of a five hour rampage, was because this time I needed their comfort more than they needed mine.

I blinked the thought away and rushed with them to school for the art program. Afterwards, my therapist gave me the same tearful lecture he gave the week before. The therapy I received from another physician re-tore my finally healing spine and I was right back where I’d fought so hard to come from. Even the jokes from 30 rock couldn’t make me laugh. Moose and I wove ourselves through the misty morning waiting for the light to penetrate and when it failed to do so we folded clothing in tall piles until they leaned heavy to one side.

The day was altogether normal. I felt the familiar searing of pain which had left me mostly since October. Every chore was filled with pain and fire. But my Moose smiled me through the hours of the day until our home filled with children who were braver than myself the night before. They laughed about the storm, never knowing that tornadoes ripped through someone else’s home last night – relocating the children and the parents in scattered remnants through a field. They lived. We lived. Everything was back to normal.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to be protected, I needed some comfort, I felt it was coming for me. And now in the silence of a perfectly normal day I wonder what trials I would trade to be relieved from my own?

Personal Photographer

2012-01-24T23:05:00.001-06:00

Can you believe that my feet shrank? They did. An entire size! How does that happen? I asked myself that question out loud today and inside my head this little voice reminded me that five inch heels bearing a hundred pounds in addition to gravity could possibly… nope. I don’t believe it. Either way, two years ago I could wear my favorite pair of striped Candies pumps and this year I look nearly like Moose wearing my shoes. Oh well. I’m not supposed to wear fun shoes anyway.

And speaking of Moose…wearing my shoes…he does. He sneaks into my closet and tromps around in my abandoned size eights. He beats to his own drum, our little man does. So today I thought we’d see the world through his eyes for a change.

Meet my mini photographer. He takes graphic images sometimes. Which we generally forgive because he makes up for it by capturing a shocking number of boogers attempting nostril escape. Like this one!

He loves water play. It is amazing how much readying I can do while he sinks battleships and builds bubble kingdoms.

He’s NOT a fan of therapy for several reasons but he makes for a silly fun driving companion. He also makes JUDE incredibly nervous, but Daisy the doggy loves our little guy. And just when we get in the groove he always interrupts because the terrifying masks in the bathroom give him a ‘head-attack’. Clearly this must be so because he took the pains to photograph them, along with seven armpit pictures. I’ll spare you. Instead he caught me in the ‘rack’. It’s my traction machine where lately I’ve been spending more time here than I’d like. He also photographed his sweet little blue scoots, the gigantic fan and the uber cool warehouse where everyone who works with Jude gets their butt kicked (except for broken little old me.)

2012-01-24T07:35:00.001-06:00

My biggest insecurity?…um, my thighs. Or maybe it is my nose. It might be those wrinkles forming between my eyebrows, until I see my thighs and then the deal is sealed. Good news is that they keep me from starvation…I could survive off those babies in an emergency for months.

My biggest hope?…to be strong and healthy enough to play and romp with my children into adulthood and beyond.

My most private hope?…to raise my children lovingly and selflessly.

My worst habit reformed?…ugh, I was the MOST disgusting nail biter on the face of the earth. I could lunch on my cuticles alone, pulling sheets of flesh off my fingers. For three years now I’ve had long nails. I’m a reformed woman. And with no big boy toys around my house there is less need for nail-less fingers. Plus, long nails are wonderfully more useful than I imagined. Occasionally I get them filled to the brim with dirt. Or I use them to pinch the legs off of bugs. But the back scratches I can offer are luxurious. Seriously. Ask me, I’ll show you!

My favorite color?…blue! I love it in all its shades, from the ocean to the sky, tears, rain, navy blue storms to marine turquoise.

Guilty Pleasure?…hmmm. Well the first one I can’t type about on the internet. Mostly because I already getting naughty spam enough without adding my favorite ‘tag phrases’. The second…anything with peanut butter or anything with lemon. I said OR not and, and would just be gross.

Routines I Can’t Give Up?…every morning I lotion from my toes to my ears. It’s my favorite part of the day, assuming the bathroom is still steaming and warm. There are days when I blow dry, or curl, some makeup, little makeup…but never a day goes by when I haven’t been buttered from head to toe with the softest and sweetest smelling lotion that I can find. I just like myself a little better with the glow of skin that is younger than it really is…at least in that instant.

Least Liked Chore?…cleaning out cars. It always makes me regret the privileges I give the kids while we are in the car.

Drives me NUTS?…that I can’t figure out how to parent my child who is so completely and wholly different from me in every action, instinct, and thought. Nuts! I tell you!

Fears?…not being able to do…

Childhood Regret?...hmmm. I wish I’d beat up the boy who pinned me against the wall in second grade and pulled up my dress. He teased me about the pretty bow on my panties all year. I should have drawn a bow on the ground with his face. I think the boy I beat up in fifth grade was probably getting a little more than he bargained for with some past aggression and a book bag the size of my desk.

Teenage Regret?…I wish I’d…oh man that is so vast. I wish I’d not let fear of my parents dictate my involvement in everything that I wanted to try. Instead, I stayed close to home, kept people happy, allowed an excessive amount of control and negativity to direct my life. But I wish I’d cheered, tried out for volleyball, been more involved in a hundred programs that the school offered. I was interested in everything but did little, and it was because I had been barred against the first thing that interested me as soon as it was offered. If I could do it again, I’d cheerlead. I’d have been great.

Favorite Food?…mexican food for breakfast lunch and dinner. Although I also love pho, lettuce wraps, hummus with that spicy pepper sauce on it, sausages with jalapenos and peanut butter cake. But that is just because I had some this weekend and it was to die for!

Most likely?…to slap your butt. Yep. Even right in the middle of church I saw my old aerobics teacher and when she bent to sit down beside me. I greet with love, sometimes by the handful.

I’m Not Above Bribery

2012-01-23T06:19:00.000-06:00

My dearest Big Guy,
I love you!
I hope you didn’t pick your lip today.
Love, Mom

He who doesn’t pick their lip until it swells and bleeds (I know, super gross huh), gets chocolate cake with three layers of frosting. It reeked something horrible while I made it so I know it must be good (the better the chocolate the more I hate it).
Moose said he’d never pick his lip if I let him lick the beaters. He said he picks his nose anyways. So it’s no matter to him. And when he was done, he did…pick chocolate out of his nose.

Next week we will have a peanut butter cake for all non-nose pickers.

875 Calories Later We Called It Dinner

2012-01-22T18:09:00.001-06:00

Girl Scout Cookies Have Arrived…

Worth It

2012-01-21T12:53:00.001-06:00

Ready?

Set!

Are you sure this is a good idea?” Asks Burns.

GOING!!

Burns bought the coaster for Christmas in 2010. I wanted to try it. The ‘old me’ would have tried it, backwards, sideways, with kids in my lap, with kids running at my heels. The ‘old me’ would have tried it. But the ‘new me’ is old.

Sometimes I look at the coaster and I think it is the least little thing. It isn’t a three mile jog up the hill, it most certainly isn’t a motorcycle. It isnt’ a cliff to ascend, or a cliff to repel. It is nothing but plastic molded for children. It is nothing. It isn’t even on my when-I-recover list. It is smaller than that.

I feel like an excuse when I look at it. I feel that way when the trampoline mocks me, when I couldn’t move the boxes in the garage where the inversion table rested, when I found my old handicap sticker. It is hard to say no for a body that houses a soul which yearns to say yes.

I miss saying yes.

Today Moose asked who would take turns with him.

I said yes.

I SAID YES!

It took me a year of healing before I could try it! And my foot went numb, a little.

But I said yes.

Photo-post

2012-01-20T07:51:00.000-06:00

See that ecstasy on his face?
There was this one day in December that I felt so strong and healthy, enough…to hold my son in my arms…for like ten seconds. He still talks about it.
I can’t do it again. I can’t do it often. I can’t possibly do it now!
But it felt like…heaven.

Want to see more random photos?
Okay. No problem. Have fun!

One time sister looked so adorable with her flip curls that we took a photo in the middle of church?
Worth it. Totally worth it.

I thought this would help my back. It didn’t.

My keys. I lose them way more often than I put them here. My favorite sunglasses. I lose these all the time too. My phone. NEVER lost it. Geez I hope I don’t ever.

Because when Burns is driving, I can’t live without my phone’s entertainment.

Moose is also addicted to my phone, and some game that involves zombies. So he wanders the house acting like a zombie and freaking me out. Then he steals my camera and as usual he is our most prolific photographer. His subjects are usually toys, his boogey nose, or me trying to steal my camera back from certain death.

These two tickle me pink!

You know what else tickles me?
Sleeping children, hoards of children that I love and nearly nude children…they all make my heart swoon!

You know what I loath? CEDAR FEVER!

Okay! That was fun! I’m off.

Scratching Off Another Day

2012-01-19T16:14:00.001-06:00

I was early to physical therapy, which should be a good thing but Jude yelled at me anyway. He likes his clients to show up exactly on time and he doesn’t like toddlers twirling in the back of the gym out of turn. It wasn’t the first verbal spanking I’d receive that day. It wouldn’t be the last. He asked what my doctor said about the setback. I grimaced and didn’t answer. I decided to keep my courage up with verbal defiance. In the back of the gym, Moose added his creative license to what Jude also felt was defiance when he erased all the stats off the chalkboard and then made chalk eraser sized prints all over the floor.

I should have known it was going to a rough day. The only good news is that I’m not training. I’m in rehab. So as much as Jude may have wanted to torture me with exercise, he couldn’t. We started with perfecting my body movements instead. He tried to lecture me on taking care of extra children in the afternoon, for being a mom in general, for doing too much on my broken body. We decided to disagree about what portions of my day ACTUALLY cause me stress & pain, because he will never understand which pursuits fill my soul and how empty an rehab life can sometimes feel.

We switched subjects back to his favorite inquisition. Does this cause stinging, burning, numbness? He asks all too often. Usually I shrug. Sometimes I jerk accidentally and my body gives me away. Occasionally I tell the truth and he punishes me by stopping the exercise all together and moving to something which feels like a defeat. But then today I walked in sort of physically defeated. It doesn’t change the fact that when he takes away levels of success I want to cry, only after I’ve realized that he is too fast to take a swing at. I shrug off my limitations and hold back tears.

My Moose saved me though. Halfway between a defeated set of weightless squats, Moose had collected enough chalk dust to spank handprints right on my back side. Jude may not be a kid fan, but he does appreciate my humiliation. Those tidy little handprints on my bum gave everyone a good laugh and helped me blink away my discouragement.

***

As we drove home, Moose and I ran through a list of things which would make him feel better. He said his tummy was telling him that he needed something. His tummy has demanding needs and I could feel the burning in my spine that also felt competitive in its’ demands. Thankfully, after a litany of desired objects Moose settled for a back scratch in bed while watching Phineas & Ferb. It was a request I could happily make, while I began to blog in the late afternoon.

So here I am, still dressed in my sweaty clothes and lying flat. I will regret the sweaty workout clothes later, but not the seventy degree day which added more moisture than my exercise. For now less pain is priority. Moose has had his most luxurious back scratch ever. I tried to scratch his body, legs, arms, neck…but he still just loves a good old fashioned back scratch. He’s thoroughly invested in the fruits of phineas and ferb. And I’m counting down the minutes until my house is full, extremely loud, and wonderfully busy. They will wear me out quickly today. I’ll give up and make an early batch of spaghetti since I won’t be able to stand long enough for more delicious pursuits. And the big boys will paint my living room with forty six paper airplanes, while the little’s mix limbs in the corner over a bear book.

And no one will yell at me for anything.

Celebrate

2012-01-17T23:42:00.001-06:00

I nibbled on lady fingers, swirled myself in raspberry sauce, bathed in lemon cheesecake and consumed cumulous clouds of cream…for dinner. Perhaps I should have ordered an actual dinner. Yet, ice-cream strawberry shortcake and raspberry lemon cheesecake with lady fingers and cookie crust just sounded so much more delightful.

Congratulations to Burns and his second day of the for-now-job. Is it a for-now-job? Man I don’t know. There are good things and there are less appealing things. But financial dissolution is a lesser un-appealing thing– of course we had at least a couple months more before such delights. Nevertheless, you know how it is…ya kinda need a job when it comes to raising a family. And! Bonus. He finally he works for a company for which I will not have to explain…who they are…what they do…why no one has heard of that company. He works for his old competitor. At least for now.

So we celebrated. Since Burns loves food, we drove against the five o’clock traffic to dive into lettuce wraps, four cheese macaroni, spicy sliders for the boys and steak the size of Burns head. And he has a grand sized head. Yum. I ate some appetizers and saved lots of room for the three different desserts. I honestly couldn’t decide. Except for the part where I KNEW I wanted dessert – that part was easy. And don’t worry. I ordered some awful black death cake with chocolate sauce and chocolate crème and chocolate brownie for the troops. For the record, they destroyed my strawberry ice cream shortcake. Burns actually cornered my raspberry lemon cheesecake and made out with a few of the lady fingers. I was rocking the Moose hoping to dislodge his angry temper against my achingly full belly. It didn’t work naturally. Moose is far more stubborn when he’s fighting a cough than his lemon loving mommy.

Anyway, how could we feel sour after swimming in such luxurious desserts! Congratulations Burns! I’ll let you steal my cheesecake and I will feed your perfectly prepared lettuce wraps so you feel like a king. I will hold the Moose so that he doesn’t make your head explode during his crying fits and we will talk to you on speaker phone all the way home since you were in your own car.

Congratulations Burns!

Sunday Afternoon & Saturday Adventure

2012-01-17T05:54:00.000-06:00

As I type this evening there are three nakeds in my house, wild children with their bellies out.

