Are We There Yet?

How hoarders are made.

2012-02-24T21:43:00.001-06:00

{Observed last week, as we were making final preparations to leave our house.}

Mike: So, you don't need to go over to the house today, I got the kitchen cleaned. Everything is out, except for a pile of wood in the garage, and I'll get that later.

Me: What kind of wood?

Mike: I don't know, it's wood.

Me: Are they like planks? That I could paint and write sayings on?

Mike: Yeah (tentative pause)...I guess. But technically doesn't that describe ALL wood?

Me: No. Or maybe...yes.

Mike: You're going to paint these and hang them where? We're not talking about nice wood here.

Me: But you could sand it, right.

Mike: And where will you put them, exactly?

Me: Anywhere! Tops of bookshelves, dressers, on the kitchen counter!

Mike: And this is why I'm terrified that you aren't going to get rid of anything. EVER.

Ohmygod, he's right. I am CLINGING to old wood planks, even though I'm pretty sure they sell those for free in dumpsters. But in the midst of all this change and uncertainty, my tendency is to run toward something that I can control with a bottle of acrylic paint.

I have TWO PODS worth of crap that will be upon me in a few short days, and aside from my couches, I can't think of anything I need. Particularly in an old house that is light on closet space. We have lived with a hanging bar in our dining room for the past eight months, but I think that most normal, functioning adults DON'T decorate their living spaces with business suits. And we need to pretend to be normal and functioning, because there are new neighbors to impress! With my painted wood planks, no doubt. People in Kirkwood love that kind of thing.

Also on my to-do list: Convince my nine-year-old that it is unneccessary to sleep with every empty vitamin container and empty Sam's Club box she can get her paws on. Because *obviously* this is a genetic condition.

Sometimes the freedom of choice is EXHAUSTING.

2012-02-23T22:08:00.000-06:00

It's a universal truth: Choices are like bricks, drowning me in orange (or blue?) tables and school districts and furniture arrangements. Well, that's the case in my universe, anyway, but I realize that we don't always revolve around the same sun, and it's endless expectations for housewivery, and mothering and general sainthood. Some of you can actually manage to DECIDE things, without hoarding your choices in a lovely ocean of simple choices and never-ending projects and to-do lists.

Choices mean I don't make the same dinner in an eight-week period, and they keep me running to five different grocery stores a week to find the best produce at the cheapest prices. They sent me to Hobby Lobby, Target, Walmart AND TJ Maxx, searching for the *perfect* melamine plate this week. Lately, I have been easily overwhelmed by choices in suburbs and school districts and proximity to community pools, and floor plans and full basements and third floor spaces with dormers. Would I like a house with a large hearth room on a small lot, or a small and efficient house on a half an acre? Will they be safer in a cul-de-sac than a corner lot? The pressure to decide if my kids would be happier with a large yard or a great playroom is enough to violently drown me in the possibility of where, exactly, I will hang fabric buntings.

That's the funny thing with getting what we want--the temptation to think it isn't enough. Because too many choices manipulate us into believing there is something else, something more, something better, something that costs less.

Today, I am struggling with the endless tide of choices. Yes, the big ones are made--the house is *almost* ours, the plans are in beginning to fall into place to switch the kids to their new school, the PODS are being delivered, our boxes are being packed. Today my choice is whether or not to send Little J to full-day kindergarten; a choice I've already made once. The school we are moving into has just one, full-day class--and it tends to fill up on the day of registration--so I had always ASSUMED (fyi, every single assumption I had regarding this move has been WRONG) that he would be in a half-day class, and I've settled into that idea. I've become used to having seven hours a day to ~~get stuff done~~ check facebook, and yet the idea of having him at home with me for part of the day is...appealing. There's some stuff he could use work on, and I'd be able to help him and give him my full attention--even though, let's face it, I am romanticizing how this will play itself out. At the end of the day, however, it's really my last chance to have a kid at home, with me. Except! He's in full-day now, and he likes it. It would give him more hours to get used to his new school and make friends. It will allow me to write (or unpack or check facebook, or run). It will keep everybody on the same schedule.

There are great arguments either way, so how do I KNOW? I feel like I've made so many decisions--so many QUICK decisions--that I'm finding myself paralyzed with choices. And it's all so freaking insignificant, and also so INCREDIBLY AMAZING that we even have options--and yet it feels like drowning. Particularly as we play out these last couple of weeks at a school we love, and realize that we are CHOOSING to leave it, and it feels CRAZY and MANIC, even though we are only talking about moving two miles down the road, and not sailing a house boat in Arkansas.

Someone just tell me what to do. And....GO.

The homemade granola stage of my life's story.

2012-02-22T19:25:00.000-06:00

Mike has dubbed this my "homemade granola stage", similar to one he experienced in the mid-80's with my mother-in-law. This is offensive on MANY levels, mainly because this isn't a "stage", so much as a lifestyle choice--if that's what one would call it after whipping up ONE, singular batch of granola. And also, it is a universal truth that daughter-in-laws need to believe we are doing things DIFFERENTLY than our husband's mother, or else it feels like a gigantic Stepford-like experiment in cloning.

I found the recipe on Pinterest (link HERE). Freaking Pinterest--there isn't a single idea that hasn't already been glue gunned or bedazzled, and Pinterest will prove it. You can no longer sport a wooly-mammoth skin, without finding it on Pinterest first, and then having it labeled as your "Lady Gaga stage".

I digress.

In a week or so, the juicer is being returned to it's owner that never uses it, and I will be without a fresh cup of kale/carrot/spinach/rhubarb/apple/orange/lemon juice for breakfast. Hence, my need to find breakfast alternatives, so that I don't jump back on the Jimmy Dean sausage biscuit wagon (again). I need to experiment with putting spinach and kale in the blender with frozen fruit (to make a smoothie)--but I fear that if it has any sort of leafy consistency, I will vomit. Anyone have any experience with that? The blending, OR the vomiting?

So this morning, I chopped an apple, added a cup of low-fat vanilla yogurt, a shake of cinnamon--and topped it with the GRANOLA. Ohmygod. Apparently, healthy people have been doing this since the mid-80's (what's that? LONGER, you say?), but I have been on the fat bus to diabetes town, so I am just catching up, people. But let's call this not-your-mother-in-laws-granola, because my version utilizes a seafoam latte bowl from Anthropologie (purchased, ironically, by my mother-in-law)--because our generation cares about what we look like when we eat, and where our tableware is purchased. This, friends, makes us bats#! crazy, but DIFFERENT.

In case you would like to join me in my granola-inspired-by-the-color-of-seafoam-on-Martha's-Vineyard-in-June, here is the recipe:

*******

Homemade Granola

4 cups of Old Fashioned Oats
1/2 cups Chopped Almonds (I used sliced)
3/4 cup shredded coconut (meh. I left it out, because I think shredded coconut tastes like wax)
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
2 TBSP vegetable oil
1/4 cup honey
2 TBSP pure maple syrup
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
1-1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 cup (each) raisins and dried cranberries (I omitted these also, because I wanted a more generic granola)

Combine the oats, almonds and coconut (meh) in a large bowl, and set aside. In a saucepan, combine brown sugar, oil, honey, maple syrup and cinnamon--bring it to a boil. Remove from heat and stir in the vanilla. Pour over the oat mixture, and stir it well to coat. Spread the granola in a large, shallow baking pan--and bake it at 350 degrees for 15-20 minutes, stirring occasionally. Cool and add the raisins and dried cranberries. Store in an airtight container.

********

Welcome to my granola stage, friends. In the event that you would also like to follow my Martha-Stewart-on-acid stage, follow me on Pinterest (link HERE). But if you really want to help a girl out, you'll follow me on Twitter (@sdenckhoff), because it's been almost a year, and for the life of me, I can't figure out how to make more people like me on there, in 140 characters or less. Because you know, I'm kind of wordy.

The laundry is militarizing, and armed with ebola.

2012-02-21T22:19:00.000-06:00

I've been a little distracted lately, and as a result it seems that I have ripped a hole in the laundry-time continuum. In case you are curious, this happens when you wash a load of clothes, and FAIL to remove them from the dryer, before the NEXT load is done in the washer. It gets even worse when you take the first load, and immediately dump it on the floor directly in front of the dryer. And repeat this cycle three times. Ironically, this equation can also be applied to Duggar pro-creation.

I don't know WHY I didn't carry the clothes downstairs and fold them. That would be like explaining WHY the Kardashians are popular, or WHY Snuggie's exist, or WHY I can't find five minutes to shower everyday. Add to this mystery the fact that we are finding ourselves smack in the middle of the season when I can NEVER FIND ANY SOCKS EVER, which honestly gives me hives on a daily basis. I will likely live in this kind of despair until allergy season hits in a few weeks, at which time I will *actually* have hives. On my eyeballs.

But I will have hives on my eyeballs in a new house, and it will be GLORIOUS.

At the moment, I am packing the basement--and you with be SO GLAD to know that my 2007 ponytail has been placed delicately in a box of office supplies. Right next to my post-birthing pads, because I am nothing, if not disgustingly consistent. I'm actually saving those for some kind of blog giveaway, or birthday present--because I know you guys are TWISTED like that.

And because it's been a while, and I am yet unprepared to share the ending to our housing story, I will expose my innermost demons, and tell you that my weight loss total is anywhere from 8-11 pounds at this point. Mostly because bloating is an unpredictable BITCH. I am now so in tune with my body that I can tell by the amount my waist overhangs my flannel pj bottoms, as to whether or not it's going to be an 8 or 12-pound day. The moon and global warming still factor in heavily with my weight loss; but surprisingly, (mostly) giving up Diet Coke has done jack. And I miss it, dearly.

But in a little bit, I will be missing it in my new house, and it will be glorious.

I was thinking obvious like a porch with character--not a school door slamming shut.

2012-02-20T20:52:00.001-06:00

Now where were we? Oh right, basically nowhere. Or everywhere. I guess it depends on how you're looking at it, and what it means when you are considering 20+ houses with no concrete or obvious direction.

Let me back up a second and tell you that our suburb is divided into FIVE different grade school territories. This is significant, because up until this point, SCHOOL DISTRICT was the driving force behind all decisions; which, in retrospect is really dumb, because this whole exercise in moving was to figure out what works for our family, and doing so means being open to CHANGE. Except that we changed G's school this year, and so I was thinking we had already checked that box. I was wrong. Life is not a series of boxes, apparently.

Now. From the very start of this eight-month ordeal, I was told by *people* that once our kids began their grade school career at our particular school (let's call it Hogwarts), we'd be able to STAY there, so long as we were still living in our particular suburb, or school district. They would bend the rules and let you stay, mostly because "Hogwarts" isn't busting at the seams with kids, and therefore it's not so big of a deal to choose one school over another in our district--except that I'm beginning to learn that everything about suburban education is a big f-ing deal, so whatever. This was me all young and naive and believing the playground banter. And it seemed like a bible truth to me, because half of the families that I know up at our school don't live in it's particular territory, but as I was about to learn, opinions expressed during afternoon pick up are not always RIGHT.

