about a girl...

battleship, balls; crafts, cleaning

2012-01-27T18:17:00.000-08:00

the week in pictures...

temptations

2012-01-18T13:07:00.000-08:00

in an effort to feed MYSELF better, i have really been feeding my children worse. oops. perhaps i'm overcompensating for the abundance of nutrient-dense food around here by trying to make the most chemically-dense sweets. i have whipped up brownies from a mix THREE times in one week. okay, four. FOUR TIMES!

inherently, it became a challenge: the first time i made them they came out strangely flat. next time, i added an extra egg (too cakey), then finally, extra butter and a smaller pan. everyone seemed to like that, so the result became the worst: extra butter, twice as thick, chocolate chip studded, and covered in chocolate frosting from a tub. it's as though the worse i made them, the less i would want them.

not true. their chemical, fake, wrong goodness smelled so divine... and it took to summoning up all my strength to not give in. which i didn't. but i pine for brownies. i long for them. i'm not just dreaming-- i'm googling and bookmarking and salivating and all in all just torturing myself.

i need to stop playing with fire. i think from now on the packaged baking belongs to this one:

'cause after four batches with her mama, i think she's got it.

my baby.

2012-01-17T12:46:00.000-08:00

My baby is funny.

Yesterday all he would eat is avocados; today it's garbanzo beans plucked from a curry sauce. And animal tookies. (If you aren't fluent in "baby," that means cookies.) Today is he hates avocados-- he say, "Nucky." Then shivers.

After lunch, he carries the kitty around like a suitcase even as she is squawking for her freedom and trying to bite his hands. Seconds later, they share a cluster of pilfered straws from the drawer I thought was too high for the baby to reach... Then they throw them around and roll in them and laugh high hyena laughs. Well, the baby does, not the kitty. She appears to be hard at work with those straws, and not merely having fun.

My baby is tow toot! (See above. And contrary to what you might be thinking, "baby" is vastly more complex than exchanging the beginning sound of any word to a t.) (No it's not.) I tell him that he's toot all the time.

"Baby!" I yell at him till he looks at me, "You are tow toot!" And then I sink my lips into his fluffy cheeks. Yes, sink. Cheeks extra fluffy = lips can sink.

My baby wants to be outside all the day. ("All the day" is a Boo phrase. Is this post getting too multi-lingual?)

"Baby!" I yell at him till he looks at me, "It's too cold. Want read?"

No, I assume, as he brings me his boots.

This morning, I mustered up the strength to take him on a bike ride. He wore layers of down and fleece and blankets and I pulled his beanie extra low over his ears and neck and away we went. FIVE minutes after leaving the driveway, we were back. The wind was ripping across us, pulling off my hood and making my gloved fingers burn and tingle. They were frozen. As were we. I pulled my baby from the seat and in my hurry scurry his boots fell to the garage floor and he started to cry and I ran him into the house and ripped off all his layers and grabbed a thick down blanket from the basket and wrapped him in it on the couch.

He nestled down. He sucked on his paci. He eased himself into comfort with the absent-minded toddler sounds of content. Then, he looked up at me, and he said:

"Wa reee." Which in "baby" means, of course, that he wanted to read.

(I told you baby!)

I love my baby.

I'm so lucky he's mine.

smooth & crunchy

2012-01-11T12:30:00.000-08:00

These are two of my favorites from the detox. And they are baby approved!

Roasted Garlic and Beet Soup

Makes 4 cups
Serves 4

3 medium beets
2 tablespoons olive oil, plus more for drizzling
6 unpeeled garlic cloves
1 large leek, thinly sliced
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
1 bay leaf
Coarse salt and pepper
2 tablespoons lemon juice

Heat oven to 400 degrees. Drizzle beets with olive oil and roast in parchment-lined foil until tender, about 1 hour. Meanwhile, drizzle garlic cloves with oil and roast in separate foil packet, about 30 minutes. Unwrap beets, let cool, peel, and quarter. Squeeze garlic from skin. Set aside.
Heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in a pot over medium heat. Add leek and cook, stirring, until tender, 6 to 8 minutes. Add beets and garlic, thyme, bay leaf, and 3 cups water. Season with salt and pepper.
Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer, 5 minutes. Discard bay leaf. Let cool slightly, then puree in a blender until smooth. Stir in lemon juice and adjust seasoning to taste.

my bowl post-lunch

Kale Slaw with Red Cabbage and Carrots
- 1 tablespoon olive oil
- 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
- 1 teaspoon apple-cider vinegar
- Coarse salt and pepper
- 3 cups mixed shredded kale and red cabbage
- 1 carrot, peeled and julienned
- 1/4 cup fresh parsley leaves
- 2 tablespoons diced red onion
- 2 tablespoons sunflower seeds
- 2 tablespoons pumpkin seeds
- 2 tablespoons hemp seeds
1. In a small bowl, whisk olive oil, mustard, and apple-cider vinegar. Season with salt and pepper.
2. In another bowl, combine kale, cabbage, carrot, parsley, and red onion with sunflower, pumpkin, and hemp seeds.
3. Season with salt and pepper, drizzle with dressing, and toss to coat.
my kids ate all my seeds, so i added toasty slivered almonds. yuuum.

Detoxing

2012-01-09T12:24:00.000-08:00

I have decided that 2012 will be the year I reintroduce myself to willpower. Meaning, I control my body and not the other way around. I have always been an exerciser and a girl who watches what she eats and goes to church and reads her scriptures and does what she's supposed to sensibly do. To an extent. The minute something gets hard or even appears daunting, I shy away from it and think happy thoughts about bedtime. Or make cookies. Or forage around my baking bin for dark chocolate. Or log onto the internet and buy something online. Usually, sadly, little girl clothes.

I didn't realize my coping mechanisms until I started to notice the pattern of my afternoon. The minute the kids rush in the door from school and pull out their homework, or need me incessantly is the minute I want more than anything to sit down at the computer and stare at the pretty sales.

But I don't want to be her anymore. I want to be more engaged with my family, and less prone to the heaviness in my limbs. I don't think I'm a bad mom-- but sometimes I am a really bad mom. Take my little Boo, for example. Sometimes it is late afternoon before I even think to make eye contact with her and give her an extra long cuddle and kiss her. On the lips. (Don't shy away from that one, now. We kiss on the lips in this family.)

I feel a brightness I haven't had for a while. I think it is a confluence of a lot of things, but baby growing up is one. And I am sad to even write that. I know so many women who talk about really appreciating their last because they knew it was their last. I feel guilt for not appreciating Jooj enough (for one, and also:) four kids has been harder for me than I ever anticipated.

There. I said it.

I think, too, that the sun has something to do with it. It is shining again. Every day a blue sky out my window, and the silken rays that shine through it, and the long shadows of twiggy trees haunting the yellowing grass. There is a bit of snow, and for its beauty I am grateful. But I don't remember a Utah January ever so temperate and neither do I remember ever being so motivated to start something new-- usually I am still baking Christmas goodies and pretending I care enough about my jeans enough to want to start a diet.

But it's not just about a diet. I mean, I care about that, and I don't care. I want to be thinner, naturally, but I don't want to give up my love of baking. Plus, my kids would die with store bought cookies. Which I only know because I have gone on a baking hiatus for the next few weeks (because I'm so busy cooking vegetables for a whole food cleanse that I love and that isn't driving me bonkers with hunger and deprivation) and the kids are begging for chocolate chip cookies that didn't come from the refrigerated section at the store.

Someday, kiddos (because I really want them too), but only because they taste good, and not because I need them to get me through a Monday.

Girl, Interrupted

2012-01-05T21:16:00.000-08:00

My time is our family's most prized commodity, and I sit here at exactly 9:44pm, unshowered still, having just barely finished eating my dinner because so many things came before cleanliness and food today. Or, I should rephrase that: so many things came before MY cleanliness and MY food today. Everyone else was full of grilled cheese and freshly bathed by seven.

I feel run ragged-- I don't sit still at all during my day, but there is no proof of this. The Christmas tree is still brazen in a bay window, the stockings are only stacked somewhere for me to trip over tomorrow, the mantle still gleams like Christmas morning. The family room taunts with the scattered litter of the day: trains and thread and helmets and homework and orange peels and books. I ache to hurry and pick it all up (I am too tired to pick it all up), but I promised myself: I will do this. I will write.

