Word Up

Welp! 

The holidays are officially over and normal life has resumed at full speed over here.
The last two weeks have thrust me abruptly back into the swing of things and I'm not exactly sure how I feel about it.

I'm also not sure how I feel about the word "thrust" but nevermind that. 

While I wouldn't say our Christmas break was mellow (for the better part of two weeks we hosted all of my husband's family, and often all of my family which totals about 14 people, 3 dogs,  36 meals, 43,000 coffee pods, 27 toilet paper rolls, and countless laughs and memories. It was a regular Griswold Family Christmas) - I WILL say that it was leisurely and unstructured and I quite miss the element of freedom to just hang. 

I found myself flustered multiple times last week and annoyed at the knowledge that once I opened my eyes, my entire day was mapped out for me, when all I really wanted to sip coffee and stare blankly out my window. I find this temptation to be real trap for me lately.
Really, it's becoming a problem.
The views at the Forever House are truly gorgeous and after 4 months of living here, it has yet to get old. In the morning the field is frosty white, the fog hovers in layers, and everything feels sort of suspended and ethereal. Around midday the neighbor's horses start to get playful- and that is an interesting sight. I've never seen horses "play" before we lived here but now I totally understand the phrase "horsing around". In the afternoon everyday around 4 pm the sun starts to dip behind the mountain and the colors become so vibrant that everything seems to glow. So these days I find myself staring out my window for copious amounts of time, but I really feel that I should not be held accountable for this.

I know I've said it before, but there is an intangibly peaceful quality to living in the country. It does
something good for my soul.

Speaking of my soul, I've been doing a lot of thinking and praying and general taking-stock as I always do around this time of year. It just seems like a natural progression for me. The holidays are full and busy and they usually carry me through the end of the year with a flurry, but once all the dust settles and the Christmas decor is down, I have a serious urge to clean house- both literally and metaphorically. I always give my home a good once-over in January, cleaning every drawer, every baseboard, every cupboard, every window, etc. And while Im organizing and cleaning like a crazy lady I always tend to turn my thoughts inward and reflect on where I'm at in life.
I dont know why, it's just my process.
I love the closure of it all. A year is over. Let's wrap it up.
Time to turn my attention to the year ahead.

As I've shared with you here, for the last 4 years I have prayerfully chosen one word to be a sort of
theme for the year. Not a resolution exactly, because that just stresses me out, but more of a conversation piece with God throughout the year. This practice has been good for me, beause I tend to throw a lot of chatter at God,
but in choosing my word, I find myself  learning to be quiet and still and unguarded
with my heart. I find myself actually listening for His voice.

Last year my word was Diligent.
Can I just be honest and say that I feel like I pretty much sucked at my word?
Like, ALL year.
Is that okay to say?
I would love to tell you how wonderful and transformative and wildly successful my word was for me, but I am going to put on my "Let's all be real here" pants (those pants look a lot like yoga pants by the way), and tell you that I was not in fact, very diligent at all.
At least not in the way I expected to be.
 There.
Just lowering the bar for you folks!
You're welcome.
Dont get me wrong, I love it when it really works out and the word I chose in January actually winds up having been wonderful and transformative come December. Its been that way for me most other
years. But 2014 was kind of strange for me.
A lot of things changed: My kids grew taller, my address changed, friendships were made, a lot of good things happened. But internally I was stuck in a bit of a  holding pattern.
I kept WAITING.
Waiting for the Forever House. Waiting to get in shape. Waiting for parenting to be easy. Waiting for a new level of intimacy in my marriage. Waiting to for all those things I just listed  to make me feel happy and content and less afraid in general.
I really wasted a lot of time barking up the wrong tree.

But luckily God is super resourceful, and He used the tiny amount of time I'd set aside for Him  (one short weekend in the wilderness in December) to show me that I was looking for my joy, and my identity, and my comfort, and my peace, and my validation, and my happiness in every wrong thing. GOOD things, maybe- but WRONG things.
And in His unending goodness He did not allow any of them to satisfy me.
He also showed me that I've been a person who is largely ruled by fear. Obviously we ALL have fears, and I don't  claim to be unique in that way. But I've realized that I actually operate, and parent, and love my husband, and live my life from a place of fear.  "Fear" is a very vague term, but it's also a vicious beast with it's finger on my pulse and a chokehold on my neck. Fear is a joy-killer.
Fear wants to take me out.