As I was informed, when I approached the principle, who told me I needed to write a letter to the District Superintendent and request to stay. Ultimately, the superintendent would decide, but Big J & L's class is on the smaller side, and therefore has three very full classrooms--and "Hogwarts" wants to add another class (and teacher), so if our kids leave the school, then that might solve the Superintendent's problem of having to pay for another salary. You see how that happened? It just got political. It's like the Komen Foundation/ Planned Parenthood debate--EVERYTHING is freaking political, people. It's the nature of society, and to say it isn't is ri-donk-ulous. I'm not going to change that without creating another whole sub-species of humans that can exist without opinions--and I am WAY too tired for that crap, because who has time to clone while MOVING???

But it's even MORE complicated, because we hadn't ACTUALLY found a house yet. So I didn't even have a new address to reference, when begging the superintendent to please, please, PLEASE let my kids stay at Hogwarts. I have 20+ possibilities and an active imagination for placing orange tables within them--but I was seriously doubting that was gonna fly as school-district-worthy criteria. If we cut our house search down to the three square miles that is Hogwarts "zone", well, that gave us five choices, and again, it just didn't sound like we were giving ourselves any kind of freedom. It felt a lot like the opposite of freedom, and EVERYTHING we sold our house for, actually. So, I sat paralyzed and eating baby carrots, because I am still on my diet--but I would very much have liked for them to be bon bons, or Cadbury mini eggs (best. candy. EVA.).

Now is a good time to tell you that I have prayed, RELENTLESSLY, that our next choice would be...obvious. I think we've established that with enough paint, I could be happy ANYWHERE--which is exactly why I need to know, definitively, what the right move is. I assumed this would happen just by playing the odds; that of the 20+ houses we were looking at, some owners would want nothing to do with renting, and a handful would. Once we had that list narrowed down, I figured it would be pretty easy to identify the Lord's hand in all of this, because he would manifest himself as some sort of "nook" or a third floor with slanted ceilings, or a finished basement--and that would be the equivalent of angels descending to earth and blowing trumpets, or something. I'm joking, but I'm not. How many of us envision heaven-on-earth as a large Victorian mansion (or insert your particular brand of architectural porn here), REHABBED with granite counter tops, but retaining all of it's old charm? WTF is wrong with us.

I NEVER envisioned the obvious part of this being the letting go of our school. Or, more specifically, it letting go of us. The school I have grown to LOVE, even though I felt completely foreign there last August. Do you see what I did? We went forward with changing our lifestyle, and I went ahead and latched right on to whatever I could make mine. Whatever I could keep and cling to. Have you SEEN my basement? This is what I DO, people. I hoard everything, including schools.

On day three of my stress-induced baby carrot binge, Mike happened to come home for lunch. For the first time, I asked him how he thought we should move forward. And he said the words I KNEW he was always thinking, but waited ever so patiently for me to be in a place where I could receive them.

We needed to look outside of our school district. We needed to also be looking ONE suburb over, to the school district we thought we would move to when this whole debacle began. There was NO reason not to consider it, since we had no guarantees that we would be able to be back at Hogwarts. It was freaking obvious, but not like that charming sun room I was looking for.

I knew I didn't have an argument, really--and so I jumped on my computer and pulled up listings, and I played my only card, the HEAVY SULK, which REALLY loses it's power in the age of the iPad, because Mike is never actually looking at me anymore. Now he's looking at me on facebook, and my sulk does not translate there, in real time. He suggested that I start with properties that were for rent--and then I sulked some more, because properties that are listed for rent are NOT WHAT WE ARE LOOKING FOR, MIKE. I say this, because properties that are listed for rent are typically more run down and smaller than would work for us (because renters are generally NOT families with four kids).

And blog world, I KID YOU NOT. I sighed, and clicked the "search" button, and listed among the ten houses that popped up was OUR HOUSE. It stood out because of it's street address. Because I KNEW that street. Everyone KNOWS that street. And then I clicked on it's link, and I yelped--and then I panicked, because I KNEW what I was looking at.

A post written six minutes before the Nyquil kicks in.

2012-02-19T23:15:00.000-06:00

...And I just took some Nyquil, so we are on borrowed time here, friends. With the chardonnay and the hour in the hot tub, AND the sleepy-sleepy drugs, I imagine that I am going to knock out cold in seconds, after I regale you with tales of something that is freaking annoying, but wholly insignificant.

If you're wondering why I took Nyquil, it's because I appear fine until 1 a.m., at which time I COUGH for three hours straight. Sleep is killing me, and I don't necessarily need drugs to get better; I simply need tranquilizers that are strong enough to coma myself right through it. I consider this an *organic* choice.

I know you're all REALLY curious to hear about where we will be living. Can't wait to tell you about it, but with the Nyquil and all, this story is likely to involve gangster clowns and unicorns--and that just isn't accurate. Instead, I have been dying to tell you how STUPID it is that every drug store sells 17 brands of razors. It sends me into a tizzy every few months, when my final razor loses it's effectiveness, and I decide it's time to buy more--only to stare, confusedly, at the aisle-long display at Target. They ALL look f-ing familiar. And so I gamble, and it's ALWAYS wrong. And then I play this game six more times, until I get it right....

....or I buy a new razor. Today I went for one that requires a small battery, and I'm not sure exactly why, but I think this means that it can make arts and crafts out of arm pit hair. Hells yeah. But if someone would tell me what congressman I need to call about making it illegal to have 86 brands of razors marketed for women, I would appreciate it--but probably won't remember it unless you post it on my facebook wall, because I have given myself the equivalent of a bottle of wine and a roofie, and I am almost too tired to breathe.

Also, I think I diagnosed the *official* problem today, and it's that my razor holder is from 1998, and that particular model is no longer in service. Because the battery operated one ate it. That is what we call forward-moving progress, people. But as a means of never forgetting my brand of razor again, I plan to have "Schick Quatro" tattooed on my hip/navel. It's just as appalling as a Kermit the Frog tattoo, but able to save me years of drug-store frustration.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna sleep through the next ten days, and wake up in my new bedroom after our impending move. It's gonna be aweeeeeeesome..............................

Today we let it go.

2012-02-16T22:18:00.000-06:00

Today was an exercise in letting go. The prying of the final threads that stick to sweaty fingers and palms; the ones you have to be purposeful about loosening, long after the chord itself has fallen away. And so we pulled up to our house after school, to live in it for our last ten minutes--except that it was a blank box of a house, and my kids imagined it to be a castle, a maze of legos, a house for stuffed hamsters. I chose instead to paint it with memories; of babies born, and birthday parties and bed rest and Christmases.

I KNOW I have to mourn this house. And so I walked through its rooms and talked myself into remembering it with it's once hunter green carpet, the way I fell in love with it. It was SO big then, before the shots of hormones I took for WEEKS in the kitchen, while going through invitro. When we had one, sweet baby--before the Lazy Boy, and the 13 weeks I spent chained to it in the family room. Before going into labor, twice, in our bedroom. Before we brought the twins home with their countless tanks of oxygen. Before I had ever watched my kids--all of my kids-- take their first steps. I can talk myself into believing that the memory of it all stays packed, invisibly in that house--but really, it's just the setting of their baby-hood.

I wondered what today would feel like. The letting-go, on paper. I assumed that the hours of this day would be drawn with heavy shadows--that the adventure and excitement of it all would be balanced in equal proportion by a fear and anxiety that would emotionally cancel everything out, and leave me feeling very paralyzed. But as it turns out, selling our house feels like brushing three sets of small teeth and tying shoes. It was driving to school and taking a shower and checking Facebook every hour. It was also signing some papers and eating some carbs to celebrate. It was cleaning our basement and folding laundry and feeding the kids chicken nuggets for dinner. Letting go feels like every other day, when the threads of their childhood are falling unnoticed from my grasp, as the kids learn to read, and multiply and rollerblade and fold their own clothes. It's always about them; because time is FLYING by in the context of their little lives, and no house or castle or Lego maze can contain it.

And we are HERE, moving on. It seemed like a big decision when we first discussed putting our house on the market, and again when it took over three weeks to pack up our family and move out. We questioned it some--like when we were sure we were going to die in an avalanche of boxes in my in-laws basement, or when we *lost* all of our winter clothes (that we are soon to be reunited with...in MARCH.). And again, when month after month would go by without a contract, and it seemed like we would NEVER have our DVR back again. We loved that house, and our eight years there, and I suppose that for eight months it has been our fall back--but today it was about signing some papers and letting it go.

To set the story for another young family, with one baby...

Let's start at the very beginning, that's a very good place to start.

2012-02-15T22:46:00.001-06:00

So, let's start at the beginning. I'm thinking that by the time I tell you the full and complete story of our new house, the kids will in college and the details will have worked themselves out...so there's no point in not getting started, because let's face it, we're not getting any younger. Well, maybe I am, because I have sipped pure fruit juice, daily, for almost a month (translation: I have earned a tattooed gold star OR a plastic surgery machine, you pick).

If you've been reading this blog for any amount of time, then you know that Mike and I have gotten the itch to "simplify". It seems like it was so many moons ago, that it's almost hard to remember it--but you'll have to take my word for it, that our life had become really *complicated*. And we had made it that way, with owning our own business, and growing that business, and being a member of a country club, and owning a nice house right next to said country club, and having four kids that went to three different schools, and NEVER having enough storage space in a house that had infinite amounts of storage space. We were responsible for juggling So. Many. Things.--as most people are--but ultimately decided we wanted this to be easier. We don't want to live conventionally--and by that, I mean that we don't want to teach our kids that there is only ONE way to do things. That if you are tired or restless, you CAN change. A nice house in the suburbs is NEVER a great excuse for growing complacent, you know?

However. Mortgages, in this day and age, tie us down. And I will tell you, that in his 36-years, and armed with his infinite real estate knowledge, Mike has NEVER rented. He went straight from his parents house into owning a home, and he was a believer in ownership--until he wasn't. And that is what I love about my husband, and why I trust him, without a doubt--he knows when something doesn't work, and he doesn't cling to old mentalities out of convenience or fear. He reminds me that everything we are unsure of now (mainly, WHERE we want the kids to go to school), will be up for debate again in two short years, when G is on the threshold of middle school. Locations based on this decision alone will work today, but may not be as appealing in a year. Instead, we came up with parameters for what our best case scenario is, RIGHT NOW. Right now is what we know.

But also, we have learned that having a big mortgage limits us--and in an ideal world, we would buy a house with cash, or a very tiny loan. No debt. We're just not there right now, but we're working toward it. And so, from the very start of this, when we made the decision to put our house on the market, we always knew we would RENT.

GASP! This goes against everything we are taught to believe as Americans, that owning your own home is the bees knees. It has always been the way we thought, and might be again one day--when we really know what we want. When we're ready for it. We want to really love it. I mean, REALLY love it. Because now, we have all the time in the world to figure it out, and I'm getting fairly good at knowing what it is that God actually wants for us. It's pretty obvious, really--when you are still enough to listen.