I will never understand their fascination with this activity but at some point Big Guy decided that having one’s belly out was a delicious experience. And so on rare occasions he will bare what he considers the most sacred portion of his torso and dance about the house singing songs about being an evil scientist. Sister will beg to follow him, bouncy into my room to announce her weirdness (shirtless). Moose follows, squealing something that sounded like a combination of being an evil scientist and engaging in weirdness.

They are always convinced that they are being boundless and naughty, so much so that I’m often tempted to tame them just on principle. But they love having their bellies out and at this point neither their father nor I could care less. He has one day left to himself before work begins tomorrow and I am buried in a pile of used Kleenex's, a cedar fever sufferer after yesterdays wilderness walk.

***

This probably wasn’t the best timing for country exploration since I spent Friday in bed. My spine pain was so manageable in December it was truly a beautiful thing. But this week, a combination of treatment ahead of my ability and the intensity of physical therapy, I was pushed back into disc pain. It was discouraging and I shed a tear or a few over it. But the invitation to explore a country ranch came regardless and although the drive was rough and I face planted in the living room as soon as we arrived…I did not want to be left alone in a strange house while the family explored.

And at first I was really putting on a brave face but as I moved my body (carefully) I found it could do more than I’ve done in years with moderate pain. I saw my son climb his first cliff, my fearless daughter lead the family through a treacherous washout, and we watched Moose toss rocks off cliffs with his new blond friend. Don’t worry. I held onto the rooming twins by their belt loops to keep their curiosity from cliffs edge.

It was truly beautiful acreage, reminding me some of my Tehachapi mountain home and some of our childhood explorations in the mountain cabin of Lake Isabella, where my grandparents lived. I envisioned hours spent with Brad running down the mountain side, searching paths and trails, crashing through brush and climbing up granite boulder cliffs. The sandstone here was less forgiving and the downed trees were riddled with termites, both items ripe for the destruction that our family wrought upon them. But the kids couldn’t imagine how much fun it would be to beat brush with sticks, crash rocks in riverbeds and run wherever their feet would take them.

When Dr. Ben invited us out throw rocks off cliffs and logs into the river, my children had no idea what kind of childish delights would be in store for them. And they were all three fascinated with what they would find around each corner. But I think they would all agree that learning how to shoot bb’s and 22’s at old milk jugs was a favorite part. Or maybe it was when Dr. Ben tossed them around for an hour like spiraling airplanes. They came home with a found tibia bone of some sort, spiral shells from an ancient ocean bed, and quartz rock crystals.

Thankfully, we discovered no snakes and no snakes discovered us. And we left the disgusting armadillo shell where we found it.

Change

2012-01-16T04:52:00.000-06:00

Dad went to work today.

It is just me and him, and the bubbles. There will be lots and lots of bubbles. And maybe some bouncy balls, a few episodes of phineas and ferb, some cheese sticks and pajamas. Yes. There will be pajamas.

Story Time

2012-01-16T01:08:00.000-06:00

I settled into the blue chair and began to read Clara & Asha. But first I told the children about my imaginary friend named Constance. I named her that because she is constantly picking her nose and I can’t for the life of me figure out a way to compel her to chose another habit. Nose picking. ICK!

The kids laughed and several admitted that they too were nose-pickers. Constance squirmed beside me, I told them because she felt better knowing that she wasn’t the only one. From the background the teacher just giggled because she too would sell parts of her soul for a permanent conclusion to nose picking in the classroom. I offered that we could just tape everyone’s fists shut and they have to attempt with a nose punching instead of finger picking…but my idea was boo’d in serious contention.

Once they settled down, I resumed the stories. One was about a girl with a fantastic imagination and an equally incredibly imaginary friend. The kids were sure constance was giggling while I read, even though they could not see her. Some of my sweet first graders patted the backs of their imaginary friends in unison to share their joy at the story.

Next we told about Farmer Brown and his delightfully intelligent farm animals. The children roared during all the fun parts and I roared along with the telling. Miss Sister sat high upon her folded knees and from the back row I could tell that my rousing stories would earn me at least seventy four seconds of beloved kisses. It was the least I could do for her.

Last night I returned home from therapy heroic, only because I was holding severely reduced coupon pizzas. But I didn’t feel heroic. In therapy I realized that I’ve taken a huge step backward again and I’ll be hurting more than I already was. She embraced me rambunctiously and I crippled in the hallway. I hated seeing her frown when she explained that she knows I’m always hurt but lately I just haven’t seemed as delicate as I used to be. Ugh. She shouldn’t have a delicate mother. There is nothing delicate about my soul. But she does and no matter how hard I try to hide it from her it is there. I felt the statement burden her before it really even left her lips. But I couldn’t hide my pain in that moment. So I saved my effort so that I could stand and read, sit and entertain, play with and tease her classmates the next day…like a mommy who doesn’t have a hurting body and a tired soul.

And then later I listened to a friend give me advice during which she mentioned the extra effort I go through to tend extra neighbor children in the afternoon. I thought about that. In many ways I do it to relieve stress from other parents, marriages, financial situations. But mostly, I do it for my own children. If I can’t fill their lives with back flips on the trampoline and water balloons launched down the block, I can at least fill some extra mugs with cocoa, prepare some extra cake for afternoon snacks, bring home just enough pizza to feed the extra mouths. This way I can show my kids that their lives are busy, full and beloved even if the extra comes from the bounty of company… more than it comes from their mother.

It isn’t the me I used to give my children. But I hope that it is still good enough. I guess I can always measure it by the smile in her eyes, the desire she has to be with me and the seventy second kisses I get in front of all her friends. I’m sure the offerings will change as she grows and I hope that I can continue to serve her in ways that fill me up by sharing selfless love. And just on the off chance it fills her a bit as well…that sounds like a gracious goal to me.

Exhaling Moons

2012-01-15T16:52:00.000-06:00

She was born beneath a beguiling moon.

There was a due date and there was a will. They were not in concert, one with the other. So the due date came and went and my will took courage against my doctors desire to hurry her entrance into the world. He knew better than to press me further so we aligned ourselves to wait…we waited for her to decide.

The full moon came and went with my due date. Following which there were a few pink moons, slightly deflated in the late spring sky. And under which I worried for the circumstances which may force away an opportunity to birth her naturally. Day after day she tempted us to come and then left us naught but sleepless. I knew she would be worth the wait. That was without question. Yet as the time ticked away I wondered under what conditions she might come, were they to be less ideal than I had planned. Could I possibly plan such an event or would I be lucky just to attend it?

On the following eve my doctor had set the gauntlet before me, a deadline past which he would not waiver and I felt my power to compel an ideal outcome in question. The night gathered me toward rest but just as I fell asleep under a blanket of doubt and concern, I spied the moon through the sheer curtains. It floated in the midnight blue, half squished in its fullness and slightly winking at me. It was the last vision I beheld that night of dreamless sleep. When I woke I knew two things. I would labor all the day long and there was only eighteen hours before Friday the 13th.

Big Guy (who was dearly little at the time) and I settled smoothly into a most rugged day. The deadlines I’d earlier known slipped away and under that winking moon we began a twenty four hour race to finish this day with a baby before Friday’s superstition could have its’ way with us. She ached to come out and I endeavored to release her. It was a tug of war, violent, willful and generally too much in front of an audience. Our final guests of the day actually begged us to rush ourselves to the nearest hospital before I burst in two trying to birth this singular soul. My husband, like our doctor knew better than to press me further on the subject.

The hours waned, it was early into the evening before she came. She beat our expectations. She beat the doctor who promised to come but was given no notice of my intentions to wait until minutes last. Yet, my only goal was only that she come, within a power that was only hers and mine to share. My will on that part was granted three hours before Friday.

At long last we finally heard her wail and she was placed most peacefully in my arms before the completeness of very unpeaceful labor. She was pale-ish pink and as exhausted as I was exhilarated. Such efforts had companioned us through the challenges of daylight but now we were beneath the less bulging moon once again. And in my arms this birthed princess yawned, winced, and twitched a single pinched eye toward me. Her accidental wink rested lightly upon my heart before I dropped my own wink back to the moon.

If I should have a daughter beneath the exhaling moon, should she be as beguiling and unique as the mother who wished her silently to be – could she be forever bursting with fullness? My wish to have her had been so fragile that I could scarcely give it words. And I realized that evening, as I have many following, that sometimes we only need for the fullest moment in time, after which the slightest exhale transports our warmest wishes into reality.

Cool Enough For First Graders?

2012-01-14T06:44:00.000-06:00

Best Field Trip EVER!

My mission…to make her feel like a million bucks and be so entertaining to all the kids in her class that they adore her even more cause she is just like her rocking mommy. It was a twisted plan, but you should feel like a million bucks when your mommy is regaling a crowd of drooling first graders with you perched on her lap. Of course, the bus driver and the teachers thought I was pretty entertaining too, so maybe I shot a little wide

Result…success (with the exception of times when their adoration caused them to bound into my arms or my lap or my body).

Did I make my girl happy enough by filling her whole world with delicious delight? She said yes. That sounds like a day conquered in behalf of her joy. I can feel good about that!

One Note With More Gratitude Than I Could Write…

2012-01-13T08:26:00.001-06:00

I still haven’t written Mrs. Susan and it bothers me.

You see, she sent me an uplifting card during a very difficult Christmas. As if the gentle words weren’t enough to capture my gratitude in whole, she gave me a gift and a reminder. Do you know what that reminder said… it said that God loved me. And she knew that I needed to hear it. Can I tell you that I did. Oh man I did. It honestly has been the thing I’ve wondered about most in the past four years. I’ve come to the conclusion most days that this isn’t so. And unfortunately I’m not sure it is fair to blame God for not feeling love when really it was situations and health which left me so lonely.

So why can’t I write Mrs. Susan and thank her properly. I’ve been turning this problem over in my mind when I remembered another letter written by my Sister-in-laws mother. It was an uplifting note of kindness and support during my most trying months suffering a back/stomach injury that had taken away most of good in my life. I cannot remember exactly what she said but I will always remember how motherly it sounded, born of complete love and honest affection, without manipulation, without pressure, without a need to be right or a desire to crush everyone around her and pounce on the required refunds of motherhood. Ouch. Can you tell that I’m not accustomed to such sweet sentiments of motherhood? I guess I’m not. Which is why I’m so careful with my dear daughter and why I appreciate so, these moments when another mother reminds me of the joy and divinity in this role, the ability to uplift and bear others burdens giving no weight from our own. I silently thanked the women in my life who have taught me from afar how to be a women of grace and a mother of patience and godly love. Yet it is so difficult to thank them properly outside of the private places in my heart. I feel like I would fail to let them understand why their examples are so cherished to my desert heart. I feel so unable to express honestly how much it means to me that another mother can feel my most pressing pain and offer without cost or requirement loving words which could very well have come from God himself.

How can I possibly express?

I cannot. Not yet. But I wanted you women to know that you have raised me up with your righteous examples. You have sent whisperings when I needed them most. You have bound me to a reminder of my worth and filled in those places empty, that role of mother and an honored display of how to claim that role with genuine responsibility. When I do it right, when I do it well, I do it by your precious example and because you have taught me those lessons that I’ve missed….self-lessness, courage, honest & holy love and service.

A Picture is Worth A Thousand Words

2012-01-13T08:05:00.001-06:00

At least I am hoping this is the case…because cedar fever and a rough week of back therapy has taken my healthy body to rest and recovery.

Enter a post title

2012-01-12T22:52:00.001-06:00

I wanted to write this week. I really did. But geez my mind was so full of things I couldn’t write. And yet, that would probably be the type of literary constipation that readers would love right…the deep and dark mourning's of my tired brain.

And yet, I wrestle with this issue sometimes. Don’t we want to read about the highlights rather than the low lights, the successes instead of the failures. Yet it doesn’t change the fact that light and darkness surrounds us all the time. My friend is driving south right now to see his grand-father for the last time. This reminded me of my last time with my grandfather and my heart broke for him. Yet. His grandfather passed away just a few months following his wife and there was just something beautiful in that timing. I fell in love with the idea of his grand-father so adoring his companion that he would follow her into the next life rather than wait out anymore days here without her.

Love is a powerful thing, more powerful than the woes of life. Perhaps that is why we seek it with constancy, from our partners, our children, our friends…ourselves and our creator. And even if I’m struggling to feel it for and within myself, I’m hoping the answers come to me as I give it to those people who need it most from me.

Sometimes My Boys Just Need A Little Push

2012-01-10T14:18:00.001-06:00

And isn’t it super cool that I hurt less and I can almost nearly,
but most carefully of course, push them both through the
store in this handy bright orange sports car!

A Monday of My Making

2012-01-09T15:54:00.001-06:00

My favorite Monday moments :

I made double fried eggs for the early birds, created a perfect puff ponytail, and had
a blessed opportunity to see my daughter head out the door wearing a sequin skirt
over her jeans. She’s about five years ahead of my skirt over pants stage, but I love it!

I slipped back into the sheets with my two boys and we slept while Moose giggled at Elmo.

Moose invited me to breakfast ON the bar. I accepted. It was lovely with sweet green machine
juice kisses. It was lovely while we stacked the milk treacherously high and Moose snuck his pokey finger toward building destruction. It was lovely while he ran me kleenex’s before each sneeze.

Jude took me to task in front of clients for not drinking enough protein powder but then he complimentarily cursed clear through my session. Cursing means I’m ‘kicking butt and taking names!”
And I so WAS!!

After living without glasses that fit for three years, I finally got a new pair! Thank you insurance!! I’m sure the people at the mall didn’t like my fresh from bed and physical therapy look but it was nice to have an easy, grungy Monday too!

The kids came home delightfully quick and when dad did the pickup run I had a quiet house to line up rainbow cups filled with lemonade and make snacks on the happy plate. I love rainbow colors. I hope I never grow out of that! I also LOVE jack-o-lanterns tins filled with freshly sharpened homework pencils. Their blunt end crusty pencils make me grumpy, so at least for today…problem solved.

