Are We There Yet?

Where everybody knows your name.

2013-05-16T18:04:00.001-05:00

Sometime in February, I got a little over-zealous about losing weight. And by that, I mean that I bought a lot of Groupons with the intention of working out. And then Spring Break rolled around, with it's road trip and it's fast food --and then I remembered it was a lot more fun to drink chardonnay than to be skinny, I think, because I haven't been skinny in a while but I don't remember it involving pina coladas. Or the crazy sh#! you do after you drink a bunch of pina coladas.

Then one day, probably out of the guilt of eating an entire bag of Cadbury mini eggs, I realized that one of my (yet unused) Groupons was about to expire--and if there is anything that I hate more than the self-loathing that comes from binge eating, it's losing money, like the $20 I spent on a boxing gym Groupon, to be exact.

That's right, I said BOXING GYM. Because I like to make it blog worthy, friends.

To be honest, I had already attended a free class at this gym, so I knew what I was in-store for. As I remember, that workout left me unable to move my arms for days, and then, when carrying a fairly light, but awkwardly-shaped load, I managed to tear one of my biceps right off my arm bone. That's my very dramatic way of telling you that I strained something.

But freaking A, that was the best workout of my LIFE. And if I'm gonna work out, I'm gonna make it worth it--so that I can hit my goal weight and go back to eating potato chips as quickly as possible.

Except that there is kind of an intimidation factor. You know, of feeling like you don't belong somewhere. I mean, I can fake it at my kid's elementary school, but we're talking about a BOXING GYM. And in the first of several mistakes that hinted at my true identity (translation: NOT a boxer), I had to choose a color for my hand wraps. And I chose...pink. Because nothing says I will round-house kick the sh#! out of you, like PINK hand wraps.

PINK hand wraps????? That's like being on a date in college and telling a boy that my favorite band was Bon Jovi. CLEARLY, it was Dave Matthews, because who didn't worship Dave Matthews at a small college in the Midwest in the late 90's???? The girl who laid all her cards on the table with those pink hand wraps. I might as well have worn Lily Pulitzer boxing gloves or tattooed my monogram on my bicep, because my street cred was officially non-existent, beginning with the very first question they asked me, my preference in hand wrap colors.

Well, my cage-fighter cover was blown, and so my strategy for gaining acceptance was to pant like a dog and moan loudly while trying to do push ups. Just like my poor timing with craft projects, or my inability to use a calendar--dripping with sweat and muttering profanities is also part of my *charm*, it would seem. I suppose that God is using my $60/month commitment to show me that I'm not always supposed to blend into my surroundings so seamlessly, because I could honestly care less about looking cool, if this is going to get me a six-pack.

Just kidding. But if this isn't about a six-pack, then I'm not really sure what the end goal is here. Except that I do feel like God is blessing me with a plethora of opportunities to stop caring what I look like or what people think of me--or what I shall affectionately refer to as "checking myself before I wreck myself."

As it turns out, that $20 Groupon was a great incentive to box four times a week; just like the Cici's pizza buffet is a great way for me to down three, large-sized pizzas. I like being able to drive the cost of something down, based on obsessively over-using it, I guess--it makes me feel like the God of Capitalism. And then this funny thing happened, where I could tie my own pink hand wraps, and do 10 burpees without vomiting and function as a human being the day after a workout. And that sort of made me feel like I belonged, even though I haven't killed anyone in a last-man-standing cage match, and I still do girl push-ups (and don't see that changing any time in the foreseeable future).

And then my Groupon was up and I joined the boxing gym, which is like the bar "Cheers" because everybody knows you're name, and they scream it at you to hold that squat LOWER, damn it. And then one time, we worked out to "Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leopard, which, you're just going to have to trust me, is the MOST PERFECT soundtrack to boxing, or whatever it is I am doing there four times a week. I have also learned that the drill that simulates a knee to the groin looks an awful lot like the "running man" move I perfected in middle school--which means that this might just be the place for me after all.

If you're interested in checking out my 90's dance moves that could render an attacker sterile, then come and join me at Title Boxing in Rock Hill (link here), and tell them that I sent you, because I get a credit every time I refer a new member--and I promise to use it on personal boxing lessons, which can only mean a stellar blog post, and a win for everyone involved. And then maybe we can all get t-shirts, or matching tattoos.

Even if it's just for the one free class, come and check it out. I'll be the one with the pink hand wraps.

2013-05-08T22:14:00.004-05:00

"It is easier to tame a rabid monkey,

than to please parents with classroom placements."

--Confucius

Like the age ol' debate over sleep schedules and breast feeding, I realize that classroom placements for elementary-aged kids is a *touchy* subject. I know this, because I've had variations on this conversation for the past...five years straight. And this post is IN NO WAY a judgement on those conversations--just my general thoughts and observations and confusion over how this parenting gig is supposed to work (versus how it ACTUALLY works).

When I was growing up, it used to be that class lists were posted up at school, three days before the start of the new year. I don't remember my mom thinking much about it, and I'm not even sure she knew who any of the teachers were, much less their teaching "style". It really was as simple as paying your taxes and dropping your kid off at the curb on the first day of school and just trusting the "system" to teach phonics and long division. Although, in Hawaii, we also learned the ukulele, and how to make braided slippers out of tea leaves (true story).

{Clarification: The tea leaves I am referring to are not the stuff you make tea out of. They were bigger, and sturdy, and clearly not actually called "tea leaves" according to my Google search. Proper names of plants were not covered in Hawaii's educational system.}

These days, our school (and the one we were at before this), gives parents the opportunity to share their opinions when it comes to class placement. Asking for specific teachers is frowned upon (I think), but issues about learning styles, and teaching styles, and social dynamics are okay. And I do have those opinions.

I have a lot of opinions about my kids, actually. But I also have a very intense desire to be liked, and to make everyone happy--and this makes me very schizophrenic as a parent. I don't like to complain (publicly), and generally speaking, most of the things that I have issues with have resolved themselves, or taught me something, or most shocking, been a blessing in disguise. I've never written a letter asking for a teacher, or asking not to have a teacher, or asking for a class that's painted the color blue, or for a teaching style that allows me to bring in cupcakes on birthdays (doesn't exist anymore), because hauling the guinea pig up there is more work than it appears. I'm not saying that to brag or claim sainthood; but more to tell you that I am deathly afraid of what people will think of me if I have an opinion.

But...

At any given time, I realize my opinions are only part of the story--and that right there is one of the hardest parts of parenting, knowing that I am always going to make decisions with half of the information I need. Without the guarantee of how this all turns out, there is no way to know if even the safe, predictable, COMFORTABLE choices I advocate will be good ones. Turns out that safe and comfortable can have consequences too. And part of my job as a parent isn't necessarily to protect the predictable boundaries of my kids--but to teach them how to handle life outside of them.

I might never have learned that, except that Mike and I ended up doing EVERYTHING we thought we wouldn't do, back when we only had one, very sweet little girl, and it appeared that we had life by the testicles. G was always a "quiet" girl. A little on the shy side, but mostly just quiet. She's always been slow to warm up, to reveal any part of herself--and she has always hated attention. She is incredibly sweet, but has a hard time initiating relationships and is therefore drawn to those who seek her, who pull her in. I sometimes tell people that she is JUST LIKE ME growing up, which is apparently a not-politically-correct thing to do, because our kids are INDIVIDUALS, and it should not in any way be implied that they are like me, or grown in my actual womb, from my very DNA. Except that I understand everything about her, more so than any of my other kids. Because I WAS her, I AM her.

I used to think that G needed consistency. I watched her warm up slooooowly in preschool, where it took her almost two years to speak comfortably or state her opinion. I used to think that keeping her comfortable and emotionally safe was the key to getting the most out of school; carefully drawing her out of her shell and snuggling her like a baby bunny. It was one of the reasons why switching schools in the third grade (what we said we would never do) was such a big deal--WHAT would it do to her, exactly?

It made her stronger, more confident. It introduced her to her best friend. It showed her that change won't kill her. It taught ME that shy doesn't necessarily mean fragile. G had to learn to make new friends, she had to get used to new routines--and she did it beautifully. In fact, with each change, with each move, she gets better at adjusting, at coming out of her shell, at seeking others. What do you know.

Then there's Little J. He's a super sweet kid. He goes with the flow (most of the time)--but he likes to be the class clown, and he's not afraid of attention. He is the kid who is bouncing off the walls, and the one that quietly plays Uno, depending on his audience. I'm tempted to want to control his audience. If I had an opinion about where Little J ends up, where he will be at his best, it's with kids who are calm and focused. Aint that the truth. You know what? I work best with people that are calm and focused--but that's just not real life.

Or Big J. Because of his dylexia/yet to be diagnosed medical issue that affects his learning (NOT to be confused with a learning disability), Big J is a kid that needs boundaries and structure. There are a lot of boys in second grade who need the same, for different reasons--which results in a class that can be on the high energy side, a little rough, a little loud. I used to worry about my middle boy, the one who plays with Legos for hours at a time, who daydreams, who will sit quietly lost while the world goes on around him. I worried that he was going to be overlooked--and I thought, for part of the year, that he was. And yet, I have watched some of my own opinions on Big J be proven false. I've watched him become friends with boys that are a little louder, and more physical and so very different from him. Huh.

I could go on and on. About how a situation, a class will look one way in the moment--and mean something COMPLETELY different, in retrospect. About how some classrooms can rattle me, because they do things A LOT differently than I would; but it's always a lesson in remembering that different isn't always OFFENSIVE, and it isn't always bad. There was a year when G was given a teacher who was less structured than I would have guessed, and we struggled there--because G is a kid who likes to know the rules, and what's expected. But realizing that she needs to work on functioning without clear boundaries is IMPORTANT, even if it means we will limp through a particular season of school.

I'm telling you this, because I've been debating writing a note to my kids teacher's for a few weeks now. Not necessarily about specific teachers and requests, but about who I think my kids are in this moment. And let's be honest, who I think they are is only a fraction of the truth--and where I think they'll do best is only a small part of it too. I've been dragging my feet on this, and I think that's my cue to just let things play themselves out and not stress out about it, because we're all just here to party. Wait.

