Miscellaneous Title X

I've moved!

2010-04-24T16:20:00.000-07:00

This time, virtually! Come check out this old blog looking all shiny and new at its new home: http:dianaduke.com/blog. And just think: you don't even have to bring a housewarming gift. Unless you're really skilled at web design. In that case, you're just what I need.

Happy Easter!

2010-04-04T19:55:00.000-07:00

I've loved a lot of holidays in my time--although never Halloween or Valentine's Day, to be honest--but I think Easter is edging out the rest. I love Easter. I love the springiness of it, the cute little animals and the pretty pastels and the promise of summer vegetables in my freshly planted garden. I love watching the kids hunt for eggs, the giddy smiles they get opening them up to see what they find (my poor kids, sadly, found lots of spare change which they had to count in an impromptu math lesson, although they will shortly turn said change in for an actual item of choice). I even left their Easter baskets outside the patio door, though we don't support the Easter Bunny and his other holiday cohorts. When pressed, though, I couldn't bear to spoil their bright little faces. "Maybe one of God's angels left you a present for Christ's rebirth." To which they responded, "Um, maybe it was the Easter Bunny." Hmm...

Which brings me to the best part about Easter: the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Although there's much more hoopla surrounding Christmas, Easter is really the more meaningful holiday. It matters the He lived, of course, and it matters that He died, but without Easter--without overcoming death--His life would have been but a mark in the history books. But because of Easter, He tells us: "Fear not; I am the first and the last, and the Living one; and I was dead, and behold, I am alive for evermore, and I have the keys of death and of Hades." (Rev. 17b-18). What a concept! The first and last, the bookends of our lives, and He holds the keys of death. He has conquered it, paving the way for His followers.

I understand that not everyone relates to this notion. For them, Easter might be more about that Easter Bunny, or Cadbury Eggs, or those creepy neon peeps. But all of those, in some way, stem from this idea of rebirth, of the way spring reflects the resurrection of life. And as one who knows Christ, who knows the sacrifice that was made and the promise brought out of it, I end Easter feeling blessed, awed, and a little less fearful than before. It's as though I've been walking through the winter valley of shadows and He's opened the door to a whole new day.

Biker girls

2010-03-30T14:23:00.000-07:00

It's a funny thing, those little moments that make you wonder.

Yesterday, K and I spent some time being motorcycle girls. And no, I'm not toting a two-year-old around on a Harley. We deck out in our biking gear and go for a ride, which almost certainly ends up at some neighborhood park where K plays and I stretch--and usually we end up playing and stretching together. Consequently, I hope to end up someday fitting into that too-tight pair of jeans. Or at least not accumulate any other pairs that are no longer wearable.

At our old house, we rode in the bike lane on a just-as-busy street, so that's what we do here. It took me a while to get used to the whiz of passing traffic, and I try not to let it distract me. But B had just commented to me the other day that this street is narrower than our old street, and more hilly, and more twisty. All things that percolated in my mind as we started out. Indeed, I hadn't noticed just how narrow it was, or how unpredictable the turns. But surely there wouldn't be a bike lane unless bikes were meant to ride in it.

We neared a corner and there it was: a little whisper. Nothing elaborate, extravagant, or otherwise noteworthy. Just the nudge that yes, B had been right, and yes, it might be safer up on the sidewalk. I hate to ride on the sidewalk, though, because of all the dog-walkers and runners and up/down ramps bumping poor K. This time, in the nanosecond that I had, I popped up and off the street.

Not a minute later, among a series of cars, one car drifted so close to me that I jerked my bike to the side in surprise. So close to me on the sidewalk. Maybe he (or she) was checking his teeth, or adjusting the radio, or making a call. Maybe he was distracted for just that moment, sliding from the narrow road to the bike lane beside it. Right next to me. Right where we would have been riding. Right where a little girl who likes to pretend we're a Thelma and Louise team would have taken the brunt.

I know I spend too much time talking, thinking, worrying. I know that God does not often get a word in edgewise. But I wonder how often He tries, how often I'd miss out on less physical hurts if I spent more time listening and less time doing everything else. I praised Him then that He raised His voice just enough to break through, thanked Him for the safety of K and I, and rode the rest of the way without incident.

I admit that the driver might have been more cautious if he'd seen a bike ahead, and I admit also that I'm not immune in any way. Nor will God be responsible for bad things that just, well, happen. But it was enough to make me realize that He's watching every minute, and maybe that was the whole point.

120 minutes ago

2010-03-29T12:39:00.000-07:00

Me: Two more minutes and then we need to head home.
K: Um, how bout three minutes?
Me: Okay, three minutes.

The thing is, you don't know how to tell time and I'm terrible at managing it, so I'll end up letting you play for five minutes and you'll still end up crying when it's time to leave. But we're laying communication groundwork, right?

Meet the neighbors

2010-03-26T13:50:00.001-07:00

Spotting a lizard on the retaining wall = fun
Spotting 5 lizards at once, all of them staring at you = creepy

But perspective itself is still funny

2010-03-21T08:50:00.000-07:00

When in the midst of a fantastically warm and wonderful day, I might think it's funny when I realize that I mistook the cup that B and M were sharing for the cup K and I were sharing. Ha ha, everyone's been thinking that was their cup.

When M wakes up at eleven with a violent stomach flu, it's not quite so funny. More like a sinking, sinking feeling that just twelve hours earlier, we were all drinking from that mouth.

It's already too late

2010-03-19T13:30:00.000-07:00

When I hear, from the corner of the room where I'm frantically trying get a few things done while the kids watch a rare and well-deserved movie, the narrator ask who could possibly be behind the flowers changing color and the wind blowing wild, I answer absentmindedly, "God." It's such an obvious question, and what does it have to do with the movie anyway? And then it hits me: maybe the fairy movie wasn't the best pick for our family. I had wanted, for once, to pick a something that K really wanted to see, something not based on cars or fire trucks or dinosaurs that she appreciates by default, and therefore hadn't quite thought it through when she picked up the movie at the library, her eyes all aglow. On the bright side, she did indeed like the movie, and we got to have a great discussion afterward about how God might use fairies to do his work. A little theological fudging, sure, but I'm betting God understands.

Hanging in the balance

2010-03-13T06:13:00.000-08:00

We're pushing into my least favorite territory in the entire moving process: picture hanging. I hate picture hanging. I don't know where to put things, so they all end up in the center of a wall, or, if there are more than one thing, splitting the wall evenly. Herein lies the problem: I'm a perfectionist. I have to measure five times to make a mark on the wall. Then once I've made that mark, I have to check it three more times because I don't trust my own mark. Was I not there one minute ago measuring and making that very mark? Then I put it up and obsess about the fact that it's not exactly perfect. Nothing is ever exactly perfect. It's too high. It's too low. Did I really mark it there? Really?

In our last house, having let months lapse with pictures lined up along our hall waiting to be hung, the morning of my grad school graduation party arrived. I couldn't bear to leave them on the floor, so empowered by my new and totally non-related degree (plus a sense of urgency and some Hawaii-bound carelessness), I took and hammer and pounded in a dozen nails in random places, hung everything, and called it a day. I can remember my dad--from whom I inherited most of my perfectionist tendencies--standing at the end of the hall with his mouth agape. But the pictures were hung! Immediately! And they weren't all in the center of the wall, or splitting it, or anything. In fact, there was nothing organized about them at all. And yes, that did bother me for the rest of our time there. So while I got the job done without belaboring the details, it bothered me all the same.

In my bible study, we've been talking a lot about generational sin. These are things that get past down from generation to generation--ancient ruins, as in Isaiah 61:4, and sour grapes, as in Ezekial 18:2. Think big things, like depression and addiction, and small things, like perfectionism and people-pleasing. I'm sure one or two must come to mind. They're things I take as given--I got my obsessive attention to detail from my dad, for instance, and my people-pleasing from my mom. Good traits, except they become who I am, preventing God from honestly showing me. They are really traits that I have taken from them, things that I am now carrying on my own, and they weigh me down. God cannot do with me what He wants--at least not as effectively--when I'm carrying burdens that weren't really mine to begin with. And to be fair, they probably weren't my parents' either. The kicker? if I continue to carry them, M and K will pick them up too. That's how generation sin works (Exodus 20:5).

It seems like it would be such a relief to just lay them down, except that, as mentioned earlier this week, it's a lot less about letting go and much more about prying them from my grabby little fingers. The haphazard picture hanging didn't solve anything, because I really didn't let go of that obsessive quest for perfection. This is, again, a job for someone bigger than me, and one that I know that I have to take on, as much as possible, one finger at a time, or risk passing these burdens along yet again. It boosts my spirits that the Bible promises that we can stop this cycle: "But suppose this son has a son who sees all the sins his father commits, and though he sees them, he does not do such things... He will not die for his father's sin; he will surely live" (Ezek. 18:14, 17). If I can see these sins, if I can manage to "get a new heart and a new spirit" (Ezek. 18:31), I can pass along this heart to the next generation--to a thousand generations (Exodus 20:6). It's worth prying, hard as it might be.

Or in today's case, hammering without obsession but not without care, accepting and letting go, and perhaps using that need to hold on to grab the hand of God, who can hopefully lead me someone just a little more important. We'll see how that gets things hung.

Pry away

2010-03-10T05:40:00.000-08:00

It's been a tough haul these past few weeks, what with packing and moving and sickness (oh my). Yesterday piled on the last couple straws, and I, in desperation and with many tears, broke down in an I-cannot-do-this-any-longer moment. After which I pulled myself together and promptly, well, did all those things I was sure only a second before I couldn't do. Isn't that the nature of the job? And not the writing job, sweet boy, but maybe the other stuff I do around here.

What I realize, when this happens, is that I haven't been relying on God enough, or, if I'm going to be really honest, at all. I recognize this. God has the ultimate strength, the endless energy, the focus and patience and determination to get this done, if I just willingly tap into it. He can carry me in a way that no one else can. Yep. Again, I recognize this. But in practice--in the trenches, so to speak--it's so much more difficult.

I think of the common platitude: Let go and let God. Okay, sure. But (bear with me for a minute) let go and let God... what? Mop the floors? Change the sheets? Figure out how to put handles on our cabinets without getting any crooked?

I know: pray. Listen. Trust. They are all huge, beautiful, awesome things. Easy things, really. But it's hard for me to focus on those when there seem to be a billion other things that want to be focused on instead. Or, in my usual fashion, focused on for about two seconds until I get distracted by focusing on something else for two seconds. My pastor had a great moment in his sermon on Sunday that we should be asking ourselves not what God would have us do in general but rather what He would have us do today. Just today. How could I minister to my world today? But this is my ministry, or one of them, to take care of our home and children. And right now, it's getting the better of me. I feel my fists tightening around that ministry, and maybe that's the whole point to the platitude. Prying my fingers off one at a time might be the first step to not choking the life out of it.

Of course, God, I might find it a little easier to focus, minister, trust, and serve if I could possibly sleep past 5am. But look--it's six and the sun is rising, with small children soon to follow. Another day, another opportunity.

Thanks, kid--I needed that

2010-03-09T21:30:00.000-08:00

M: Hey look, my cup was empty before, and now it has water in it. It's magic!
Me: Hmm. Who do you think might have noticed that your cup was empty and filled it up so that you'd have water when you were thirsty?
M: Um... you?
Me: Maybe. You think that's in my job description to notice when your cup needs water and refill it?
M: (Laughs and shakes his head) No, Mommy. Your job is to write books.

Yes, well, among other things. But it's nice to know that even the little people have my back.

And we emerge!

2010-03-06T12:41:00.000-08:00

It's sad when the most relaxing part of your week was getting your teeth cleaned.

I can't believe that it's been a week since the move began, but we are finally feeling settled in the new house. This means that both cars are parked in the garage, most of the boxes have been unpacked, and the clutter has settled down into a level that might just be confused for my household's general chaos. Sure, we have loads more sorting out to do, but I'm feeling ready to let B go back to work and our lives drift back to (new) normal.

I'm lying.

It hasn't been the quietest of weeks, move or not, what with ear infections in both kids, a giant castle cake for a friend, B's birthday coming up, and a men's party at church for which I provided desserts. I hate chaos. I hate not knowing where things are. I hate that the house still smells of the previous owner's dogs. I hate spending money on more things, even if they are necessary, and I hate that the cake didn't turn out perfect, as I always think it should. Above all, I'm so, so tired of keeping up a cheerful and encouraging front, feeling like I must carry the discombobulated weary on my back. If I lay down, would anyone carry me?

As with all things, it will get better. Over time. Over a long, long time. We praise God that he brought us here, because we love the house. And while we're loving it, we'll get it all sorted out, with a bit more prayer. We have a saying in our house: patience is a virtue; it's just not mine. But maybe now that God's got us in the right place, He's gonna work on that next.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

2010-02-25T13:07:00.000-08:00

When you* are in the middle of a crazy move, and tolerating unexpected additional amounts of stress and torment, you might think that this would be a great time to get a haircut, because it will immediately boost your spirits. DO NOT. Have chocolate or take a long walk. Do anything else, because if you go and get your haircut in the week of "If it can go wrong, it will", well, just take a guess at what will happen.

If you do, against all good sense, get yourself into the sort of crying/miserable shock, try not to focus on the fact that the hair you have been so patiently growing out is now up to your ears. And especially ignore that it's only some of that hair, leaving you with a mullet-y sort of poof. Instead focus on the positives, like hair will grow, and the key to your new house is sitting on the table, and you can finally pack up all those last bits because, come Monday, you'll be starting new. Starting new is good.