And the best part all day was the pile of happy faces that burst into the hallway for hugs. I received so many hugs, strong ones, shy ones, screaming hugs, tender hugs and one snotty nosed hug. I love em all!

Let Them Eat Gluten Free Cake

2012-01-08T20:54:00.001-06:00

It’s Sunday and we just had the most lovely nap. I was swallowed up in my warm sheets while the children built kinect creatures in the living room. The rest of the day is likely going to feel like an extension of napping and dreams because it was too luxurious to let me go – even after I woke. So when I wandered aimless and awkwardly into the kitchen near dinner time my dear Moose asked for chocolate cake and I granted his wish. I noticed that the big kids had been snacking on fajita meat and beans all afternoon so dinner became dessert.

They licked their plates, their spoons, their fingers, palms, and some of their forearms. It seems that Sunday chocolate is sticky and sweet wherever it can be found. From a place where I could view their delight, I stirred a pile of jalapenos into the cheese sauce and had my own dessert. Though I think the day was sweeter than any of our desserts.

For church we nearly arrived on time but our favorite Dr. Ben was waiting for us in the foyer. He was more popular than we were as well because many of our friends hurried to shake his hands as we dove into our seats. Of course, Sister and I lasted just long enough to make everyone move when we remembered we needed a potty break. I loved watching her bounce down the hallways in her polka dots and pink. She shuffled a little more with her wedge heels and that was funny too, especially because she spent the entire afternoon in my pink strappy heels so she could show off to Dr. Ben at lunch. But my favorite moment happened when she finally kicked them off and announced in surprise that her feet really hurt. “Those shoes are awful mom?!” And suddenly the mystique was gone.

Moose didn’t get any love from the crowd for his rousing testimony of the holy spirit during primary like last week. I guess this week he kept his testifying outbursts to a minimum and instead spent his time poking the girl next to him. I loved that more, because I think he is going to be a mini-me already. He has a smart little mouth, a quick tongue, a bossy little head and a fast body that yearns for chaos.

Big Guy on the other hand is a thousand times better than me. And although public speaking might not be his favorite adventure he did make the long walk to the pulpit to bear his simple testimony for Dr. Ben. And just for good measure he wrote an extension on his lap pad to share with his friend after sacrament as well.

It was a good day, a restful day, a day with bellies full of fajitas, girls singing songs on the bar stools, boys riding piggy back and preparing darts to slaughter our coming guest. It was a day with some martial arts, laughter, bedtime stories and toe-tickling. It was a day when I had to squeeze into my skirt because muscle is coming back to my frame (a part wherein my joy is slightly divided), but a day where I sat as long as I wished and stood as long as I needed.

And good days should always be cake days, don’t you think?

Time Machine

2012-01-06T11:53:00.001-06:00

I had someone close to me remind me that watching my daughter is like watching what I must have been like as a girl.

I’ve been thinking about that ever since. What would I have been like in the family dynamic that she lives in and how alike are we really? I had my doubts. Until I ran across a dreamy video of her Broadway musical performance in the office. The lilting Christmas music became an accidental chorus to her emotional choreography and I could literally see my own childhood imaginings played out upon her believing face.

Later that evening at dinner she flipped from her flirtatious eyes to explosive fits of giggles so entertain our missionary guests and I knew that my friend was right. She could be no one’s daughter but mine. It is a frightening prospect to watch yourself re-evolve in an outside little person. Yet, at the same time I’m excited by the person she is because I can better understand with empathy where her strengths are virtues and her weakness will become opportunities to refine. Either way there is a light within her little soul that brings brilliance to every moment and I’m always silently grateful that I get to be so close to her, watching her, loving her and seeing her grow up. I’m grateful that my experience has taught me to embrace her spunky qualities and help her know that the little person inside her is amazing – never traits that should be dampened.

I want her to shine as brightly as she possible can. That means we both will have to become very comfortable with ourselves and our place in the world.

I think that is definitely something we both can figure out together.

The Rewards of Exercise

2012-01-05T14:30:00.001-06:00

Sometimes rehab stinks, like when Jude says I can’t do anymore reps because the lesions in my stomach are getting angry, or the fuzziness in my toes is too strong. He baits me with more weight and more repetitions and then pulls it from me hastily. It always reminds me why I’m there, which isn’t to get incredibly physically fit but to regain motion and get my life back.

Crazy that I forget. But it sure feels wildly good to want more repetitions, to yearn for more weight, to feel myself push my body into greater stability without greater pain. Ah. It is beautiful. Last night I even dreamed of doing pull ups like I could this summer and feeling my body lift to the bar and lower again was the most exciting feeling! I can feel my blood pumping again.

Moose loves it too. He likes to show me exactly how I should be doing my exercises, performing them for me first and then waiting to the side while I get my turn. He doesn’t get as excited when I do something as Jude does. Thankfully Moose doesn’t realize how far I’ve come. But Moose sure gives the best squisher kisses when I’ve done a good job. And those squishers are like gold!

Nap Time For Mommy And Moose

2012-01-04T21:31:00.001-06:00

A Painted Past

2012-01-04T06:03:00.000-06:00

(a picture that has nothing to do with my post, but a picture nonetheless)

It haunts me, the scars. It does. I wish I could say differently.

Yesterday I practiced my perfect squat in therapy over and again. My physical therapist watched me, waiting for pain to spike and nerves to light on fire through my foot. We quantified the success over the past two months and measured them with surprise and joy. He waits years for a patient like me, a cause so lost that the most sought for references bring me to him. And he learns to be humble while he waits for my body to heal itself enough to allow for guided movement. Because all it takes is one wrong movement and my body burns angrily back at me.

In the same breath my muscles seize less in jagged attempts these days, I have greater control over my body movements and I can tell the inflammation and trauma abates enough that my will can overpower my function again. A misstep or mistake doesn’t press me into disability and leave me there for weeks. My body can rally, it can move, it can recover. Sometimes it sizzles, we know the challenges we are dealing with. But there is change. And yesterday for the third time this month I hurt the way a body should hurt when it is rebuilding itself!

My back is healing.

My stomach is healing.

My body is healing.

Was that all I really needed? To sew up my insides enough that nature could reclaim me in a cycle of inflammation, destruction, healing, growth. Could it possibly have been my destroyed abs all this time which held my spine in perpetual pressure against those exploded discs? It can’t be. I felt like I was holding onto the one holy thing left in me by denying stomach surgery time and again. The hope of having another child was stronger. I forced my abs closed, I held my insides at bay, kept them from exploding through the ramparts left behind when my warring belly lost in two lonely, pregnant moves. I worked so hard to build them squarely and strong again, fought the tide of destruction to refine the muscles, bound them together by holding my breath and forcing flexion in constancy. I just wanted to heal without sealing my womb. Was that too much to ask?

I guess so.

I guess that wish sailed when Moose was born and the rest of my future was just waiting to happen, a body which had been pressed to the quietest breaking point would wait silently until everything healthy could be squeezed out of me. The years that followed his birth were even harder. And then I would grow desperate for help from my husband. I would humble myself and get help from my parents. I would hide myself away from the ward and my friends to keep the soft parts of my heart protected from misplaced concern and I’d wait for healing to come. But it never did. At least not in substantial enough quantity to quiet the hungry wolves waiting to slice into my spine.

I may never know why it was so imperative not to take that step, only that it was.

So I gave up my belly instead. And now I heal…not perfectly…never wholly again…but I heal. And I should be elated, shouldn’t I?

I should stop measuring the circumference of my hips and wondering how I came out with more in me than I went in? I should stop shuddering when I see the scar wend itself long across my lean parts. I should not suffer for all that I lost in the process. And most of all, I should celebrate the return of my body rather than worry over relocated destruction? I’m sure I said it months ago that my insides were shredded and destroyed where my belly lay flat on the outside. Only now they are sewn tight and functioning on the inside and I feel…so broken on the outside. It was a steep price to pay I think…to lose my dream of a last child, to lose that power that makes my womanhood most divine, to see the damaged skin so thin that it could only rupture following surgery.

And I feel a little lost. Though not as lost as I was when I could not move…not nearly that lost. Yet I also feel ashamed that bearing my stripes upon my skin will bring questions I dare not answer for strangers. It reminds me daily that I was once and for a long time not beloved enough to be cared for and protected. And it tells me that I was not strong enough to overcome all that my passion would bear, that I could not earn love by working harder than a woman should work. That after all was said and done, I should have been only…a women growing a baby. Yet I felt the weight of our whole world crushing me to dust.

I performed miracles that year. And I also lost one, maybe many, in the same year.

There is so much more which lives in this single scar…so much more healing that must occur I guess. And so much of me doesn’t want to let it.

Until then I will be a Frankenstein wife, sewn together from bits and pieces of time and challenge. I will be a scarred and frayed wife, trying to reconstruct a seamless skin to house an exploding spirit. And perhaps someday when I look into the mirror I will not see my past painted in fury upon my flesh.

Perhaps one day I will see the new hope which has been spread thin across me… like the red sun, its rays slicing the horizon into bands of warm fire to wake up a world in darkness.

Carousing Till Morning

2012-01-03T08:07:00.001-06:00

I woke up earlier than I expected given that Moose and I were tickling toes late into the night.

His little fists slammed repeatedly against our closed door just about the time that dad and I were done rolling our chattering lips over the chapped parts of our day. Pound, pound, pound and repeat. I asked him to come in but it seemed he was on a mission of business and would only proceed through an open door march.

The Moose report announced that Big Guy was playing Sister’s DS and it was nearing midnight. I let dad be the cave troll for the evening while I invited the naughty spy into my snuggly sheets. I’m not a fan of telling on siblings, but I couldn’t resist my little Agent P dressed in his aqua platypus pajamas reporting for duty. By the time dad returned full of grump, Agent P and I were canoodling under the sheets playing footsie and pretend sleeping which always ends in explosive giggles.

The lights were turned off but our antics couldn’t be silenced by darkness. I found his toes, pinched his bum, we both repeated the word bum several times for effect and it grew funnier as we drank in the darkness. I scratched his back long and deep. He scratched my back short and sharp. Then we included dad in a squish sandwich, consuming our little one between the pressing folds of blanket and bodies. I’m pretty sure dad thought he’d never sleep. So we rubbed our toes against him, searching for forgiveness while our upper bodies rippled with mischief.

But eventually sleep came swiftly upon us, just as the morning. It was a back to school morning and I felt like waking the kids with cuddles and tickling their toes all morning long. Yet the idea of missing school and not getting to play hooky with their extra absences later on in the year encouraged me to wipe the sleep from my eyes and wake them to warm gluten free pancakes.

It wasn’t my best recipe and I burned the second half batch because Sister and I were analyzing the difference a navy sweater made to her bright pink outfit. Big Guy used his pancake as a chin rest while he gained victory in a solo staring match. I’m not ready for them to go back to school. Yesterday when my period began with a vengeance I was ready….so ready. Today I’ve recovered hormonal balance and I want to eek out another day of pj’s and video games. I want to run the rover through the house with Big Guy and try not to be stomped by the monster steps of Moose. I want to braid Sister’s hair just like her doll and twirl with her as we pretend to window shop. And I pretty much have to make up for announcing (yesterday) to dad my intention to feel evil all day and then being evil for at least a wicked hour. I just need a little more vacation and a little less school.

It will come….soon enough I suppose. The weather has changed already as our cold streak in December finally softened back to a pre-spring warmth. I hope it lasts. And then I hope it gets cold again so that January seems fittingly bleak and February can begin the countdown for school to end and my little people to come back into the house for more midnight giggles and less chin resting on morning baked pancakes.

Until then Agent P and I are keeping a watchful gaze on our eyelids while dad runs the troops to school. I’m trying my very best not to wake him as I type because as soon as I do I’m not going to stop tickling his toes and pinching his bummy until noon.

way too early for pictures!

2012-01-02T22:11:00.001-06:00

Still recovering in the new year.

Maybe next year…we party a little less late and sleep enough to wake up in the new year!

That is my resolution!

Happy New YEAR~

2011-12-31T22:33:00.001-06:00

The threat of fire coupled with impending doom and a riotous soundtrack of dynamite songs really does ring in the new year with a bang! Although I will be honest, I laughed a bit as the people in front of us ran for cover, removing themselves another fifty feet after the first few rounds rained fire down around our heads. I kept waiting for the cops to arrive but this part of Westlake is not incorporated – whatever that means. So Moose and I threw up the blanket over our heads when the explosions just over us became intense enough to singe a few hairs. But there is NOTHING like going to your own personal fireworks show put on by our very own pyrotechnic professional. Last year we just called Brian a Pyro. But this year he’s official!

Sure. There were a few moments we thought we might die. Everyone screamed when the front yard hedge row lit on fire momentarily. Those guys had steel souls to be that close to their explosions and their framed fireworks. They built all their own platforms and if I’d known some of those fireworks were set on rotating tire rims I might have moved us back another fifty feet.

Instead, we tipped our heads straight up and breathed in the wild music beneath the warrior sky.

2011-12-31T00:03:00.001-06:00

Am I a bad mommy if sometimes I tease Sister mercilessly just because I know she will tease me back – or if I borrow Big Guy’s clothing and sometimes forget to return it – and sometimes I steal Moose’s stroller right out from under him.

Yep.

Bad Momma.

Pour Some Sugar On Her!

2011-12-30T12:41:00.001-06:00

She is SIX and a HALF! I can’t believe it!

I’m so grateful I have her. Shame on me for wishing that I’d have all boys. She is a crack up. She has to dress herself in these bizarre combinations which generally defy the weather and the activity. She has to do her own hair in bizarre ways which sometimes cause girls at school to pity her but she rallies with extra enthusiasm. She dances in front of the mirror like a super model and recently told me that she’s super excited to get ‘boobies’. She also wants her ears pierced. So we are on a mission to bend daddy enough to shoot holes in her ears before she turns twenty.

