Valentine's Day Bath

Nothing says "Happy Valentine's Day!" quite like a three-and-a-half year old crapping his pants and and apologizing "because I was playing too hard," trying to clean it up himself "because I'm a big boy, Mama!" And then having to spend your morning disinfecting the entire bathroom because, honestly, his idea of cleanliness just doesn't cut it.

Oh, and I stepped in some poo.  Barefoot.

I love my kid.  I love my life.  But seriously?  Wtf?!

Nothing says "Happy Valentine's Day!" quite like a three-and-a-half year old crapping his pants and and apologizing "because I was playing too hard," trying to clean it up himself "because I'm a big boy, Mama!" And then having to spend your morning disinfecting the entire bathroom because, honestly, his idea of cleanliness just doesn't cut it.

Oh, and I stepped in some poo.  Barefoot.

I love my kid.  I love my life.  But seriously?  Wtf?!

Faux preschool homeschool.

We sat in a sunbeam this morning at the kitchen table. I let the warmth squeeze into my bones and joints and I juiced my brain with a jolt of caffeine - I made a really good pot of coffee this morning.  It can be hit or miss sometimes with my coffee making skills.  I like my coffee not too strong, but strong enough, and filled with enough cream to make it a lovely light brown color (although I've recently switched from real cream to half and half.  That was a sad day for me, but I am coping, thanks for asking). Finn worked on some Aa worksheets that I hastily made up using a combination of Pinterest and Microsoft Word. I attempted to work on some more menu planning (I am so sick and tired of all of the same-old things we've been eating lately that I've been digging into some of my seldom-used cookbooks and trying new recipes from my old favorites.  I cannot believe how bored I have gotten with dinner.).  I wrote a couple of lists for gardening this spring.  Mostly, though, I watched Finn clutch a fat crayon and color all of the capital As.  He kept asking me, "Do you see any more, Mama?" right before he'd spot one and scratch it out with a flourish of green.

We've been attempting a really relaxed version of preschool this week. I hesitate to call it homeschooling because my husband immediately sees red and flashes of lightning spark straight out from his eye holes. Seriously.  He has strong feelings about homeschooling, most of which are attributed to some questionable individuals that he knows who were home schooled. Unfortunately, it's those few bad apples that ruined his bushel (Wow. Terrible, terrible analogy. I apologize, but it sort of works because Finn and I have been talking about the letter A this week). Anyway, I use the term homeschooling really, really loosely in this house because a) it's sort of my job to stimulate my kid's brain b) it's the alphabet, it's not rocket science.

That being said, I'm also a self-diagnosed procrastinator, so most of our "school" this week found me printing off coloring sheets, checking YouTube for a song about the days of the week, and filling in with some Yogarilla.  We played a couple of matching games, worked on a little bit of phonics with the sound of the A, counted apples and alligators, and did some tracing mazes from the preschool workbooks that Finn got for his birthday last year.  It took us about 20 minutes each morning - I spent more time researching and printing a few things off and cursing that my dwindling supply of construction paper yielded zero sheets of green.  I'd like to say that I'll be more prepared for the letter B next week, but...probably not.

If I'm being honest with myself, I know that he'll need to do some structured form on preschool in the fall. He's a quick learner and it's not the "work" part of it that I'm concerned with - I can teach him the alphabet and phonics and counting and probably even some science if I needed to.  The problem is actually Uriah's main concern every time we talk about homeschooling: he's not social enough.  I think it would be different if he had a sibling or 3 or 12 that he could practice sharing or co-playing or imagination-play with (for the record, no one in this house is having 12 kids. Ever. Our advanced age not withstanding, we would've had to have started a long time ago to get to 12 and really, since we can't even agree if a dog would be a blessing or a curse at this point, it's probably for the best we didn't know each other when we were young and ambitious.). Currently, Finn's favorite thing to tell me is: "I don't like to share," and he can seriously lose his shit when kids come over to play because they touch. his. stuff!  Sometimes he spends more time sitting by himself because he can be such a jerk.  I know that it is probably a bit of a phase, and we have talked about how all of his toys stay at his house and no one will take his stuff home with them.  We've tried putting away his "special" things before friends come over.  Nothing works, turns out - all of his toys are "special toys" and are therefore off limits in his mind.

So my plans to homeschool - and eventually homecollege - my son have been put on the back burner for now. He'll do fine when he goes to preschool and eventually kindergarten - and so will I, because by the time he goes to college I will have invented a serum to shrink myself so that I can live in his pocket and go to school with him and make sure he is safe and that he eats his vegetables and stays away from those girls. (You know the girls I'm talking about...the ones that "hang out" on the quad drinking "coffee" instead of going to class and find themselves in Cabo for spring break and end up in their own episode of Girls Gone Wild? The ones looking to earn their MRS Degree? Not with my son, they won't.) He'll learn to share and play nicely. He'll make lots of friends. He'll come home every day and tell me all about his adventures over cookies and milk. Until that day, though, I will be his best friend and I will teach him everything I think he needs to know...the alphabet, the days of the week, counting, and shapes.

And, of course, how much I love him.  That lesson is on-going.

We sat in a sunbeam this morning at the kitchen table. I let the warmth squeeze into my bones and joints and I juiced my brain with a jolt of caffeine - I made a really good pot of coffee this morning.  It can be hit or miss sometimes with my coffee making skills.  I like my coffee not too strong, but strong enough, and filled with enough cream to make it a lovely light brown color (although I've recently switched from real cream to half and half.  That was a sad day for me, but I am coping, thanks for asking). Finn worked on some Aa worksheets that I hastily made up using a combination of Pinterest and Microsoft Word. I attempted to work on some more menu planning (I am so sick and tired of all of the same-old things we've been eating lately that I've been digging into some of my seldom-used cookbooks and trying new recipes from my old favorites.  I cannot believe how bored I have gotten with dinner.).  I wrote a couple of lists for gardening this spring.  Mostly, though, I watched Finn clutch a fat crayon and color all of the capital As.  He kept asking me, "Do you see any more, Mama?" right before he'd spot one and scratch it out with a flourish of green.

We've been attempting a really relaxed version of preschool this week. I hesitate to call it homeschooling because my husband immediately sees red and flashes of lightning spark straight out from his eye holes. Seriously.  He has strong feelings about homeschooling, most of which are attributed to some questionable individuals that he knows who were home schooled. Unfortunately, it's those few bad apples that ruined his bushel (Wow. Terrible, terrible analogy. I apologize, but it sort of works because Finn and I have been talking about the letter A this week). Anyway, I use the term homeschooling really, really loosely in this house because a) it's sort of my job to stimulate my kid's brain b) it's the alphabet, it's not rocket science.

That being said, I'm also a self-diagnosed procrastinator, so most of our "school" this week found me printing off coloring sheets, checking YouTube for a song about the days of the week, and filling in with some Yogarilla.  We played a couple of matching games, worked on a little bit of phonics with the sound of the A, counted apples and alligators, and did some tracing mazes from the preschool workbooks that Finn got for his birthday last year.  It took us about 20 minutes each morning - I spent more time researching and printing a few things off and cursing that my dwindling supply of construction paper yielded zero sheets of green.  I'd like to say that I'll be more prepared for the letter B next week, but...probably not.

If I'm being honest with myself, I know that he'll need to do some structured form on preschool in the fall. He's a quick learner and it's not the "work" part of it that I'm concerned with - I can teach him the alphabet and phonics and counting and probably even some science if I needed to.  The problem is actually Uriah's main concern every time we talk about homeschooling: he's not social enough.  I think it would be different if he had a sibling or 3 or 12 that he could practice sharing or co-playing or imagination-play with (for the record, no one in this house is having 12 kids. Ever. Our advanced age not withstanding, we would've had to have started a long time ago to get to 12 and really, since we can't even agree if a dog would be a blessing or a curse at this point, it's probably for the best we didn't know each other when we were young and ambitious.). Currently, Finn's favorite thing to tell me is: "I don't like to share," and he can seriously lose his shit when kids come over to play because they touch. his. stuff!  Sometimes he spends more time sitting by himself because he can be such a jerk.  I know that it is probably a bit of a phase, and we have talked about how all of his toys stay at his house and no one will take his stuff home with them.  We've tried putting away his "special" things before friends come over.  Nothing works, turns out - all of his toys are "special toys" and are therefore off limits in his mind.

So my plans to homeschool - and eventually homecollege - my son have been put on the back burner for now. He'll do fine when he goes to preschool and eventually kindergarten - and so will I, because by the time he goes to college I will have invented a serum to shrink myself so that I can live in his pocket and go to school with him and make sure he is safe and that he eats his vegetables and stays away from those girls. (You know the girls I'm talking about...the ones that "hang out" on the quad drinking "coffee" instead of going to class and find themselves in Cabo for spring break and end up in their own episode of Girls Gone Wild? The ones looking to earn their MRS Degree? Not with my son, they won't.) He'll learn to share and play nicely. He'll make lots of friends. He'll come home every day and tell me all about his adventures over cookies and milk. Until that day, though, I will be his best friend and I will teach him everything I think he needs to know...the alphabet, the days of the week, counting, and shapes.

And, of course, how much I love him.  That lesson is on-going.

Resolutions. And also, deadbeat moms. Thoughts?

I've been thinking about a New Year's Resolution for about, oh, 8 or 9 days now.  I know...procrastinate much? The answer is yes, I do.  But I always make a big, glorious resolution and it lasts for a big, glorious month and then I loose steam and energy and motivation and am left for the rest of the year with a big, glorious anger toward my un-realized resolution.  Oh, and my resolution always, always involves losing a gazillion pounds and finds me looking svelte and chic in a time frame that is not advisable (usually around 1 month.  Okay, I give myself 6 months...usually I have it all planned out for bathing suit season, which I don't believe is an actual "season" where I live.).

Not this year.  This year is different.  This year I bit off an amount I can actually chew.  This year there isn't really a "resolution," per se, it's mostly just a word: healthy.  I want to be healthy and I am not attaching a number to it.  I don't even really have a plan as to how I'm going to get to that healthy point other than taking it one day at a time, tracking my calories in and calories out.  I figure I'm just going to stop feeling unhealthy and I'm going to start feeling healthy. One. Day. At. A. Time.

Seems simple enough, don't you think?

Here's a story: last night we got dressed up to go to Uriah's work Christmas party (I almost typed program like it was going to be a bunch of chef-type people and hotel-type people and corporate-type people getting together and singing songs and doing a little dance number for the audience.  It was a party.  There were drink tickets and dinner and allegedly some entertainment that we didn't stick around for because we have kids and a 30 minute drive back up the shore.).  Anyway, so it was a party, which means we got to get dressed up.  And I got this cute new shirt (that I didn't try on, but it was $7 on clearance at Old Navy so I figured, what the hell, it'll work fine), and I got a cute new necklace to go with my cute new shirt (I paid full price for the necklace.  I can't even type the price because it was shocking.  More than I ever spend on jewelry and I usually spend $0 on jewelry because the only jewelry I wear with any consistency is my wedding ring, but I figured its price balanced my clearance priced shirt.).  I squeezed my buns into some dress pants and shoved my feet into some heels.  All in all, I thought it was good.  Until I looked in the mirror.  I had some doubts about the cuteness factor of the shirt...it was a little shapeless and when your body is rather - shall we just go with curvy here? - okay, curvy it is...when you have a curvy top half, shapeless is not a good look.  Actually, shapeless is not a good look for anyone, but as the time was tick-tocking and we had to drive into the big city, I figured my new haircut and some makeup would take the attention off of my shirt and I hustled downstairs.

