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!

The Weekend Effect

It started with soup.

That was the moment- staring down into a bowl of chicken noodle soup, that it dawned on me- possibly my irritation was unreasonable?

 It had been my turn to sleep in that Saturday (Husband and I take turns on the weekends) and even though I'd had ample sleep, I was still not prepared for the downward spiral that the next few hours proved to be.  Husband had kissed all our cheeks and headed merrily off to the gym, so naturally the children sniffed out my mellow sleepy stupor as weakness and they turned on me 37 seconds later.  They were in rare form this particular morning- they were in Beast Mode. Disciplining had to happen before even one sip of coffee found it's way to my lips. They were arguing, they were whining, they were tenacious! I was putting out fires left and right. The house was a disaster. The TV was left on for too long. One of them pooped in the bathtub. Yes. (Even though my youngest is 4, apparently these things still just "happen".) They vacillated between being "bored" and "hungry"- but not hungry for lunch mind you!  No, it had to be called a "snack". 

  The second I stepped into the shower no less than 3 dire emergencies were brought to my attention, none of which I could deal with until the soap was at least out of my eyes and my underarms were shaved. I do have my standards after all.
 My nerves were fraying quicker than the hem of one of my daughters' princess dresses.

 It was the weekend effect.

 In full effect.
 I share all of these details with you not to be negative, because in my heart of hearts I really do think my children are somewhat spectacular and I really do love being home with them on a daily basis.  No, I give full disclosure only so you can get a true feel for the kind of day I was having.
We'll call it my alibi.

These same shenanigans continued well into the afternoon when I later took the tinies on what would prove to be a raucous grocery store outing. As we pulled into the driveway I waited the customary 3+ minutes for my children to gather their belongings and vacate the car. I mean really. What on God's green earth takes so long? It's as if the moment I park the car they completely lose sight of their mission to get inside the house. They unbuckle in slow motion and then just sort of look around as if they haven't the foggiest idea what to do next. It's ridiculous. I can't even...
So as I valiantly tried to carry 17 full grocery bags inside in a single trip, I opened the door to an interesting scene. Husband was cooking. Chicken noodle soup to be exact.
"The best soup EVER", I was to be assured.

He had quite a system going. Two pots bubbled on the stove (one for the chicken, one for the stock he said) which made no sense to me at all, but I resisted commenting for fear of squashing his newly acquired soup dreams. Veggies were stacked high on the counter, seasonings strewn about, and I must admit, a very lovely scent wafted through the air.

While I wouldn't say that Husband never cooks, it is a rare enough occasion to be considered cute when it happens. He was quite proud of himself in this moment. That much was clear.
 The soup was "going to be amazing!" he informed me. He waved his ladle around animatedly as he walked me through his process. As I tried to encouragingly explain my OWN recipe and methods for making chicken noodle soup, I could see in his eyes and by the set of his shoulders that he would be heeding none of my advice. He was a man on a mission and he was not to be told how to do it.

I took my cue and stepped aside, busying myself with the 17 grocery bags, and oh yes, the children! They're still in the car! What are they even doing?
 Dinnertime came and we all sat down at the table while Husband dished us up, proud as a peacock.

"Oh man. Oh wow. Just taste that, guys! Does anyone want seconds? ...Are you sure?...of this incredible chicken soup?... Mushrooms! Did you see I added mushrooms? Brilliant!"

The soup was good. I will give him that. I was grateful to eat a meal that I didn't have to prepare.
 But his incessant raving about the blasted soup was somehow getting on my last nerve. He carried on about it well past the table clearing and dish washing- he was really piling on now. It was all on purpose of course. Partly to be funny, and partly to annoy me- because much like a 5th grade boy, this is often how he shows me affection. Yes, I know. Try not to be jealous.
 It may sound juvenile, but banter is basically our love language.
Yet this time, instead of finding it funny or cute like I normally would, I was fully annoyed. I am ashamed to admit it, but good grief! I get 3 meals on the table every day and no one throws a party about it. There's no hoots of delight, no horns tooting my praise, no confetti thrown about.
 But the man makes one batch of soup and the whole world stops turning on its axis. He is suddenly God's gift to soup!

 It was shortly after this when he retired to the couch and turned on a football game that I lost all restraint and  snapped at him. I can't recall exactly what I said but the message was clear.
 "Whoa! What's this about? Remember me? I'm the soup guy! I haven't done anything wrong!" he says.

And really he hadn't.