*I mean, "me," of course. Because who else would get into this situation? But it feels better to make it into some sort of helpful lesson for others. Makes it slightly less like a personal dump, anyway.

Because it's important to challenge yourself

2010-02-24T21:13:00.000-08:00

Just in case this week wasn't crazy enough, let's add an ear infection! Oh, what the heck--let's add two! And while we're at it, throw some asthma on top of it! Let it keep us up all night long! Insert additional witty exclamation here! It masks the lack of sleep! And insanity!

Packing the unpackables

2010-02-22T05:50:00.000-08:00

With less than a week until we move, we spent much of the weekend packing up all the nooks and crannies of our home. We're excited to go--ready, in fact--especially since we don't technically own our house anymore (which lends it's own secret pleasures: "What's that funny smell in here?" "I don't know, it's not our house." etc., etc.). In turn, the rooms have taken on an echo, as though they are longing for their shelves to be refilled. Don't worry, precious house--it's coming soon enough.

What seems strange to me are the things you leave behind in a house, the things you absolutely cannot take with you even though they belong to you just as much as any book or chair. Like the stain on the garage entrance to the house. To the new owners, it will look like some Jackson Pollack splatter, but I know it's from my thirtieth birthday dinner with my friends, buttery Moroccan juice from a leftover promptly consumed--that was one good meal, night, memory. There's a raised spot on the kitchen floor where the cooler leaked. We didn't notice because my sister and her kids were here, and we were frantically trying to get all the little ones clean before bed while I dealt with the plumber. Seems my sister took off the faucet in the tub with the water running full blast. During that episode, I also learned that you can in fact get hot water from a neighbor using a cooler, and that you shouldn't leave a leaky cooler on your brand new laminate floor. It's probably less noticeable now because there's a fine haze of scratches from those silly ride-on fire trucks that the kids cannot give up, even though M's knees are tucked to his chest when he rides them.

There are, of course, the intangibles. Any house is full of them, but especially one that has housed small children. I went into labor in the inexplicably large second bedroom, sequestered with a cough. It was K's first stop after eight long days in the NICU, and where we introduced her to M, who regarded her with warranted suspicion. It was in these rooms that both kids learned to walk--K got led around gently while M got pushed back and forth in the still empty but carpeted sun room--and later that we played endless rounds of chase over the circuitous floor plan. Birthdays, holidays, play dates, and countless firsts all owe their backdrop to this house. But these memories come with us, packed in our minds. It's the tangibles that I leave behind that make me ever-so-wistful, the marks we've left on this landscape that are the signs of good use and great love, marks that will be regarded as nothing more than curiosities by the new owners, if at all.

I try to see them, then, as my gifts, a legacy of happy living to bless the people who will come to add to them, overwrite them, and ignore them with the best of intentions. They are the echo of our lives, a reflection of the interconnection between us all, and a way to gift them with a little bit of our life abundant. And I look forward to creating new marks galore on the home we eagerly anticipate. There's just the matter of finishing all that real packing first.

A Valentine's Miracle

2010-02-16T14:16:00.000-08:00

While granted, it wasn't the most shining Valentine's Day ever, there was one incredible bright spot: I found the card. You know, the one I lost two years ago. Yep. It was hiding among my socks all this time, which is kind of frightening that something can hide in one of my drawers for two years without surfacing. But it did surface, and in time for Valentine's Day, too. So craziness in one year might be the up side to another. This is really good news for me.

Happy Valentine's Day!

2010-02-14T15:20:00.001-08:00

May you remember today not only the love that you receive, but also the joy brought by the love you share. And then share some more! On my end, I'm sharing it with a very sick B, making this maybe not the fun or romantic Valentine's ever, but at least one in which we all recognize the blessing that is being loved.

So where did we pack the wand?

2010-02-10T13:26:00.000-08:00

It's a crazy thing, packing for a move. B and I, we're of two different minds on this subject. He'd prefer to begin right away, packing little bits each day in a slow steady process. As for me, I'd rather wait until the week of our move, then throw everything in boxes at once. Frantically! With great stress! This is a theme in my life.

So B handles the packing, mostly. Which is great. Just a little disconcerting. I open the cabinet to get my pancake making bowl and find its spot empty. Or I walk into our bedroom and wonder, why does it look so small? Then I realize it's because all the pictures are off the walls. Or I'm in the middle of making dinner and turn around to discover that there's a mysteriously empty place in the corner of the counter where I once had a plant. A very crazy thing, to find your life disapparating before your eyes.

But all this means that I've very good at the apparating, and therefore while B handles the packing, I handle the unpacking. Frantically! With great stress! And I almost guarantee that one week after we move in, I'll have all the boxes empty and life as it once was--pancake bowl, pictures, and plant included.

Way to ruin a good thing

2010-02-08T13:51:00.000-08:00

We've had much coughing and sneezing and other sickness induced unpleasantness around here. It's actually the third cold in five weeks, unfairly enough, not to mention the pneumonia. And do you know what's caused it? Surely not the rainy weather or the compromised immune systems or the stress of the move. No--it's because people kept saying to me, "You guys haven't been sick much this year, have you?" or "You certainly have been a lot healthier, huh?" To which I always replied, quickly and fervently, that it's just seemed that way, when in fact we'd had more than our due share, even though up until this point in the season we had been healthier. But don't people know that you NEVER say those things aloud? And look, they went and said them, and so we'll be sniffling our way to spring, thank you very much.

Breaching the Wall

2010-02-02T12:49:00.000-08:00

This past weekend was the 2010 SDSU Writer's Conference. It's basically a chance to spent a boatload of money to sit indoors, hear conflicting information about vital one-shot things like pitches and queries, and breathlessly throw out what you hope are key details about your project to any agent willing to listen.

Ahem.

I went into the weekend in a foul mood. The days leading up seemed to be a train wreck of kids not sleeping, colds, house inspections, etc. I found myself on Thursday afternoon making homemade pasta sauce (must. use. up. frozen. tomatoes), washing dishes and doing laundry, cleaning bathrooms and building a train out of Legos. Did I mention I was also recovering from pneumonia? Yeah, really, like heavy duty antibiotic pneumonia. After trying to eat--did I mention that the heavy duty antibiotic absolutely killed my appetite?--and getting the kids in bed, I started working on that manuscript that I promised myself would be complete by the conference. At 2am, I finally finished.

I also hit a wall. It's been a year since I published this essay, almost a year since I started writing a novel that would resurrect my life as a writer. And I did it. I squeezed every last drop of time I could with energy I didn't know I had, and I produced something of which I'm very proud. Not only that, but I felt connected with my writer self, fired up in a way that I honestly have never felt. And at 2am, it hit me: this is how it gets done. By staying up late, by squeezing hard, by somehow dividing my single self into two. They're full time jobs--parenting and writing--and I've done them fully. At the same time. And insanity ensued!

Okay, not insanity. But I hit that wall and thought: I am tired. I do not want to do this any more. Granted, the pneumonia didn't help. But I was tired of feeling like I had too much to do and not enough time. I was tired of not enjoying a moment's of rest. I was tired of cramming so much into that little hour I had so that I was cranky on either end. I was tired of doing all this for something that I didn't have to do. Why not just one job at a time?

But I'm on a roll. I've ignited something within myself that is difficult to ignore, and almost impossible to walk away from. Will it be there if I wait? Oh sure, probably. But do I want to wait, with two manuscripts now? I've made it so far--super-humanly far--that I'm torn between wanting to be realistic, and wanting not to give up on myself.

So I found a door. I guess that's what you do when you have a wall. I went to bed and I went to the conference and I groped along all those little chinks in the brick before me until I found a way to get through. It was tough--overwhelming, tear-inducing--trying to push myself forward in the midst of so much conflicting information. But I reached the other side with enough brain power left to assimilate most of what I learned and put it to good use.

That's where I am now. Not a good place, maybe, but it's less pneumonia-ish, and there's no wall. Just more rocky path, hard hills, long distance. Everyone has a journey. I've come to know this as mine.

What's in a name?

2010-01-27T11:19:00.000-08:00

Today, after four weeks in gym, K finally said something during the opening name song. She loves gym, don't get me wrong. I've never seen a kid so uncontainably happy, not to mention that she has a wicked sense of balance and endlessly daring energy. This has replaced swimming as the high point in our week. But during the name song, she usually retreats into my lap, pinching her lips shut while I, at last, say her name for her.

But today, we got to her spot and the teacher asked "What's your name?" and she replied in the most bright, exuberant voice: "Fireman."

Yes, well, I filled in her name for her again. And maybe explained what she said to the confused people around us, who just don't look at us quite the same. But I'm really proud of my little Fireman.

Rocking out

2010-01-24T12:50:00.000-08:00

B and I both own newish Hondas. My car--or the one that I most often use--is the minivan. Trusty and practical, it has enough room for all our strollers and sand toys and even the travel potty. Plus it's white, so as not to retain to much heat or show too much dirt. It's also a giant MOM beacon. B's car is a zippy Fit, fast and flexible and shiny jet black. Can you already tell where this is going?

I understand that the minivan is the most sensible car for me. I love that the doors slide open and that we can move throughout the cabin when need be. It's handy that we can take a potty break in the back or carry extra friends.

But I've noticed recently that both cars have a variable feature for stop lights. On the minivan, the windshield wipers, which come in a slew of intermittent settings, slow down. How very safe. On B's Fit, the radio automatically lowers the volume, so as the road noise decreases, you don't blow out your eardrums. This is especially helpful to me, because I drive the Fit when I'm without the kids, and when I do, I turn that radio up so loud that the windows shake and my ears just slightly hurt. And I'm now understanding one more thing: I'm the kind of person who needs to drive without kids, without practically, and with eardrum blowing music lowering very thoughtfully for me. At least sometimes. It'll be too fun when the kids get old enough for me to let them in on Mommy's little secret.

Good thing dreams are free

2010-01-22T13:25:00.001-08:00

I drove past an RV for sale today (and no, contrary to our recent whimsical purchase, I didn't buy it). The sign in the back read: "For sale. 14,000 actual miles." Hmm. Are there any other kinds of miles? And then it hit me. That's a person who bought an RV, pictured themselves traveling all around the continental United States, and then got 14,000 miles into it before realizing how crazy expensive RVs are to drive. But in dream mileage, I'm sure they got their money's worth.

Speaking of crazy expensive, have you seen Conan O'Brien's latest tactic to stick it to NBC? I'm not siding with anyone here. Okay, I'm siding with Conan. Dude, he waited five years and moved his whole family to the West Coast. I'd be upset too.

God in Action

2010-01-17T13:52:00.000-08:00

(1) Drive through a neighborhood on a whim. Tell one of B's coworkers that we were in his neighborhood, at which point he mentions he'll be selling his house in a few months and that we should look at it after the holidays if we're serious.
(2) Get all excited about the way God put the most amazing opportunity in our hands: dream house in dream neighborhood, etc.
(3) Talk to said coworker after holidays, only to find that he's changed his mind. Wonder why God would dangle said opportunity only to take it away.
(4) Decide that, since we've gotten all excited, we might as well look into other options. For information's sake, of course.
(5) Pick an agent, only to discover that he won't be back in town for us to sign with and we'll have to wait until Monday. Wonder why he wouldn't tell you this information ahead of time.
(6) Spend the time, somewhat bummed, driving around just checking out options.
(7) Stumble upon an open house, fall in love, and discover that since we haven't signed with an agent yet, we'll get a better deal by selling our house through her.
(8) Frantically get our house ready to sell while going back and forth over the house we want.
(9) Buy said house. Three days on the market, sell your house to first-time Christian couple buyers who want to use it for their fellowships and day care and just think it's the most perfect house ever (which is was, really). Without even having to fix all those things we thought would keep us from selling!
(10) Realize, looking back, that all those pieces--all those mistakes and frustrations and missteps--were there to put us all in the right place at the right time.

I know that not everyone will see my week the way I see it. But having lived it, I cannot help but see God's hand in everything. I wish I weren't in awe, that I could say that I always trust that God will work everything out perfectly. Logically, I know He will. In practice, though, I'm must more likely to worry/puzzle/fix.

Still: one week. One crazy, unexpected week. And we're on the move, hopefully, in a month or two. I feel so blessed, so in awe, so very very lucky. I'm also tired. So very tired. I'm probably one of the few people in San Diego looking forward to a quiet week of rain.

Omens abound

2010-01-16T06:39:00.000-08:00

As a writer, there are some people that I admire more than others. Of course, almost everybody has their favorites. F. Scott Fitzgerald is one of mine. I love The Great Gatsby, as many people do, but I really love his short stories. Much of this is probably because he writes very good ones and I, alas, do not. "The Diamond as Big as the Ritz" is perhaps my top pick. So because I love Fitzgerald, and because I took a course on him in college, I have a fat collection of his short stories around. When I finished the movie version of "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,"* I immediately picked up that collection and read the original story. For the record, it's nothing like the movie, but much funnier and less sentimental.

What caught me, in this story, was a single line, one that reminded me why I find him such a fine writer to begin with.