So back to the beginning. My time. Hot commodity.

Part of the day was framed around getting Cub Scout uniforms in working order and so there was no choice... out came the sewing machine. I wish I was a seamstress. I wish i was a budding seamstress. I wish piecing things together didn't frustrate me so. But the time taken on applying the patches was so precious and the reward only mildly satisfying.

There was a day (almost 11 years ago, exactly), as I awaited my first baby and busily sewed her a layette. More than a layette. A wardrobe of dresses with Peter Pan collars and pearl buttons up the back-- dresses ridiculously frivolous for a baby. (Dresses that, once baby made her debut, mostly hung on hooks in her room as decoration.) I remember walking into the fabric store wearing my trusty Osh Kosh B'Gosh overalls, and the side buttons were unbuttoned and stretched wide to accommodate my nine pound baby girth and I purchased yard upon yard of unbabyish fabrics-- sophisticated miniature prints and matelasse for a totally useless coat-- and the woman at the cutting table asked what I was up to, and I replied, "I don't know."

I still don't know. Back then the process of tossing caution to the wind, and an entire afternoon too, and eventually ending up with something fit to adorn (baby or wall) was fun. Now it's just too time consuming.

So there it is. Maybe I just don't like sewing right now because it's simply a luxury of time that I cannot afford.

Or maybe it's all just the interrupting kitty's fault.

resolved.

2012-01-04T21:04:00.000-08:00

happy new years!!

one of my most needed new year's resolutions is to write on my blog more.

two reasons:

first, i am so behind at documenting our family's life and it has me depressed-- like sad in my heart depressed. how much have i forgotten? how much is lost in the dust of the past? how many snippets of words and expressions and moments are gone forever? :(

and second, i think i have forgotten how to write. and not just because i used an emoticon above to express myself. i was supposed to write for segullah today and tried EIGHT times to start something and couldn't. that never happens to me! usually i just have to begin with a word and sentences string themselves together magically. my husband assures me that everyone is allowed a bad day, but i feel certain that i need to write myself through this writer's block that has seemed to plague me (truly) since last winter.

so i will.

stay tuned. because here goes.

35

2011-12-07T10:16:00.001-08:00

today i turned a big 35.

it was a lovely day, full of more attention and treats than i should ever deserve, but for which i am most grateful.

the morning started with a long and solitary workout, then i hurriedly wrote something. (although, admitedly, i may have lost my way somewhere in that essay when the baby was no longer interested in yo gabba gabba on the telly and we were out of cookies to ply him and i took to typing while holding him on my lap and trying to keep his bashing hands from the keyboard. babies are no respecters of birthdays, apparently.)

still, i hit publish, climbed back into my pj's, and while listening to elmo laugh (the baby found sesame street), contemplated lunch. what would it be? something buttery for sure. because hey, when it's your birthday you can do anything you want to.

it was a buttery brie on long, salty crackers.

after our lunch, we-- the baby and me-- put ourselves to bed. him in his crib and me in my eb warmed king size.

and though the rest of the afternoon is fuzzy (just as it should be on a day of mine ripe with napping),

at some point we met up with my in-laws for wood-fired pizza (i love pizza) and balloons (boo loves balloons). the dinner was capped by ice cream cake back at home, and homemade prezzies from the children and a lovely pedestal from my mom and dad. (the clementines are my own addition. i loved the thing so much it had to be put into immediate rotation.)

adventures on the subway

2011-11-02T08:31:00.000-07:00

and adventures in people watching

at segullah.

Every Little Speck

2011-10-17T13:42:00.000-07:00

the distracter with her boat...


and my true love & me in mexico

This morning she wanted desperately to show me a fleck ofglittery confetti, and how, on one side it was silver and on the other side itwas blue. She thought this amazing and fabulous and I dismissed her. Again andagain I dismissed the wonder on the tip of her finger with a simple, “Uh-huh,sweetie, I see.”But I didn’t really see.

The morning was crazy. Monday crazy. And the printerwouldn’t work for an assignment due, and I still needed to dry the cleanuniform shirts that I had neglected to finish on Sunday, and we couldn’tdecided on school lunch or home lunch, and someone felt a sore throat comingone—so they ALL felt a sore throat coming on.

Later, when they were bustled up and zipped up in cleanwhites and navy blues and hurried out the door with ample kisses, I wentthrough the rote of my morning and eventually got to sweeping. The collecteddetritus of our rush revealed my little Boo’s confetti and I smiled at it as itflipped to blue on the first sweep, and swoosh: flipped to silver on thesecond.

I had heard her; I had noticed when she told me. But Ididn’t really stop for her and look and listen and see. I didn’t see how hereyes might have grown wide at her discovery; I didn’t see how gingerly she mayhave cradled the confetti when she found it. I saw her naked limbs, her torsounclad, her panties that needed to be changed, her wild hair, her curiousattempt to wrangle her toes into socks and more than anything at seven in themorning, I just wanted her to hurry.

Why would I ever wish for time to hurry? And how sad to beme, missing her face, missing her expressions, missing the moment.

Aaron and I went to Puerto Vallarta for a getaway just ustwo and it was amazing and what we needed and oh-how-we-are-in-love and allthat jazz, and on the plane ride home he looked at me in all earnestness and Ilooked back and he asked me plainly and plaintive, “Will you just please look at me when we get home?”

That really hurt my heart.

I can’t juggle them all apparently. I just can’t do it.Something/someone somehow is always getting neglected. I don’t want it to bethis way—I want to have the super-ability to see every little aspect of everylittle nuance because I love them all so much. And more than not wanting tomiss anything, I want them to feel that love and feel validated and know thatthey are important to me, and that they matter. Oh how they matter!! If only they could see a cross sectionof my beating heart, then they would know how much is devoted to each and everyone of them.

But I wonder if even then they could see it. Because FINALLYPeaches’ assignment printed out and I intercepted him at lunch with it and withan extra granola bar because I was so distracted this morning by the chaos thatI didn’t double check his self-packed lunch and noticed him arranging only avery large Ziploc of grapes and apples. As I was attempting to explain this tohim, I could see the color rise in his cheeks and the way his gestures weredismissing me and so I whispered, “Are you embarrassed?” And his eyes lockedwith mine and he nodded and I nodded back, complicit, and I hurried out of thecafeteria.

Or how I read and read and read library books to my Boo—or Iplay Old Maid and Memory and Uno and Go Fish and puzzles for hours to theneglect of the laundry—and how still she simpers next to me, willing me awayfrom what I want to do, to play “boat” withher on blankets lying on the floor. “Can you pack me a snack in case I gethungry?” (Too cute.) “Can you help me bring Amylissa?” (The beloved baby doll.)I pause to do these things, and soon the baby will be awake from his nap and Iwill abandon my wants entirely to follow him around the back yard and tote himon my hip when he summons me with a yell.

Will they only remember what I didn’t do? Will they only remember that I sat hereat the computer and not know that I was charting a map of my heart and everyword was about them? Will the memories ring of the sometimes neglect, therequisite embarrassment? Of how I sometimes forgot to look?

I hope not.

I don’t want to be the one who doesn’t see; I don’t wantthem to be ungrateful children. I want us all to notice each other, everylittle bit.

a bike ride with m'jooj.

2011-09-07T11:38:00.000-07:00

i love it.

and so

2011-09-01T12:25:00.000-07:00

so i've been doing a bit of writing for time out for women and was thinking that maybe i needed a new "head shot" (and yes, i am using those quotation marks very, very, very deliberately) to go along with my bio.

so here's what happens: while dinner vegetables roast in the oven and the baby is distracted by the dog, ask the FIVE YEAR OLD to take your picture out back. do NOT go look at yourself in the mirror (just smooth your hair down after you hand boo the camera), do NOT reapply makeup (licking your lips might look like lip gloss), and under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should you take off the dress you wore to the temple almost 12 hours ago (mostly because it's the only flattering thing in your closet after an august of soft-serve).

my little girl told me where to sit and to cross my legs. she paused at the effect, stepping back to survey it all, and then she held up the camera and clicked, pulled the camera down, checked the viewfinder and said, "see? it's cute."

so i see. though my favorite part has to be all the ephemera in the background:

my latest post is about my amazing sister in law sara. click here to read.

first day done.