Matronly.  A word worse than shapeless is matronly and that's how my husband said I looked.  My face must have relayed my inner shock and disbelief because he quickly started back-peddling and telling me that I just looked like a mom who was dressed up to go out for the night.

Not. Any. Better.

I went upstairs as quick as my matronly mom-legs could take me and proceeded to rip through my closet looking for something, anything that didn't make me look old and frumpy.  Because I read between the lines and that's what I heard my husband saying: I was a 34 year old frumpy mom who was trying too hard to get dressed up and go out to dinner.  I'm sure he probably meant that I was looking good, since anything is a step above yoga pants.  And I'd actually taken the time to dry and flat iron my hair and I was wearing full-on make-up (not just mascara...I had eye shadow and lip gloss and everything.  It was a big deal!).  But I was devastated.  And of course nothing he said made me feel better and nothing in my closet was appropriate and nothing in my screwed-up brain was positive.  I tried on 17 different shirts before I realized that if we didn't leave 10 minutes ago we were going to be late.  I put on the original matron-shirt and we left.

I had 30 minutes to calm myself down a little bit and I didn't cry because...make-up, remember?  I didn't have the time or energy to repair that shit.  And Uriah tried to bring me out of my funk.  And I texted my gal, Bees and she, of course, had helpful, lovely things to say that boosted my spirits.

But really...this whole bag of matronly melt-down are my own issues rearing their fat heads again.  It's my own mind and my own lack of ambition and will-power and resolution to be better, to be healthier - eat more healthfully, exercise consistently, think positive thoughts and let the yuck slide off my back.  So last night in the car as we drove towards a ballroom full of people I didn't really know, I stopped caring what they were going to think of my shapeless shirt.  In fact, I stopped thinking about it all together.  I wrapped the word healthy into my head and I vowed to do better.  One day at a time, I will do better.  Because at the end of the day, my husband will still kiss me and tell me I'm pretty like a post card - and I usually don't even have make-up on when he says that, so I know he means it.  He makes thoughtless comments, but then so do I, I suppose.  At least we know enough to apologize for our thoughtless comments.  And at least I know enough to start on the inside and work my way out.

Exercise my brain muscle first...everything else will fall into place.

In addition to my matronly mom issues, I've been stewing on deadbeat mom issues all day long.  Stewing, for me, requires researching.  Did you even know this was an issue?  It is.  It totally, sadly is.  Some studies say that the percentage of deadbeat moms is actually higher than that of deadbeat dads.  I am a mom (obviously) and right now it is completely beyond my realm of comprehension, but I am trying to educate myself so that I can speak thoughtfully on a subject that blows my mind.  I wish so many things of our society, but the one I wish the most is that men and women were treated equally - and that includes areas of custodial and non-custodial parenting rights and responsibilities.  The research part of my brain encourages me to look at all of the facts, weigh all of the statistics and theories.  The mom/wife part of me wants to rage, and rage loudly, at the unfairness of it all.

Part of being healthy this year is going to be letting go of things that I have no control over.  It may also be a healthy throat punch to stupid people.  Maybe.  Possibly.

2014 - healthy mind, healthy body, one day at a time.



Oh, and I'm thinking of getting a dog, but that might be too big of  a commitment for 2014; I think my plate might be full.  Maybe 2015 will be the year of the dog...

I've been thinking about a New Year's Resolution for about, oh, 8 or 9 days now.  I know...procrastinate much? The answer is yes, I do.  But I always make a big, glorious resolution and it lasts for a big, glorious month and then I loose steam and energy and motivation and am left for the rest of the year with a big, glorious anger toward my un-realized resolution.  Oh, and my resolution always, always involves losing a gazillion pounds and finds me looking svelte and chic in a time frame that is not advisable (usually around 1 month.  Okay, I give myself 6 months...usually I have it all planned out for bathing suit season, which I don't believe is an actual "season" where I live.).

Not this year.  This year is different.  This year I bit off an amount I can actually chew.  This year there isn't really a "resolution," per se, it's mostly just a word: healthy.  I want to be healthy and I am not attaching a number to it.  I don't even really have a plan as to how I'm going to get to that healthy point other than taking it one day at a time, tracking my calories in and calories out.  I figure I'm just going to stop feeling unhealthy and I'm going to start feeling healthy. One. Day. At. A. Time.

Seems simple enough, don't you think?

Here's a story: last night we got dressed up to go to Uriah's work Christmas party (I almost typed program like it was going to be a bunch of chef-type people and hotel-type people and corporate-type people getting together and singing songs and doing a little dance number for the audience.  It was a party.  There were drink tickets and dinner and allegedly some entertainment that we didn't stick around for because we have kids and a 30 minute drive back up the shore.).  Anyway, so it was a party, which means we got to get dressed up.  And I got this cute new shirt (that I didn't try on, but it was $7 on clearance at Old Navy so I figured, what the hell, it'll work fine), and I got a cute new necklace to go with my cute new shirt (I paid full price for the necklace.  I can't even type the price because it was shocking.  More than I ever spend on jewelry and I usually spend $0 on jewelry because the only jewelry I wear with any consistency is my wedding ring, but I figured its price balanced my clearance priced shirt.).  I squeezed my buns into some dress pants and shoved my feet into some heels.  All in all, I thought it was good.  Until I looked in the mirror.  I had some doubts about the cuteness factor of the shirt...it was a little shapeless and when your body is rather - shall we just go with curvy here? - okay, curvy it is...when you have a curvy top half, shapeless is not a good look.  Actually, shapeless is not a good look for anyone, but as the time was tick-tocking and we had to drive into the big city, I figured my new haircut and some makeup would take the attention off of my shirt and I hustled downstairs.

Matronly.  A word worse than shapeless is matronly and that's how my husband said I looked.  My face must have relayed my inner shock and disbelief because he quickly started back-peddling and telling me that I just looked like a mom who was dressed up to go out for the night.

Not. Any. Better.

I went upstairs as quick as my matronly mom-legs could take me and proceeded to rip through my closet looking for something, anything that didn't make me look old and frumpy.  Because I read between the lines and that's what I heard my husband saying: I was a 34 year old frumpy mom who was trying too hard to get dressed up and go out to dinner.  I'm sure he probably meant that I was looking good, since anything is a step above yoga pants.  And I'd actually taken the time to dry and flat iron my hair and I was wearing full-on make-up (not just mascara...I had eye shadow and lip gloss and everything.  It was a big deal!).  But I was devastated.  And of course nothing he said made me feel better and nothing in my closet was appropriate and nothing in my screwed-up brain was positive.  I tried on 17 different shirts before I realized that if we didn't leave 10 minutes ago we were going to be late.  I put on the original matron-shirt and we left.

I had 30 minutes to calm myself down a little bit and I didn't cry because...make-up, remember?  I didn't have the time or energy to repair that shit.  And Uriah tried to bring me out of my funk.  And I texted my gal, Bees and she, of course, had helpful, lovely things to say that boosted my spirits.

But really...this whole bag of matronly melt-down are my own issues rearing their fat heads again.  It's my own mind and my own lack of ambition and will-power and resolution to be better, to be healthier - eat more healthfully, exercise consistently, think positive thoughts and let the yuck slide off my back.  So last night in the car as we drove towards a ballroom full of people I didn't really know, I stopped caring what they were going to think of my shapeless shirt.  In fact, I stopped thinking about it all together.  I wrapped the word healthy into my head and I vowed to do better.  One day at a time, I will do better.  Because at the end of the day, my husband will still kiss me and tell me I'm pretty like a post card - and I usually don't even have make-up on when he says that, so I know he means it.  He makes thoughtless comments, but then so do I, I suppose.  At least we know enough to apologize for our thoughtless comments.  And at least I know enough to start on the inside and work my way out.

Exercise my brain muscle first...everything else will fall into place.

In addition to my matronly mom issues, I've been stewing on deadbeat mom issues all day long.  Stewing, for me, requires researching.  Did you even know this was an issue?  It is.  It totally, sadly is.  Some studies say that the percentage of deadbeat moms is actually higher than that of deadbeat dads.  I am a mom (obviously) and right now it is completely beyond my realm of comprehension, but I am trying to educate myself so that I can speak thoughtfully on a subject that blows my mind.  I wish so many things of our society, but the one I wish the most is that men and women were treated equally - and that includes areas of custodial and non-custodial parenting rights and responsibilities.  The research part of my brain encourages me to look at all of the facts, weigh all of the statistics and theories.  The mom/wife part of me wants to rage, and rage loudly, at the unfairness of it all.

Part of being healthy this year is going to be letting go of things that I have no control over.  It may also be a healthy throat punch to stupid people.  Maybe.  Possibly.

2014 - healthy mind, healthy body, one day at a time.



Oh, and I'm thinking of getting a dog, but that might be too big of  a commitment for 2014; I think my plate might be full.  Maybe 2015 will be the year of the dog...

There is always, always something to be thankful for.

I have a collection of Finneaus' hand in the shape of a turkey.

I didn't think to make a turkey out of his little 3 month old hand for his first Thanksgiving.  I wasn't on Pinterest then, maybe it hadn't even been invented.  And also, I was too busy keeping a squalling human alive that fall to think about things like turkey hand prints and Thankful trees.  But in 2011, his daycare ladies sent him home one day in November with two little turkey hand prints.  The paint was squishy and his hand looks like it's probably two sizes bigger than it actually was.  I guess that's what you get when you try to keep a 1 year old still for arts and crafts time.  But I thought it was the cutest thing - those fat little fingers making the turkey's face and feathers.  Last year I did it again - made a turkey hand print with his wiggly fingers.  And trust me, it's a little bit easier to keep a 2 year old still and his hand flat for the turkey.  Last year's turkey is so cute and perfect.  He laid his hands flat and the colors looked so good.

And this year?  You guessed it.  I did it again.  Only a 3 year old has a mind of his own.  This year Finn wanted to pick out his own colors and paint his own hand and make his own turkey.  This year his turkey body is orange and he has green and purple feathers and blue legs and eyes.  After a few very messy tries and some oddly shaped turkeys, I insisted that he let me make his turkey.  He could pick out the colors, but I was going to paint and hold his hand down in one spot on the paper so that it would resemble a turkey (albeit a very colorful turkey).  And he let me.  He sat still and we painted the body and the feathers.  We let it dry a little bit and added a beak and eyes and legs.  It turned out so cute.

This morning I compared the one that I insisted we do together and the sloppy, splotchy turkey that Finn created.  My turkey?  It looked good; it probably even looked like a Pinterest-worthy turkey.  Finn's turkey, with the blue dots for eyes and thick stick legs; the turkey with half of his orange body missing because he didn't quite paint his whole hand and water drops on the paper where his paint brush splattered.  Finn's turkey is perfect.

This smudgy, multi-colored turkey that he created all by himself will always remind me of that fall when I blinked and realized that my baby had turned into a boy.

I have a collection of Finneaus' hand in the shape of a turkey.

I didn't think to make a turkey out of his little 3 month old hand for his first Thanksgiving.  I wasn't on Pinterest then, maybe it hadn't even been invented.  And also, I was too busy keeping a squalling human alive that fall to think about things like turkey hand prints and Thankful trees.  But in 2011, his daycare ladies sent him home one day in November with two little turkey hand prints.  The paint was squishy and his hand looks like it's probably two sizes bigger than it actually was.  I guess that's what you get when you try to keep a 1 year old still for arts and crafts time.  But I thought it was the cutest thing - those fat little fingers making the turkey's face and feathers.  Last year I did it again - made a turkey hand print with his wiggly fingers.  And trust me, it's a little bit easier to keep a 2 year old still and his hand flat for the turkey.  Last year's turkey is so cute and perfect.  He laid his hands flat and the colors looked so good.

