Fire Wife Katie

Losing the children to time, age, and wisdom.

2012-01-16T00:43:00.000-08:00

We were discussing our long-term plans for the house the other day. It was exciting to think of what we could accomplish in ten years from now, what debts would be paid off by then, the family trips we might be able to plan, and how much more financial freedom we would theoretically have at that point. Ten years out always seems like an optimistic, settled, happy time. So much good can happen in a decade.

That's when the realization hit — our oldest, our daughter, will most likely not be enjoying that phase of life with us.

She'll be preparing to head off to college and will leave the house. Then she'll get married, move across the country, and we'll be visiting her at her home one day. Suddenly, the 10 year plan didn't seem so alluring. I felt a bit of panic, actually. I had gone through the pangs of watching children pass through phases before, but this was different. This was essentially erasing her from the picture we had just constructed.

Ever since my first was born I've been worried about the bad things that could happen, as parents tend to do. A lot. I have been focused on shielding her (and her siblings) from illness or injury or general sadness. (By the way, she made a full and quick recovery from her migraine the other day. It was actually pretty short as far as migraines go. Phew!)

Protecting and loving my children is so innate. I wasn't prepared for the depth of emotion, or the power of the anxiety I would experience as a new mother. It took me by surprise. Literally. For the first week or so after my daughter was born, the motherly instinct was so strong that it caused me to hallucinate. I thought that she was standing next to my bed every time she cried in the middle of the night. (Because, you know, it makes total sense to have an infant standing at eye level. Apparently logic isn't so important when it comes to hormone-induced hallucinations.)

The desire to help her and protect her and keep her close to me was so strong that my mind constructed her face standing beside me in the darkness. It scared the crap out of me; I thought someone was in our bedroom. I'd wake my husband up in a frenzy, only to realize in the half-aware delirium of the newborn phase that there wasn't someone there, and that my daughter was just crying for me in her nearby bed. Never underestimate the power of hormones, love, and instinct!!

I have been so focused on protecting her from bodily harm that it never crossed my mind what it will be like to lose her the natural way to the very maturity and responsibility we work so diligently to instill in her. That loss never dawned on me until we realized that she wouldn't be with us to enjoy the 10 year plan.

At some point, I'm going to have to let her go. I will find out about her life through facebook rather than through daily interactions. I'll have to witness the choices that she is going to make for herself — good and bad — and I'll have to watch that from a distance. I won't always be able to make everything better; one way or another, she is going to get hurt.

As she's gotten older I have come to accept that she will grow up, but I never thought about the actual separation that comes along with growing up. I can't imagine life without this little one who takes such great pride when setting the table that she writes everyone's names on their napkins and makes sure the adults get non-plastic cups and plates. She is going to leave a big hole at the dinner table.

It comforts me to know I will always be mom to her and her brothers and I'm thankful for that. It seems natural to me that God would honor these profound relationships that we form, and that we'll still be a family even after we pass on. But at some point during mortality there's going to be some letting go involved.

Is 10 years going to be enough time to prepare for that eventuality?

I hope so. I hope that as she depends less on me, I won't feel such a strong pull to make everything all better. I hope she'll learn coping mechanisms to help her deal with the inevitable problems. I hope for all the cliché's, that she becomes a wise and capable and responsible adult who is strong physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I hope the parting will be gradual and natural. And, in the process, I hope I don't end up being the main topic of discussion at a weekly therapy session.

To parents who have been through this already — you have my respect. I'm starting to understand why the typical remark "you'll always be my little girl" is so... typical!

As optimistic and settled and happy as ten years out seems to be, I'm not ready for it. Not yet. I'll get there.

At least, I'm not ready for the separating part. As for the vacations and the finished attic part of the ten year plan, bring it on. I've never been to Hawaii; this must be remedied!

Her first migraine.

2012-01-13T13:36:00.000-08:00

I should have recognized the symptoms. I should have known the series of events were connected.

Earlier today, my 7 year old hit her head pretty hard. Not hard enough to leave a mark, or to cause her to cry for more than 5 minutes, but hard enough to hurt. I sent her to her room to lay down until she felt better and calmer. I checked on her a few minutes later. While she was in there, she forgot the bonk and picked up the book she was reading, one of the Ramona series.

Half an hour later she came out to play with her brothers. "Hey Mom," she said as an aside, "it was weird when I was reading, the letters started turning white!"

"Huh, that is strange." I replied, figuring she had been staring at the pages for too long in poor lighting. It never crossed my mind that this could be a pre-migraine visual disturbance.

Later, she heard the neighbor friends playing in the court and wanted to join them. I told her she could go. While she was bending down to put her socks on, the pain started. She came to me, hand on her head, complaining that the right side was hurting a lot. I inspected her head to see if there were any sign of the hit to the head, which there wasn't. Not even a red mark.

By the time I put one and one and one together, I knew it was too late. Her headache had progressed to the point that ibuprofen couldn't do much to keep the searing pain away, and she's too little for stronger medicine without consulting a doctor. She needed the ibuprofen at the visual disturbance stage to have any hope of avoiding the misery. I gave her some right away, along with a glass of Mountain Dew for the caffeine, and helped her understand what was going to happen next.

I called my medic to get his opinion too, since the event was preceded by a hit to the head, just to cover my bases. And I'm always hesitant to label something as a migraine when it's the first time. I worry that I'll jump to the headache conclusion prematurely since that's what I know. He agreed that it was "just" a migraine. He himself had never experienced one until several years into our marriage. I took care of him, much in the same way that I'm taking care of my daughter today.

"I want you to go lay down in the guest bedroom, where it's dark and quiet," I told her. She was in tears due to the unfamiliar pain.

"...But how dark is it going to be?" She asked, for some reason developing a sudden fear of the dark.

"Oh, it won't be that bad. It's just that light and noise will make your head hurt worse, and you don't want that, do you."

"No!"

She crawled into bed and I showed her some techniques to help make the pain manageable, like pressure points, tugging on her hair in just the right spot, the benefits of the gentle pressure of a pillow on the top of her head, and massaging her neck and skull muscles. I told her what to expect, from how bad the pain might get to possibly throwing up. She relaxed as the medicine began taking the edge off the pain. "I just want to sleep now," she told me. I left the room, only to be called back 15 minutes later. "Can you pull my hair some more?"

I helped her cope with the headache and we quietly talked. She asked about when I had my first migraine. I told her about how it happened at school, and my mom took me to my grandma's house so that someone could keep an eye on me while I got better. I told her about her dad's first one, too. She commented on how unlucky he was to have such short hair that couldn't be tugged. Then she felt special for being the youngest person in the family to get a migraine. Poor girl!

It's hard seeing her go through this. I know how she feels, and I hate that there's nothing I can do about it.

She's still resting and lamenting that I won't let her watch t.v. while she recovers. Just moments ago the neighbors knocked on the door, which caused her to jump up, which caused her to throw up. "But I feel better now, Mom!" She exclaimed as she brushed her teeth again. She doesn't understand why I won't let her go outside. And now she and her brothers are discussing the finer points of what it's like to throw up.

Sigh. At the very least, if one of the boys gets a migraine, she'll be an eager little nurse with lots and lots of grody details to entertain them with! And if she's feeling well enough to talk about vomit, she must be on the mend. The difficult part now is going to be convincing my 7 year old that she needs to be all the way better before she gets up to play, or else the headache might return. So far, she's not buying it. The desire to play is stronger than the pain. This is one lesson that I hope she doesn't learn the hard way!

How to remove a big, dead tree. (I'm sure there's a life lesson in this somewhere.)

2012-01-11T17:15:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was an exciting day around here. A week or so ago we got word that the HOA was finally taking care of the big dead tree that was dropping big dead branches in our yard. We were informed that the tree cutter-downers (I'm sure that's the technical term) would be at our place sometime between the hours of whenever and whenever on Tuesday.

"Mom," asked my 5 year old son, "are they going to come when I'm at school?" His sad, concerned eyes showed that I had better not say that he was going to miss this event.

"I don't know, honey. We don't really know when they'll show up."

"...But why can't they tell us?"

If he only knew he was asking one of the great, unanswerable questions of life!

"That's just the way it works, we don't get to know when the workers will actually make it." I took him to school, and told him that the odds were in his favor that they would not show up first thing in the morning.

This particular tree has been problematic. It's just outside our property line, so it's not technically ours, but it keeps dropping hefty branches in our yard.

Oh, and it's in the way of the only view of the lake from the house. And it looks kinda creepy. The result is usually this conversation: "Ooh, there's a nice sunset tonight!" Click. "Heh, we need to see if the HOA can take that tree down."

Click.

Click.

Click.