Our sweet girl loves music, she loves to sing all the words to every song, dance, eat cheese at every meal and sometimes burp at the dinner table. She can blow bubbles better than her brothers and even though she has barbies and dolls they often collect dust. She instead spends her time defeating pokemon and playing beyblades. I need to get her some girl friends one of these days.

Until then, she is my best little friend. And I’ll forgive her for loving chocolate and never being able to share her oreo cupcakes on our date night. It’s easy to forgive her because she likes to listen to our favorite songs over and over again in repetition that would surely send any other human being off the edge.

Love you SISTER!!! I love her even when I want to glue her wiggly butt to the seat during dinner time. I love her in spite of the fact that she always leave wet towels on the floor and she is INCAPABLE of sitting in a carseat safely. But there are so many qualities which shine brighter, like when she convinces Moose he is the winner of everything to help his self esteem and when she comes to my room just to compliment my wardrobe and tell me how beautiful I am. I mostly love that because they we get into arguments about who is prettier and it makes both of us frustrated to shun off the compliment and stick it to the other person. Geez, we are so alike already…wiggles, giggles and odd masculine noises and all!

A Decade Better Than Our Former Selves

2011-12-29T22:18:00.001-06:00

She’s pregnant and I’m healing, but we aren’t all that different!

Ok. So maybe it’s been over a decade and things are a little different. We have three children each now instead of acting like children. And she’s growing number four. We’ve had measurable gains and suffered a few losses. She eats a little more meat these days than her former self and I eat quite a bit less than the old days. I’ve become much cleaner than the girl she roomed through college with and she….well maybe she hasn’t changed as much as myself but that is probably because she was already quite refined! I remember when we stuffed her into a dryer to take pictures and she remembers when I stuffed myself sleepily in a closet while sleepwalking. We’ve been friends an awful long time and I imagine that we will be friends long into the future!

What else is a girl to do but adore her first ever college roommate. And adore her I do. (Plus her husband makes joins in with my naughty jokes and challenges me to burping contests – so he’s a total KEEPER!)

Thanks for visiting lady! Love you all!

Where Did My Warm Winter Go??

2011-12-28T01:43:00.001-06:00

Proud Of My Daughter

2011-12-27T15:04:00.001-06:00

I have to write down how proud of her I am or I will forget it. I’m crazy proud. The other day she and I partnered up to clean the house. I couldn’t forget to mention that it was the first time in nearly two years that I’ve been able to clean the house! I was more excited than a six year old. Although she wasn’t terribly excited about the cleaning part, she was the best helper ever. She follows directions, anticipates needs, never complains and hangs tough when the cleaning got tough. We organized the entire game room together (except for the part where the boys did the heavy lifting).

On Christmas Sunday she also sang in the adult choir. Up she went for the primary choir and she sang her little heart out from the front row. But when she got back her little side ponytail was falling loose and I was braiding the hair back together just as fast as I could. Not fast enough because the adult choir went up to the stand and she missed her opportunity to be with her father. I asked her why she wanted to sing again and she said that she’d been sitting quietly in choir practice listening and memorizing the songs. So after her hair was tucked she had to bravely walk all the way to the front of church and the back row to be the shortest little person in choir. Nevertheless, she sang her HEART OUT. Dad said that even the fellows sharing the arranged songs commented on her singing, nailing her lines and following the ladies parts even though she was surrounded by the men in the back row.

It is amazing to see what she can do when she sets her strong little heart to a task. I love her and I wanted to remember how amazed we all were by her little talents and contributions this week.

Overwhelming Odds The Morning After

2011-12-26T11:30:00.001-06:00

This is surely the Monday morning to humble all Mondays.

My physical therapist cancelled todays exercise ahead of time. His body is a high-performance machine. I thought he’d never quit. He told me that the Monday after Christmas he would NEED to recover. I smiled because I knew he’d be having the kind of weekend that would require resuscitation.

But I won’t? I’ll be spry and refreshed and ready to put all the Christmas decorations away.

Except I’m not.

My business partner, even, scheduled a meeting for this evening. He cancelled on Friday thankfully. He would NEED to recover too. I figured I’d both agree and rub it in later because I knew Monday would be a coma day.

But I didn’t know that I’d be more wiped out than our house. My scrappy box of moving-sale Legos turned out to be bottomless. My dear neighbor freely gifted them to us during her relocation. And the kids have exhumed only the top five inches to spread them haplessly ALL OVER THE FAMILY ROOM FLOOR. I countered that attack by consuming thee of the ten inches in their bubble-gum-grandma’s bubble yardstick. I drooled blue bubblegum from the edges of my mouth all evening in an attempt to blow the largest bubble.

Aside from the legos, the kids have pulled out all their old favorite toys to couple with their new favorite toy. It is a beautiful sight. Normally we gift them enough new toys that the old ones collect dust in the forgotten portions of the house. This year, the two new gifts became quantified with all that they could do as they arranged the old and the new into both battle zones and spa service portions of the living room. Less is finally more.

I’m applying this concept to sleep as well. We let them play last night as long as they wanted. Mostly because the toddlers’ after church nap was six hours long. And the big kid was sent early to bed and retrieved around 11 pm when Grandpa decided to facetime. Poor Grandpa was walked through the battle grounds of our hallway and family room to hear the stories and see the evidence of Christmas. I’m sure he’s dizzy this morning. I finally fell to the grips of exhaustion after second dinner around 1 am. My second dinner was their first dessert, so they bounced a bit longer before piling blankets at the foot of our bed and everyone fell fast asleep.

This Monday our household is in utter chaos.
…Dad is on the phone with Sears because our fridge failed to survive the Christmas quantity.
…Moose comes through my room for a dart gun reload every five minutes – I pity his target.
…Big Guy has set up an army-guy slaughter on the train table.
…Sister has split her personality between raising her doll daughter into a doll woman and trampling an ATT walker with her spy-bot destroyer.
…All three of the children have four or more gumballs smacking between their jaws.
…No adult could possibly weave the treacherous terrain.

…there is still something wonderful about the overwhelming odds that have consumed our after-holiday household.

Recovery might not be possible.

Our Wishes

2011-12-25T18:49:00.001-06:00

The very first thing we had to do on Christmas morning…is to wish you all a very merry Christmas!!

On The Eve Of Christmas

2011-12-24T23:03:00.000-06:00

We milked the maids and leapt like lords.

We watched Norad track Santa, rushing home before he reached Boston.

Our one wiseman brought three gifts, the shepherd repeated the wrong line a dozen times and I think that Mary was more enamored with Joseph then in swaddling her baby.

Our surprise gift brought two dozen tinkling bells into a cast of haphazard singing ringers. The kids never tired from beating the soft wood against the metal bells. Thanks you Kris & Brent!

The men talked of banking and business while the children danced like sugar plums in front of the Santa screen.

We ate strawberry slush, fresh cut vegetables, ham and potatoes, rolls and fruit before filling our bellies with our choice of five pies and plates FULL of gluten free brownies for the Moose.

Sister so proudly made the kids a double whipped pudding peppermint pie.

The children froze in the early winter drizzle, lighting the driveway to welcome the spirit of Christ.

And they all fell asleep in time for Burns to tape my cut snowflakes from the ceiling to welcome the kids with a morning of paper snow.

The Reality & Santa

2011-12-24T00:00:00.001-06:00

I cried a little on the way home because NO one should be out on the Friday before Christmas BUYING anything…but their sanity back. At least that is what I told my family when I got home with misty eyes.

The truth was that there was some tiny precipitation on the way home because my dear Susan gave me my Christmas wish. She made it all come true with a stamp and a gift and I LOVE LOVE LOVE her for it.

I love Susan because YESTERDAY my little miss came up to me with her wide eyes and asked me what Santa was going to bring me and I didn’t have an answer. She had interrupted a conversation with a friend about the REALITIES of not working right now and pushing off medical bills and the sinking feeling that comes lots and lots of education debt. One of those realities was that Burns and I were actually going to get coal in our stocking this year. Burns and I were fine with that – with bigger fish to fry we felt good about our decision. Mostly because a week ago Burns was going to give the kids coal too. Except that our squeaky clean living found him a small, slightly inhabitable place in the budget to make a humble Christmas possible. I felt good about that as it was better than we’d expected. AND I’d made peace with the fact that our traditions would be different this year, our offerings to the community limited, our excursions out into the commercial world non-existent, and…well honestly it has been a bit more peaceful around here. Even our recent conversations about realities feel like we are simply choosing a given path and not battening down the hatches.

But my dear child was woefully disturbed that Santa had no plans to bring me my hopes dearest desire.

So, I searched my brain for an answer she would accept. There would be no gift under the tree for me to even pretend it came from a more NORTHERN source. So I pulled my friend in for help. “Santa doesn’t give presents to grown-ups, RIGHT??? CHRISTINE???” She clearly missed my winking and blithely responded about the various adult dreams that Santa can magically master. I nudged her. And she only blinked in her musings. So I thumped her. And she retracted her statements. I promised Sister that Santa had his work cut out for him taking care of a billion children. My hopes and dreams were for dad to find a better job than the offer he accepted last week and for our Christmas to be sweet and special.

Sister wasn’t satisfied. Not in the least. And I guess in a way neither was I. It wasn’t because I hadn’t said the complete and total truth – those were my hopes and desires. It was because I had a nagging feeling about there being no gift for Burns under the tree this year. Secondly, Burns in all his stress did a careful Christmas shopping while I attended therapy – I missed out. Lastly, our Christmas would be sweet and special (no doubt it already has been) but I wasn’t excited about our friends opening pajamas for their children on Christmas eve when ours received none.

I lamented the broken tradition – one of many – but did so with humor. And I shrugged it off because we had warned the kids and they were all willing to take a hit for the family so to speak. Who needs dumb old Christmas pajamas anyway. But I knew tomorrow that even though they said they were willing to go without, they wouldn’t feel as sweet and special in that moment. And I’d feel rotten that after four years of pain and suffering Burns wouldn’t have a treat from Santa either. It was one of those ideas that sounds good on paper but haunts in real life.

Ugh. The thought was haunting me all day. And then I realized something. What if there is a Santa. And I need to stop making excuses for why he can’t afford an X-box this year (well, maybe that excuse will have to stick). I need to stop limiting the magic that my kids feel for Christmas because I’m afraid that their expectations are not centered within our family limits. I need to tell Burns to believe in Santa. I know Susan does. In fact, she believes in a power far more profound that any Northerly Magic. She gave me a little blessing which I turned into magic. And even though I don’t suggest any crazy fool venture out into the world two days before Christmas…the result is that I got more than my Santa’s wish. I felt the spirit of Christmas fill my soul. I found three pairs of perfect Phineas & Ferb pajamas (because too many of our family Friday nights revolve around Phineas and Ferb memories. I love a good cartoon that is just as much fun for the grown-ups.) AND I made sure that Santa has some help bringing a little treat for Burns – who could use some magic in any form.

By the time I reached home, the pile of treats from our beloved church families stacked neatly in the kitchen and the caroling group singing perfect parts in our partitioned doorway couldn’t have elevated my mood more. Even though the traffic was enough to shed a few tears about, I was crying for mighty miracles and mini ones which have the power to transform the heart of a mother who had forgotten to just SHUT UP and BELIEVE.

Not My Finest Potty Story

2011-12-23T02:38:00.000-06:00

Ok people. The truth is out.

Am.

Hopeless.

And since I’m one third the way through my life, I think it is just going to stay that way.

You see on Saturday I was arguing at tech support which turned out to be a couple of children in Portugal. Did you know that high school students spend their days building code for silly American women to debug on their holiday weekends? I had faith in their skillfully produced computer language…until I spent four murderous hours finding there errors before they admitted that they were only kids! KIDS! Kids more brilliant than myself…but kids nonetheless.

I needed a break to nurse the growing infection in my body but my fingers kept typing and their fingers kept erasing mistakes they wanted to hide on my database. We both knew the other wasn’t going to relinquish and so we were held in painful union. When I finally ripped myself from the Portugal argument I could feel the fever creeping up my neck and spreading cold fingers across my face. This was bad news. I had an infection. I knew it. But the screams of agony brought Burns running to the bathroom just in time to see…blood. You might stop reading if your squeamish about gruesome personal details, because I’m clearly not.

And don’t say I didn’t warn you. I am, after all, hopeless.

Bladder infections are evil and this one had Burns sitting on the tub’s edge looking up symptoms that brought queries on cancer and other such horrors. As for me. I was all silence. What’s a girl to do? Worry more? Nope. I’m taking a shower with my fevered chills. We are going to get all lathered up and forget our problems. So I did.

But my body wouldn’t let go. It ached. And reminded me hourly that unnatural things were happening in painful ways. So I called my doctor.

He asked me two dozen righteously embarrassing questions. Together we settled on the likeliest solution for my excessive symptom because honestly the alternatives weren’t great.

Anyway, he promised me when he became Mormon the next day that he’d bring me medicine during his visit to church. Shock can’t even explain the weirdness I felt. But hey? If he wants a piece of our world he can have it. Church it up dear man, just bring me some sweet meds!

Well. He came. And he was seriously invested in the spiritual offerings of our nearly five hour church experience (you know when you add choir and tithing settlement at the end your are in for the long haul.) But he forgot the meds. And when he asked me if I wanted him to drive out to the clinic and return back in time to give them to me….do you know what I SAID!??? Just go ahead and put your head into your hands right now. I said, “I don’t want you to go to that kind of trouble. I will be fine.”

FINE? Yep. That is what I said. No problem that I’ve been urinating in bright red for DAYS, that my kidneys ache so badly I feel it on the outside, that I get dizzy sometimes with the chills.

For my part, I did respond while I clenched my aching thighs together to resolve the trauma my kidney’s endured holding two wiggly children on my lap. But he couldn’t tell. I was my usual self…poised, positive and performing. “Nope. I’ll be fine.” He looked at me with disbelief and then we talked about parables until I had to use the restroom again. I didn’t scream this time. But only because we were in church.