Im afraid of losing the comfortable life I have. I'm afraid of people not liking me. I'm afraid of tragedy- to the point that I hold my breath and wait for it, tiptoeing through my life like it's a mine field. I'm afraid I'll do a bang-up job with my kids. I'm afraid they won't truly know and love Jesus
because I will fail to show them how. I'm afraid that I myself won't know and love Jesus in that deep, close, intimate, sure way that I long to. I'm afraid that my desire for a safe and comfortable life with a nice marriage and nice kids and a nice house will undermine God's plan for GREAT.
For adventure and danger and romance.
The ROMANCE was where He got to me.
When I read the definition I knew this was my word for 2015.

Romance.
This is how my God loves me! I want everything about this kind of love. I want to receive it and give it back to Him.
I want this love to cleanse me, define me, embolden me, compel me, move me, strip me, change me, equip me, and consume me.
I know God wants to write new adventures in my love story in 2015 and I don't want to miss out on them. I want to be so swept up in a romance with Him that there is no room leftover for fear, doubt, selfishness, or laziness.

A lot of people would say that the opposite of love is hate, or maybe even indifference.
 But I think the opposite of love is closer to fear.
If I REALLY understood the way God loves me then what on earth would there be left to fear?

1 John 4:18
"Such love has no fear, because perfect love expels all fear. If we are afraid, it is for fear of punishment, and this shows that we have not fully experienced his perfect love."

In 2015 I want to experience God's love fiercely, tenderly, wholly.
I want to embrace the adventure and the danger of whatever He writes into my story.
I want to let go of fear and the false safety of a guarded heart because just as C.S. Lewis says,
"He is not safe, but He is good."

Re-Entry

They say the first day back is always the hardest. 

I tend to agree. Except times seven. 

It's become abundantly clear over the years that the first WEEK back is the hardest. 

I am referring to vacation. 

Before you roll your eyes at how bratty I sound, don't.

 I get it. 

Any type of vacation or staycation or getaway or even a trip to the grocery store without littles is a beautiful thing and should always be fully appreciated. 

I always say, it's good to go away, it's good to come home. 

And sometimes that's true.
Other times it's less "good" and more "necessary."

Husband and I were able to sneak away together for an extended weekend (4 nights- that's 4 whole sleeps! Which is technically 5 days, which is almost a week! I like to round up with good things....and round down with spending.)

We went to Vegas, which might not seem like the most romantic place in the world to most people, but to us it is. We have history there.

13 years ago it's where we fell in love. 

Again, I know what you're thinking: "Vegas? The seedy underbelly of the world? That's where you fell in love?" 

But it was all a lot less trashy and much more romantic than it sounds. We were there for a wedding for a mutual friend. Husband and I (he was just Nate back then) had been friends for a long time but hadn't seen each other in over a year. Things were instantly different between us. We were inseparable that weekend and I can recall an exact moment, standing next to him, watching the water show at the Bellagio and just knowing in my knower that I loved him. 

So we like to go back every few years, for old times sake...and also because I am the most nostalgic person ever and Remember When is my favorite game. 

So we made arrangements for the kids and the puppy (no small feat) and jetted off.

It was lovely. 

We laughed, we read, we slept, we dined, we....well you know. 

We even got free tickets to a Justin Timberlake concert. And you know what?
 It was awesome!

I'm not sure if that's nerdy or cool or if I should be proud or embarrassed about that but I really don't  care- I freakin loved it. He put on a great show and I really like his latest album. 

Justin Timberlake is one of those people who is just an average regular looking guy, but the second he gets on stage and starts singing and dancing he becomes this otherworldly super sexy version of himself. 

There, I said it. 

Naturally, the weekend flew by.  And then, it was time to come home. 

If vacation is anything like floating around in outer space where things are quiet and weightless and serene, then coming home is like that harsh thud when gravity hits and you have to re-enter the atmosphere of real life. You better buckle up. 

After collecting our subsequent children and puppy from their various caregivers we came in the door to a messy house and 5 day old soggy yams on the counter. For those of you don't know, I am slightly anal-retentive about my home and keeping it clean and tidy. Nothing makes me more fussy than a messy/dirty house. We were tired, the kids were tired. Everyone was a little grouchy. 

Husband and I sprang into action and managed to get the kids in bed and the yams dealt with, and left the rest for later in favor of a good night's sleep.

Except for that night the puppy apparently became possessed by the devil because he was up whining
and barking ALL night long. I quit counting after the 6th time I had to hobble down the stairs in a
sleepy stupor to threaten him within an inch of his life. "I'll take your furry butt back to the pound!", I'd mutter at him as I stood on my porch at 4 in the morning waiting for him to find the perfect spot to pee. He proved unshaken by my idle threats by yelping and whining for three more hours until the sun came up. Way to call my bluff dude.

