Mabel's House

Life, Lately

2013-05-22T06:51:00.004-07:00

Moore

2013-05-21T02:55:00.001-07:00

Over a decade ago, in what seems like another life now, Matt and I were married and in college. Between the two of us we held down four jobs, and one of mine was at Bottles to Buses Daycare.

One hot spring afternoon we were on the playground and I noticed the sky turning green, and the trees were starting to whip back and forth beyond what was a normal windy day. A few seconds later the tornado sirens went off.

I cannot explain the terror that filled my heart as the other teachers and I tried to hustle dozens of toddlers inside the building. I have not known terror like that since, except in those flash moments when Jane is very sick or hurt.

For so long I declared that I probably wouldn't have children, but on that day over ten years ago, I was mama to a dozen little babies who wobbled when they ran and couldn't quite get the knack of potty training. A least I felt like a mama as we all huddled in an interior hallway. We teachers put on our best fake smiley faces and sang Jesus Loves Me, and then Itsy Bitsy Spider. Truly, I was terrified.

We heard the roar as a tornado passed over, flinging limbs and debris against the roof of the old church the daycare was housed in.

The children, for the most part were oblivious to the dangers. They sat cross legged, climbing on me like their own personal jungle gym. They picked their noses and sang If You're Happy and You Know It with the most adorable lisps.

It's hard to wrap my mind around the tragedy a tornado can bring. But the children in Moore. I have had to turn off the news. It makes my heart ache in the worst way. It makes me remember that day, many years ago, and all those toddlers that called me Miss Wiz. They are teenagers now.

I'm sitting here in bed, at 4:47 a.m. unable to sleep. I can hear the birds chorusing in the trees outside. Matt is snoring next to me, and Jane is asleep across the hall. Mabel alone is awake, staring at me with a questioning face.

"What gives woman? Go to sleep."

I suppose I feel it's my obligation, a little bit, to be sleepless right now. To sit here in the darkness, in solidarity with all the Moore mamas who are wide awake and worried.

Arkansas has a stormy forecast today. Possible severe weather, those are the words the weatherman uses. None of us here in the south get a pass from these scares.

May God bless you, Oklahoma. May God protect us and heal us from these things we will never, ever be able to understand.

The Weekend On My Phone

2013-05-20T06:11:00.001-07:00

12 Years. I Wouldn't Change a Thing.

2013-05-20T00:15:00.001-07:00

No One Tells You These Things

2013-05-17T07:17:00.000-07:00

Recently, Jane took the liberty of adding items to my bedside table. It was really only a matter of time until she took some ownership of the space, as she's always finding reasons to be in it. First thing in the morning she wants to snuggle and watch cartoons. After dinner she stacks a tower of books on the floor and wants me to read to her in bed.

I always have a stash of books, a glass of water, my glasses, TUMS and hand cream on the bedside table. She's fascinated by these things. One night after a reading session, she deposited her Dr. Seuss book on top of the table, next to my books, and smiled shyly.

"I put there," she said.

A few days later she left me a t-shirt she'd used to blow her nose. This week I noticed her Tinkerbell cell phone, a purple sock, and a comic book that came with her Chick-fil-A dinner called Cowborg (this entire piece of literature confuses her and she just calls it "angry cow").

A few nights later I turned out the lights and settled in. I fell asleep and rolled over. Jane, like the thoughtful two year old terrorist that she is, had carefully deposited her Tinkerbell phone under the covers. Verily I say unto thee ladies... you have never known terror until you roll onto a toy in your sleep and it switches on, and through the dark you hear these words:

"Iridescent! You're looking sparkly tonight!"

I'd previously finished watching an episode of Hannibal before bed, and Matt was working late. My sleep deprived brain mixed all these components into a scary stew cocktail before I was even conscious enough to analyze what was happening to me. I sat straight up in the dark, lunging away from the pale yellow light of that little demonic piece of plastic.

The Tinkerbell cell phone might be this generations's Chucky doll.

Here's the part of the story where I'm a very bad mother. After she left for daycare the next day, I submerged the phone in water. I did not ever want to hear that thing bleat another chipper, horrifying fairy phrase.

"You are glowing with sunshine today!"

"My, I'm impressed by your fairy wisdom!"

I watched the bubbles gurgle to the surface and smiled smugly, knowing the little electric workings of its guts were smoldering into oblivion. Then I took it out, dried it off, and deposited it back onto my side table. There would be no more midnight Tinkerbell horror in my house.

The plan was very clear in my mind.

Jane would come home, pushing the previously chatty buttons on her Tinkerbell cell phone : "It's bwoken!"

Me, hugging her, seeking to assuage my guilt: "Aw. That's ok. Let's go buy you a new cell phone."

*insert super fun mommy-daughter Target date here*

I went into my closet to put on shoes. I hummed a little tune. I felt no guilt. That's when a horrible, garbled voice from the bedroom started talking to me.

"The moon above gives us good cheer!"

It sounded as if Tinkerbell was a life long smoker, and had had a baby with Pee-wee Herman. Then they recorded it's voice, and then slowed it down to the slowest speed possible.

"Theeee fairyyyyy duuuuust is readddddy for harrrrrvest..."