So I was really excited when ownership of the tree was established and the HOA dealt with any legalities and set up it's removal.

Lucky for my Kindergartner, the tree cutter-downers didn't knock on the door until ten minutes before I picked him up from school.

"Mom!" He cried out from the window that he had plastered his nose to by the time I got his little brother out of the car. "There's a man in the tree!!"

I was wondering how they were going to take the thing down. Most of my experience with cutting down trees has been of the small, DIY sort. This was new to me. Sadly, the rest of my concept of how it works came from an episode of Mighty Machines about loggers. Sigh.

Joining my son at the window I saw that there was, indeed, a man in the tree. I had assumed that they would cut the tree down at the base and then chop it up into little bits with a swarm of chain saws. But apparently, that is not how it's done. The actual procedure is much more precise, and produces much less collateral damage. (I had a crazy dream about the workers coming to our house in military vehicles, creating a swath of destruction along the fence line down to the dead tree. It was apocalyptic. Way more collateral damage! And there was a tornado. And my husband was sent home from the station half way through his shift, after being exposed to some sort of environmental toxin. But I digress...)

The daunting task is actually taken care of one branch at a time.

The guy in the tree carefully adjusts his harnesses and ropes and ties off each branch before he saws it off.

The team at the bottom controls the chunks of tree as they fall to the ground, guiding the pieces through the live branches to spare them.

For the most part.

The boys set up their trucks and transformers in the window sill to fully appreciate the event.

Finally, after several hours, the tree was down.

The workers kindly chopped up a huge pile of fire wood for us, and left the larger logs on the other side of the fence should we want to keep those as well.

My daughter missed the fun but carefully assessed the situation when she got home. She approves. So do I. The view from the window is much less Halloween-y, and I no longer have to worry about those branches falling off.

For the record, the boys lost interest less than half way through the tree removal. I guess they were hoping for the military vehicle swath of destruction approach!

Happy Birthday to our marriage!

2012-01-09T14:19:00.000-08:00

Fourteen years ago, give or take, I met a guy.

Then this happened.

That was our engagement photo. How creative people are these days! We just went to a photo place and got 'er done.

Then, thirteen years ago, this happened,

and this,

and this.

I had no idea what was going to happen next. I had no idea at the time how deeply I would love the life and the people we would make together. I only knew that I wanted to spend the next day with him and saw no end to that desire.

There is still no one I'd rather spend the next day with.

I looked through our photo files to find the wedding pictures and had the experience of the last 13 years together flash before my eyes. Literally.

(Well, except for those 5 years before we had children and digital cameras. Just imagine me fat and happy and working in a depressing cubicle and you'll get a good idea. And we ~~lived in a tiny apartment~~... never mind. ;) Oh, and the friends and games, always. Then I lost 35 pounds, which triggered me to finally get pregnant for some reason, which triggered the purchase of our first "nice" camera which triggered the interest in a blog to share pictures and stories with our family, which triggered this blog. Funny how those things happen! I can look back and say that those 45 pounds I gained during the first few years of our marriage are responsible for much of the happiness I have now. Thank you, fat! We'll reassess the nature of our relationship after this baby is born...)

Here's a tiny summary of the life I saw flickering before me in picture form:

Hey. You. The incredible man in these photos that has given me so much to adore. I love you. And I love how I know you're part of my life, like when I go to pick up the Kindergartner and I find that my seat has been pushed all the way back, and the radio and headlights pop on when I turn the key. I'd miss that if you were gone. So stay safe, okay? Okay then. Happy anniversary!

24 Weeks - Viability

2012-01-08T22:36:00.000-08:00

I like this milestone in a pregnancy. It's comforting to know that if the worst should happen and I were to deliver this little man today, there's a chance he could survive. It's not a great chance that he'll be problem-free, but it's possible. Every week from here on out is helping him to get healthier and more prepared to meet the world, and I'm thankful that so far, there have been no signs that he might be a preemie.

The pregnancy is going pretty well, just the standard issues. Ankles are starting to swell, joints are loose and achy by the end of the day causing me to walk like a 90 year old lady, and sometimes things don't settle the way they're supposed to for one reason or another. But it's all manageable, and most of the time I feel pretty good. The baby is doing well, too. This little man's special talent seems to be the ability to have hiccups, 24/7.

I did have a bit of a scare last month. I came down with some sort of flu bug while my husband was at work. I couldn't keep any fluids in me, and by evening, the vomiting was getting violent and I could tell I was too dehydrated. The kids seemed to sense that I was not well and went to sleep without much effort on my part. I crawled back into bed after they were in their rooms and reviewed my options.

I called my husband and let him know that he might be coming home early. At that point I felt like I would be okay on my own until he was off work the next morning. The kids were asleep and all I had to do was take care of myself, and make it through the night. I told him to sit tight, sipped my soda, and convinced myself that it would be fine. After losing it one more time I dozed in and out of sleep.

Later that night I felt really sick again. I made it to the bathroom and felt the world going dark and heavy. I kept saying to myself "not now, not now!" sensing that I was about to black out. The convulsing of my insides somehow kept me coherent, but the throwing up made the scattered, mild contractions that I had been having worse.

They weren't the productive kind of contractions, that start at the top and move down; these were the more benign all-over kind that don't do much other than annoy. They feel like doing a crunch and holding it for 10 seconds. I knew that they were probably due to dehydration. I texted my husband, told him about the contractions, and we decided that we'd wait to see if they got better or worse over time.

For the record, pregnant women shouldn't be allowed to get sick. It's just not fair, and it's really, really not pretty. I say we ban sickness during pregnancy from here on out!

At three in the morning the contractions were still there. If I called my husband, he probably wouldn't make it home until 6:00. Maybe 5:00 if he really sped and didn't wait for his relief to show up. But realistically, he would only be shaving a handful of hours off of his regularly scheduled arrival the next morning. It didn't seem worth it.

All I needed was fluids!! I contemplated calling the local fire department and asking them to just start a line and then go. But I knew that they would be very, very uncomfortable with leaving behind a pregnant woman having contractions that often and not taking her to the hospital to get checked out. And it would probably disturb the neighbors, especially if I took one of them up on their kind offers to watch the family should something happen. If only the stupid contractions would just stop!!

Even though the contractions were not the bad kind, I knew I shouldn't push it much more than I already had. After being sick and the pseudo-crunches, all of the muscles in my abdomen were exhausted and sore. I gave myself half an hour for them to peter out before getting help somehow. I diligently sipped my fluids, trying to be careful to not get myself sick, and waited.

Thankfully, the contractions did start to taper off and I fell asleep the instant that I felt like everything was going to be okay. They were gone completely by the time the kids got me up the next morning.

Later that week, I had a regularly scheduled OB appointment.

"How have you been feeling?" The doctor asked as she quickly found the baby's heartbeat.

"Well, I got really sick the other day. It made me start to have a bunch of contractions, but they were more the Braxton-Hicks kind. I was able to keep some fluids down and they went away."

"Oh, good, are you having any more?"

"No; they're gone," I said as I attempted to sit up after the exam. I could see that she was surprised at how nonchalant I was about it. "I tend to have an over-reactive uterus as it is, but they're not the kind of contractions that are productive. I can usually make them stop, just by changing positions or getting off my feet."

"Well, everything looks great! Sounds like you've been around the block a few times," said my doctor. She made sure I knew what to do if the contractions didn't stop, just in case. "Do you have any questions or concerns?"

"Nope!"

And that was it. I've managed to avoid any unscheduled trips to the emergency room for all of my pregnancies; I'm hoping it stays that way!

Happy New Year! Oh wait, sorry, that post was so 3 days ago...

2012-01-04T14:05:00.000-08:00

It really was a happy new year's weekend. We had house guests, friends of the oldest and dearest sort, and partied like it was 1999. Literally. Both years, my husband and I spent the evening sitting around a table playing games. We're crazy wild like that. Not that we wouldn't go to a more traditionally fun NYE party should one come our way... it's just that we're way too tired to seek those things out and find babysitters to boot. And our friends rock — if we're going to expend energy we don't have, this is how we do it. We would be crazy to pass up a game weekend with such great people!

And yes, we're geeky enough to have two games set up so that when we want a change, we just have to sit on the other side of the table. (Half of you are probably thinking "genius idea!" The other half are searching the rooms for the Lord of the Rings paraphernalia and thinking that we're just one Star Wars poster away from completely teetering off the normal chart.)

Cards, board games, pictionary, Rock Band... we play it all.

The kids insisted on a more traditional interpretation of the holiday. When I couldn't find 2012 goggles at the dollar store, they decided to do what they always do when I fall short of complete holiday compliance — they took matters into their own hands and made masks.