And this year?  You guessed it.  I did it again.  Only a 3 year old has a mind of his own.  This year Finn wanted to pick out his own colors and paint his own hand and make his own turkey.  This year his turkey body is orange and he has green and purple feathers and blue legs and eyes.  After a few very messy tries and some oddly shaped turkeys, I insisted that he let me make his turkey.  He could pick out the colors, but I was going to paint and hold his hand down in one spot on the paper so that it would resemble a turkey (albeit a very colorful turkey).  And he let me.  He sat still and we painted the body and the feathers.  We let it dry a little bit and added a beak and eyes and legs.  It turned out so cute.

This morning I compared the one that I insisted we do together and the sloppy, splotchy turkey that Finn created.  My turkey?  It looked good; it probably even looked like a Pinterest-worthy turkey.  Finn's turkey, with the blue dots for eyes and thick stick legs; the turkey with half of his orange body missing because he didn't quite paint his whole hand and water drops on the paper where his paint brush splattered.  Finn's turkey is perfect.

This smudgy, multi-colored turkey that he created all by himself will always remind me of that fall when I blinked and realized that my baby had turned into a boy.

Overheard & Said

• "Mom, I'm just a little tired and crabby."
• "Sharing makes me crabby and it makes me want to walk away."
• F: "Mama, I need to go to school." | M: "What do you need to learn?" | F: "I need to learn to share."
• "Mom!  My imagination is falling down!"
• "Toothpaste is not a snack."
• "Do NOT wipe your nose in books!"

• "Mom, I'm just a little tired and crabby."
• "Sharing makes me crabby and it makes me want to walk away."
• F: "Mama, I need to go to school." | M: "What do you need to learn?" | F: "I need to learn to share."
• "Mom!  My imagination is falling down!"
• "Toothpaste is not a snack."
• "Do NOT wipe your nose in books!"

Patience: not a virtue in my house.

Yesterday we cleaned up the back yard, put away all of the summer stuff (sandbox toys, lawn chairs, bikes and wagons), the lawn mower and the snow blower traded places, and Uriah pulled down his ice fishing stuff (priorities, people).  Our snow shovels took up a forward position by the back door.  The wind chimes came down, I cleaned out one last garden for the season and the gutters were checked for excess junk.  The dark clouds moved in and the wind picked up.  A little bit of rain fell.  And Finn proceeded to ask every four minutes - all day long - when the snow was going to start.

It didn't really snow at all up here and Finn woke up in a bear of a mood because of it.  So while he moped around the house this morning, alternately looking outside and sighing heavily, and making a construction site all over my piano, I spent this morning doing the most mundane things known to man: finishing up the laundry, cleaning the fish tank and washing some windows.  And trying not to be frustrated every time I had to answer that the snow would come when it was good and ready.

For about twenty solid seconds, the snow came down in teeny tiny flakes during lunch and Finn pressed his sticky, jelly face right up against my freshly cleaned window and screamed with excitement and asked where his snow suit was.

And then the snow stopped.

He looked at me with his little brow furrowed and said through his teeth (his new way to talk when he's frustrated):  "That was not enough to fill up my back yard!"





This was 6 months ago. I'm okay with waiting a little bit longer for snow to fill up my backyard.

Yesterday we cleaned up the back yard, put away all of the summer stuff (sandbox toys, lawn chairs, bikes and wagons), the lawn mower and the snow blower traded places, and Uriah pulled down his ice fishing stuff (priorities, people).  Our snow shovels took up a forward position by the back door.  The wind chimes came down, I cleaned out one last garden for the season and the gutters were checked for excess junk.  The dark clouds moved in and the wind picked up.  A little bit of rain fell.  And Finn proceeded to ask every four minutes - all day long - when the snow was going to start.

It didn't really snow at all up here and Finn woke up in a bear of a mood because of it.  So while he moped around the house this morning, alternately looking outside and sighing heavily, and making a construction site all over my piano, I spent this morning doing the most mundane things known to man: finishing up the laundry, cleaning the fish tank and washing some windows.  And trying not to be frustrated every time I had to answer that the snow would come when it was good and ready.

For about twenty solid seconds, the snow came down in teeny tiny flakes during lunch and Finn pressed his sticky, jelly face right up against my freshly cleaned window and screamed with excitement and asked where his snow suit was.

And then the snow stopped.

He looked at me with his little brow furrowed and said through his teeth (his new way to talk when he's frustrated):  "That was not enough to fill up my back yard!"





This was 6 months ago. I'm okay with waiting a little bit longer for snow to fill up my backyard.

Do Not Feed the Zoo Animals.

Some days are just like this: full of saggy red undies and jumping and eating chocolate chips out of the bag even after you've been told three times to stay out of the kitchen. They consist of not using listening ears and maybe peeing on the floor and insisting that he doesn't like what's for dinner because it's too spicy, which is code for: I just don't want to eat that.  And then there are the days that include bedtime at 7:15 - willingly and without fuss because we all knows it's been one of those days and we're both ready for it to be finished.

We will try again tomorrow for more patience.  Kinder voices.  And maybe a few more articles of clothing.

Some days are just like this: full of saggy red undies and jumping and eating chocolate chips out of the bag even after you've been told three times to stay out of the kitchen. They consist of not using listening ears and maybe peeing on the floor and insisting that he doesn't like what's for dinner because it's too spicy, which is code for: I just don't want to eat that.  And then there are the days that include bedtime at 7:15 - willingly and without fuss because we all knows it's been one of those days and we're both ready for it to be finished.

We will try again tomorrow for more patience.  Kinder voices.  And maybe a few more articles of clothing.

The Artist's Cottage

When we moved into our house last year, there was an extra room attached to the garage.  A simple room with windows and electricity and heat.  You can safely bet that Abby begged for weeks to be able to use it as her bedroom.  You'd win the jackpot if you also bet that we firmly denied that request each and every time (Because, really?  A teenager in a room that is not connected to the main house?  No good can come of that).

   

I don't know if it was pitched to us as an extra cottage, or if we later found out that the previous owners were artists, but we took to calling it the Artist's Cottage and that is how we still refer to it today.  For the first few months the Artist's Cottage housed all of our moving detritus - the stuff we couldn't find an immediate home for.  Then winter blew in and it suddenly became a catch-all for our summer stuff - bikes and stroller and wagon and sandbox toys all found their winter respite in the Artist's Cottage.

We spent the winter dreaming big dreams for the space - my favorite being an extra guest bedroom. But that would require a little more work that we have time for during Uriah's busy season, so it continued to sit through the spring as extra storage space.  Finally early in the summer I gutted most of it.  I threw away a ton of junk, swept up a sandbox of dirt and rocks and dust.  I found homes for the items that needed to get out of there and organized the items that remained.

And suddenly it turned into an Artist's Cottage again.  We brought out all of the crayons, markers, craft stuff. The paints and the paint brushes, paper, coloring books and scissors, even the sewing machine all found their happy homes on the shelves of the cottage.  I strung up some string with clothes pins to dry pictures and I brought a bin of Uriah's old toys out for Finn to play with; I set up a very big table in the middle and stuck some of our folding chairs around it - giving space for imaginations and crafty ideas.

And over the course of the summer, Finn would ask me to open up the cottage for him and he'd play planes, or play-dough or color pictures.  Abby and her friends would visit in there and they even did a couple of paint craft projects.  We used it and we loved it.  But somehow, when I walked in there earlier this week, the play-dough had melted all over the table, the pieces of paper craft projects were scattered over the floor. The blow-up pool had found a temporary home in there, along with our charcoal, bird food, and a bag of quick-set cement.

In other words: the Artist's Cottage was more like an Artist's Junk Pit.  So I swept and organized.  I threw things away and stored things in the garage.  I scrubbed all the grody, melty play-dough off of the table and cleaned up the shelves. 

And although organizing that room was very, very low on my list of tasks to tackle this week, once again we can use the cottage for it's intended purpose: art and imagination.  

When we moved into our house last year, there was an extra room attached to the garage.  A simple room with windows and electricity and heat.  You can safely bet that Abby begged for weeks to be able to use it as her bedroom.  You'd win the jackpot if you also bet that we firmly denied that request each and every time (Because, really?  A teenager in a room that is not connected to the main house?  No good can come of that).

   

I don't know if it was pitched to us as an extra cottage, or if we later found out that the previous owners were artists, but we took to calling it the Artist's Cottage and that is how we still refer to it today.  For the first few months the Artist's Cottage housed all of our moving detritus - the stuff we couldn't find an immediate home for.  Then winter blew in and it suddenly became a catch-all for our summer stuff - bikes and stroller and wagon and sandbox toys all found their winter respite in the Artist's Cottage.

We spent the winter dreaming big dreams for the space - my favorite being an extra guest bedroom. But that would require a little more work that we have time for during Uriah's busy season, so it continued to sit through the spring as extra storage space.  Finally early in the summer I gutted most of it.  I threw away a ton of junk, swept up a sandbox of dirt and rocks and dust.  I found homes for the items that needed to get out of there and organized the items that remained.

And suddenly it turned into an Artist's Cottage again.  We brought out all of the crayons, markers, craft stuff. The paints and the paint brushes, paper, coloring books and scissors, even the sewing machine all found their happy homes on the shelves of the cottage.  I strung up some string with clothes pins to dry pictures and I brought a bin of Uriah's old toys out for Finn to play with; I set up a very big table in the middle and stuck some of our folding chairs around it - giving space for imaginations and crafty ideas.

And over the course of the summer, Finn would ask me to open up the cottage for him and he'd play planes, or play-dough or color pictures.  Abby and her friends would visit in there and they even did a couple of paint craft projects.  We used it and we loved it.  But somehow, when I walked in there earlier this week, the play-dough had melted all over the table, the pieces of paper craft projects were scattered over the floor. The blow-up pool had found a temporary home in there, along with our charcoal, bird food, and a bag of quick-set cement.

In other words: the Artist's Cottage was more like an Artist's Junk Pit.  So I swept and organized.  I threw things away and stored things in the garage.  I scrubbed all the grody, melty play-dough off of the table and cleaned up the shelves. 

And although organizing that room was very, very low on my list of tasks to tackle this week, once again we can use the cottage for it's intended purpose: art and imagination.  

Hello...hello...hhhheeelllloooo!

August was a brutal month of travelling for us.  We were away from our home more than we were in it - and we left Uriah behind more often than not.  Our one-day-a-week Family Funday that I had great expectations for fell off the map sometime in July and we never fully recovered.  

So here we are, school starts again tomorrow and the summer of great adventure is going to go down in Hefter Family History as the summer of mediocre adventure.  And lots of travel.  And lots of busyness.

We did not get to the Great Minnesota Get Together (aka: The Minnesota State Fair) but we did make an appearance at the Great Lake County Get Together (aka: The Lake County Fair).  We sampled the offerings of the beer garden, saw some chickens, let a baby cow lick our fingers, rode some kiddie rides and had mini-donuts.  

Abby lost her crap on the ride that drops you super fast.  We could hear her screaming the whole way down.  She begged to be able to meet her friends the following day - without parents - at the fair.  I guess this is what growing up means - more friend time, less family time.  We sent her off for the day with some money and the request to make good choices.  I guess that's all you can do. 

We took another mini-vacation to Leech Lake.  Uriah, of course, worked.  But we managed to get in a little family time on the "hontoon," as Finn calls it.  Lots of fishing - no catching.  Finn also learned to jump into the pool and even let me dunk his whole head under a couple of times...and by "let," I mean I just dunked him under a couple of times when I caught him.  He learned to hold his breath!  For as fearless as that boy is of the water, he needs to learn some basic swimming lessons soon!