2011-08-25T09:41:00.000-07:00

i walked them to school and deposited them in their classrooms and only cried the minute my feet crossed the street for the long, lonely walk home.

we are 8 years of first days at this point-- and i've cried for every one.

of course i want them to go to school, of course i want them to be out of the house and be apart from them for 7 hours of the day. but when i turn to go, i can't help but wonder what comes next, the minute i leave, and what will [mainly my boy] be thinking about all day? what will he do?

summer consists of a controlled environment (it is chaos in it's most base form, sure), but it is controlled by me. the children orbit around me, and need me, and look to me for everything. and though maddening almost every single day, it's the shift that's so disconcerting: if they need me for everything at home, how will they do it out there alone?

needless worries, because they do it. and they do it splendidly. and moreover, they thrive.

(it's just that me and the liddles sort of miss them...)

first day eve

2011-08-23T18:43:00.000-07:00

oreos for dinner. why yes, i am embarrassed.

cute hair!

my peaches and i make a batch of fruity pebbles krispie treats for lunch boxes while the beauty starting fifth grade gets a jump on her shower. i am excited for them and giddy at the prospect of finally conquering the laundry full of used beach towels, but i will still miss the older kids buzzing around me-- i know it.

some eyebrow waxing for her insecurities (because i don't believe in making adolescence any more difficult than necessary), a blow dry for her new shorter length and adorable bangs, a round of the other two through the tub (and picking at the fruity krispies all the while) then it's time for back to school blessings and hugs, prayers and kisses.

my heart aches for the anxiety and nerves they feel on the night before, but i trust the process: tomorrow will be fine.

and tomorrow will hopefully be a fresh start. a routine to go by. i have it mapped out in my head-- scriptures over breakfast cereal, walking them to class, wanting to kiss them but holding back, home again, a workout tucked between picking up the entire house (that's been sorely neglected ALL summer and finds itself in dire need), finally unloading pictures and pictures and pictures from my cameras and phone, an elaborate after school snack, a thorough recap, a real dinner-- no snitches of snackies for me-- and slow bedtimes in clean bedrooms, bed with fresh sheets. my body bends toward the thought of a structured day and cleanliness, but just accomplishing one thing may be good enough.

i will go to bed, first. then i will wake up. then we will see...

The Guise of Things

2011-08-19T09:07:00.000-07:00

I haven't had a soft serve cone in years... and then in two days, I had two. Back to back.

The pretense being that they were for Jude, and then, when the drips were too unwieldy and melting down his cone and hot hand, I would lick them with the speed of a darting snake tongue--my motherly duty.

My grandma died a few days ago. There will be no service, her remains will be cremated, her body leaves this life quietly and without the fanfare of memorial. But I think of her; I can't stop thinking of her. We weren't close at all and so I don't feel loss (I don't think), but I feel anxiety at trying to cull up her last few moments on earth with a body-- I don't know why I do this fruitless exercise of imagining, but I do. And here's what escapes me: when her body was found lying among her garden next to the tomatoes, was she happy, was she at peace? Was there release for her? Or fear? Was there dark? Was there light?

We talked once about the afterlife, she and I. I brought my first baby to see her and I was ripe cheeked and ripe with innocence about life-- that idealistic belief that everything was black and white/yes or no/cut and dry. She took long pulls on a cigarette and eased into the back of a chair, her hand around a slender glass of something yeasty and fermenting that sweated condensation along its sides. She seemed content, and had this way that when she said something she liked, she would sort of shimmy her shoulders in the slightest shiver and the corners of her mouth would rise and her eyes would crinkle and she would seem pleased. And this is how she looked when she told me matter of factly that she didn't believe in heaven-- she thought for sure that things went black and it was just over. And I was incredulous and naive that she would be ok with that notion and I told her so and she smiled and moved her shoulders and I looked at a statue of Buddha in the corner and wondered what he believed.

I think that the afterlife is here. I think that my grandma is still here, she just doesn't have a body. I think I feel her and I'm sensing her... but do I sense that because I need her? Or does she need something from me?

Mostly, I am worried about my mom, who takes these things in stride and can say over the telephone, "She was ready to go. She was tired. She was old. I know she's happier now," without the slightest betrayal of inflection in her voice. I try to divine something from these words, but I come back to nothing more simple than the truth that my mommy's mommy has died.

And it hurts. I pray for my mom. I pray for my grandma. I pray for all of us to be comforted, whatever we believe. And that, I think, is my daughterly duty.

a round

2011-06-18T17:50:00.000-07:00

when i see him from across the yard, walking, getting into mischief, his legs thick and like tree-trunks, i can see that he looks like he's age one. but i can't believe that he's age one. it went too fast.

it always goes too fast.

i read him sandra boynton books and his favorite, "the big red barn" by margaret wise brown, on the queen size bed we keep in his room. he took long draws on his night-time ba-ba and we were sharing a pillow and he was so soft: downy hair, lavender cheeks, carters jammies so worn they felt smooth in their own sort of way. i know the stories by heart and so i said the words aloud but let my mind wander to [almost] a year ago and how quickly the time is gone, how sudden the shift of an entire year, then to now. then i would bring my library books in to read from by the subtle bed lamp and he would sleep the drowsy newborn slumber so deeply, as long as he could sense me by him. we spent a good three months that way, eventually graduating to separate rooms, a crib, a bedtime routine. now we read worn cardboard baby books together and i put him down with kisses and three pacifiers (one in the mouth, one for each hand), and i say goodbye till morning.

and miss him as soon as i shut his door.

i miss the almost one year old him; i miss the newborn him.

but...

i'm ok with the time gone. it was a short year and a long year. i was a bad mom and a good mom. i was there and i was preoccupied. i reconcile my feelings about babies in general, my own-- my musings on more, my thoughts on parenting, i'm full of everything tonight. and i don't know what i'm thinking, really. and it's ok.

i love my jude so. he is a sweet spot in my heart. a bit of warm sunshine. he is my funny baby-- all personality and big teeth, and naughty curiosity and "words" that he babbles over my own words. when i try to say something, he wants to say something louder.

i am listening.

what will i hear?

his and hers

2011-05-27T19:51:00.000-07:00

We know each other well: he buys me salted caramels and whole wheat fig bars when at the fancy grocery; I know that when he's grouchy at the kids it's really not the kids, but high time he and I go on a date. We need to reconvene. Remember.

He knows I like it when he scratches my back; I know he likes it when I get the car washed or mop the floor, or make sure dinner is fixed and includes a beefy protein. I feel like I know him better than I know myself-- and I know he feels the same when he diagnoses my crazy just by looking in my eyes or knows the things I should say yes to, the things I need to do for myself, the things I need to let go.

It's bizarre to me that we were kids when we met. I was a teenager. And then suddenly I was married. And then suddenly it's 14 years later and I've almost known Aaron longer than I haven't.

Two nights ago we were attempting to corral a temper tantrum that was threatening to errupt out of our fiery redhead, and Aaron was doing his best intimation of "dad"-- consoling but firm, offering alternatives, distractions, possible punishment/reward-- and I looked at him across the kitchen island and as he caught my eye, I burst out laughing.

He started laughing too. Then said to me, "What?" I shook my head, unable to answer, and he said, "I KNOW. How are we parents to all these children?!"

It's something no one ever really tells you about parenting: that it's a crap-shoot. That although we are trying our darnedest, we are pretty much winging it. That although we are older, we still feel like kids ourselves. We still question things and wonder over things and attempt to sort out how to be our best selves on a daily basis. We are still forming as humans and spirits and grown-ups and man and woman. We are still navigating our own tantrums-- the disappointments that try to dissuade our dogged determination to be positive role models-- and reconciling the things that are not what we thought they would be (and often more spectacular than we could have ever imagined). And we (me) are still trying to figure out how to get out of doing all this dang homework.

How are we responsible for the welfare and well-being of four extra souls? It's so overwhelming and scary that the only possible thing to do is laugh. At each other. With each other. And accept all of it for what it is: muddy bewilderment. But joyous muddy bewilderment for sure.