The decision to rent doesn't change a lot for us; we were always going to have a monthly payment, and at the end of this, we'll save a little money, but that isn't really the point. For us, this decision has always been about letting go of our mortgage--which gives us the freedom, real FREEDOM, to figure out what comes next and to act upon it in our own timing. We aren't jumping into anything, only to decide we would have been better off somewhere else. Now, that kind of discontentment can happen at any time, BUT, we want to be clear. We want to study our new area. We want to KNOW what we want, because honestly, I'm just not sure. And there is nothing like a good ol' fashioned panic attack to prove that I just don't know--because we are literally changing everything, and mostly this is exciting, but it's served with a side salad of overwhelming. Or maybe it's that we don't have a 25-year landscaping plan, or a vision for where our grandchildren will play someday--and that's somewhat terrifying, when it shouldn't be. All of that will come. But we feel strongly, that in this market, if you are going to buy something, you are committing to it for at least five years--and there is a lot that will change with our kids in that time.

Which brings me to our philosophy on renting. It gets a bad, potential-for-a-meth-lab kind of reputation--because we are a society that covets OWNING, and we don't understand anything else because it's not according to the "plan". Add to that the fact that the stuff that's out there and listed for lease is...pretty dismal. But we were never looking for that. We have been looking at houses that have sat on the market; and there is NO SHORTAGE of them, friends. Homes that are sitting vacant, because their owners have purchased another house and are sweating through TWO mortgage payments. Or, GREAT stuff, rehabbed by developers for a profit--that simply cannot be moved in this market. If you open your eyes, and look unconventionally--there are amazing things out there that you don't have to own. In EVERY neighborhood. You just have to educate yourselves, find the owner that NEEDS a solution, and convince them to trust you aren't going to sell narcotics, or house 14 great danes.

The last bit of back story: Since putting our house on the market, I have always kept one eye open on what's out there. On any given day, in any given month, I could find something to get excited about. But there has always been one house, in particular, that Mike and I have both loved in equal measure. It was ODD. But, surprisingly charming. We could never mess this thing up, because it was so unconventional to begin with--but it met almost NONE of the criteria we had talked about. It had sat on the market for MONTHS--and we were so close to breaking our rules and submitting a contract (for purchase).

Until someone else did it first. But you have to know the rest of the story, to understand that this was miraculous sign #1. Because when our first choice fell apart, we were led, almost immediately to the one, perfect house that has met every parameter we have set since we began this adventure...

I didn't see that one coming.

2012-02-14T21:44:00.000-06:00

Happy Valentine's Day, Blog World!

Now, in years past, I would have regaled you with tales of how I made tissue paper flower bouquets for the kid's teachers, and covered pretzels in red candy coating, and led my third grader's class party (followed immediately by volunteering with L's girl scout troop), and made cupcake fondue for the kids for dessert--and yet still felt like a failure for not fashioning some sort of breakfast food into the shape of a heart. Isn't that the truth, friends--we can use an entire bottle of red food coloring on various valentine baked goods, and yet STILL feel like a douche for NOT waking our children to a balloon arch and magic show (damn you, Pinterest).

But not this year, because I am sort of cutting out all that crafty b.s. in an attempt to streamline this blog. As a disclaimer, I WILL still post about my craft endeavors if: something explodes, or something dies, or I permanently stain my skin, or I permanently scar my skin, or I lose a toe/finger, or I learn how to monogram my skin. But mostly, I am smart enough to know that no one is particularly impressed with my ability to create Abraham Lincoln's likeness out of felt--but rather, you guys are here because my brand of sarcastic, sweat-pant-wearing SEX sells.

There is SO much I want to tell you. SO. MUCH. But I can't--even as I am having the best and worst week of my life, simultaneously. This whole process of finding a new house has been incredibly simple and amazing, until it all became very complicated and life-changing. Just when I thought I was all kinds of flexible, and going with the flow and *unconventionally* free, I find some sort of strong hold that I just can't bring myself to let go of. Boy, do I like to cling to what is comfortable and predictable.

The short of it is--we are moving. SOON. And we are changing school districts, heading into Kirkwood, where we imagined this whole little adventure was going to take us, back before we fell in LOVE with Webster (our current district). Eight months changes everything, friends. But, when I tell you the whole, authorized and unabridged version of the story, I think you'll agree that this is the way it was meant to be. And it is so much GREATER than I could have imagined it would play out--minus the part where my kids have to move schools.

In a month.

What does it cost to raise good kids?

2012-02-12T21:49:00.000-06:00

Blogworld--have you SEEN this video? Probably, because you guys are all technologically-saavy, I'm sure.

I reposted it on my facebook wall on Friday, and it gave me the sweats a little--because it appears that in addition to becoming political, I am also becoming opinionated like an 80-year-old conservative man who believes in the right to bear arms (I know this guy isn't 80, but doesn't it sound like something your crochety grandpa might do?). Please know that it is NOT in my nature to offend; I rather hate conflict. Mike and I have discussed this EXTENSIVELY, and I'm fairly certain we wouldn't have blasted our kid on facebook; nor are we a big advocate of disciplining out of anger--but the overall message, about respect and civility and teaching our kids the consequences of their words...that we do stand by. And while I can't say I would have handled it EXACTLY the same way, I also can't say that the way I raise my children is always right, or good, or effective.

Because mostly, I am overcome with the guilt of wanting my kids to feel LOVED. And there is guilt because I fail at it, daily. There aren't enough hours or hamsters in the day to give them the love and attention they deserve. I selfishly (and often) choose to be on Facebook, when I could be playing a game with them. I don't schedule play dates for my kids when they ask, because I want to just relax. I am easily annoyed. I don't give them enough grace. Or, I give them too much grace and they turn into gremlins. We don't go to the park on 40 degree days because I am cold. We don't paint much because I don't want to clean it up. Thinking about (but not actually finding) a house has consumed all of my focus and energy. I suck.

But the guilt comes with the lie that loving them means always putting them first. Always working around them, their schedules their wants. I'm not talking about meals or the things that are necessary for survival; but rather, the part of us that believes our kids will DIE without real Ugg boots (or insert your own name brand and equally ridiculous item here). I Pod? Car? Laptop? Leapster Explorer? Piano lessons? We live in America, people, so let's not kid ourselves into thinking that we don't believe there aren't luxuries we can't live without. To some extent, this is the way we were raised--that loving means affirming and encouraging and going out of our way to provide what our kids need (and want).

We all know that kids do not live or die by the kind of clothes they wear, or the grades they get, or the friends they have or the houses they live in, right? Giving our kids the material desires of their heart is not necessarily a bad thing--who doesn't LOVE being Santa--but they can become the things our kids hide behind. They are mistaken for personalities and morals. I HATE that, but I also don't know how to separate myself from it, because it's painful for me too, walking that proverbial fine line. The hormonal and still very immature part of our (eventual) teenagers will think that nice clothes and a nice car and a bedroom that looks like Pottery Barn is what LOVE looks like, or worse, that they DESERVE it for the disguise of good behavior. And the part that kills me is that we won't disagree, friends. Our teenagers will feel so distant and out of control that we will want to give them a glimpse of the undying love we have for them, and so we will do it on their terms. But also because a part of us believes it, too. That our kids need to be popular and accepted and wearing the right clothes to "make it" in this world. So we excuse the outbursts and the disrespect because it's just the teenage side of them acting out--and we never consider that some of it will linger as selfish entitlement. And I'm not saying that providing for our kids or giving them the desires of their hearts isn't a good thing (see my Christmas post HERE), but it's only a part of the story.

Right now, my kids feel loved when I play with them. When I take them to fun places that cost money. When I buy them hamsters. When we go out for ice cream. When I see that they are hurt or embarrassed and I hold them for a bit (this doesn't happen so much with a 9-year-old). Their concept of love is very whimsical, and often impractical, and sometimes, quite selfish. They don't feel *loved* when I make them a batch of vegetarian chili for dinner, that they choke down under duress. Or when we have to go to the store after school so that I can make them meals that will serve to mildly annoy them. They are kids, they don't get it--that LOVE takes work, and that a lot of what is involved is mundane and boring and typically not about going to Disneyworld. And then all you have to do is watch the Kardashians, to realize that their are grown adults who don't get it either. I mean, I don't have the depth of knowledge that can really do this justice--but if you can buy whatever you want, if you can hire someone to do everything for you, if you can star in a "reality" show and yet NEVER be seen without make-up--won't it be so much harder to find happiness in a marriage that is tough, and selfish and immature and hard (as they all are, no judgment on just the Humphries/Kardashians)?

And then, enter motherhood. A relationship that is equal parts tough, and selfish, and painful, and immature and freaking hard. And full of GUILT that we are sucking at this. It makes us want to do more, to make it easier, to take away the things our kids will struggle with. And so, every night, I sit with my 7-year-old boy who has ADHD, and without fail he CRIES when he gets a word wrong, and proceeds to sigh and sob and look at me for the answer. He wants this to be easy, and for some kids it is--but it will never be for Big J. I wish he could get through life without having to be stressed about this, and part of me wants to give him that obligatory trophy, just for being awesome. But. He needs to learn to read. He needs to sound out the words, and he has to get better at it, which won't happen if I am always giving him the answers. Answers, by the way, that he always gets to, after he stops feeling sorry for himself. After we sit there for minutes while he bawls about it in frustration. He needs to learn to read, yes--but he also needs to learn how to move past the frustration of not being good at something and come to grips that he is going to have to work harder at this than all his peers. Let me tell you, it feels TERRIBLE. It feels like failure. It feels like pulling out all of his finger and toe nails would be less painful. And that, my friends, is the LIE.

Parenting only works in the context of entire lives. Everyday, this job is a walk in faith that the hard decisions we make will benefit our kids in some way. That letting my kid cry it out in their crib will help them learn to sleep. That not letting my nine-year-old sleepover at every house she's invited to will preserve her innocence a little longer. That switching schools, two years in a row, will not damage her, but challenge her comfort zones instead. That shooting a lap top will make a statement about entitlement that my kid will remember for the rest of her life. I can't guarantee the outcomes my kids will take away from those things, but I can *hope* they'll get it some day--even if it's not until they are chasing a toddler or disciplining a teenager of their own. And if not, I assume that you will point them to this here blog, and they will be overcome with equal parts embarrassment and understanding.

Now. My kids will take away NONE of those lessons if my parenting isn't also characterized by patience, and kindness and grace. In equal proportion. And if I need help in determining when, exactly, to stand up to my kids, and call them on their bullsh#!, and shoot their laptops to bits-- then I certainly also need help in knowing when to shower them with praise, and encouragement and comfort. I suck at that part too, because a lot of what they do is TERRIBLY annoying and hurtful. I have had conversations with my daughter where I have pointed out that her behavior is selfish and that it hurts my feelings--what parent hasn't felt that way? Where we may differ, is that some of you might not agree with laying that out there (age appropriately) for a nine-year-old to process. There is a theory that as parents we need to absorb a lot of the crap that's thrown at us, without reacting in anger--and while I believe that's true (about the anger), I don't think it means not reacting AT ALL. She NEEDS to know what hurts me, she needs to be stirred by it and moved to ask for forgiveness--in the context of a relationship that will ALWAYS forgive her and love her. But she NEEDS to know that it takes work, on both sides. She needs to understand repentance AND grace, because they go hand in hand.