  My ideal Saturday had been anything but ideal and for some reason a single bowl of soup suddenly became more infuriating to me more than any bowl of soup ever should. I think it might be my own fault- because I think I often have unrealistically high expectations of weekends.

Do you know what I'm talking about? That THING with weekends? Just like the "thing" with the dinner hour and the "thing" with important phone calls. It's like Murphy's Law. Something is liable to go wrong.

After a long week of getting up before the sun, packing lunches, shuffling littles to their extracurriculars, monitoring homework, and basically taking care of business, I entertain visions of our family having harmonious down time together, every moment being maximized. The children behave perfectly of course. We all laugh louder and more frequently than seems natural, all chores and errands get done, goodies are baked, the house somehow stays pristine, games are played by the fire... (We don't even have a fireplace, which could be the first indicator that my expectations are somewhat misplaced.) Ah, but one day soon my littles will be bigs. They will have their own plans and their own schedules and they will not covet our attention they way they do now. They will not be happy to simply cuddle up and watch a cartoon on my lap. They will not be so easily excited with small things like baking cookies or painting toenails or playing hide and seek.

 Maybe a lazy Saturday spent lounging around with my people in a messy house with no agenda is just what the doctor ordered. Soup fights and all.

 I am happy to report that every once in a while your ideal scenario actually DOES get to happen. This weekend was quite a different picture. Somehow there was time for it all! We decorated cookies, we read books, we slept in, we played outside.  Husband and I invented a game that required us to throw dignity out the window and become 'sleeping bag monsters'  just to hear the kids belly-laugh. The house got cleaned, the groceries got purchased, we managed a date night, and there was even time for a family campout in a fort the size of our living room.

Coincidentally, Husband tried his hand at another new soup this weekend (sweet potato) and this time as he mused about whether he might've used too much nutmeg, I found him to be adorable. All is right in the world again.



2014: My One Word

It's a bit of a miracle that each year I manage to nail down "One Word" at all, really.

Normally I am a person of many words. I have been told by exactly two people that I am what they call a "social buffer"- the kind of extra person you might want around in a potentially awkward situation because I will talk to just about anybody. I'm chatty. It is what it is. I suppose there are worse ways to be, right?

So as I've shared with you here,  for the past few years I have chosen one word as a sort of theme for the year. I have never been one to make New Year's resolutions. The thought of a "resolution" feels somehow oppressive to me. I don't like the idea of a pass or fail.

Yet for whatever reason, I find the idea of choosing one word to be exciting rather than burdensome. Some might say it's corny, but the idea resonates with me. I think there's something deeply honest about choosing just one word. If I take a real and unfiltered look at my heart, where am I right now? It forces me to be truthful, to be quiet, and to hear what God is speaking into my life, as opposed to the constant chatter I tend to throw at Him.

 The cool thing about having one word, is that it doesn't need to be meaningful to anyone but me. There are no rules. It can be a thought, an action, an emotion...it's personal.
 I use it throughout the year as a compass, a gauge, a filter for choices I make, a springboard for action, a constant conversation piece with God.

 

 

Last year my word was UNHINDERED.

Looking back, there were quite a few things I felt God yearning for me to let go of, to cast off. Things in my everyday life that I didn't realize were hindering me.  I can see the areas where I resisted and struggled with this, and also the areas where I overcame. Some changes were tangible but some were internal. It was a lovely and liberating journey.  

While I don't have a nice tidy list for you of exact accomplishments I made last year, I do see that my One Word helped me to check in with myself and with God on a regular basis- and it often changed the way I approached my day. 

 I found that when I did check in with myself throughout the year on where I honestly stood with my one word, I was encouraged and moved and stirred up because I felt God being my help.
 It felt positive and never negative. I love that this is often how God works. He convicts but never condemns. I felt His patience in my stagnancy, His joy in my moments of triumph, and His sorrow over my moments of stubbornness and defeat. I felt HIM, and no matter where you are, that is better than feeling alone.

 

This year my word is DILIGENT.

 "Having or showing care and conscientiousness in one's work or duties. Marked by steady, careful, painstaking effort. Someone who works hard and carefully.

Synonyms:

Industrious, hard working, assiduous, particular, careful, thorough, earnest, painstaking, meticulous, rigorous, conscientious.

Middle English: via Old French from Latin 'diligens'; from 'diligere' which means
 "love, take delight in"!

 

What a beautiful thing!

To take delight in that which you work carefully and intentionally at. Immediately I think of my children. While they are not the only thing I work at, they are certainly the most important at this point in my life. How easy it can be to just coast some days, to let life happen. But what a difference being diligent can make. When I read the definition, it pierced me, like a truth always does.