But really, my misplaced anxiety over the carpool line takes all my energy, so I'm pretty much maxed out on hypothetical scenarios to stress out about.

Sometimes adventure is catching a city train.

2013-05-02T22:38:00.000-05:00

We all know that I have a *bit* of a beef with comfort and routine--and how sometimes, I miss out on good things, because of the fear of change. I feel like you get to be my age, and you're supposed to hold on tight to what you have, but try as I might, the kids get older, my wrinkles increase, and my metabolism makes it ever more difficult to shake off a quarter pounder. I'm boxing, and not eating carbs and doing everything to stop time and stay, perpetually, 36. Which is like, 15 years past the point when I should have started to kryogenically preserve myself.

When you're in your 30's, when your a parent, when you have a mortgage payment, you sort of need routine. Responsibility. It can't always be about waiting for what's coming around the bend, because all that stuff you waited for is here, and it costs a lot of money. Enter the years when you try to balance enjoying your life, while trying to figure out if everything you dreamed of is worth it.

A couple of years ago, Mike and I decided to get rid of the stuff that didn't seem...worth it. The house, the country club, the stuff that wasn't worth the next 30+ years of doing things exactly the same. We changed our minds about some things, even if we didn't have an alternate idea of what life should look like, exactly. We just wanted the freedom to be able to figure it out.

Except that routine and security are ingrained. Isn't it what I teach my children everyday? To trust what they know, to be safe, to manage their time, to set goals instead of acting impulsively? Even after all that change, it doesn't take long to fall into new, safe routines. Boundaries where I feel comfortable. I notice it in the way I plan for our next steps, in the way I spend my time, even in the ways that I parent.

The ways that I love my kids--they should evolve too. Just like everything else, there should be a constant tension, a push and pull, between comfort and change, I think. But lately I feel like we are standing still; doing the same things, with the same predictable results. I know what they value and how to reward them with it--which is mostly computer time, or the Wii, or playing Minecraft on the iPad. And it's so comfortable to give it to them, because it gives me time to ~~stalk facebook~~ clean my air vents with a toothbrush.

Big J has been long due for a date with me; mostly because he is a kid that struggles with a lot of things, and needs to feel that life isn't always about how hard it is to read, or tie his shoes, or to get all of the shampoo out of his hair. This kid needed a win. He needed something unpredictable. He needed an adventure.

And honestly, I did too. When I consider what it means to really spend time with my kids, it always looks like the zoo, or the Magic House, or the City Museum. I can predict their reactions there, it's safe to say that I will please them, and that we won't have to travel very far out of our bubble to try something new (that might end up being a disaster). For weeks, I've known there was going to be a 12:45 Cardinal's baseball game here in St. Louis, and I've thought about taking one of the kids. But it was too late to still make it back for afternoon pick-up, and the weather was looking warmer and warmer--which sounds amazing, until you're thighs are marinating in sweat. And also, the pollen. Oh. The. Pollen.

I don't know why, but I decided to do it. I decided to spring Big J from school and head to the game. We didn't have tickets, but I decided to wing it, and WHAT THE HELL, take MetroLink (the train) down there to make it all the more interesting (or blog worthy). Now I'm really getting ahead of myself, because in 15 years of living in St. Louis, I've never taken Metrolink, and CAN I DO THIS? REALLY? I know that sounds ridiculous, but when you're comfortable doesn't everything else seem like a risk?

Big J wasn't even sure he wanted to go, because he had no expectations--and could it ever be better than two-hours on the iPad without his twin bugging him for a turn? Sign #1 that they are too obsessed with electronics, when the rest of the non-pixelated world pales in comparison. We've never been a family that does baseball, or rides trains, or just picks up in the middle of a gorgeous spring day--but could we be?

Yes. We were an inning late, and my plan for cheap tickets was...ill informed. So we spent a little more money, and we got great seats (in the shade, SCORE!), and I got to teach Big J a little about baseball, and I mean that literally, because I know almost nothing about baseball. But my kid who gets so hyperfocused on details, LOVED keeping track of the ball/strike/out count. You can love something for a whole lot of different reasons, it turns out--and I needed to have Big J there, one on one, to figure out how to connect him to baseball. To have it mean something to him. We got to have lunch, and talk, and watch 5 innings of the game, before we turned around and headed home. I'm surprised by how well it all went, how the details fell into place, how Big J began to love something I wasn't sure he would be all that into.

I walked away with a win too. A new way to understand and connect with my boy, a knowledge of the St. Louis rail system--and a reminder that sometimes the things that seem difficult, or don't make logistical sense, can be kind of amazing.

A lesson on limits.

2013-04-30T22:37:00.003-05:00

I got cocky. My nose stopped running, and I invested in some Mucinex, and I REALLY thought I was putting this cold behind me. So, logically, I stopped taking the drugs.

Note to my 2014 self: NEVER stop taking the drugs.

I guess I forgot that it was allergy season. No I didn't. I just thought I was better than tree pollen.

Note to my 2014 self: You are NOT better (or stronger) than tree pollen.

There are lies, so many lies, that distort my perception of reality on a daily basis. Currently, I am so miserable and defeated by tree pollen, that I am interpreting the world with a lot of...ANGER.
And it is under these conditions that I took the kids to a track meet yesterday. I'm sure I made this decision weeks ago, before "the rage", because for the LIFE of me, I can't think of a reason why I thought it was ever a good idea. Except. We are three-quarters through the school year, we rocked the swim team sign-ups, we survived Easter, I joined a boxing gym (story for another day), and I got cocky. I started to believe that I HAD this, that I had arrived at the sweet, no-calorie-full-flavor, spot of parenting. And we all know how this turns out.

Enter "the rage" and the district-wide track meet.

The track meet is actually...a track meet. For every elementary school in our district (5 schools). The girls declined to participate, but the boys were sort of interested, so we signed up for the soccer kick (field event) and the 50 yard dash.

What's my problem with the track meet, exactly? Well, for one thing, it's on a Monday, which is our crazy-busy extracurricular day. I'm sure I paid ZERO attention to the day, the date or the time when I signed up; and then I neglected to put it in my calendar. Have you not learned? This is part of my CHARM.

Secondly. Events like this are just...not for me. I didn't play ANY sports growing up, not even an eight week soccer season, so I lack all the experience that tells me these things are worth it for some kind of bigger, character-building purpose. Except that I KNOW these can be good things, so I put my big girl pants on, and I get my kids excited about it, and then we show up--and I have a small panic attack. Sporting events are STRESSFUL to me, and this has been a general theme of this blog (link HERE).

It took all of my concentration and energy, but I managed to get all four kids there, with hot-dog dinners packed, ON TIME. Except that we arrived to bleachers packed with families from EVERY elementary school that were also, on time. Here is where I tell you that I forgot a basic truth of having lots of children: It is freaking impossible to find enough seats together, unless you are EARLY. STRESS.

I sort of thought that they would put all the little kid events at the start of the meet. I was wrong. Instead, there was, like, 45 minutes of downtime between the two events the boys were participating in. Forty five minutes of sitting at the top of the bleachers by myself and blowing my nose (because my allergies were in FULL FORCE by this time) and trying to pretend this was fun. And not stressful, like when I walked Little J down to the field, and returned to my spot, at the TOP of the bleachers, with L crying because I left her. Or when Big J panicked after his race, when he couldn't find me immediately. Sometimes being in a crowded stadium at an elementary track meet is the loneliest place in the world. I don't belong there. I don't parent well there. I basically blew my nose and told my kids to stop kicking the woman in front of them. It sucked.

Maybe it would have been slightly better if it was a cool, pollen-free fall night. Or if Mike had been there, the cool to balance my neurosis. Or if we didn't have other activities to deal with and rush to. It's hard to say, but as it goes, I interpreted this event through the lense of "the rage" and I'm not so sure I can ever do it again. But these days, I'm unwilling to do anything besides blow my nose and overdose on cold/allergy meds, so it's hard to say with certainty.

I think it's okay to know my limits. To know what I can do, what I'm willing to do, what I'm good at, and what leaves me broken and angry. I'm thankful for class art projects and running holiday parties--because I really suck ass at sports, and their sign ups and their practices, and the organizing of gear and having a good attitude despite the stress it takes to get us to a meet. I am very set on having each of my kids grow up playing a sport; but there are limits to what I can handle.

And those limits include a single, extra-curricular track meet on the busiest night of the week, during allergy season.

Evidence that hell hath frozen over.

2013-04-26T17:52:00.001-05:00

In other related news of things that happened before I fell asleep for three days: HELL FROZE OVER, because my husband took me paddle boating. We'll consider this a giant step for mankind that was MORE complicated that putting a man on the moon. Because my husband is very anti-paddle-boating. Or at least, he's very anti-those-giantic-water-bikes that you always see people renting at the beach, and he kind of thinks this is the same thing.

(It's not.)

Happy Weekend, Friends!

Just coming off a three day bender (also known as a head cold).

2013-04-25T19:00:00.000-05:00

If you're still hanging around here and wondering where I've been, then rest assured--I am fine. I have simply been on cold medication for the past few days, or what I shall affectionately refer to as "being stoned and drowning in my own mucous." It was wretched, and I am talking about that marathon of "The Bad Girl's Club" that I happened to stumble upon, after awakening from one of my medically induced comas. I was awake for like, 4 minutes of it, and yet my brain seemed to retain at least 45 episodes worth of it's nastiness.

I tend to be more of a Christian Scientist when I am sick, praying that my sinuses will stop over-reacting so that I don't need to walk 15-steps to the bathroom and find the appropriate medication; Mike, on the other hand, stock piles percocet from my c-sections and polyp removals, for times such as these. It's only because I honestly thought I was going to drown while trying to drink a Diet Coke--and also because Mike walked the pills up to our bedroom and massaged them down my throat like a cat--that I decided to take the stupid drugs. And thus began the days I shall affectionately refer to as "the 48-hours when I couldn't tell day from night".