And I am learning that the BIG lessons I need to teach my kids are going to cost me something--my "cool factor" with my kids and their friends, always seeing my kids happy (though this is a myth), my time, my focus, the amount of hours I log on to Facebook. Possibly a laptop, because I think that statement is AWESOME, that the cost of a computer is worth the woman he wants his daughter to be. But the grace and the patience that I am also called to parent with? They are certainly going to cost me my self-righteousness, my need to be right, my pride, my stubborn nature.

Definitely worth it.

The curse of the fourth child.

2012-02-10T17:30:00.000-06:00

So yesterday (also known as the day Little J left his lunch box in the car for the ninth time)--I decided there OBVIOUSLY needs to be a consequence for being careless. It's also important to note, as stated in yesterday's post, that we were looking at our "perfect" house, and I was very ill-prepared to deal with the emotions of lunchbox shenanigans at 8:07 a.m.

And that is when I declared that Little J was going to lose his t.v. privileges for the evening. Because I am noticing a pattern, and a general lack of concern regarding me having to go all the way back home, put on a bra and pants that are NOT pink and polka dotted, and drive up to school in my running costume (to look as if there is purpose to my hot, disheveled mess). He wasn't so concerned about it at the time, but I KNEW we were headed for nuclear annihilation at some point.

Don't feel bad for Little J. Feel bad for the Pioneers--they NEVER had television, and I'm sure (after this ordeal) that they bawled their little, wagon-covered eyes out for entire lifetimes. I tried to reason with him using this argument; he was not so moved. Of all my kids, Little J is most likely to develop a seizure disorder if not allowed access to a television or a Wii. He's everything we SWORE our kids would not stand for! OUR kids were going to solve Rubiks cubes or create entire screenplays while using their imaginations in the back yard, or teach themselves to swim without water. They were certainly NOT going to play video games!

Poor fourth child. Mommy must have given up on feeding you organically and nurturing your intellectual well-being many moons ago.

Today, I actually asked a Star Wars lunch box to define me.

2012-02-09T22:42:00.000-06:00

This morning began with Little J leaving his lunch on our outdoor playground. This makes me crazy for many reasons, but mostly because me running BACK up to the kids school is becoming a habit that I am ill-equipped to deal with before 9:00 a.m. and an I.V. drip of Diet Coke. Which I gave up this month, if you're keeping tabs.

But also, today felt like a day of omens, and I don't really believe in those, except for when I feel like I'm 13-years old again, and the success of any given day can be predicted by whether or not I can get my bangs to stick (no less than) five inches, straight into the air. I suppose I just need SOMETHING, like bang-height or lunchboxes, to trust in today--because we are SO close to loving or losing a house and I need to make (non)sense of it somehow. Or at least I need to believe that it had nothing to do with my *amazing* personality.

{For the record, I did not crimp my bangs and then proceed to tease them, today. In case you were worried. But, sadly, I did kill the ozone layer between 1987--1993.}

Also. This afternoon afforded us an extra hour of time, because Little J lost his television privileges (more on this tomorrow). And in this particular vacuum of the time-space continuum, I managed to coerce/encourage/threaten the boy into writing his valentines, which his teacher requested be sent prior to Valentine's Day--because I don't think she read my blog post about how I have given up all attempts to look like I have my act together (also reference paragraphs 1 & 2 of this post). Except, here is where a small miracle occurred--I purchased STORE-BOUGHT valentines for the boys, which means I am definitely (sort of) evolving from the woman who stays up all night on February 13th, baking 15-batches of sugar cookies and hand-tying them in cellophane baggies with grosgrain ribbon (true story, link HERE). I say "sort of" because the girls are still "making" their valentines; but also, this year was DESTINED to be easier, because Little J has graduated from his preschool class of 40 students, which was a technical, valentine nightmare.

So, I bought myself a few extra hours, but I have to tell you--the Lego Star Wars valentines from Target almost gave me a seizure. I know I'm kind of a Valentine brat, but WOW, $3 just doesn't buy you a licensed cartoon character bedazzled in diamonds anymore, does it? I'm pretty sure I could have bootlegged these babies off the Internet and printed them onto cardstock in various shades of pink, and maybe scalloped the edges. Scratch that--I DEFINITELY would have scalloped the edges, and embellished them in some kind of cool and not-widely-used font (translation: no Comic Sans). They would have been rad.

I suppose the lesson here is that I have visions of grandeur and...radness. And if we are lucky enough to find ourselves in this house we are dreaming of, then I promise to resume my Diet Coke addiction so that I can make it kick ass. Without painting/altering/damaging any of the actual property.

I am having a hard time prioritizing.

2012-02-08T22:10:00.000-06:00

The problem is, I would be happy ANYWHERE.

It's the details that make me crazy--and this is a time for details, apparently. One house is perfect, but it's not in our school's zoned area, and there is a chance that the district won't let us stay. Another house is perfect, but it means we are moving to a whole new district altogether, and we WILL be moving schools. This house is smaller (less to clean!), this house is bigger (more space!). I think I have a favorite, and then I see something shiny, and ooooohhhhhhh, that looks pretty too. Choosing is not my strong suit, which is precisely why I want this to be easy and clear, one obvious choice.

But everything is an obvious choice.

It's the vegetables, it has to be. EVERYTHING looks better next to vegetables, and so I am trying to figure out if I REALLY love these houses (all 57 of these houses) or if I just want to eat them. I'm not sure.

Mike has been PATIENTLY waiting for me to ask his opinion. He's really given me no opinions, which feels a lot like I am drowning in a lot of really small, but really big, decisions about what I'm supposed to like, which ranges from finished basements to the color of cabinets. Until today, when I asked him WHERE we should start looking for a house exactly--and he said the words I KNEW he would, but wished he wouldn't. That we need to open up our search, outside of our school district.

Dear God, NO! I like it there! I'm FINALLY not driving over an hours worth of carpool a day! It's close! We're comfortable! I have a trivia night table! There HAS to be another way!

But he's right. Which is funny, because this scenario he speaks of is precisely the scenario that prompted us to sell our house. I had these dreams of moving one suburb over (which is LITERALLY across the street from our old house), and in those dreams, our house would have sold last summer, and we would have begun the school year there. I wouldn't have shuffled my third grader into this year of limbo, and it wouldn't have ended up being a GREAT year. Better than I thought it would have been back when I was trying to Jedi-mind trick our house into selling. Now, I don't want to leave. I want to stay at our school.

Which is the trick. I grow roots quickly, I fall in love easily. It's pretty surprising that I didn't marry a meth addict, to tell you the truth.

Tomorrow. We are looking at a house that is PERFECT on paper. It is what I imagine my dream house to look like. It is everything we want. I find myself staring at it's pictures, and then talking myself out of love with it, because the popular house never picks the overanxious girl. And unless it has an outhouse, I can't believe that I won't fall hopelessly in love with it, on sight. It is like a GIFT FROM GOD, that's how well it fits our criteria.

Aside from the fact that it's not in our school district.

Which means that, potentially, we are starting this whole adventure all over again.

How I am going to fund a new school wing with lost library books.

2012-02-07T22:30:00.000-06:00

There appears to be a new policy in first grade. One that allows students to borrow THREE library books a week. Because OBVIOUSLY, the library is a fundraiser.

That means, at any given time, there are 11 borrowed library books in our house. Or under or beds. Or being eaten by mice. Except that a couple of weeks ago, I asked Big J where his books were because the math wasn't working out quite right, and he said they were HERE and then I knew we were $38 worth of screwed.

I half hoped they were in his desk and I half hoped that they had spontaneously combusted--because that would mean he wouldn't be allowed to borrow ANY MORE BOOKS until the end of the school year. I mean, it's SO BAD that we have a rule that they are not allowed to take their books out of their backpacks ever, which I know *kind of* defeats the point, but let me assure you--there is no time to READ extracurricular books. We have twins in first grade, which is the year of intense and repetitive and very painful reading, and when we are done with that we are smoking crack to take the *edge* off.

But as it turns out, Big J's books were not in his desk--nor under his bed, or in the hamster cage, or in the black hole that is my mini (van)--and it was looking good, until he came home with 3 MORE BOOKS. Which brings our total up to 14 school library books on any given week, but it's only February, and so I have all kinds of confidence that we are going to be financially responsible for at least 25 books come May--and 15 of them will be on the topic of hamsters, because my girls are OBSESSED with them right now. Not the ones actually LIVING in a pink cage in our house, but the BOOKS that are written about the ones that look EXACTLY like the hamsters living in our house. In an ironic twist of fate, those books are going to cost me more than the hamsters themselves, which is like life, imitating art, imitating hamsters.

We've reached that point in the school year where I have given up on pretending like I have my sh#! together. And by this I mean, I have stopped returning library books AND filling out Little J's Kindergarten reading log. I actually forgot that we were supposed to sell girl scout cookies, until I turned the form in, LATE, this morning--with only our single, sad, sad order for 11 boxes of thin mints. I seriously miss the days when there was less paperwork and door-to-door selling, when reading was something we did all cuddled up on a couch; although back then it had the tendency to feel like I was suffocating in diapers and feeding tubes and velour sweat pants and the same old routines. I guess we've simply traded bibs and sippy cups for ADHD meds and the struggle of CONSTANTLY confusing "that" and "what"--proving this stage (all stages) is awesome in retrospect, but still able to elicit profanities in real time.

Oh, the joy of watching them learn. Which is consistently matched by the frustration of watching them stumble.

What would George Washington say (on Facebook)?

2012-02-03T19:14:00.001-06:00

You know, I had a REALLY riveting post scheduled, about the Justin Bieber songs I listen to while I run--but that all seems incredibly dumb at this point, coming off of yesterday's *very* political offerings. If you are new here, then you should probably know that I am a Republican that likes almost every song BETTER when it's sung by the cast of Glee. Can we still be friends?

On a serious note. THANK YOU for sharing yesterdays post, for commenting, for emailing me, for sending me text messages. Because, true to the self-centered ego that I claim, this makes me feel incredibly important--and as I've proven, I will do anything for you to endorse me on the Internet. Well, anything but porn, to be clear. But if you want me to milk a goat in my beer wench costume, I can probably make it happen.

I think the debate we're talking about is an important one. And I'm NOT talking about the whole Planned Parenthood/ Komen debacle, or the upcoming presidential election, or President Obama's healthcare plan--or any of the MILLIONS of things we could make this about, while we sit back in our nice homes and tell others to be ashamed about issues we are really doing nothing about ourselves. It's about how we live, people. How we treat others, what we unfairly expect, what we think we deserve, what we think OTHER PEOPLE should do about it and what we are willing to do about it ourselves. I'm not asking you to be a Republican--I'm asking you to THINK about how you live your life and what it means. When I said yesterday that I AM the problem, I completely mean it; but I also don't think that gives me license to sit back and be complacent. I need to figure out what I am called to, and I need to DO IT. I cannot fight every fight or every perceived injustice--I just don't have it in me--but I am definitely stirred to do SOMETHING, and I am *fairly* certain my God-given purpose in life is NOT heckling the Kardashians (even though I'm pretty AWESOME at it).