Last night he fell asleep as I wrote in my journal in the bed. He's always been like that: tired at the appropriate hour. I will be up longer, sleepy but wired, following thoughts down the rabbit hole, reading books that are stacked as high as my nightstand lamp and scattered across the floor at my bedside. They are tossed atop fine-tip sharpies and composition notebooks and bits of paper: reminders for my tomorrow. I look over at him-- the boy that is my husband!-- and the white sheet is drawn tight up against his chin, sand-papery and tan. Across the long lump he forms, his nightstand is dark and sparse: two magazines, the television remote, an extra earplug. He's dreaming; I'm thoughtful. He's so neat; I'm so messy. He will get up and conquer the day, and I will try too. We're so different in so many ways that sometimes I don't know how we got together. But I'm so grateful we did.

banished

2011-05-24T19:48:00.000-07:00

thank you, thank you, sunshine

2011-05-05T19:25:00.000-07:00

we've been outside all day and i think it's just what my soul (and skin, and warmed top of my head-- thank you black hair) needed.

the baby tromped all over the tufted, divot-y grass and my little girl rode her two-wheeler (yay, boo!) and fell so badly attempting the monkey bars that her entire cheek is scraped up.

we gulped in the fresh air and went barefoot. we turned on the stereo speakers in the backyard and caught bugs until just now-- when i ran in to check the time, knowing full well that bedtime has passed. i know this by the slant of light, the way my patience is more pinched. i'm tempted to get itchy and headachey at the thought of undone homework, but we will leave it that way for now and linger more, then sleep. and sleep well.

but before that, there are at least five more songs on the playlist (five more dances to choreograph on the deck?) and a contraption by the big kids to be completed high on the treehouse (tightrope walking? egads-- better run)...

man, oh man, i'm having a serious crush on spring.

Peaceful In My Flimsy Soul

2011-04-07T21:53:00.000-07:00

slumbering on the plane from seattle

This morning my heart cracked right open.

And before I knew it I was sobbing at my dad, nonsensical things that have been building up for the past few months: the things you say without thinking, the things that plague you without you knowing they've been dragging you down, the things inside.

I've had a hard time with my spirituality since my babe got here. It's not his arrival per se, (read: I pretty much blame him and his bless-his-heart-two-naps-a-day schedule that leave me housebound and nappy myself) but that I have been unable to focus on the diligent devotion that my soul requires for spiritual discipleship. I have sauntered across the barren shallows of my ego with a whimsical attitude, highlighted by the silly (read: no good) notion that I'm simply taking a reset, enjoying my baby, letting the minutia of life go-- the minutia of life including (but not be limited to) scriptures and prayer and making it to sacrament meeting. It's become my running undertone to everything, my quirky aside, the funny thing I say when people ask how I am (read: where I have been), but the truth and the heart of the matter is that the joke has really colored so much of my attitude.

I am the type of person who needs to be saying earnest prayers. ALL the time. I'm the type of girl who needs to be at the temple once a week. I am the lady who always sits in the same bench (2nd row, stage right) at sacrament meeting and at least three times a year rushes to the podium to bear her testimony (this does not include my incessant remarks in classes both doctrinal and Relief Society). In other words, I can't take a break; I need to do to feel my testimony. I need to kneel and go and proclaim my truth out loud. To real people. And I need to do it frequently.

The real joke in all of this is on me. I flit off silly anecdotes about my sarcastic inactivity and then immediately feel the truth of something against my heart, and sincerely, I am suddenly chastened and ashamed at my ingratitude. This leads to penitence... which leads to a deliberate attempt to quell with a proclaimed testimony, but the gesture is inadequate because it is too forced, and all together just too late.

I have prayed that this attitude of mine would change. (Sorta.)

I have established being at church in time to take the sacrament as my only Sunday priority (sometimes).

And I've been reading my scriptures with my cute 10-year-old almost every night (when we haven't stayed up too late talking about the dreams and troubles of her pre-adolescent heart).

But, the coming back to myself has been like resurfacing the water from depths below, with weights attached to my waist and the slllllooowww lucidity that I shant pass my air bubbles on the way up lest I get the bends (read: full of fear that I am overwhelmed, that I can't handle it, that I shouldn't do too much, too quickly).

Again, JOKE ON ME. Of course my spirituality is just what I've needed.

It went a little something like this: sputtering nonsense (see above), a skipped heartbeat as I felt a stirring in my chest, and then a blink of recognition at the chant that quickened to life with the stirring, and fell in sync with my thumping heart--less than a poem, less than a stanza, but enough: "You know," it said. "You know. You know. You know."

The remembrance never grew above a whisper. The tickle never bloomed into a flame or rush of feeling. But it told me everything I needed to remember:

God lives

and God is GOOD

and everything everything everything in my life is thanks to that.

love my babe. sigh for those pink cheeks and doble sigh for those eye lashies.

slightly braggy and i don't even care.

2011-03-24T11:59:00.000-07:00

see children here.

cute, cute.

i promise.

This picture has nothing to do with anything... Except to say, At Least They Are Clean, Dagnabit

2011-03-14T21:51:00.000-07:00

Tonight was a four chocolate night.

I don’t know that that means anything more than the fact that I am tired. I gauge my stress level/need to get into bed/frazzled head by how many squares of Lindt Salted Dark I consume.

So there’s that. And the fact that I’m trawling online shops like a crazy person with a nervous tic in my right pointer finger. But not to worry—nothing really sings to me (per se), but I still manage to buy-with-one-click.

I feel overwhelmed and so I do what I think is best for me, for us. (In general I mean, in regards to life; and specifically too I guess: read chocolate). I let Lolly quit piano and swim team. We are officially a “play time after school” family, and I love it.

But somehow I can’t quite shake the guilt associated with it. Lolly is my first. Shouldn’t I be hyperactive about her extra-curriculars? Aren’t I only supposed to get lazy with the subsequent children, when they whine me into submission, when I am apathetic towards lessons and have no fight left in me?

When she was little, we were weekly Gymboree Play and Music members. And she had a “creative movement/yoga/art” class and swim lessons and endless outings to the educational environs that include museum and zoo and library. These days she is required to walk the dog and do her homework. That’s about it.

(And she pretty much loves it.)

But I have the sneaking suspicion I’m supposed to be raising her to be a pop star or opera singer. Or a tennis pro or something. At the very least I should be doing something like that so that she learns how to work. (I learned that from Julie Beck.)

How do you find what your child will love without getting totally annoyed in the process?

In other children news, Peaches’ anxiety is at an all time high. I don’t know what to do shy of just letting him quit school all together. Actual conversation:

“You just don’t want to go to school?”

“No.”

“Ever again?”

“No.”

“Well, you can’t live here forever so I guess you’ll just be a bum on the street…”

Stares at me.

“With no teeth…”

Stares.

“And no place to live.”

Stares. Eyes falter, the corners wilt.

“Just kidding. I will miss you.”

I guess it’s back to that teaching them to work thing. Darn Julie Beck. Darn everyone with any sense about them and wherewithal to see it through. I know the problem is me, I am more grandparent-like than I am motherly. I need to stop it. My to-do lists for the day reek of good intentions that include not only tackling the clutter on my desk but the task of raising responsible, productive, sane members of society. Sadly, neither are checked off.

(Does anyone remember Kevin Henkes? Of the precocious mice fame? Pre-Pinkalicious and Olivia? When Owen wouldn’t get rid of his fuzzy yellow blanket and after trying everything on earth the old neighbor asked the parents, “Haven’t you ever heard of saying no?” And the book goes on to say,

“Owen’s parents hadn’t.”

‘Member that? Hmmmm? SO ME.)

What am I doing??!

So there’s that. That whole ruining my children thing. And then there’s the stupid winter thing: if we could just be done with antibiotics, ear infections, strep, colds, high fevers, coughs and middle of the night pukes (into my hand one night—I’m not kidding, I actually caught some of it), I might feel a little less frazzled. Maybe.

I might not even need chocolate if for that.