I know when I've been beaten, and that hellish piece of Chinese plastic beat me. I ran down the stairs, out the door, into the garage, and off to the safety of work.

They should really tell you about things like this when you take your childbirth classes. No one tells you that one day you'll try to snuff out Tinkerbell. And then plan to lie to your kid about it. And then Tinkerbell will resurrect herself from the dead and taunt you with her zombie vocal chords.

No one tells you these things.

Writing About "It"

2013-05-16T12:20:00.000-07:00

I recently finished watching a video series PBS did with Nora Ephron, and when she said this line, the world around me went into slow motion.

"Someday this will be funny, and you will write about it."

Don't you love how that happens? Every once in a blue moon something so small, yet so pivotal, takes place and everything you were doing before gets rerouted and redirected somewhere new.

When I heard her say those words, I teared up. This was partly because I'm still coming off antidepressants and it's making me a weepy little nut-ball on certain moments of the day. I also teared up out of relief.

I am relieved that finally, after all this time, I can laugh about my postpartum depression.

For a long, long time, I could not laugh about it. And then, all of a sudden, I could.

I have a long standing rule that if I can't laugh about something, I won't write about it. It just takes time. With enough time, most things can be funny.

I think some people believe writing is a terribly romantic endeavor. I beg to differ. Writing, for me, is hard. It is hair pulling. I have to sit by myself and be terribly antisocial. I tell Matt, "Pretend I'm not here." Which really stinks, because I like it when he talks to me.

I type for a while, glare at the screen and say something like, "Why can't you just cooperate with me...words? Huh? Huh?" Basically, I have to be a little bit schizophrenic to do what I do. I'm sure it's not that way for everyone, but it is for me. And since writing is not this easy, romantic, "lightning just struck my brain" event, I really have to have a carrot in front of my face. I have to bribe myself. The funny stuff is the carrot. If I can make myself chuckle, all that talking to myself and hair pulling is worth it.

So that's what I've been doing. I've been putting my postpartum depression experiences on paper. I'm doing all of this through the lens of humor, of course. It's cathartic. But it also symbolizes, for me, a big shift in my life.

It feels like I can finally close the door and move on.

The Sweetest May

2013-05-15T04:00:00.000-07:00

This is the sweetest month. Flowers, bees, late sunsets, herbs on the patio, strawberry pies (from here), twinkle lights in the neighbor's yard... it's all so wonderful. I cannot wait for the cicadas and fireflies.

This was my third mother's day as a mom. I have to say, I don't really remember the last two. I know that's awful, but where those days should be in my mind there are only two big, empty spaces. I can, however, remember every detail of the last purchasing meeting I went to. I can remember, in detail, what my high school boyfriend said when he broke up with me. I can remember account numbers, budget totals, and the date of the last time I cleaned the floors in my house. I can remember Jane's first word (duck) and the first time she walked (at 18 months in our temporary apartment on a cold fall night). I can remember my last date with Matt when he took me to an eastern European restaurant. I got bratwurst and fried potatoes. We talked about going to see The Great Gatsby and Matt said, "I just hope we don't get Les Miser-obbed."

He did not like Les Miserables.

But for some reason I've lost every detail of the last two mother's days.

I suspect there's only so much room in my brain. And I'd like to think that I've filled up all those spaces with other more important memories than a commercial holiday packed with Jared commercials. Am I the only one who wants to kick a puppy every time I see one of those chocolate diamond commercials? Or the commercials that feature a necklace with what can only be described as a diamond shard... not even a chip... in the center? Seriously men. Just have your children draw your wife a picture and let her sleep in. No one wants a diamond shard.

I say all that to end up at this point: this was a great Mother's Day. This one I will remember. I'll remember because of this post, and these pictures.I will remember this day because Matt remembered my favorite dessert. I'll remember because it was the first time Jane did both #1 and #2 in her potty. I'll remember the way she peered at her poop suspiciously (a sight previously unseen in her entire life because they're usually safely contained in her diaper). She looked at it, looked at me, looked at it, all the while her forehead was creased in a monstrous frown. She drew up her hands and said, "No touch. It's yucky." I will remember because I really want to. These are things I do not want to forget.

Thank goodness for pictures. Thank goodness for a blog.

He Picks Up the Slack. And by Slack, I Mean Poop.

2013-05-14T08:12:00.004-07:00

I got an email the other day asking why I don't blog more about my marriage. Actually, she specifically wanted to know if my marriage was "really that good" or if I just put a good spin on it.

I can only assume this lady hasn't read my book. Because guys, it's all in there. I wrote about his sleepwalking, wedgie giving, and intense fear of spiders. I wrote about our fight with all the windows open in the house and the neighbors that undoubtedly heard.

I'm not holding back secret information.

But she was right in that I don't blog a lot of marriage details. It's not even a conscience decision, now that I think about it. But it's true, I don't come here to vent when he forgets to deposit checks. Or when we have a silent standoff to see who will wash towel first and we end up drying off after our showers with a stack of six wash cloths. That is a true story. From this weekend.

On the flip side, I'm not trying to hide any of that. I'm not trying to make things look rosier than they really are. It's just... there's a time and a place for griping about your husband. When you're out to dinner with your girlfriends and someone leads off with, "Can you believe that he __________ ." Or when you see your therapist. Or skype your sisters.