To both sides of the equation, I say this: SOMETHING has to give. Can we agree on that? This current political landscape ISN'T working. And I'm not talking about having a Democratic president; I'm talking about it all just being so selfish, and ugly, and all about money, and impossible to get anything done. We are spending more than we have, PERIOD. I'm not an expert, but that means something NEEDS to be cut. A lot of somethings, actually. And if the whole PP/ Komen debate is any indication, cutting funds is UGLY. People take it personally, and the mud-slinging starts, with the claims that we are taking a good intention and making it about "politics". Well, duh, that's what it's about, people. You can't change it. If the government cuts funding to early intervention programs that help children with developmental delays (I'm using this example, because I am familiar with it, first hand)--then there is BACKLASH. My kids were helped by this very program, no doubt about it--but I struggle with thinking that helping my kids is something my local government may not be able to afford. It's emotional, and it's sad, and it feels like a personal attack for many of us, but the country is DROWNING people. And we're all just so very concerned that none of our stuff gets thrown overboard, that we are sinking right along with it. I don't really think we need to argue over how to tinker with a system that's already overburdened--but it's interesting to consider what I would give up to make it better. What do I bring to the table, so to speak--verses, what everyone else is doing "wrong". I don't really know, but I'm working on it.

Mostly, yesterday's post was just meant to give a voice to those of us (on both sides of the argument) who REALLY hate the mud-slinging. Because I think there can be a voice that doesn't yell, and call names and tell others to be ashamed of what they believe. That isn't who I want to be, and I think that's mostly how you feel too--so I just ask that you THINK about what you throw out there on Facebook. Most of the world doesn't pay attention to the less-angry voices, because they aren't likely to rip the weave off a political candidate, and let's face it, we've come to expect that kind of *entertainment*--so a big THANK YOU to all of those who passed this on and gave it some volume. PLEASE continue to do so, and share your opinions, because I will dance in clogs to earn your comments and to know that you are reading this blog.

Now. Go do some good.

I've really had enough with the over-arching statements of hatred.

2012-02-02T21:45:00.000-06:00

This is a post I want/ don’t want to write, in equal measure. Because it’s scary, and it means we need to talk politics, and in my opinion, politics lead NOWHERE good. Let’s be clear, I am NOT HERE to ram something down your throat--so if at any point you feel the desire to punch me in the face, please, PLEASE, remember that this comes from a good, if somewhat ill-communicated place.

And deep breath.

Let me tell you something about who my husband and I are:

We are parents raising four kids--sometimes well, and sometimes unconventionally, and sometimes disastrously. We live in middle America, Missouri. We own our own business, and at times it is awesome, and at times it is so complicated, that we want to get rid of everything we have and move to the rainforest. Scratch that, the beach (no snakes, killer tan). We have lived in a really nice house on a golf course, and now we want LESS. We have known incredible struggles. We are Christians. We are conservative. We vote Republican.

We have NEVER once put a political sign in our yard. EVER. Because we believe that the *politics* of putting a sign in your yard has become...passive-aggressively, ugly. This isn’t always the reason people do it--so RELAX, those of you who are showing your support for Uncle Steve who is running for State Senate--but in my experience, signs come with a kind of hostility. They are polarizing.   We don’t make it our business, or our general theme in life, to point out the DIFFERENCES we have with our neighbors, and despite even our best intentions, that is what the signs do. Placed even in innocent support or void of malice, these sorts of things breed stereotypes and untruths and prejudices--and we just believe we can be Republicans without them.

We don’t watch Fox News. GASP! We actually can’t handle Fox News, it gives us the shakes. Not because we disagree with it’s content, but we just really can’t stand people whining ALL. THE. TIME. Honestly, I tell my kids to knock that sh#! out, so I certainly am not going to listen to it during the two hours I have to relax and unwind at night. No thankey, and that goes for you too CNN, and MSNBC, and all your counterparts.   I am no political expert, but I educate myself when I feel like I need to, and I am confident that I know WHERE to find information.   The Internet seems to have a lot of it. The economy sucks, unemployment rates suck, the real estate market sucks--I don’t need to hear about whose *alleged* fault it is. I KNOW who’s to blame--I AM, because I am selfish and ego-centric, and there is a part of me that thinks I deserve everything I want. We are ALL part of the problem, friends--and this is the Christian part of me that believes we are DESTINED to screw this up. The Bible tells me that, but even if you think the Bible is a load of crap, can you REALLY argue that this isn’t what human beings do--just look at history. Tell me who has gotten it right?

Which brings me to my point--the things that people are posting on Facebook and Twitter, regarding the Komen’s Foundation’s decision NOT to support Planned Parenthood. Good golly.   I am conservative, I am pro-life--I am not a woman-hater, I am NOT out to destroy the freedom of my gender. You can tell me I am, but I can assure you, I’m not. I do not bomb abortion clinics, or yell and condemn the women who visit them. I HURT for them, I’m terribly saddened by the circumstances that got them there, and for the scars they will carry for a lifetime. I would like to make them candy covered pretzels and craft a flower out of felt for them, because this is my love language. Or give them a hug, if I was a hugger.   I LOVE a handful of women that I know personally, who have had abortions--all of them as teenagers--who came to their decisions out of a place of desperation. I HATE that young girls AND grown women have to face that kind of fear. I do not think I am any better than someone who has struggled with this decision. When Mike and I were expecting our triplets and my water broke with our son Caleb, we were given the option of “aborting” one son, for the sake of Big J and L--and no matter what side of the fence you sit on, that kind of responsibility is enormous, and the weight of those words is heavy and sad. And this is coming from a woman with the support of her husband and family, with the resources to care for her children and to seek medical care. I am devastated for women who have to make that choice in secret, and who hide that kind of pain for years, or lifetimes because they fear judgement. I am pro-life, I do not believe that abortion is the only choice under terrible circumstances; but I don’t believe that not having an abortion means I am going to heaven and that all pro-choice advocates are morally corrupt, baby killers who are going to hell.

I think the Susan G. Komen Foundation has done AMAZING things for women’s health. I think they’ve rallied a nation behind a deeply, personal cause and that they care so much about what they do, that they are REALLY good at raising money to support it.   I also think, that at the end of the day, that kind of money breeds distrust, and that’s incredibly sad. I’ve heard arguments, years before this sh#! storm, that the attention brought to breast cancer awareness tends to take focus and funds away from some of the other cancers. Jealousy between life-threatening cancers is the bottom of the barrel, I think. As is taking the spirit of a non-profit organization who’s desire is to do GOOD, and telling them they are worthless, spineless, political pawns. I would LOVE to say this isn’t political, and at the heart of breast cancer awareness, I don’t think it is--but there isn’t a company or organization on the planet that can raise that kind of money and have that kind of attention placed upon them, that won’t be turned political. With their success, comes THOUSANDS of opinions about HOW they should spend that money and where it should go, and a critical distrust of how they carry themselves. They are DESTINED to leave someone empty-handed, certain to come up short, no matter what their budget. There is NEVER enough, friends. They are trying to cure cancer and they STILL can’t please everybody; even worse, they are inspiring actual, seething hatred.

Which is where the Facebook propaganda really gets me. I think the Komen Foundation has the right to fight cancer the way they see fit. I stand by their choice, I think the world is a better place for the work that they do, and that doesn’t make me ignorant, or an anti-feminist, or someone who wants to see underprivileged women die of cancer--I just have a different opinion. I didn’t vote for President Obama, and I don’t agree with some of his policies--but I’m not going to call him an idiot and spew hatred at him every chance I get. I freaking hate that--oh, that makes my blood boil.   What a way to teach our kids how to be divisive and hostile and stubborn, because they HEAR that, friends. I am certainly *trying* to model respect, for the simple fact that he is the PRESIDENT of the UNITED STATES--even when it’s the more popular choice to jump on an incredibly immature bandwagon. Whether I voted for him or not, I am under his authority, because that’s how this country works and I am welcome to go elsewhere. But I rather like it here, and if I REALLY want to change things, I am welcome to DO SOMETHING about it, create a foundation to raise money and awareness, run for Congress--you name it. Except that I generally choose to watch the Kardashians against ALL OF MY BETTER JUDGEMENT, and that is further proof that I AM the problem with this country.

You all are welcome to discuss this with me. RESPECTFULLY. Because I can love you all, and deeply appreciate you--and we can STILL be different. I am okay with that. I will still laugh at your jokes and cherish your comments, even if we disagree--but probably not if you YELL your seething hatred of me (in all caps, fyi--that’s internet speak for screaming). I will try, but it’s gonna hurt a little, and I’m gonna cry, and then I’m gonna write a sarcastic response.

Sold.

2012-02-01T19:40:00.000-06:00

Did I forget to mention that our house is UNDER CONTRACT? Well, it is.

I think I mentioned it casually, and maybe that's because my feelings are...neutral. Not because I am sad to see it go, but because we are already living in what feels like a never-ending state of limbo, and this might simply be a detail that may/ may not bring big and immediate changes. Living in my in-laws basement for eight months has put a BIG gap in the typical process of moving--because half of the move is already done for us, and now it feels as if we have all the time in the world to look for a house, to be sure, to be wise, to be careful. Eight months is a lot of distance--it means I am less likely to rush, less likely to jump blindly, less likely to pursue something that looks great without thinking through how it works for us. These are AMAZING circumstances, however, they aren't necessarily inspiring me to quick action or excitement, because eight months is enough time to get myself settled here, and fill my days with lots of other projects and ambitions. Life just keeps on keeping on, and being without an *exact* deadline kind of means that I could nit-pick the hell out of lots of little insignificant details, only to FREAK out when we are approaching a new school year and have yet to find a house in our preferred district. There is NO DOUBT, we are wiser consumers through it all, but it means our new house might be on the market, or it might be in a tree tent in the Amazon, or it might be a motor home, or we might be waiting a while. It's all very paralyzing, which is my way of saying that I would rather drink juice and watch the Kardashians than have to figure it all out right now, or think about packing up our basement home anytime soon.

This is the moment we've been waiting for. Dreaming of, actually. The blank slate, the chance to do things differently, the opportunity to be bold. Except that I don't know HOW to do that exactly, or what I really want. Some days I want vegetables and some days I want red meat. Most days I want something small and cozy, and other days I want 6,000 square feet. But mostly, I didn't let myself think about it much, aside from the fact that I REALLY want to repaint my dining room table a fun color like pink or orange. THAT is, so far, what I envision our next home to look like--an ORANGE f-ing table.