Mike and I instinctively come at the common cold from very different places, and having visited "Stoner-ville" for the past two days, I understand why he tends to sit still and grunt when he's sick. He takes the NIGHT TIME medicine during the DAY, people. He claims it's the only stuff that works. And granted, after three separate dosings, that were like 45 minutes apart, I did stop dripping--but then I saw Jesus in my pile of used kleenex, slept for two entire days, and could barely remember my kids names. If I could sum up our marriage in a common cold metaphor it's this: He tends not to worry about liver damage, whereas I will choke on my own snot out of fear that I might kill someone in the carpool line because I am HIGH on cold medicine.

Sidenote: It would NOT be hard to kill someone in the carpool line at our school. Lordy. It's all good and orderly, until school lets out, and then people be cutting out and darting all over the place diagonally to get their kids, and save two minutes of time. It goes against every rule-following bone in my body (and there are many), and it makes me CRAZY. Like taking cold medication against the day/night/dosing instructions on the label. Or improvising on a recipe. Or making spaghetti while you're stoned--that sh#! is unnecessarily hard.

You see, that right there is what's wrong with our anti-drug campaigns. We need to be preaching it at the appropriate level of absurdity, if we want it to have any kind of impact. May I propose, "Just say no to drugs, kids. It makes cooking noodles and warming sauce unnecessarily hard. Aint nobody got time for that." Boom.

What was I saying again?

Oh yeah. You know how the best part of being sick is that 2-3 pounds you lose? Well, seeing as I was stoned for several days, I would wake up at like 10 p.m. and want, what else, but a freaking quarter pounder with super-sized fries. I'm sure it tasted great, I don't really remember.

Alternative, anti-drug campaign: "Just say no--you're metabolism cannot handle these shenanigans forever."

So. It turns out that the world did not fall apart in my absence The kids ate popcorn for dinner, and I got to see who won "America's Next Top Model, All-Star Edition", so I guess that everyone wins here. Except, of course, for the kid who's high on pain meds and trying to cook spaghetti, because this will not end well for you, dude.

If it doesn't get a thumbs up on Facebook, it doesn't exist.

2013-04-17T23:45:00.002-05:00

So, a couple of weeks ago, I posted a rather controversial status update on Facebook, regarding my decision to stop caring whether or not my feet were "flip flop ready". I think my exact words were something along the lines with being so over my feet insecurities that I would happily be stoned at the village gate, or whatever punishment is fit for not having an up-to-date pedicure.

And then. Nothing.

Not a single comment of validation, or even a thumbs up from that guy in my algebra class in high school, who likes EVERYTHING. Apparently feet are a tricky subject.

Next. I posted my thoughts on Louisville winning college basketball tournament, and how this proves my theory that good stories win championships. I teed this one up REAL high for all you psychos that go ballistic over that kind of talk.

And then. Nothing.

When in doubt, I figured that I would solicit Facebook for some advice on where I might find a used rocking chair, because Facebook loves to be asked for advice. It makes us feel important.

Again. Nothing.

There was a link to my blog post about the Taylor Swift concert Mike surprised me with, and then a status about what a bastard he is when he plays UNO--and I even posted the KMart "I Shipped My Pants" commercial two freaking days before it was everywhere.

Crickets. WTH, Facebook????????????????

This is exactly the kind of thing that could convince me to adopt 12 cats and stop cutting my finger nails--or whatever it is that happens when the Internet fails to validate my existence. If NO ONE comments on how ridiculous it is that Louie Anderson was rolling himself off a diving board (backwards) for reality television, then DID IT REALLY HAPPEN? I dunno. But I kind of hope, for his sake, that he didn't do that just for a little camera time.

Mike told me to Google my problem, but that sounded like a lot of work, so instead I just complained for a week about how I managed to offend everyone on Facebook with my feet. I thought about asking for a pediatrician recommendation, or making a political statement, or whatever it is that makes people go ape sh#!--but then I decided to just go ahead and search it, and that's where someone suggested logging off?

Boom.

And then I posted something about how I wanted to be productive last night, but ended up watching three hours of "The Secret Life of the American Teenager", and 29 of you gave me a big fat thumbs up for it.

Which is proof that ALL IS WELL in the universe.

Seven.

2013-04-15T23:17:00.000-05:00

This guy.

I woke up and went to the bathroom around 3:30 a.m., seven years ago. It's funny how the universe led me to the bathroom seconds before my water broke, and hours before I was about to have a C-section, four children, and NO time to clean up a bed soaked with amniotic fluid. Thank you, universe.

I had been on medication to stop labor for weeks; medicine that I was about to stop taking. Thirty minutes before every dose, my contractions would start to come, roughly eight minutes apart, until I swallowed my next pill and my uterus relaxed. I assumed I knew how this story would play itself out--which is funny, considering that I was having a SURPRISE baby 16 months after giving birth to triplets that I conceived via invitro.

Instead my water broke, five weeks early. I woke Mike up and he jumped in the shower--which sounded like a great idea, until he told me there was no time for me. The woman who was about to birth his son. Who would not be allowed to shower for the next 36 HOURS following her C-SECTION. Who's uterus would be photographed in a surgical pan.

I love this kid. He was hope and redemption and a complete freaking miracle. We would try for YEARS to have more kids, but I suppose that part of me always knew he would be our baby; or at least I was smart enough to enjoy him like he would be our last. Which is very different that the neurosis and antibacterial wipes involved with enjoying my firstborn, if you know what I mean.

I'm so proud of who he is, and who he's becoming. I've never been more aware of gender stereotypes, as I am with my boys, and it's sometimes really hard not to get caught up in wanting my little men to be the toughest and most athletic. I watch a lot of little boys who try so hard to be big, and who often translate that into harsh words, or arrogance, or even emotional detachment; and even though I often try really hard to have my kids fit the mold, I am so, so thankful for my little boy, the one who is sensitive, who considers some of the girls in his class as good of friends as the boys he plays basketball with. I'm glad that he doesn't take himself too seriously on the soccer field (yet), even if it kills me sometimes to think that he's not putting forth all of his effort--because there will be time for that.

Happy 7th Birthday to my Little J, my baby.

If you ever wondered what SAHMs do all day.

2013-04-11T22:29:00.003-05:00

I'm probably over thinking this.

But I wasn't crazy about the selection of boy's bikes at Target or Wal-Mart, so I branched out and tried Sports Authority, and by default, Toys R Us. I didn't really mean to look for bikes at Toys R Us, but my brain was about to explode over the simple math involved with purchasing Skylanders, when you figure in their deal on Starter Packs--which I don't really need, except for a new game disc, because ours REFUSES to work in our Wii, but does in fact work in EVERY OTHER WII in our neighborhood. I know this, because I have tested it in every other Wii in the neighborhood, and with every confirmation, a part of my actual soul dies. So now I have to buy a new disc, which comes with THREE figurines that we already own--and yes, I am aware that you can buy a "portal owner's pack", except that Toys R Us was out of them (for the Wii), and with the $25 discount on the three-character-starter-pack, it was going to be, like $.16 less anyway. Which was like...$3.54 more than the price on Amazon, which they wouldn't price match--but not factoring in the cost of the wing I'm going to need to add on to the freaking house for the redundant Skylanders that we are being forced to buy. And possibly the padded room I'm gonna need, if so-help-me-God, that game disc decides its allergic to our Wii. Again.

Have you ever seen an unshowered woman staring blankly at a wall of tiny plastic figurines? She's actually trying to calculate her self worth, and it is less than a Skylander made in China. I had this whole battle, in my head, at Toys R Us, and then I decided to just walk away and take a look at the bikes--because Little J's birthday is on Monday, and he needs a bike. And a new Skylanders game (and four "Tree Rex Giants", apparently). Amazon Prime has definitely made this more complicated than it needs to be, because four weeks ago, while brainstorming for Easter, I found what looks like a tiny white-water raft (with PADDLES) that would be perfect for my in-law's pool this summer, and I like to use Easter as a time to stock up on pool sh#!. Except that the raft was bigger than his basket, and unacceptable according to the geometry of making everything "appear" fair and normally distributed, so I ended buying a bunch of silly string and various calories shaped like eggs, which I secretly shoved in my pie hole while the kids were at school on the Monday after Easter. What's my point here? Oh yeah, I thought I would save the raft for his upcoming birthday.

Except that he needs a BIKE, damn it. And a white water raft AND a bike are the equivalent of crowning a prodigal son, as far as grade schoolers are concerned, and totally contradictory to the idea of equality (hearty laugh) that we're trying to project here. Really, this was a losing battle right from the moment my kegel muscles pushed them into the world, because G and the twins have birthdays in the weeks leading up to Christmas, and therefore, the idea of lavishing them with gifts makes my internal organs hemorrhage. But Little J? We celebrate him in the weeks leading up to warmer weather, when it becomes clear that everything we own is broken or too small. Dude picked the long straw when it came to the timing of birthdays and his parents credit card balance.

What's my point here? Oh yeah, the older my kids get, THIS is the kind of mind game that happens when I leave the house to go get MILK.

How Taylor Swift tickets have become a metaphor for my marriage.

2013-04-11T00:27:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago we were on Spring Break in Hilton Head. South Carolina in March can be a warm 85 degrees, or cloudy and somewhere in the 60's--and so tricky that despite wearing a sweatshirt on the beach, you can burn the crap out of your neck and the tops of your feet. Awkward.

I saved the best part of our week away for this post--which are the hardest posts to write, because I want it to be perfect, every word. I spend a good amount of time here sarcastically dissecting my most absurd faults, which sometimes bites me in the ass by haters; not because I can't handle the judgement (ok, I can't), but because what's here is the tip of the very selfish and damaged iceberg. But you can't know those things about me, unless you know the other half of the truth:

I have the most considerate and loving husband.

I keep that secret hidden a lot, mostly because it's somewhat frowned upon to say, and it's generally more popular to obsess over the fact that he washes my dirty cleaning rags with my bath towels (gross). But I often fly off the handle because he can't read my mind about where I want to eat lunch (true story), and he often does things like divert our route home from Hilton Head, so that he could surprise his girls with tickets to the Taylor Swift concert in Columbia, South Carolina.