I assume he has his times and places for his own venting about me. Like when I'm feeling all Paxily and don't do the dishes for three days in a row, even though our arrangement is that he cooks and I clean. Like when I ask him every single night "Did you lock the doors?" even after I've watched him lock all the doors. Like how I look like a completely different person with makeup on, but at night when I take it off I somehow morph into crack-addict-face, complete with giant under-eye circles and pores that would make a Clinique makeup artist cry for her mother. "False advertising, that's what it is," he undoubtedly tells his friends.

But here's what I will say. Matt picks up the slack. He gets up from the dinner table and runs Jane a bath without even asking if I need him to. Now, he doesn't actually GIVE her the bath or wash her hair (her hair intimidates him), but that's beside the point. And while Jane plays in the yard and I'm taking pictures, he silently makes his rounds, picking up Mabel's poop and throwing it over the fence into the bushes by the creek. So she won't run in it. So I won't step in it.

Our marriage is not sunshine and roses all the time. We fight. We get our feelings hurt. We feel misunderstood sometimes. I've even been known to stick out my tongue at him when his back is turned. But as we approach our 12 year anniversary next week, I've come to realize that as long as you pick up the slack for each other, you can make it. As long as someone isn't the taker all the time, and someone isn't the giver all the time, you can hold onto each other and find things to laugh about, together. No matter what fight transpires, I know deep in my heart that Matt loves me. He's fun. He's cute. He's hard worker. He's a good father. And he's willing to pick up the slack.

One day when Jane is older she may ask me about marriage. And I'll tell her, "Find a man who picks up dog poop in the yard so you won't step in it. That's true love."

Mother's Day Highlights

2013-05-12T17:59:00.001-07:00

1. A Saturday afternoon with friends at the movies. And yes, Baz totally Moulin Rouged Gatsby to death. It was still beautiful to watch, and now I want to wear ribbons and hair pieces.

2. Books, strawberry pie, and a Star Wars t-shirt. Matt knows the way to a girl's heart.

3. Sunday with my mom and Meme. As you can see below, Jane's mood wasn't the skippiest, but it was still a great day.

It Was Inevitable: Let's Talk About Boobs

2013-05-08T12:20:00.001-07:00

Ah. Breastfeeding.

To some women it's religion.

To others it's like a curse word.

To most of us, it's a quandary.

When I had Jane I tried my hardest to breastfeed. I read all the books. I took all the vitamins. I did everything but stand on my hands and sing Bicycle Race backwards in my most impressive Freddy Mercury falsetto. Just kidding. My falsetto isn't impressive. It's disturbing. Actually, it could break glass.

Jane kept losing weight. Her doctors kept talking about "failure to thrive." We had to take her for weight checks every week. She had terrible acid reflux. Her tiny body was so skinny, and her little face was taught. I could see her cheekbones and it made me cry. It was clear that my body wasn't make enough milk, but formula was the enemy (at least that's what everyone kept telling me), so I kept plugging along.

And then my big bad terrible happened and they put me on lots of drugs.
I had no choice but to totally stop breast feeding.

Jane started the formula. She gained weight like a champ. Her reflux got better. She was happy and plump. The day I found rolls on her wrists I rejoiced, and then I did Rocky-style fist pumps in the air.

But once that bottle came out into the open, women made comments. And they were appalling.

"God made our bodies to breastfeed, but some women just don't try hard enough or know the right things to do..."

That was a word for word actual comment. A comment made to a woman trying to recover from severe postpartum depression. A woman trying to keep her baby alive, and herself. That comment rang in my ears and made me oh so blistery, scorch the earth mad. It was my body. It was my baby. It was my experience. It was none of their business.

I'm putting this out into the world for all the women that aren't breastfeeding. Who can't, for one reason or another. Whether your body won't let you, or whether your medication isn't safe for your kid... it is OK. There's a lot of shame, there's a lot of judgement. But it really is OK.

A friend of mine is on the opposite end of the spectrum. She's struggling with how to wean her baby, who will be two in a while. She deals with a different kind of backlash.

"That kid has teeth, it shouldn't be breastfeeding."

"If they're old enough to talk, they're old enough for a bottle."

The freedom with which these opinions are whipped out and flung at other women amazes me.

Here's my criteria for whether or not I have business telling another mother my unsolicited opinion:

1. Is her child happy and healthy?
2. Is she mentally stable and in good health?

If the answer to these questions is yes then ladies, it's time to ZIP THE LIP.

So back to the boobs. I think breastfeeding is a wonderful thing. But luckily we live in a time when there are other options. They are good options for babies like Jane with their empty bellies and no-fat cheekbones. Never, ever let anyone make you feel guilty for bottle feeding. Smile. Thank them for what is no doubt well intended opinions, and walk away with your chunky, happy, formula fed baby.

And then feel that sweet relief you aren't stuck wearing a nursing bra.

I know I did.

Voldemort Nose and Thoughts On Transparency

2013-05-08T07:14:00.000-07:00

While I was photo-bombing Jane eating cereal this morning, I noticed the top picture and thought, "Cool Voldemort nose bro." Except all of us ardent Harry Potter fans know a Voldemort nose is not a cool thing at all. So I shall never make that face again as long as I live.