The next day, he came to the house to work. Big Guy helped me cook dinner because the fever was stealing my ability to think. And the chills bent me over the bubbling peanut chicken sauce popping angrily from the stove. For dinner my helper and I hosted our guest, fed the family crowd and then I popped seven or eight of whatever remedy he offered into my mouth. I ate his lecture for dessert. It was something about getting what I ask for, and being humble to the point of never getting my needs met. I excused myself demurely and limped to the restroom where I screamed more than I pee’d.

But by the time I returned and we unearthed my perfectionism issues as well, I realized something about myself. I dig myself. I will never ever be happy with myself. Nor will I ever see myself as others see me. But at least I’m constant when all other opinions dance around. I will push myself harder. I will expect more. I will always barely ask for help and figure out my own situation when help doesn’t come. I dearly appreciate it when it does come but always figure someone needed it more than I. And I will never ask someone to go out of their way or clarify what I need when I’ve already enlisted it.

I’m hopeless. I’m quirky. I pee burgundy. And I’m not going to EVER see myself as you want or be less proud than you expect.

But I will make up for it somehow. Probably by telling potty stories. :_)

The Grace In Being Flawed

2011-12-21T22:29:00.001-06:00

I have a zit right in the middle of my forehead. But I’m not allowed to talk about my appearance in a negative way because both my doctor and my therapist gave me serious lectures about my self-deprecating nature. Apparently my perfectionism and inability to see myself as others see me are my worst traits – fatal flaws. I smirked through the first lecture. But the second one sort of…landed.

So we can’t talk about the zit () because the rest of this moment is perfect. I’m not allowed to mention that my hair hasn’t been washed in three days and my gingerbread cookies burned in the oven while Moose laid in wait for them…because then I’d have to admit that they were right about me. I’m fatally flawed.

Aren’t we all?

Of course we are. And I know this because I ended up at the mall today with a dear friend. People in crowds near Christmas are all fatally flawed. At the same time I realized two things. Being in financial distress at the holidays has brought the greatest blessing to savor time at home since we haven’t had to go to a single store for two straight months (except the pharmacy.) The second thing I realized is that for all our flaws and we have many…there is so much goodness to be seen.

When Elaine heard Sister bemoaning a supply of long sleeve shirts which she suspected couldn’t possibly last through a laundry week, Elaine shared her warmth during our unusually cool December. Elaine drove my dear daughter to the mall and bought her a shirt. She added a pair of pants to heal her tears when she slipped in a puddle of questionable nature inside the store. I sat beside the two of them in silence and was amazed at the moment – watching one heart healed by giving and the other heart with receiving. It was a beautiful thing.

Dad came home after us stressed and tired. He made a list of two gifts per child and went about his errands quickly. I can’t imagine the burden he feels right now so I won’t try, though he did say that he found room in the budget where there seemed to be none and that was a blessing. I was thankful that he floated my idea to re-gift one blessed offering to fulfill another obligation. It showed that both of us have reached a point where the thought really counts and the details are about pushing love forward. Nevertheless he had a furrowed brow all evening and I think it softened a bit when packages arrived from Aunt Caroline for all our children. They ran squealing down the hallway over-joyed at her generosity and again I peacefully watched the transformation on their delighted faces extend to Burns. It was a beautiful thing.

I hadn’t expected our day to be laced with offerings of grace when I woke early for therapy. After my heartfelt lecture from my dearest therapist, I never expected what would follow. He took me squarely by the shoulders to express his best opinions of me before making me promise. I thought for sure he’d say I must promise to be more gentle with myself or some such nonsense, so I blithely agreed. He smiled like the grinch, knowing he’d twisted me up finally in the perfect trap of generous proportions. “Promise me that you will skip your payment today and get something extra for your kids.” I want to hit him. Normally I would. I’d wind up in a big proud argument, all eyebrows, sass and rebellion. Today? I hugged him and quietly slipped out the door. It was a beautiful thing.

And now as the rain washes the evening light from the water-color sky, I began opening mail with three tiny helpers at my side. Through the stack of Christmas cards a single card fell open and all I saw were the words Susan at the end of a lovingly scribbled note. I breathed in her grace because whenever Susan writes me it is always in a moment when I’m certain that God has no love left for me and I’m standing in devastation. That wasn’t the case tonight. I was at peace. I was at rest. I was recognizing the grace of a beautiful day.

I read her sweet words inspired to show me God’s love and I dug deep into the dark corners where I’ve laid my heart break to rest. I wondered if it was possible to feel God’s love after…after all that burdens me. I accept my rest. I accept the peace. I recognize a beautiful thing. But God’s love? For me? Only Susan has the timing prompted by an inspired mothers love and only Susan’s notes come when I am most in need of being filled. Perhaps in the fatality of all my flaws, I’d neglected to notice that there is more grace in a beautiful thing when it is part of a divine plan and guided by the hand of a loving God.

Perhaps?

Either way, I don’t have to feel all the answers today. It is enough to know that I have angels, both near and far, beloved and remembered, surprising and generous. And that I’m not so flawed anymore that I can’t bear their goodness with a little grace of my own.

Keep-able

2011-12-20T22:45:00.001-06:00

It was a day just like any other. Have I told you how much I LOVE those days? When you have lived as we have lived…normal feels heavenly. And as I laid down this evening to rest my tingly toes I found myself giggling at the memories. Even the naughty stuff is just DELIGHTFUL!

I made four dozen gingerbread cookies, half gluten full and half gluten free. I never want to forget the look on Big Guy’s face when we agreed that the dough looked like elephant poo. Then dad began to list the poo that he’d seen which was most decidedly worse than elephant poo. Big Guy and I rolled our eyes. Beneath my distracted gaze my Moose was sneaking nibbles from the gingerbread beater. It was almost the same as my moose who climbed aboard his white step stool to sail through the freshly whipped icing and the Moose whose gooey lips peeked up from behind the tray of candy. He decorated his house. And then he ate his house. Good memories.

My Sister helped with the cookies. She nearly dropped all the sifted flour and spices into the trash can. But she was a most willing helper and I loved watching her obsess about whether Rudolph is real and whether Santa will bring her the American Girl doll that she dreams about. Although in reality she wants a rainbow colored Macaw. I really hope Santa isn’t in the live bird business.

I made caramel tonight. And I wondered if I made it last year. Of course, had I tried I wouldn’t have been able to stand long enough or stir hard enough without ending up on the kitchen floor. Two batches and I could feel the my toes begin to burn wildly so thankfully we ran out of ingredients before I could make more batches. Big Guy was suffering through his stackable house as it bent under the weight of a frosted roof. Then while the kids argued over who was reading the right scriptures Moose and I snuggled together in front of a bowl of black bean dip. He pronounced his thank-you’s loudly and I wanted to share everything that I had with his little happy soul. I had to beg him to say the prayer before bedtime but it was wholly worth it when he announced to God that he wanted Santa to bring him a giant truck, bigger than he, so he could drive his big truck. It went something like this…

“Heavenly Father, bless my family. Bless us to sleep well. Bless Santa to bring us what we want…CUZ I WANT A TRUCK! And bless us to be safe, daddy to meet his goals, momma to get back better and to tell Santa that I WANT A TRUCK….A BIG BIG TRUCK…A TRUCK THAT IS THIS BIG…in the name of Jesus (I WANT A TRUCK) and Amen-bring-me-a-GIANT-TRUCK-PUH-LEASE!”

Burns and I were rolling. It was hilarious. We gathered up the gingerbread houses, scoured the countertops, watched them brush their teeth, sang several bedtime songs, let them sneak out of bed a few more times…and then finally retired to our own rest.

Normal days are the very best kind aren’t they?

And if Moose sidles up next to me to share my stuff with ‘thank you momma’s” I will have to just give him the whole world!

IT REALLY DOES LOOK LIKE ELEPHANT POO!

Just A Girl

2011-12-20T09:38:00.001-06:00

Christmas is days away. The only presents that I’ve found for our children are the two that I found in the closet (thanks to putting them in a ‘safe place’ last year) and the one gift that I bartered from the neighbors moving giveaway. It is frightening to leave the gift giving to Burns, but the budget is frightening, the dwindled severance package is frightening, post-poning medical procedures is frightening. Paying for physical therapy we can no longer afford is frightening. Shouldn’t the fear consume me?

Nope. I have only one thing that mercilessly stresses me out.

Sure, the kids aren’t getting their regular holiday mommy to overwhelm them with the magic of Christmas. I have insanity deadlines with my business partner and so the breaks are spent learning how to cajole websites into the magic that I envision. It is stressful to say the least. Then I’m pushing forward in therapy, learning to pick up kettle bells in such a perfect way that I can’t use my back muscles in the least. This would be easy had I a rear end. All in good time. So on a wing and a prayer we are pushing past the neuropathy and building a central nervous system and a pair of glutes in the process. It seems everything these days is a leap of faith pursuit.

And then you want to talk about weird? My nearly single parent self who spent so many many years pushing through the challenges of life and parenthood on my own is now suddenly with husband…all the time. It shouldn’t be strange, but it is. With no where to go he’s my constant companion and we are digging through the stressful mess that life has handed us (some of it our fault of course) in a unison that hasn’t been able to exist for some time.

I sort of want to list more stressors, but that alone would get my heart pumping faster than I want it too as I lie peacefully in bed this morning and write this post. Those of you close to me know that my plate is full and there is a bounty of things to be worried about.

Except that I’m not. I mean, yes, I’m keeping a level eye on the horizon for change and getting ready to welcome solutions as they come. My dear friend reminded me that when the fight of life gets bloody you can’t walk away and count all your wounds. The time to face the issues is at hand, now or never. So I’ve stopped shrinking.

BUT!

Of all the things that could wrack my brain and bend it over in ways that are incredibly un-pleasurable…do you want to know what really plagues my selfish, girlish heart?

My SPLIT ENDS!!

My KINGDOM FOR A HAIR CUT!!

And what is worse than my broomstick hair and the four inches of golden brown roots? The fact that my dearest friend offered me a free pass to cut this stress from my life in rich inches of fresh hair and I didn’t DO IT. BECAUSE I’M SO PROUD THAT I NEVER ASK FOR WHAT I NEED, OR TAKE THE GIFTS FROM OTHERS.

I have big problems people

And HUGE split ends. I guess a girl that is holding it together on the inside… the outside has to become just a little bit frayed.

So in the end…I’m just a girl…who really really wants a hair cut for Christmas. Oh wait? And eye makeup remover, my eyelashes to grow back from my bad experience with fake lashes, some ridge filler nail care, new glasses, new contacts *squinting sucks, a retainer for my bottom teeth since the last retainer has begun to move, my bladder infection to cease before I die *too much information? Too bad for you. Ooh and a pair of stacked heel brown boots so I can keep my jeans out of the rainy puddles. A JACKET! Cause I’m freezing to death in our inclement Austin weather! A JOB! A JOB that can somehow, possibly make up for the horrendous nearly four years that AMD and graduate school took from our family! Not a step down but the measured step forward that would maybe possibly account for the sacrifices slaughtered from us year after year. And a car? Yeah. Too much to ask Santa. Burns pulled a three sixty on the highway just last week as his car gave up the desire to adhere itself to the road.

I’d settle for the haircut!

How We Are Spending Vacation Days

2011-12-19T23:45:00.001-06:00

There is some house cleaning and everyone is eating their vegetables. But we are also staying in our pajamas all day, laying high scores in dance offs, building clay sculptures and leaving them for days to decorate our dinner table, singing in the rain like the VonTrapp Family. We are eating mint & chip ice cream with gluten free brownies for dinner and caramel popcorn for lunch. I am working hard to build websites while Burns takes apart the office and continues slugging through the budget. We haven’t bought a single Christmas present, delivered cookies or fulfilled even one of our Christmas traditions from years past. But we are relaxing, resting, rejuvenating, reunioning and relishing our pajama’d days.

Angry Mouse

2011-12-16T18:53:00.001-06:00

Someone MADE him be in the preschool play. That someone would be me.

Yep. I’m the bad guy.

He used to have speech therapy and then a special private preschool two days a week so I could attend therapy and spine appointments while he played. When Burns lost his job those were the first two things that I cancelled. Not necessarily because they were priority cancels. EVERYTHING was cancelled. There’s no room to full around with tuition bills and medical bills weighing us down. Dropping Moose off at preschool was simply the first thing that I did after I heard the news. And I knew that they wouldn’t let us pull him out of school in November without fines, so they softened the blow by letting him complete December for free. This is his final week in preschool and his final performance.

I’m a little sad. Sure. He still comes with me to my therapy appointments but the days he goes to school I get to rest for the first time all week and be extra nice to my spine. The second day I volunteer in Sisters classroom. I will miss that the most.

So this being his last preschool party and his last performance none of us wanted to miss out on seeing his bouncy Mousy face running through his portion of the nutcracker. Moose was LESS excited about it than the rest of us. His teacher promised that if he was still crying where I dropped him off when the performance began she wouldn’t make him go on. He wasn’t still crying. But he was one ticked off Mouse and no amount of coaxing could get him to perform for a single second.

With the grumpiest, lumpiest, ticked off scowl he was forced to walk through his part and make his family the happiest and proudest audience members in the group!!

He was one angry Moose Mouse.

Earning My Stripes While She Earns Her Reward

2011-12-15T10:12:00.001-06:00

It was the first night in more than a month that I slept beyond four hours.

My sweet little Miss slept like a baby because she had no idea what was coming the next day. I woke at five to help the little one adjust his drawers before watching my clock tick away the minutes. We didn’t want to miss it. We didn’t want to be late.