I apologize for the lack of posting about our current housing situation--I suppose that when we moved into my in-laws basement, I sort of thought there was going to be an endless amount of blog fodder to work with and be inspired by, particularly as I had to be "retaught" how to record TV programming on THREE different TV's with VHS tapes, because my in-laws are totally against DVR technology. But then I just up and quit most TV altogether, and right around the time that American Idol was set to crown the new Emperor of the Universe--I walked away COLD TURKEY. And imagine that, I didn't die or sprout a tumor out of boredom. I am still living out of boxes, and every night I sleep within 1.5 feet of industrial shelving that holds stuff I haven't touched in EIGHT MONTHS--and it has all just become the new routine. The new comfortable. So much so, that just thinking about moving all of this useless crap (and the two PODS worth, just like it), makes me tired. Am I'm just not so sure I can handle moving (again) and being a vegetarian, so something is going to have to give, and it probably means that cows are going to have to die so that I can find a new house.

My point here is that anything becomes normal when you do it long enough. You too could be come an aborigine, or sail the world, or only eat tree nuts--just give it eight months, and it will feel common. As it turns out, I am somewhat happy here, in this state of limbo that was only supposed to be a 4-8 week layover on our way to happily ever after. Huh. I'm beginning to think the lesson in all of it, the breaking with the routine, the letting go of what feels secure, the "redefining" of what makes me happy--is that, HONESTLY, I am happy anywhere. I see houses with big, open spaces, and I can envision the way they will work. I see ugly houses, and I know the potential they have. My husband and family? They make this an adventure, no matter where we go. Mike especially; he is NOT content with growing complacent, or routine, and he is SO confident that the next thing will ALWAYS be better than the last. I never used to have that ability to trust in the progressive happiness of life, but I KNOW he has changed that about me. I am sentimental, and that tends to make me believe that nothing could top the things I hold dear; until another baby is born, or we go on another vacation, or we move to another house, and thus continues the never-ending cycle of believing that things could never be better than where they are, right now. Which isn't perfect JOY necessarily, it's comfort and security. It's what I know and trust, over the thing that's coming up on the horizon that seems vague and only faintly distinguishable. We decided to sell our house, because we were stirred to discover the things we LOVE but aren't even aware of--you guys, there is SO MUCH of it out there if you are willing to look and try something different.

Sometimes, I forget who I am. I become about houses and furniture and school districts--when I used to be about burning the crap out of my very white skin throughout my childhood in Hawaii, moving to Indiana, chasing a boy to St. Louis, WAITING for that boy in St. Louis, making a new life in places where I knew nobody, having kids, watching my husband survive cancer, going through in-vitro, watching my twins survive EVERYTHING being wrong with them, having a SURPRISE baby (Little J). My happily ever after really looks NOTHING like I imagined; it's not big and comfortable and easy. There was A LOT of change, a lot of redefinition. But I'll be damned, it's been pretty happy--all of it. I love where I grew up, I love the friends I have from every season of life, I love the kids I birthed, I LOVE my husband, I love that seeing him through cancer and losing a child softened me (when it could be very much the opposite), I LOVE the time we spent in the NICU. There are dark days, but the seasons are full of JOY. MY story is a happy one friends, just told with a very sarcastic edge.

And so, that's really where we are with the house. Waiting to figure out where this story is going to continue. Some days I just want to know already! And other days, I just sit--content. And some days, it just seems really important to figure out what pool we'll be able to go to this summer, which is precisely when the SARCASM kicks in, because that is just stoo-pid.

At the end of the day, we will live in a house--any house really--where we are happy. The possibilities are endless, blog world.

The great paint pouring experiment.

2012-01-31T21:50:00.001-06:00

I have another Art Fest post to share, because it is really cool, and my artist-friend who helped with this created an AWESOME video, that makes it all look so purposeful and amazing. Which it was. Kids are FASCINATED with pouring paint, fyi--probably because it's ingrained into their actual souls that they are never, NEVER to pour house paint on anything or risk actual death. Unless being supervised (and video taped) at Art Fest, of course.

And in case your wondering, the wooden structure we are pouring paint upon was, in fact, the focus of my mental breakdown in the week leading up to the big event (link HERE). You know the one--where I went ape that Mike bought "good" wood for this project, to the tune of $30, when I was thinking he could ravage dumpsters to collect what we were needing. What he took away from this meltdown was that he needed to make ANOTHER wood structure, that was BIGGER. {Sigh.}

But also, what I LOVE about this project is that I proposed it to my friend Jeff, as sort of a way to interact with kids in an artsy sort of way. Which is FUNNY, because he is a photographer, and an artist, and a juggler, and an all-around entertainer, so WHY I had to stick my fingers into his creative space is unclear to me (and probably him). I was trying to be helpful, by masterminding an incredibly complicated plan, I suppose. And seeing as I had never actually coordinated Art Fest before, or even ATTENDED it--I had no REAL idea of what a goat rodeo it was. Honestly, I imagined it with white Christmas lights and paper lanterns and FABRIC BUNTINGS (my favorite!), and lots of volunteers, and all of it a very pretty kind of Carnival. For real.

In any case, Jeff was going to display his REAL talents, which at that point, did not include supervising children pouring paint. But 150 kids (and their parents) is a CRAP TON of people, fyi--and it just all became an exercise in survival, and pleasing the masses of children--which meant it became two-hours of constant paint pouring. It is incredibly cool to watch house paint flow and swirl together in real time, but it's even more incredible to see it edited on video, to music--through the eyes of someone with pretty amazing artistic capabilities. It might not have been a great showcase of his talents, but he certainly turned it into something incredibly cool and amazing.

As a side note, if you are ever planning a messy play day, or an Art Fest, or an art party--this is a GREAT project. So long as your husband can build you a simple-wooden-pedestal-looking-thingy (or you freak out and he produces FOUR of them), and you can round up some old house paint (call me, I have 40 cans)--the kids will have an amazing time pouring paint and watching how it moves. They don't get to do that kind of thing enough--WATCHING the art of simple movement--because we are always focused on an end product, and not necessarily the process (guilty, right here). The nice thing is that at the end of it all, this monster actually does make a pretty neat looking piece of art.

So. Check out the video, and be sure to take a look at the rest of the stuff Jeff does at Tall Hippo (link HERE). And that, folks, is my official Art Fest wrap-up!!!

The lazy vegetarian: An oxymoron

2012-01-30T21:57:00.000-06:00

Oh, right. This is why I'm not a vegetarian, or a healthy eater, or a person who eats fruits and vegetables on a daily basis--because it is a crap-ton of work.

This morning, Mike juiced some questionable looking broccoli--to which I turned up my nose and said NO WAY, because I am becoming one of THOSE people, who can't even look half-dead broccoli in the eyes. Mostly because they don't have eyes, but also because I'm pretty sure it's not giving me anything good if it's turning yellow, and if that's the case, I am NOT drinking it as a liquid; just like I'm NOT wearing Tom's without the label, because then what's it really doing for me, you know? That stupid Tom's story is really some kind of metaphor for my whole, entire life, I think. But as it relates to the vegetables, Mike argued, legitimately, from a waste standpoint; and I held firm to my nutritional value/ faux-organic high horse. Legitimate vegetarians, discuss.

After that little philosophical debate, I decided to go to the grocery store this morning, because the broccoli is just one of millions of pieces of evidence that we are down to the DREGS when it comes to food in this household. I'm talking about kale that is wilting and stuff going mushy and the weird chicken nuggets at the bottom of the bag that got mutated into odd shapes in the chicken press at the factory. All of it is just really, really sad--and very unlike the general theme of greenness and health and sustaining life that we are all about this month! Or at least until I have that photo shoot in my underwear.

Since deciding to add solids back into my diet, I've done a pretty good job of sticking to fruits and vegetables--with some small amounts of brown rice, and the occasional egg beater (CRAZY!). I'm *trying* to see how long I can go without meat, just for fun--which is interesting, because it's really not fun at all, and so I think I may have my purpose confused. Also, I am clinging to a plan that cuts BREAD and PASTA out, for the most part, for good--and it's not all that difficult, unless you go to Cici's Pizza (like we did yesterday for lunch), and you kind of wish you could trade an ass cheek for a slice of sausage pizza. Because that would be a solution that would solve ALL the world's problems, really--if liposuction at a pizza bar didn't sound so vomit-inducing.

But. I made it through my Cici's lunch of iceberg lettuce with (my splurge) ranch dressing, and then Mike and I went to look at Open Houses, which is like a whole 'nother post on stuff that is a sh#! ton of work right now. I survived until dinner, at which point, I made myself a variation of the salad/veggie combo I've had for five days straight now--tomato, some corn, green onions, black beans, cilantro, avocado, a little lime juice. If you heat it and put it over rice, it's like a Mexican bowl, and it's delicious, but I predict that it is going to get REAL OLD in about nine seconds.

Which is precisely how I found myself at TWO grocery stores this morning, shopping for the FRESHEST asparagus--because apparently, I have standards and opinions about that now (WTF?). I need the asparagus to roast for my other go-to vegetarian meal, the chopped salad with sunflower seeds and carrots and peppers and light Asian dressing. FYI, prior to eight days ago, I didn't "roast" anything for lunch, unless this term loosely applies to microwaving something that comes out of a cardboard box, or whatever process it is that McDonald's uses to cook their *meat*. Because, as we are learning, roasting is a lot of work.

I mean, not really. But REALLY. Because I had to hunt down "good" asparagus at TWO STORES-- then I had to prepare it, and bake it, and wash the lettuce, and cut the other veggies, and dry the lettuce and mix it all together and then wash the dishes. Or not wash the dishes, because I was OVER all this work it takes to make something that doesn't taste like steak. There is also a bundle? A bunch? A trifecta? of beets sitting in my refrigerator, asking to be cooked, or roasted, or steam blasted, but it feels like a gigantic trap of MORE WORK, and so I am leery. After I braise said beets, I also need to figure out *how* exactly to eat them? Which sounds an awful lot like they will be tossed in a salad of lettuce, and carrots, and peppers, and asparagus, and sunflower seeds--and wait a minute, it sounds like we are back to my standard salad PLUS beets. It's like a vegetarian ground hogs day--which is a little different, because OBVIOUSLY, vegetarians don't eat ground hogs.

Pinterest is helpful for finding some variety, but every recipe I'm drawn to includes black beans/avocados/corn/tomatoes/cilantro (Doh!) and all other new recipes call for something I've never heard of, that needs to be purchased at an ethnic store (grocery run #3), washed, chopped, cooked, and tossed or baked (again). And I'm tired, after JUST reading the 30 various directions. Which is precisely how I found myself in the 10+ pound pickle of eating $.42 mac-and-cheese everyday, because there were only four ingredients and one pot. So for now, I am trying ONE new Pinterest recipe a week, and clinging to the promises that some of the boards I follow claim: that not drinking soda and eating fruits and vegetables instead of bread will give me AB muscles. Because if you didn't know it, Pinterest is totally an Internet doctor/nutritionist, with an interest in crafts and all things Etsy, fyi.

I am pop culture on the clearance rack.

2012-01-29T17:57:00.000-06:00

Mike: Ugh, does that tag come off? It's huge and it looks TERRIBLE on those shoes.

Me: Um, why would I take the tag off? Then how will anyone know that I am COOL?