If there is a giver and a taker in any marriage, then I think it's pretty clear which one I am. Except of course when it comes to babies, because I've got him there. But it's hard and humbling too, knowing the lengths that he has, and will go to, for me--and how the extent of my thoughtfulness is buying him a striped sweatshirt (that I LOVE!) on sale at Target. We've talked about this at length, particularly in the years after our many small children were born, that his helpfulness sometimes feels like my failure to do it ALL BY MYSELF. And true to the part of him that has studied me for YEARS, Mike was the one that revealed this little bit of wisdom: that he would love me (well, I might add) knowing that my deepest insecurities make this a very complicated thing.

Take this for what it is, my simple opinion: That sometimes, being loved well, is the most humbling thing in the world. It's supposed to be like fireworks and candle light and mountain climbing, or whatever, but it can be downright heartbreaking, how far short I fall, or how undeserved it feels. This isn't just about the romantic gestures, which on their own can be such a cheap and overly simplified version of what marriage is; no, this is about how those things, and that effort, reveal so much of my brokenness, and my blessings in spite of it. And that, to me, is the BEST, and most unexpected, and most complicated part of being married.

And Taylor Swift was REALLY good too, and totally worth the detour and the snow storm we drove right into on our way home the next day. And I could write an entire post about how easy it might be to rip on her and her relationship choices (you know, the tip of her insecurities that are broadcast on every magazine at the grocery store), but that girl, and what she does, and how she flies around an arena on what might be considered a UFO (or a moving stage), is pretty amazing and worth leaving the guinea pig in our van over night, because it was against the pet policy at the Holiday Inn Express.

Spring Break '13, you were epic.

Even the Wal-mart shoe department is teaching me something about parenting.

2013-04-03T22:22:00.001-05:00

Today’s parable is about clothes shopping for a 10-year-old girl.

I am thankful, that clothing has never been a source of strife between me and my daughters. That we don’t have texture issues, or problems with denim, or even a preference for brand names (yet)—except that I bought G some Abercrombie sweats for Christmas, and I’m not gonna lie, there is a peculiar kind of irony that comes with their bass-pumping/sex-club vibe and their talent for making super soft lounge wear. I know, I know, there are a million things that shopping at A&F for my 10-year-old says about me and the sexualization of American youth; and my jaw did hit their cologne-infused floor when I was told the size of the sweatpants I bought for my very-average sized G should correspond to a 14-16 year old. I gathered they were “skinny” sweats, and that they were probably meant to fit like tights, or whatever—but sometimes it’s okay to think outside the box of intended size and purpose, and redefine something as comfortable and slouchy. And once again, I default to the fact that not everything I do is intended to be a political statement, even though EVERYTHING can be interpreted that way. Sometimes (most times), they really are just comfy sweat pants, and I suppose that my politics can be summed up with the words “on sale”.

Today, I bought G a fun pair of wedge sandals. I’ve held off for a few years, because they didn’t seem practical for a kid that loves Crocs—but they were at Walmart, and not covered in glitter or Dora the Explorer, and $15 seemed a reasonable start for training G to be a lady. We’re at the upper end of the kid’s department, and already able to wear the smallest sizes (with a bit of room) at Forever 21. That’s right, I said Forever 21, where I bought G a CUTE black and white pencil skirt in an XS, for Easter. It was darling, and just above her knees—and would be defined as a tiny tube top, if say, a full-grown woman poured herself into it.

She’s not really into ruffle-y and girly anymore; and while her tastes seem to be favoring sporty wear, I see this as my window to teach her about grooming and style, and what it means (and looks like) to grow up. Eventually, we’re going to have to surrender the bike-shorts-under-her-skirts, and I want to show her this wide world of choices that she is about to enter into—preferably before she gets caught up in believing that cool is the word “juicy” embroidered across her haunches. But even that bridge, should we ever come to it, will be an exercise for me in understanding who this kid is and how she sees the world, and herself in it. Parenting, at this stage, is a lot about shaping and defining, and that comes with a lot of my baggage, and beliefs and experience—how could it not? The hardest part though, are those moments when I get a clear look at my kids and their own insecurities, but also the unique ways they were made to be bold; and then learning that sometimes it’s me and my parenting that needs to be “redefined”. These are my years of influence, for sure—but if I can’t see outside of my very small box of expectations for them, we’re all going to miss something great.

Teaching modesty can NEVER just be a conversation about apparel, as much as class can’t be held to the color black, a high neckline or a knee-length skirt—much as I would like the rules and the boundaries to be just that clear. I often teach the “rules”, but I usually fail to explain the reason people cross them, and the context for real life, which they will no doubt see all around them, whether or not I dictate their choices.

So I guess this is a post about clothing, but also a reminder to my future self that appearances are only the tip of a very immature and one day hormonal iceberg, where my kids are concerned—and that it’s really not about what they look like, because the kind of grace and decency and compassion I’m trying to encourage often happens outside of my very narrow definitions anyway.

A sign that I'm probably not doing this right, but we sure are having fun trying.

2013-04-02T22:58:00.000-05:00

Funny that I should mention surrendering the idea of perfect parenting, because you throw that kind of thing out there, and the universe reminds you that your youngest child has a CAVITY that needs filling, today.

Cavities are right up there with antibiotics and refined sugar these days--they feel like the scarlet letters of parenting. Make it out of elementary by avoiding these three no-nos, and your kid will probably cure cancer. Fillings or ear infections or holiday weekends where Reese's Peanut Butter Cups are considered a meal? You are likely to end up with a sickly looking Ol' Dirty Bastard.

I'm surrendering it, but I might be a *tad* sensitive. Sometimes, moms be throwing out their antibiotic self-righteousness, and my first kid was on them for almost a year straight because of ear infections. By some miracle, she didn't catch that super, antibiotic-resistant, mega-zombie virus that eats your flesh--you know, the one that people like to mention, to be helpful, when they find out you give your sick baby drugs.

Listen, I am really happy for those of you who haven't ever had to use them, apparently my kid was just born with really short ear canals, or whatever--so I have been failing her from the womb, I guess. I'm all for not needing drugs, believe me, and this is not about bashing those of you who don't have to weigh medicine against widely-held hysteria. We each fight our own battles, and our own insecurities. Some kids don't need 'um, and that's a good thing, but after G, the twins were on antibiotics and caffeine, and the equivalent of horse tranquilizers, and I'm just glad they are breathing...so I guess I've dialed back my expectations a little. I'm SO not offended by those of you who have escaped Amoxicilan--but you all know you've been in a conversation where that antibiotic stat gets thrown out and it's a giant passive-aggressive slope that's bound to lead to a throw down over the degree of our episiotomies. And NO ONE wants to get into a crotch fight, okay.

{Note to self: DO NOT Google "episiotomy" to check your spelling. Oh. The. Horror. And also, do not tap any "Kevin Ware" hashtags on Instagram. You've been warned.}

Our awesomeness as parents has nothing to do with our kids immunity--or our ability to feed our children entire meals from the food on the floor of our minivans. Can't we all just agree to use our parental muscle flexing to end bullying, or sexting, or slutty halloween costumes for toddlers?

The story of discipline.

2013-04-01T21:03:00.001-05:00

Writing is an exercise in trusting God.

Because it's a metaphor for, and a record of life. Which is ENTIRELY an exercise in trusting God.

For a while, this blog was just a journal of our life, raising kids. It was supposed to be a secret outlet of sorts, but then it wasn’t, and all of a sudden some of you started to show up here. And that was flattering, and strange, because I like to be 86% anonymous—so I played it “cool” for a while, but we all know that only lasts for about 14 seconds. If this was going to be any kind of “real” account of my life, it also had a be a little bit greasy and messy and cranky like a bitch without her diet coke, but with monograms and hours spent creating small cupcakes out of Oreo dough and hand-dipping them in candy coating and packaging them like lollipops. Sometimes I work really hard to be a little bit perfect, and that’s a big part of this story too—because, I now know, none of us are ever completely together or falling part, but a combination of both to some degree, at all times. And what has been interesting to learn is that there is as much judgment in the things I get wrong, as there is in the things I try to get right.

I think it’s almost impossible to get it right, this business of parenting—or even just the act of being a human being, for that matter. I’m sort of done with getting it “right”, also known as “looking like I’m getting it right”, and actually, I have been for a while. And I don’t mean that in a way that proclaims myself a sinner, and then proceeds to *imply* that you will go to hell if you feed your baby dairy products before they are a year old. The older my kids get, the more I realize I have NO FREAKING IDEA of what I am doing, and I’m thinking of having that tattooed on my forehead, in case I am overcome with the urge to tell you how to make babyfood. For the past 10 years, life has been about drowning in expectations, thinking I’ve got it under control, and then learning the rules of this game (parenting) have changed completely.

I don’t think I’ve ever been the kind of person to tell others what to do; but I know I have done it inadvertently. Out of insecurity and fear. I have been made to feel like such a dumbass when it comes to mothering, that I have dug my heels into the sand and defended myself fiercely, over teething or sleep schedules, or whether or not you need to peel grapes before you feed them to a two year old. The truth is that becoming a mother BROKE ME, and I clung tight, for a lot of years, to anything that implied I knew…anything. Because being clueless about what the color of your newborn's poop means about your diet, and therefore, you're SOUL, is hitting the rock bottom of the diaper genie, my friends. My only advice to new mothers: Surrender quickly. It will make these years, and these ridiculous battles so much sweeter, and full of light and humor, because this sh#! is tragically funny. The truth is that you can be willing to go to nuclear war over the benefits of breast-feeding--and yet, statistics show that formula fed babies graduate from high school every year, and may possibly become President of the United States one day.

{To be clear, and in the interests of full disclosure: I did breast feed my kids. I breast fed them past the point when it was clear, it was OVER. But you know what, I cried and made it all about personal failure because I never got to the golden one year mark. SURRENDER that sh#!, right now. Move on, and get yourself together and prepare for the next thing that’s going to make/ruin your kid, and surrender that too, while you’re at it.}

And then something funny happened when I started writing this blog—I began to see life as a story. And in the context of that story, I realized that pinning all of my hopes and dreams upon producing eight ounces of milk out of my nipples every three hours, was…WHACK. But necessary, because any good story needs absurdity to contrast what IS important and lasting. And the more I write, the more I realize (through my own trial and error…lots and lots of error) that it matters NOT how long or how hard you hold to all of the impossible ideals of motherhood, or LIFE, but how you react, and what you do when they break.