I woke up the next morning to a sound that any mother can instantly identify as the cry when your kid is hurt. I knew it was Jaxon but in my serious state of exhaustion I couldn't understand what he was saying. In one swift motion I was out of bed and flying down the stairs. 

Here's the thing about slippery wooden stairs: they are basically a booby trap for tired moms. 

I can't tell you how many times I have stumbled down those stairs, while clutching the banister first thing in the morning- before my eyes are fully open and before my muscles have woken up. I look like Gollum slithering down the stairs. But an older, arthritic Gollum.

I am seriously considering getting one of those motorized Jazzy chairs to carry me down the stairs to my first cup of coffee everyday. I'm practically a safety hazard otherwise. 

As I was thundering down the stairs, Jaxon came screeching up and we collided in the landing. 

I basically fell on him like a ton of bricks, smashed him into the wall, and landed on my tailbone at the bottom of the stairs. Stellar way to start my re-entry day. 

After some investigation into Jaxons original wound (puppy bite) , and apologizing for his secondary wound (his mother launching her giant body at him in the stairway), we began the frenzy of getting ready for school. 

 I spent the next two days cleaning house, moving 187 articles of clothing and toys from one room to another,  puppy watching, and doing 14 loads of laundry. This is not an exaggeration. I had done ALL the laundry before we left. I literally could write a whole paragraph on the curse of laundry and how it mysteriously multiplies, but I wont. It's never-ending and we all know it so I won't pretend I am unique in this area. 

I WILL tell you that while vacuuming my dining room, I suddenly smelled a the worst poop smell
you can imagine. Scout sat innocently at my feet, and even though I looked frantically around for an
accident, I couldn't find one. But there was no denying the hot, unmistakable stench of doggy-doo. 

Then it hit me. The vacuum. 

Noooooo! 

 Could it be INSIDE the vacuum?
Yes. 

Somehow in my rigorous vacuuming- (I take my cleaning very seriously, I go hard and fast)

 I failed to see the brown turd on the brown wood floor and I just vacuumed that piece of crap right up.

Do you have any idea the amount of smearing and melting that took place in the ten seconds it took me to figure out where the poop was? I don't even know where to start.

I can't even...

Let's just say there may not be enough disinfectant in the world.

Ironically enough, this an actual greeting card I bought a couple of years ago, and this is my exact same vacuum. A vacuum that now sits in desecration and shame in the garage.

I then spent the following two days dirtying and messing up my clean house by unpacking boxes of Christmas decor. Because nothing says Tis the Season like cursing under your breath while you break a sweat and risk falling to your death trying to hang a bloody garland. 

It wasn't actually bloody, I was just doing that thing where I pretend to be British for a minute. 

In the spirit of honesty, I feel it bears mentioning that the children were beastly for at least 36 hours upon arriving home. It's a thing.

 You know it's true.

 We were gone, they were gone, everyone is tired and out of sync and naughtiness ensues until they
are reminded to fall back in line. 

It also bears mentioning that Husband and I tend to get a little gritchy with each other post-vacation. It's not personal, it's just our process. We just want back in that happy, intimate little vacation bubble.
 It's like that couple in This Is 40- who goes away together and has a blast and can't rememeber for the life of them why they arent ALWAYS this much fun?! And then ten minutes upon coming home they're arguing over antibiotics vs. eastern medicine.

But then sometime around Day 2 in the car while getting takeout (Hey, don't judge. Re-entry is hard, remember? Cooking doesn't happen until day 3) and listening to the kids talk loudly at the same time, arguing over Mexican food or pizza,  he'll reach over and squeeze my knee and we'll sort of chuckle and all is well again.

In conclusion, I would just like to say:
1) Be careful on wooden stairs.
2) Re-Entry is hard.
3) There is poop in my vacuum. 

What Can I Say, I'm a Gambler.

Remember my last post about how I thought we had entered that sweet spot of parenting? 

Where the kids were both old enough to be somewhat independent, yet little enough to be somewhat innocent. And how suddenly life felt markedly easier?

Yah, well, 

we pretty much effed that whole situation up by deciding to get a puppy.
What can I say, I'm a gambler.

Meet Scout.

Yes, he is adorable and squishy and a serious lovey.
And a good thing too, because DOG FARTS, which are a unique kind of foulness.
Not to mention the potty training, (two words: New. Carpet.)
And the getting up in the night to shush him. And the chewing. So much chewing.
I didn't even want a dog!
We had our last dog, Buster, for about 10 years and he was the best.
 "We'll never have a dog that good again", we said.
"Let's just not have a dog," we said.
Ah, but I am a sucker. One look into that puppy face and I was toast.
Not even two weeks after moving into the Forever house Husband started randomly showing me pictures of puppies every night. I threw his phone like it was a hot potato. I can't look at that! I can't be seeing that! I don't stand a chance!
Which he knew.
It was only a matter of time, really.