Just kidding. I'm making it right now.

If a lifetime of photos are any evidence at all, I've been making strange and inappropriate faces since I was born. It's one of the reasons I don't photograph very well. I'm always contorting my face when talking, or laughing, or ducking my head to create a ginormous double chin, or raising my eyebrows and bugging my eyes when someone tells me a good story. This whole big eyes raised eyebrows thing is also one of the reasons I attract lots of crazy people into my life... or so says my mom.

"You and your aunt," she'll say, "You're both too open and transparent. Crazies love that."

But over the last few years I've come to the conclusion that crazy attracts crazy... that's why crazy people like me. They look at me, note my hyper talking and bugged eyes and say, "Hey, a kindred spirit. Let's be buds." And then I make my Voldemort nose face and say, "Cool. Lets."

It's really a matter of transparency.

Transparency can be awkward. It's hard to be at a party, with a room full of women who are all wearing size 2 Ann Taylor and talking about car pools and pilates Then one of them mentions the new moisturizer they bought at the Estee Lauder counter and suddenly you feel it rising up in your throat. "Shut up!" you say to yourself, but it's too late. A story bursts from your lips about the time your sister bought face cream from Dillard's, broke out in hives, had bumpy skin and you spent all Christmas vacation calling her Lizard Face. And then she got angry and smeared the cream on your neck and you got the lizard bumps too. And then all the women stand silently, staring at you, wondering what planet you're from. And then you get nervous and involuntarily make the Voldemort nose face.

This is the story of my life.

I find a lot of things difficult in life. Math, for starters. Cooking something edible. Making it to church on Sunday morning when Jane is screaming and I spent all week working and all day Saturday cleaning. These things are hurdles for me. I battle against them. But transparency has always been something that happened easily, despite being the non-size 2 dork at the party who tells other wives lizard skin stories. I can't seem to reign myself in and be dignified and reserved. I make weird faces. I tell weird stories. I talk too much, too long, and too loudly. It's just who I am, the way it is, for better or worse, richer or poorer, skinny or fat.

I got an email last week asking me what I thought the most important key to successful blogging was. After I finished laughing (because never in a thousand years should anyone come to me for advice on successful blogging... I took down my public comments for goodness sakes), I realized there is one easy answer to this question. Transparency. It's good for blogging. But it's good for life. Sometimes it's OK to stop hiding behind who you think you should be, and just let it go. Sure, some people won't get it. You'll get strange stares. Or rude comments. Or critical emails. But all that energy you've placed into creating yourself the way you think you should be will be much better served in other areas of your life. You'll have awkward moments. But you'll be happy once you let it (whatever it is) all hang out. Pick your nose in public. Pin a Star Wars calender onto the wall at work despite the fact that you're 35, and a lawyer. Wear broom skirts instead of skinny jeans even though you'll look like an old hippy because YOU'LL BE SO COMFORTABLE. Talk loudly and passionately when the mood strikes.

Don't fear who you truly are.

Don't fear transparency.

Don't fear the Voldemort nose.

Life Themes

2013-05-07T04:00:00.000-07:00

I used to think that every blog post needed a "theme." Decorating. Writing. Jane. Marriage. Now they all sort of run together, a messy landscape of colors and crafts and messes and meals. It's hard to partition things into themes these days.

Life. It's a mesh of pink roses blooming in the yard, housework, regular work, intense games of peekaboo with Jane (that's her favorite new hiding spot in the library). It's a blur of walks around the neighborhood cereal for breakfast, patio lights, shrimp on the grill, and gorgeous springtime sunlight. Have I mentioned the pink roses?

Of course, life is also piles of dirty laundry, a moth problem in our pantry that is a constant battle despite the new paint and glass food containers. It's a junky garage and some fairly serious fits from Miss Jane.Two year old fits people, it's stuff of legend. I remember my sisters' fits back in the day, but they weren't really my responsibility. Jane is my responsibility, and it puts things on a whole new level. She got mad at me on Saturday and grabbed onto my leg, screaming. I picked her up and put her in her bedroom and shut the door. She screamed, and wailed, and beat on the door. It lasted about five minutes. When things got quiet I opened the door and peeked in. She was sitting in the middle of the floor, hugging her bunny rabbit, sniffing and wiping her nose. I hugged her and thanked her for being a big girl and not crying anymore. She wrapped her arms around my neck and said, "I wuv you." And then my heart exploded in my chest.

See? There's no themes for posts anymore. Our lives are just a big jumble of chaos, beautiful and nutty. I wouldn't trade it. I would, however, trade some of our gorgeous roses for a few extra hours of sleep. Oh sleep, you elusive lady you.

Meh

2013-05-06T04:00:00.000-07:00

* Am I the only woman so thankful for photo filters? Wrinkles, poof. Under-eye circles, poof. I just adore a good suspension of reality.

I get a lot of questions about antidepressants. I think admitting that you’ve taken them, and that taking them was a success, suddenly makes the rest of the world think you’re an expert. How did you know which one to take? How long did you take it? Was it hard to taper off? Is it addictive? Did you have bad side effects? Truthfully, this experience is completely unique for everyone. And I'm happy to answer those questions through email. But for me, this was what stood out the most about my experience.