Yeah right. I can’t even fake that kind of virtue.

we make

2011-02-28T01:13:00.000-08:00

bread

a zoo for pretend since it's too cold to go to the real one

book reports almost look easy

surprisingly chic choices for a pre-schooler (love the dark opaque tights, chosen by herself, thankyouverymuch. no seriously, thank you very much. one less thing i have to do!)

mama fall in love. on repeat.

teething

2011-02-24T19:37:00.000-08:00

that's all.

because i'm all transparent like that

2011-02-17T21:51:00.000-08:00

i told him in CAPITALS, bolds, italics, with emphasis added: "GET IN HERE AND DO YOUR HOMEWORK!"

and he muttered at me: "i know. i know. i know. i know! YOU WANT TO GO TO BED!"

he's right you know. i do. i always do.

i don't know what happened. low blood sugar? carbon monoxide ingestion? seasonal affective disorder?

life??

i say it like a lament when my day is too hard: i want to move back to our old house, a quaint community on the edges of the city. i say it dramatically to my husband, like the recitation of a sonnet to a dear long lost love. he patiently pats me. then dismissively. then annoyed. but i can't help it. i miss something. something about something.

i miss walking to the charming bookshop for a new lily necklace and a illustrated tome about fairies, just because daddy is out of town and we need something to fill our afternoons-- my oldest my one and only still: a toddler in the stroller, her red saltwater sandals the only thing i can see past the long sunshade. i miss taking her on bike rides, really quick, five laps around liberty park before nap time, promising a trip to the water or the ducks or the swings when she woke up. i miss pulling the wagon to the grocery store for the scant few things we needed, and sitting out on the stoop during summer thunderstorms that pinged against the shingles so loud while she stood on tippy toes and tried to see over the porch wall. i miss so much about back then, and i take it at face value: the hollow cave in my chest that tells me we never should have moved.

i paint the picture all watercolor-pastel of course. there is no room in that "hollow cave" for the "minor" details that read like an official complaint lodged to the state: shoddy roof, replaced plumbing, temperamental swamp cooler, dishwasher on wheels, criminals as neighbors, druggies walking the main road, terrible public schools. i take stock of these things-- all of these things-- at night time, when i'm finally in the bed my boy knows i long for always, and i realize this:

i just miss life back then. simple little life.

i miss feeling on top of my game. i miss how things (motherhood, home-ownership, even my marriage i guess, in a way) were brand new, and the only schedule we had to keep was our schedule: pastries and cocoa at the coffee shop on saturday morning (instead of swim practice), evenings steering ourselves over ruptured sidewalks (instead of homework or swim/piano/voice/basketball) while taking stock of the day, the latest bloom in neighbors' yards. i miss the ease of a house i could conquer in 20 minutes, a yard i could weed and water between dinner and dusk, and then, the sweetness of long, drawn-out story times after my girl was clean and bathed and dewy with lotion and tidy in a night-gown, her hair in drippy coils down her back.

i still do these things of course, with my littles-- but while i do, the tornado rages on around me, underneath me, somewhere downstairs, in a kitchen that will be dirty when i finally get back to it, and stay dirty until our frantic rush of homework, correcting homework, going through backpacks, going through readers is done. just done. not enjoyed.

but i suppose that's my own fault for not enjoying it, for just wanting to go to bed.

i love having four kids. sometimes (i think?) i'm not tired, and i'm fantasizing about a fifth. and i know her name and where we will put her in the house. i see her in the hand-me-downs twice used already, and wonder if her hair will be dark or light, her eyes, her skin. whatif?

i remember back to those days almost 10 years ago, in our little brick bungalow, when the light was all golden and it was perpetual spring-time. i remember having just had a haircut (short) and being at the park. it was new spring but chilly a bit, and my hands flitted from my hair to my jean jacket and back. i couldn't pull my little girl away from the enchantment of new spring, so daddy met us with dinner packed in tins, warm against my legs. i ate and watched her, wearing a pink leotard and a pea green sweater, and she was being silly, twirling with a stick, my every energy focused on her...

and just beyond her too i guess...

and i was seeing the next day, and the next girl, and a million other moments of feeling just like this-- enchanted, loved, warm, full-- a million other feelings just like her, repeated.

if only i could be so lucky, right?

(she fell in the water just then.)

and i reacted two seconds late because i was caught up in how it would be someday.

and then i helped her out, and we all laughed, and i gave her my jacket, and i fed her my rice-- a plump little mouth tucking in a large plastic fork piled with sustenance, nutrition. and we made our way home, and her bath time was extra long that night, and i sort of forgot about my fantasy.

but now i'm at my someday, the hope of more moments and feelings and babies fulfilled. and it's amazing. and... i just need to remember that it can't fit into a 1000 square foot house.

baby/body image

2011-02-11T07:47:00.000-08:00

Sad to say, but true: I feel better about myself when I am a certain size and weight.

I know I shouldn't admit it, and I don't know if it has to do with the regular exercise and extra veggies that I give to my body that make a smaller size possible that make me feel so good. But to me, I can't handle being chubby-- I become obsessed with it: my entire world revolving around that one thought.

I am sick again-- the third time in a month. I miss moving my limbs, the soreness that comes from exertion, my heart hammering at my chest, the salty, evaporated sweat that coats my forehead. I miss just feeling alive, and that buzz that comes from a body that just works the way it is supposed to.

I need to be grateful for health. I need to not take it for granted. I need to remember that my body has made babies (even healthy babies!), and those babies are worth far more than any athletic feat I've accomplished or jeans I've squeezed into.

(Although sadly, those things feel really good too. Especially the small-sized denim thing.)

I am within shouting distance of my pre-pregnancy weight. It's a couple of weeks away if I commit to really good eating. And my lil' seven month old Jooj is wanting to walk. He is standing and balancing like crazy-- and it looks crazy: he's too small for those feats! But it's a miracle, really. I'm grateful for his chubby little body that works and grows and moves with purpose, and knows what to do and when to do it.

I wish I could trust my own to be the same.

After Hawaii, the Laundry

2011-02-09T09:19:00.000-08:00

My "followers" number ever increases thanks to my C. Jane post and I feel a sense of sheepishness that I'm not more of a prolific blogger! I'm sorry, new followers! Oh, how I wish I was-- but something happened to me along the way and I just don't feel it anymore. Or I feel paralyzed by it. Or, I feel like, "Is this really worth blogging about?" When before I never questioned worthiness of the incidents in my life, the funny phrases my kids said, my epiphanies mental, emotional, and related to online shopping. I blogged first and asked questions later.

Anyway, it is a slow morning. The baby naps and the fourth load of bedding is taking a turn in the wash. My Boo cuts out valentines for her class and we are discussing which candy might be appropriate for attaching to them. (She is more concerned about sorting the boy valentines and the girl valentines into specific piles; I'm the one talking candy.) I should be taking the fish out of the freezer to thaw for dinner and putting on a bra and real pants, but a I am unfocused and dreamy.

And I don't know why.

My oldest turns 10 in a few days. I don't know what to get her. She asked a few nights ago if we could rearrange her room as her present. I said yes because she is so unassuming and sweet; I regret it because I hate clutter and messes and reorganizing. But rearrange we will.

Last night she and I watched our latest family movie from our recent trip to Hawaii. We took turns sighing and then she turned to me at the end, her eyes misty, and said, "Why can't we just go back?" I am creating an army of children who love to be unscheduled and free-- and love it when their mother is unscheduled and free to love them back without impatience or tasks or homework, or anything more pressing than collecting bits of coral and making sure we have enough chocolate covered macadamia nuts to see us through snack time.

I miss the sunshine, the palpable, humid warmth. I miss my ever-slight tan. I said to my husband a few nights ago as I washed my face and seemed to wash the bronze skin down with the cleanser: "I think I am losing my tan."

He yelled from the bed, "You are!" And then when Lolly and I started in again with our pleas for a repeat trip to Hawaii he huffed under the covers and held up and crinkled magazine in front of his face with an annoyed/exasperated/leave me alone proclamation:

"You two better start saving your money!!!"

And she and I just lauged at him.

Someday... Someday. But first: Valentines. And a big birthday.

in paradise

2011-02-04T09:32:00.000-08:00

his first oreo...

enjoyed from the 7th floor lanai...

overlooking polo beach...

wailea...

maui...

anywhere but here...