Luckily, the kids are obsessed with him.

I might be too. I may or may not have even snuck him up on the couch when Husband wasn't looking.

Look at that face! I'm so sure! It's as if his eyes are saying "If you love me, you'll let me up.  It'll be our little secret."

So instead of preparing for the holidays or reading or relaxing or doing ANYTHING else, while the rest of my family goes about their normal lives, I'll just be following this guy from room to room keeping him out of trouble and spending roughly %40 of my day outside in the cold waiting for him to poop or pee at his leisure. 

Dogs, man. 

Little Big Things

Y'all, it's been crazy over here.

I like to say "y'all" a lot now. I feel it is my right to use that word freely due to the fact that we now live in the country. Please don't give me a hard time about it- at least I haven't pulled a Madonna and adopted a fake accent. It's the small victories, right?

 

Speaking of small victories, I can unashamedly tell you that for the first time since I can even remember I am having a FREE day.
You guys!
 My biggest concern right now is what to make for dinner, and I am relishing that fact. Little One is feverish and sick and laying next to me on the couch snoring softly. Bigger One is off at school, and I am sitting on the couch in my favorite leggings, left with a real and true moment of quiet.
What is happening.
Life has felt so busy, and so nonstop, and so many big and little changes have taken place, that I don't even know what end is up lately.
First things first: we moved! The Forever House is done and complete and we actually for reals live in it. This still makes me feel giddy even 6 weeks later. There is something about the views and the quietness of the country that does something good for the soul. We are happy here.
However, moving sucks an I don't ever want to do it again. That is all I'm going to say about that.
But having THIS as our backyard makes it all worth it!

 

Amidst packing and hauling and moving and unpacking, there was the minor (major) business of starting school schedules and new classrooms and teachers and new extracurricular activities, and then switching of those extracurricular activities, and houseguests- lots of houseguests, and birthdays, and trips to the emergency room to staple scalps (nothing about that last bit felt right to type out. Staples are for paper, not my tiny tender's head.)
It's been mostly go, go, go, and hurry, hurry, hurry, and work, work, work.

But TODAY!
There is no laundry to do, no children's Tylenol to administer, no dishes to do, no errands to run, no piles of things to carry upstairs and put away! There are still boxes to be unpacked but I have become very good at walking past them until I no longer register that they're even there. What can I say, it's my gift.
 It would appear there is nothing pressing at the moment.
 It almost frightened me at first, being so unfamiliar and all.
So I sat on the couch and stared off into space for a solid 17 minutes while I listened to Little One's snores, and then panicked because I had already wasted 17 minutes of my free day! But then I decided that those staring-off-into-space minutes were actually quite productive and maybe even good for my soul, and that immediately made me feel much better- despite the fact that I haven't even put on real shoes once today. Not even when I drove Bigger One to school this morning. That is the real state of affairs up in here.

I should tell you days like this are rare, but that's pretty much a foregone a conclusion.
(Confession: I love to say "foregone conclusion". I first heard it while watching The Thomas Crown Affair years ago and it stuck with me and ever since then I've been looking for ways to sneak it into a conversation. Something about Pierce Brosnan's tufts of chest hair blowing in the beachy air really imprinted that scene in my mind...whether I liked it or not. )

These days I feel like I have entered a new phase of life. A strange, new, busy season where my schedule, my brain, and my home are all constantly full.  Luckily this oftentimes results in a full heart as well. Yet in all this busyness, somewhere in the recesses of my mind or the corners of my heart I knew enough to know that something was slipping away... and being replaced with something new. I think that "something" was my littles being little.
The boy, the baby, turned 5 last month and I sense with some amount of finality, that this was the end of an era. My littles are becoming bigs.

Gone are the diapers and chubby thighs. Gone is all manner of baby gear and toddler gear and binkies and wipes. All that's left is the ghost of a carseat. Okay fine, it's a real car seat. Slow your roll. The children are safe.
 Gone are the endless morning snuggles... and setting up breakfast as a formal tea party at 9am because, why not?
Gone are the days of free schedules, and me deciding to go to the grocery store at whatever time of day I felt like it. Gone are the days of simply being with my little people all day.
 Gone are naps.
Did you hear me?
GONE ARE THE NAPS!
Naps don't call. They don't send flowers. They didn't even have the guts to tell me to my face they were leaving. They just snuck out the back door, never to return. Naps are dead to me.