When my doctor first suggested an antidepressant, and I agreed to take it, she said, "One side effect you might need to be prepared for is that you might not care about things. Your appointments, your bills, your weight. You'll need to be vigilant that you don't forget to pay your bills, and keep up a workout plan."

I eyeballed her skeptically for a moment, through tears of course (because in those days all I could do was cry), and said something along the lines of, "You're daft. I have never, in my entire life, not cared. I care about everything! I care about which direction the toilet paper gets put on the roll! I care about how the mail gets clipped onto the mailbox! I care about how the pantry is arranged! I care about the dust bunnies behind the sofa! Every night I sweep the oak pods off the patio because I CARE THAT MUCH!"

In case you're wondering, that's what it looks like when my crazy starts showing.

She observed me calmly over the glasses on the end of her nose and said, "Ummhmm. I think you'll really like taking this medication."

By the grace of God, my doctor was right.

My antidepressant experience is best summed up by one word.

Meh.

True, it was a side effect.

It was also heaven.

A few cases in point.

“Liz, do you smell smoke? I think something is on fire.”

“Meh, I don’t smell anything.”

“Liz, did you see this cut-off notice from the gas company?”

“Meh, I don’t remember.”

“Liz, how long has it been since we brushed Jane’s teeth?”

“Meh, last Monday?”

“Liz, if you eat that entire strawberry pie you’ll gain five pounds.”

“Meh, get me that fork.”

I truly believe this medication returned me to the state God intended.

Rested. Unconcerned. Peaceful.

My mother-in-law told me that antidepressants helped her have a tremendous sense of well-being.

I think that’s what “Meh” means to me.

The backyard catches on fire?

Meh.

Your neighbor yells at you for leaving your garbage can in the middle of the road?

Meh.

Haven’t cleaned your bathtub in two months and pink slime starts to grow?

Meh.

I was never able to exist that way before antidepressants And now that I’m tapered off of them, it’s not quite as easy, but I can still let go. I can close my eyes, take a deep breath, and get to that wonderful “meh” place. I no longer care about which way the toilet paper is put onto the roll. I don't care for oak pods, but I don't manically sweep my patio at 11pm either. I can watch extra pounds flicker on the scale and think to myself, "Yeah, but that strawberry pie was so worth it."

I like to call this result “ The Great Rerouting of my Brain Chemistry.”

Brains are no different than any other part of our bodies. Train your body long enough and *insert enraging picture of blond supermodel here* you too can have strong muscles and buns of steel. Sure, you might not be in the best mood, you might murder someone just so you can steal the cheeseburger from their hands… but theoretically you can train your body to be in the most pristine condition it can be in. I think somehow that’s what antidepressants did to my brain. My poor, fried, overworked brain that for years had trained itself to be uptight, freaked out, worried, and just generally overwrought finally got some training. Albeit, that training didn’t come from a trainer, it came from the seasoned skill and easy peace of serotonin receptors.

Gotta love that serotonin.

There’s often a backlash from those closest to you. They’re not sure how to handle you, or how to react to you when you say, “Meh.” And you mean it. And you return to reading your book or playing your crossword puzzle and they know in the depths of your calm little medicated soul, you truly don’t care that the backyard is on fire.

Those closest to us get used to the status quo where we buzzed round like hyper little bees, gathering the pollen, building the hive, trying to impress, or agree, or console, or remember. We were the ones stressing about the gas bills, and the smoky smell in the yard, and running out of toilet paper, and family disagreements. And when we stop doing that, when we change the status quo, that means those closest to us have to get used to the new order of things.

In the beginning Matt was befuddled at the new change in guard. But after a while he started picking up some of the slack I’d willingly let flop in the breeze. Not to say he picked up all the slack. He’s a free spirited “forgetter” by nature, so over the course of time there were several cut –off notices from the gas company. We ran out of toilet paper a lot. It wasn’t smooth and seamless. But he learned that sometimes he has to remember things. I learned that sometimes it’s ok to forget.

The other day we got a warning letter in the mail from the electric company.

I’d forgotten to pay the bill.

“Meh,” I thought, and then I smiled because I remembered that I’m almost completely off antidepressants. It was the most special of all my "meh's." It was an almost un-medicated one. My sweet little serotonin receptors seem to be staying retrained to a more mellow state of being.

There are a lot of arguments against antidepressants (don’t even get me started, Mr. Tom Cruise). But for me, they were a lifesaver. They brought me back to life. They gave me a new state of mind. They changed the way I view the world. They gave me the ability to know I can bake a cake, pull it out of the oven, watch it fall flat as a flitter, shrug my shoulders and say, “Meh.”

It’s a beautiful thing.

If I Could Put a Weekend in a Bottle...

2013-05-05T12:05:00.001-07:00

How's Mabel Doing?

2013-05-03T06:47:00.000-07:00

Every now and then I get an email asking the all important question:

"How's Mabel doing?"

Honestly, she has good days and bad days.

Skippy days and stabby days.

I think for the most part she's figured out that Jane isn't going away, that Jane is a permanant part of the household.

She routinely charges into the middle of whatever toy mess Jane has made and tries to bite things and toss them into the air in an act of utter defiance.

"See kid? I was here long before you were. I bite your toys! Haha!"