They made one for me, too. They're real forgiving about my incomplete holiday compliance issues.

This little man said he was ready to celebrate the new year because he had his "party pants" on.

Apparently this other little man didn't get the party pants memo.

(Your turn to change the diaper, honey! I can't bend. I have a person in a bubble lodged in my mid-section.)

We watched the ball drop, counted down, and made lots of noise when 12:00 rolled around.

The kids then were promptly shooed off to bed, reminded of just how many hours it was past their bedtime, and the grown-ups got to play some uninterrupted games.

This is where the ingeniousness of the evening really paid off. Unbeknownst to the children, we set all of the clocks in the house three hours ahead. The decision to make it 3 hours was arbitrary, but we later realized that it would allow us to watch the ball drop on the other side of the country and lend credibility to our little ploy.

The kids totally bought it!!

I don't know how they managed not to notice that it mysteriously didn't get dark until after 8:00 that night. Their impatience worked to the plan's benefit. Next year, I think I'll do the clock switching while they're watching a movie in the evening. Movies are good at screwing up the perception of time passing.

As for the real 12:00, we almost missed it. Somehow we managed to remember it with something like 10 seconds to spare.

Happy new year, indeed!!

I would have done well in a card-playing society like the 1800's. I would have kicked some trash playing Whist! (For those of you who have read a Jane Austen novel or two, I looked it up and Whist is an early version of Bridge. It's a trick taking game played in couples. Who knew?)

While we partied like it was 1999, so many things have changed since then. This time around we had three children to con into going to bed at a decent hour. And this time, we played at a house we sort of own. (I don't think I'll feel like I truly own it until we have paid off at least half of it.) In December of 1999, we had just moved into our tiny apartment that would be our home for the next 10 years.

Have I mentioned the tiny apartment? I just want to make sure I mention the tiny apartment, because it was tiny, and we lived in it for a long time. And apparently, living in a tiny apartment near the poverty level for nearly a decade has a lasting effect on one's psyche. And yes, all of those links are to separate posts about the tiny apartment.

My New Year's Resolution — forgive and forget the tiny apartment. And keep partying like it's 1999, hopefully adding some new faces to our game table.

Some cookies, some carols, and a little breaking and entering...

2011-12-25T21:12:00.000-08:00

We had it all figured out. My husband had to work Christmas Eve, so we did all the Santa's helper stuff the night before. It was a long night. As it came to a close, we realized the newly assembled mass of gifts would not fit back into the nook in which they were previously hiding. Panic. After debating the options, we decided to put the pile in the guest bedroom and lock the door. If the children asked, we would say that we were keeping that room kid-free and clean in preparation for the guests that are coming this week. (Yay! Friends!)

Relieved, we finished up and put everything in the guest room. It was then we realized that the lock was one of the few that doesn't have a key to open it. Panic, again. My half-functioning brain remembered that I had successfully picked a similar lock when my daughter accidentally sealed off her room a few months back. I grabbed a mini screwdriver and practiced unlocking it. After a few tries, I had it down. All was good.

The next day, Christmas Eve, everything went smoothly. The children filed into their rooms uncharacteristically early and I patiently waited for them to drop off to sleep. They never did notice that the guest room was locked. Two hours after they went to their rooms, it was time to set everything out. I naively thought that this was the year I would get a decent amount of sleep. It wasn't even 11 yet, and I had only a few presents to wrap. I spent most of the time getting the food and stockings ready.

When it came time to actually set the gifts out I grabbed my thin screwdriver, checked once more to make sure everyone was still asleep upstairs, and proceeded to pick the lock.

At least, I tried to pick the lock. The lock was sticking. I started to get frustrated. I poked and turned harder — nothing. My little screwdriver was bent. I worked on opening that lock for a good 45 minutes, refusing to believe that the presents were inaccessible. My fingers hurt and turned purple, precious time was slipping away, and I knew that I had to go with plan B.

"I'm leaving the window unlocked, just in case." My firefighter informed me as we were closing up the room.

"Oh I'm sure I won't need that," I said emphatically, "I'm certain I can do this." I picked the lock one more time for good measure.

Apparently, my husband has some experience with my bad luck when it comes to locked doors. So, he left the window accessible, just in case. I had no more time to spend on opening that door. The hours on Christmas Eve after the kids go to sleep is too precious to waste. But I could not open the freaking door!!

I sighed and accepted the inevitable. The window and I were about to get really well acquainted. I got my shoes, lamented my predicament to my internet friends, and grabbed the flashlight.

Did I mention that I'm great with child?

Oh, and did I mention that the neighbor, who's windows were just yards away from me, is a cop? The worst-case scenario could have been pretty awesome.

I crept out in the freezing night and pulled the screen off, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to bring any attention to myself. It took about two seconds to realize that the window was way too high to get in without some help. My ballet days are long, long gone, and the awkward belly wasn't helping. This was not going to be a graceful procedure.

I grabbed the nearest tuffet-like piece of furniture and got 'er done.

Stupid presents.

Mission: accomplished.

Dignity: vanquished.

Why do these things always happen when my husband is gone? Why? I furtively put the screen back in the window, threw the evil side-eyes at the gifts, and was thankful no one mistook me for a criminal. I also became acutely aware of how easy it is to break into my house.

The rest of the evening and following morning went smoothly.

The children woke up and did a good job staying upstairs for the hour and a half until Daddy came home. I blocked the stairs with wrapping paper, set up breakfast upstairs, and Santa had their stockings waiting for them to give them something to do.

For the record, three harmonicas are not harmonious. But I had to laugh when they played "guess that tune" and my daughter tried to sound out We Will Rock You.

Dad made it home and the rest was a cozy, happy blur.

And now I'm in a food coma.

Happy Birthday to the Savior!

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night's sleep!

Oh Christmas Card, Oh Christmas Card...

2011-12-23T07:37:00.000-08:00

We decided, last-minute, to attempt a Christmas card this year. It was really last minute. In fact, I am pretty sure half of the cards will arrive after Christmas. (Sorry, friends and family!) Oh, and I dropped my phone and took it in to make good on the warranty. That's when they told me that I would have all of my contacts and bookmarks back with the new phone. Except that they gave me my husband's number accidentally, and when they re-assigned it back to my number and I signed in, it was a blank slate. Contacts gone. Christmas cards are sitting on my counter, un-addressed. (Sorry again, friends and family!) Oh well. At least we tried, right? I promise I'll track you all down next year.

In the meantime, here were some of the contenders for the card...

The youngest was crying in half of these, and laughing maniacally in the other half.

In the end, we decided to go with this one:

Have a wonderful holiday!

When do you tell your children about the true nature of Santa?

2011-12-22T13:23:00.000-08:00

I was seven or eight years old. It was night time. I remember walking down the long hallway paved in what my foggy memory tells me was as an orange or red-toned linoleum. The opening to the kitchen on my right was separated from the hall by a square rough-hewn beam and a white counter, as seen in the back of this picture:

That's me and my little brother Tom.

The hallway ran straight into a large living room. Lights and classical music streamed through even the smallest openings to the space. There was a faint rustling of paper. I wondered what was going on, thought it sounded interesting, and took a peek into the room. I can't remember if I had to open a door or not to get that peek.

What I saw was my parents putting together Christmas. It was the night before the big day. I had my suspicions about Santa, having heard rumors that he didn't exist, but this confirmed it. It was too embarrassing to confront my parents in the moment. I knew they didn't want me to see what they were doing. In fact, I don't know that I ever verbalized what I saw. Wide-eyed in the darkness, I crept back down the hall and tried to sleep through the excitement about the presents waiting for me.

My parents took the approach of neither confirming nor denying the existence of Santa, even when we were teenagers.

My daughter is now seven and she still believes in Santa. The children understand the true meaning of Christmas, but Santa is still in the picture. He is viewed as someone who helps us celebrate the birth of the Savior.

"Hey Mom!" She declared one day as we were driving to get something to eat.

"What honey?"

"I figured out why Christmas is in December. It's because the nights are so long and it gives Santa more time!"

We had recently discussed the reason why the days are so short in the winter. It's been a hot topic around here, the kids are fascinated by it. In fact, just today, my kindergartner told me that he knew what today was — the day that the nights start getting shorter and it's now winter. He was very confused and disappointed when he looked outside and saw that there wasn't a blanket of snow on the ground. I guess he assumed that's what happens when winter starts! He did, however, get to see the fountain freeze a bit:

That's as close to snow as we've gotten so far. There's still plenty of green blooming things around the yard.

We may not get a white Christmas, but at least we'll have fresh gardenia's. I'm okay with that!