 It is a bittersweet thing to realize that life is happening quickly, and that you've grown out of one phase and into another. Its bitter because I sometimes miss the baby stage in all its scary, new, sleepless glory, and I will never get it back.
Its sweet, because I daresay we have entered the actual "sweet spot" of child-rearing (where on earth did that phrase come from, anyway? I'm going to quote the movie Knocked Up here, because it seems relevant. It's the scene where they're all sitting in the waiting room awaiting the birth of the baby and one friend pipes in with some heartfelt mission statement to really stand by his buddy and help rear the child. Immediately followed by,
 "Hey, stay away from this guy! He says he wants to help REAR your children!")

Ah, but I digress...The sweet spot! Yes! I think I've just arrived!
That spot where both of my kids (at ages 5 and almost 8) are both big enough to eat whatever, sleep wherever, communicate their feelings, brush their own teeth, play on their own, handle their own bathroom business, and even socialize like a regular person. They are old enough to be somewhat independent but little enough to still openly want my affection, believe whatever I tell them, and most importantly they are safely away from PUBERTY.
I really don't know much, but I'm fairly certain that by the time Puberty comes knocking, the "sweet spot" of parenting will have snuck out the back door along with Naps. They'll have run away together and they'll be drinking Coronas with lime on a beach together somewhere, laughing at me as they watch the sunset.

Luckily, not all nuances of Littledom have gone away.
The boy still runs around dangerously close to nude at all times, dragging his favorite blankie behind him. He really has a very low tolerance for clothes. He is fully convinced he can go on living life in his chonies. To his credit, so far he has gotten away with it.  He still basically wants to cuddle me at any and every time of day. The beauty of that is not lost on me. I feel the full precious weight of that fact every time I feel the weight of his little head on my shoulder.

As for the girl...
The girl.
Where to start?
 I am chuckling to myself (okay fine, cackling) right now as my sister's words ring in my ears. She used to always say something about the age of 8...what was it?...
Oh yes, that it's the most annoying age EVER!
 Her kids are 18 and 13 now, so naturally I take her at her word. She has raised a whole person, after all. One whole kid. And that kid turned out pretty cool. I should've been taking notes! I should've asked more questions! Because now I have an almost 8 year old and I think I get it.
It's like their bodies are big so you are tricked into expecting them to be mature, or at least civilized most of the time. But inside they are still quite immature. They are starting to become more self aware, but not enough to escape being awkward. It's a strange time for us all.

She shows off now.
 She has realized she is capable of getting a laugh, and that she LIKES this very much, and so now she often goes slightly too far to get that laugh. We'll say "Honey, stop that."..."No seriously, stop that, it's getting really annoying."
But she doesn't stop. She doesn't get it.
She is not quite self aware enough yet to know that she should be embarrassed by her tomfoolery so she just laughs at her own self and keeps right on doing whatever she's doing.

I catch her performing in the mirror.
To herself.
She is a pretty big fan of herself these days.
 She sings dramatically and dances around and makes faces in the mirror...or the stove or the dishwasher or the car window or any reflective surface she can find.

She talks A LOT. And really fast.
I find this to be the most true at bedtime- that equally precious and heinous hour of night when you are torn between wanting to tenderly snuggle your children and wanting to turn off their lights, throw a cup of water at them, bolt for the door, and say a prayer as you run down the stairs before they can stall any longer. My kids are professional stallers.
I try to create time and space for them to say what's in their little hearts. And sometimes whispering it in the darkness of their bedrooms while I scratch their backs is the easiest way for them to do so.
 I cherish these times. I do.
Except somewhere along the way, the girl has realized this is her moment and she pounces on it like a a shrewd cat. She senses when the prayers and the songs and the conversations about the day are dying down and before I can ease myself off the bed she'll burst out with something along the lines of,  "Something happened on the playground and I want to talk to you about it!"
My mom radar is instantly up and on and making that "BEEDOO BEEDOO" minion sound.
 I sit quickly back down and hold my breath because we all know that all the bad things happen on the playground or on the bus. Right? Is that an irrational fear? And then I watch her mind race to think of something, anything to say. It is often anything ranging from "Bryce farted!" followed by giggles, to some benign tale about how she snagged her tights on the big toy, and how she was just "so mortified". Real groundbreaking stuff.

I will say this though, for the girl.
Her heart is tender and open and bigger than her growing body. She worries for other's feelings. She is compassionate. She prays with a thankfulness and sincerity and maturity that rips my heart right open. There is rarely a day that goes by that she doesn't tell me she loves me "this much" and I am
"the best mommy ever."
I should record her saying this so I can play it back to her when she's 13.
She is open with her affection and she openly wants mine. She covets my time, my attention, and my approval and I will sorely miss it the day that she doesn't.