Abby is awesome at being surly and 13.  She brought a friend along on our Leech Lake vacation and then promptly slept on the pontoon/fishing excursion.  Her friend, on the other hand, fished with Finn and Uriah.  My mom's advice is always to stick my tongue to the roof of my mouth; you can't say anything when you're busy keeping your tongue stuck up there and it avoids a lot of needless arguments.  I am getting awesome it and I remind myself daily that at some point she will grow out of this phase.  Please let me be delusional in thinking that it won't take her going to college for her to become human.  Teenagers...they think they know it all!

We had a bachelorette party for Sarah last weekend in southern Minnesota.  That area of Minnesota is so beautiful.  I should know, my pal Becca and I got lost walking on the bike trail for about 4 hours.  It's clear I learned nothing from my years as a Girl Scout.  No map.  No compass.  No idea where we were going.  We are poster-children for what not to do in the great outdoors.  Luckily we made our 10+ mile walk back to Sarah and she was only slightly annoyed that we left her sleeping in the tent.  Without a note. And with the car keys in my pocket.

School starts tomorrow for Abby.  I am very much looking forward to getting back into our routine and having some structure for our days.  Finn is still too young for pre-school, and, let's face it, I'm not ready for him to go even if he was old enough, but he was insistent that he get a back pack when we went back to school shopping last week.  He can wear it to the library, I guess.

Wedding week is upon us and then Uriah's parents are visiting and then it's our anniversary and my birthday.  And then, you know...it's Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas.  So, I'm really looking forward to January when the snows keep us home-bound for more than a few days at a time!

August was a brutal month of travelling for us.  We were away from our home more than we were in it - and we left Uriah behind more often than not.  Our one-day-a-week Family Funday that I had great expectations for fell off the map sometime in July and we never fully recovered.  

So here we are, school starts again tomorrow and the summer of great adventure is going to go down in Hefter Family History as the summer of mediocre adventure.  And lots of travel.  And lots of busyness.

We did not get to the Great Minnesota Get Together (aka: The Minnesota State Fair) but we did make an appearance at the Great Lake County Get Together (aka: The Lake County Fair).  We sampled the offerings of the beer garden, saw some chickens, let a baby cow lick our fingers, rode some kiddie rides and had mini-donuts.  

Abby lost her crap on the ride that drops you super fast.  We could hear her screaming the whole way down.  She begged to be able to meet her friends the following day - without parents - at the fair.  I guess this is what growing up means - more friend time, less family time.  We sent her off for the day with some money and the request to make good choices.  I guess that's all you can do. 

We took another mini-vacation to Leech Lake.  Uriah, of course, worked.  But we managed to get in a little family time on the "hontoon," as Finn calls it.  Lots of fishing - no catching.  Finn also learned to jump into the pool and even let me dunk his whole head under a couple of times...and by "let," I mean I just dunked him under a couple of times when I caught him.  He learned to hold his breath!  For as fearless as that boy is of the water, he needs to learn some basic swimming lessons soon!

Abby is awesome at being surly and 13.  She brought a friend along on our Leech Lake vacation and then promptly slept on the pontoon/fishing excursion.  Her friend, on the other hand, fished with Finn and Uriah.  My mom's advice is always to stick my tongue to the roof of my mouth; you can't say anything when you're busy keeping your tongue stuck up there and it avoids a lot of needless arguments.  I am getting awesome it and I remind myself daily that at some point she will grow out of this phase.  Please let me be delusional in thinking that it won't take her going to college for her to become human.  Teenagers...they think they know it all!

We had a bachelorette party for Sarah last weekend in southern Minnesota.  That area of Minnesota is so beautiful.  I should know, my pal Becca and I got lost walking on the bike trail for about 4 hours.  It's clear I learned nothing from my years as a Girl Scout.  No map.  No compass.  No idea where we were going.  We are poster-children for what not to do in the great outdoors.  Luckily we made our 10+ mile walk back to Sarah and she was only slightly annoyed that we left her sleeping in the tent.  Without a note. And with the car keys in my pocket.

School starts tomorrow for Abby.  I am very much looking forward to getting back into our routine and having some structure for our days.  Finn is still too young for pre-school, and, let's face it, I'm not ready for him to go even if he was old enough, but he was insistent that he get a back pack when we went back to school shopping last week.  He can wear it to the library, I guess.

Wedding week is upon us and then Uriah's parents are visiting and then it's our anniversary and my birthday.  And then, you know...it's Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas.  So, I'm really looking forward to January when the snows keep us home-bound for more than a few days at a time!

3 Years Old | {Birthday Interview}

Favorite Color:  Blue

Favorite Book:  Dinosaurs

Favorite Animal: Elephant

Favorite Food:  Peanut Butter & Jelly

Favorite Fruit:  Honeydew

Favorite Song: A Peanut Sat on a Railroad Track

Favorite Toy: Cars & Pick-ups

Favorite Show: Dinosaur Train 

Favorite thing to do with Dad: Play cars & trains

Favorite thing to do with Mom: Go to the railroad

He speaks in long sentences.  He knows Dinosaurs are extinct and he can identify and name a few.  He says "please" and "thank you," usually without being reminded.  He's polite and generous; he loves to give hugs and kisses.  He likes to boss his sister around.  He's almost mastered the potty.  He likes to play mechanic shop with his tricycles (which he pronounces "trike-a-cyle.").  He reminds me often that he "belongs to his dad."  He likes to go to the park and to the library and to the grocery store.  When I take my walk, he likes to get out of the stroller and run ahead of me.  He loves the water - bath, shower, lake, pool.  He asks for "healing kisses" and "healing lotion" when he gets a bump.  He loves books.  He likes to dance and he can quote parts of the movie Madagascar, which is wildly amusing.  When he plays, he's started changing his voice for different characters (if two cars are talking to each other, they have different voices.).  He's always asking what kind of cars we see (Ford, Chevy, Honda...) and he wants to know what every semi-truck is hauling and where they're going.  He loves to be outside.  His chore is to take the compost out to the bin, which he does happily and carefully; he also likes to help with the dishes.  If Abby has a chore to do, Finn wants to do it, too.  He doesn't like loud noises and if something is scary to him, he immediately covers his ears.  He loves to play play-dough and has recently discovered superheros (mostly Iron Man) and Uriah's old Transformers.  He tells me I'm pretty and he loves to help me cook in the kitchen.  

I have mixed emotions about this birthday.  Time is going so much quicker that I ever anticipated, and I knew it was going to go fast.  But this fast?  I count my blessings every day that we are together - me and this boy who made me a mom.  I am happiest when he is close by.  I love his independence.  I look forward to this next year of learning and growing and changing.

Happy 3rd Birthday to my Sweet Darling Lovey.

You are my sunshine.

Finn's Second Birthday here | Finn's First Birthday here | Finn's First Birthday Party here and here | Things I learned about pregnancy here and being a new mom here.

Favorite Color:  Blue

Favorite Book:  Dinosaurs

Favorite Animal: Elephant

Favorite Food:  Peanut Butter & Jelly

Favorite Fruit:  Honeydew

Favorite Song: A Peanut Sat on a Railroad Track

Favorite Toy: Cars & Pick-ups

Favorite Show: Dinosaur Train 

Favorite thing to do with Dad: Play cars & trains

Favorite thing to do with Mom: Go to the railroad

He speaks in long sentences.  He knows Dinosaurs are extinct and he can identify and name a few.  He says "please" and "thank you," usually without being reminded.  He's polite and generous; he loves to give hugs and kisses.  He likes to boss his sister around.  He's almost mastered the potty.  He likes to play mechanic shop with his tricycles (which he pronounces "trike-a-cyle.").  He reminds me often that he "belongs to his dad."  He likes to go to the park and to the library and to the grocery store.  When I take my walk, he likes to get out of the stroller and run ahead of me.  He loves the water - bath, shower, lake, pool.  He asks for "healing kisses" and "healing lotion" when he gets a bump.  He loves books.  He likes to dance and he can quote parts of the movie Madagascar, which is wildly amusing.  When he plays, he's started changing his voice for different characters (if two cars are talking to each other, they have different voices.).  He's always asking what kind of cars we see (Ford, Chevy, Honda...) and he wants to know what every semi-truck is hauling and where they're going.  He loves to be outside.  His chore is to take the compost out to the bin, which he does happily and carefully; he also likes to help with the dishes.  If Abby has a chore to do, Finn wants to do it, too.  He doesn't like loud noises and if something is scary to him, he immediately covers his ears.  He loves to play play-dough and has recently discovered superheros (mostly Iron Man) and Uriah's old Transformers.  He tells me I'm pretty and he loves to help me cook in the kitchen.  

I have mixed emotions about this birthday.  Time is going so much quicker that I ever anticipated, and I knew it was going to go fast.  But this fast?  I count my blessings every day that we are together - me and this boy who made me a mom.  I am happiest when he is close by.  I love his independence.  I look forward to this next year of learning and growing and changing.

Happy 3rd Birthday to my Sweet Darling Lovey.

You are my sunshine.

Finn's Second Birthday here | Finn's First Birthday here | Finn's First Birthday Party here and here | Things I learned about pregnancy here and being a new mom here.

Mama says there'll be days like these...

I had one of those days yesterday.  You know the kind that you sort of want to forget, but really all you can do is laugh because, after all, isn't this life?  And someday, won't I want to remember the day Finn went streaking 3 times?

I got my early morning workout in.  I met my lovely friend for a walk and chat before the heat of the day made exercise impossible.  I gardened and gardened and gardened, pulling overgrown plants that I'd wanted to remove for weeks now, tending all the little radish and cucumber and squash shoots, feeling relatively proud of my little peas that are starting to make their presence known.  Weeding and watering, weeding and watering.  My hands and legs and feet were a crusty, muddy mess, my back was sunburned and my hair had a tree's worth of sticks tangled up in it.  I may have gotten a little absorbed in my task.

Finn, however, felt that being naked was more his style yesterday.  I glanced up from digging a huge cluster of overgrown something out of the garden, only to see little pink buns race past me.  Luckily our back yard is pretty well shielded from the street, but I dropped my shovel quickly and chased down my little exhibitionist. I explained that we need to keep clothes on when we are outside, re-dressed him, and went back about my business.  I was huffing and puffing and trying to get my shovel all the way under the root cluster (because I do not want these things back!) and I looked up to find Finn - naked again - in the bird bath (it's actually an in-ground water fountain, but we call it a bird bath.  It's not very big, so really, he was only wet up to his knees from splashing, but he had his little naked buns sitting on a nice warm rock).  I plucked him from the water, reminded him again that we need to have clothes on when we're outside, and sent him on his way to make a construction site in the sandbox.

I went back to my digging and sweating and cursing the blasted root systems that are found in nature, when it occurred to me that I couldn't hear construction site "noises."  In fact, I didn't hear anything.  I walked around the side of the house - no Finn in the sandbox.  I walked all the way around the house.  No Finn anywhere.  I walked into the house, and the minute I opened the door, I heard a little voice say: "Just go back outside, Mama.  I'm making a snack."

And there he was, standing on his stool at the counter, half a loaf of bread spread out before him, pouring pancake syrup all over it.  Stark naked.

The appliance repair man came to fix the dishwasher - thankfully, Finn was fully clothed at the time and remained so for the duration of his visit.  The dishwasher started up immediately for him, I'm assuming just to screw with me.  I almost had a heart attack, partly because I couldn't believe it had started and partly because I was excited to bypass that bill.  Unfortunately, it stopped almost as quickly as it started, but after an hour of fiddling around and doing appliancey-things, it's now fixed and we are back to the convenience of a dishwasher.