Thanks to a friend of mine, a REALLY great sale, and the omnipresent power of facebook, I scored these sequined Tom's for $23 on Friday. It was so important that I drove my rabid monkeys (translation: children) across town after school on FRIDAY--the time at which their rabies is MOST pronounced--on the chance that the store would have a pair of Tom's that wasn't hot pink, in a size 7.5. They had ONE pair, in the color/sequins I wanted, so really it was like the voice of God that led me there and patiently suppressed the urge to break into a diatribe regarding the VERY BIG difference between actual errands like the post office (that make me want to LOSE MY MIND) and the fun "privilege"of shopping for clearance rack shoes that may-or-may-not provide a second pair of shoes to an underprivileged child (I'm unsure of Tom's sale policy). On this particular outing, however, the Holy Spirit could only handle so much, and so it lived in the hearts of children by promising HOURS of Wii play for those who did not: 1.) whine 2.) tell me this was boring or 3.) scream loud enough to alarm passers-by while I slipped into the store for 3.7 minutes to buy their sole pair of sized 7.5 Tom's.

If millions of other people didn't buy these shoes, I would probably think they were the ugliest things I have ever seen. But I buy into pop culture--hell, I am Mrs. Pop Culture--and so that is precisely how I find myself wearing shoes that are mostly like sturdy socks, throughout a Midwestern winter. Particularly, with skinny jeans that leave a little of my flesh exposed the elements, because that's how someone *cool* like Paris Hilton or Khloe Kardashian or {insert someone equally atrocious HERE}, who lives in CALIFORNIA, does it.

Crap. In theory, I'm all for a world without Kardashians-- but I'm beginning to think my clearance sale Tom's and my tendencies toward teaching my children the lyrics to LMFAO's "I'm Sexy and I Know It", might unintentionally be responsible for Bratz dolls and slutty Halloween costumes for toddlers.

Crap.

My husband’s hobbies include burning things

2012-01-27T21:26:00.003-06:00

Happy Friday, friends!

I am ushering you into the weekend with footage of our annual Christmas Tree Burn. Which was *conveniently* scheduled for the day IMMEDIATELY after the women's retreat I helped to plan, and four days before Art Fest. Despite being in the eye of the volunteering storm, the evening was fun--and alternately FREEZING and BURNING HOT.

Mike started this little tradition in the back yard of the house we are selling--not his *wisest* decision. When it was clear we were breaking oh-so-many fire codes, the event was moved to various fields that are not near ANY houses. Safer, but still terrifying. Fire just isn't in my blood, people; but it is for my husband and his brother, who once thought it BRILLIANT to kill the moles in his parents yard by pouring gasoline into their tunnels and setting them on fire. Um. THAT is how you catch an entire yard on fire, in case you're wondering.

For WEEKS ahead of the "BURN", as we'll call it, Mike would scour tree recycling sites--there was such an excitement in it for him, but to me it just seems like a TON of work. To burn something. And then it occurred to me, that this is what Mike thinks about Hobby Lobby, and learning the art of crochet (or fill in your craft of choice). A ton of work for a flower made out of yarn. Touche, Mike. Touche. If burning something is your creative outlet, then I say GREAT! Just don't do it in front of the children, lest they get the (genetic) idea to chase the varmin out of our yard with flames.

This weekend, I *might* start thinking about what life would be like if we weren't living in my in-laws basement. But I'm not gonna lie, that sounds like a crap ton of work, too. Update on the house coming next week. Peace out.

I ate the earth and it simulated the symptoms of rabies.

2012-01-26T21:39:00.000-06:00

Scratch that.

On Juice Cleanse Day #4.5, I wasn't starving, or bored--I was filled with RAGE. Deep, dark, heavy, RAGE--at my kids for eating a cookie at the grocery store, at the grocery store for selling food, at God for MAKING food, at Mike for noticing the smell of the kid's food, at the person who lent us the devil's tool (the juicer), at the farmers who grow food. You name it, I wanted to spew profanities at it and beat it to death. And then cook it over an open flame and EAT it. Enter the MADNESS.

On a normal day, the hours between 3:00-6:00 p.m. are undoubtedly, the hardest; I am most likely to snack on goldfish or cookies or whatever is sitting on my counters and wash it down with a fresh diet coke. During the juice cleanse, this desire is still present--however, when it is offered a sacrifice of natural fruit and vegetable juices, it becomes ANGRY. Like, foaming-at-the-mouth ANGRY. Being on a juice cleanse is a lot like having rabies, apparently.

So. I stuck with the plan and I drank the juice, and clearly I wasn't hungry anymore--but I had developed a violent hatred for lemons (previously my go-to fruit) and, as previously stated, I was just really, REALLY filled with rage. I made my kids what smelled like the MOST delicious casserole ever eaten by man, and then I cried a little, and then Mike and I went ahead and mixed ourselves up an asparagus/ tomato/ cilantro/ lemon/ broccoli/ eggplant combo, except that I also added a beet--and I'm just not sure what the procedure is on juicing a beet, because it tasted like dirt, and I'm thinking I should have peeled it. I did scrub it for like, 10 minutes, but there is just no way to make a beet NOT appear dirty (red flag). In any case, I heated it and tried to pretend it was soup, but who are we kidding, it was like eating the actual, unseasoned earth.

I should tell you, that Mike watched this movie "Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead", and that's where this whole adventure into shock therapy started; I however, got the Clif's Notes version from him, and decided to *roll* with it. I kept waiting to feel AMAZING--and while I suppose I do have more energy to play with the kidlets, this is somewhat overshadowed by the fact that I feel as if I might kill them if they don't hit the "Proud Mary" routine on Just Dance 2. So then, I got online and decided to research this whole "juice cleanse"--and apparently there are some opinions out there that this is a REALLY bad idea, particularly if you are leaning heavily on the fruit juices, because it can throw your blood sugars WAY out of whack. And while I am throwing lots of greens into my juices, there is no doubt I am drinking something like 15 oranges and lemons a day. Too much? Because I think "the rage" might be me slipping in-and-out of diabetes. Or, it's possibly the toxins leaving my body, depending on who you talk to. I don't even know anymore. If I could put this in terms of aviation (why the hell not), I can't even tell the difference between the sky and the ground. Or I'm flying by sight in a fog storm. Or the oxygen masks are about to release, and I need to save myself before I help the children. It's baaaaaaaadddd, people.

I'm not gonna lie. I was so desperate, that last night I ate the broccoli out of the kid's dinner casserole. And it was freaking GLORIOUS--and that was the moment I knew the cleanse had worked magic, when I tasted broccoli and almost wept out of sheer GLORY. That broccoli was glowing and it has officially saved my soul--and I just knew I couldn't go back to a diet of strict juices. It would be irresponsible, really. I believe that after four days, I have been officially "cleansed"--but instead, am now aiming to stay with a combination of juices and a fairly raw/vegetarian diet for a while longer. This seems like a good compromise, and the right thing to do, because the rabies symptoms have subsided and I no longer imagine that the children smell like chicken all the time. Bonus.

As I continue to hallucinate on vegetables, I will keep you up to date. You're words of encouragement, or mockery, or you're advice that I might (inadvertently) smell like cabbage have made this WORTH it, friends.

Boredom makes me want to eat straight mayonnaise.

2012-01-25T21:08:00.001-06:00

On Day #4, I am finding myself...bored. I cleared all obligations and scheduled activities this week, mostly out of fear that I would be chained to a toilet (not the case), but also to keep my calorie burning to a minimum--lest I go for a run, or chase children at the playground, or clean the house, and become dizzy and stumble and DIE. I can think of nothing worse, than for my obituary to read that I perished while juice cleansing; instead I am holding out hope that I will go quietly in my sleep while parachuting. Or something equally as peaceful and bad ass and fearless.

Because here's the thing: when I am bored, I want to EAT. Something, anything, straight mayonnaise even. You know you have food issues and PROBLEMS if straight mayonnaise--or condiments in general, really-- are tempting. And it's not just the mayonnaise, but ANYTHING besides juice. Even whole grains sound amazing, despite my previously expressed hatred for anything natural and "healthy". The heart of this battle is NOT that I am starving--but that my tendency toward TERRIBLE choices is really hard to break. If I load up on juice every couple of hours and stay ahead of the hunger curve, I am great. I'm not tired (but I am getting 9+ hours of sleep every night so that I forget I am hungry). I've learned the secret to making the juice palatable, and it is LEMONS--in everything, because it covers that nasty vegetable taste/aftertaste. What I'm saying is that if you buy a big bag of lemons at Sam's Club, this entire experiment is completely do-able--aside from the part of me that wants to eat MAYONNAISE or raw oatmeal. RIGHT NOW.

The problem is NOT the juice. The problem is the thousands of bad and tempting choices that I face everyday. You can keep this in the context of food, or you can really apply it to...EVERYTHING. How I spend my time, how I raise my kids, what I choose to volunteer for, how I spend my money--you name it, there is a "healthy" way, and there is a way that I justify not-so-great choices out of convenience, or comfort, or because everyone is doing it, or because I "deserve" it. I drink gallons of Diet Coke, and I gain weight, and I run to neutralize it all out, and I'm tired, and I'm constantly feeling like I am a few miles behind having everything together. I know that's my season of life, and it's who I am at the core; I would NEVER be happy sitting idle and not sticking my nose into some kind of project. But perhaps the thing that needs to go, at this point, is the way I treat my body and how I fuel myself. And maybe making wise choices here, will inspire changes in other areas of my life and my time, because it is amazing how clearly we see when we strip away some of the crap. This new routine is HARD--oh, so HARD--but everyday that I stick with it makes me a lot less likely to drive through McDonald's next week. Written as I gulp down a broccoli/yellow pepper/carrot/apple/lemon juice.

As I mentioned before, sacrificing my 84-ounces of Diet Coke hasn't been an issue at all, and I think that's because it's a liquid, and I am so f-ing done with liquids right now, it's not even funny. However, if Diet Coke was a baked good covered in buttercream frosting, I'd have *real*problems--as opposed to the one's I am making up in my head (i.e., craving straight mayonnaise).

Also, quick side note: Mike and I DO NOT own a juicer. However, at least 10 people we know do. You know why? At some point, everyone thinks this juice-kick is an AWESOME idea. Maybe not as a 14-day (or what is likely becoming a four day) cleanse, but as more of a long-term way to add fruits and veggies into one's diet. But then they blend some parsley and celery with a couple of apples--and it is freaking AWFUL, and they vow never to do that sh#! ever again, because feeling good and 10+ years of life is NOT WORTH IT. And this is mostly because they didn't use LEMONS, but still, they have this fancy juicer sent to them by Satan himself. We borrowed our juicer from one of those friends.

The point here, is not to document a juice cleanse for any of you who might be tempted by my GLOWING and POSITIVE reviews! I think we ALL know each other better than that. The point is to bring you along on this painful little journey, so that you can see what it looks like for me to make some big changes and to show you that drinking straight juice for four days isn't going to kill me. In the words of Kelly Clarkson, it's going to make me STRONGER.

Or, at the very least, it gives me something to blog about. That's a win for you, friends--and you don't even have to juice any kale. You're welcome.