They are sweet and funny and innocent and tender.
They take good care of each other.
They are my little-big people and
 these are the little things in life that really are big.

 

It's not even organized chaos, it's just straight up chaos.

You guys. 

Remember when I told you that I keep an immaculate home? 

And how I don't do dirt, and I don't do clutter, and how I like surfaces to shine? 

Well I am a big fat liar.

When I said it it was mostly true.

If you were to pop over to my house on any given Thursday of my normal life, you would find my sink cleared of dishes, my floors recently vacuumed, the kids' bedrooms tidied up, all toothbrushes neatly in their place out of sight, and my pantry organized, labels out.

There would be a meal plan for the week stuck to the front of my fridge.

 I'd probably even have some semblance of  healthy and maybe even fresh food on hand. 

If you were to pop over to my house TODAY, you might say we're living like squatters.

In fact, I will even go so far as to tell you that today I stepped on a smashed goldfish cracker on my kitchen floor and do you know what I did? I shook it off my foot, high stepped over some dried up scrambled eggs that apparently didnt make into my son's mouth and just decided to pretend like it never happened.
I don't even know who I am anymore.

But here's the thing: we're moving. 

Again. 

Y'all have been with me for at least 3 or 4 moves now. 

I know what you must be thinking: Are they mental? What could possibly be a good reason to move so many times? Are they just some kind of spastic, nomadic gypsies? 

To answer these obvious questions: No / There is a good reason, we promise! / And we are so not  edgy enough to be gypsies.

It's all because we have been building our dream home. 

It feels kind of vain and bratty to even use the phrase "dream home".

 It is just a house made of wood.
I know it is not the most important thing. 

But it is the realization of a longtime dream of ours. 

To have a small bit of land. 

To live somewhere quiet with a country feel.

To have a home with the spaces we need. 

Somewhere we can establish hospitality again. 

I am a big believer in hospitality- but not the brand that is about throwing the perfect Pinterest party, and showing off a perfectly decorated house, and perfectly behaved children, and perfectly cooked quiches (because we all know that's not happening anyways).

I believe hospitality is welcoming people not just into my home, but into my life.

It's about inviting people in and making room.

So it was this little dream, a bit of bravery, and a bit of insanity that compelled us to sell our last home, rent a smaller home for the interim, and build our forever home- bringing us to our 9th and 10th addresses in our 12 years of marriage. 

I'm exhausted just remembering all those moves.
It has been a considerable amount of buying, selling, building, moving, and general upheaval over the
 years, but we have always been working towards this goal.
 I dare say, this is really it.
And if I ever try to move again, just punch me in the face and wake me up when it's over.


So it is with a foreboding sense of déjà vu that I give in to this phase of the process. 

That part where everything feels chaotic. 

I have started everything and finished nothing. 

I open the barren fridge, briefly consider grocery shopping and then immediately abandon the thought. Because- why? It'll all just have to be moved soon anyway. Plus, let's all be real here, I quit cooking legitimate meals about a week ago. 

It's that old familiar feeling of wandering from room to room, surveying the damage, and not knowing where to start or what exactly to do next. Im sort of just shuffling things from place to place right now. 

I HAVE purged bedrooms and closets and toys which feels great. I am all about getting rid of things. Except now all those things are filling up about 13 trash bags (I know. Trash bags. So 

undignified) in the garage.

I literally cannot believe I'm showing you this.

What's funny is that this is the clean half of the garage.

While we know it is very soon, we don't have an exact finish date for the new house so I hesitate to pack up anything really useful like cereal bowls or bath towels or the remote. 

You all know you always pack the tv and remote last. Don't act like you don't.

I have spurts of high productivity mixed with long bouts of total worthlessness. 

I lie in bed at night making about 7 different lists in my mind. The new house list, the old house list, the school list, the guest list, the yard sale list, the finances list, the event calendar list, the to-do list, the get-rid-of list, the keep list....wait that's already like 10 lists. Apparently even my inner sanctum of mental organization has now succumbed to chaos.

We have 4 relatives and 2 dogs rolling into town for a couple weeks - an admittedly welcome distraction from the drudgery of moving. 

The littles both start school during this time as well, thus requiring all manner of gear, supplies, clothes, snacks, and cool lunch pails to carry their snacks.

Throw in one concert, one bridal shower, one 5k run, two hair cuts, one three day
trip to Redding (because there is still some fun to be had this summer),

one birthday, one bible study, and two littles starting new extracurriculars (horse lessons and karate) and that is my life for the next two weeks. 

It's not even organized chaos, it's just straight up chaos. 

Ah, but lest I find myself tempted to think that these are problems- here's the thing about that-
they're not.
It's all stuff I GET to do. 