And then there are the sweet moments, like this morning.

Jane and I were playing on her bedroom floor .

Mabel came meandering in and Jane chirped, "Hi Mattie!"

(She hasn't quite mastered the B sound.)

Jane leaned toward Mabel and said, "Mattie kiss?"

And Mabel licked her right on the mouth and walked away.

In those moments, I feel so hopeful that one day Mabel won't feel so competitive and combative.

I feel hopeful that she and Jane can actually play together without growling and ruffled fur and hurt feelings.

Hey. Anything could happen.

Liz, Are You a Feminist?

2013-05-01T11:25:00.001-07:00

This week I tweeted an interesting article about the concept of patriarchy and Christianity. It led to a very concerned email from one of my readers who asked the worried question, "Liz, are you a feminist? "

I suspect that is because the issue of feminism among Christians conjures up mental images of angry women burning bras and lining up in front of the abortion clinic. During my life I've heard feminism touted as the reason for the ruin of our society, the breakdown of the family, and the degradation of men.

I had a multi-point blog post lined out to discuss this topic at length, but then I realized that sometimes it's best just to step aside and let the very wise Julia Sugarbaker do the talking.

Pavlov's Dogs

2013-04-30T07:58:00.000-07:00

We have woken up to Jane's screams for the last five mornings in a row. I'm starting to feel like one of Pavlov's dogs. Every time my eyes open to greet the dawn I clench my teeth and flinch, waiting for the air around me to be filled with shrieks of two year old teething horror. But this morning Jane voluntarily relinquished her THREE pacifiers for a few minutes, so I'm hoping and praying relief is on the horizon. Until then we're single-handedly keeping the Infant Advil company afloat.

In two words: this sucks. Just ask Mabel, she'll tell you. She'll also tell you that we're way overdue giving her a haircut and she feels like a sheep dog. And she doesn't like it.

I'm so excited to have the new dining room light fixture hung. It's a welcome change from this. I bought the fixture here. Be not deceived people. It is not gray. It is beige. We spray painted it to match the trim and built in china cabinet. The first night it was up I kept playing with the dimmer until I burned one of the bulbs out. That's how I know my crazy is showing. I blame all the crack of dawn screaming. Seriously, it's only a matter of time before my eye begins to permanently twitch.

Then again, it was only a matter of time anyway.

Teeth, Rain, Bloody Noses

2013-04-29T07:03:00.002-07:00

This weekend was a mixed bag. We had a wonderful visit from my in-laws, who somehow always manage to work themselves to death when they come see us. I worry they won't want to come back. Next time it's all play and no work for you Linda and Stan! But on the upside, we have a new light fixture, a moth-free pantry (don't even get me started on that ordeal), and the old non-working gas grill (left behind by the previous owners) is capped off and on the curb.

Then it rained off and on for two days and our yard turned into a jungle. A big, beautiful jungle. I'm so thankful.

Jane has been sick with the worst cold, and on top of that is teething to the max. As far as I can tell, it's her molars. Oh boy. She cries. She won't eat. She won't drink. She clings to me. She won't sleep. It just breaks my heart. Yesterday she didn't want to climb the stairs and I carried her up. I thought she was holding on tighter to my neck than she was, and when I got to the top hallway I accidentally dropped herface down on the carpet. Her nose started to bleed, and she screamed and cried, and I cried, and thank goodness my mother-in-law was there to keep a clear head and get a cold towel for Jane's nose. I have to tell you, I haven't ever felt so awful and guilty in my entire life. I couldn't stop crying. Even after Jane had recovered and asked to sit on the potty, and she was playing with her sound making Disney princess book, I just kept balling.

Matt walked in and Jane grinned, "Hi Daddy!" and pushed the magic wand button on her book.

I kept boo-hooing.

Matt patted my shoulder, "Are you girls ok?"

Jane pushed the bird button and tweets filled the air, "Hi Daddy! Mommy cwy."

"I'm nottt okkkkk..." I blubbered.

"She's fine Liz," Matt kissed the top of Jane's head.

"I knoowww, buttt I droppped herrrr..." I was not in good shape.

Jane started pushing the rabbit button repeatedly and bouncing sounds echoed off the bathroom walls and she bounced her own feet off the floor repeatedly. Her little right nostril was caked with a tiny bit of dried blood.

"Bunny wadddit!" she yelled, giggling at her own cleverness.

It was the Sunday night comic relief we all needed.

Especially Jane and me.

Free Child Labor

2013-04-25T09:20:00.000-07:00

Earlier this spring I began battling the pine cones and needles in our yard. I drug a basket around and raked and gathered and after about 30 minutes noticed Jane studying my every move.

Since that day, she's been an avid yard worker. She carries a cup, picking up pine needles and pine cones.

She's pretty meticulous.

It has crossed my mind that one day she'll start picking up Mabel's turds, but until that day comes I won't worry about it.

She's very thorough.

Then she tromps back across the yard and pushes her pine needles and cones through the fence gate.

Whoops, dropped one.

Back to work.

She's such an expert now that she'll gladly tell you how to do it.

And tell you when you're slacking.

Free child labor. It does have its perks.