Our baby-sitter showed up about the same time Uriah got home from work and declared that he still needed to take a shower before we could leave.  All of the power went out in Canal Park, where we wanted to have dinner.  We couldn't find a gift at the toy store down there, so we ended up having to trek up the hill to Target.  We thought about having dinner at a neighborhood place that had been recommended to Uriah, but upon being seated and looking at the menu, we both decided we wanted something different so we got up and left (something I have never done before, and honestly felt a little bit bad about doing, but there was nothing on the menu that appealed to me).  We headed back down to Canal Park to see if the power was back on.  It was hit or miss at most restaurants, the wait was long and everyone was crabby, so we headed back up the shore toward home and had dinner at Clearwater Grille.  At about 8:15.  It wasn't bad, but after sitting on the patio for 10 minutes, it started to sprinkle and the wind picked up, so we headed inside to finish our dinner.

I demanded a date-night redux, which we will need to accomplish before our baby-sitter leaves for college in the fall.  If we go on a quick date within 15 minutes of home, we usually leave Abby in charge of Finn.  However, we do hire a baby-sitter for Finn when we head into Duluth for our date, since that puts us a minimum of 30 minutes away from home, longer if we have to head up the hill.  If something were to happen, Abby is obviously not able to drive yet, so we tend to err on the side of caution and leave him with someone who could schlep him to the ER if necessary.  



Blast from the past:
My little one-year-old chubby lump, back when morning and afternoon naps were necessary. | August 2011

I had one of those days yesterday.  You know the kind that you sort of want to forget, but really all you can do is laugh because, after all, isn't this life?  And someday, won't I want to remember the day Finn went streaking 3 times?

I got my early morning workout in.  I met my lovely friend for a walk and chat before the heat of the day made exercise impossible.  I gardened and gardened and gardened, pulling overgrown plants that I'd wanted to remove for weeks now, tending all the little radish and cucumber and squash shoots, feeling relatively proud of my little peas that are starting to make their presence known.  Weeding and watering, weeding and watering.  My hands and legs and feet were a crusty, muddy mess, my back was sunburned and my hair had a tree's worth of sticks tangled up in it.  I may have gotten a little absorbed in my task.

Finn, however, felt that being naked was more his style yesterday.  I glanced up from digging a huge cluster of overgrown something out of the garden, only to see little pink buns race past me.  Luckily our back yard is pretty well shielded from the street, but I dropped my shovel quickly and chased down my little exhibitionist. I explained that we need to keep clothes on when we are outside, re-dressed him, and went back about my business.  I was huffing and puffing and trying to get my shovel all the way under the root cluster (because I do not want these things back!) and I looked up to find Finn - naked again - in the bird bath (it's actually an in-ground water fountain, but we call it a bird bath.  It's not very big, so really, he was only wet up to his knees from splashing, but he had his little naked buns sitting on a nice warm rock).  I plucked him from the water, reminded him again that we need to have clothes on when we're outside, and sent him on his way to make a construction site in the sandbox.

I went back to my digging and sweating and cursing the blasted root systems that are found in nature, when it occurred to me that I couldn't hear construction site "noises."  In fact, I didn't hear anything.  I walked around the side of the house - no Finn in the sandbox.  I walked all the way around the house.  No Finn anywhere.  I walked into the house, and the minute I opened the door, I heard a little voice say: "Just go back outside, Mama.  I'm making a snack."

And there he was, standing on his stool at the counter, half a loaf of bread spread out before him, pouring pancake syrup all over it.  Stark naked.

The appliance repair man came to fix the dishwasher - thankfully, Finn was fully clothed at the time and remained so for the duration of his visit.  The dishwasher started up immediately for him, I'm assuming just to screw with me.  I almost had a heart attack, partly because I couldn't believe it had started and partly because I was excited to bypass that bill.  Unfortunately, it stopped almost as quickly as it started, but after an hour of fiddling around and doing appliancey-things, it's now fixed and we are back to the convenience of a dishwasher.

Our baby-sitter showed up about the same time Uriah got home from work and declared that he still needed to take a shower before we could leave.  All of the power went out in Canal Park, where we wanted to have dinner.  We couldn't find a gift at the toy store down there, so we ended up having to trek up the hill to Target.  We thought about having dinner at a neighborhood place that had been recommended to Uriah, but upon being seated and looking at the menu, we both decided we wanted something different so we got up and left (something I have never done before, and honestly felt a little bit bad about doing, but there was nothing on the menu that appealed to me).  We headed back down to Canal Park to see if the power was back on.  It was hit or miss at most restaurants, the wait was long and everyone was crabby, so we headed back up the shore toward home and had dinner at Clearwater Grille.  At about 8:15.  It wasn't bad, but after sitting on the patio for 10 minutes, it started to sprinkle and the wind picked up, so we headed inside to finish our dinner.

I demanded a date-night redux, which we will need to accomplish before our baby-sitter leaves for college in the fall.  If we go on a quick date within 15 minutes of home, we usually leave Abby in charge of Finn.  However, we do hire a baby-sitter for Finn when we head into Duluth for our date, since that puts us a minimum of 30 minutes away from home, longer if we have to head up the hill.  If something were to happen, Abby is obviously not able to drive yet, so we tend to err on the side of caution and leave him with someone who could schlep him to the ER if necessary.  



Blast from the past:
My little one-year-old chubby lump, back when morning and afternoon naps were necessary. | August 2011

Pop-Up Vacation - you know, from 3 weeks ago.

I am behind...behind in laundry, behind in blogging (which I said I would be more diligent about), behind in my reading (I have 3 books checked out from the library, 2 of which I've started - and a list of books I still want to tackle).  And honestly...I'm not too concerned about any of it.  

We just got back from a week in Kansas City with my sister and trying to fit in visiting all of our extended family down there (I learned that it's kind of impossible, even with a week's worth of time, and I'm trying not to feel too guilty about those we missed.).  We had a bridal shower for my baby sister and spent 4th of July at the pool.  We left behind 91 degree weather for 55 degree fogginess.  And we're making up for 10 long days away from Uriah.

Before we left for the dirty, dirty South we took a pop-up vacation to Leech Lake, which was really a working vacation for Uriah - so not really a vacation for him at all - but it was for the rest of us!  And although it rained one of the 3 days we were there, but we managed to squeeze in some marshmallow roasting, some boating, fishing, and swimming and, of course, a little bit of HGTV (I need my fix when we leave our cable-free home!).

This week we are preparing for Finn's 3rd Birthday!  I can hardly believe 3 years have zoomed by, but I am staying stoic and trying to to cry all day long.  On the plus side, he's almost completely potty trained - still just a pull-up at night because it's hit or miss yet.  Of all of the struggles these past 3 years have brought us, potty training is by far my own personal hell.

So...while I'm planning super-hero themed birthday fun and rainbow pancakes and an Iron Man cake, I also hope to sort through the 1000+ pictures from our week away from home.  I'm tring not to miss morning naps with my sweetie sugar lump nephew and my husband has planned an an honest-to-goodness-hired-a-babysitter-and-everything date (which really means we need to get Finn a birthday present and we don't want him along while we decide).  I need to weed a week's worth of junk out of my gardens, but mostly I need to try not to be a basket case about my baby not being a baby.

I am behind...behind in laundry, behind in blogging (which I said I would be more diligent about), behind in my reading (I have 3 books checked out from the library, 2 of which I've started - and a list of books I still want to tackle).  And honestly...I'm not too concerned about any of it.  

We just got back from a week in Kansas City with my sister and trying to fit in visiting all of our extended family down there (I learned that it's kind of impossible, even with a week's worth of time, and I'm trying not to feel too guilty about those we missed.).  We had a bridal shower for my baby sister and spent 4th of July at the pool.  We left behind 91 degree weather for 55 degree fogginess.  And we're making up for 10 long days away from Uriah.

Before we left for the dirty, dirty South we took a pop-up vacation to Leech Lake, which was really a working vacation for Uriah - so not really a vacation for him at all - but it was for the rest of us!  And although it rained one of the 3 days we were there, but we managed to squeeze in some marshmallow roasting, some boating, fishing, and swimming and, of course, a little bit of HGTV (I need my fix when we leave our cable-free home!).

This week we are preparing for Finn's 3rd Birthday!  I can hardly believe 3 years have zoomed by, but I am staying stoic and trying to to cry all day long.  On the plus side, he's almost completely potty trained - still just a pull-up at night because it's hit or miss yet.  Of all of the struggles these past 3 years have brought us, potty training is by far my own personal hell.

So...while I'm planning super-hero themed birthday fun and rainbow pancakes and an Iron Man cake, I also hope to sort through the 1000+ pictures from our week away from home.  I'm tring not to miss morning naps with my sweetie sugar lump nephew and my husband has planned an an honest-to-goodness-hired-a-babysitter-and-everything date (which really means we need to get Finn a birthday present and we don't want him along while we decide).  I need to weed a week's worth of junk out of my gardens, but mostly I need to try not to be a basket case about my baby not being a baby.

On my mind today: Gardens and rain and furniture.

It is rainy and foggy and a little bit chilly today.  Good for growing grass and flowers, I suppose.  I have already cleaned my kitchen (mostly, anyway.  I still have the floors to do.  I always run out of steam  by the floors and wish I could leave them for a merry house elf to finish.), I've started on the bathroom, stripped the beds and made a pot of chicken noodle soup.  Day, accomplished, I'd say.  But probably not since I still have to finish the bathroom and the kitchen floors and re-make the beds.

Finn has been napping all afternoon.  Literally since right after lunch - and we ate lunch before the noon bells rang because he was starving and losing his wee toddler mind.  Growth spurt, I suppose, but maybe Uriah and I wore him out yesterday with all of our furniture shopping.  We have been trying to find a set of bunk beds, either to split apart and put one in each of the kid's rooms or just leave together in Finn's room.  Furniture shopping is not our forte and we had to take a snack break half-way through.  I may have lost my own mind over the insane number of handicap parking spaces in downtown Duluth - as in: every single meter had a handicap sticker on it.  Turns out, what look like handicap signs are really just notices that handicap parking stickers have a certain amount of time to park at the meter - maybe free of charge? - and everyone else can park there, too?  I don't know, I'm guessing.  All I know is after about 3 circles of two different blocks, I finally made Uriah back up into an empty space, I shoved our quarters into one of the damned meters with the white handicap sticker and we walked another block to the furniture store.  We did not get a parking ticket and I apologized twenty times to Uriah for the harsh words I spoke out of hunger.  All that to say we did not purchase anything yesterday.  6 furniture stores and not one purchase.  But, at least we have an idea of what we might want.  I guess.  Or we just wasted an afternoon watching Finn climb the bunk bed ladders and pretend he was a fireman.

So, while Finn naps his Saturday away, I'm ignoring the kitchen floors that are screaming to be swept, and I'm playing with my garden pictures instead.  I inherited the most beautiful gardens with this house last summer and I'm just trying to keep them alive.  And trying to figure out what's planted in them.  Green is shooting up everywhere, along with some red leafy things and some purples and yellows, and the lilac and hydrangea bushes are budding, and the lily of the valley are going to be everywhere very soon.  I could look at those gardens all day long and constantly find something new bursting up through the soil...as long as I can keep the bunnies and the deer away, that is.