2011-02-02T09:32:00.000-08:00

preferably hawaii.

(it's true: i'm always trying to escape real life...)

a heaven on earth

2011-01-09T10:38:00.000-08:00

And hearken thou to the supplication of thy servant, and of thy people Israel, when they shall pray toward this place: and hear thou in heaven thy dwelling place: and when thou hearest, forgive. (1 Kings 8)

Going Home.

Read about it here.

Because she's just as wise as she is cute

2011-01-05T08:17:00.000-08:00

You can read a story about it at Segullah.

All I Want For Christmas is Him

2010-12-29T13:24:00.000-08:00

On Monday night he smelled like strawberry lip-gloss, and was sticky on his forehead where his sister kissed him goodnight. Sometimes he smells like Burt’s Bee’s fresh from the bath; sometimes he smells of sweet, soured milk, emanating from somewhere on his chubby cheeks. After he finished nursing, he wanted to play and talk to the little birdie embroidered on a vintage cloth that Nanny found while thrifting, that’s thrown over the rocker back and just in his eyesight, above my shoulder. I indulged him because it means he wraps his arms around my neck in pseudo hug while he tries to reach the sewn turquoise floss. He does this, and I kiss him over and over and we hug and he babbles and I sing nonsensical verse and I never ever, ever want to put him down to bed.

I love him so much. And that—that loving him, that loving all of them really—is the implicit feeling in everything I say or write or do. I wonder sometimes if it is redundant or not worth saying; I wonder if there’s anything left of a selfish voice in me, that cries out to that girl I used to be: that girl who teases me from the periphery at times and makes me wonder if I’m living a full life, if I’m truly being my best self.

I wish so many things for myself. I wish I were still a runner. I wish I were writing more often. I wish my partial yoga practice/foray into kickboxing/jaunts on my treadsie hadn’t fallen to the wayside, or that I could keep a clean house and efficient laundry room, and that the crumbs on the hardwoods could be daily conquered by a broom I wielded deftly around the barstools. I wish my legs could still pedal a mountain bike up a trail without feeling wobbly—and that they wouldn’t burn as I carve down the snow that parts beneath me, that piles atop my snowboard.

I wish I were CUTE. Oh gosh, how I wish this and feel silly for wishing it. I wish I could fit into my old clothes and that the way I look didn’t bother me so much—I wish I could let it go, wish I could trust Aaron when he tells me I’m beautiful, a whisper in my ear or a pat on the bum or out loud in front of the kids.

* * *

There is the nagging memory that gets me every time I want too much, and it always makes me certain of my truth: I was 25 and at the doctor’s office awaiting a pregnancy test result that I wanted more than anything to be positive. I needed an MRI on my injured hip and there was no way the doctor could order it if I was pregnant… And that was the only thing that could make the injury worth it for me. If they told me I was pregnant, I could endure limping for six months, and I could happily relinquishing my long runs in slanted, long, autumn light that bent against the foothills and between the changing leaves. Yes, yes. I could handle not being a part of that meditative morning, that me time, that girl I loved, if only…

But I wasn’t.

And what was more difficult for me—what was the larger struggle? Empty womb? Or a leg that refused to carry me properly?

* * *

I tried to start a detox the day after Christmas. Well, the Monday after Christmas because even when I’m eating right I don’t eat well on Sunday because I firmly believe Sunday afternoons were invented for napping and cookies. Still, my detox began early, when I chose a pear and a spoonful (or seven—why rush these things?) of almond butter while I buttered bakery bread cinnamon toast for the kids and felt mighty and noble at my resolve. I ate sweet potatoes and black beans with the baby while I made peanut blossoms and hot cocoa for the kiddies; I ate fish and leafy things while everyone else ate penne. But, as I tend to be with these sorts of things, I lost my resolve when everyone else “needed” hot fudge to top their Blue Bell, specially sent from grandpa, and found myself licking the spatula that stirred in an extra two tablespoons of butter to the sweetened condensed milk and chocolate.

“Welcome back,” Aaron teased, and I, as I tend to be with these sorts of things, was simultaneously pleased and devastated with myself.

* * *

Later that night (too much later), after the baby is down and the hot fudge pot soaks in the sink, we’re second layer deep into the See’s two-pounder, and my kids and I are laughing at the crinkling sound the empty paper wrappers make against greedy fingers. They are up late and we are silly—dragging out toys from the playroom to accompany the Christmas loot, while Daddy teaches them to beat box and they rap about castles, knights and dragons.

(My name is Toothless and I’m a night fury…)

Of course… of course!!!... we wake the baby. And when I go to him, he is out of sorts.

He looks frantic—never awake at 10:30—his limbs swimming in a puffy sea of blue gingham duvet, his eyes wide and confused. I pluck his fleecy body from the crib, I whisper calm against the darkness. He latches on and takes long pulls even as he falls back to sleep. He is sweet and warm and soft, and his body curls around my belly as though it was made to fit against me. I sit there till he is limp and boneless, a puddle in my arms. I trace the perfect curvature of brow to nose. And then I sit there longer.

When I walk him back to bed and lay him down, I brush my lips to his forehead and notice that he’s lost his scent: the strawberry lip-gloss has faded.

* * *

Can I really call my motherhood selfless? All these relished moments are lozenges of pleasure, rolling around on my tongue, a medicinal cure for what really ails me: the ever-long struggle of wondering who I really am. I am happy in this role. I am happy to be here.

(I’m often tired and slogging through, but where else would I rather be??)

I do wonder about the girl I was—sometimes I miss her desperately. But sometimes I also wonder if she was ever really as clever and lovely as I remember. She had a lot of time on her hands to “become,” and yet I can’t help but question if her becoming was paltry and slow-going in comparison to the—though less sought and perhaps less conscious—becoming that happens every day, that happens now, that happens without a name, medal, diploma or certificate, that happens because I am a mother.

I trust that someday the two girls will meet and they will reconcile themselves to the one: the real me I seek, the real me I’m still curious about, the real girl who waits.

Or maybe, who already is.

That’s the part I haven’t figured out yet-- the part that can wait.

snowboarding

2010-12-21T10:00:00.000-08:00

This is the first season I've gotten to snowboard with my two oldest.

And wow. I didn't want to leave. Ever. (Except for when I started thinking about my two babes at home.)

I loved trailing my little peaches down the mountain as he took every jump he could find and led me on an offshoot through the trees. I loved waiting for him when he fell and listening to him sing while he was cruisin' at a good little speed.

I loved seeing "cocoa puffs" (lolly with the puffy brown snow pants) pull a couple 180's and work out her "s" turns. I loved that she wanted to "show." ("Mom, I want to show you.") And that she laughed and laughed at whatever she was doing.

I loved that they both needed three treats with their lunches. That they loved having Aaron and me to themselves, that they try so hard and still want to be with us so much.

Oh my. I'm a lucky lady.

And it was just a really, really good day.

Huuuuuhhhh?

2010-12-15T11:03:00.000-08:00

Being sleep deprived when you have a baby is a lot like being drunk, only not as fun. It's just the impairment without the silliness, the "goggles" without the giggles. And it's how I feel ALL the time. Just out of it, unaware, in a haze that deadens my senses and gives each horizon/picture/view/thing/child in front of me a slow drag-- long exposure on a firefly at midnight type of thing.

I can't think straight. I can't sleep right. I eat too much, don't exercise enough, and can barely make sentences work verbally let alone write them down.

Last night I left my water bottle (or "boddle" were it not for spell-check) filling at the refrigerator filter (of course, I don't remember doing this-- but all evidence points to my culpability: it was my water bottle and I was the only person awake) and did a bunch of things and sat down at my desk and wondered why I could hear water dripping (and slogging down the front of the fridge, and puddled in an ocean bigger than the throw rug beneath it).

A week ago I gave my oldest (a mere almost-10) the talk about getting her period. A little time with Google chastened me with a list of symptoms of UTI (What? the puking may have been cramps) and I sought her out at school to sheepishly confess my ill-timed chat.

Oooops.

(Although that still really makes me laugh. Luckily my girl is a water-off-her-back type of goodie and laughed right along with/AT me.)

And to top it all off, I really need a haircut:

how about dem apples?