Shine On

2013-04-25T04:30:00.000-07:00

Even after all this time
The sun never says to the earth,
”You owe Me.”
Look what happens
with a love like that,
It lights the Whole Sky.
-Hafiz

An Evening Patio Conversation and iPhones

2013-04-24T05:00:00.000-07:00

Me: Isn't it beautiful out here?

Matt: Umhumm.

Me: Can you put your phone away please?

Matt: Just one SECOND babe. I've got to catch one last fish.

*Or something along those lines, but I probably got the details wrong. It could also have been "I've got to press a fish, eat a fish, or make a move on letterpress."

Me: I could throw that in the creek back there and let a fish eat it directly, if that will help you.

Matt, not looking up, hearing only some distant version of "burble burble burble" coming from my lips:
Ummhumm.

And that's when I realized my idea of decompressing is sitting and talking about paint colors and listening to the stream gurgle behind the house.

Matt's idea of decompressing is never, ever talking about paint colors and catching virtual fish on his iPhone.

There was a time when this would have sent me over the edge. I would have gotten sarcastic. Or sulled up. We would have had it out. I still get super staunch about no phones during dinner, but I also realized that while I might not have his undivided attention, he was sitting there with me. He wasn't watching tv inside. He wasn't hiding in the garage. He was choosing to sit with me on the patio, despite the fact that pollen renders him a snotty mess, because he likes me. It just so happens he likes virtual fish too.

There are a lot worse things.

And I kept talking about paint colors, just to give things a little balance.

Happy In My Shoes: Be Still

2013-04-23T10:41:00.001-07:00

This past Saturday I went shopping in an antique mall. The air smelled like coffee candles and the overhead speakers were piping in Stevie Nicks, and as I exited into the bright sunlight with a new dress for Jane (only $6) and another aqua planter I don't need, I thought to myself, “This is the LIFE.”

And that’s when I ran into a very unhappy couple.

A blonde middle aged woman was loading something into the trunk of her car. She was obviously struggling with the weight of it. Her husband was walking away from her, and toward me, when she called out, “Are you going to help me or not?”

He turned on his heels right in front of me and muttered, “You bitch, you’re ruining my day.”

My first thought was, “Whoa!”

My second thought was, “You better run sucker.”

And then I was reminded of Angela.

For those of you who haven’t been reading my blog very long, Angela was one of my best friends. She passed away from cancer a few years ago. I wrote a book about my friendship with her. She was a wise, wise fox. I miss her every single day, without fail.

We worked together and managed lots of office issues over several departments. I had carefully printed out a sign for my desk that read: “A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.” But sadly, it did. That was just the nature of our jobs. One day, a certain man I worked with pulled a stunt that created a lot of extra paperwork for me. It was poor planning on his part, and I was reaping the bad work rewards.

“I just hate that guy! He ruins my day!” I grumbled as I plopped down in the chair in front of her desk.

“He’s not ruining your day,” she responded calmly, still typing.

“What?” I asked.

“He’s not ruining your day, you are,” she glanced over and smiling slyly at me.

I’m not sure whether it was just her calm, centered personality, or the peaceful lull of her desktop fountain, but instead of reacting like I normally would have (which probably would have entailed flipping said desk top fountain into the floor), I took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

She handed me a piece of chocolate from her top drawer stash and said, “He’s a jerk. But if your day is ruined, it’s because you let it get ruined. You at least have control over that.”

We went on to discuss how she’d been in therapy and had studied and read a lot about the idea that we are ultimately responsible for our emotions and actions. I think the reason Angela shared a lot of these things was because she saw a lot of herself, as she had been in years past, in me. I’m very thankful for that. She changed the way I thought about oh so many things. The funny thing is, she’s gone now, but she still changes the way I think about things to this day.

And there I was, years later, in an antique mall parking lot, looking at a man who was a living, breathing, walking definition of that very idea.

His wife may well have been a *bad word that men use because they’re too lazy to search for a better adjective* but his foul mood and his temper and his choice to go to the antique mall with a woman that obviously drove him crazy were the reasons behind his bad day, and he and he alone was responsible for it.

This is one of those lessons we have to learn over and over. We are captains of our own emotional ships, but we forget. We blame. We look over the edge of the boat and say, “I can’t possibly be happy with all these choppy waves, I’m getting seasick.”

Sometimes it’s time to take a Dramamine and distract ourselves.

The excuses are endless.

“They made me yell.”

“I can’t help it, I just get so sad sometimes.”

“When she acts like that it ruins the whole trip.”

“I come home from work angry every day because of him.”

Jane is in the midst of emotional turmoil these days. She's frustrated that her words aren’t enough, that things don’t go as quickly as she’d prefer, that I don’t always react the way she wants me to react. She arches her back and her face goes red and then the fit comes.

The other day I sat down in the floor in front of her and said, “You have to tell me what you want. You don’t have to yell or cry. Just tell me.”

She stuck her lower lip out, took a deep breath, and crawled into my lap. She got very, very still, pulled her pacifier out and said, “Wawa, no milk.”

“OK, you want water in your sippy cup and not milk?”

She began to giggle and nod her head.

Success.

I thanked her for being a big girl and not screaming. She skipped off into the living room with her water.