Anyway, my daughter is starting to wonder about the mechanics of how Santa could possibly do what he does. But she still fully believes. In fact, she has a loose tooth and thought it would be so cool if the tooth fairy and Santa could meet.

What I wonder is if I should tell her myself that Santa (and other gift-giving mythical beings) are fictional, or if I should let her discover that on her own. Do I let her be that kid who insists to her friends that Santa is real when they question his existence? I'm leaning toward letting her go through the process of finding out for herself if it's true or not.

I think that learning to discern truth from fiction is a valuable life-skill. Going through the process of studying the facts and the stories and comparing them to her own real-life experiences would be beneficial. Learning to be analytical is good.

At least, those are all the reasons I tell myself. But honestly, I'm simply too chicken to break it to her. I don't want to be the one associated with shattering some of the magic of Christmas!

It would be a tragedy if the Tooth Fairy and Santa could never meet.

Fireplace Fix - Before and After

2011-12-18T07:06:00.000-08:00

We're chipping away at the home improvement project pile. I have paint sitting, waiting, begging to be applied to a number of surfaces. The most recent paint fix to get marked off of the list was the fireplace. This particular project was a comparatively small change, since the walls had already been finished. Even thought the square footage was minor, the re-painted fireplace impacted the room dramatically.

When we moved in the fireplace looked like this:

It was painted black with a swirly gold glaze on top from what I can tell. The yellow from the gold, combined with the black background, produced this green tone. My guess is that the previous owners didn't know that black and yellow make green. Which is unfortunate, because the fireplace in the bedroom upstairs has the same issue. Combined with the yellow in the walls, the pink in the tiles, and the orange in the woodwork, the green was a bit much color-wise.

To tie the fireplace into our new color scheme, we decided to play it safe and paint it white.

We're really happy with the results. The whole room feels so much lighter now that the fireplace beams white into the space instead of dark green. I still need to do some touch-ups around the edges; don't look too closely!!

That sculpture there on the right of the hearth was made by my dad. Thanks, dad! The other decorations, including the snowflakes, came mostly from the dollar store. Thanks, dollar store!

(Here's the details on the wreath, if you're feeling crafty.)

This is the part of the post where I would normally give my husband a hard time for splattering white paint outside of the tape lines. I even sent him away so I could finish the project properly. However, I may or may not have created more of a mess than he did. So, I won't lay all of the blame on him... this time...

It's not turning 35 that gets me - it's being 5 years away from 40!

2011-12-16T12:16:00.000-08:00

I'm too young to be five years away from turning 40! How did this happen? I swear, I'm still 29. But somehow, many years (and children) have passed since I was that age.

Birthday flowers from my love. :)

The ironic thing is, I look forward to five years from now. In 5 1/2 years, the children will all be in school. I am excited about the time I will have to myself, to get things done. I could use those hours to be so much more productive than I am now. Maybe my house will be cleaner, and I'll get back into painting. I could take a class or two at the local college. Just for fun. And on the days when my husband is home, we could go to lunch and a movie. We could go on actual dates! Our daughter would be old enough to babysit. We'll have deeper friendships with people in our new community. It should be a great time in our lives. The strange thing is picturing myself as 40 when all of this happens.

I guess I'm starting to feel the fear of time moving too quickly to fully enjoy all the funny little things that happen, like my 2 1/2 year old asking his dad in his broken baby voice to "trans my former" while holding out Megatron.

While there have been months of time standing still, waiting for a baby to learn to sleep through the night or wading through the daily battle with morning sickness, for the most part time has progressed faster than should be possible. I should be 35 in five years from now. Something is terribly wrong with the physics involved with being a parent to young children.

In spite of the feeling that time is getting away from me, I had a wonderful birthday. According to reports, the children took advantage of me going to the store the day before my birthday. "Hurry, she's gone! Let's go!"

They went through their toys and selected items to give to me — things they no longer wanted themselves, of course :) Then they crumpled paper around them and threw them in a small bag and put it under the tree. Apparently, my explanation of why they didn't need to give me physical presents to open on my birthday was not acceptable.

The kids also made birthday cards for me. It cracks me up that they address me as "Katie" on their cards! I love it.

This, according to my kindergartner, is a robot. "But it's a girl robot. And she has a bracelet and a necklace. And some extra necklaces."

As much as I look forward to five years from now, I don't want to miss these little instances of sweetness and awesomeness that accumulate throughout the day. Such as this — my youngest interrupting a musical number at the church's Christmas pajama breakfast by jumping up on stage and dancing. (I was the one hiding under my napkin, laughing, embarrassed, and purple.)

I don't want them to be 5 years older. And if I'm honest with myself, I don't want to be 40 years old! But I guess I have a lot of time to get used to the idea, and plenty of opportunities to enjoy life with these little beings before that day arrives. And when it does come, after getting over the initial shock, I'll sit down in my quiet, clean house, look back on the preceding five years, and be happy.

And maybe the presents my children give will be a little more age-appropriate for me. :)

It's getting festive around here!

2011-12-12T17:24:00.000-08:00

Our family did a first this year — instead of visiting Home Depot, we went out to a farm at Apple Hill to cut a fresh Christmas tree.

Dirt and sticks? Perfection.

In keeping with the blue and green theme from the table bow,

I used our massive collection of blue ornaments on the tree this year.

We inherited a mountain of boxes containing these old globes when my husband's grandma upgraded to a more colorful version.

For years her tree was covered in blue ornaments and draped with mounds of silver tinsel. We would meet for Christmas at her house and cram into her living room that was not quite large enough to accommodate all of us (on these very couches, coincidentally,) and the overwhelming pile of gifts. And dogs.

This tree's for you, Great Grandma B!

My mother-in-law's mom was a fantastic lady. One day toward the end of her life, while the rest of the family was busy talking, she called for me from the bed that had been set up in a room adjoining the living area. I went in and we joked for a few minutes. She paused, then told me point blank that I should only have three children. "Three is a great number," she advised me. "Any more than that is just too much. So stick with three."

I miss her directness and honesty! Sorry, Great Grandma, #4 is on his way, difficult or not. :)

I'm sure she'll understand.

At least, I hope so!

(That's link to my firefighter's favorite picture of her, flipping off the camera, no less.)

But if I have to be haunted by someone for not following her last words of advice to me, I choose Great Grandma B! I'll break out a crossword puzzle and turn on Dancing With the Stars for her and we'll have a grand time.

DIY oversized decorative bows - inexpensive, too.

2011-12-08T16:31:00.000-08:00

This is one of those bang for your buck projects. These gigantic decorative bows cost very little to make, yet have a dramatic impact on a space.

One day while I was supposed to be "napping" I couldn't stop thinking about possible holiday projects. I thought it would be fun to decorate the table as though it were wrapped with a big bow on top; as though Christmas dinner was a present. I knew I would have to make it myself, since the odds of finding such a bow sitting on a shelf somewhere, reasonably priced and in the right colors, were pretty low.

My vision was of a bow made out of some sort of ornate brocade. The problem was figuring out how to construct one out of fabric; google totally failed me. I quickly realized that simply sewing a hem and wiring the material would not provide the rigidity I wanted to achieve. The bow would be at the mercy of wire, which is bendy and unpredictable. In addition to the wire, the material would have to be lined with something... but what?

I went to the fabric store and looked at different meshes and thick fabrics, but nothing worked quite right, or else it was too expensive. I gave up the search, bought my 22 gauge wire ($2.00), and continued on to Target to finish my shopping trip. While there, I noticed these big rolls of heavy brown packaging paper. The paper was thick enough to hold up to the weight of my brocade fabric. I figured it was worth the $5.00 investment for the roll to see if it would work.

When I got home I cut the fabric to size. I decided to do each loop of the bow as a separate piece. I cut the thick brown paper about 3/4 inch shorter on the sides, and left 4 inches or so on the ends (anticipating that I was going to eventually need to bunch the ends together, and the paper would just get in the way.)

I ironed the edges over the paper, pinned it all down, and sewed the paper into place.

Then I cut my wire 3 or 4 inches longer than the fabric on both ends, bent the end of the wire over,

and threaded it through the hem. The extra wire allowed me to connect multiple bow pieces together as needed, or insert them into a foam form.

If I were a truly crafty person, I would have made sure to make my seams nice and straight. But I didn't; I just eyeballed it. And I would have realized sooner than 6 bow loops into the project that I can iron the thick stubborn paper to make it lay flat. And I would have realized that I could have made a template for the cloth size and the paper size out of the packaging paper, which would have made the measuring and cutting go a lot quicker. Oh, and I would have hemmed the ends of the bows, even though they're not seen, to keep the shredding fabric at bay. I'll just pass those little tidbits on to you and hope that someone learns from my non-crafty mistakes!