The morning rush passed quickly enough. Finally, her name was called and she stood up in the middle of the assembled crowd to walk uncertainly toward the stage. Her daddy, her brother and I were waiting just behind the curtain and we could hear her teacher narrate the personality traits that won her a Knight Award for compassion. From the microphone they referenced a quote from the Dalia Lama – If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you need to find happiness, practice compassion.” I shuddered at the thought of what I need and what I want. So simple was answer – the pursuit of the ideals torturing me suddenly ceased in its’ precarious see-saw as I watched my littlest mentor step toward the stage.

I have been waiting for this day like a starving soul drowning in the crushing abyss. And for the first time in nearly two years I woke up this morning from sleep and I breathed for that which I gave away, for that which was stolen from me, for that which I must recover. My solutions will be the most difficult that I’ve ever encountered, but this morning in the bliss of a shortened sleep I stole back my courage which began to unfold last night. And watching her timid steps moving her with increased pride toward the stage sealed the deal. She too has been waiting for this day since she started school, the hopes of securing a Knights Award. Sometimes we wait for what feels to us like an eternity.

Yet, I can tell you first hand that the courage will come even if the trade to earn it back has been steep and severe.

The rewards of her pursuits have come for her.

Together we celebrated.

Then Moose drove the car home and we all screamed for our dear little lives. It felt good.

Nativity Joust

2011-12-14T22:56:00.000-06:00

In our house Mary tends her sweet baby while Joseph and the Donkey get in a knock-down-drag-em-out skirmish on the bar, beside a bowl of cinnamon oats.

I thought the donkey was going to wipe the counter with Joseph. But in the end, Joseph sent the donkey violently off the edge.

“MOM!!!!” Big Guy shouts. “Moose keeps taking the nativity apart!”

Delightful Distractions or Disturbing Discipline

2011-12-13T23:28:00.001-06:00

The dishes were halfway done when he asked his working daddy to play bouncy balls. He circled through the kitchen twice before I was extended an invitation, but what I really really wanted to do was finish the dishes. Except that the broken seal in the sink plug meant my water kept draining out. So I accepted his invitation early. When I promised to play in a minute he promised to keep my company until I was free.

A boy who will wait for you is priceless.

The bouncy ball collection was my best idea yet. They used to fill the bottom of the ball bin and no one could reach them. So I filled an old container and we use it as a book end in the children’s book case. Nothing holds back a pile of leaning novels like a bin of bouncy balls. Of course, throwing bouncy balls right in the middle of the kitchen…might not have been my most solid idea. But it sure was full of surprises on a slow Tuesday morning.

Sometimes it was loud. Most of the time we managed a simultaneous toss slam down. Some balls hit the ceiling, landed in the toaster, crashed through the drying dishes, bonked us in the face. Each round began with a different combination of balls lost during the round prior. And every time it was chaos.

When we were finished I took my payment in four deep breaths of his sweet little head. It fueled me for an afternoon teaching the big kids how to behave when we have house guests. Evidently my lengthy injury taught them to act like crazy people when a new person showed up for dinner. I’m either going to have a grumpy Burns and a pack of laugh-hysteric-disorganized-burping-emotional-fighting big kids. OR! A bouncy ball morning and an afternoon of preventative measures and manners mentoring with the Big Kids.

And if I fail? I will line the kids up in the kitchen and toss bouncy balls straight at them.

Now I’m kind of hoping I fail. Okay Big Guy…you’ve made some bad choices today…how many bouncy balls do you think you can dodge?

The Toy That Keeps Kicking…

2011-12-13T06:54:00.000-06:00

The best toy in our entire household?

Stacked, cardboard boxes.

We kick them, hit them, pummel them, run through them.

And they don’t take a single battery!

Caught

2011-12-12T21:25:00.001-06:00

Anchored On Top Of Their World

2011-12-11T10:46:00.001-06:00

They’ve been promised this experience for years!! And it was everything they hoped it would be.

Leaning Into The Wind

2011-12-11T10:34:00.001-06:00

Last night Burns worked on the budget. It has been a long long long time since he used our family office for purposes to direct our family. It rocked. I should have been depressed because I have a vague idea of what disarray he will find to our once organized life. But I wasn’t. It was a singular experience feeling that I wasn’t standing alone in resolution to the challenges – disorder couldn’t compare.

When he finished he gave me a brief summary. Again. I wasn’t surprised. Even though my fingers have been on the pulse of recovery more than the acting household puppeteer, I still know where we are at. Perhaps he expected me to hyperventilate. But I didn’t. There are times when the stress looms large and we must learn to lean into the wind.

Being laid off at the end of two years worth of medical expenses and three years in graduate school, right before the holidays…well no timing is ideal. But change is coming, being forced upon us. In some ways it is overwhelming to dig deep into our existence toward reconstruction. The pain and fear and realization is consuming and perhaps we both feel as if we are being eaten alive, or stripped bare by violent storms. But for the first time, at least in this moment, I can imagine that the dust will settle to a worn vision of us still standing. Being job less is the least of our concerns. However, it gives us a place to start.

There are additional changes as well. My back/stomach therapy is moving forward and with the past few difficult months behind me I can see through the rough stages to realize that my life never would have been the same without that stomach surgery. It was a volatile set-back but perhaps the exact right thing to do to propel my body forward in healing it could not achieve on its own. I realize how long I’ve been holding my breath, desperately trying to accept my limitations and grow within those bounds because I am honestly afraid to stretch my body beyond them when so many began to believe it impossible. I’m not afraid of the pain or set-backs. I’m afraid that I can’t believe my body could ever be whole again, and that the emotions which suffocate this injury may never let go. And even though part of me is holding onto the safer chapters in this story I can’t stop the story from marching on. Sometimes I feel dragged by progress. Sometimes I run a step ahead fearful it will clip my heels. But most of the time I am in awe of the changes. I also feel respect to not disrupt progress no matter how difficult is has been to hold onto a new life unfolding.

The children are still waiting for Christmas. The holiday isn’t yet in my heart but I rally to see their anxious little bodies bouncing around the decorated tree. For them time is in the perfect season because it is all they know. They aren’t calculating the destruction in our past, the hopelessness of injury and struggles that surmount every waking feeling in an all-consuming day. They worry lightly about the seasons ahead of us but without the depth of understanding which could plague their visions. They don’t boil on the inside like there mother who also taught them to shine on the outside. Perhaps it is time for them to remind me how to shine from the inside, to take my hand and walk me through a holiday pressed by so much more than this blog could possibly hold. All they care about is that a present found its way beneath their tree. It is a large square box with brightly colored orbs bouncing atop a snow heaped landscape. They don’t care that our friends relocation to Utah resulted in the disposal of the whole family’s Legos, or that this gift stems from the creative recycling of their mother. They just know that good things are to come, wrapped tightly and waiting for the perfect moment to unfold.

I want to hold onto a past that is letting me go, spitting me out in some cases. I feel the forward motion, surprising and confusing but the pattern is familiar because it is one that I set in effort and choice long ago. So now is less a time for the chaos accompanying hard times. It is a moment where the the season and the children show us that good things are to come no matter how tightly wrapped we feel. Somehow, out of all this…perfection may unfold.

It is hard to believe. It is harder to change. It is hardest to accept. But if the children can do it with buoyant ease….

ICE in All CAPS

2011-12-08T00:07:00.001-06:00

Austin has gone polar.

It is VERY serious. Can you tell? I can’t even smile. My face might crack into a thousand shards like the glittered shapes frozen onto our concrete driveway.

Last night I climbed into bed and realized four things. I don’t have a warm coat. I don’t have a warm bedspread. I couldn’t feel my toes because I only have two pairs of socks. And I could no longer feel that deep part of my soul which loves the warmth because it had frozen solid!!!!!!

I shivered through my scalding shower this morning in the dark. And when I went to the car there was strange white stuff on my windshield? I could scratch it off with my fingernail but then I exhaled and my breath ghosted in misty swirls that touched my cheek and I ran screaming inside the house.

IT IS COLD!!!

And it isn’t even January!

I feel all confused and uncertain. What is a girl to do when her prepackaged version of mini-winter that is only allowed to appear during the second and third week of January is suddenly thrust upon her in early December? Will we not run through the sprinklers like last December? Will I honestly wish I had a scarf when picking up the kids in my see-through version of a sweater? Geez PEOPLE! I can’t even type because the pretend comforter that we have doesn’t fit the King size bed and my toes (without socks) are stingingly cold. I turned on the heating pad up to high, which consequently makes the nerves in my back sting, but it is worth it BECAUSE I DON’T OWN AN ELECTRIC BLANKET!

Ooh. But if I did. I’d smile. Face cracking and all. And then I’d slip into that blanket with my barest of white piggy toes and I’d wait until electricity burned the brightness back into my crystalline soul. I’d breath fire. I’d exhale volcanic fumes. I’d be WARM!

Bring back the drought *I’m mostly kidding. Bring back the seven month summer. Bring back the impossibility of ever wearing a bulky sweater over skinny jeans. But BRING back my Austin winter because I’m just not made of thick enough stuff to survive this kind of weather! And while I’m asking the heavens for favors, could someone bring me an XS peacoat and a pair of rainbow striped socks that go to my knees? Please?

Thank you.

Reclamation

2011-12-06T22:02:00.001-06:00

I pressed my nose to the cold window in Sister’s bedroom this morning. I gave myself thirty minutes to feel what I needed to feel. The result was three tears and 365 days worth of regret. Can you press that much emotion into thirty minutes, can three tears drain the weight in your heart? Can an extremely pressed soul possibly shine as they did before the press? Or is the point really just to extrude all the rotten stuff from out of me in whatever form it comes? I accepted my rotteness with humility, rejected a future touched with decay and settled ultimately on an attempt to see through it. How do I become the best of what I used to be and the best of what I’ve learned now?

It may take more than thirty minutes to achieve such a transformation, but mother’s heart needs only a moment to feel. I pressed my sticky soul searching into an instant, between pulling pink polka dot sheets tight enough to delay the nights tucking and beating the shape back into the pillow with a misplaced foam sword.

Next came breath. But I found none. I felt myself holding perfectly still and knowing the next breath wouldn’t make any part of life easier. It would only oxygenate the thinnest opportunity for change. How many breaths have I squandered? How many breaths felt shallowly suffocated beneath current predicaments. How many breaths were lost to the fog of pain? I have lost too many breaths, poisoned too many exhalations and missed moments no matter how thin. I think most of us when we are truly honest with ourselves have discovered that our humanity often overrides the divinity we hope to find within ourselves.

I guess I expected that there was more that was divine in me than showed itself when all else was pressed out. And when dozens of Christmas’s before were a time to reflect upon the Savior’s birth I find myself reflecting on my purpose – one that has had difficulty aligning to the divinity of that holy child. I wondered if at some time in the mounting years beyond that precious birth if he ever felt too pressed to be worth saving?

I never found an answer to that question or the hundreds more that slipped in and out of my quiet mind during the rest of the noisy day. Instead I moved to the next room, tidied the next messy place and left my heart far less neat than my home. I lost myself in the service of a neighbor, lending a listening hour to her and a batch of distracting caramel corn for the children. I lent myself to Moose for company and commiseration whenever his ailments caused him concern. And I breathed completely normal breaths in perfect repetition through a day that would appear on the surface to be perfectly normal.

And I hoped that the sum of my day’s breath would provide enough courage, enough to endure far better than I have, to reclaim whatever remnants of the me that I have left to reclaim.

Good Enough To Overcome Feeling Scroogy–Part II of Sunday’s Post

2011-12-05T23:49:00.000-06:00

Yep.

They made us grumpy yesterday, those kids. At least in the morning.

But then I had a realization. It is Christmas AND dad is home. There is no school (graduate school I mean). Not having a job means he gets to spend more time with the kids. Nothing to keep him from us for the hours upon hours and days upon days that have been our past. Sure. We are still living the hardships of said past. But it is Christmas!

We called a child/parent truce. And I felt a spine/health truce (my spine is getting better people…seriously better…I’ll have to tell you about that later.)

In the truce, the kids let their spirits soar. Big Guy made Sister’s little dreams come true.

Dad made some of mine come true. He hauled the baby stuff that I’m selling out to the garage and he hauled the Christmas stuff in. Out and in he went and I remembered how challenging it was the ascend into the attic while little people committed accidentals unsupervised. I remembered how difficult it was to provide all the energy for the momentum of Christmas on my own.

I know. I probably shouldn’t remember.

I made split pea stew and it warmed our bellies. We had freshly cut vegetables and dip. Then we ate cold cake with pudding and whipped cream. I found last years extra Christmas cards and giggled at the idea of sending them out again this year. And truth be told, I cried a little when I found six stocking hangers and six stockings. Should I hang that stocking I bought years ago for the little girl I wanted to have? Should I leave it in the box and be a family of five? I cried. And put the extra one away. Three children is good right? Three is good.

Sister mimed operatic as the Christmas music played in the background. She pretended that it didn’t matter if no one knew the words so long as they could affect the audience with a most passionately sung pretend version. She reminds me of myself!

After hanging ornaments, Moose begged me to fly. How could I deny him. It makes my thighs scream to hold him tightly upside down by a single leg squeezed between my own. But he loves the upside-down freedom. I can’t really blame him. It is one of mom’s most delightful tricks!

And then when the night grew too late for an early school morning, we put away the extra nativities and left some ornaments in a pile for tomorrow. The kids watched three blue mugs circle through the microwave window until their cocoa and smore’s were ready. With them all sugared up and rich in the magic of Christmas, they were ushered off to bed.

It would have been a perfect evening. Until Big Guy spent twenty minutes NOT brushing his teeth and received a rabid lecture from dad. Moose and I just snuggled tightly beneath the bear blanket in my bedroom and pretended that the night was perfect…or at least good enough. It was absolutely good enough.