It is rainy and foggy and a little bit chilly today.  Good for growing grass and flowers, I suppose.  I have already cleaned my kitchen (mostly, anyway.  I still have the floors to do.  I always run out of steam  by the floors and wish I could leave them for a merry house elf to finish.), I've started on the bathroom, stripped the beds and made a pot of chicken noodle soup.  Day, accomplished, I'd say.  But probably not since I still have to finish the bathroom and the kitchen floors and re-make the beds.

Finn has been napping all afternoon.  Literally since right after lunch - and we ate lunch before the noon bells rang because he was starving and losing his wee toddler mind.  Growth spurt, I suppose, but maybe Uriah and I wore him out yesterday with all of our furniture shopping.  We have been trying to find a set of bunk beds, either to split apart and put one in each of the kid's rooms or just leave together in Finn's room.  Furniture shopping is not our forte and we had to take a snack break half-way through.  I may have lost my own mind over the insane number of handicap parking spaces in downtown Duluth - as in: every single meter had a handicap sticker on it.  Turns out, what look like handicap signs are really just notices that handicap parking stickers have a certain amount of time to park at the meter - maybe free of charge? - and everyone else can park there, too?  I don't know, I'm guessing.  All I know is after about 3 circles of two different blocks, I finally made Uriah back up into an empty space, I shoved our quarters into one of the damned meters with the white handicap sticker and we walked another block to the furniture store.  We did not get a parking ticket and I apologized twenty times to Uriah for the harsh words I spoke out of hunger.  All that to say we did not purchase anything yesterday.  6 furniture stores and not one purchase.  But, at least we have an idea of what we might want.  I guess.  Or we just wasted an afternoon watching Finn climb the bunk bed ladders and pretend he was a fireman.

So, while Finn naps his Saturday away, I'm ignoring the kitchen floors that are screaming to be swept, and I'm playing with my garden pictures instead.  I inherited the most beautiful gardens with this house last summer and I'm just trying to keep them alive.  And trying to figure out what's planted in them.  Green is shooting up everywhere, along with some red leafy things and some purples and yellows, and the lilac and hydrangea bushes are budding, and the lily of the valley are going to be everywhere very soon.  I could look at those gardens all day long and constantly find something new bursting up through the soil...as long as I can keep the bunnies and the deer away, that is.

The Class of 2017

Once again we come to the end of the year, and this year, more than any other year, I've been a little uncomfortable to see it come to an end.  This is the last day of middle school.  Next year Abby will be part of the high school...a freshman.  Last weekend Abby had to play with the band at the high school graduation and as I dropped her off at the school that evening, all I could think was that in 4 short years we will be dropping off a graduate!  Of high school!

The Class of 2017.

I'm hyperventilating.  It's so close.  And yet so, so far away at the same time.





A look back here and here.

And, because I love to watch the progression of things, here are the last days of school we've had with Abby.  You're welcome.

{2009 | 2010 | 2011* | 2012**}

*2011 - Abby didn't exactly have a "last day of school," because we moved to Iowa before the year officially ended.  Her last day of school in Kansas City was the day of her school play and this is the only picture I have of it.  We moved the next day.  She finished out the school year in Iowa (all 2 weeks of it).
**2012 - I have no idea why I didn't get an official end of the year picture last year.  So instead, let's all enjoy Abby marching in the Middle School Marching Band for the Memorial Day Parade and pretend that was the wrap-up of 7th grade.

Once again we come to the end of the year, and this year, more than any other year, I've been a little uncomfortable to see it come to an end.  This is the last day of middle school.  Next year Abby will be part of the high school...a freshman.  Last weekend Abby had to play with the band at the high school graduation and as I dropped her off at the school that evening, all I could think was that in 4 short years we will be dropping off a graduate!  Of high school!

The Class of 2017.

I'm hyperventilating.  It's so close.  And yet so, so far away at the same time.





A look back here and here.

And, because I love to watch the progression of things, here are the last days of school we've had with Abby.  You're welcome.

{2009 | 2010 | 2011* | 2012**}

*2011 - Abby didn't exactly have a "last day of school," because we moved to Iowa before the year officially ended.  Her last day of school in Kansas City was the day of her school play and this is the only picture I have of it.  We moved the next day.  She finished out the school year in Iowa (all 2 weeks of it).
**2012 - I have no idea why I didn't get an official end of the year picture last year.  So instead, let's all enjoy Abby marching in the Middle School Marching Band for the Memorial Day Parade and pretend that was the wrap-up of 7th grade.

On Mothering a Teenager.

Abby has been aching to get her hair cut for some time.  As in...begging.  And, I'll admit, I put her off a bit because I really do like her hair the way it is.  Was.  The way her hair was.

Last weekend, I caved and told her we would be at the mall on Saturday morning and if she'd like to get her hair cut, she should probably have some pictures to show the stylist.  She was so excited all afternoon Friday, pouring over magazines and trying to decide what she wanted to do with her hair (and there was a lot of hair to deal with).  Her only guidelines were that there would be no coloring of any sort (that will be saved for when she can finance the upkeep on her own.  I am a staunch believer that the color of hair should be done by a professional only - there are too many variables involved.  And also, hair color should be that which is found in nature.  "Our new baby has green hair!" said no one ever.), other than that, I didn't really care what she decided to do with her hair.

I should have know something drastic would ensue when she showed me two relatively "safe" pictures of a medium length shaggy haircut and one super short cut.  The girl has been itching in her own skin for some time and I think she was ready to burst out of her safe cocoon and see what the world has to offer - and what better way to test her wings than with a very, very drastic haircut.  However, for a girl who's always tried to fit in and has never really rocked the boat, the short style was going to be a huge change and I tried to caution her against it, or at least work her way up to it - you know, medium cut first, and then decide if she really wanted to go short.  

But I am just the mom and she is perfectly content to assure me she knows her own mind.

My stomach sank on Saturday morning when I overheard the words, "Mylie Cyrus" and "shaved," but I sat back in my seat and turned up Dinosaur Train for Finn a little bit louder and tried to keep the look of utter shock off my face as the stylist pulled out the clippers and the scissors and went to town.  There comes a point when your little butterfly needs to either fly or fall and this was one of those life lesson moments that I had to sit back and watch unfold.  I'll admit, I would have been happier had I been fortified by another cup of coffee.  Or a martini.  Instead I tried to read a magazine and to keep my eyes from straying over to the locks of beautiful hair littering the floor around the stylist's feet.  

I'll cut to the chase and tell you it was a complete and utter disaster.  I tried to reassure her on the drive home that it just needed to be styled; she just needed to work with it to make it her own.  I tried to impress upon her that it's hair and it will grow back and in the meantime, she just needed to own it, but there were real tears and requests to shave her whole head (such teen drama) and how could she even be seen in school on Monday and why didn't she listen to me (my personal favorite).  Instead, I gave in to her request for a bowl of ice cream and a movie and told her I would see about finding someone to get it fixed on Monday. 

On Monday morning, I set about finding a fix for Abby's hair; I was hopeful I could get her in after school (we live in a small town, options are sort of limited) but the only thing available was early afternoon, right after lunch.  I pulled Abby out of school, which is something I never do, would never consider doing for a haircut, but I had a feeling that the day was going to be pretty tough for her.  When I picked her up in front of the school and told her we were getting her hair fixed, she was so grateful I thought for a minute she might cry.  She didn't say much but admitted to me that the morning had been pretty rough.  

I am so disheartened by humanity when I hear about the things that middle-schoolers do to each other.  I can only raise my small humans to treat each other and everyone else they meet, with kindness and respect and hope that it will leach out from them like the ripples in a pond.  I wish more parents felt that way.

The woman who fixed her hair did an awesome job.  It's equal parts demur and punk-rock, depending on how she styles it.  But, it is still so hard for me to get used to.  Every time I look at her, it's like I'm looking at a stranger.  I know it's still Abby - just a different version of her.  A somewhat older, sassier, more mature version.  Did she learn a lesson?  Yes - and it wasn't that I'm always right, far from it.  The biggest thing we talked about being assertive and standing up for yourself; being your own advocate.  We talked about walking away from the haters (I'll admit, I played the devil's advocate on this one telling her if kids were going to be mean to her, she should just be mean right back,  just to see how she'd respond.  She told me she could never stoop to their level).  We talked about making a decision and owning the consequences, good or bad.  

I got a two page letter from Abby for mother's day this year - full of kind words and respect.  She's growing up.  Right before my eyes, that squeaky-voiced bundle of energy is growing into a smart, talented, considerate young lady.  And I get to watch and, sometimes, participate, in the decisions that will mold her and shape her into the woman she will become.

I am a lucky mama.

Because I respect my small humans, Abby has asked that I not post any before pictures of her hair cut - even though the pictures I took on our Mother's Day hike on Sunday of her and Finn were so, so cute (she wore a hat and, I am telling you, she just looked like a fun, pretty girl).  Instead, I'll share these before, before pictures of both my kids.  I love being their mom.  Best. Job. Ever.

Abby has been aching to get her hair cut for some time.  As in...begging.  And, I'll admit, I put her off a bit because I really do like her hair the way it is.  Was.  The way her hair was.

Last weekend, I caved and told her we would be at the mall on Saturday morning and if she'd like to get her hair cut, she should probably have some pictures to show the stylist.  She was so excited all afternoon Friday, pouring over magazines and trying to decide what she wanted to do with her hair (and there was a lot of hair to deal with).  Her only guidelines were that there would be no coloring of any sort (that will be saved for when she can finance the upkeep on her own.  I am a staunch believer that the color of hair should be done by a professional only - there are too many variables involved.  And also, hair color should be that which is found in nature.  "Our new baby has green hair!" said no one ever.), other than that, I didn't really care what she decided to do with her hair.

I should have know something drastic would ensue when she showed me two relatively "safe" pictures of a medium length shaggy haircut and one super short cut.  The girl has been itching in her own skin for some time and I think she was ready to burst out of her safe cocoon and see what the world has to offer - and what better way to test her wings than with a very, very drastic haircut.  However, for a girl who's always tried to fit in and has never really rocked the boat, the short style was going to be a huge change and I tried to caution her against it, or at least work her way up to it - you know, medium cut first, and then decide if she really wanted to go short.  

But I am just the mom and she is perfectly content to assure me she knows her own mind.

My stomach sank on Saturday morning when I overheard the words, "Mylie Cyrus" and "shaved," but I sat back in my seat and turned up Dinosaur Train for Finn a little bit louder and tried to keep the look of utter shock off my face as the stylist pulled out the clippers and the scissors and went to town.  There comes a point when your little butterfly needs to either fly or fall and this was one of those life lesson moments that I had to sit back and watch unfold.  I'll admit, I would have been happier had I been fortified by another cup of coffee.  Or a martini.  Instead I tried to read a magazine and to keep my eyes from straying over to the locks of beautiful hair littering the floor around the stylist's feet.  

I'll cut to the chase and tell you it was a complete and utter disaster.  I tried to reassure her on the drive home that it just needed to be styled; she just needed to work with it to make it her own.  I tried to impress upon her that it's hair and it will grow back and in the meantime, she just needed to own it, but there were real tears and requests to shave her whole head (such teen drama) and how could she even be seen in school on Monday and why didn't she listen to me (my personal favorite).  Instead, I gave in to her request for a bowl of ice cream and a movie and told her I would see about finding someone to get it fixed on Monday. 

On Monday morning, I set about finding a fix for Abby's hair; I was hopeful I could get her in after school (we live in a small town, options are sort of limited) but the only thing available was early afternoon, right after lunch.  I pulled Abby out of school, which is something I never do, would never consider doing for a haircut, but I had a feeling that the day was going to be pretty tough for her.  When I picked her up in front of the school and told her we were getting her hair fixed, she was so grateful I thought for a minute she might cry.  She didn't say much but admitted to me that the morning had been pretty rough.  