If you're feeling really festive, you can even line the brown packaging paper with some nice wrapping paper. It makes the loops a little heavier, but it looks fancy.

I made simple runners with the left-over fabric to act as the ribbon wrapping the table. Most of the decorations and greenery came from outside, or from the dollar store.

Here's the table all set up for dinner:

I was walking through Home Goods when I ran across these plates. They were so perfect, I had to grab a pair to use at the ends of the table.

I'm thinking these could be made for outside use too, using thicker wire (copper wire is available at the hardware store by the foot), water resistant fabric, and maybe a wire or plastic mesh to give support and form to the bow. I'll let you know if I try to make a big one to hang off of the balcony. It's on the to-do list. In the meantime, I'm thankful for a dining room that locks; it's nice to have one room in the house that looks nice and stays clean! Happy holidays, all!

Decorating coincidence?

2011-12-04T23:43:00.000-08:00

Tonight I was sitting on the couch, going through my normal evening alone routine. The kids were in bed and I was channel surfing while waiting for my husband to call with the nightly report from the station. I was watching Holmes Inspection when I did a double-take.

What caught my attention was the colors in the kitchen — I know those colors! Intimately! Medium light gray walls, white trim, a very particular shade of brown, and silver pulls. The similarity was so close, I had to take a picture. (Why do pictures of television screens always turn out so terrible?)

Here's a glimpse of my own kitchen for comparison:

What do you think? Pretty similar, no? I don't know if it's just a coincidence and I stumbled upon my design twin, or if these lovely home owners happened across a picture of our kitchen and got inspired. Either way, great looking kitchen, Reza and Liz! I approve! ;)

Looks like baby #4 is a smiley little boy!

2011-12-01T14:11:00.000-08:00

My kindergartner has declared that his name shall be Oscar. Not bad, actually, as far as name suggestions go from my children.

I'll add it to the mix of suggestions to input into my favorite baby name site, nymbler. Only 20 weeks left to figure out what to call this little guy!

Hey. Mister. What's your name? Can you just tell me? That would make this a lot easier. Oh, and for the record, I don't mind that you find it so funny to kick me now, but in 10 weeks or so my ribs and I might take offense. Just lettin' it be known.

The kids' watercolor set that mysteriously keeps on giving. (It's lasted a year!!)

2011-11-29T21:50:00.000-08:00

I have received no compensation for the post I am about to write, other than the amazement at these paints that have lasted A YEAR. Did I mentioned this little set of watercolors has lasted a year? And there's still a good long life in them?

If any of you have children that like to use watercolors, you know how quickly little hands controlling pointy unforgiving plastic brushes can burn through those Crayola or Rose Art sets. Those last maybe a month in our house. The pots of paint absorb the water and the colors turn to goopy liquid in no time flat, which results in the paint ending up everywhere BUT in their color pots by the end of the day.

This larger set by Alex somehow manages to produce a nice sheen of wet paint on top, yet the pigment remains solid underneath. I've run the set under the water and literally rubbed the color pots to clean them off many times. The result of the more solid pigment is that, while it goes on thick, it dries to more of a matte finish than other paints. But the pots keep miraculously producing paint, so I'm willing to overlook that teensy weensy fault.

Did I mention that we got these for Christmas LAST YEAR? Just want to make sure I'm being clear on that point, and mention the fact that we have three children using these. This is what the set looks like now, after a year of use:

Not nearly as pretty as it once was, but still going strong.

The kids love (read: argue over) this set so much, I decided we need at least three so everyone can have their own. I spent twenty minutes on Amazon today, trying to track this item down. That's how worth it these are. I mistakenly searched every entry under "water colors" "watercolor" "watercolors" and "paint" before I China'd it down (you know, assumed that someone from China wrote the description) and found it under "water color". (Yeah, my day's been so exciting!!)

But I found it! If you are planning on giving a present to a child this year, this is a great little option. Oh, and run to Michael's or JoAnn's and get one of these refreshingly natural brush sets too, for just a dollar or so.

These brushes have nice soft natural hair tips instead of that terrible black plastic bristle business that paint sets usually come with. These brushes are super cheap, and worth it.

By the way, I was at JoAnn's the other day and noticed that they carry these exact same brushes — the only difference being the package — for more than the same product they're selling three aisles down. The difference is, the more expensive set is in grown-up section. You know what they say, location, location, location!

Nice try, JoAnn's.

Migraine + Thanksgiving = something's gotta give...

2011-11-24T21:18:00.000-08:00

(This Thanksgiving recap brought to you by the random song that has been stuck in my head all day, and shall now be transferred to your mind - The Rainbow Connection as sung by Kermit the Frog. It's been an odd day.)

*cue banjo strumming*

Why are there so many
Songs about rainbows,
And what's on the other side...

I conquered the food.

I conquered the headache.

I did not, however, conquer the ambiance.

Hey, at least I managed to make sure non-plastic plates made it to the table! That was the limit of my capabilities for the day, though.

No fancy dishes or fancy presentation.

And apparently, clothing was optional. And questionable.

Sigh. Love those kids!

I hope you all had a great day. Mine has gotten better and better as the day has gone along. And now, the headache is finally gone, the kids are asleep, and it's time to relax, snack, and watch a movie with the man I love. Life is good. Happy Thanksgiving!

The lovers,
The dreamers,
And me...

Trimming the tree. Literally.

2011-11-23T16:14:00.000-08:00

The neighbors probably never noticed the difference. It's one of those things that has more meaning for me than for anyone else. This particular problem has been nagging at me since the very first moment we saw our new house. It was not love at first sight.

I remember that particular house hunting trip last winter. We had carefully narrowed down houses online and mapped out the ones we wanted to drive past. We loaded the kids up and took the hour-plus drive up to the neighborhood to see some of the ones that made the cut. The daylight did not last long enough to get through the whole list, but we wanted to drive past the homes we had mapped out anyway. It was exciting to see the houses that had come down in price to be within our reach. These homes were so much more than we ever expected to be able to purchase as first-time home buyers!

All evening light had faded by the time we made it to the right street. I hunched toward the window and squinted in an attempt to make out the names on street signs that are always too small and always require a u-turn at some point. The house was situated at the end of a cul-de-sac and we drove straight at it. The car came to a stop in front, headlights washing out most of the color and flattening the image of the house. All the windows and porch lights were dark; I assumed no one lived there. It looked something like this:

All I could see was this tree that was way too close to the house, casting sharp shadows on the wall it was smashed against. A visitor would have to walk between the tree and the house to get to the front door. The yard was shallow, and it looked like the house was squeezed in at an uncomfortably close angle between the neighboring houses.

"This is it?!?" I stated, comparing it to the inviting entries of some of the other homes we had seen. "Yeah — I don't think so. Talk about lack of curb appeal! And that tree is horrible!" I mentally checked the house off the list and we moved on. (Keep in mind that I was comparing it to the other houses we had seen. This was a beautiful house, just not in the same front-entrance-appeal category as its similarly priced equivalents.)

The house ended up staying on the list after all, simply because of a price drop and the square footage. That, and I think my husband didn't have the same hate at first sight reaction I did. We eventually got serious and found a realtor so we could check out the insides of the houses. However, we didn't make it to this one until after we had seen probably 15 to 20 other homes. That first impression was still tainting my opinion and I was in no hurry to see it.

When we finally did see the home again, in daylight, inside and out, my prejudice against the house vanished. So much so, that we made an offer before leaving that day — February 14th. What I had missed from my quick, poor lighting perusal of the house was that it was huge, way under priced, and well laid out. And sure, the front yard was nothing special, but the property was shaped like a slice of pie and it opened up to a great private back yard that backed directly to miles and miles of open space surrounding a large lake. I became grateful for the awkward tree and the lack of curb appeal that possibly contributed to the house being on the market for so long.

We've been here for about seven months now. I've resented those low branches crowding the narrow front walkway that squeezes under it for seven months. Finally, the tree made it to the top of the to-do list and my husband attacked it with a chain saw.

Here's some before and after's:

(It's hard to tell how weighty and oppressive that tree was, without its leaves. It was growing right up against the house and along the roof. I worried about what it would do to the roof tiles.)

So much better! I still don't love the tree being so close to the house, but at least it's not growing into it anymore. And most importantly, I smile when I walk under it instead of cringing. It's ridiculous how happy that trimmed tree makes me!

The poor thing was strangled by Christmas lights that had never been removed. The wires have grown into the tree and we're going to have to climb up and meticulously clip them out soon.

Now, about the front door. Thank you for your input!! We've finally come up with a color (or a non-color, rather). The door will be black. Or dark gray. At least, as long as the house is yellowish.