"Never a party of any kind in the city of Baltimore but he was there, dancing with the prettiest of the young married women, chatting with the most popular of the debutantes, and finding their company charming, while his wife, a dowager of evil omen, sat among the chaperons, now in haughty disapproval, and now following him with solemn, puzzled, and reproachful eyes."

"A dowager of evil omen": That's a tiny snip of a fat line that crackles with perfection. It even sounds just like it means. I read things like this and admire, ponder, and sigh, hoping only that one day I can come up with a line that's just that smart, even if I'm prepared to never be on par with Fitzgerald himself.

*Yes, that movie came out forever ago. To be honest, that collection of stories has sat on my desk for maybe six months waiting for me to write this blog post and then put it away. I figured it was now or never, since it will shortly be packed with all my other belongings and moved to the new house. But more on that later...

Thanks, Wild Thing

2010-01-12T13:33:00.000-08:00

M: I'm all finished with my peanuts.
Me: Great!
M: But I'm still hungry. Can I have something else?
Me: Nope. It's too close to dinner. You'll have to wait until then.
M: Then I guess I'll just have to eat you up.

Be warned: this post stinks

2010-01-11T06:39:00.000-08:00

This weekend's refrain? "Me not need go poopy." I've had that screamed in my face more times than I can count. But let's all be honest: if there is poop coming out of your bottom, you clearly need to go poopy. Ah, the stubbornness of a two-year-old.

Excuse me while I have some ice cream

2010-01-08T21:47:00.000-08:00

Ditto this post. But we didn't even have to endure 55F and drizzle this year. Just a few days in the sixties. Life. Is. Good.

The Light

2010-01-07T21:11:00.001-08:00

“And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year: Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown. And he replied: Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God. That shall be to you better than light, and safer than a known way”

Minnie L. Haskins

Another thorn in bedtime's side

2010-01-06T21:58:00.000-08:00

M: Daddy?
B: Yes?
M: What if monsters come in our house?
B: They can't. Remember, we have an alarm.
M: (pause to think) But what if they eat the alarm?

Swift thinking, kid. I tried to convince him that monsters are simply misunderstood, that if they came to our house we would invite them in and feed them chicken parmesan sandwiches and send them on their merry way. He told me we could also call animal control.

Happy 2010!

2010-01-01T10:41:00.000-08:00

Here's to a fantastic new day, new year, and new decade! The past ten years have been huge for our family--happy moments and sad losses, three houses, four degrees, two children, two nephews, and more countries than I have fingers. Blessings big and small make me realize that there is no bad time, just times that are better than others, and things to be learned--always.

I looked back at my 2009 post, absolutely thrilled to find that I made good progress on all of them, especially the writing. My friend told me kindly, upon reading that post, that I was already a writer. Maybe so, but I managed to prove it to myself, my own worst critic. So this year, I'm going to finish that novel and write another one. I'm going to learn to control my temper, practice really believing in God, and teach M how to ride a bike without training wheels. I'm going to make boeuf bourguignon at least once (thanks, "Julie & Julia").

I'm also letting go of the last day on earth mentality, looking more to enjoy every day as it is in all its glory. Going back to the life abundant attitude, I suppose, where it's more about the sum of all the little things than the big moments you might never create/enjoy to satisfaction.

What about you? I'm not much of a resolution girl, as seen by the fact that I'd utterly forgotten what I'd posted last year, but I do think it's a great time to think about where you are and where you want to be. It's a long road, and there's no time like the present to take the first step.

Back to the Rejection Board

2009-12-27T19:55:00.000-08:00

I got the nicest rejection letter the other day from Alligator Juniper, a literary magazine out of Prescott College. I'd submitted a story a few months ago for a contest, one of those on-a-whim moments when I had a few minutes in magical conjunction with an advert for the contest. Just below the standard, typewritten response was a long, handwritten paragraph from one of the fiction staffers telling me several things that they absolutely loved about my piece. Of course, they still weren't going to publish it.

Um, as much as my ego loves stroking--let's be honest, no matter how they say it, it's not called a rejection letter for nothing--I'm left holding this little piece of paper wondering how exactly that's supposed to help me. I mean, kudos for the plug, but seriously, if I didn't think it was good, I wouldn't have sent it to you. The most frustrating thing is that this same story came back with a rejection letter from a different magazine last year with a similar handwritten note. That one went so far as to assure me that I would surely get that story published. It was just going to have to be somewhere else. Good thing I'm all pumped up on peppermint mochas and holiday cheer, or else I might feel just a wee bit dejected.

Merry Christmas!

2009-12-24T16:45:00.000-08:00

I've made it: I've hit that magic window when I finally sit down to enjoy Christmas. The chocolate bells and sugar cookies are made, the cinnamon rolls are ready for tomorrow, and I won't even think about dinner for another, oh, twenty hours. The house is clean (enough) and the presents are all wrapped and accounted for. So the hours between now and then are mine, and I'm ready to share them with my family. For whatever chaos we've had in the past week (and there's been a lot), for whatever various stages of sick we all are, for whatever people are near and far or gone to heaven this season, we are blessed--not for what we have or where we are, but for the gift we received on Christmas Day. Merry Christmas!

Screw the Pulitzer--I want a Pancake Prize

2009-12-22T18:41:00.000-08:00

I've got mad skills this holiday season. The kids made a recent attempt to stump me with their pancake shape requests (okay, they actually believe I can make just about anything out of pancake, bless their hearts, but B considers them a challenge): First, K wanted a picture of one of my friends holding her baby. M wanted a pumper truck with a bucket on the ladder and a light on the top. And five minutes later:

One Miss J, with her hair up, holding Baby J. That's Baby J's blankie next to them, just in case she needs it.

And the pumper truck with ladder and bucket. You'll notice the carefully placed chocolate chip at the top of the cab for the light. It also has white wall tires, but that's just me showing off.

Dude. If there was only a marketable position for these kinds of talents.

Foolhardy 101

2009-12-20T19:05:00.001-08:00

So we made the cookie tree. By hand. With peanut butter chocolate chip cookie dough and chocolate filling. Yep. M and I. Just having a little fun. You're waiting for the disaster shot, right? Here you go:

That's right: no disaster! One level, stacking, tree shaped cookie tower that tastes sinfully awesome! Okay, the frosting is a bit haphazard, but that's what happens when you let go things enough to let a 2 and 4 year old go to town. Hooray for foolhardiness! I believe a new holiday tradition has been born.

More frosting, stat!

2009-12-18T13:44:00.000-08:00

I have a lot of fun Christmas crafts in mind for the kids. I even have all the supplies. They will promote dexterity, create fun memories, and preserve their little skills as they are. But what do I see as I'm walking out of M's preschool today? One of those Christmas trees made out of layers of cookies. I do not have the supplies for one of those. It will not accomplish much other than add to the already overblown sugar content of our household*. But I think that's what we'll be making this weekend. Except I'm going to make it out of peanut butter cookies, with chocolate in the middle to hold it altogether. I don't have recipes for that either, but what's a challenge without, well, more challenge?

*How overblown? Check these out:

Would believe I made not three but ten of these beauties, and they're all still standing? On my first try at gingerbread houses! We didn't keep all ten, of course, nor are we actually eating much of them. But they do make the air seem all too sweet.

One Wave in an Ocean

2009-12-16T20:23:00.002-08:00

Today was K's last swim class. The super affordable class we've been taking is being cut, and we're not prepared to continue, what with the giant sucking sound coming from our wallet. While swimming means a lot to K--a lot more than music class, for example--she has a short attention span, and a happy disposition. Whenever we start getting ready in the morning, she's quick to ask, "What we going to?" and the response, almost across the board, is delivered with good cheer. She'll start gym class in January, and I'm sure that she'll enjoy it just as much. And I plan to take her to the pool on occasion, just to keep up her skills until the summer.

It's me who's taking it hard. I started swim classes with M over three years ago, and the classes would only take kids up to age three any. K's not that far away. Another phase, coming to an end.

Swim class is not perfect. The time between the pool and dry clothes (with a shower in between), the dirty concrete floor, the extra laundry and time and fuss for a tiny half hour session--all things that have picked at me from time to time. But I loved that half hour with each kid, that time to play together, completely focused, laughing and learning and seeing them make big and little bounds in skill.

It's the grocery cart all over again, only this time, I don't have a choice. So I took K out for a celebration lunch, just us girls, and signed her up for gym when I got home. As much fun as the bubbly baby swim class was, I take comfort that we rode that wave all the way to the shore, and are paddling out for another.

Advent Conspiracy

2009-12-13T20:45:00.000-08:00

Alright, just between you and me: are you stressed already? Tis the season--the most wonderful time of the year, and all--and we are squeezing out every last drop of holiday goodness we can. This includes crafts and stories and baking, in addition to all the parties and gift giving and decorating we can manage. But I'm feeling, with Christmas less than two weeks away, that I'm struggling to survive instead of enjoy.

I guess I thought that was just how the holidays had come to be, until yesterday in church when our Pastor announced that this year, our church will be participating in the Advent Conspiracy. My ears perked up: are we doing covert operations now? Shall I stock up on black glasses and wigs as to hide Advent candles in the homes of my unconverted friends? How very exciting!

Actually, Advent Conspiracy is a movement to change the way we think about Christmas. The main principle: Spend Less, Give More. Instead of buying that gift card, sweater, trinket--instead of asking for that random item you've lived this long without--send a homemade gift, or a card telling that person how much they mean. Then take that money and do something really useful with it, like buy food for starving children or wells for clean water.

It doesn't have to be all or nothing. Of course we're appreciate of the gifts we've received and the thoughtfulness behind them. We too are guilty of overspending and overscheduling, especially when it comes to the kids. But for a minute: think. There's still time to make this Christmas different, to spend it the way Christ first spent it: simply, joyfully, with the people He loved.

Want to know more? I did. Advent Conspiracy's got some great videos here. "Enter the Story" is my favorite. Still feel like you have to have a gift? Try Living Water International. You can turn your donation into a gift card, and the recipient can choose which project they want to support. Snazzy! The best part, in my opinion? That they sell in $5 increments. I love that $5 still means a lot to someone. This year, I'm going to try to make it me.

Career Aspirations

2009-12-13T14:16:00.001-08:00

We started our Christmas a little bit early, as we had to celebrate with my parents before they jetted off to spend the holidays with my sister and her family. Much to our great satisfaction, K received plush versions of both Roo and Heffalump, which means she, by default, is now Kanga, and I am back to being "just mommy." M received a transport truck. He now tells me that when I'm done being "just mommy," I can be a transport truck driver. I'm starting to think that maybe I'm just not very exciting.

What, you're out of virtual jeans too?

2009-12-12T13:34:00.000-08:00

I spent a significant time before I started this post simply trying to find the last post I did about jean shopping. Because I know there was one--I remember it being especially witty, as I remember most things I write until I actually read them again. At any rate, I'm jean shopping again, much to my disgruntlement. One pair fits in the waist, but not the legs. One pair fits in the legs but has the wrong cut, one pair would fit in a smaller size (which they do not have in stock), etc. I hate jean shopping, but my beloved favorite jeans are about worn to pieces (not to mention nearly white-washed and baggy like, well, super old denim). So I'm on the hunt, again, only this time I have two children who love to come in the dressing room and give me their opinion. They're not particularly helpful ("Mom, those look perfect" "Um, I can't get them buttoned" "Oh. But you should get them anyway"), but they do make for cheerful distraction.

Speaking of distraction, I really do not need to be jean shopping right now, with holiday shopping to finish, a baby shower cake to make, gingerbread houses to construct, and a novel to rewrite*. Or maybe that's why I'm jean shopping instead.

By the by, if you do happen to find that missing jeans post, please let me know. My mind might be hiding right there with it.

*Did I mention rewrite? Oh yes, because it would be too easy to just line edit and move on. How about we chuck the whole first half and reorganize the second? Shall we change and/or eliminate characters, too? I think we shall! What fun it is to carve up something that seems to be melting away under my very keystrokes!

Can you tell I'm tired?

2009-12-10T15:42:00.000-08:00

Me: Okay, you guys can play for a few minutes, and then we're going to run an errand.
M: What are we going to do?
Me: We're going to drop some food off at a friend's house.
M: Can we stay in the car?
Me: No. Where we park is too far away.
M: But I want to stay in the car.
Me: I know, but I don't feel okay leaving you far away from me.
M: What are you worried about?
Me: That someone will take you.
M: (thinks, then brightly) But won't you lock the car?
Me: They could break the window.
M: (even more brightly) But then the police will come.
Me: You might be long gone by then. If someone comes to the car and breaks the window and takes you far away, what are you going to do?
M: (thinks, then not so brightly) I think we will just come in with you.

This storm's got a bite

2009-12-07T20:12:00.000-08:00

We had rain today. This wouldn't be news in any other part of the country, but here in sunny San Diego, I can guarantee that just about every other San Diegan blogging out there will have some crazy rain story. Like how San Diegans don't know how to drive in the rain, have no effective rain clothes, and look on the flooded back patio to find odd things like power tools and shoes left out to soak. This is mine:

Over the weekend, we thought it would be fun to look at rain boots (Note to self: never take kids to look at $17 totally unnecessary wear for one week a year rain boots, because when you find they have kitties and fire badges on them, you will be buying them anyway). So since the kids had rain boots, we took them for a walk in the rain today. It's all fantastic puddle jumping fun until you spot a stray Black lab across the street. The kids are not particularly keen on dogs, and were especially nervous about one on his own. We all paused, unsure of whether to try walking past or go back, when the dog came over to our side. I moved my umbrella forward to give us some space, then tried a gentle "Shoo, Shoo" technique. The dog moved back accordingly. Then he started to growl. I backed the kids away and suggested we head back the way we came.