And that, friends, is where God has done his work in me. In the story of how things break, and how he puts them back together.

I used to think that if this, if writing, was truly his “plan” for me, then God himself would literally place the words in my mind. I’ve spent a lot of years questioning whether I have this wrong, and whether I am more suited to work at Pottery Barn (because I would REALLY like to work at Pottery Barn) or hand-weave rugs out of fabric scraps. “Who’s to say what his plan is, really,” is what I’ve told my husband for YEARS, mostly because God has failed to fill my mind with a complete novel on any given night that I sit down to a blank computer screen.

“Must not be his will,” I say.

And yet.

I hear him chuckling. Wondering how many times I have to clean yogurt off ceilings, or lose a kid at the City Museum to understand that he inspires me, CONSTANTLY--and that he wants ME to be a part of this little exercise in creativity. The absurd, balanced by the lasting. This entire adventure started accidentally, and on a very surface-y level; there have been so many comments that keep me here, and so many that have broken me. And in between there is this miracle that happens, of putting the pieces back together in a STORY that SAYS SOMETHING.

Today, I am surrendering this belief, this ideal, that if God wants me to write, he will hammer away at the keyboard himself. That if it was meant to be, a publicist will literally knock on my door, today. I’m letting go of EASY, and the lie that truly creative and inspired work will just HAPPEN.

Today, starts the story of discipline.

In retrospect, puberty explains A LOT of things.

2013-03-28T00:58:00.001-05:00

I stumbled upon Bon Jovi on accident, on Nickelodeon of all places.

Do any of you remember that back around 1986, there was a weekly show that counted down the top videos of the week--which sounds suspiciously like MTV, but wasn’t? I know this, because I was (actually) terrified that Motley Crue was the devil, during those strangely horrifying years when I was constantly fearful that Mick Mars was chasing me down my parents dark staircase and trying to kill me. It is important for you to know this, the reason that I avoided MTV, because I was in the sixth grade and a regular Sunday school attendee, who absorbed almost none of the scriptures or Bible stories--but was in fact, scared sh#!less by the lesson on satanic messages in heavy metal music. And the pamphlet my teachers passed out one Sunday, which included the image of a very angular-looking devil upon a CD. I was 11, very much afraid of my own shadow, in the early throes of puberty and still playing with Cabbage Patch Dolls—which is my way of telling you that it was a very confusing time to discover Jon Bon Jovi and his frosted tips and ball-hugging jeans, on Nickelodeon.

Back then, we were all, "stop-rewind-stop-fast forward-STOP", on our large, double tape decks--without fancy buttons that took you back to the start of a track. I worked for it, and I taped songs off the radio, memorized their lyrics, wrote them on large index cards and adorned them with glitter glue. Before the age of the iphone and the Internet of unlimited choices, songs would dominate the pop charts for weeks at a time—or else Casey Kasem was full of sh#!—and between Nickelodeon and Teen Bop magazine, I went from liking skinny Asian boys to hanging a life-sized poster of Jon Bon Jovi in my bedroom. And we’re talking about the 1986 version of JBJ. Before chest-hair grooming existed.

Those early years, and everything I remember about growing up in Hawaii— it's all such rich material for the story that I’m “writing” with my life. Growing up often teetered between intense survival and boredom, but the perspective of looking back at the sixth grader--who was applying blue eye shadow, and yet, still imagining a world in which she was the daughter of Tico Torres (the Bon Jovi drummer)--is such a tragically comical picture of what it’s like to experience the onslaught of puberty to the soundtrack of “Slippery When Wet.” Kind of like seeing lingerie models in a catalog as a kid, and then inadvertently copying their poses in your family photos—until one day you come across pictures of your 8-year-old self on a random water bed, lying on your side, hand propped behind your head. And you kind of want to vomit at the awkwardness of it all.

THAT’S the good stuff, friends. The real stuff. The not knowing what the hell we were doing, until we come across it 30 years later—and then, OH MY GOD, the realization of what we were doing. Falling in love with big, hairy rock stars or prostituting ourselves for a picture OUR PARENTS were taking as evidence of the first onslaught of hormones mixed in with the imaginations (and innocence) of childhood.

I don’t remember it feeling odd or confusing or sexual in a creepy way; I just knew I wanted to listen to, and stare at, and imagine what it would be like to be raised as the daughter of his drummer, during their worldwide tour. That felt normal, until I grew up and transferred that energy to teenage boys, and the years of less documented awkwardness, of trying to be grown up, and fit in. Blending. The problem is, I don’t “blend” well—either I’m growing up as a white girl on a mostly Asian island, or else, I’m an Asian girl at college in a cornfield. In either scenario, I’ve spent a lot of time pretending that I didn’t grow boobs while listening to “Bad Medicine”--and I’m just starting to make sense of what a big deal that was, how those years were so bizarre, and how I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to avoid that kind of awkwardness, probably because growing up was embarrassing in a way I could never put into words. Until I went to my fifth Bon Jovi concert a couple of weeks ago, and I remembered that they are such a part of my absurdity. Which I now accept, is my *charm*.

When I was a junior in college, right before I met Mike, actually—I happened to drink some keg beer in a fraternity house with a boy a few times, whatever you might call that. Certainly not dating, but the thing that happens when friends try to set you up, and then you carefully/casually arrange to be in the same place for a few weeks after the bar closes on Thursday night? Well, that. I didn’t know him at all, we had never had any classes together, just a couple of mutual friends--so essentially, we were starting from scratch amidst all that business of acting cool and chugging beer. I don’t remember much about him, probably because neither of us was being particularly honest, whatever that means when you’re 20--but I do remember one night, in a room full of people, when he asked me what my favorite band was. I should have gone with the popular choice, Dave Matthews, but in a moment of realness, or hope, I answered—Bon Jovi. The soundtrack of my youth, of growing up, of childhood where it intersected with the big stuff that I had no idea about, really.

He looked at me like I had 17 heads. I’m not sure anyone admitted to loving bands besides Dave, or Freddy Jones or the Samples; at a small, liberal arts college in Indiana, you were supposed to know all the words to AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long”, but your character was expected to be built upon a deep appreciation for the folksy stuff about "satellites". So I back pedaled a bit, laughed it off, and ultimately told him that I really LOVED the Indigo Girls. And those not-quite-dates, spent hanging out in his fraternity and talking about nothing, went nowhere—but I will always remember denying the truth out of fear.

And long before I could communicate it, that dumb moment sort of defined me, the writer, who now knows that our oddities are the most interesting and endearing parts of the story.

Trying not to miss the magic in the minutiae.

2013-03-25T23:25:00.000-05:00

Last week, I watched my kids dig a hole on the beach in Hilton Head. In years past this has always been a bittersweet tradition--what with Little J's raging eczema, and the inevitable moment when all that digging resulted in a shovel to the back of the head, and/or large amounts of sand in the eyes.

It was a two-hour excavation, and I almost missed it. The magic that turns a giant, shallow hole into a house with a couch, a tunnel, a pool. That kind of imagination is so common and consuming with kids, that I mostly forget to notice it; in fact, I spend a good amount of time morphing it into "practical" and "clean", just like every mother who has ever tried to erase a Sharpie-marker mustache from delicate toddler skin.

After hours spent creating a fantasy sand cave, with fantasy sand furniture, tension was running high between the boys and the girls, over the flinging of sand, or the ill-planned (if inadvertent) step that collapsed a structurally unsound wall. Mike and I are big advocates of having the kids work through their "issues", particularly while sipping rum-runners from our perch near the sand dunes--but after 30-minutes of near constant tattling, it was apparent that wasn't going to happen.

The problem with tattling, is the assumption that the other party is ALWAYS at fault--which, in the absence of true sh#! disturbers, I just rarely find to be the case. The truth is that they ALL wanted to create an amazing world out of all that sand, when they weren't confusing someone else's enthusiasm (or error) with offensiveness. As a parent of young children who can efficiently argue, there is NOTHING worse than watching my kids cling to legalism--to that need to be right and justified. Particularly when they are missing all the fun of the magical unicorn that is crapping fantasy gumdrops on the imaginary couch in the sand hole, or whatever.

I tell my kids to GET OVER IT and move on a lot, which I don't find to be a very popular parenting tactic. I *try* to understand them, to know what hurts them, and also to know the things they get stuck on for ridiculous reasons--and I *try* to respond accordingly. My goal, in parenting, is NOT to solve every problem for my kids, which is a REALLY hard habit to break, coming off the black-and-white rules of the toddler years. No, my goal here is to keep them alive, and to teach them to let go of the stuff that makes them MISERABLE. Like the rules of how close the boys can be to the girls in their imaginary sand pit mansion on the beach.

It's hard not to take my own advice. Not to miss the magic in the minutiae; the way they are so consumed by their imaginations, in the absence of rules and social norms and expectations. There is such AMAZING freedom in that world, where they were entertained for hours without a smart phone in sight.

I am so thankful that SOMETIMES, it is as easy as moving on.

Turkey ninjas.

2013-03-18T21:58:00.000-05:00

Outside of Macon, Georgia there is an animal farm attached to a gas station; the llama that resides there has become somewhat of a mascot for our family, and whenever we head down south to Hilton Head, we stop to see the animals, and to buy 3-8 pieces of the most amazing, homemade, 10-layer caramel cake that they sell at the cash register, right next to the animal feed.

Over the years, the animal farm has grown in popularity; at first they started to charge admission, and on this particular pilgrimage we realized business must be good, because they've created a gated enclosure, like a REAL petting zoo, in which you can ACTUALLY socialize with the animals (versus feeding them over a fence). This is generally the sort of place where you learn the rules from EXPERIENCE, which is how we know that you CAN hand-feed an emu, even though you will think he is going to drill a hole straight through your hand.

From the off ramp we realized that there was a turkey, and a parrot in a cage in the parking lot--which is pretty normal, and really nothing compared to the five-legged cow they had on display in 2009. Mike went in to pay our admission (and buy our cake) and I took the kids into the "zoo" to see a goat and her baby. We were SO happy, and ready to pelt goats with corn kernels as a sign of our affection--and then all of a sudden, there was a turkey that flew through the air and threw itself at L.