We'll paint a light color inside the alcove to cover up the brown. But one day, the whole exterior will be painted white to attempt a more Mediterranean feel rather than a Spanish feel. At that point, I'd love to do maybe a dark blue door with some large turquoise or citrus-toned planters out front. Something to make it a little lighter and brighter.

A belly shot and an update on the Kindergartner

2011-11-20T22:17:00.000-08:00

Wow, I can tell I was under the weather for the first trimester — I have no pictures documenting this pregnancy other than ultrasounds and this one taken a few days ago at 17 1/2 weeks.

The bad news is that at least half of my belly is part of the 20 pounds I've gained already. On the bright side, when people see the fat and ask if I'm pregnant, I can say yes! I just leave out the part where the baby only makes up about 7 ounces of that twenty pounds.

The good news is eating is finally an enjoyable thing again. Food still tastes different, but that doesn't keep me from testing all of the good things I haven't been able to appreciate for so long. I don't really care how much it's affecting my weight. Not now, anyway. I'll tackle that beast after the baby is born. Oh, and the other good news is that I'm starting to feel those gentle bonks and sweeping motions of the baby moving. There's definitely someone in there!

Since I feel better I'm trying to transition into a more active lifestyle. Gone are the days of spending most of my time sprawled out on the couch. I still have to take an hour or two of down time every day, but it's getting better. We even got around to putting in our little experimental winter garden.

They did the hard work; I just mixed in the new soil and put the ground cover and stuck the plants in.

(Keep in mind that we really have no idea what we're doing; we just put some seeds in the ground to see if they would survive.) It took about 2.5 seconds for the slugs to devour the squash plants. Lesson #1 learned.

In other news, my children have made great progress over the course of the first two months of school.

We had parent teacher conferences this last week. I admit, I was pretty dang anxious about meeting with my Kindergartner's teacher. I couldn't help but re-play some of the negative things she said to me over the course of the first few weeks of school.

"Our class is so large, I can't slow down just to wait for him to catch up. I'm worried that he's going to get left behind."

"I don't think ANY child who isn't already 5 should be in Kindergarten."

"It will be detrimental for him the rest of his school career to be younger than his peers."

"He keeps coming up to me when he has a problem!"

"He's going to need help at home. And I am worried that you won't be able to help him, since you have a younger child to take care of." (?!?)

As you can imagine, I was worried not only about what she might say — but also about what I might say in return. (She wants to question my ability to help him at home, because I have a younger child? Really?? Geez, the way I look at it, my student to teacher ratio is WAY better than her class!) I was very grateful that we had family around to watch the children so I could bring my spouse along to help me refrain from saying something I would regret. Plus, his teacher, for some reason, has never said anything negative to my husband about our son. I guess she saves it all for me. I was hoping his presence might help keep her at bay.

It was a very awkward meeting. I was surprised, however, that she had nothing negative to say. In fact, it turns out that my little guy is right where he's supposed to be for his grade level — or better. And he interacts well with the other children.

He only received one "needs improvement" mark, for handwriting. But his teacher prefaced it with her amazement at how far he's come, how quickly he's catching up, and stating that she's not worried about him meeting the standard by the end of the year.

My Kindergartner really has come such a long way during the last year. He has worked so hard on his fine motor skills and his speech problems.

After having his language deemed "normal' by the speech pathologist at the school, and now this trimester's positive report card, my load of worry has lifted. I, personally, felt like my son was ready for Kindergarten. Not everyone did, however, and it was hard to listen to my gut when his teacher was telling me so loudly (before she even knew him or his capabilities) to hold him back a year. I wanted his teacher to get to the point where she, too, felt okay about him being in her class. I think she is finally coming around. (And for the record, I ended up having to do very little from home; all I did was sit next to him and encourage him while he did his homework, and let him develop those fine motor skills at a pace he was comfortable with. Luckily, it's a pace his teacher is comfortable with, too!!) Hopefully the days of her calling me up to tell me all the reasons why he shouldn't be in her class are over. Hopefully she's happy to have him there instead of trying to push him out.

My daughter's conference was last week as well. She deserves some recognition for her hard work, too. "I never, ever give outstanding marks in the first trimester," her teacher said. "But look at this. Your daughter is just... perfect!"

Maybe perfect is a bit much — she certainly has her moments of non-perfectness — but she is a sweet, awesome seven year old that adores everything to do with school. In fact, she loves it so much, she asks to help her little brother do his homework in the evenings. I tell her that his assignment for the night is to practice drawing people. She collects a stack of computer paper and pencils and they draw silly people and robots at his desk until I break up the fun and send them to bed. Her brother responds so well to having his older sister help him; he sees it as play time. It's beneficial for both of them.

Thinking about it, she has had way more to do with his fine motor skill development than I have! Thanks, kiddo!

The lost pictures of summer, and the link between death and beauty.

2011-11-11T14:37:00.000-08:00

Thank you, by the way, to all of those who have served and continue to serve our country. It's humbling to know that so many people care so deeply about protecting us. Thank you.

-------------------------------------------------

Years ago in one of my art classes in college we discussed the relationship between death and beauty. The theory, as far as my terribly faulty memory remembers it, is that we tend to value things more that we can't hold on to; things that are fleeting, that are poignant, and end in death or dissipation. Take a rose, for example.

A real flower is of more significance than it's synthetic counterpart, even though both could be equally scented and beautiful. The difference being that the actual rose will wilt, curl up, turn brown, and die in a week. Something about the ephemeral nature of the flower draws us to it and gives it more significance.

The same can be said for the momentary beauty of a sunset. We experience it but for a moment, and part of the allure is that it will go away and turn into darkness. To have witnessed the brilliance before it dissapears is compelling. The theory applies to many moments that are too short, tragic, and brilliant — like Romeo and Juliet. Or pretty much any death-centric drama (which is a genre I can't watch, by the way. I'm not fond of feeling sad.)

These firework pictures remind me of that discussion we had in class so long ago. We meet together for one night and wait for a brilliant few moments that explode violently and then die off into trails of smoke and ash. This particular show verges on the dangerous; embers frequently fall on the expectant crowd that is allowed to sit perhaps a little too close. Fireworks are amazing to witness first-hand. My JPEG reproduction will never fully capture the beauty of those brief moments, moments that can't truly be re-created.

These pictures were taken while we were visiting my side of the family over the summer. We were waiting for our new DSLR to arrive, and in the meantime, we used our old camera.

When we got home from the display, I transferred the images onto the laptop — just to see what they looked like, knowing that I would put them on the main computer and post them when we got home from vacation. As I was flipping through the pictures I received some bad news. The photos immediately became lost in the flood of emotions that I felt that night. They were forgotten as my thoughts turned acutely and painfully toward another topic.

Months later when I picked up the old camera to take a few pictures I saw that some images were still there, waiting to be transferred to the computer. I had forgotten what was depicted. It was surreal to remember this night and these images. As I looked through them, they triggered the emotions of the bad news I got that night. For this strange reason, these pictures have a greater significance — a greater beauty to me.

It's like when an old song comes on the radio that you distinctly associate with a poignant event in life. Those songs become so hauntingly compelling.

It's hard for me not to be pulled down by the weight of emotions. That's why I can't watch sad movies — I internalize the feelings too much. I need something bright and constant and silly and unchanging to balance out the heaviness of melancholy thoughts.

This is why I love Scrubs so.

:)

Once upon a time, I was an expert witness in a deposition.

2011-11-07T07:25:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, not so long ago, I worked at a law firm. My official position in the firm was as an assistant auditor of legal billing. Part of the firm was involved in a sort of auditing side-business. When a client received an astronomical bill from their law firm (other firms, not ours!) they would bring said bill to us, and after much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth over the extent of the charges thereof, we would review the bill and recommend that it be reduced based on our findings.

Our department would pour over every entry, every cost, every .20 and .10 hour increment claimed by said lawyers and gather any questionable entries. Then we would input all of those hours and charges into our handy dandy database, do some fancy reconfiguring of the erroneous charges, and spit out a report detailing all of the areas in the bill that were excessive or downright silly. I was a spitter outer of reports. I did the entering of the hours and charges into the computer, I maintained the integrity of the database, and I put it all together in a report complete with colored tabs and pie charts.

That's it.

Notice that, at no point in that process, do I perform any sort of accounting work.

Database work — yes; typing — lots of it; fancying up of reports — I'm your girl; but no accounting beyond simple math. I'm an art major, for goodness' sake. I haven't taken a math course since 10th grade!

So, after a few years of doing said work, one of the lawyers in the firm asked me if I would help him out with a case. He asked if I could look over some numbers and see if they add up, then put together a report of my findings.