Apparently backing away was the wrong move.

We made it about fifteen feet before the dog, who had been barking with increasing ire, came charging at us with teeth bared. The kids, of course, began shrieking in terror. I put the umbrella in front of us, pulled the kids behind, and screamed for the first time in my life with bloodcurdling intensity. The dog was deterred by the umbrella and came around on the other side, at which point I screamed again, desperate for help, and--God's grace--managed to frighten the dog, who ran off down the street.

We salvaged the afternoon with more puddle jumping, hot chocolate, and a quiet project by the fire, but I'm still shaken by the whole thing. I think about what could have happened--I'd almost left the umbrella at home--and the fact that no one, despite my screams for help, came to our aid. As much as I love the rain and those darling rain boots, it just makes me want to hunker down in our house for sunnier San Diego days.

Consider me panicked

2009-12-04T12:40:00.000-08:00

You know what I found when cleaning up the house today? A pen cap. But not just any pen cap. The pen cap to a black permanent marker. If my life had a soundtrack, you'd be listening to a menacing "duh-duh-DUH" right now.

21 Days: Being on Time

2009-12-02T13:25:00.000-08:00

So I know I brought up this notion of changing habits in twenty-one days and then abandoned it. Well, I first tackled the habit of putting things away, which has somewhat stuck. A bit. Okay, we're all works in progress, right? This time I'm working on being on time.

I'm chronically late. I think it's worse since I had kids, but I don't recall ever being someone absolutely on time. My friends are very kind and tell me that they don't notice, but I'm sure they do. I do, and it bugs me. The problem is, as I can so far identify, that I'm a multi-tasker. A multi-multi-tasker. I can't seem to do anything unless I'm also doing something else. This means I leave a lot of half-finished projects lying around, along with a lot of half-drunk cups of coffee. I did not say I was a good multi-tasker. Thus, when I'm getting ready to go someplace, I'm also folding laundry or blogging or reorganizing the dress-up bin. I look at the clock and think: I've got just enough time to do X before I go. The last thing I'd want is to arrive early someplace and waste an extra ten minutes waiting around that I could have spent doing something else (gasp! ten minutes of just hanging around! the horror!) It's never enough time, of course, and therefore I am always late. I know I am always late, that I shouldn't try to do anything except get myself out of the house on time, but that doesn't stop me.

But I'm ready to be on time. See, I don't think that I can change being a multi-tasker--somehow I think that's a hard-wired personality fault--but I can control my multi-tasking mayhem. So twenty-one days of making it a priority to be on time, and maybe I'll learn to temper my tasking in the process. We can all say that I started yesterday for ease of counting (I failed miserably yesterday, multiple times!), but today I made it on time to both swim class and preschool pick-up, surprisingly serene. Maybe if I wasn't in a bunch about getting everywhere I might not have an ulcer, eh? I'm making it a rule that I cannot do anything in the fifteen minutes before I have to be anywhere, and I'm trying to tell myself NO-STOP-FOCUS! as vehemently as possible. It's funny, though, that I'm always harping on the kids to find their listening ears, and I seem to have misplaced by own.

Next stop: pink spray paint

2009-12-01T08:15:00.000-08:00

We're still debating what to get K for Christmas. We picked up a dollhouse a while ago, only to find, after marching her up and down the aisles of various toy stores, that she doesn't want dolls. She didn't really want the cute little animal families I picked out. Nor did she want the princess dresses curiously absent from our dress-up box. You know what she wants? Trucks. Especially fire trucks.

It's not that K isn't girly. Her favorite colors are pink and purple, so much so that she thinks everyone's favorite colors should be pink and purple. So it's a bit confusing for her: how come M gets to have trucks in his favorite colors? Where are my pink and purple fire trucks?

So after an exhaustive in-store and online search, I'm here to tell you that there are no pink and purple fire trucks. There are no pink or purple trucks or cars, period.*

*I'm exaggerating a little here. I'm aware that there are two such vehicles made by Fisher Price. The first is a purple SUV, which we have. She does not play with it, maybe because it features a mom and her baby running errands around town, and we all know that firemen are too busy to be running errands. The second is a pink dump truck. A little, lame pink dump truck. Trust me, it would pale in comparison to the garage full of working rigs M has collected.

I've struggled with genderization before (like here and here). I want to get on my soapbox about the stereotypes we have about kids and how they contribute to this dilemma. Here's what stops me: K has another present she wants. It's a baby that drinks milk from a bottle. In the midst of her truck search, she paused for an eternity to let this creepily realistic baby suck on her plastic bottle. She patted the baby, let her drink more, gave her a kiss, and then stroked her as she fell asleep (did I mention this thing was creepy?). So I'm biting my tongue a bit. But I still think, out of principle, that there should be trucks in all kinds of colors, instead of just boy. And maybe creepily realistic babies should come in some other shade than pink. And just for kicks, maybe we could consider that gender roles don't have to be so clearly defined by the tender age of two.

Beginnings and Ends

2009-11-30T09:59:00.000-08:00

Today is the last day of November and the Monday after the Thanksgiving holiday. Seems to me it's fair game to start the Christmas season today, although for good measure you could wait until tomorrow so that it is, in fact, December. But what fun is that?

On another note, today is also the last day of NaBloPoMo, and I once again managed to blog my way through thirty days. And once again, it didn't seem that hard. You almost think that I could keep this up year round, but let's be honest: you don't really want to hear from me that much. Still, it's nice to know that my mind, body, and will can all manage to coordinate on something if I just ask nicely.

It's getting a little roo-de

2009-11-29T21:45:00.000-08:00

We've been on a Roo kick around here, as in Roo from Winnie the Pooh. It all started with a rental from the library when we babysat for some friends, and after one night with the Heffalump movie, we've been reliving the action ever since. This means we all take roles from the movie and run around building Heffalump traps, which occasionally catch someone. As you might assume, K is always Roo and I am always Kanga. The other roles are variable, depending on how many participants we have and how many Winnie the Pooh-esque stuffed animals we can find to join us.

I thought this was all fine and dandy until the night when K woke up from a dream and called out: "Kanga or Daddy! Kanga or Daddy!" She is clear I'm not actually Kanga, right?

Crunchy, Salty, Sweet, and Yum

2009-11-29T10:05:00.000-08:00

Just in case you are tired of turkey, pumpkin pie, and the rest, here's a quick no-bake recipe. That's right, quick and no-bake, because you're also tired of cooking, aren't you?

Butterscotch Haystacks

2 cups butterscotch chips
2 cups chow mein noodles
1 cup peanuts

Melt the butterscotch chips in the microwave or on the stove over very low heat. Remove from heat and stir in the noodles and the peanuts. Drop teaspoonfuls onto waxed paper and let cool before devouring. Next time, try subbing chocolate for some or all of the butterscotch, or throwing in things like m&ms or mini marshmallows. Yum!

It's all white meat to me

2009-11-28T14:53:00.000-08:00

Are you tired of turkey yet? I find it amusing that we cook turkeys just a few times a year--or in our house, once--and then run out of turkey-using ideas so quickly. I get a variety of internet and print cooking magazines, and they are all focused on how to use up those leftovers. Come on, you couldn't have spent the last twelve months thinking of good uses for poultry? Let me give you a hint: if you can make it with chicken, you can make it with turkey. Now excuse me while I go make myself another turkey sandwich. Yes, just a sandwich. Call me a turkey purist.

Everyone's a critic

2009-11-27T14:43:00.000-08:00

(Song fades on the radio. DJ notes that the previous selection was by the Smashing Pumpkins).

M: Smashing Pumpkins?
K: Mathing Pumpmans?
M: Yuck! That's silly.
K: Siwee!
Me: It's the name of a band, Smashing Pumpkins. They'd played the last song.
M: Huh. That's still yuck. And silly.
K: Yuck. Siwee Pumpmans.

Yes, well, it's possible you weren't their target audience.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2009-11-26T08:02:00.000-08:00

Here's wishing you all a wonderful Thanksgiving, with thankfulness for where you are and what you have. For me, this year is bittersweet. As happy as I am, as full as our table will be, my grandmother will be missing. So this year, I'm most thankful for God and heaven, not just because God is great (which He is), but because He is giving my grandmother the next best thing to being at our table. It helps me to picture her, with her husband and son, eating the stuffing that she loved and smiling so sweetly, when I miss her so much. I'm so very thankful that I have that.

M, on the other hand, reported on his Thanksgiving present from preschool that he is most thankful, on Thanksgiving, for chicken. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to mention that the bird on the table is a turkey. Who wants to spoil thankful?

Soft, white, and loved all over

2009-11-25T08:40:00.000-08:00

One of my tasks yesterday was to make a delivery to the local Goodwill. I had gone through the old clothes and toys to make room for the impending Christmas joy. If I try to do this while the kids are around, they suddenly decide they're interested in whatever I was just about to chuck. This interest lasts only as long as I'm loading up the donation. At that point, the toy is disregarded once more (this should come as a complete "duh"to anyone with children). I figured this was the perfect time.

Everything was going fine until I loaded up the grocery cart. You know, the big red plastic grocery cart that seemed like such a perfect purchase to go with their play kitchen? The one that hardly ever actually gets played with? Yeah, it's that crapshoot all over again. So I loaded it up and got about halfway to the donation site when I started to cry. That's right, I started to cry. Over a grocery cart. That the kids don't really play with. I called B and asked him if we were sure that we were ready to give up the cart. He said yes, that the kids hardly play with it anymore. I said are you sure? With tears. Because they still like to go grocery shopping, which consists of taking all the foodstuffs from my pantry and leaving them at various spots around the house, which is just as annoying as it sounds. Don't ask my why I was defending this practice, but it seemed at that moment most important that they be able to continue grocery shopping in peace. B, being the good and wise husband that he is, insisted that we were most definitely not ready. Are you sure? I asked (yes, again). Keep it for me, he told me. He's gracious too.

The truth is, I've also been working on scrapbooking this week, and the day before I'd found a picture of K. Little K. K back when she was still toddling around. She had her bear in the cart and was wearing her cute footie pjs and looking so little and precious and happy. But especially so little. I'm not ready to give that up yet either. About this I'm very sure, except that it's one thing I'll have to give up eventually, whether I like it or not.

We get to see the kids again today, and while I have to say that sleeping in, eating whenever, and scrapbooking/cleaning/writing at will are all fantastic, I'm dying for a hug. Kids have turned me into such a marshmallow, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Christmas Crap Shoot

2009-11-24T07:22:00.000-08:00

One of the things B and I have been doing during our time off is Christmas shopping. I war with myself on the subject of presents, because while I believe that we have too much, that the kids certainly don't need anything else, and that they are (in the end) just things, I also find myself walking through stores absolutely dying to buy things for them. I see items on the shelves that they would love, and I want to buy them. All of them. I don't even want to give them to other people as ideas. I want to give them myself. It's really ridiculous, and yet I can't seem to help picking up thing after thing, forgetting in minutes that I've already collected enough for three Christmases, because, gosh, there's a Lightbrite over there--wouldn't M think that was dandy?!?

Christmas seems like such a crap shoot to me, too, because there's no way of knowing for certain which gifts will be long term hits and which will fall by the wayside in mere days. I'm so often perplexed by things that keep coming out to play, and then puzzled by others that seemed like they would be keepers. So I find the gambler in me wanted to buy ten things knowing that only two of them will really pan out. Then I can just keep the two and give away the rest. See, if I try to guess the two, the odds are that I'll be wrong.

This is crazy, I know. I'm the first person to request few to no gifts from family, to complain about the house being too full, to push the family to see the intangible over the tangible. So what's wrong with me??? All I can think is that the holiday spirit has struck, and this year, she's greedy.

Thankful Tree

2009-11-23T15:24:00.000-08:00

One afternoon last week, the kids made Thankful Trees. I thought it was such a sweet idea that I'd post it here. I cut out leaves in fall-ish colors and gave the kids a big sheet of white paper. They made a trunk with brown marker, then told me, one at a time, things for which they were thankful. After I'd write down the idea, we'd put a little glue on the back and add the leaf to their tree. Turns out they had a lot of things to be thankful for, and I had to cut extra leaves (twice). But it was great to see their big and little thankful thoughts. It's only Monday--certainly not too late for you to make your own thankful trees. Yes, neighbor across the street, we're all still on Thanksgiving around here, so keep your lights to a minimum. Sheesh.

A few notes: About half of M's leaves are face down. Although I was, selfishly, wanting to be able to see every one of his ideas and therefore resistant at first, I realized that it was his tree and his thoughts. So some of them are face down, but maybe all the more thoughtful for not being shared. Also, some of the leaves are blue, which is not, to my knowledge, a fall-ish color of leaf. I don't actually think it's a leaf color at all. But the kids were sure that their trees needed blue leaves on one of the extra cuts, and I figured why not. And by the time that M said he was now making a Christmas Thankful tree--which is exactly what it ended up looking like--I'd all but let go of the project. There are worse things than being independent.