Reliving Infancy

2011-12-05T06:28:00.000-06:00

I’m taking a big step selling the baby treasure trove that I washed lovingly and stored carefully for that baby that I don’t get to have. It isn’t the perfect time of year for Craig’s List but we have to take the excursions into our souls despair when the moment invites. So I’m letting go of a hope by letting go of the things.

Of course, Moose is delighted to walk through the memories. He spins the saucer, rests his head on the boppy, sits in the Bumbo and wrestles me for the bibs. But the car seat, well that was a singular delight.

He HAD to get inside! And once inside he HAD to buckle himself up.

“But sweetie? It is going to be super tight and hurt you.”

He didn’t care. Again. He HAD to buckle himself. I helped him wrap the straps over his chest and then I stopped. He yelled. So I helped him buckle the chest buckle. But he wanted more. With all his effort bent to meet the metal clip into the groin buckle, he gave it his best attempt. I promised him that I wanted to help but it would pinch and hurt. “Honey. It is just too tight.”

Right then dad walked by, bent over, and clipped the impossible buckle.

JOY!!!

For five seconds he was absolutely, positively, delighted.

But then he realized something.

“Momma? Help Me PLEASE! My PENIS is PINCHY. It hurts my Penis.”

And out he came.

I’ve been there kid. Sometimes we just have to know how it feels before we realize that we need help and we need out.

Scrooged.

2011-12-03T22:05:00.000-06:00

Moose and I are making gingerbread pancakes together and it didn’t take long before our baking goodness began to take an experimental turn. First, I changed a regular gingerbread recipe into a gluten free recipe. Whether it was the xantham gum or the molasses, the culprit has yet to be determined, our pancakes had the consistency of playdo. Only Moose was truly in love with the offspring of our creation.

Sure. They looked like golden swirls of cooked caramel but tasted like something that was willing to climb back out of our throats in order to maintain its form. Yuck.

Yuck too, was the breakfast lecture. The kids have been making scrooges out of their parents. When asked to pick up her room last night, Miss Sister threw her treasured pea coat behind the Barbie Condo in the back of her closet so that it would both escape detection and not need to be hung up. There were several items like this, stuffed into the secret places of her room. This week she will be losing some of the secret places in her room – not because of a single incident but twelve months of lessons ignored.

Big Guy was given a two hand and five finger plan to aid in setting the table. It would be nice when I asked him to complete this task if I didn’t arrive at the table to find three glasses, one spoon and one plate set – usually for him. He’s the master at putting out forks when we are eating soup and spoons when we have fish. The table setting recovery extends past the timetable of even dinner preparation and I’m tired of eating cold food. He’s going to master table setting at about the same speed I’m growing wrinkles – too fast for my own comfort and too slow for any reasonable human being with five fingers.

Scrooge! Can you see it. I’ve been scrooged this weekend. I’m supposed to be writing about swirling gingerbread batter and hanging delicate ornaments with my dear daughter. Instead I’m watching the big kid wash dishes by hand since the last three attempts at using the dishwasher ended with him running out of the room with a half filled washer that never got started.

And Sister! She’s wiping boogers off the back wall by her bed with a scrub brush. She’s learning how to hang a coat on a coat rack, seeing as that takes a thousand times more effort than folding it into a tiny ball and stuffing it behind and between two large toys.

Now Moose! He has some stiff competition for acting like a three year old (me included). And for the moment he is the only one who should be acting like a three year old…a three year old who loves making gluten-free-gingerbread-pancake-play-doh.

When Your Rear End Loses Its Way…

2011-12-03T04:20:00.000-06:00

Home from physical therapy and eating lunch

It is hard to say, now looking back over the past few years what type of movement was right and what type was wrong…especially when I was afforded so little. While some practitioners suggested remaining recumbent and others felt that light walking may be okay, neither opinion mattered when the injury out-lasted all solutions prior to surgery.

But I sometimes wonder if the walking at four am with ice shoved into my waistband was good for my body or imperative for my soul. I felt like I was dying inside the rest of the time and with three children in my constant care.    Certainly I was disappointed after the surgery that my body was wrecked enough that I couldn’t even reclaim the former limited exercises I enjoyed. Still! Still I can’t do a pull up without my abs pitching a tent. It feels weird to me because before I had intense stomach control. Naturally they didn’t work, flex, stretch or move…but I had stomach control!!

A few months after surgery I was up more than at any time before, yet my neuropathy increased… the neurosurgeons and the holistic doctors could finally agree on ONE thing. I was NOT allowed to walk anymore. If I was neurologically impaired then movement was limited. When pain was my only barrier I would crawl through a desert of mud if I had too. But with the horrible companion of electricity running through my legs…I was scared still.

In the end of October the movement ban was lifted. I found a physical therapist that trains elite athletes and I handed him the huge responsibility of my rehab. It is tricky. Two years of inactivity and very limited, non-fluid motion, affects EVERYTHING. We spent three weeks perfecting a squat that neither over-engages my back muscles, nor allows them to clamp down on the damaged tissue in ways that lights up my nerve meters and shuts down portions of my foot. Thankfully, Jude knows nothing about me, my struggles, the challenges. And with a fresh perspective we can write a new chapter. The balance is treacherous at times, between rehab movement and too much movement.   I see his eyebrows crinkle as he stares down the challenges of re-awakening my depressed central nervous system without pissing it off. It is easily pissed off.

The kids came with me today. Nearly everyone is done shedding flu virus and at least the little people are on the mend. I never crashed that hard. And dad put on a suit today and began to pretend that he feels better. It was nice having an audience while I performed the most complicated, simple movements. I’ve decided that is no longer going to embarrass me when my muscles shudder because we are conquering imbalances everywhere. It takes more concentration to perform a single perfectly executed squat than a years worth of high school math analysis. But messing up means pain, swelling, joint aching, nerve pain. We limit our mess ups to the finest degree.

Yet no matter how hard I try to put my former powerful ego behind me and squat with guidance like an invalid…I nearly fell over when Jude announced my current predicament as “Butt Amnesia.” I responded back, remembering my genetically prodigious posterior, “Is it possible that I’ve had that all my life?”

Of course I also asked him if he was full of crap and just making stuff up. He wasn’t. My glutes have atrophied immensely, taking an opposite route from the protective death grip of my back muscles.   Jude added that our rear end issues have less to do with genetics and more to do with the fact that we may not be actively using that muscle, letting other muscles do the work for the wimpy ones. I don’t use my butt right? I laughed. He’s probably right. When we have a big butt we blame our mothers for their big butt. But when my triceps are flopping I learn to use them and they shape right up. So perhaps what is more predominately genetic is how we move our bodies, or don’t move our bodies…muscles that we allow to become dominant over muscles we’ve let fall weak. It suddenly changed the whole way in which I viewed myself and the limitations I’ve always imposed upon my shape. The power to optimize our bodies is in our hands.

Unless…of course… you have butt amnesia. And then it’s a wing and prayer before that bubble learns how to lift and tuck again.   I’m kidding. Although he wasn’t. My poor bottom has forgotten how to do it’s job and since the abs can’t and the back isn’t supposed to, I think we will be spending the next few weeks over-riding genetics and teaching the forgotten to remember.

In the meantime, if my butt wakes up confused and wanders off somewhere…just keep it. It was never a highly used or favorite body part.

Violating The Cake

2011-12-02T08:32:00.000-06:00

I called out an audible in the middle of dinner. One was convinced that beans and rice were IMPOSSIBLE to scoop with an unassisted fork. The other one might have downed three chili verde burritos had I not called an amend to our plan. The middle child was three seconds from being STAPLED to her chair and FORCE-FED her swirling plate of procrastination.

“Anyone who finishes eating in five minutes…ready for chores, can have CAKE!!”

They finished. But not for cake. One was denied a fourth helping and instead fed an opportunity to do the dishes. One miraculously learned how to spoon food into his mouth after a wink and a threat. The middle one was rejected for chores because greater suffering resulted in finishing the mushy swirls left on her plate.

And then I made them clean the family room. Oh. Sweet. Joy. Sort of. I really wanted to play Monopoly Cards. I would have preferred if they’d finished the dishes in time to do so and I audibly complained while they ran arms full of misplaced madness down the hallway.

“I can’t believe you guys didn’t clean fast enough for a GAME!” I whined. “I was SO looking forward to it! Wouldn’t it be super duper sad if you didn’t pick up your things in time for cake. What if? I’m just throwing this out there…what if I ate your cake!”

I heard the footsteps quicken. Little patters became pounding hurdlers. I gave my best army shout and then I slowly, delicately and ever so softly forked a piece of cake that was not mine (because-I-ate-mine). Suddenly. The house was clean! Suddenly. There was a pile of drooling children flanking my cake encroachment. They rapidly dealt the cake portions left like a deck of cards. And irony left Burns, who was learning about camera apertures, with the violated piece.

I love, love, love me some cake.

And death threats.

The Story of My Injury

2011-11-30T23:20:00.001-06:00

Three years and a half years ago I had a spectacularly rough pregnancy, during which time I destroyed the inside of my abdomen wall. Those were difficult days which I don’t want to relive even in writing. However, the end result was several hernias and a spread between my muscle wall wide enough for those hernias to be dangerous as well as bio-mechanically dysfunctional. Despite a minor comment from my OB about the possibility of a future surgical repair, I sort of forgot that my abs were destroyed. I’m single minded against things like that and it was hard to see the damage just after giving birth. Let’s just say that none of my current physicians had ever seen anything like it. I hid it well beneath muscled abs that were strong but did not work– at least not the right way. Imagine taking the material between your muscles and like stretching a balloon put enough divisive pressure until it shreds and large tears form.

Two years ago I was getting ready to have a fourth baby by strengthening up some weakness issues that I’d noticed were a concern. It seemed strange to me that when my kids pounced on me my organs were bruised. There were several indicators. Either way, I wanted to protect my back which was occasionally symptomatic from an old college injury. Can you see the storm coming? I sure couldn’t. After four weeks of physical therapy they diagnosed the internal stomach damage. Surgery was suggested, a surgery I thought wasn’t something I would do. We made a plan to strengthen my core enough to avoid surgical solutions and support my spine which was carrying too much load alone. I was driven. And the outside showed it. But the inside was beyond repair and this overwhelming internal weakness left my lumbar spine vulnerable to greater injury. Now I shouldn’t have been injured doing physical therapy under their direction. It was an unfortunate and horrible mistake, but the exercises they gave me were not indicated for my condition and the repetition of therapeutic exercises very quickly herniated two discs in my lumbar spine. I went from complaining about a mild issue to barely being able to walk – in four horrible weeks.

My husband was still working horrible hours and attending graduate school. As a desperate parent I did all I could to continue enough to care for my kids during the most debilitating injury of my lifetime. One would think such an injury would surely heal. I certainly expected it – at least the back. We learned the hard way that the two injuries together made for an impossible situation and while we tried every possible medical and alternative treatment available our most trusted resources eventually directed us toward the a hernia repair that became likewise reconstructive as they sewed my fist sized spread abs together from one bone to the rib cage. This was supposed to stabilize my pelvis/abdomen/lower back. I used to love my stomach. And I longed for another baby. I lost both of those things in a single surgery.

Was it helpful? Absolutely. I hate to admit it because I have to look at damage on the outside which before was inside. Recovering has been difficult. Had the prior years not been plagued with excruciating pain, the surgery alone would have driven me off the edge. It was more difficult than I would ever imagine. The progress has been incredibly slow. It will take at least a year for my stomach muscles to heal and my spine needs any muscular help it can get to heal as well. In the meantime, I’ve had growing neuropathy in my left leg. Yet on the bright side I can move in ways that I could not move before, stand longer, sit longer and get back to loving on my children in ways I couldn’t before.

Are things perfect? Far from it. My father-in-law can tell you that the pain of re-growing nerves torn through surgery is difficult (and very loud when my MIL practices massage techniques). Anytime my stomach tightens from fatigue or swelling my back is immediately pressed to its own familiar and excruciating pain. I could go on, but I’d rather not. Healing has been more possible with the reconstructive repair, but it is daily complicated and a month goes by before we see noticeable progress.

So there you have it. I no longer have a handicap sticker. I know longer look like a downed totem pole. I can finally shave my legs daily – oh how I missed bending! I don’t have to flex my abs every second of the day, but every second of the day the places I feel give me pain and the places I don’t feel make me dreadfully sad. And the steps that lead me to this place, the lonely struggles in between beat upon me like a relentless tide.

While there is an awful lot in my life that is wrong, I haven’t forgotten the importance of smiling. Fake it. Until you make it. It’s not the most refined theme, but it holds me together – that and a little duct tape and internal zippers.

Lists

2011-11-30T07:19:00.000-06:00

My throat was so dry that I woke up choking. The tears blinked from my eyes enough to see that Big Guy had only ten minutes left before the rearranged caravan leaves to school.

This was his first time getting a ride to school. This was his first time getting himself ready alone. The house was silent and I wasn’t sure if my discussion last night about getting ready on his own had hit the target. Dad could barely breathe next to me so I slid from the sheets and checked all the most likely places. Still the house was silent, nearly, because Sister was suffering her fever by singing show tunes from her bed.

But where on earth could that boy be? With no ideas left I walked to the front door to check the neighbors garage for car movement and there sat my son in the shadows. He was dressed, groomed, fed, packed and waiting with his face pressed between the pages of his latest mystery novel. I could have kissed him…so I did. It felt beautiful to feel a soul filling pride rather than my usual fear-induced proud independence.

In a few minutes he caught his ride. I made a hasty grocery list, hoping to be kind to shoppers by bringing my illness to the pharmacy aisle earlier than the crowds.