"Sure," I said, assuming that all I would be doing is basic addition and a spread sheet. "But you might want to ask someone in the accounting department to do this for you."

"Oh, no, you come highly recommended," he said with a smile. "I'm confident you can do this, it's really not that complicated. Plus I need someone who can possibly discuss the findings at the deposition."

I was flattered into agreeing. Stupid pride!!

It seemed intriguing to be involved in an actual case; something fun and different to do instead of the mundane database stuff. How hard could it be, right?

The next day I found a small stack of papers sitting on my desk. I looked through them, typed the numbers into the computer, and made a nice little chart adding them up. "This is easy," I thought to myself. I called the lawyer up and told him my findings.

"Okay. Now I need you to do some projections, based on these charges accruing interest annually."

The joy and the color in my face was gone. "But I'm not an accountant; I'm not even sure how to calculate interest."

"Well, do the best you can, and let me know what you find out. You're smart, you'll figure it out. Thanks!!"

In a panic, I called the accounting department. They were no help, since their main function was to input payroll information into the computer and hit print. I then did what all of us do when faced with a seemingly insurmountable problem — I did a google search on interest. I poured through the web pages and tried to wrap my brain around everything I would need to know.

After several hours of wide-eyed panic, I finally figured it all out — at least, I hoped I did — and put together my report. I asked everyone I could think of to look at it, but it turns out no one in the firm felt comfortable enough to do a thorough review of my work to see if it was correct.

My heart sank. I turned in my questionable report and had a moment of self-doubt with the lawyer. I tried to convince him that it was in his best interest to find someone with more expertise. For some reason, he was blissfully ignorant of how ignorant I was. I was shocked at his lack of concern over my inadequacy for the task.

Then came the painful part of trying to figure out what conclusion I was supposed to draw from the report. I got as much information about the case as I could, told him what I thought, and somehow stumbled on the conclusion he was looking for. He smiled, and said I did a great job. I felt like simultaneously bursting out laughing and bursting into tears.

Oh, and did I mention I was going on maternity leave soon, I was huge with my first child, and hormonal? It was awesome.

I went away from the meeting with the lawyer having, really, no clue what had just happened. But apparently I had reported on the right conclusions. I was in no way comfortable talking about it, however. The terminology I had used that I found in my google search was still new to me, and I kept getting terms mixed up. I can't even recall now what it was I did, just some random basic accounting stuff that I only muddled through because of fear of failure.

Then there was the problem of the deposition.

Have you ever been grilled by opposing counsel as an "expert" witness? It would be one thing to enter this situation, knowing what to expect, and feeling secure with my skills. This wasn't that situation.

Anxious doesn't even begin to cover it.

I had to arrive at a huge building in downtown Los Angeles and find my way to some random office in the building. It's nothing short of a miracle that I didn't get lost, or get into an accident in my stress-induced tunnel vision state of being. I was that woman hunched over the steering wheel, mouth agape, gripping the wheel as best I could with so much sweat pouring out of my palms.

Did I mention the hugely hormonal and pregnant part? And the part where I walk around like I'm 89 because my joints are painfully mushy from the hormones?

I finally found the office, accepted a drink of water, and opened the door to the conference room — which, I found out rather instantly, I wasn't supposed to do. Everyone surrounding the large table stopped speaking, turned, and stared. "We'll call you in when we're ready for you," a random voice said.

So much for appearing professional. I meekly sat down in a chair and felt my tunnel vision getting worse. Somehow I managed not to burst into tears. Finally, the lawyer from the firm called me in.

I awkwardly swung my massive belly around and between the chairs and plunked down on my seat. The deposition began, and the lawyer for the other side questioned my legitimacy as an expert witness. She brought up that I had majored in art, and noted that I have no accounting background. I wanted to scream "She's right!! I warned you!!" Thank goodness she didn't ask me how I learned about calculating interest. "Well, I did a google search, ma'am. I haven't taken an actual math class since I was 14 years old."

I pulled myself together and after I described what my job had been, and the math used to come to the conclusions I came to (which really wasn't that complicated — just something I wasn't used to) my testimony was allowed.

At this point we took a break, and the lawyer for the other side started gushing about babies and pregnancy and gave me advice on sleep training. It was surreal, and at the time, it felt absurd. The whole day felt like one of those dreams where you're late for the first day of school, you're trying to figure out where your next class is, but the schedule in your hands is made out of jell-o and is fading fast, and you're wearing a ballet outfit.

I don't really remember what happened next, except that I got some of the numbers mixed up and accidentally said the opposite of what I meant to say. Everyone was confused; me most of all. But after some backtracking, I somehow managed to string logical sentences together and correct myself. It was horrible, horrible, horrible having to be an "expert" about something that I had just learned the other day. Horrible. And awful. And everyone there could see just how excruciating the deposition had been for me; my face tends to get scary red in situations like this. I have no doubt that at least one person feared I was going to go into labor and had already formed a plan to call 911.

I wielded my achy, huge, embarrassed self out of that chair as soon as possible and humbly rested my head on the steering wheel in the sanctity of my car. That's when the tears came. Why had I allowed myself to do something so far outside of my true expertise? I thought this was going to be fun and interesting?!?

Days later, I found myself trapped in the elevator with the lawyer who had gotten me into the mess in the first place. I wanted to stop at the next floor and run. It was very Ally McBeal. I knew he regretted ever approaching me to do this project in the first place. How could he not, after such an unprofessional performance? So it was a surprise when he said "thank you so much for your work, you did a great job! We won!"

I laughed and asked him if he was serious. I assumed he was just trying to make me feel better. "No; in fact, I'm wondering if you can help me out on a couple of other projects." Apparently I had miraculously stumbled through the thing successfully. It was random luck.

I kindly told him that I was having a baby soon, and didn't want to start on any projects that I couldn't complete. Then I went and hid in the bathroom and cried again. Apparently I cry a lot when pregnant. And sweat profusely.

That lawyer actually called me up after I had quit, and asked if I would reconsider helping him on some cases as a part-time gig. I declined, the pain being too recent. He didn't understand how much my success depended on good ol' dumb luck. I think it came down to the bottom line; I was much cheaper than hiring an actual accountant to serve as an expert. But legal auditing and accounting are really not the same thing!

Instead, I decided to stay home with this sweet little being.

It was an easy choice.

Sure, I wasn't an expert at this mothering thing either, but at least she wouldn't ask me to calculate interest and appear at a deposition. At least, not for a long, long time.

My apologies to teachers everywhere.

2011-11-01T14:08:00.000-07:00

I am sorry. I don't know why the day after Halloween isn't declared a federal holiday — or, maybe more accurately, a federal disaster.

How you teachers are managing our sugar/nougat/chocolate/red dye #40 spiked kids today is beyond me. I can barely manage the one I have left at home. He's been in time out three times already today.

If my phone is going to ring with the school listed on the caller ID, it will be today. Don't you dread that call?

Speaking of dreaded phone calls, I got the news yesterday morning that my husband was mandatoried and would not be coming home from work after all.

I hate that phone call. And this time it was even more brutal than normal.

All of our Halloween plans would have to be re-worked. Not only that, but I had been battling a migraine since two that morning. A bad one. And the thought of forcing myself to corral the kids to school in time with their costumes and then the parties and parades and pumpkin carving and trick or treating and general over-stimulation made me want to curl up in a ball and curse the unavailability of decent migraine medications for pregnant women.

Sigh.

Oh, and I had put off going to the store since I "knew" my husband would be home in the morning. There was no putting it off any further; there was only one diaper left and no Halloween candy. A store trip had to be worked into the already hectic morning.

The kids were so disappointed to hear dad wouldn't be home for Halloween after all. Tears were shed. Admittedly, they were mine. My youngest was so sweet, he asked me if I had an owie. I pointed to the right side of my head and he kissed it better. *Insert melty puddle of goo that was this mother's heart*

Thankfully the kids made it to school on time, the migraine finally gave up, and by noon I was able to tackle the store and the costume parade with a two year old in tow without losing him in the crowd. Which is no small feat, by the way.

We even managed to get the candy set up outside and go trick or treating for a good hour. AND, the kids went to bed without too much fuss. I am so thankful that everything turned out okay!

My youngest went in is older brother's best firefighter costume ever from last year. My daughter went in what can only be described as the best princess costume ever.

Velvet robe lined with silky material and trimmed with fur, detailed long sleeved velvet dress, hoop skirt, and accessories (crown and wand).

The price is what really puts it over the top. I found it at Marshall's for a steal at $35.00. Seriously the most impressive princess costume I've ever seen at that price.