If this juice cleanse is a horror movie, then my free will is the girl that will not die..

2012-01-24T21:44:00.000-06:00

Conversation prior to the start of the juice cleanse:

Mike: You know, you're going to feel hungry, all the time.
Me: I think I can handle it, I mean, what's the difference between this, and being on Survivor?
Mike: Nothing really--except you know you're not on Survivor, right?

**********

Whatever, Mike. If you've read my post about leaving my purse in a shopping cart at Sam's Club, two days before Christmas, then you would know my life is VERY MUCH like being on Survivor: American Suburbs. Only here, they serve non-stop diet coke and left over mac-and-cheese, and let me tell you, that feels almost as bad as a juice cleanse.

So, here's the thing, friends. Two days, 4.5 pounds down. I almost couldn't believe it myself, but then I remembered that I am only DRINKING FRUITS and VEGETABLES, and it made more sense. Honestly, the weight loss is NOT the point of this--Mike and I really needed some kind of drastic kick to get us out of our very unhealthy habits--but I aint gonna lie, it's a really nice side effect. Especially since I'm having my pictures taken in my underwear (in a hotel room) in about 5 weeks. I know you're gonna find this hard to believe, but once again, it's NOT PORN.

Because I know MANY of you are interested, this cleanse hasn't posed much of an issue for my *bowels* or their various functions. As in, there has been NOT ONE trip to the bathroom. Probably because everything is juiced, and my colon is sitting unused (official medical diagnosis). I pee alot, but then again, I'm drinking A LOT. At some point, I assume this "cleanse" is going to make me feel AMAZING and I expect to start glowing like a Cullen in about 12 hours--but mostly, I am agonizing over just how much I want to eat goldfish, or pretzels, or cheese cubes, or anything that isn't fruits and vegetables, really. This is a mental battle, and Lofthouse cookies have WAY more power over me than I expected.

The truth is that I find myself FANTASIZING over what I'm going to eat in 11 days. Or less than 11 days, because I am also quite fond of cutting this cleanse short. Mostly, I will see a half eaten chicken nugget and think "Ohhhhhhmyyyyyyyyygoddddddddddd, I really want that chicken nugget"--and then I think, wtf, it's a cold piece of artificial meat that my kid has slobbered on. And it's in those moments of desperation over a gross piece of faux-meat that I get what it is I'm doing here.

I'm pretty sure I haven't gone more than 24 hours without a Diet Coke in YEARS. Literally, YEARS. I wasn't so worried about having to give it up, because I drink so much of it, that honestly--it gives me headaches. There was very little doubt that I was going to feel better on a daily basis, simply from that standpoint alone. Caffeine withdrawal has not been an issue--or at least, not nearly as much as FOOD withdrawal. See, it's all relative.

Last night, I slept for almost 10 hours, because it was 9:30 p.m. and I was starting to feel hungry--but NOT in the mood to peel some fruit, and juice some fruit, and drink some fruit and then wash the 20 different parts of the juicer that are caked with fruit rind. So instead, I closed my eyes and delayed the process by 10 hours. Lack of sleep, as it turns out, is probably one of the reasons I feel like crap on a regular basis--and by 10 p.m. on this juice cleanse, I just don't have the energy for anything besides hibernation, so that's a bonus too, I guess.

As I write this, we are bringing Day #3 to a close; it has gone by remarkably smoother than I expected it to. Maybe that's because I discovered that you have to put half a lemon in EVERYTHING--it disguises the nasty vegetable taste. Or, maybe I was better at pacing my meals today. Or maybe my body is getting used to it all. There's no way to be sure, but I am definitely encouraged to keep this little experiment up for a few more days.

Do any of you use a juicer on a regular basis? Any secrets you care to let me in on? What about experience with a "cleanse"? Anybody? I'm desperate for tips, secrets, expectations, encouragement? If you have any, do share.

Dissecting the beast.

2012-01-23T21:25:00.001-06:00

Let's talk about Art Fest, friends. Because let's face it, it was my LIFE for eight weeks straight, and if I don't blog about it, then it will be like a bear didn't crap in the woods or a tree fell and no one heard it--or whatever corny saying that means it doesn't ACTUALLY exist until I blog sarcastically about it on the Internet. For future reference, when some one asks a question about validating the existential existence of something or other, the appropriate response is no longer "Is the Pope Catholic?", but rather "did someone hash it's details out on Blogger?".

This project was a helluva lotta work. And not in a way that's exaggerated for Internet effects, but that it was ACTUALLY a crap ton of work, and probably the closest I have ever come to having an aneurysm. From the start, I understood what this event was all about--creating a night of art projects and demonstrations for our student body--however, I was new to the concept of leading a PTO committee, and as we all know, my ideas for grandeur and details and crafting and themeing can *arguably* be compared to the vision Bruckheimer has when bringing a prison break to life, but on a fraction of the budget. So right off the bat, I am sort of screwed.

Because here's the other piece of the puzzle--volunteers are *kind of* unreliable. If this was a committee of 20, I would say that five of us did the work. Half never responded to a single email I sent out. Many were busy holding down full-time jobs, or chasing kids, or driving them to the three various extracurricular activities they participate in on any given day. I GET THAT, and I am not in the business of making ANYONE feel bad about it. I signed up to be responsible for this job, and I am going to DO IT. And I am going to do it WELL, all or nothing, and not cut corners, with or without help. It is the same unwavering resolve that was DETERMINED to create a real (fictional?) fan page for Jon BonJovial, even if it took 30 hours. I can't ask anyone to share that kind of crazy, and I can't turn it off either. Quite the conundrum.

It's just that Art Fest had SO MANY moving parts. It evolved into 15 different art stations: a school-wide finger print art project on a large canvas, yarn wrapped balloons, small scale tye-dye on paper towels, painting the ceiling of the Sistine chapel (kids painting on paper taped to the underside of short tables), recreating Kandinsky's Dots with oil pastels and water color paint; creative stamping using items like plungers and potato mashers and mardi gras beads; paint pendulums (that we built) and used to swing paint in wide arc patterns, and salad spinner art. In addition, there were artists on hand who taught the kids how to make balloon animals, demonstrated a potters wheel and basket weaving, helped us hand-sew quilt squares, and managed a large-scale paint-pouring project. There was the coordinating of all the projects, the purchasing of all the materials, the begging for donations, the creating of printed materials and signs--and the set-up of it all, that was basically done by THREE people in THREE hours. There was the building of 4 wooden penis looking things for the paint pouring project, and the creation of a SEVEN FOOT circus master and his lion (by the balloon guy). And what made it complicated, was that I determined the success of Art Fest to be two-fold: creating something that was fun and exciting and OVER THE TOP for the kids, and doing it for less than my $400 budget.

Fifteen stations + paper and supplies for all of them + 150 kids + $400 budget = A LOT OF WORK. But not impossible--and those are dangerous words for me, because if it's do-able, I will lose sleep trying to make it happen. In fact, as you'll remember the post I did a couple of weeks ago, it's AMAZING what people will do for you if you ASK. Problem is, in today's day and age, we just don't like to ask anymore.

I'm not saying any of this to toot my own horn, or to play the worlds largest imaginary violin, or to ask for an Academy Award--but to share the anatomy of a BEAST. So that the next time you go to an event at your kid's school, and it's awesome, and your kids love it--that you would know that someone probably poured their soul into it and fed their kids chicken nuggets for 3 weeks straight. Not because they are trying to be an alpha mom or win a popularity contest or make you feel like crap--but because they are passionate about it, and they are going to make. it. happen. Trust me when I tell you that heading up a big PTO project is one of the LONELIEST and toughest jobs in the world--because you are taking something on, and just not sure if anyone is really going to jump on board. Or maybe they'll join you, or maybe something will come up and they will give you 15 minutes notice that they just can't make it. Or maybe they are going to help, but they aren't willing to make 15 trips to Hobby Lobby to get the most out of that 40% off coupon, and that will cost 20% of the event budget. Or maybe they don't see a need for 15 projects, when six would be fine. Or maybe, they will give back-handed compliments about how all that work and effort somehow makes them feel like less of a mother or human being (for the record, this DID NOT happen on this particular project, but I have been around women enough to know it happens ALL. THE. TIME). FYI, that is the WORST thing we do as women, and I am absolutely guilty of it too--tearing down the strengths of others out of insecurity. We need to knock that sh#! out. I'm talking to you, anonymous commentor, who implied that because I live in a basement in LADUE and that I am lucky enough to have my own kitchen here, that moving FOUR kids and 15+ years of stuff that would qualify me for an episode of hoarders WASN'T difficult. I know you didn't mean it like that, because we're Internet friends, but you KNOW how we girls are, and I was really tired and emotionally spent and pretty raw, and we were in the throws of negotiating a contract on our house, and it felt a little personal, and I took it hard. I'm telling you this so that you know I have actual feelings (not just sarcastic ones)--and now that I have officially declared them on the Internet, they do, legitimately exist.

Anyhoo.

All this to say, if you are a parent at an elementary school, and you think the PTO and it's committees are like a cult of stepford wives, please, PLEASE know that these women are working their asses off--and if they appear to be clique-y, it's probably because they have lost hours of sleep and cried tears of actual blood together, and made calls to beg for more HELP--and those calls where they ASKED for something, were probably answered by a few. And that is precisely how friendships were started.

So. The planning of the actual event was time-consuming, but it was NOTHING compared to setting it up and actually making it run. Three hours and three sets of hands was NOT enough to have it ready to go with any kind of confidence, and while the big things were taken care of, it was the details like raffle ticket boxes and big trash cans that were overlooked. There was A LOT of racing from our gym to our cafeteria, which is NOT a short distance. There was acrylic paint used where fabric paint should have been (sarcastic GASP!). There was the washing of oh-so-many things covered in paint. And there was the fear that maybe it wasn't good enough. Or maybe it was too much. Or maybe it was being compared to every other Art Fest since the beginning of time, when God himself chaired the committee in the Garden of Eden. Or the fear that I didn't properly thank the artists and maybe they felt under appreciated. Or that I just couldn't help everyone there that needed it. Or the regret that I just didn't have enough time to figure out how to string lights and paper lanterns and balloons EVERYWHERE, like I planned. Like I said in a previous post, I KNOW it was well-received, that our principle was incredibly gracious and helpful, that the families there were kind and appreciative--by all measures (aside from the paint on the gym floor), it was a success, but the details, OH THE DETAILS, they can consume me.

Four days later, I'm starting to relax about it, and let it go a little. Mostly because I don't have the energy, because I am TWO days into this whole juice cleanse. It's better, thanks for asking--but now I'm getting bored. And when I get bored, I want to eat cookies, and so that has become rather difficult, as I have been confronted with just how many cookies I was consuming in a single day.

Now. Go out and volunteer at your school. Be bold enough to make new friends, to try something different, to offer help, to be the new fish in the PTO pool. If your PTO is clique-y, then be the one to CHANGE it. We are women, aren't we? After the high school years and the insecurities and the generally cattiness that often defines our gender, I think we've totally earned the right to be awesome--and to model it for our children.