I GET to take my healthy kids to their safe schools. I GET to run errands and run miles and do the things I need to do. I GET to move into the house of my dreams. I GET to spend time with family- both human and the furry, four legged variety.

Things are going to be totally bananas around here for a while yet so I may as well "give in to the power of the tea" (Name that movie!) and remember that life is pretty dang good.

Just don't judge my dirty floors. 

"I don't want to annoy anyone else Miss Vaughn, I want to annoy you."

This Sunday marks 12 years of marriage for Husband and I.

It is no surprise that after so many years together, I feel our relationship can best be summed up in a Billy Madison movie quote. Movie quotes are kind of our thing. In fact, Husband may be my only equal in remembering and quoting movie lines. I guess the larger point there is that he GETS me.
But anyways.
TWELVE years! Go us!

Photo credit : Traci Buck Photography

Look at that. Just a couple of kids in love. And clearly I married someone with a sense of humor, because, I mean...just look at those sideburns he had. 

Here we are, roughly 12 years, 2 kids, 8 houses, and countless date nights later. (Sans sideburns)

So it's been 12 years of Husband taking off his socks EVERY night, rolling them into a ball, and throwing them at me (double points for when he can get me in the face, of course).

12 years of him ruining all of my yawns by sticking his finger in my mouth mid-yawn. 

So gross.
Do you understand how annoying it is to have all your yawns interrupted? Do you have any idea? I can't even tell you...

It's been 12 years of him holding his hand up patiently for a high five and then dissing me the second I reciprocate. By now it's not even like I'm falling for it anymore- I know exactly what he's going to do. It's just that he'll leave his hand in the air for SO long, that I finally just give in. And then whoosh- my hand falls through the air at the last second, much to his delight.

12 years of me leaning in for a kiss- you know, really closing my eyes and leaning in- anticipating a good romantic kiss (or even just a regular kiss) only to be startled by him biting my lip or blowing air into my mouth, or letting his mouth hang slack while he pretends to have come down with a sudden bout of narcolepsy.
12 years of him letting me get into bed first, giving me a full ten seconds to get cozy in the dark, then leaning on the mattress so I think he's getting into bed (I mean he really commits), but actually he's just getting a good grip so he can yank the covers entirely off the bed in one swift motion.

  Much like a 5th grade boy, his efforts to annoy me are tireless and without bounds. 

I know, try not to be jealous. 

But here's the thing: It works.

 Somehow...it works. 

He knows how to make me laugh. And laughter is huge for me. 

I don't know if it's juvenile and ridiculous or if it's cute and funny, but banter is basically our love language.  Whether it's by getting a rise out of me, catching me off guard, or simply going to extreme lengths he can always make me laugh.
And THAT is invaluable. 

In our 12 years together we have had our share of real struggles. Our love has been seasoned with joys and hardships and it's grown down roots and weathered some storms. And I'm sure there will be more storms to come. But if I'm going to burrow down into a foxhole with someone until the storm passes, I want that someone to be him. 

He is my person. 

He is strong and tender and wise. He is clever and kind and good. But at the end of the day it's the
funny that I find so charming and adorable.
Do yourself a favor. Marry someone funny.

Also marry someone who looks good in a cowboy hat- should the occasion ever arise to wear a cowboy hat.

Roadtrippin' 2014

The other Amber and I recently embarked on a road trip with 5 children.
 Just us, 5 kids, 4 days, and the open road. What can I say, we're gamblers. Some might say that sounds like a nightmare and that we've suffered a lapse in mental stability,  but I like to think we are just fun and brave.
The truth of the matter is that other than my husband, she is the only person I could be trapped in a car with for 16 hours (more on that later) and a whole gaggle of children and not want to stab my eyes out.
In fact, we might even have a little fun.
We have been best friends for nearly 30 years now, which means that beside my immediate family she's been in my life for longer than anyone else I know. There's just an ease between us that's been hard earned over many years. Even when it's hard, it's easy.
Through childhood, adolescence, high school, dating, college, marriage, moves, jobs, and motherhood our friendship has never faltered.
And there is never any drama, which is a rarity among women.

So for all these reasons, and the fact that our children are basically obsessed with each other, we decided to make it an annual tradition to take a road trip. No husbands, no babysitters, no plane rides to exotic places.  We do not  stock up on car-entertainment or pack fancy bags  for each child filled with activities like Pinterest suggests we should.
We go about it the old fashioned way- with loud music, lots of snacks,  and making up games like "Let's see who can run to the other end of the sidewalk the fastest"  at potty stops.
I know, how archaic.
Although I suppose "old fashioned" might be a slightly generous term considering we had air conditioning, DVD players, and Siri directing our every turn. But let's not get bogged down in the details.