 Like a nail driven in and through, sending splinters all across my heart.

 

 This year I feel that that Lord wants diligence of me and for me- as a mother of littles, as a wife, as a daughter, as a friend...and likely in many ways I have yet to discover.

Last year for me was about casting off and letting go.  This year is more about putting on. Taking action. Taking care. Doing what I feel in my heart to be right. Making myself available. Being intentional. Being thankful and aware and earnest in the day to day.

Showing up.

I am excited and a little bit curious to see the paths this year will lead me down. There are a lot of really good things happening and a lot of really difficult things happening at the same time in life right now. Health and joy and hope can seem quite precarious at moments.
But God is still good.
 And good things often come through the hard things. You just have to look for them.



Confessions of an Honest Mom: It Always Happens at The Mart

It was somewhere around the wrapping paper aisle that I began to ask myself "How did I wind up here? Why am I doing this to myself?"

 I'm not normally a confused person,  but at this second I am admittedly flustered and confused. It's like I walk through the doors of this place and my mind shuts off in order for my body to go into survival mode.

 

 It's hot in here. Is it just me, or is it hot in here? Why is it that every time I enter this building I feel like I'm suddenly in a pressure cooker? I am sweating now. Partly due to frustration, and partly due to the fact that I am wearing a beanie, fleece lined leggings, Uggs, and a down jacket. My feet are 1,000 degrees. My beanie itches. My ears are about to bleed from the incessant "Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM!"- That familiar assault of constant chatter from the tinies. Not just chatter. Its aggressive. As if the whole world hinges on their endless need to repeat my name (for no real reason, mind you.)
 I really want to take off my jacket. I feel claustrophobic. Of course, taking off my jacket is out of the question because I'm not wearing a bra. I share this information not to be lewd, but to illustrate how ill-prepared I was to even be there at all.
The Mart.

 The WAL MART.

 

 You'd think after the episode of disasters I shared with you before

that I'd never set foot in this abomination of desolation again. You would think.

But there is some small, defiant (and possibly stupid) part of me that just can't leave it as a failure. Some part of me, that says, "No! This is ridiculous! I can shop at Wal Mart. I only have two small children. I should be able to do this without wanting to stab my eyes out. I kept said children happy and quiet for 10+ hours yesterday while I de-Christmased, cleaned, and reorganized my entire house! I can do anything! Yes I can!"

Plus I needed a birthday card for my brother-in-law's birthday that evening, and if there's one thing I love, it's the perfect greeting card. Wal Mart happens to be the one stupid place that still carries my favorite line of greeting cards, so...there it was. Off I went.
 And the children wanted a donut, so I thought I'd be fun mommy today and let them get a donut on the way. It's all for the children. The precious children.

 

I would like to tell you that it started off not so bad, but that would be a lie. Not five minutes into my venture, both tiny tenders were already fighting with each other, whining at me, and changing their minds repeatedly about where exactly on the cart they would like to position themselves. One is hanging on the front and ignoring my requests to quit dragging their feet. The other one has moved from the front seat, to the big basket, to the side of the cart where he is now holding on and hanging backwards, like a dog sticking his face out the window of a car. It's fun for them. It's only fun for them.
It's amazing how simple things like getting out of a car, walking through a parking lot, and pushing a shopping cart can take so much longer when children are involved! I mean, unfathomably longer.

 

Now, my children are pretty good kids. They really are. I should probably start with that. But something about that place just awakens the beast in all of us.

 Bigger One starts to ask me for every single thing she sees. Little One is now too big to sit comfortably in a cart so he walks. The trouble there is that he only has two speeds: 1) running, or 2) trailing 20 paces behind me. Just far enough so that I'm constantly worried, and looking backward, urging him to keep up...and quit touching that...and don't put your hands in your mouth because they're dirty! All while trying to keep my voice low, of course, because nobody wants to be like the mom I told you about last time in The Mart who was shouting "Bobby Lee!" every 9 seconds. We all TRY not to be that mom.  We try valiantly. Sometimes we even succeed. Somewhere around aisle 4 a sweet elderly couple stops us to comment on Little One's red, curly, wild hair, and to say what handsome and well behaved children they are.

My heart swells with pride. I smile big and push on, forgetting for a second the fact they are not listening to my request to get off the cart and just walk beside me.

 

It's not until about 5 minutes later, that I start to really get frustrated- amid my struggle to push the cart with monkeys hanging off of it, to navigate my way through the crowd, and to balance the urge to read my shopping list while competing with the constant soundtrack of "Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Hey mom!"