Just (B)e

2009-11-22T08:48:00.000-08:00

We're on day two without kids. My parents were kind enough to take the kids up to their house while B works a couple more days before the Thanksgiving break begins. According to the kids, getting to go to their grandparents house without their parents is the most wonderful thing in the world. I try to just appreciate the opportunity for their sake and ours, although it is a little tough to hear your own kids screaming that they want to go away WITHOUT YOU!!! (Yes, that's exactly how they say it. Both of them. In unison. Ahem.)

So we know that this is a special thing that not many parents get, and we often get questions about how we use that precious time. I'd like to say that we make the most of absolutely every second, but yesterday, there was a lot of window shopping, wandering, and aimless driving. B took a nap at a time other than nap time. I turned on television and let it bad programming run its course. We played Rock Band at dinnertime and had dinner at 8:30, right before going grocery shopping. Yes, we went grocery shopping at 9pm on a Saturday night. And yet, looking back, we may not have made the most of every second, but we certainly enjoyed the unfamiliar sense of freedom, the chance to relax just the two of us--even if we're doing two independent activities. I've got three more days to get things done, and only three more days to enjoy just B. There's got to be a balance in there somewhere.

Character

2009-11-21T16:02:00.000-08:00

"The test of character is how you're willing to treat someone when you are absolutely certain you are right."

Wayne Jacobsen

In other news...

2009-11-20T14:43:00.001-08:00

It's finished, as much as a first draft can ever be considered finished. 136, 699 words over 464 pages, collected in little snippets here and there from March 30th until today. It's a testament to God, to the endurance He gives us and the truth that He will never ask too much--even if, for so long, I believed that writing a novel while staying home with two kids was absolutely too much. Eight months later, I'm convinced once again that He was right and I was wrong. You'd think we'd learn not to doubt these things, but hey, I got a novel out of it, didn't I? And now the real work begins...

POOP: Parents Obsessively Overprepping (little) People

2009-11-20T06:11:00.001-08:00

I'm part of a parenting message board--the same one responsible for the children's literature debate--and found myself floored this morning by the following query:

"Has anyone used any books, programs or software tools to prepare for GATE (Gifted and Talented Education)?"

If you're not familiar with GATE, it's the program in California public schools that separates out the high-achieving and under-achieving kids and puts them in higher level classes. Around 3rd grade you take the test, if your parents so desire, which should assess your given IQ and tell educators whether you belong in the class.

I'm not sure what bothers me more: that children who are not necessarily at that level will be "snuck" into those classes, or the fact that their parents are willing to push them into preparing for a test at the tender age of eight--a test that, if it really does test your IQ, shouldn't require any prep at all.

Both B and I were in GATE, and I guess my general assumption is that our kids will be too, but I only want them there if that's what's best for them, if that's where they fit and could get the education they need/deserve. The thought of parents prepping kids for this test the way an adult boosts their score on the GRE is absolutely nauseating. Sorry to all the parents out there who might feel differently. I understand that you want your kid in the best class--I think most parents want the best for their children--and that some kids test more poorly than others (although I think prepping for test taking is different than prepping for a test). Seriously: when did we start treating our kids like little adults? I can remember taking that test, thinking that it was kind of strange and unfamiliar in a "boy, aren't grown-ups weird?" sort of way. I didn't really know what I was going in for and I didn't care after I left. My mom and I went somewhere fun--somewhere for kids--and that was that. It makes me sad to think of some poor kid cramming for the test, stressing out about it, then sitting around waiting for the score with their overobsessive parent. It's like taking the SAT nine years early. It's bad enough when you finally get to that point. Do you really have to treat your kids to that any earlier?

Okay, sorry. It's really too early for soapbox ranting. Feel free to read me the riot act on how I'm overreacting and how test prep is never a bad thing and how much that test could affect a kid's education. I know. Maybe I'll see the point when I'm a little less angry. Right now, I'm ready to take my kids into the playroom and let them be kids.

All that, and we get a shot too

2009-11-19T14:51:00.000-08:00

Do you ever have those moments when you hear yourself being totally irrational, and yet you just can't manage to stop it? It's like a movie, where you see the killer closing in on the door and you want to tell the innocent coed to RUN while there's still time!

Today we had one of those moments.

I took the kids to get flu shots (I know: thimerisol/GBS/toxins/unreliable/etc. We get them anyway. The horror!). They told us it would be a 15 minute wait, which was fine. We had lots of time before we were supposed to meet friends at the park at 10am. We sat down in the waiting room very patiently. After forty-five minutes, countless songs and memorized stories and a few escalating protests, I politely asked how much longer it would be, pointing out that they had promised only 15 minutes. "Soon," they told me. So we sat back down. I tried to call my friend to give her an update, only to find my cell phone was dead. Surely we'd still be there close to on time. Then again, they were going with the Biblical meaning of 'soon.' After another twenty-five minutes (don't ask me how we got through that with no food and no books and clear dissatisfaction in the catalog of my memory of children's songs and stories), I went back up to the desk, two unhappy but rightfully so kids in tow. The girl at the front asked if we got our shots yet, and I told her that we had not, and as a result I was about to lose it.

Then I lost it.

I found myself crying, pounding the counter, and calling for someone in management to hear my complaints. In my heart, I knew there was very little that they could do, so when she came out, heard my statement, and apologized without actually being able to change anything, I just felt all the more ridiculous. How could I have let myself turn into the child? I'd just thrown a regular tantrum, and received the same response I give to my kids all the time: I'm very sorry, but there's nothing I can do about it.

To tell you the truth, that answer really sucks.

And it sucks to feel like after all these years, after thinking I was grown-up enough to be a mom, that there's a little toddler in there still. I'd like to hope it happens to the best of us, but maybe it's really that I'm just not one of the best. In any case, I feel very human today, and thinking thankfully that God loves me just as I love my kids, even when they're being irrational and ridiculous.

In the end, we got our flu shots, albeit with a small dose of shame. My friend had canceled our playdate--if only my phone had been charged, I would have had the message at a more useful time--and we went shopping instead. The kids got to pick something fun (police car and baby--of course) and I bought myself three kinds of candy for gingerbread house making. By the time we left the store, I was singing Christmas carols to the kids and talking about how much I love the holiday season. So there's some good to having a little toddler lurking inside: she was pretty easily distracted. God bless those short memories.

Week Tired Time Taffy

2009-11-18T05:45:00.000-08:00

Is it really only Wednesday? Really? Does anyone else feel like the month is just crawling toward Thanksgiving? I know I shouldn't complain, because the holidays usually move so fast , but I can only get up before 5am so many days in a row before I start getting cranky.* You'd think, then, when things move so slowly, that I'd be getting so much more done, right? But no. It just feels like it takes me longer to do everything, like time has become a piece of pulled taffy. And I don't even like taffy. Although maybe if I had some taffy, we could at least do a fun project about it's miraculous stretching properties. You know, to kill some time. Did I mention that being tired also messes with my focus?

*In case it wasn't clear already, today was my tipping point. A few more days of this and my posts are going to become as random as this one's title.

Eye spy

2009-11-17T13:04:00.000-08:00

Ever since I had my wallet stolen, I've been having a bit of a identity crisis. See, while giving my statement to the police officer, I had to go over all my vital stats--weight, eye color, etc.--which led to a conversation later that afternoon where I asked my mom what color she would call the kids' eyes. The conversation went something like this:

Me: What color do you think the kids' eyes are? I call them green. They look a lot like my eyes.
Mom: But your eyes aren't green.
Me: You don't think so? They've always looked dark green to me.
Mom: Your dad says that his eyes are green too, and they're not. Your eyes are more... brown in the middle and blue on the edge.
Me: Maybe they mix and make my eyes look green.
Mom: But they don't look green. They look... brown. Or maybe blue. But definitely not green. The kids' look more blue to me.
Me: That's weird. B's eyes are gray.
Mom: Gray! That's the color. Your eyes are gray.
Me: So now they're brown, blue, and gray?
Mom: Well, they're not green.

Feeling rather anxious, I came home and did a bit of research on eye colors. I've concluded, without much conviction, that we all have hazel eyes (well, except B, who really does have gray eyes, which I guess puts him in the blue field, technically speaking). Seems simple enough, right, except that now my driver's license is incorrect on three main fields: I'm not quite at the weight I once was, I'm not quite 5'6"--even on a good day, and my eyes are no longer green. But my hair is red. I think.

Can you spot the pattern?

2009-11-16T18:34:00.000-08:00

M: Let's think of things that start with the letter F.
Me: Oh, that sounds fun. Okay, what--
M: No, me first. I have lots of them. Fire truck. Firefighter. Um...
Me: How about--
M: No, I'm still going. Um... fire!
Me: Wow. All good ones. What about--
M: No, now things that start with P. Like police. And police car.
Me: Right. Or--
M: Now A. Ambulance.
Me: Yeah, or--
M: Mom, I'm all done with this game now.

We didn't actually stop the game there, although I kind of wish we would have. We tried T, which led to tow trucks--also qualifying emergency vehicles in M's world--and then G, which prompted GG. That's what we called my grandmother, the one who passed in June. A moment of silence followed at the mention of her name, and then M said, sweetly and wistfully, "I miss GG." It's nice to know that he remembers her, and that we can miss her together. It's also nice to know that she was special enough to trump even a frenzy of emergency vehicles.

Tonight only: Every card counts twice!

2009-11-15T20:38:00.000-08:00

You know you've sunk to a new low when, while restacking the cards for Candyland, you start thinking how you might arrange them to make the game go as quickly as possible. In my defense: it was 6:47pm after a long day and we (mostly) let the cards fall as they may.

Everything's coming up rosy

2009-11-14T07:31:00.000-08:00

Since K is now using M's twin bed, she's been stuck with his old blue sheets. I really did try to find her cute girly sheets, but everything I could find was only a cotton/polyester blend. Which just doesn't fly for me. Really, am I supposed to prefer wrinkle-free sheets to soft cotton sheets? Unless this means I won't get more wrinkly, I'll pass.

So being the resourceful (i.e. cheap) person that I am, I bought some fabric dye. After a long and stressful process, I produced two batches of dark pink sheets. Brilliant! K was so very pleased to have her very own sheets, and she didn't seem to mind at all that they were all different shades of dark pink and none of them the pretty pink purple I promised. Good thing kids have short memories. I myself was extremely proud that I managed to dye them without dying myself or anything else, and that my washer did not, at any time, produce another load as pink.

Until now. Apparently I celebrated too soon, because now I have a load full of pinkish clothes, including the sheets to our bed, a pair of B's jeans, and one very pink M sock. I couldn't even luck out and have two pink socks, so that K could use them. So this weekend's project? Un-dyeing, which feels just as stressful/water-wasteful/tedious as the original dye job. Cotton/polyester is sounding better all the time.

You're kidding, right?

2009-11-13T20:31:00.000-08:00

All those books published in 2009, all those many many books, and you at Publisher's Weekly produce a top ten list comprised entirely of male authors. I'm not even touching the equally bothersome point that they're also white. Seriously? Seriously? Let's just be logical: fifty percent of the population is female. Dude, in case you're as bad at math as you are at reading, that's half. If you can't give up five, then three, or two, or even one. You're telling me that no woman wrote a book you consider a top tier read? Seriously???

As an English Literature major, I'm familiar with the traditionally white male domination of the literary canon. But I like to think that we're moving past that, that we're realizing that good literature comes in many forms, and that only through the wide and eclectic breadth of authors can it fully touch the wide and eclectic world population. PWs list represents a rebuttal to the promise of a new book-view.

I have a son and I have a daughter, and I am a writer. I would like to tell them both that the world is fair, that if they choose to follow in my footsteps the doors will be open on both sides, the paths equally rocky and trying. And I will tell them that, because having that hope is sometimes what it takes to keep moving forward, word by word and page by page. But in the end, I realize that in more ways than I know, life is not fair. Thanks, PW. I secretly hope that the angel watching over you is a big black woman, and that she's as pissed as I am.

Are you pissed too? Then check out She Writes. They're calling for action, and although the "day" is nearly over, don't let that stop you. Buy a book by a woman--I just bought Beth Moore's Breaking Free to help me build my faith, but I've also got Dead Until Dark by Charlaine Harris on my bedside table. Hey, woman have a lot of different sides, you know. Post something on your blog, or Facebook, or your front door. Take a stand for women writers, and for the little women who are following in our footsteps.

Roll with it

2009-11-12T16:45:00.000-08:00

Today is supermom day. I have those occasionally, when I just feel very in touch and in tune with my job. Homemade applesauce, homemade pudding. Breakfast of homemade biscuits. A full day with the kids at Legoland where we actually managed to eat a healthy lunch and ride most of the rides without tantrum. Let my kids explore on their own, accompanied them when they needed it. Bonded with a friend, finished my prep for Bible Study tonight. Served the pudding as afternoon snack, as only a super-supermom might treat, and got in some writing. Dishes await me while I fix chicken parmesan for dinner (B's favorite).

There are so many days I feel like a failure (like yesterday, for instance, when I lost it multiple times over battles that I shouldn't have been fighting in the first place) that it's a rare treat to feel in control. I just wonder what's different--is it me, or the kids, or the activities planned? Is the weather or our sleep or just some strange confluence of intangible magic? Can I buy that magic? Or what's more tempting: do I make that magic myself? Is it as unexplainable as I perceive, or do I just start on a roll and manage to keep the ball rolling on my own positive accord? Maybe it's supermom's superpower, which then begs the question: what exactly is my kryptonite, and how quickly can I get rid of it?