 

It was after much planning and deliberation (translation: barely any planning and no deliberation) that we decided on Santa Cruz for our first ever Annual Road Trip. It's somewhere neither of us have ever stayed, it has a beach, a boardwalk, and it's not too far away. Win, win, win!

This was very nearly the perfect destination, except that we decided to take the "scenic route" to get there (because remember, we're fun and brave!) which turned our 7 hr trip into a 16 hour marathon. I'm dead serious. I can't even...
I don't even understand.
The whole reason we took the scenic route was to stop at a zoo in Eureka and a famous "sea glass
beach" in Fort Bragg, neither of which we ever laid eyes on.
Fail.
We decided to skip the zoo because it had been raining all morning (In July. So, you know, that totally makes sense) and after adding countless hours of hairpin turns along the coastal highway, Fort Bragg turned out to be Fort Drag. After searching unsuccessfully for the mythical glass beach, we were informed by a kindly older park ranger that, "They really should stop advertising that. All the glass has been picked up, and the tide is coming in anyway, so it's far too dangerous with kids."
Right.
At least there was an ice cream shop.

So back into car we all went, until we finally reached our destination roughly 17,869 hours later.
Luckily the kids were champs. I mean really.
It was Day 1 and they were just happy to be together.
No one threw a fit. Other than us having to tell them "You guys need to work it out" a couple of
times, no one really fought. There wasn't even any crying until the last thirty minutes.

We spent the next couple of days in Santa Cruz where we had some wins and some fails, but overall  it was a great time.

 There was some highly questionable meat at a Mexican "restaurant" down on the boardwalk.
There was the time we ventured out to the nearby town of Capitola, searched for parking for 12 minutes (which is a long time in a hot car full of pumped up children) , unloaded 2 giant snack bags, 2 beach bags, 5 children, and various beach toys, then trekked a couple of blocks down to the beach only go find it covered in dead fish and crowded with hundreds of children in red swimsuits doing drills in the sand. I'm not sure if it was a lifeguard camp, or a surf camp, or some kind of child-gang,
but the noisy crowd coupled with the pungent dead fish smell was enough to drive us out.

We actually thought about sticking it out, because all the other people didn't seem to mind or even notice the fact that we were surrounded by sandy, lifeless sardines- but then V started stabbing a dead fish with her sand shovel... and all it takes is one fish head landing by your towel to send you packing.
There was the time we went to the boardwalk and immediately decided we hated it. It was hot, dirty, crowded, none of the kids were into it, and a certain little boy proceeded to cry for a half hour upon arriving when he didn't win a Ninja Turtle prize after I paid $10 for him to throw 3 balls in about 4 seconds.
The carnival business is quite a racket.

There was the surprisingly hostile environment at the Jelly Belly factory where on two separate occasions old women were quite sour, for being in such a sweet place.

 

There was a moment I briefly considered leaving one of my children in Corning. Just kidding.

But really.

Ah, but let's not forget the wins!
There was a delightful little restaurant called The Buttery...so that obviously needs no further explanation.

There were giggles and squeals and hours of play on the beach.

There were sea lions off the pier. There was a quaint little lighthouse we discovered near the beach.



There was a moment in a Taco Bell on the last leg of our drive home, when the kids were coming unhinged and we were exhausted- we were  basically a moving spectacle by this point- and when someone cracked a joke we just looked at each other, burst out laughing, and kept laughing until tears ran down our cheeks and the other Amber choked on her crunchy taco. It was awesome. After all, there aren't many things I enjoy more than a hearty laugh over a crunchy taco.

There was bonding and laughter and memories made
- which was exactly why we did it.

And we're all still friends.

My kids waited all of 15 hours after coming home before requesting to see their 3 beloved girls again, so clearly all is still right in the universe.
The Ambers are definitely fun and brave enough to continue the roadtrip tradition next year- although
we did learn a few things for next time:

1) Whatever number of water bottles you think you'll need for a long car ride- double it.

This will also double the number of potty stops, but by God, we can't let them go thirsty.

2) If you're wearing flip flops in the proximity of 5 littles, your toes will get stepped on multiple times a day. You will be expected not to mind this.

3) Crossing the street with 5 children is the equivalent of crossing the street with 5 drunks.

4) Never underestimate the power of candy. Also, never underestimate the power of promising a "surprise" ...even if you have no clue what that surprise is yet.

5) Anytime after hour 7 in the car, expect psychotic bursts of hysteria. Laughing and shrieking one minute, crying and wailing the next. The kids may do this also.

Happy roadtrippin' y'all!