What made me the happiest was that she chose not to throw a fit. She chose not to do what came so easily to her. Oh sure, there will be many more fits in her future. But on that day, at that moment, she chose to sit very still and decide her next move. She controlled her reaction. She chose not to ruin her own day. If she learns nothing else from me, I hope she learns that. I hope she learns that as she grows up, she controls her mood, her temper, her actions, and ultimately her day.

Does this mean we won't have bad days? Or run into people that drive us crazy? Uh. No. Because we're on earth and we have a pulse. But it will mean that we learn to push back from our desks and take a walk when work becomes overwhelming. It will mean that we understand those people who drive us crazy aren't as important as our reactions. It's so easy to fall into the comforting embrace of a bad attitude, or curse words, or fit throwing. They welcome us with open arms, promising relief, promising to make us feel better, hugging us close and whispering, "Aw, you can't help it. They made you do it." But that's a big fat lie. And we all know it.

I’ve been taking a cue from Jane lately. I’ve been sitting very still, breathing deeply, and saying a prayer. I’ve been reminding myself that while other people can affect me, I have a choice over the level their actions take hold. I’ve been reminding myself that Matt and Jane are the most important things in my world, and they deserve all the best of me. They deserve a wife and mother who can be still and who can choose what kind of day she will have.

We all deserve this. We can all do this.

“Be still and know that I am God.” Psalm 46:10

Morning Walk: Stop Shoulding Yourself

2013-04-23T04:30:00.000-07:00

"An early morning walk is a blessing for the whole day."

-Henry David Thoreau

When I walk I write. In my head. I come up with book ideas, characters, story plots. If I'm not taking regular walks, you can bet I'm not writing either.

I also use that time to think about blogging and the things I want to do, and sometimes the things I want to change. It's like a creative board meeting with the birds and foggy spring air.

Six years ago last month I started Mabel's House. It looked so different then. The photos weren't great. The writing was stiff. I read other blogs constantly looking for what I should be doing in life, most of which contained pictures of people's homes decorated primarily from Hobby Lobby. No bueno.

And then the pressure increased. I felt the need to read every blog of every person reading mine. I felt the need to return every single comment. I kept up with traffic statistics. I read and studied "big" blogs to see what they were doing differently, doing better. I thought I needed to do a decorating project every week to be interesting. Then one late night a couple of years ago I realized I was working 20 to 30 hours a week (in addition to my full time job) and Mabel's House had become an un-fun burden. I came very close to hitting delete on this whole shebang.

I wasn't blogging because I could, I was blogging because I should.

I was "shoulding" myself into a really exhausting place.

In the past I've shrugged off a lot of "should's." I stopped tanning (no wrinkles + no cancer = win/win). I cut off my hair and I don't care if men like it better long. I wear pantyhose to work functions during the summertime because it's professional and I don't care what Stacy and Clinton say. I only clean my bathrooms every two weeks because WHO HAS THE TIME? And since I was able to reject these "should's" why was blogging be any different?

That's when the changes came. I reduced my blog reader list from over 300 to my favorite 20. I turned off the comment section on the blog. I decorated my house only when I felt like it and only when I had the money. I stopped checking traffic statistics. I gave myself permission to stop carrying my camera around constantly. And you know what? I rediscovered that I really love blogging.

I love it this way, not the way it used to be. I'm telling you all of this because, if I were a betting woman, I'd be willing to place cash on the table that someone today is reading this post and feeling the same way. Uninspired. Overwhelmed. Confused. And to you I say, "Do what you want." If that means reducing your reader feed and my blog is one that gets the axe... go for it. If that means you don't post every day... go for it.

After all, aren't we here for the fun of it? We don't have a boss who will get mad at our attendance record, or teachers who will grade us on originality and spelling (actually, there are plenty of people who will grade/judge you on spelling and grammar but just ignore them and keep writing).

I want to encourage you to blog because you can, and you enjoy it... not because you should.

Also, take an early morning walk every now and then. It really is the best mental medicine.

Living Room Tour and a Defense for the Big Brown Leather Sectional

2013-04-22T04:30:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago we finally painted the living room, or as we like to call it, the bowling alley.

It's long and narrow, a veritable rubik's cube for furniture arrangement.

Below is a picture of the room as it was listed online when the house was for sale. Fine, but not my style. And the brown walls. Have I mentioned I couldn't take them? And have I mentioned that they're EVERYWHERE upstairs?

Sigh.

Ok. I'll stop talking now and let you look.

Someday I'd love to have a desk area by the window near the Weasley China Cabinet. And there's still a little work to do on the tv console wall (which is why I didn't show that area). But, overall I'm really happy with the way it's turning out.

I do, of course, expect some of you to be horrified by our big brown leather sectional because there once was a day when I myself would have been horrified. Obviously sleek mid-century sofas are more stylish, and fluffy, white slip-covered couches are more cottagey. And I love both of those things. But I've come to learn that those mid-century sofas don't feel so great when you're trying to take a nap on them. And the fluffy, white slip-covered couches get stained, and yes you can bleach them. And you will. Every. Single. Week. So that's my argument for the big brown couch. It's stain proof. It's smell proof. And I can get comfy on it when I have the flu.

Dangit.

Adulthood has seriously altered my decorating perimeters.

2013-04-20T08:34:00.001-07:00

God bless you, Boston. May this weekend bring peace, rest and healing.