I think I remember this stage with Bigger One. This is a phase, I think.
 Little One has made a sport out of saying my name. He doesn't even listen for my response. I do respond to him!
 "Mom." "Yes, son?"  "Mom." "What buddy?" "Mom." "What is it?" "Hey mom" "Hmm?" (I can't tell a lie. By this time I have tuned him out and I have re-read the same line of my shopping list 3 times without registering what it says.)
"MOM!"
 "WHAT Jaxon?!" I have now abandoned my quiet voice for my exasperated mommy voice.
"WHAT IS IT?... Yes! I will get you out of the cart if you promise to just be quiet for a second!"

 

This.
 This is the exact moment that I bump into an acquaintance who has just heard all of the back and forth and is now smiling ruefully at me. Not a close friend, who knows that I am not a horrible mother. Not a stranger who will proceed down the aisle without noticing me. An acquaintance who just caught me in a bad mommy moment using my exasperated mommy voice.
 You all have one. You know do.

 

Ah, yes, this is the life of an honest mom.
 One minute you're children are garnering the praise of perfect strangers in the dry goods aisle, only to be driving you bananas five minutes later in front of God and everyone in the wrapping paper aisle! It is what it is.
I smile cheerfully back at my acquaintance and have the presence of mind to ignore the tugging on my shirt long enough to make an acceptable amount of small talk.

The next 20 minutes are a lot of the same. Loud voices, lots of touching everything on every shelf, more sibling arguments, one of them is thirsty, one of them is cold, all of us are anxious to be done. I am fairly certain that nearby shoppers can hear our banter coming and going. I am past caring about that.

I'm definitely sweating now. All I want is to take off my jacket. There is a rogue down feather somewhere poking my neck. My cheeks are hot. I'm fairly certain that I'm blushing now too. My skin adds insult to injury by not only being pale and cancer-prone, but by frequently betraying me with a crimson red blush. Good Lord, I just want out of here.

But we press on.
As we pass a tragically pubescent young man in the produce section, Little One points and says loudly, "Oh mommy, look! That poor boy has red ouchies all over his face! What happened to him mommy?"
 I smile apologetically to the boy who undoubtedly heard this comment,  and remind my son it's not polite to point or to talk about people. Being only 4, he is confused by this social rule of thumb, so I spend the next couple minutes fumbling my way through an explanation of how God created everyone different, and so we all look different, and then feebly land on "It's not nice to point. It's just not."

 

 I scurry through the last few aisles, hopefully grabbing the items I need, but not really taking time to be sure. Bigger One has to go potty. There is no time for accuracy. Little One has ignored my instruction to walk next to me and is still mindlessly calling out to me from 20 paces behind but I have decided that I will not raise my voice or repeat myself again. No I will address it calmly in the car. Yes, that's what I'll do.

I make my way to the shortest line I can find, which is still considerably long. When I finally make it up to the register Bigger One has sensed that it's time to fall in line and is waiting quietly while Little One keeps trying to wedge his body in the small space between the cart and the rounder of grocery bags. I tell him to come around the other side. I swipe my card. He's still wedging. I tell him to stop, look at my eyes, listen, and obey.
 And then my sweet, precious, curly haired baby narrows his eyes at me and makes a face.
 This is new.
 Did he just?...Was that a dirty look?
 Oh hellllllll no.
 I hold his gaze as if to say "This is not over". He instantly wavers, realizing he has now gone too far, so he follows it up with a goofy smile for good measure. Nice trick. I wonder where he learned that.

As we walk to the bathroom I send up a quick prayer of thankfulness that Bigger One is now old enough to handle this small business on her own.
 I kneel down to Tiny's level and quietly tell him how sad Mommy is that he was not listening and obeying. I remind him that he is a big boy and he knows how to behave in a store. We discuss consequences. His tiny shoulders slump and he says,
 "I'm sorry mommy. Will you forgive me?"
And I do. I do forgive him!
I love the little boogar beyond comprehension. I tell him I will always, always forgive, but there is a benefit in obeying the first time, above disobeying and then having to ask forgiveness. I think he understands this, but I can't be sure, on account of his age and the fact that he is now distracted with a hangnail.

I gulp the fresh cold air as we exit the building and wonder how long I'll wait before trying this again. As I've said before, I by no means consider myself to be better than anyone who shops at The Mart. I'm sure I will be back at some point.
But I will never again underestimate the power of The Mart.

It isn't until I'm in the car, all harmony restored, and halfway home that I realize that I forgot entirely to get the greeting card I went there for.