I am so disheartened by humanity when I hear about the things that middle-schoolers do to each other.  I can only raise my small humans to treat each other and everyone else they meet, with kindness and respect and hope that it will leach out from them like the ripples in a pond.  I wish more parents felt that way.

The woman who fixed her hair did an awesome job.  It's equal parts demur and punk-rock, depending on how she styles it.  But, it is still so hard for me to get used to.  Every time I look at her, it's like I'm looking at a stranger.  I know it's still Abby - just a different version of her.  A somewhat older, sassier, more mature version.  Did she learn a lesson?  Yes - and it wasn't that I'm always right, far from it.  The biggest thing we talked about being assertive and standing up for yourself; being your own advocate.  We talked about walking away from the haters (I'll admit, I played the devil's advocate on this one telling her if kids were going to be mean to her, she should just be mean right back,  just to see how she'd respond.  She told me she could never stoop to their level).  We talked about making a decision and owning the consequences, good or bad.  

I got a two page letter from Abby for mother's day this year - full of kind words and respect.  She's growing up.  Right before my eyes, that squeaky-voiced bundle of energy is growing into a smart, talented, considerate young lady.  And I get to watch and, sometimes, participate, in the decisions that will mold her and shape her into the woman she will become.

I am a lucky mama.

Because I respect my small humans, Abby has asked that I not post any before pictures of her hair cut - even though the pictures I took on our Mother's Day hike on Sunday of her and Finn were so, so cute (she wore a hat and, I am telling you, she just looked like a fun, pretty girl).  Instead, I'll share these before, before pictures of both my kids.  I love being their mom.  Best. Job. Ever.

Regarding Husbands.

There was a panel of moms at my Mom's Group last week (okay, it was 2 moms, but we'll call them a panel because they were older, wiser, and more experienced than me).  They took questions, gave advice, shared their stories.  For the most part, I loved what they had to say; they each have raised/are raising successful humans.  They seem to be content with the flurry of activity that surrounds having teens in their houses now and the juggling that goes on with raising multiple people, but they were not so far away from the joys/challenges that come with being fully immersed in the toddler years, either, that they couldn't relate to us.  They looked put together, confident, content in their mom-roles.  They had some really good, insightful things to say about being present and how much easier it was when electronics (phones, computers, iPads) weren't such a time suck for adults and kids.  They made suggestions about ways to be together as a family by doing things that don't require a lot of effort (taking one kid on errands, choosing another to help with a special task during the day).  Simple things to make our kids feel loved and cherished and respected.

But.

And isn't there always a but with me?

But, here's the thing that I did not agree with: that husband-time is not important.

And before I go any further, let me clarify that they were not flaming feminists, slinging their bras around, and shouting that women can do it all and do it better than the men-folk.  They simply said that in the midst of their own hectic child-rearing years, in the swampy trenches of toddler-hood, they didn't really think about making time for their husband; scheduling "couple time" was not a priority. They both agreed that the time just seemed to fit itself into their days, but it wasn't overly thought about or analyzed - and, as such, there wasn't a lot of it.

And I disagree.  Because here's the thing: in a few years, my kids will be out of the house.  And honestly, Uriah and I have never had a house without kids in it.  Yes, Abby was an every-other-weekend kid for a few years, but we still had a kid that we had to think about, plan around, prepare for.  We still had to be responsible and as much as we dreamed, we couldn't just take off on a spur-of-the-moment trip.  So, in a few years, when we fall like a bowling ball into our empty nest, we're going to have to really, really like each other or we are going to struggle being together without having the security of kids to fall back on as fodder for conversation.

I think it is so important for husbands and wives to take time to just be together - to hold hands and make conversations and do things that don't involve the kids.  And it's not that we want to get away from our kids, it's more that we love them enough to want to be with each other forever and that takes time and effort and commitment.  It requires vigilance, lest we fall from the partner roles into the roommate roles.

Marriage, like motherhood, has its dark secrets that people allude to, but don't talk about.  We all know it's hard work.  But really?  It is hard work.  It can get ugly at times.  It is certainly not always fun.  I do not always wake up in the morning, look at my husband and think - "Wow, look at the rainbows emanating from his eyelids!  He should ride to work on a white stallion - or better yet, a unicorn!"  Some mornings I wake up and I think - "I wonder if he will remember to close the dresser drawers after he gets dressed?" and "Will he be home in time for dinner and cover at least half of the bedtime routine?"  Some days I can be selfish and ungrateful and some days he can be tired and crabby and everything we do seems to rub the other the wrong way.

When we get to that point - and it comes in ebbs and flows - I know we need to step back, reassess, and most importantly, reconnect.

What I'm trying to say is that my husband is important   And he's important to me in a way that supersedes his role as a dad.  He's important as my balance in life.  He's there to hold my hand and rub my back and kiss my forehead while I clean up the kitchen.  He's there for me to share the funny things our kids do during the day and he's there to be good cop to my bad cop when the law needs laying.  He's there to listen to my wildest dreams - and then challenge me to attain them, help me reach them, and cheer me on as I accomplish them.  And I would move mountains for him.

He is my partner in this little life we're brewing and he's my best friend.  If I don't take care of that, if I don't nourish that friendship with the utmost care, then all of this will be for naught because someday we won't even know the people we've become.

There was a panel of moms at my Mom's Group last week (okay, it was 2 moms, but we'll call them a panel because they were older, wiser, and more experienced than me).  They took questions, gave advice, shared their stories.  For the most part, I loved what they had to say; they each have raised/are raising successful humans.  They seem to be content with the flurry of activity that surrounds having teens in their houses now and the juggling that goes on with raising multiple people, but they were not so far away from the joys/challenges that come with being fully immersed in the toddler years, either, that they couldn't relate to us.  They looked put together, confident, content in their mom-roles.  They had some really good, insightful things to say about being present and how much easier it was when electronics (phones, computers, iPads) weren't such a time suck for adults and kids.  They made suggestions about ways to be together as a family by doing things that don't require a lot of effort (taking one kid on errands, choosing another to help with a special task during the day).  Simple things to make our kids feel loved and cherished and respected.

But.

And isn't there always a but with me?

But, here's the thing that I did not agree with: that husband-time is not important.

And before I go any further, let me clarify that they were not flaming feminists, slinging their bras around, and shouting that women can do it all and do it better than the men-folk.  They simply said that in the midst of their own hectic child-rearing years, in the swampy trenches of toddler-hood, they didn't really think about making time for their husband; scheduling "couple time" was not a priority. They both agreed that the time just seemed to fit itself into their days, but it wasn't overly thought about or analyzed - and, as such, there wasn't a lot of it.

And I disagree.  Because here's the thing: in a few years, my kids will be out of the house.  And honestly, Uriah and I have never had a house without kids in it.  Yes, Abby was an every-other-weekend kid for a few years, but we still had a kid that we had to think about, plan around, prepare for.  We still had to be responsible and as much as we dreamed, we couldn't just take off on a spur-of-the-moment trip.  So, in a few years, when we fall like a bowling ball into our empty nest, we're going to have to really, really like each other or we are going to struggle being together without having the security of kids to fall back on as fodder for conversation.

I think it is so important for husbands and wives to take time to just be together - to hold hands and make conversations and do things that don't involve the kids.  And it's not that we want to get away from our kids, it's more that we love them enough to want to be with each other forever and that takes time and effort and commitment.  It requires vigilance, lest we fall from the partner roles into the roommate roles.

Marriage, like motherhood, has its dark secrets that people allude to, but don't talk about.  We all know it's hard work.  But really?  It is hard work.  It can get ugly at times.  It is certainly not always fun.  I do not always wake up in the morning, look at my husband and think - "Wow, look at the rainbows emanating from his eyelids!  He should ride to work on a white stallion - or better yet, a unicorn!"  Some mornings I wake up and I think - "I wonder if he will remember to close the dresser drawers after he gets dressed?" and "Will he be home in time for dinner and cover at least half of the bedtime routine?"  Some days I can be selfish and ungrateful and some days he can be tired and crabby and everything we do seems to rub the other the wrong way.

When we get to that point - and it comes in ebbs and flows - I know we need to step back, reassess, and most importantly, reconnect.

What I'm trying to say is that my husband is important   And he's important to me in a way that supersedes his role as a dad.  He's important as my balance in life.  He's there to hold my hand and rub my back and kiss my forehead while I clean up the kitchen.  He's there for me to share the funny things our kids do during the day and he's there to be good cop to my bad cop when the law needs laying.  He's there to listen to my wildest dreams - and then challenge me to attain them, help me reach them, and cheer me on as I accomplish them.  And I would move mountains for him.

He is my partner in this little life we're brewing and he's my best friend.  If I don't take care of that, if I don't nourish that friendship with the utmost care, then all of this will be for naught because someday we won't even know the people we've become.

Home is wherever I'm with you.

We zig-zagged through the city.  Down I-70, circumventing downtown, and we slipped into our old neighborhood.  We drove through the blocks that defined us early on and my eyes darted this way and that, taking in the little memories that each road offered up.

How many times did we drive out of the city on Friday afternoon, childless, only to return on Friday night with a back seat full of exuberant Abby?  Our ears ringing, our little apartment exploding with Polly's and ponies and Barbies.  How many weekends were spent criss-crossing the state for a drop-off or a pick-up.  How many miles we covered, hashing out the details of family court, of our future, confirming and assuring that we were making the right choice.  The only choice.  And how many of those long Missouri miles did we drive in silence, holding hands and wishing.

We neared the road to Abby's school; how nervous she was that first day of fourth grade...how nervous we all were as we jumped feet-first into uniforms and after-school care and PTA.  And all those times that she forgot her backpack in our apartment.  And the time I made her go the entire day without it because I wasn't about to turn around down our one-way street again for her to retrieve it.  Her anger was tangible, but the lesson was learned.  And that school sat quietly across a parking lot from the church where we promised to be with each other forever.  Forever is a long time, but that day they were promises easily given.  Promises we'd give again, although maybe now they wouldn't be as easy, knowing what we do.

Every other Friday evening we'd drop Abby off for Girl Scouts at the Baptist Church a neighborhood away and hope that in the span of two hours she'd come away an empowered girl, while we slipped into a neighborhood watering hole to wait.

If I close my eyes, I can walk down the hall of our apartment.  The huge bedroom that we foolishly thought we could squeeze a baby and all his accouterments into.  Our tiny bathroom, half the size of the outdoor patio that drew us in the first place, with the square smaller-than-a-tub-but-larger-than-a-shower stall.  Our tiny kitchen and the carpeted dining room and Megan coming over a couple of times a week to eat with us, because for a brief and glorious time, we were neighbors.  And Abby starting our tradition of beginning a meal with each of us saying one thing we're thankful for.  We still do that.  And the time we took our dining table apart so that we could put it on our patio and eat al fresco on a humid Missouri evening, with the sounds of Plaza traffic and cicadas serenading us as we ate and our containers full of flowers and herbs and plants nearly blocking anyone on the street from seeing us.

I remember where I was laying on the floor in the front room when Uriah came home with family court news, and then  throwing the paperwork across the living room and wishing there was more space because that small apartment was not big enough to hold my anger.  I remember sitting on our couch on a spring afternoon, after spending the day washing away the winter from our windows; I gave Uriah two dates for a wedding - or the option to back out.  We started planning in the warm sunshine how to make official what we'd known for years: we were meant to be together.  And I remember standing in front of Abby's closet as he proposed to me for real, with a ring that didn't come from a candy machine.  And I demanded he get down on one knee and do it proper.  And I was so happy.