Thank God Mike entered the pen at that moment and chased it down; turns out that's a sign of turkey aggression and not a party trick. We walked on like nothing happened, toward our favorite Llama and what appeared to be a small cow? And I asked Mike if that really happened, and he said yes, and then I laughed for 15 minutes straight because, WTF, L got attacked ninja-style, by a turkey at the gas station where we buy 10-layer caramel cake.

And then we did this experiment where we watched the turkey stalk L until Mike stepped in and chased it away, because apparently turkey's like to pick on things their own size. Also, along with turkey-ninja tactics, today I learned that you can burn the sh#! out of your face and neck, even if you are wearing many layers of fleece at the beach.

Winter makes me really dumb.

Where I tried to scrub my craziness right out of my countertops.

2013-03-12T00:18:00.001-05:00

If you really want to know me, my insecurities, and the way they present themselves as NEUROSIS--then watch what happens when we have dinner guests.

Last week, we entertained a couple I had previously met only in passing; but I will tell you that my general impression is that they have their crap together. He's a pastor, a friend of Mike's and one that he respects, who is recently home from a few years in Israel, where he led a church. Amazing, and BOLD. I've come to realize that being bold with my own life is a big leap of faith--but what I am also learning is that being near boldness, and inviting it into your home, where you are likely to come upon guinea pig turds, can also induce anxiety attacks that will present themselves as alphabetizing your pantry.

I so desperately desire to make a great impression. And I so often equate that with having a bathroom that isn't decorated in toothpaste drippings.

I have known a lot of women in my day who I admire and respect; the way they manage a family, or the way they take chances, or the way they always have their schedules together (versus forgetting their kids have a dentist appointment, afterschool, on the day you are trying to impress dinner guests). I am ALWAYS happy to play the un-showered sidekick to their perfection. I am totally comfortable there.

My deeper insecurity, if I'm being totally honest, is with CHRISTIAN women--because it's not just a matter of having your sh#! together, but about having your sh#! together, eternally speaking. And I feel all this pressure to have my freshly mopped floors, or my attitude about freshly mopped floors, say something about who I am in CHRIST. There's the Proverbs 31 woman peddling her wares in the market place and probably feeding her kids organically--and then there is me shoving crap in drawers and dealing with it after my kids graduate from ~~high school~~ college.

I am grateful for this blog, because a lot of times in the past few years, many of you have known the real me, before you've actually met me in person--and this is tremendously helpful in setting your expectations appropriately. "Real" in terms of those five minutes at after school pick-up, or in the hallway at church, or running into each other at the grocery store is an almost impossible thing; but if you spend any amount of time here, then you have seen my "mess".

And what you do with someone's mess, how you react to it exactly, is incredibly important.

My misplaced angst over my dirty laundry pile is really my fear of what you would think of me, if you saw my emotional dirt. The awkwardness, the judgement of the hard stuff of life is, I think, what encourages me to scrub the outside of the proverbial cup, or countertop, or first floor bathroom shower grout (just kidding, I didn't). Getting to know someone is a tricky thing; and it's not often that we invite others into a mess of candy wrappers and Lego (or sin and insecurity and fear, in the bigger sense of this metaphor).

As it turns out, last week's dinner was 45-minutes later than planned, because I was TALKING and not pre-heating the oven (which I didn't clean)...and after realizing that all the effort in the entire world could NOT EVER make me the perfect hostess--I was forced to own my faults, my ADD and my dirt. And I had a great time, with great new friends.

Who now know, just like you blogworld, that crazy is a part of my *charm*.

Child inspired art is my thing.

2013-03-10T22:12:00.000-05:00

The season for trivia night has come and gone; and the days spent spray painting lamps in our yard are now over. For now anyway, because I'm going to make myself a fingerprint lampshade, right after I finish that quilt I was supposed to give L for Christmas.

The lampshade was G's 4th grade project, the rag wreath was done by L's second grade class, and both were relatively low-maintenance. I sort of fell in love with both, with the color that would blend perfectly into our home--because it's somewhat impossible to create something I wouldn't put on my own end tables, or my front door. I know there are a lot of people who aren't fans of classroom art, but it happens to be my thing. It's okay if my thing isn't your thing--and it's taken me many years and vintage gowns and guinea pigs to realize that.

Welcome to a new week friends...one, that for me, includes a BON JOVI concert. Hell yeah.

If he needs therapy later in life, we can probably trace it back to this very moment.

2013-03-05T23:00:00.000-06:00

Ahhh, Cici's Pizza. Much like swim diapers, and math homework and small pets, we have a very complicated and intense relationship. One where you need me to get my kids hooked on your ~~crack~~ pizza buffet, and I need you to feed my entire family for, like $16, when we are out of chicken nuggets. You make my life cheap and easy, and for that, I sell the soul's of my children into childhood obesity.

But there is bitterness too. For you, it's because of the unfortunate napkin-shoving-in-the-air-hockey-table that occurred years ago. To which, I might reply, happens, when you're target audience is three, and you lay all your sh#! out there, buffet-style. For us, it's because of that damn arcade. And also, that time that the running water in your bathroom smelled like skunk--WTH?

Mike and I have a "no-real-money" policy when it comes to the Cici's arcade--mostly because we never have any "real" money. For years, our kids were totally content to imagine themselves playing the race car game, or shoving napkins in the air hockey table, or crawling under and between said machines to find dropped tokens and old candy prizes, long forgotten. Eventually, our kids got REALLY good at following other kids and parents around and begging for tokens, and it worked every. single. time.--and proved, over and over again, why it is totally unnecessary to give the kids money for the arcade. This is an important lesson in earning a dollar--if you want it bad enough, you'll annoy some other parent into funding your bad habits.

There was that one time that Big J got $5 from the tooth fairy, because the tooth fairy didn't have any single dollar bills. This also happened to come on the day of a poorly timed visit to Cici's, and before either Mike or I knew what was happening, that $5 bill went into the token machine and we died a little (a lot) on the inside. Stupid tooth fairy. So anyway, we regulated just how many small, plastic dolphins he could purchase out of one of the machine's that day, and made him hold on to the rest of the tokens--except that we ALWAYS forget the rest of the tokens, and this is just another example of how Cici's is winning at the game of Life.

For Valentine's Day, my parents sent the kids some money to be used for dinner at Cici's, with some "extra" for the bootleg arcade--because they know my kids LOVE that place, more than 95% of the toys I research and go into debt over, at Christmas. So anyway, we headed to Cici's on Sunday night, and after dinner, we set them loose with $1, which proved to be one of our biggest and most heartbreaking parenting mistakes, to date.

Big J made a bee-line for the Pac-man machine--solid choice. I helped him fire it up, and in 3.8 seconds, the game was over. Because, I sort of forgot, he had never played Pac-man before--he had only *imagined* it. And don't we all know how reality is sometimes a big turd, when compared to our best dreams and imaginations? Oh. The. Tears. Of money spent, and gone and never to return, with nary a plastic dolphin to show for it.

There is a lesson in this, in realizing the value of money--and how we expect it to buy happiness, but really it can't. That's a hard lesson for little kids, who don't have any money; and yet, who see that their parent's money buys new bikes, and toys, and trips to Disneyworld! Because that sh#! is the definition of happy to an eight-year-old, ya know?

I like to think of this experience as a life lesson for when the sewer line destroys the basement in Big J's house one day, or he needs to replace the air conditioner--an exercise in spending money on things that SUCK and are no fun. And how you have to balance those things out sometimes, and prepare your expectations accordingly.

We tried to distract Big J with 18 brownies from the buffet, but he was beyond consolation, and it was all so sad--but also humorous, in the perspective of what a game of Pac-man, or a couple of pieces of 3-5 year old candy out of a vending machine will actually mean to him in the scope of his entire life. It was also an excellent lesson about not letting THIS, Cici's-freaking-Pizza, defeat him. Oh no, kid--you don't survive prematurity and nine weeks on a ventilator, just to have Cici's ruin your life. No way.

Until we meet again, Cici's. We'll be back and we are gonna hit that buffet HARD, so that we reclaim the $.50 that was lost. According to my calculations, we're going to need to eat...1, 2....16 pizzas in one sitting, to call it even.

The next great chapter.

2013-03-04T22:28:00.001-06:00

Fertility, for us, has been a very fickle thing.

I have never had a pregnancy that didn't come with a lot of drama and surprises, and a fair-to-epic amount of anxiety and despair. I am, no doubt, blessed--but not with the kind of story that's planned, and easy and separated by a child born every two years, and always before August 1st, to ensure the kindergarten cut-off date.

There have been a lot of...surprises.

I found out I was pregnant with G after being off the pill for ONE month. It was shocking, because I was pretty sure it was supposed to take LONGER than that--and then Mike was diagnosed with cancer four weeks later, and we were consumed with surgery and radiation and moving houses (twice). A year after she was born, we decided to go ahead and start the process of in-vitro, and it's regimen of shots and pills and ultrasounds. It worked on our first try, times three--but it was shocking because I was pretty sure it was supposed to take LONGER than that. It wasn't so much that we were terrified to have THREE babies, because after Mike's cancer diagnosis, our chances for having any more children decreased dramatically--and there is nothing like being told that you "might not" be able to have more kids that makes you want to have, like, 100 kids. Next week if possible.

Then there was my water breaking at 12 weeks, and being confined to a Lazy-Boy for three, long months--carrying the burden of what would happen, what was likely to happen. You know how that played out, an emergency C-section at 25 weeks, the death of a baby, and all of it right at the start of a nurse's strike at our hospital that lasted for WEEKS. There are "surprises"; and then there are COSMIC surprises that you would never have imagined while eating Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwiches everyday for 13 weeks straight.

We shuffled back and forth (and back and forth) from the hospital for 6 months and those twins almost died so many times, I can't even keep it straight. They came home with tubes, and monitors--and even going for a walk around the block required me to wear an oxygen-tank back pack. But somewhere in the span of their first two months home, I got pregnant (again).

Surprise.