My kindergartner went in what they had left in his size at Target. He happened to fall in love with the dinosaur, so it all worked out.

Before I sent them up to bed, I found the kids doing this in the living room. This is what I imagine is going on in classrooms all across the nation right now:

Again, teachers, I am so sorry!! I'll make it up to you during teacher appreciation week, I promise.

Oh, in other news, I figured out that a good portion of my remaining morning sickness is due to a sudden onset of lactose intolerance. I've cut milk out of my diet and I haven't had to take my anti-nausea medication for 4 days now! Anyone else have pregnancy-induced lactose intolerance? I don't know why it would suddenly appear, but here it is.

Now if I could just manage to remember the fact sooner than 10 minutes into my chocolate shake.

In closing, let it be known that when contemplating the great question "what to wear for Halloween", I flirted with the idea of wearing shorts. But I thought of the children and decided these legs would be way too scary, even for this holiday.

You're welcome.

This is what I suggested my firefighter wear. He declined. Maybe next year. :)

Addressing my identity as a fire wife...

2011-10-19T13:51:00.000-07:00

Most of the people who read my blog, probably all of my regulars, already understand without me typing a word. I know that there are a lot of people who get it, whether they're involved with this life or not. To help those of you who don't understand why I would choose to call myself "fire wife" Katie, this is for you. :)

Every once in a while I come in contact with someone who can't help but give me an eye roll when reading the title of my blog. Several people have expressed concern that I am stifling my own identity, choosing instead something that in their opinion has little to do with me — my husband's job. From the outside, I can understand this. These people who approach me are well-meaning, hoping to help me strengthen my sense of self. I appreciate the concern. However, I feel like it's a little misplaced. Here's a little explanation of my perspective about how this job has affected my life, and why I identify with it.

First off, I've been married to my husband for just shy of 13 years. For the majority of that time, he and I held various typical day jobs. I never felt connected to any of the places he worked at. They were just jobs, completely compartmentalized away from my life. Those jobs rarely interfered with my daily routines. His employment was an afterthought as far as the effect it had on me. I had plenty of years to secure my own identity in our marriage. And I did. I still do have my own identity.

So what's so different about this job, that I'd reference it in the name of my blog?

1 - This job is abnormally needy. My husband has a responsibility to put his job in front of our family's needs many times. I accepted that when he decided he wanted to become a firefighter, and for the most part, I'm fine with the intrusion. But it does impact my life. Because of the attention the citizens in his area claim, the job inserts itself into our marriage in ways that other employment never did. I feel like the responsibility associated with his job is like a third spouse — Duty. This agreement to serve takes him away for days at a time and expects him to drop everything when asked. I would guess that most couples with a spouse in a civil servant job can relate to the ever-present duty to serve.

2 - My life is greatly affected by his work cycle. He'll work two or three or more days in a row and I'm on my own during that time. I am prepared at any moment to be alone and in charge of the family indefinitely. The longest I've ever had to do it was a month, and really, that's not so bad compared to many civil service jobs or jobs with lots of travel. Sometimes the days slip by without a hitch. Other cycles are bad — I'll be sick, or have a migraine, or one of the children will be having a hard time, and I just try to hold on to sanity and order for as long as possible. By the end of shifts like that I'm utterly drained. I'd use the single mom analogy, and I've used it lightly before, but I know it's not the same. At the end of my dark tunnel of a long week there's someone who will come home, give me a hug, and let me take a break. And I do the same for him. If anything, this job has opened my eyes to the amazing skills that single parents master, to hold it all together so well. Kudos to you; I admire your strength!

Honestly, the worst part of him being on duty isn't that he's gone for days at a time. The hardest times happen when I go to bed at night, knowing he will be home in the morning. My mood relaxes in anticipation of the relief that's on it's way, for both of us, in just a few short hours. I wake up happy and plan for the day. But then that morning, as I'm getting excited about seeing my spouse again and all that I'll be able to accomplish with someone to help out, I'll get a text saying he isn't coming home; that he has been held over. I can hear the disappointment in his words. It's the jarring change in gears, mentally preparing myself for another day of going it alone and abandoning my plans that is the hardest for me.

It's not all bad, by far. Usually, the shift schedule is a blessing. I plan around his days off, trying to schedule appointments and shopping trips when I know he'll be there. Or, at least, assume there's a good chance he'll be there. ;) It's awesome to have him around on weekdays to help get the kids to appointments with ease! And it's great that he gets to be there to witness the Halloween parade at school, attend conferences, and pick up the children after class. The cyclical nature of the job has definite benefits.

My point is, I am personally affected, as are the kids, by the drastic ups and downs and unpredictability of the work cycle. He's always coming or going, many days are spent in transition, and it's a little (okay, a lot) chaotic at times. This third person in our marriage is an un-medicated manic-depressive!

3 - There are many people out there who label their blogs with an identity about something that they personally find interesting. There are mommy bloggers, craft and DIY bloggers, political bloggers... it doesn't seem odd to me that we would all write about something that we find compelling. The stories and interactions associated with this job are fascinating to me, and I like to share that which I find interesting and the aspects which I personally experience.

The fire department will always be a recurring theme in my life, as long as the work remains demanding, maniacally cyclical, and interesting. It's funny — we were out to eat a while back and the couple in the booth across from us asked my husband what department he worked for. My husband was taken aback; he wasn't wearing anything fire-related. How did this guy know? "How did you know?" He asked. It was my son's impressive collection of fire trucks lining the edge of the table that tipped this fellow firefighter off. That, and my husband's haircut, the tanned skin, and his general demeanor. Someone in the service is apparently easy to spot if you know what you're looking for.

The two firefighters exchanged a few words about their departments, smiled, and returned to their respective dinners.

This couple sitting across the aisle from us understood. The way each of our families have experienced life with the fire department is probably vastly different, but there is still an unspoken bond in knowing that "hey, that family gets it; they understand." Firefighting is so often a family affair.

What October looks like in California, and what color should I paint the door?

2011-10-17T09:48:00.000-07:00

The light is stretched long and thin. Evening comes on quickly. A few trees turn red in stark contrast to their lush neighbors. The air starts moving outside, stirring up the scent in the darkness of fireplaces being used for the first time in months. But the best part of all is that my air conditioner gets a much needed break. I can trap enough cool air in the house overnight to make it through the day in comfort.

We took a trip to the botanical gardens in our area. It was so nice to get outside again, since I've cocooned myself on the couch for the last few months. I'm feeling better and better each day and am eager to interact with the world again. The gardens seemed like a good place to start. Here are some of our pictures:

I didn't tell them to hold hands; they just did that. :)

I had to share the face plant. :) It didn't slow her down at all; she just got up and started chasing dad again.

Now that I'm finally waking up, I'm hoping to get some fall decorations up. Maybe I'll even paint over the current dark peach color that graces the front door. It's old and chipping. But the problem is, the house's trim is in the same dark peach, and I can't change that right now, so I'll have to do a color that coordinates with it. Anyone have any great ideas? Here's a picture:

I'm thinking the 5th birthday is the best of all birthdays.

2011-10-10T17:35:00.000-07:00

Children turning 5 have it all. Simple birthdays are enchanting, every toy is awesome, kids are nice in general, school is fun, Mom and Dad provide food and drink when needed, yet a 5 year old is mature enough to do things independently and begin to feel the joy of being in control and mastering skills. The possibilities of the world all seem to be attainable. You wanna be an astronaut who wears a pink tutu when you grow up? Sure, no problem! A five year old can gaze with wonder at the future from the security and comfort of a world where everyone smiles. Life is all about feeling loved and having fun.

We celebrated my Kindergartner's 5th birthday this weekend. I was worried that he would feel slighted, since I really couldn't do much this year due to the morning sickness. There were no party favors, fancy decorations, finger foods, or games. Instead of having a friend party, he chose to have just a family party and go miniature golfing. Thank goodness!! That made preparing for his birthday much more manageable for me.

(Playing miniature golf with young children is dangerous!)

Cheater!

The birthday boy did manage to make one legitimate hole in one:

Even though there weren't tons of kids and a big event, he still thought it was the best day ever. I always worry for nothing. His class celebrated his birthday at school, we went golfing, and at home there were balloons, a cake, and presents to open. That's all he cared about. I bought flowers and some fall decorations, but those were more for me. He totally didn't care. He didn't even mind that we celebrated his birthday a day late since his dad had to work. It didn't take much to make him feel like the king of the day.

My over-zealous little present delivery guy:

"You wan cookie?"

Going all out for a birthday party is fun for me, and for the children. It's exciting!

But I've come to realize that it isn't necessary. At least, not for this 5 year old.