1. Cough drops – 2 bags.
2. Potatoes – to copy Chelsey’s crockpot stew.

My list stopped short because I’m still not supposed to carry much more (my toes would be numb before returning home with only minimal essentials). Yet as I drove I calculated the burden of stress that I carry every day. We have real problems in our life that far outweigh health concerns and not having a job. In a strange way the depth of those concerns have been such a gravitational pull that I can barely feel the fear of not having our financial situation clean and tidy. It seems like life is sawing through my perfectionism, turning me to a kind of dust capable of being sifted through any challenge. But I don’t like being dust. I miss feeling whole. I miss having the things I used to have even if to some extent they were an illusion. My universe was orderly and simple enough that I refused to see…I just refused to see what I cannot blink out now. I knew my role in life and it obeyed my command to align with my heart. My body obeyed my every command and our decisions created the smoothest environment possible. Now after four years of assuming every possible role, I find my role is less certain to me…my heart has so long been misaligned to the former comfort of its purpose. The faith to continue has staggeringly left me and in its absence, heart break it seems is my most pervasive companion.

I keep trying to remind myself that Christmas is coming. I will need to make it cheerful and bright. My children will need the support for which I have so often longed for and gone without. And I think it will be a good season, regardless. But it will not be a season which can heal all that ails us. It will not be a season which can recover the loss of faith, the loss of trust, the separation between love and loneliness. The season cannot make all our decisions for us.

By the time I returned home I felt the pain from heaving even the smallest bag of potatoes. But burdens I bear without physical weight pressed my soul more. It seemed like the right time to make a simple list and check it twice, see which of my perspectives are naughty and which were nice. I know that no matter how often I check myself there are certain truths which have revealed themselves this year and threaten to change every dream I’ve ever had. But at the same time there is safety in making a list of accomplishable tasks. And afterward I let my sore throat soothe over sips of orange juice while I bleach scrubbed the baby toys. It is my Christmas hope that selling the pieces of my old dream on Craigslist will make a few of my childrens’ wishes possible in time for Christmas. Dreams are funny like that. And mothers will give up nearly anything for their children.

After that, I need to put healing on the back-burner where it has always belonged and figure out if I can find a job.

I’m making a list. I’m checking it twice. I will let go of some hopes to see where others can splice.

Happy Thanksgiving

2011-11-28T23:35:00.001-06:00

Remember back when sister struck a grandma deal over the phone? It started with a family counsel about the state of Christmas (Santa not included). It was a grim family counsel, I thought. But perspective is a peculiar thing. The kids, on the other hand, bounced at the news of Dad being home in place of Christmas presents. Win-Win. Of course, Burns said it better than that. But I’m not even going to try because a few days later the flu struck our home and life became more turvy than topsy. In those rough days, Sister fell a slight melancholy so she called Grandma with a story about coal in her stocking. Those two girls struck a deal, pinky swore on the destiny of our Thanksgiving and five gifted tickets later…we had an adventure to take.

Willingness at this point is complicated, gratitude for gifts being paramount (and the happiness of our crafty daughter) we pinched back therapy in at the last minute and packed even later. It was time to fly.

We brought a two-week sick Burns and three healthy children with us. But a bad habit of lip picking and the unseen germs at perhaps preschool, we landed with only a single healthy day before two different flu’s hit. So in truth days upon days were spent with Grandma helping us care for our tiniest child who fell desperately ill. At the end of it all, poor grandma fell ill herself. Life is just NOT fair.

But there were some sensational high points.

Grandpa loved volunteering for lap shifts with the sickest baby on earth.

A Samantha luncheon is always tasty. for a million different reasons.
That and her children mysteriously age without changing anything but their size!

Reuniting Second Cousins.

Missionary Farewell for the All Grown Up Nephew!

The Coolest In-Laws EVER! Uncle Ryan makes a luscious batch of caramel corn.
It was the first food all week long that tempted my portion control.

Most Shocking Moment Of Whole Weekend!

Tender Moments.

Favorite Uncle And Aunt Hugs

Grandma Beginning The Monopoly Deal Addiction

Sitting At The Cousins Table. Everyone was healthy for probably the only moment all week.

Misery & Company

2011-11-28T19:28:00.001-06:00

‘Burns,’ formally called Dad was laid off in the beginning of November. Then he got the flu – the all out writhing in bed flu. He’s had it for three weeks now. It has been hard, hard on him, hard on the whole house. But no one else got sick until Thanksgiving.

Moose came down ill with the stomach flu the day before Thanksgiving. He finally rebounded by the afternoon of our turkey holiday. It was a brief and beautiful reprieve. However, by nightfall he fell into the worst illness he has ever had. His fever has raged him through one lethargic day after another. Five days of sleeping, being held, sipping juice, and suffering. I miss him.

Sister’s flu began Sunday night.

After I made shrimp tacos, Big Guy made his own lunch begrudgingly. But then he read us all stories, brought in more blankets, carried kleenex to Moose. He’s been a real helper. I wish he could look for a job for Burns too.

My fever started tonight. My glands are swollen. My back is weakening as my body weakens.
It stings about equal to the ache.

The flu is having it's way with us.

Digitally Together

2011-11-26T13:34:00.001-06:00

Technology is a beautiful thing. And…it sometimes makes my head explode.

I feel grateful that I can bring an Ipad to doctors appointments and listen while he rhymes, matches shapes, wrestles with the jelly car, listens to pre-recorded stories, and asks for my help over and again to attack snakes in Kung-fu panda. Ear phones splitters and downloaded movies makes travel dreamy. Having a phone for Sister to practice her homework, while Big Guy draws on the IPAD and Moose plays music on the DS can sometimes be a beautiful symmetry.

Then at other times I shrink at the idea that I’m handing over a seven hundred dollar piece of equipment to a toddler who rests it slippingly close to destruction. They argue over my phone in the car until no one gets a turn. They ask to play games when we could play the alphabet game, enjoy the scenery or poke each other the good old fashioned way. My brother and I enjoyed at least half a cumulative decade finger jousting in the back seat like venomous enemies. Isn’t that what I want for my children? The comforting traditions of merciless boredom during long travels? I’m kidding.

Either way, no matter how I despise constantly addressing time limits on their handheld games it still cracks me up to see scenes like these. Especially when I suggest that they play TO-GETHER!

“Mom. We ARE playing together!”

It’s a brave new world people. Whether parents are drawing lines over poke matches or forcing two people to interact on a NON-DIGITAL LEVEL, there is always a need for oversight, limits, and an occasional sense of humorous balance.

Can I Be Grateful & Frightened At The Same Time?

2011-11-25T14:05:00.001-06:00

I’ve decided yes.

Little Moose can be fevered sick and super sweet at the same time…

Big Guy can be a disgruntled family photographer who tends to cut people’s heads off, yet still willing to take the pictures. (Also he likes playing frisbee even though he took a few to the face.)

We can be weirded out by Novembers Funny Mustaches but still delighted to reconnect with family at the same time. (Super Sorry SIL for catching you licking your lips. She's crazy gorgeous guys so just overlook my poor photography please.)

Contrasts are just a part of life. And they happen to be emotions that I’m very good at. So for right now uncertain and tumultous joy/fear is just going to have to be the way of life for awhile.
And there isn’t a thing I can do about it

A Thanksgiving Of Stomach Flu & Seductive Poses

2011-11-24T13:55:00.001-06:00

Happy Thanksgiving!

15 Relatives.

2 People Still in Pajamas.

9 Children.

2 Arguments About Stuffing The Turkey.

22 Pumpkin Tartlets.

1 College Basketball Game + 1 Monstrous Back Ache.

1 Child each with one of the following : (diarrhea), (stomach flu), (split lip from a frisbee), (poly-anna braids), (child in diapers), (wearing shorts in November)…

2 Men Yelling At The TV.

1 Man Bragging About Picking His Nose With His Thumbs.

1 Incident of Blood on The Floor (turned out to be cranberries).

5 Uber-healthy Side-Dishes.

1 Baby Who Riddy Riddy Wants To Eat But Cannot.

1 Toddler Pretending To Be Doctor.

2 Turkeys (one fried).

2 Cooks.

4 Lazy Adults.

1 Picture Someone’s Butt

& 1 Seductive Pose

Happy, Happy, Happy,

Mostly Grateful,

But Full of Hopes…

Thanksgiving!

Reunited

2011-11-23T11:56:00.001-06:00

As we drove she asked me again and again about my boys cousins. “Oh dear, I had dozens and dozens of boy cousins. Mean as fire spitting dragons, filthy, funny, earthy & friendly cousins. They tortured and tossed me and teased me into the woman I am now.”

She illuminated the back seat with enthusiasm. “When will I meet him?”

“Soon. He big and tough and scary on the outside…all muscle and gristle. But on the inside he’s like an ooey, gooey chocolate chip cookie. He’s warm and funny, easy going and kind. You will love him just like I love him.”

“I will momma! I will. But can I change clothes before I meet him? I want to look pretty.”

“Absolutely. Can I tell you a secret though?” I prodded her curiosity. “When we were children Uncle Thayne was MUCH prettier than your momma…much prettier. He was a very pretty boy.” She raised her eyebrows and looked toward dad for confirmation. He agreed that Uncle Thayne dressed super slick and he was very nearly almost as pretty as momma. Almost.

Anticipation

2011-11-22T13:14:00.001-06:00

"Sister!?"

She answers mid flight down the hallway, in search for her coat.

"Big Guy?!"

He pops up from beneath my elbow, hoisting my bag for me like a stealthy servant.

"MOOSE?!"

No answer. Repeat. Silence. Big guy shrugged. Sister heard the call to duty and went on a little man hunt. She found him with audible giggles.

"Where was he?" I inquired.

"The car. He was already buckled up and ready to go!" She was so delighted to report his delinquency was related to the most adorable display of anticipation.

I breathed a sigh of relief that the open doorway swallowed him up toward our purposed destination and not a fearful wandering. And then I filled my lungs with a tiny breath of anticipation myself.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Poison Urine & Lizard Guts

2011-11-22T08:41:00.000-06:00

When everyone was doing chores, Moose was not. Not that he really has any chores to speak of, yet picking up toys is not one of his strong suits. He’s super lucky that his older siblings are gracious and their clean-up usually includes his messes without complaint. But it bothers me nonetheless. So I went searching for the truant little helper and discovered him embroiled in battle. The blue rubber lizard was attacking the monster trucks, pounding it to the arm chair and eating its nuts and bolts out.

Later we rushed through the church hallways to use the restroom. He angled so tightly toward the stall that he ran smack into the door frame. One hand rubbing his temple and the next hand fumbling at this pants, he begged me for help. “The penis needs freed, momma!” How could I argue. Except that I pulled out the fire hose before lifting the lid. He demanded the lid be lifted and since I’m so adept at holding fire hoses off of church pants and lifting toilet lids simultaneously…my aim was a bit off. I helped him spray forth all over the back of the toilet seat, his hands and part of his pants. “Mom, you terrible pee-er, terrible.” I took my scolding in stride, washed his hand quickly because he was flinging it from side to side as if poison were burning through his skin and watched him skip out the door. Again, the angle was off and he smacked into the door frame.

We stole the neighbor girls in the morning to give them Sister’s grown-out clothes. He was so delighted with the blue-eyed company of a gorgeous and shy toddler girl that he ran to the game room for his rifle. Using his charming voice, he beguiled her toward the back bedroom and when she came into view he set his sites upon her, cocked the gun with a heavy ‘chick, chick’ and then blew her head off. I reprimanded him sternly, “we do NOT shoot little ladies in household Moose!” To which he responded, by checking his sites, lifting the rifle my direction and blowing my head off.

He spoiled slightly, sensationally funny, and incredibly clinging at bedtime. But oh how I love him naughty, love him nice, love him any which way I find him.

Burning Dogs

2011-11-21T08:15:00.000-06:00

Is it weird that the first thing we did when the fire ban lifted, was to set a small fire in our backyard and cook hot dogs until the drippy grease sizzled over the fingering flames?

We were very very careful. Everyone stomped out the sparks as soon as they flew. And based upon past experience no one was allowed to pee out the fire.

Moose leaned over to me right between bites of beans and dogs to say, “Mom, this makes me riddy riddy happy.”

A Little Of This And A Little Of That

2011-11-20T10:08:00.001-06:00

Moose is mixing ingredients with Daddy to make gluten free brownies.

He longs to taste the slippery sweet batter BEFORE it bakes. And his feelings are abused greatly when dad blocks him from the dangers of raw eggs. Mom laughs in the background because she always sneaks a nibble. And Moose is healed from his confusion with a kiss.

Sister happily sneaks handfuls of Doritos, leftover from her special field trip lunch.
Mom is announcing the ingredients from the chips she loves in comparison to the Doritos.
They are nearly the same? How could they be nearly the same – minus the massive preservatives?
A few unnatural ingredients aside it was only a hollow victory.

Mom chops – first beefsteak tomatoes, next fresh garlic, and picked basil leaves from the plant that daily reminds us our green thumbs were left in Boise. Brushetta is forming while the Doritos disappear. And dad heats a bowl of pork and beans to remind mom of her favorite camping snack. Only by the time it is hot there are only orange cheese crumbs to pour into the camping beans.

It is going to be a strange meal, an after-Saturday shopping kind of meal. The pretzels look good. Let’s dip them in peanut butter, except the organic butter will need to be stirred until tomorrow. The bread is toasting. The brownies are baking. Tomatoes are swimming in balsamic vinegar and mom’s mouth is still savoring the sweet minty flavors of fresh basil leaves.

The white step stool moves back and forth so the little people can better view creation and steal tiny bites. In a few minutes the many tummies will be full and everyone will be portioning off property on the bed for another round of Avatar The Last Airbender. Sister is Kitara, using her Tai Chi hands to move the liquid elements. Big Guy pretends to bend fire while Moose attacks anything that moves with tiny fists and beating feet. Mom leans sideways after a long day and falls asleep forever too soon, before the movie, before the brownies, before nightfall.

Dad finishes off the evening by tucking the little people into their mismatched beds. With a little of this food and a little of that experience they feel fairly satisfied – at least as satisfied as they can possibly be when they aren’t spending the night slumbering with us.