Pleading nap time insanity

2009-11-11T14:05:00.000-08:00

Every day at nap time, I read K and M their choice of story. Then I settle K down in her bed to sleep and usher M to the playroom to play. Every day, M tells me that he wants to sleep. I tried, when the kids began sharing a room, to let him sleep in his own bed. When no one slept at nap time, I realized this was a bad idea. So I told him that he could sleep in my bed if he was tired. So now, every nap time, I have to go into my room, close up all the doors and windows, unmake my bed, and generally prepare the room for rest. And every day, M spends the entire nap time in the playroom, playing.

I know it's a little thing to get frustrated about, but that's exactly what I am. I like having the windows open in our room and the bed nicely made. I don't want to leave them closed and undone all morning in preparation for this nap time charade, but at the same time, it's maddening to open/fix them twice on one day. I know: little thing. But when I feel like I have to make use of every second of my time, these are precious seconds utterly wasted.

If M really slept, I'd be fine with it. If M even tried to sleep, I'd be fine with it. He doesn't. But when I tell him such ("I don't think you're tired enough to sleep" or "Are you really going to sleep today, because you usually don't") I get loud and emphatic protests. Fearful that they will wake the actually sleeping child, I go along. On principle, too, I hate telling him that he can't or won't sleep just because I don't think he will. It is his body, after all.

I know there's probably no solution, except maybe to just not get so up in bunches about it. And most days I just do it automatically. But every day, the same thing, just starts getting to me after a while. This sneaking feeling creeps up that they are trying to break me one nap at a time, and even I doubt my resilience.

Pattern Giveaway!

2009-11-10T13:19:00.000-08:00

Have you checked out Grosgrain lately? They've got these fantastic little girl dresses up for grabs right now. Now, let's be clear: my sewing skills are seriously limited. But I'd consider expanding their horizons if I got my hands on these beauties.

Maybe she was looking for Oscar

2009-11-09T13:08:00.000-08:00

Today I endured an endless tantrum. Okay, maybe ten minute, but have you ever listened to a kid scream for TEN MINUTES? It's forever. And when it's your kid, it's a tad bit longer. The source of the endless tantrum? K was dumpster diving. It started out with a little eyes-only investigation with her friend. Pick-your-battles parent that I am, I watched without letting myself get too bothered. Parks are petri dishes anyway. I told them to keep their hands out of the trash. I might as well have given them a written invitation. The next thing we knew, both girls were dumpster diving. I sighed and told them to stop, at which point K backed off obediently. Then she picked up her cup, by the straw, with her Lord-knows-what-she-just-touched hands. I groaned and told her to come over so that I could wash her cup and hands, at which point K began to scream. And scream. And scream. Scream while I washed her cup. Scream while I washed her hands. Scream on the grassy area where I put her to finish her tantrum. Talk about dedication. After ten minutes I finally walked over, asked her if she was finished, and then picked up the sobby, snotty, snuffly mess and cuddled her for the rest of the play date. Because I wanted her to wash her hands (and cup) after sticking them in the trash. The nerve.

Clearly having no understanding of the limits of my patience, she stops in her tracks on the way to the car and moans, "Me not want go home. Me want swing!" Right. Poor toddlers. The world must be such an immense spread of puzzle pieces, all getting picked up and sorted and lost and then found and more often than not lost again, in the lengthy process of putting ourselves together. Some times we seem to have blissful days with lots of connected edges.Today was full of middles.

On the plus side, I had the oddest thing to keep me distracted during her fit: a spider in my pocket pack of tissues. Really. I'm not sure how he ended up there, except that perhaps he has a cold like everyone else this time of year. It took us a long time to negotiate the getting out, just long enough to endure a two year old's wrath.

As if laundry wasn't vicious enough already

2009-11-08T19:47:00.001-08:00

In case you were wondering:
(1) You can indeed give yourself a cardboardcut, the nasty and thankfully less often seen relative of the papercut.
(2) Cardboardcuts bleed more than a papercut. A lot more.
(3) Trying to spray laundry stains while bleeding on said laundry creates a very vicious cycle.

Pencil in this

2009-11-07T22:58:00.000-08:00

This is one of those "I just realized, at 11pm, that I failed to post today" posts. Go ahead and lower your expectations accordingly. It's been a tumultuous week: school lunch! gardens! babysitting! driving! visiting! burglary! police! repetitive fire truck video! more driving! picnicking! wine! conference! dreaded public speaking! exclamation points! I feel a bit like a wrung rag. The worst part is that I'm only in the middle, with more engagements to stumble over on the downhill side, and my whole being already exhausted.

I'm can't complain, because I'm the one who makes my schedule. I spend a lot of time lately looking at that schedule and scratching my head. Whatever made me think that it was a good idea to fill in every single open spot I can find? Ah, well they all sound fun, in theory. They are all great things to do with great people. And I hate when I'm trying to do these great things with great people to have to say, "Gee, I think the best time is really three weeks from now." I don't want to be one of those people, who make others feel like you simply don't have time for another friendship. So I squash them in wherever I can, becoming the person who is all burned out and over scheduled. I don't want to be that person either. I just want to be me, enjoying my kids and the people we love and the beautiful place we live. It's just that there's a lot of enjoying to be had there, and apparently not nearly enough time.

He does have a point

2009-11-06T15:16:00.000-08:00

As we head to Mom and M time, stuffed in before K wakes up from her nap...

M: You know what would be easier?
Me: What's that?
M: If we only had one kid!

It was the chippy delivery that got me. You could practically see the light bulb go off. Funny that it took him two and a half years to notice. Too bad for him that K's well past return.

I'll take good over fair any day

2009-11-05T16:48:00.001-08:00

We arrived at the park this morning to see my dear Long Beach friend, who has recently graced this world with yet another beautiful baby girl. When we parked along the street, M became very concerned. See, back in June when my parents watched the kids for us, my mom's car was totaled while parked along the street at their local park. I explained to M that was a completely random, very rare occurrence. "Those kinds of things don't happen often. Our car should be very safe here."

The car was safe. My wallet was not. We spent the morning playing, had a nice picnic lunch, and finished up taking turns on the monkey bars. When I say "taking turns," I mean I held each child's legs as they hung minimally from the bars while we worked our way across. My friend finished nursing her baby and came over. We talked for a few more minutes while the last ones took their turn, then we gathered our stuff to leave.

At the car, I realized my wallet was missing. I hadn't noticed anyone else at the park, so I hurried back, assuming I'd dropped it. When we realized it was well and truly gone, we spent the next hour and a half in the hot sun, phoning the police and the cell phone company and the Honda dealer and the banks. See, I have a super wallet that has my cell phone and keys with it too. Not so handy when they all get stolen together.

Poor M snuffled around the entire time, utterly shattered. He'd been anxious enough about the car. Now his security had been violated even closer and more intimately, and try as I might to stay calm and positive when talking to him, I couldn't help but tear up every time I spoke with someone else.

When all hope was lost, we prayed. My friend called her husband, and asked him to pray as well. And regretfully, I must admit that I wondered what the point was. See, the wallet was gone, right? Really gone. God was not going to reach down and drop it back in my lap. I left it where I shouldn't have, and someone took it. Life is not fair.

But as my friend had just been reminding me earlier that morning, although life is not fair, God is good. We were almost finished with the police report when my husband phoned to tell me that a postal worker had found the wallet in a nearby mailbox. The credit cards, phone, and keys were all inside. So were several gift cards. The only thing missing was sixty dollars. The postal worker quickly brought the wallet back to me, and we discarded the police report.

So in the end, really, the wallet was dropped right back into my lap. God is good. I pray now that the money taken helps whoever took it, and that it will be the last money they ever feel compelled to steal. For me, it was well worth sixty dollars to be reminded that when God is concerned, all is never lost.

As for M, well, I'm not sure what to do. We can talk about this incident and the positives that came out of it, but we did the same with the car accident, and that fear is still holding strong. As it is, I can't set anything down now without the fretful reminder that someone might take it if I don't pick it up. It's hard to get a child to believe in something intangible, like goodness and faith, when the tangibles are so much more real. Then again, it's hard for adults to do that to. I guess we all just keep trying anyway.

As if bloomers do anything anyway

2009-11-04T11:32:00.001-08:00

You'd think, if I remembered to pack up all of our clothes and stuffed animals, the DVD player and some videos, everyone's favorite animals, necessary medicines, entertaining books, and three different kinds of snacks for a simple night away, that I would also remember the pile of clothes that we needed to put on after swim class. The one that I gathered first thing and set by the door. After all, I've been going to swim class with one of the kids for almost three years. Right. Instead, I wound up at swim class with a pair of bloomers. Not much you can do with a pair of bloomers, really.

For the Record

2009-11-03T05:56:00.000-08:00

It is officially too bright to be only 5:53am. It does not make me feel chipper and cheery. It makes me feel like this is going to be the longest day in the world. Again.

Time for NaBloPoMo

2009-11-02T13:38:00.000-08:00

I realized today, to my horror, that NaBloPoMo had already begun! How could I be behind already? What kind of person skips the very first day?

Except that I didn't skip. I posted yesterday. Was it really just yesterday? See, this daylight savings time business messes with my whole world. You know why? Because I insist on going around telling myself what the "real" time is. For example, it's one forty. Which is really two forty. The kids should be up from their nap soon, and I haven't even put one of them down.

It gets worse. Last night I went to bed at ten, which was really eleven. Very late. Woke up to the sound of a small child in the bathroom at five thirty, which was really four thirty. Talk about a short night.

You're all scratching your heads right now, I can practically hear it. No, it wasn't really four thirty. It was really six thirty. Only it was really five thirty. Can it really just be nine thirty already? I clearly need some sleep.

Lucky Me

2009-11-01T13:40:00.000-08:00

You knew I'd have another one this Sunday, didn't you? Well, okay. Maybe I'm just overwhelmed by the holiday onslaught (Halloween down, two more to go) or maybe it's reading the Bible that's opening me up to God's voice. At any rate, this morning we sang Chris Tomlin's "Indescribable," one of my favorite worship songs. This is the line that got me:

"You see the depths of my heart and You love me the same."

Wow. Really? Really. All those little things that I think would alienate me from everyone else, all the things that I won't even admit to myself. He knows them, and He still loves me. But more importantly, He loves me the same. The same. It seems impossible. But then again, I guess that's what He's all about.

Irony, defined

2009-10-28T14:17:00.000-07:00

In the event that you are unfamiliar with the definition of irony, here it is: "an event or result that is the opposite of what is expected" (Webster's New World Dictionary and Thesaurus). Need an example? How about this one:

I get these headaches when I haven't had enough sleep. They start in my neck and go all the way along the back of my head with very dull, persistent pain. There is nothing that can cure these headaches except, well, sleep. Thus I call them my tired headaches.

So this morning, at four, when I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep, do you know it was that kept me awake? Yep. A tired headache. A throbbing, painful, cannot be ignored signal from my body that I need more sleep, asap. Huh huh. Joke's on you, body. You hurt me like that, I don't sleep. Or maybe the joke's on me. Actually, it's not really funny at all. But it is ironic.

Where's Emily Post when you need her?

2009-10-27T05:55:00.000-07:00

If the women's restroom is closed for cleaning, and you take your daughter into the men's restroom out of "me pee now!"* desperation, should you put the toilet seat back up when you're finished?

*No, my English hasn't quite degraded that much. It's poor K, who is, yes, thinking about considering to maybe potty train. I have never met a kid who wanted so badly to put her pee pee and poo poo in the potty like all the other big kids. The actual putting of things in the potty is a little harder to come by. It reminds me of when she was crawling, the fierce desire in her nature to perfect this one act, and the perseverance and willfulness that finally got it done. I'm sure this will be the same way, eventually. Just with a whole lot more laundry.

Not fretless, but fretting less

2009-10-26T13:33:00.000-07:00

Okay, there was one other thing that struck me at church yesterday. We were singing "In Christ Alone," which includes the following lyrics:

"There in the ground His body lay
Light of the world by darkness slain."

The realization hit me so hard that I started to cry. We had most beautiful, sinless, loving person living among us, and we killed him. The worst of the world--the darkness--conquered even him.

After just admitting that I'm a fretter, I'm honest in saying that one of the things I worry about most is something bad happening to our family--either my husband, myself, or our kids. There are a lot of bad things out there, natural or man made, that could take us down so quickly. It seems like everywhere I look, something dangerous could be waiting. The world has a lot of nice things in it, but I find myself, in my fret, thinking it's not a particularly safe place.

But then the next two lyrics:

"Then bursting forth in glorious Day
Up from the grave He rose again."

Yes, the world took down even the Son of God. But He had to let that happen to show us what God can do. Conquered by death, conquered by the world itself, He rose from death. He shows us that no matter what happens, we can have hope in Him.

I don't mean to be all spiritual/preachy here. But I could not believe how much this one little stanza affected me. There is so much to worry about, and yet, in the end, no matter what happens, I know that there is something more. It doesn't stop the worrying, honestly, but it gives me something with which to fight it back.

Meek matters

2009-10-25T14:10:00.000-07:00

We managed to make it to church for the first time in October, what with all the sickness and travels we've had lately. Since both kids happily attend their own classes, it's much easier to focus on the songs and sermons, which in turn brings me so much closer to God and what He can say to me.