2010-11-01T18:58:00.000-07:00

sunday nights find me especially overwhelmed. i feel like a panic-prone child about to start school for the first time... only what i really am is a panic-prone mother dreading the week of school work and poetry festivals and parent teacher conferences, doctors appointments, crap like dat.

since living in a state of perpetual summer vacation is not possible, i pray very hard on the difficult nights. i pray that god will help me find a pocket of quiet in my heart, that he will lead me to the things that will soothe me, that he will help me to know what i need.

sometimes this is found in the downy head of one of my freshly bathed children (it doesn't work when they're dirty. the puppy smell is gross), other times it is found when i allow myself to be sleepy mid-day, and crawl under the quilt on my bed for a few stolen winks. but always, always, always i find solace in music and lately, it's this:

my husband bought the disc a while back, and though not a churchy music type of guy, even he likes this. it feels old school to me, organic, real. i love it. i hear live they are sort of like storytellers (a la the palladium channel) but till i get to hear them like that, my current faves are: jesus, savior, pilot me and we thank thee oh god for a prophet.

(i am l o v i n g that banjo.)

anyhoo, the lower lights were a balm today. i needed them. (you might need them too, if your halloween week was anything like mine and your husband was out of town and you spilled the chili in the car on the way to the trunk or treat while your baby was screaming because it was his bed time and you had troubles being eager and supportive for the creative costume ideas of your children that required more than a single element from any one store...)

i needed decompression and peace. and i found them there. and in these:

these were good too.

The Story About the Baby: Part One

2010-10-26T22:01:00.000-07:00

Four months have come and gone and I've yet to write the story of my sweet babe's birth.

I claim tiredness/forgetfulness/first grade homework/fourth grade book reports for my lack of productivity in any way these days, but the desire to journal June 20th is for my own memory, which already fades.

I feel like I need to start at the beginning-- but this might require miring myself in the hard months that included two shots of heparin a day, and too many emotional break-downs than I can even recount. To say I was crazy is to say it kindly. I was irrational and insane on a good day, and a useless lump that sprang tears unbidden and hiding under my duvet in a puddle of them on bad ones.

Late at night, I remember the beginning like a film strip, at the end, when the frames flicker and turn from cohesive film to separate frame. The movie was my miscarriages. The last one on a bike ride. The bleeding, the contracting, the part where I had my little fetus on the way to a restaurant bathroom. And the saga ends, and the film strip flickers, like this:

knowing I was pregnant before I even had another cycle from my last miscarriage,
light spotting to keep me paranoid, drive me crazy,
a wise-cracking perinatologist,
blood work,
ultrasound,
heart beat,
prescription.
Syringes.

(Then the blinding white, change of filmstrip:)

I am sitting in a nurse's office with a syringe in my hand, willing myself to stab my own belly. I can't do it. I balk. I chatter nervously. I sweat. I want to cry. Suddenly, I steel myself for it and stab down aggressively-- a hacking, gory scene of my own horror movie. I stab, but then hesitate, and the needle goes in s l o wwww...

The next day there was a purple bruise the size of my fist.

"How'd she do?" My perinatologist thought it was funny my name was Brooke Benton and liked to bring me printed out Wiki facts about the original (no e).

"Well," the nurse winked at me, "she didn't even cry."

I didn't cry. That time. But I was not proud at that moment. I was too focused on a burning pock from where the needle went in, and how the shot of heparin moved tissue and vein around and left a hard little knot. Ouch. And when she handed me a sharps container that was so bold and red and boxy and over-sized, I almost laughed. There was no way I'd ever fill that container to the brim. NO WAY.

Instead those first several weeks were burdened by the knowledge that the shots were real, and they were there to stay. Twice a day. My entire pregnancy. It was a burden to know now that they would sometimes hurt. That I would bruise. That sometimes I would bleed. That sometimes I would cry-- not from pain, but from the acceptance of my reality. I desperately wanted my baby, and because I did, and because my blood proved too clotty and protein deficient, this was how it would be.

to be continued...

the day after

2010-10-21T09:00:00.000-07:00

yesterday was my little boy's birthday. and the day after days like that i feel the need to take it slow, put the house back in order, concoct a recipe or two, linger in my cozies, neglect my hair... give myself a day off in other words.

(although the circumstances are oddly reminiscent of every other day and i wonder: is my whole life one big day off?)

it's as though i'm coming down off some sort of high brought about by his anticipation, and my anticipation in hoping he's happy...

(which he was. and so satisfied and hammy by the time we got to cake. but more on that later. i need to journal about it today too.)

...and running around yesterday to find a specific ice cream cake...

(i'm sad he requested an ice cream cake! what about homemade? i'm pretty good at that sort of thing! a talent he doesn't realize as he takes daily cookies and treats for granted!!!)

...and sparkly candle... and balloons... and while waiting for the dozen balloons to be filled, smelling a huge baby blow out and when i went to change it realized i only had a few dried out wet wipes and a SIZE NEWBORN diaper.

(that was a funny sight: chubby newborn dons brazilian-style baby unders!)

anyway, me and my boo and baby are having a lazy slow morning, with satisfactory projects in the works:

a bit of art for the girl

(about to be a nap for grumpers mcgee)

and on my docket?

this. (sans sugar.) and this.

(and laundry. of course. that's what comes of tree house adventures apparently.)

A Secret Place

2010-10-16T17:41:00.000-07:00

The best part of the tree house is that it inspires conspiratorial tones, and I hear whispers and plans made as I leave it, and as I approach…

And when I approach: the whispers falls to hushes and shushes and big grins, and when I yodel my hello and poke my head through the trap door, they are sweet and goofy, the best of friends, eyes shining, tricks up their sleeves.

Fall break is upon us (as are the chilly nights, dewy mornings) but my children were adamant that they sleep in the tree house and “packed” for it as soon as they threw their backpacks on the floor from school, and kissed me all sweaty and alive.

“I need a new backpack,” he’s determined, distracted.

“What?” I say, “Why?”

“I need a new backpack to pack.”

“You have a backpack. And you can use it.”

Sweatshirts, shoes, extra socks, clif bars and homemade trail mix (for midnight snacks), lanterns (for twilight reads), a special lovie or two (for perpetual company). A whirlwind in the rooms above me, they had plans, they had hopes, they were beyond excited.

They zipped on the zip line all evening until it was finally dark enough to make beds, which I did indulgently because I feared them freezing their tiny round buns off, and later I delivered Nutella hot cocoa and graham crackers on a silver try… and a few extra blankets a piece.

They were COLD. But two out of three made it the full night and were proud and boastful when I woke them with more Nutella cocoa on the same silver tray, alongside quick blueberry muffins.

“You are the best mom!” They said it so emphatically, with red noses and cold-lipped kisses. They told me all about the night, about how they barely slept, about how they endured. My mother heart fussed over them, and I shivered in a down jacket and sheepskin slippers, “Well, maybe if we…”

Which is how, now, they are asleep out there again on the second night in the row. We added more layers of fleece, knit caps, and wool blankets over the railings. But our ace in the hole? New Under Armour, purchased for the upcoming snowboarding season, but brought out for this occasion.

Do I do it for them, or for me? I love how it’s their own world up there, how they are content to be them three, how they are brave and independent, fulfilling their goal of adventure, looking out for one another at 3 in the morning without a thought to even call for their parents, who are an open bedroom window away, a 10-4 on the blue walkie-talkie. But I love too that I get to nestle them in at night, so cozy. How I layer and layer the fleece and fuss over them like a mother hen tucking them under downy feather.

“I’m serious, mom,” says my oldest, when only her sweet freckled face was peeking out of her bedded cocoon, “You are the best at making someone cozy. I’m not kidding. The best.” I squeezed her leg, checked on the other two (littlest already asleep, boy practically there too), turned off the lantern and climbed my way down. I crossed the wide lawn, the deck with whimpering pets, and opened the back door into the glowy warmth of the kitchen, 45 minutes after first leaving it. I left certain lights on (dimmed others), climbed the steep stairs and wandered my way down the hall. In bed already I caught sight of my husband’s smile, a glimmer in his eyes as he pulled the covers back for me, offering me openness, room, a place secluded and away. “You cannot resist, can you?’