I mean, I guess no one said it was impossible. We were tired, and winging it and feeding one baby through a tube in her stomach, and watching 82% of her feedings be vomitted back up on our couches, beds, carpets, cars. We were doing a lot of laundry. We were freaks of nature and old ladies wanted to touch us in the grocery store. We were on schedules for doctors appointments and naps, and feedings, and therapy, and bed times--but we were thrilled. That I was pregnant (again), that I would get to experience childbirth without the panic, that this beautiful and amazing experience of bringing life into the world would be REDEEMED from something that was so dark, and terrifying, and traumatic. And it was all of those things, for me. My pregnancy with Little J wasn't easy; there were 2 weeks on hospital bed rest, and two more weeks on bed rest at home, before my water broke, the day before Easter, 2006. The VERY day before we gather in churches around the world to celebrate...REDEMPTION. That God, he knows the way to my heart is with a deeply personal metaphor.

Our story doesn't end there--because once you get a taste of that kind of grace, and mercy and undeserved goodness, you want more, and you will chase it and desire it in the ways that you know, that feel comfortable, that have been proven. For me, that was children. The thing I wasn't supposed to have, that changed my life, that helped me to see who God is exactly, and what he's capable of. It's an addicting thing, that story that defies logic, and sense, and life in the suburbs that's supposed to be easy and planned and careful--except that I gave credit to God for a *bit*, and then it was (is) my human nature to put my hope and faith in something TANGIBLE. Something I could touch and feel, or buy, or decorate, or push out of my lady bits.

After Little J was born, I waited, every four weeks, to see if I was pregnant again. In almost seven years, we've never once prevented having a baby, and yet, since the miracle of Little J's conception, there hasn't been a single pregnancy. Keep in mind that all of my children were born in a span of 3.5 years--and ALL of them before I turned 30. I felt like I had a lot of baby-rearing years left in me, especially since most of my friends had a lot of baby-rearing years left in them--and comparison is a big BITCH. Plus, I wanted this. This thing I wasn't supposed to have. This idol. This very, narrow view of the way that God works (and did, and can work) in my life.

Back when my kids were babies, when I was fresh in the miracle of it all (and the chase of wanting what was likely going to be difficult for me to have), I often said that I would never, permanently close the door on having more children. And then something began to change. God closed that door for us. He grew my children, and we bought our last pack of diapers. It's not the logistics of babies and toddlers that changed my mind, but the little people themselves that were starting school, dropping naps, learning to swim, growing more independent. Damn, these kids are awesome, and not in a sleeping-12-hours-at-night kind of a way. They are smart and sweet, and kind and capable, and more COMPLICATED than juggling rice cereal and breast feeding. And by the grace of God, there is only 3.5 years between them, from start to finish--which means they are all (mostly) on the same page. We don't have a two-year-old coloring on our 4th grader's homework and our boundary issues are few and far between, because they've all grown up, together. And lest you think this is bragging, then let me tell you that this was NOT the story I wanted. It's not the one I would have written for myself, when I so desperately wanted more children, just like everyone else who seemed to come by them so easily, and without cancer, or the NICU.

As my kids grow up, there is more...time. I mean, when I'm not trying to figure out which sport or instrument is going to get them into college, there is the time to take them to Hawaii, to spend a summer in MY hometown, the one that is full of strange food and cultures that they rarely experience. There is time to open our house up to new friends, at our new school. There is time to try sushi as an adventure. There will be time for family vacations, and mission trips, and serving our church, and learning new things. When God closed that door for us, he opened up a million others.

On Friday, Mike had a vasectomy, or a half a vasectomy--I know, because I was actually in the room, which we didn't necessarily plan on, but it just kind of happened, and 3.6 minutes later it was over anyway. Snip. We closed the door, but aren't *really* sure what happened to all that sperm we banked in the post-cancer/ pre-radiation days. Details.

And it's funny that I'm writing this post, on the day that friends of ours had twin babies. Surviving twins, that were conceived as triplets. Ah, the circle of life, and the great big story that plays itself out over, and over again. There is struggle and heartbreak, but also joy and REDEMPTION, all the time, if you know what you're looking at, what you're hope is in. I'm still tempted to want to go back to those moments when my babies were born, the beginning of it all, the rush and the newness; I'm jealous for it, because it changed me in unbelievable ways. I'm tempted to believe that there aren't more chapters, more doors--but that's the lie that tricks me into believing the comfort of what I know (which hasn't been all that comfortable, fyi), will be better than what's unseen ahead.

But the good stuff is what I don't yet know; what I can't see, or have expectations of. The story I would never in a million years write for myself, the one that doesn't keep me chained to what is safe and comfortable, the one that REDEEMS.

Here's to the next beginning of it all, the rush, the newness.

Here we go again.

2013-03-03T21:33:00.000-06:00

In what can only be considered an ironic repeat of the hamster's slowwwwwwwwwww and painful death, it seems that our fish is destined to suffer the same awful fate. I'm not gonna lie, on the food chain of things I am responsible for keeping alive, "Worley" is low (low) on the list.

Truthfully, we've never had a fish that has lasted longer than 3 days, and so this whole exercise is uncharted territory--one where the novelty of winning a $.04 goldfish in a ring toss has worn off, and been trumped by terrorizing a fat-ass rodent (guinea pig). Worley hasn't been "right" for weeks, but lately he's hanging vertically at the bottom of his bowl. We've pronounced him dead at least 4 times, and then suddenly he'll (barely) move his tiny front fins, and son-of-a-bitch, I just wish this would be over for him. And us.

Today I noticed his eyes were white? And it is creeping me out, like when the mini-hamsters started losing their hair, because WTH, that's not in the parenting handbook under "Awful things that can happen to a pet that cost $.04". You think these things are going to be fun and whimsical, and then they end up spontaneously bleeding (hamsters), or going blind, or floating in a paralyzed-type state (yet being the only kind of animal that won't DROWN)--and geez, I did NOT sign up for this. I was counting on a "die in their sleep" type scenario, which has never really panned out for me.

If you are thinking that we should "flush" him, then let me remind you that everything my children learn about taking care of their (one day) elderly parents began when the hamsters started biting each other's ears off, and continues in this very scenario. And also, there's this business of finishing what we started, and so there you have it--how we ended up with a 89% dead fish as our kitchen counter centerpiece.

Even worse? How the kids are on "death watch", or maybe, how they are sort of willing their fish to die. Not out of decency or kindness, but more out of boredom? Which just goes to prove that I need to work on some *strategies* for entertaining my kids when I am in my 90's.

Putting an end to human trafficking, one zucchini bread at a time.

2013-02-26T23:59:00.000-06:00

Today is one of those days.

Where I'm celebrating a friend, and at the same time, weeping with one that is suffering with something enormously big and scary. And I'm hosting a group of women here tonight, to bake mini loaves of bread and cookies, for a bake sale that will benefit a local organization that is fighting human sex trafficking. WTF happened to get me here, exactly? Sometimes I live in Kirkwood, and sometimes I live in this awful, terrifying world, and when they overlap it is WEIRD.

So. Our women's ministry at church is supporting a local group that has just built a safe house for women who have been rescued out of the sex trafficking world. Think that only happens to Liam Niesen's daughter in the movies? You. Are. Wrong. It sounds absurd and far removed, and then you throw pumpkin bread at it--and geez, that sounds even worse, but you gotta start somewhere, right?

The funny thing about being part of a church, and the work it takes to LOVE people, is that there's often this extra complication that we throw in there, of whether or not we feel "called" (by God) to volunteer our time and effort. Now, there's TOTALLY a legitimate side to this, but more often, it becomes the loop-hole for saying, "I don't want to", and not looking like an a-hole. If that sounds harsh, it's because it's a judgement on EXACTLY who I am. WHO in their right mind wakes up and says, "I'm gonna make some Oreo truffles to help free prostitutes forced into sex slavery?" That sounds awkward, and weird, and like it might cut into my time sitting on the couch, rewatching every episode of "24". And I mostly think there's no way that God's calling me to it.

Now. You can't volunteer to be a part of every opportunity that comes your way--trust me, I KNOW THIS, because if I'm not covered in Cheeto crumbs and bawling over how REAL "Friday Night Lights" is, then I am overextending myself by signing up for 78 different projects that somehow, always coincide with a kid's birthday or major holiday. There's a balance there, friends--and I don't have it, but maybe one day these kids will be able to shower and drive themselves places, and I'll figure it out then (fingers crossed). Let's be clear that this isn't a "here's how you do it better" speech, but more of an encouragement that we should be TRYING to do it better, right?

When I had really little kids, the idea of volunteering for something made me throw up a little bit. My sanity was hanging on by a thread, I barely had the time to shower twice a week--and in all honesty, I was so BITTER that anyone would ask, because look at me, I was falling apart. Kind of. We don't REALLY let anyone see we're falling apart, or how hard it is, right? That really bites you in the ass when Sunday school sign-ups roll around.

I spent a good amount of years...wallowing. And then, I'm not sure how it happened, but life became easier. Bearable. Good, but sprinkled with lost backpacks and kindergarten research projects, just to keep this sh#! REAL. I started to crave the company and wisdom of other women, and had the time to start seeking it out again. It looked a lot different from the kind of company I craved in my single 20's, when I was dancing the Macarena on bar tops, on a regular basis; but I blame the kids for showing me just how little I knew about life, and common decency. And also for not fitting into my low-rise jeans anymore.

The thing about being around other women? Different women? Older women? Is that there is a perspective you can't see when you are alone and gagging on dirty diapers. We're meant to see that, to help us remember the bigger picture, and to make sense of tantrums and food allergies and the monotony of reading Elmo books 900xs a day. We want it to look like cute little playgroups and lunch with tiny sandwiches, and not really like service projects with a random group of people that God has "called" to weed a garden or paint a house. We want to know the details, who will be involved, WHAT we'll be doing. We want to know that we won't be giving up something else, something more fun and important, like cheering for Tim Riggins in the Texas state football championship game (and trying to remember he's NOT REAL). We want it to be at the perfect time, and not when we're tired, or restless, or spent. We want relationships, sometimes, when we're up for it, and only if it's easy and validating. And then we can decide if we're "called" to it, or not.