Today, though, I felt especially drawn to the sermon. See, we're going through the Beatitudes, and today was my week: "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth" (Matthew 5:5). Although I'm often told that I'm not meek, or that people can't imagine it, or that it's all in my head, I listened to the pastor's ensuing description of meekness, including what was meant in context, nodding my head.

I thought, then, that the best part about this sermon would be that I would feel empowered, that someday my meekness (and the shame, disappointment, struggles, etc. that come with it) would be greatly rewarded. But I instead found myself caught on the corresponding passage from Psalms 37, which talks about the rewards of the meek, who struggle under the more powerful people of the world. It was this line that struck me: "Fret not yourself; it tends only to evil" (Psalms 37:8b). In fact, the admonition against fretting appears three times in this relatively short passage.

As a meek person, I get this. In fact, I found my mind wandering during the sermon back to the whole mom group fiasco, thinking again that I had botched it and wondering if there was any way, still, that I could make amends. I fret a lot. I fret about frettting. I think that for someone who is sensitive, feeling left out or unliked or socially awkward, this line of thinking begins naturally. I believe that's why God put it into this passage, because meek people need to realize not only that their true worth will be rewarded not according to the world but to heavenly standards, but that they therefore should not waste their time worrying, whether it follows naturally or not.

Then the pastor said something that eased, at least somewhat, my fretful mind: "Wherever you are, God will make things right." If you have botched something, God will make it right. If you have missed something, God will make it right. If you are meek, God will make it right.

I don't believe that God fixes things for us. But I do believe that He is always there for me to take my hand and lead me to the right place, the better place, the point where I need to be. And that, usually, is forward. Which is why I see fretting as so useless. The initial beatitude--"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth"--looks to the far future reward. 'Keep your eye on the prize,' as I sometimes say. But in the meantime, it keeps you looking forward, moving forward, and experiencing what life has to offer instead of spending too much time focused on what life did or didn't do. Sometimes I think that if I could only do that, it would be like inheriting the earth, one little joyful fret-less moment at a time.

California Waking

2009-10-22T14:35:00.000-07:00

We're back from visiting family. It's not really a vacation, per se, but we did manage to see almost everyone we needed to see. There was much hugging, small talk, and kid-appreciation. Not to mention sitting, video watching, and fried food. We are from the midwest, after all.

I feel fortunate that in a trip that included an emergency landing (note to pilots: if you decide to make said landing after we in the cabin smell smoke, pleasepleaseplease tell us before you turn the plane and head us downward. Communication is good) and the stomach flu (not ours, thankfully), we made it through without a scratch. Most significantly, we discovered that our little babies have become, quite under our noses, little people. They walked everywhere, spoke to everyone (politely, too!), listened to instructions and managed to follow it, ate all their meals, slept in all those strange hotel beds, and generally acted accordingly without one measurable tantrum. I even caught M using his little airplane napkin for a coaster. His sister had already leaned back and fallen asleep, absolutely on her own.

We made plenty of happy memories too. M had his first go-kart ride, and he discovered popcorn shrimp. K showed her Baby Jordan all around the airport like a doting mother, and she pooped in the big girl potty for the first time (for a potentially potty-training parent, this equals happy). And we all got to sample Kansas City barbecue, which, in my opinion, has nothing on Memphis barbecue (what? You didn't know there were different types of barbecue? You poor, poor soul).

Best part? You guessed it: being back home. In California. With all that blue sky, palm trees, and warmishness. Sigh.

Today's Parenting Strategy: Non-parenting

2009-10-14T14:00:00.000-07:00

Forty-five minutes into K's nap--a very quiet, uneventful forty-five minutes--she calls me into her room. Surprised, I go in to become even more surprised. She's still in her bed, but she's now surrounded by about twenty different books. Naptime clearly does not mean the same thing to her as it does to me. "This book scary," she says as she hands me Where the Wild Things Are. I'm sure there are a lot of things I probably could or should have said in this situation, but instead I took the book from her, laid it aside, and said, "Well, you don't need to read it." And then I walked out. I can blame this on busyness or hump day or pre-vacation distraction, but the truth is, sometimes I'd just rather avoid parenting.

Preparedishness

2009-10-12T13:22:00.000-07:00

We are quick approaching a trip to visit family, which will take us to somewhere coldish. This means somewhere cold to us, but pretty much average to the rest of the country. In final preparations for this coldishness, I've discovered a few things:

1) Elsewhere in the country, people have already bothered buying fall clothes. I have not. This means that although M's 3T highwater jeans will be very handy in the event of rain, they are not warmish anymore.

2) K has no shoes she can wear with socks. She does have six different types of shoes not suitable for socks, as well as flip flops that match the rest of the family. I'm so glad to live somewhere where this oversight is still not noticed come mid-October.

3) I don't have shoes I can wear with socks either. That's a lie. I have one pair. They're very not waterproof, which won't help for the inevitable rain. I also have running shoes, which are one size too small after being through a wet cave in Belize and then heat-dried on a generator (I didn't have to give you that reason, but I wanted to. The memory makes me smile). This doesn't bother me since I don't actually run.

4) I also don't have any sweaters, at least none that still fit. Didn't actually wear sweaters last year. I'd buy a new sweater, but all the ones I find have rabbit hair or wool, both of which make me itch. Badly. I find it ironic that in a place where you can make it through a whole winter without wearing a sweater, the only sweaters you can buy contain wool. Isn't that overkill?

4) Target is a lot less interesting when you go there twice a day every day buying various things to prepare for the coldishness of a trip you aren't really excited about and will only take you away from a resurgence of California warmishness.

5) I like the words coldishness and warmishness. I just much, much prefer the actuality of warmishness. Living in California rocks.

The swine flu solution

2009-10-09T14:53:00.001-07:00

I really like this helpful hint on preventing the dreaded swine flu:

"Keep your children at least 6 feet away from people who are sick, including anyone in your household who is sick." (Babycenter.com)

Right. I better get on that protective bubble. And a bigger house. A lot bigger. Because I'm not sure where these people live, but in my house, it's rare that you can get a few feet in between us, let alone six.

When gum paste goes wrong

2009-10-07T12:54:00.000-07:00

So instead of just throwing out the little people from K's birthday cake, I stuck them in a block of Styrofoam so that K could keep them in her room. They now stand on their little block right across from her bed, smiling at her when she wakes up.

Except the other day we noticed that the block had been turned around and put back in place with the people facing the wall. We'd never seen her do it, and neither kid confessed. Not that it was a big deal. It was just a little creepy to find them all facing the wall like that. And although I know that one of them must have moved them, I'd feel a lot better if they told me so.

What was even creepier was to come in last night and find them turned around again. And still no confession. We're trying to be very nonchalant about it, but I'm absolutely stricken with the willies. Something about it reminds me of the beginning to a horror movie, you know, where the unsuspecting parents notice little unusual things, and the next thing they know, the gum paste people have come to life and are stabbing them with their toothpick skeletons.

It can't really surprise you that someone who fashions little people out of gum paste would have the imagination to bring them to life via poltergeist. Let's just hope it's all in my (gum paste addled) head.

C-5 planes, you've seen 'em all

2009-10-05T21:16:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the second annual trip to the Miramar Air Show. It went a lot like the first annual trip: much interest in seeing planes, no interest in going in them. This time it was K who was absolutely sure that they would be moving at some point. "No go in airplanes," she insisted. "Too high." "Um, they stay on the ground, sweetie." "No go in airplane. Too high for K-K!" And no, we didn't tell her that she would be going in a airplane in less than two weeks time. Why cross that bridge until it's burning underneath us?

We settled for lots of looking and walking and pointing at the planes that were indeed high, but purposefully and well-piloted so. Again: arrive early, leave early, and throw in a little Hawaiian barbecue for lunch.

B insists, upon reading this, that I must appreciate that M was willing to go inside the C-5 this year, something he absolutely refused before. You'd think after two trips to the air show, I'd know what a C-5 is by now. I think it was the massive plane they march the big brass band through. Let's be honest--they all look like airplanes to me. Sure, some are bigger than others, some are clearly more aerodynamic. But they all fly, right? At least, when they're not sitting around for our perusal. So as far as I'm concerned, in or out, high or grounded, C-5 or F-16, if we managed to make it through without tantrums, traffic, or personal injury, and still managed to have a pleasant lunch, I'd say we made the most of our Sunday.

Quote of the week

2009-10-04T13:36:00.000-07:00

M: That looks just like a camera! Could you make a real camera out of waffle?
Me: If I could make a real camera out of waffle, I'd no longer be the dead weight around this family's neck.
M: Oh. Could I have some syrup, then?

I'm a little punchy in the mornings. But I make awesome waffles, and they often look remarkably like whatever oddball object the kids request. It kind of balances out.

Now, if we could just get them to sleep...

2009-10-01T16:45:00.000-07:00

We've had a couple big changes in our house. A week and a half ago, we bought and set up a loft bed for M. The advantage being that it was a great deal on Craig's List, perfectly matched our existing furniture, and allowed us to use our existing double mattress. The disadvantage being that it's so darn tall. Well, that's a disadvantage to me, who is not so tall and happens to be afraid of heights. Yes, even changing the sheets on a loft bed. But M sees the loft bed as the greatest thing in the world, because it's big and high and his own personal space. It surprised me a little, his scampering up without hesitation, but it shouldn't. I sometimes forget that just because he's a lot like me, it doesn't mean that he's me. And even better--he's only fallen off once. Of course, he laid on the ground all still and frightening and I burst into tears, but we survived unscathed (physically, at least).

The second change came last Saturday, when K began sleeping in the big girl bed (which, funnily enough, looks just like the old big boy bed, but with a pink comforter). She absolutely LOVES it, and she's so cute all little and tucked in and giggly about being so grown up. She's never fallen out, but she has escaped a few times. Still, when we found they were playing in her crib the other day, we dismantled it for safety's sake and committed to the bed.

The thing is, I've had that crib up for four and a half years--the entire duration of what I consider our new life. We used to slide Duck and friends up and down its slanted sides. I used to use it for light exercise while M woke up from his nap, my sweet cat lounging nearby. There are teeth marks on the front rail from both kids. I've cleaned all sorts of unpleasantness from it, started and ended countless sleep cycles, lifted small bodies in and out in all levels of happy and sad, asleep and awake. That crib marked the beginning and end of nearly every day.

And now we finish prayers and give hugs and then the kids scurry off to their respective spots. I know it will become the new norm, just one of the many shifts we learn to accept in a life where the only constant seems to be change. But the first time it happened, B and I sat a little perplexed, as though we couldn't quite figure out what to do with ourselves.

Of course, we are still needed, always always. There are sheets to fix and water cups to fill and animals to rearrange. And most nights we have to rearrange K too, who despite being a big girl still manages to spin herself around the bed like a scooting baby and wind up with her feet on the pillow. I guess with every change there's a little catch-up time, no matter how ready (or not) you are.

P.S. I'm thrilled to find we solved the Bunk Bed Challenge in less than two months. What? That's not fast to you? Well, see, I get to deduct time lost to sleeplessness. Turns out I managed it in negative three days.

Lisa Leonard Designs Jewelry GUEST GIVEAWAY!!!!

2009-09-30T08:22:00.000-07:00

I can't help myself. I've been looking for just this thing, and *poof* it's on Grosgrain (which is a fantastic blog in its own right).

Lisa Leonard Designs Jewelry GUEST GIVEAWAY!!!!

Hash-Tastic

2009-09-24T13:41:00.000-07:00

I'm going to rave for a minute. If you're a vegetarian or you (so unfortunately) don't live near a Trader Joe's, you might want to just ignore this post entirely.

For lunch today I had Trader Joe's new Roast Beef Hash. It's fully cooked in this silver pouch and self stable for like ever (just a guesstimate) which kind of grosses me out. But I LOVE roast beef hash. I grew up eating the kind that comes in cans (so really I should be over this whole shelf-stable oddness). Then I got older and started looking at things like labels and realized that almost every brand contains MSG. That's not something I put on my usual grocery list.

Then I was reading Trader Joe's Fearless Flyer and saw the hash. I bought some and forgot about it until today, when the beef lover in me realized that I needed it. Now. I cracked an egg and some egg whites into it, stirred it all up in a cast iron skillet, and lunched on the most delicious hash I've had in a long time. No MSG, no funny preservatives--just cutely cubed potatoes and real meaty pieces of roast beef.

I love food. There are lots of things that I immensely enjoy. But very few are things that I feel compelled to shout from the rooftops. This was one of them. Now if I can just manage to spend the rest of the afternoon in this house knowing that the second half is waiting in the fridge.

Bob Dole wants his shtick back

2009-09-22T14:49:00.000-07:00

M's got a new habit. He refers to himself in the third person. You know: "M needs more water" or "M can do that for you." I don't know why this annoys me so much. Maybe it's because I feel guilty every time I hear it, because this probably came from me referring to myself as "Momma" for the past four years. Or maybe it's because he's supposed to be getting better at sentence construction, not worse. Or maybe it's because he sounds like Bob Dole, and the last thing I need in my day is an aging Republican.

I've tried various strategies to kick the habit, from kind correction ("Do you mean 'I'?) or mild ignorance ("Who?" which only results in M repeating his name over and over) to more involved ignorance ("Oh, is that someone in your class?"). And lately, in terrible mom honesty, I've been doing a lot of glaring and maybe a little growling too. Yes, we sometimes growl in this house. It's been a long time since we had pets, but some things never die.