As we drove through Kansas City proper, with every road we turned down and each glimpse of the sky line, a memory shot up and I found myself nostalgic and a little sad.  We won't ever have that life again - city life with one kid who only came every other weekend.  The carefree ability to have cheese and crackers and wine for dinner and then walk down to the Plaza and take our time browsing though Pottery Barn and Barnes & Noble without having to maneuver a stroller or find the nearest bathroom; those days are long gone.  But I like where our life is now.  I like walking, instead, to the library and stopping at the park to take our time climbing the ladders and sliding and swinging.  I like that our skyline is the shore of Lake Superior.

There will always be a piece of my heart that belongs to Kansas City.  It's where our story started; where we got married and had a baby and planted the seeds that would become our life, even if that life has been uprooted and replanted a time or two.  So much of our early life is squished into the corners and streets and buildings, but it is a memory town now.

I will be grateful for all the roads that twisted and turned to get us to this spot.

We zig-zagged through the city.  Down I-70, circumventing downtown, and we slipped into our old neighborhood.  We drove through the blocks that defined us early on and my eyes darted this way and that, taking in the little memories that each road offered up.

How many times did we drive out of the city on Friday afternoon, childless, only to return on Friday night with a back seat full of exuberant Abby?  Our ears ringing, our little apartment exploding with Polly's and ponies and Barbies.  How many weekends were spent criss-crossing the state for a drop-off or a pick-up.  How many miles we covered, hashing out the details of family court, of our future, confirming and assuring that we were making the right choice.  The only choice.  And how many of those long Missouri miles did we drive in silence, holding hands and wishing.

We neared the road to Abby's school; how nervous she was that first day of fourth grade...how nervous we all were as we jumped feet-first into uniforms and after-school care and PTA.  And all those times that she forgot her backpack in our apartment.  And the time I made her go the entire day without it because I wasn't about to turn around down our one-way street again for her to retrieve it.  Her anger was tangible, but the lesson was learned.  And that school sat quietly across a parking lot from the church where we promised to be with each other forever.  Forever is a long time, but that day they were promises easily given.  Promises we'd give again, although maybe now they wouldn't be as easy, knowing what we do.

Every other Friday evening we'd drop Abby off for Girl Scouts at the Baptist Church a neighborhood away and hope that in the span of two hours she'd come away an empowered girl, while we slipped into a neighborhood watering hole to wait.

If I close my eyes, I can walk down the hall of our apartment.  The huge bedroom that we foolishly thought we could squeeze a baby and all his accouterments into.  Our tiny bathroom, half the size of the outdoor patio that drew us in the first place, with the square smaller-than-a-tub-but-larger-than-a-shower stall.  Our tiny kitchen and the carpeted dining room and Megan coming over a couple of times a week to eat with us, because for a brief and glorious time, we were neighbors.  And Abby starting our tradition of beginning a meal with each of us saying one thing we're thankful for.  We still do that.  And the time we took our dining table apart so that we could put it on our patio and eat al fresco on a humid Missouri evening, with the sounds of Plaza traffic and cicadas serenading us as we ate and our containers full of flowers and herbs and plants nearly blocking anyone on the street from seeing us.

I remember where I was laying on the floor in the front room when Uriah came home with family court news, and then  throwing the paperwork across the living room and wishing there was more space because that small apartment was not big enough to hold my anger.  I remember sitting on our couch on a spring afternoon, after spending the day washing away the winter from our windows; I gave Uriah two dates for a wedding - or the option to back out.  We started planning in the warm sunshine how to make official what we'd known for years: we were meant to be together.  And I remember standing in front of Abby's closet as he proposed to me for real, with a ring that didn't come from a candy machine.  And I demanded he get down on one knee and do it proper.  And I was so happy.

As we drove through Kansas City proper, with every road we turned down and each glimpse of the sky line, a memory shot up and I found myself nostalgic and a little sad.  We won't ever have that life again - city life with one kid who only came every other weekend.  The carefree ability to have cheese and crackers and wine for dinner and then walk down to the Plaza and take our time browsing though Pottery Barn and Barnes & Noble without having to maneuver a stroller or find the nearest bathroom; those days are long gone.  But I like where our life is now.  I like walking, instead, to the library and stopping at the park to take our time climbing the ladders and sliding and swinging.  I like that our skyline is the shore of Lake Superior.

There will always be a piece of my heart that belongs to Kansas City.  It's where our story started; where we got married and had a baby and planted the seeds that would become our life, even if that life has been uprooted and replanted a time or two.  So much of our early life is squished into the corners and streets and buildings, but it is a memory town now.

I will be grateful for all the roads that twisted and turned to get us to this spot.

Random act of kindness.

Yesterday morning I heard the back door open - this the opposite of good when you have a 2 year old - so I ran downstairs (which was actually more like hurtling myself down two flights of stairs) to find that Finn had slipped his little feet into his Lightning McQueen slippers and was casually walking the trash out to the garbage can for me.

And on his way back into the house, he told me he'd probably have to shovel the sidewalk.

Yesterday morning I heard the back door open - this the opposite of good when you have a 2 year old - so I ran downstairs (which was actually more like hurtling myself down two flights of stairs) to find that Finn had slipped his little feet into his Lightning McQueen slippers and was casually walking the trash out to the garbage can for me.

And on his way back into the house, he told me he'd probably have to shovel the sidewalk.

Mayday! Mayday!

{ April 2007 }

I am working very, very hard on stepping back and allowing my small humans to grow in their own ways these days, hence the quiet on the blog front.  You have no idea how hard this is for me - truthfully, everyone in this house is experiencing growing pains and I am exhausted by the end of the day.  I am struggling to be open to these outbursts of personality - to try to welcome their burgeoning uniqueness rather than to fight it and to embrace their decision-making abilities even when they are not decisions that I would make or how I would react.

With Abby this has been especially hard because she and I are so similar yet so, so different.  Somehow she got it screwed up in her head that she should have a say in chores/decisions/consequences (read: if she doesn't want to do it, why should she have to?).  She struggles mightily with authority and being told what to do (mostly just my authority and me telling her what to do - we've had zero issues with school, thank God.).  And I struggle not to wash my hands of her poor decision making habits/raging hormones/teen angst and walk away from the whole sordid emotional breakdown that seems to be happening again with more frequency.  I remind myself daily that the mentality of: "Well those are habits she learned before she came to live with us and you can't really teach an old dog new tricks, now can you?" does nothing to help or solve any underlying issues.  Oh, but it is hard.  I wish with much of my being that I could wipe away what it is she thinks a parent-child relationship is and show her that good parents give boundaries, even if the child doesn't like them.  Good parents ask for input, support good behavior and redirect bad behavior.  Good parents ultimately make the big decisions.  Good parents teach their kids that children do not dictate and poor choices have consequences.  Good parents...good parents...good parents.  I do not feel like a good parent.  Truly, she is 13 and the drama that she seems to wrap around herself like a security blanket can usually be whittled down to one or two main things that are bothering her.  The trick is to stay calm enough in the face of her angry words and an even uglier attitude to get to the bottom of what it is that's really bothering her.  And I am learning to say nothing when it's readily apparent that sometimes her outbursts are just about testing parental resolve and pushing the limits.  

Having a conversation with a 13 year old inevitably turns into an argument these days because, you know, she's so grown up and has it all together and really does see the big picture however, logic takes a back-seat to everyone else's parents do this or that or the other, why do you have to be so different?  And her reactions and her thought process are so tunnel-visioned that I can't even point out to her that she is not, in fact, seeing the big picture because she's so focused on what's right in front of her and how everything affects her.  Her...her...her.  It is really incredible how selfish teenagers can be (and trust me, I know it's not just my kid!) but I shudder to think that I spoke to my mom with such a sharp tongue, or rolled my eyes at my dad so hard they might very well be stuck in the back of my head to this day had it not been for them standing their ground firmly.  I suppose the additional 20 years of maturing I have on her makes a difference, too.

I feel as though I'm constantly discussing how the decisions that both Abby and Finn are making are affecting themselves, me, their dad, each other.  But isn't that what parenting is, after all?  A constant classroom in the school of life?  And if so, why do I feel like I'm failing 9 days out of 7?  Do other parents feel this as acutely as I do - or is this another of those ebb and flow parts of life.  I am sure that there will be smooth days to balance these difficult days.  Right?  Smooth days ahead...before her high school graduation?

In the meantime, I guess I will firmly cinch my life vest and look for shore, because these waters are rough and I am getting sea sick.

{ April 2007 }

I am working very, very hard on stepping back and allowing my small humans to grow in their own ways these days, hence the quiet on the blog front.  You have no idea how hard this is for me - truthfully, everyone in this house is experiencing growing pains and I am exhausted by the end of the day.  I am struggling to be open to these outbursts of personality - to try to welcome their burgeoning uniqueness rather than to fight it and to embrace their decision-making abilities even when they are not decisions that I would make or how I would react.

With Abby this has been especially hard because she and I are so similar yet so, so different.  Somehow she got it screwed up in her head that she should have a say in chores/decisions/consequences (read: if she doesn't want to do it, why should she have to?).  She struggles mightily with authority and being told what to do (mostly just my authority and me telling her what to do - we've had zero issues with school, thank God.).  And I struggle not to wash my hands of her poor decision making habits/raging hormones/teen angst and walk away from the whole sordid emotional breakdown that seems to be happening again with more frequency.  I remind myself daily that the mentality of: "Well those are habits she learned before she came to live with us and you can't really teach an old dog new tricks, now can you?" does nothing to help or solve any underlying issues.  Oh, but it is hard.  I wish with much of my being that I could wipe away what it is she thinks a parent-child relationship is and show her that good parents give boundaries, even if the child doesn't like them.  Good parents ask for input, support good behavior and redirect bad behavior.  Good parents ultimately make the big decisions.  Good parents teach their kids that children do not dictate and poor choices have consequences.  Good parents...good parents...good parents.  I do not feel like a good parent.  Truly, she is 13 and the drama that she seems to wrap around herself like a security blanket can usually be whittled down to one or two main things that are bothering her.  The trick is to stay calm enough in the face of her angry words and an even uglier attitude to get to the bottom of what it is that's really bothering her.  And I am learning to say nothing when it's readily apparent that sometimes her outbursts are just about testing parental resolve and pushing the limits.  

Having a conversation with a 13 year old inevitably turns into an argument these days because, you know, she's so grown up and has it all together and really does see the big picture however, logic takes a back-seat to everyone else's parents do this or that or the other, why do you have to be so different?  And her reactions and her thought process are so tunnel-visioned that I can't even point out to her that she is not, in fact, seeing the big picture because she's so focused on what's right in front of her and how everything affects her.  Her...her...her.  It is really incredible how selfish teenagers can be (and trust me, I know it's not just my kid!) but I shudder to think that I spoke to my mom with such a sharp tongue, or rolled my eyes at my dad so hard they might very well be stuck in the back of my head to this day had it not been for them standing their ground firmly.  I suppose the additional 20 years of maturing I have on her makes a difference, too.

I feel as though I'm constantly discussing how the decisions that both Abby and Finn are making are affecting themselves, me, their dad, each other.  But isn't that what parenting is, after all?  A constant classroom in the school of life?  And if so, why do I feel like I'm failing 9 days out of 7?  Do other parents feel this as acutely as I do - or is this another of those ebb and flow parts of life.  I am sure that there will be smooth days to balance these difficult days.  Right?  Smooth days ahead...before her high school graduation?

In the meantime, I guess I will firmly cinch my life vest and look for shore, because these waters are rough and I am getting sea sick.

I'll eat you up...I love you so!