I have all of these habits and tendencies, to want to keep life in a comfortable little box and calculate the worth of the things I give my time to. I'm trying really hard to branch out, to invite friends over, to start small groups, to volunteer for stuff, to try new things and see what happens--but the flip side of stepping out in faith? You're never quite sure who will show up to join you, or if you'll be baking brownies to stop sex trafficking all by yourself.

I'm always a little nervous about how it will play out, this business of coordinating a project and asking others to join me in it. And I am always humbled by the ladies that walk through my door, because I know what it takes to get here, and what a battle it is sometimes--and mostly I just worry about being alone in this. In baking bread, or motherhood, or being a member of a church, or a part of a school community.

For the women who show up, sometimes randomly, or faithfully, or when you can, or for the first time: You teach me something about worth, and effort, and sacrifice and friendship, and I'm sad I missed that whole point, for a lot of years, when I was selfish with my time and energy. So thanks for that. Our bird's nest cookies with the Cadbury mini-eggs are going to kick a lot of sex-trafficking ass.

What did you do this weekend? Well, I had a public identity crisis over Taylor Swift tickets, thanks for asking.

2013-02-25T23:24:00.001-06:00

For the purposes of this story, you need to know two things about me:

1.) $29.99 is about the upper limit of what I am willing to spend on anything, as I have generally learned that items above this mark are associated with large amounts of guilt, OR a crushing let down of expectations.

2.) I really, REALLY hate to have any sort of attention placed upon me, particularly the stares and anticipation of a room of 300+ people, who are watching me spend more than $29.99.

******

On Saturday night, Mike and I attended the Trivia Night for our old school. Our last, old school--in case you are keeping up on the fact that we have, indeed, attended SIX schools since our oldest child entered the "system". I have a fondness for this particular trivia night, and the friends that we sat with, because when we started at this school a couple of years ago, we knew NO ONE, and I'm not sure how it works at your schools, but trivia night tables are a tricky thing that begins at kindergarten orientation, or maybe with an "arranged marriage" type of agreement at birth. But then, THIS happened last year (link here) and my sweet friend Amy put together a trivia night table, and then we moved schools two weeks later. Except that she asked us to be a part of the table again, which is like the most amazing thing ever, when friends still invite you to be a part of their lives, even if your paths don't cross the way they began.

Which leads me to my second, funny observation: that most of our friends and acquaintances from our 1.78 years at our (last) old school we're shocked to see us. Happy, but consistently mixed with a "What are you doing here?" greeting. I know why this is, being that trivia nights are highly territorial and all, but it was actually quite comical--and Mike and I would like to put on record, that if we are friends, we ACTUALLY like you. Really. Even if we don't go to the same schools. We totally support what you're doing, because it's for the kids, ya know? It used to be for our kids, and even though it's not anymore, we still like your kids. Really. Our friendships don't begin and end at the boundaries of Kirkwood, I promise.

So trivia nights, for Mike and I, are kind of a cluster--because we know squat, except for the fact that I could identify Megan Fox, based solely on a picture of her Marilyn Monroe tattoo. It was a few hours of being useful in terms of American-history-as-it-is-recorded-in-People-Magazine, and then there was a live auction while the scores were being tabulated.

I wasn't even paying attention. There was a lot of noise, and a lot of paddle raising, and by some miracle, I happened to catch that there were TAYLOR SWIFT concert tickets up for grabs. Ah, Taylor Swift--you are my white rabbit and I am chasing you down some kind of hole. I've been dancing around this concert for MONTHS, starting with G's 10th birthday in November--which was, coincidentally, about the time that Swifty's tickets started going up for grabs in the Midwest. Problem was, the Kansas City concert wasn't until August, and that seemed a wee bit long for a 10-year-old to wait to cash in on her birthday gift. St. Louis dates were announced for our Spring Break, and we just weren't sure of our plans. I went after this from every angle, and in the end, we decided it wasn't our year.

Or was it.

Turns out there were FOUR, second row tickets to the St. Louis concert, up for grabs at trivia night. Price, at that point was upward of $600, but I had it on very good authority, from my table mates who had probably had 2-3 hours worth of alcohol, that this was a good deal according to Stub Hub. At that point Mike figured this was the chardonnay talking, and I'm pretty sure he was banking on the fact that I would NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS wave a paddle at the climax of an auction, and make the decision, on my own, to spend that much money on a whim.

Well, he was wrong.

Because once I found our number, I shot that baby straight in the air, and waved it all around like I just didn't care. At $750.

Now. Let's think about this logically, from the standpoint of someone who once thought she might marry a New Kid on the Block. T. Swift tickets, in the nose bleed section were going to set us back a bit--which is honestly one of the reasons we passed on them in the first place, knowing that the EXPECTATION of seeing her as a two-inch mini-figure on a stage wasn't worth $200. But the opportunity to sit in the SECOND ROW = game changer. On so, SO many levels. Turns out that knowing what I am capable of isn't always revealed in major life changes--I supposed that sometimes it's as simple as dangling Taylor Swift tickets in front of my 36-year-old face.

Mike was...not telling me what to do. Which is, under normal circumstances, the kiss of death on my short lived, but often brilliant plans. I CRAVE validation, someone telling me I'm making the right decision. You know, aside from every other person at my table who thought this was the best idea since domesticating guinea pigs. Mike rarely strangles my creativity, or the dreams that mutate from it--except for my desire to buy an old bowling alley and rehab it as his office (which we would also use personally, and for the occasional, upscale private event). He's TOTALLY against that one.

Anyway. We're talking about a period of 2 minutes, from the time I realized what was going on, until I shot that muther freaking paddle up in the air. Friends, I've debated turquoise skinny jeans on the clearance rack at Target for longer than that.

They were mine, for 15 seconds. And then there was another bid, and we had to do this all. over. again. This time, with the MC standing right next to us (because we were the final two bidders), and the realization that everyone was WATCHING ME SPEND MONEY. Mike was...still not telling me what to do. I was looking for him to give me a "HELL NO, woman"--except that's not the way he works. I mean, if you ever want to know how well he understands every part of me, then you simply have to watch what he does when I have the opportunity to spend a lot of money on T. Swift tickets that would change our entire family's plan for Spring Break.

He laughs. And he leaves it up to me. And he knows that I will never pull the trigger, but that if I do, it will be my biggest personal victory, and I will be likely to bawl my eyes out over the emotional trauma of it all. There was too much pressure, too much time to think about how many sweatshirt tunics that money could buy. I'm still freaking pissed about it, because I now know I should have done it. I should have owned those tickets, and taken my daughters to their first concert in the second row, to see a pop star that they (we) adore. I should have realized that sweatshirt tunics are made for $.32 in China, and that the stars may never again align like this for us--that my daughters will be old enough for a concert, but young enough to want to go with me; that the first show they go to will not involve gratuitous crotch shots/ dry humping/ lyrics that allude to "blowing" any type of whistle; or, that we will have the opportunity to purchase second row seats for the hottest ticket around, ever again.

In the end, the bid that came right after ours won, after debating this with Mike (but mostly myself) while 300 people watched in amusement. We (I) had the choice and I CRUMBLED. I wanted to look at this from all sides, and validate every, single cent that I would spend for them--and it just wasn't that kind of decision. I want to be safe, and sure--and in retrospect, there is no way that this wouldn't have been amazing, and worth it, even with all the schedule rearranging and budget tinkering, and limits on the number of soft t-shirts that I would be able to purchase at Target in the coming months. It's about the tickets, but it's also about being the kind of girl who will take a chance every once in a while, even if that chance costs something--because they usually do.

You know how we sold our house last year, and made some big changes so that we would be able to pour more of ourselves into the things we REALLY want to do and try? Well, sometimes there is no way of knowing what those things are, exactly, until you've passed them up.

I'm still freaking pissed at myself about it. Because I *think* the blog posts, and the personal triumph would have been worth $1 million, EASY.

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, OR could possibly end in a head injury.

2013-02-24T21:54:00.000-06:00

This is a pretty accurate portrait of our family life, where Mike takes the kids sledding on a huge hill, and I stay home to run on the treadmill, because fat doesn't burn itself. Had I been there, I would have simply freaked out over the size of the hill coated in ICE, and the speed with which my children were hurtling themselves toward a thicket of trees. We know our roles well; me, to worry that my children will choke on their own spit, and Mike to make sure they don't grow up believing that they will actually die from choking on their own spit.

Welcome to a new week, friends!

What 10 years of parenting has taught me about snow.

2013-02-21T22:32:00.000-06:00

Snow day 2013. Kitchen full of dirty dishes. Egg McMuffins for breakfast. PetCo for guinea pig food. Walmart for milk, eggs and a gigantic carton of Whoppers. Playdate with neighbors. Mac and cheese for lunch. Colorku puzzle. Angry birds card game. 44-ounce Diet Coke. Shoveling (part of) the driveway. Duct tape creating. Sled riding behind a lawn mower. Left overs for dinner. Reading "Hoot".

I know that snow days are a highly sensitive subject--and before my kids could entertain themselves for longer than 37 seconds, school cancellations would induce hormonal mood swings and panic attacks. For years, I tried to entertain them with paint, before I realized that this only occupied their attention for three (whole) minutes, and cost me dearly in hours of clean-up and sanity. Under those conditions, a six-hour Sesame Street binge was the ONLY responsible choice--take note, moms of young children, television will not harm your children as much as losing. your. f-ing. mind. I mean, thus far my kids have turned out FINE and their eyes only twitch a few times a day, but that is TOTALLY fixable by having them snort six packets of fun dip and as many preservatives as possible.

Kidding (or am I?).

Anyway. All that freaking out over spilled paint was like shock therapy for teaching my kids how to play independently! When combined with the fact that I can now sleep in, and their ability to dress themselves in winter gear, snow days have become pretty damn magical. Now I have the energy to sled without weeping, and play games and watch movies like "Ghostbusters" (which, was a BIG mistake, and not nearly as child appropriate as I remember, oops). There's also their ability to put folded laundry away and pick-up Legos; and let's not forget that I OWN their souls with the iPad, which means that I GOT THIS.

...And that sounds suspiciously like the words that are uttered right before the kids *accidentally* burn the house down.