All of which makes me realize that twenty-one days (you know, to form a new habit?) is going to seem like a really long time. Especially when the habit in question isn't yours, and there really is no incentive or interest in the breaking it. Does that even work then? Well, Momma **growl** er, I am determined to find out.

21 days

2009-09-20T13:53:00.000-07:00

I've recently been mulling over an idea, which for a short time was an actual other blog. But then I realized that I don't put enough time into this blog to have a second one, and besides, if people are already here, they might be interested in what I'm trying.

So the idea is that in twenty-one days you can make or break a habit. It stemmed from Dr. Maxwell Maltz's book, Psycho-Cybernetics. In it, he reports that the phantom limb sensations in amputee patients fade after 21 days, leading him to propose that it took the brain 21 days to develop a new pattern. I realized, then, that if I were to pick a twenty-one day chunk in each month, I could conceivably break or make a habit that's been one of my lifelong quirks. You know, those things that you find annoying or unappealing about yourself but have come to believe that they're so much ingrained in you that removing them would be like taking the seeds out of a strawberry. I mean, you could do it, right, but what would be the point?

I'm a week and a half into developing the habit of putting things away. Because I don't put things away. I'm that annoying person that uses the scissors and leaves them on the counter. Or I take off the sticker from an apple and leave it by the sink. Like it would take me THAT long to put the sticker in the trash. But I don't. And then that sticker or those scissors, they breed clutter babies all over the house. You mean that's not where clutter comes from? Oh, try it. Leave a couple things on a clean table and a week later it'll be chock full. Clutter babies.

It turns out this annoys B. Who knew? Ten years of marriage and he jumps at this idea because That does kind of annoy me. So in an effort to kick the clutter babies (and maybe make it another ten years), I've been putting things away. And you know what? It's not that bad. I've slipped a little in the last few days, but for the most part things have gone where they belong and it hasn't even taken me the billions of hours I assumed it would.

The funniest part? The house is so clean! B came home from work the other day and I pointed it out. "Wow, it is clean," he said. "What happened?" "Well, I'm not leaving crap all over the place," I told him. "Oh. That would do it."

So I'll be periodically updating this topic, and whatever habit gets tackled next. But I'm pleasantly surprised with how easy it was to pick up (I can hear the music now, the one that tells you someone is about to get their comeuppance, so I'll say easy so far). But hey, think of what you could make or break in just three weeks time. It's kind of exciting. Or daunting. Or just plain annoying. But if I was annoying before, well, then I guess that might be something I can't break.

What this?

2009-09-18T15:07:00.000-07:00

We're getting a lot of "What this?" questions from K lately. I think it's great, because for so long we were just getting statements and responses. It's like she suddenly discovered that you can put a little lilt on the end of these statements and find out something new. Yeah!

But then I find myself explaining things that I wouldn't normally explain. And it makes me start wondering a little. Like the following:

K: What this?
Me: These are earrings. Sometimes people like to poke holes in their bodies and put jewelry in them.

The guy at the bike store (Why yes, we were buying bikes at the time. With two children in tow. We're nothing if not ambitious) laughed out loud, adding, "That does make you sort of wonder, when you put it like that."

Yes, it does. Or how about this one:

K: What this?
Me: This is eyeliner. You put it along your lashes like this, and see how it makes them a little darker.
K: Yeah. What this?
Me: It's eyeshadow. See, you brush a little on and your eyelids are all sparkly.
K: Uh-huh. What this?
Me: This is mascara. I'm going to brush a little on one eye, and look--the lashes are very light on one side and on the other side the mascara has made them dark.

All of which makes me realize that make-up is a bit idiotic. I'm suddenly shamed to be training my child at the tender age of two that somehow dark and sparkly is the way to go. When K turns out to be a stripper, I'll only have myself to blame.

The trouble for me is that I hear myself sounding idiotic, and yet I continue to wear earrings (on occasion) and make-up (okay, regularly). Have I been programmed? Have we all been programmed? And is there any way to not program her, preferably without me having to feel all plain Jane for the rest of my life? Or maybe I want to embrace plain Jane because she's so much less, well, ridiculous. Or maybe, as I tried to explain when she (of course) asked to use the eyeliner and shadow and mascara, it's just something she'll decide to use or not when she gets older. But did I mess up her free choice? Or do we ever have a choice?

I know! Maybe I should just put on my make-up without her in the room. Oh wait--managing to get ready without a small child watching my every move? Now that's ridiculous.

Music Shmusic

2009-09-11T14:20:00.001-07:00

I took K to a music class today. I'm not into music classes. Besides the fact that I get bored within approximately 30 seconds, I find it irritating to pay for something I could reasonably accomplish with a CD and some of the real and play instruments we have lying around the house. But my friend takes this music class, and when you can't make a session, you can send someone in your place. Which, in this case, was K and I.

I worried that maybe she would really like the class, which I had no interest in continuing whatsoever. Then we had this exchange:

K: Mama, we get ready go?
Me: Yes, in a few minutes.
K: Me go get swim suit?
Me: No, remember, it's a music class.
K: They have pool there?
Me: Nope. Only music.
K: (thinking) We go swim?
Me: No. We're going to play music today.
K: (thinking, again) Me go get swim suit?
Me:(trying not to get frustrated) No swim suit. No swimming. We're going to music class.
K: (smiles) Then we go swimming!

You know how toddlers are: the NO gets so quickly lost in translation. So unless there's some underwater music class I don't know about it, I guess it's safe to say we're all in agreement on this being a one-time event.

(By the by, K did indeed enjoy the music class. And I did indeed get bored within 30 seconds. So looks like I'm going to be doing more music at home, with CDs, in bathing suits. Because that should keep everyone entertained.)

Seasonal shifts

2009-09-10T13:07:00.000-07:00

So it's truly fall in our house: the garden has been almost completely dismantled, the kids are back in their respective preschool and swim classes, and we all have our first cold. While I'm preferring to focus on falling leaves, apple pie, and Halloween candy, they all still seem a long way away, and the cold is, well, very present. So long summer!

All that's left is Serenity

2009-09-07T13:45:00.000-07:00

So remember that store we talked about, the one you went to and shopped at and eventually realized was just the wrong store for you? And remember how any reasonable person would eventually own up to their mistake and make their way to the right store?

Yes, so imagine if you will, that you left that store, finally, with great trepidation, anxiety, embarrassment, etc., only to have the manager declare that the whole store must subsequently close. That's right--Target didn't have what you needed, and because of that, Target will now be closed. For ever. Regardless of who else might be shopping at just the right store at just that moment.

Of course, we're still not talking about Target. But imagine if that happened? Imagine if your leaving meant that everyone else was ousted by force (in case it's hard for you to imagine, I'll just go ahead and tell you that it feels like crap). Then imagine if you were blamed for it? Even though it wasn't my fault, even though someone has taken over and the group will be just fine, I'm still the person who gets the comments (or hears them from behind my back) that I blindsided people, abandoned them, and basically ruined everything. Talk about amping up the ordeal to the Nth degree.

See, I'm a people-pleaser. I might as well wear a t-shirt it's so obvious. That's why I stayed where I was--didn't want to disappoint, didn't want to be alone, didn't want to reject what was obviously a coveted spot. But I finally get the courage to do what I needed to do--horror of horrors: just for me--and it turns into this firestorm. It's a people-pleaser's nightmare. The worst part? Because I'm not in the group anymore, I can't defend myself. I can't explain myself. And I can't go back and change anything so that it all happens differently, the way I somehow imagined it in my head. So I just sit here, people-pleaser style, and fret.

I understand that this was what I had to do, that God has wanted me to do this for some time. So I have to hope that this trial--this special kind of silent suffering I'm enduring--is a lesson both in character building and in the consequences to not listening in the first place. But it is heartbreaking. While everyone else lost an organizer, I was admittedly never part of any of their "inner circle" (a phrase I've heard way too much recently, especially considering that we're all supposed to be grown-ups). But I've lost a group I've been a part of for most of my children's lives. I stare at my empty calendar and miss my lost friends and hate knowing how they think of me, the one who caused it all (however inadvertently). It's a tremendous loss that has left me lonely and sad and shaken.

But that's a good thing, too. Right? Because sometimes you have to let go of everything to have free hands for something new. And what a way to break the people pleasing habit to be in a place where you can't effect what people think about you. But it seems like this week has been a bit heavy on the lessons, and heavy on the heart. I want to perk up and move on and enjoy the holiday weekend. But I feel a bit like a beaten down dog fighting the urge just to lie on the ground. And I'm pretty sure that's not the place God needs me to be either. But while I'm on a roll with a mistakes--a roll that has been going on for way too long, no that it's anyone's fault but my own--I might as well lie down for a while anyway.

I know, I know. I'm getting up. But it was very tempting...

Fifty thousand

2009-09-06T20:54:00.001-07:00

That's the number of baby spiders I saw tonight. Okay, that might be an exaggeration. But I'm getting a little tired of the swarming insect scenarios. During another dinner party, no less. I go to wind up the hose, watching all the time for the giant scary spider I'm sure must be hiding in the hose box. So it takes me a minute to notice the little line of bugs crawling up the spider web next to me. Except they're not bugs. They're baby spiders. Crawling out of the very handle I was turning. Thousands of them (again, exaggeration. But it seemed like thousands).

I take a step back and see the little guys everywhere, moving at a frantic pace in every direction. M was kind of enough to point out the ones that had made it halfway across the patio already. Which meant they were all over already by the time we whipped out the nasty spider spray and ushered everyone inside the house.

That's right. I caved. No eucalyptus oil this time. We sprayed every possible surface. Then we sprayed them all again. I don't care that I'll have to go out and wash all those surfaces down before we can play out there again. Because you know what came out of that very handle where its babies hatched? The one that I was turning so carelessly? A big fat black widow. A big fat black widow with all its little tiny black widow babies. Blech. I never thought I'd say this, but I want the ants back.

Zero

2009-09-05T13:37:00.000-07:00

That's the number of times that I complained about the ants that finally invaded. Maybe it was all that preparation, or maybe it was just the lack of energy I had left by the end of what was clearly a time-vortex super long week. Instead, there were several observations about how industrious those little guys were to work their way across the whole house to find water at the kitchen sink and how sad it was that they were so pathetically thirsty.

It would have been nice, of course, if the ants hadn't chosen to gather while we had guests. I covered brilliantly with this cheerful dodge: "Why, we've never had ants here before!" As if that makes the swarm around the sink, where you're trying to wash your little girl's hands, any less disgusting. As if, really, that's any explanation whatsoever.

But we blithely ignored them until our friends left for the night (the human ones) and then ushered our uninvited ants out with eucalyptus soap and water (for the record, a very effective ant killer). Blocked up the entry point and--voila!--no more ants. Yet. But they were very industrious and probably still thirsty. But I'm getting pretty good at this blissful ignorance thing.

Three

2009-09-04T15:31:00.000-07:00

That's the number of errant ants I've found in my kitchen. Which is just enough to know that there are more coming. They're waiting for me to make a mistake--say, leave an empty ice cream bowl on the counter, or the uneaten crust from a PB&J--and then they'll strike. Oh, I know, no matter how diligent I will be, it'll happen. I'm on a roll with mistakes lately. And then there will be a rather unpleasant post about the ant attack. But now that we're all prepared, at least it will come with an Eeyore-ish sigh instead of those muttered curses I'm still trying to avoid.

Wisdom to know the difference

2009-09-03T05:49:00.000-07:00

Let's suppose that I went to a store, needing something important. Suppose that I walked around looking for whatever it was, and the longer I looked, the more I realized that I wasn't in the right store. It might have had what I needed, but it was too expensive, or just out of my reach. Which meant it didn't have what I needed. But I'd gone all the way there, and after a while I'd spent so much time that it seemed like a waste to go somewhere else. Where else would I go, and how could I know the same thing wouldn't happen?

But I know I'm not supposed to be there. I know it. And I think maybe it's not a big deal. I think maybe I'll just keep walking around like I know what I'm doing. Except that if I'm there, I'm not where I should be. And if I'm not where I should be, then I'm not in a place where God can use me the way that He wants to. And unless I leave, I'm not ever going to get anywhere else.

It's hard to admit that you've made a mistake. It's hard to admit that you haven't been honest with yourself, and that you haven't been listening to God, either. And it's hard to walk away. I think about all the time I've invested, willing things to change. But as I tell my kids, you can't change anyone but yourself. Target will be Target, Wal-Mart will be Wal-Mart, etc., etc. But it's no wonder that my kids don't understand this concept, when I clearly don't always understand it myself.

We're not talking about Target, of course. But you knew that already. I've left my big moms group, the one that I've been part of since M was less than one. It had nothing to do with the group, which was filled with these amazing, awesome women. I didn't know it was possible for a group to have that many fantastic people all in one place. Which I think was why I stayed for so long. I wanted it to be the right group, because it was such a great group. But I never was part of it in the way that I wanted to be, and trying to make myself the right person wasn't letting myself be the person God wants me to be. I lost focus, and I came to believe that it was about me and not about the fit. For a person with low self-esteem, that's not a good thing. Even more than that, for a person who claims to be seeking God's will for their life, it was a serious case of selective listening.

Round peg, square hole. Right list, wrong store. I tell myself this to temper the sense of loss I feel. There is a round hole, and a right store, and a place God wants me to be. This time, I'm stopping to ask directions first.