It’s true. I can’t resist. Can’t resist that extra minute. Can’t resist them.

I fall asleep that night with a smile on my lips, thinking of my kids, lofty in a place where tree branches house them and the leaves whisper their own types of secrets, against each other, against the windy dissonance that is gentle, and cold. I’m thinking of them bundled up, braced for impending shivers, even as their little bodies are warmed by the thrill of independence fulfilled, and possibilities for tomorrow, without the hindrance of parents.

magic: his first laugh. at his own reflection.

2010-10-01T19:41:00.000-07:00

"If one feels the need of something grand, something infinite, something that makes one feel aware of God, one need not go far to find it. I think that I see something deeper, more infinite, more eternal than the ocean in the expression of the eyes of a little baby when it wakes in the morning and coos or

laughs

because it sees the sun shining on its cradle."
Vincent van Gogh

lightness

2010-09-27T20:40:00.000-07:00

they make my heart happy. (especially when they come home from school as the best of friends and play well all afternoon.)

but he just makes me laugh. (except for when he's making me want to tear my hair out.)

still, even when he's being naughty, i find that i'm giggling at his hammy antics, which tonight included eating his fish like a puppy (no fork, straight from the plate), then telling his sister that his quinoa was soooo yummy and forcing her to try it then taking a bite of his own serving and gagging like i'd fed him dirty rocks with rancid butter on top. when this didn't prove the case, he took out his magnifying glass and inspected "the inca food" and made us all laugh at his over-sized bug eyes staring at us in magnification.

for fhe, he introduced the puppet show (a "cinderella/mary had a little lamb/red riding hood" triple feature) by announcing,

"ladies and gentlemen!
please turn off your cell phones!
and your babies!"

and then running shyly to hide under my arm when we all laughed, but silly again in time for the curtain call.

he makes me laugh with how dramatically he reacts to the plot line in his new library book.

he makes me laugh when he comes to chat with me while i'm nursing, distracts the baby (who detaches), and then suddenly finds himself a squealing, squeamish target for squirting breast milk.

he makes me laugh when acting so serious studying for his upcoming history test, or when telling me about his lunch and how he chose a taco, only to find that it was a "Navajo taco" ("With bread, mom!" he yells, looking incredulous). "I tried something new," he says this while looking straight into my eyes, "and I hated it. The Navajo taco stunk." (This one will keep me laughing till lunch time tomorrow.)

till then, i'm laughing mostly about this writing i found in his backpack:

Friday

2010-09-18T19:33:00.000-07:00

By Friday, we’re all frazzled.

And the morning comes at me like a fast pitch I’m not in batting stance for. Or ready to catch. Or whatever.

I woke up to my half naked (from the waist down) six year old telling his little sister, who lounged in her bed, how cute she was as a baby and how much he loved her. ("Soooo much!")

She peeked her head out from her fuzzy blanket and gave a languorous and sleepy thank you. (This was the most idyllic part of the next hour…)

Suddenly!

Get dressed, cereal boxes out, cereal dishes out, yelling from the laundry room looking for clean uniform shorts to wear to school, grabbing socks, giving admonitions for no candy at breakfast, fixing lunches (sandwich fruit treat water, sandwich fruit treat water), brushing hair, bushing teeth, collecting milk, collecting the baby, proper sweaters, shoes on, doorbell rings, kisses, goodbyes and oops I almost forgot my lunch.

Phew.

Walk upstairs and start a load of uniform laundry. Walk downstairs and order almost half a dozen more uniform shorts online. Give into Boo’s request for candy at breakfast (so long as she doesn’t tell her brother)!

Then.

Unload dishwasher. Breakfast dishes. Countertops. Floor. Finally remember to put the milk away. Have to clean out the leftovers to fit the new milk in. Wash more dishes. Countertops again. Nurse baby, change baby, get baby down.

Later, I go for my first mountain bike ride in a year—and though my hips scream at me to stop and my heart hammers against my chest, all I hear is the residual pant that must be coming from my mouth because Aaron is way too far ahead for me to see him. And I’m practically alone and the leaves are just starting to don their autumn coats and the trail is extra sandy, trickier than I remember, the breeze is light, the sun shines…

And just as suddenly, there is calm. And it’s a great morning.

a picnic for dinner

2010-09-17T08:43:00.000-07:00

here's what happened when i asked them to say cheese:

Something For the Ages: Funnest FHE Ever. (Ok, maybe not ever.)

2010-09-14T08:47:00.000-07:00

Yesterday started with a fort.

We built it big for the little two while waiting (me:) for the babe to take his morning nap and (her:) for the hours to tick their time towards the 12:30 hour when preschool begins.

"Is is after lunch time?" she asks me cute all morning. (Suddenly such a big girl who suddenly loooooves school.)

I never could get the baby to nap! After a stellar week in which he not only slept in his crib every night but actually slept one night for 12 hours straight, we're all messed up again. I wonder is he's sickie, but he's all smiles and flirts all day-- and the only one who needs a nap is ME.

The fort stayed up till after school and at 3:30 when the big two came in and downed crispy cookies forgotten in the oven, (he:) did his homework and readers when I promised to play Super Mario with him for a few (Yes, I was schooled by the six year old, thank you very much) and (she:) distractedly lolled at the piano and then ignored my pleas to begin her math, and then... THEY started a fort of their own too.

Theirs is big and takes up almost the entirety of the family room, covering the orange rug, tucked in the cove of the sectional. They blocked me in while I nursed and I had to climb over the chaise to start dinner, only when I did so I gauged the time and thought two things:

1.) I don't have enough time to run my errand, fix dinner and set out a proper family night

and

2.) I don't really want to cook.

So for family night we went out to dinner and on to my errand, which was to take my cute boy Peaches for new denim and whatever else he wanted from Old Navy. (ie: the kids had a shopping spree at Old Navy courtesy of their daddy). All I wanted was a measly pair of jeans for this awkward postpartum apple-shape I have assumed, but no such luck. So I chose Cold Stone instead.

When we got home it was a little later than planned on, and the kids protested their bedtimes because the forts were beckoning and could use a few tweaks, some strategy with flashlights and errant afghans. So we let them.

Aaron got the baby to bed. The baby fussed a bit. I nursed him and [re]got him to bed. The kids whispered and cried and whined and had miniature fashion shows with their goods from the mini-mall. Oh, this was really my kind of family night. Army jackets. New jeans. Good food. A house I don't need to straighten (on promise that the forts will remain till after school tomorrow.) The only problem is that Boo discovered the tops her big sissy was choosing and got a new hoodie that doesn't look babyish at all. I will mourn the loss of her letting me have a say in what she wears, and yet, I find that I am still tired and head up to bed unworried.

It must have something to do with my need for a nap.

I'd better start saving up

2010-09-13T15:40:00.000-07:00

The deluge of catalogs in my mailbox can only mean one thing:

the wish lists begin.

While my middle two are prone to asking for everything under the sun and Boo circles everything in every catalog with red ink, and Peaches likes to chat with me about why he wants certain things and about how much they cost and whether he prefers them for birthday or Christmas, I don't hear much from Lolly. But then, I found this lovingly centered on my desk the other day:

There's something sort of "Red Rider BB Gun" about it all, but because I trust her sweetness and sincerity, I ignore the beginnings of a pit in my stomach conjured up by the eventual holidays and am just going to call it what it is: really, really cute.

A Story With a Picture

2010-09-09T15:39:00.000-07:00

What I thought I feared isn't quite so bad: the six worried over and lamented hours of the elementary school day have proved themselves as the quickest six hours of my day. They fly by. Fly.

In fact, the idea of getting something done is even more appealing to me now than it ever was in the summer because it wasn't an option in the summer. The possibilities of running an errand with only the baby or squeezing in nice long walks along the trail while he naps in his stroller are so alluring I almost can't function in the morning and rather than being super efficient (and washing the breakfast dishes immediately or wiping the counters quickly), I find I'm scattered. And I make a phone call here and check an email there and chat with my husband and let Boo show me the American Girl catalog again and reserve something at the library and then text with my neighbor or play Bookworm or Words With Friends while I try earnestly to get Jude to sleep by himself in his crib for a much needed nap.

And as soon as he falls asleep, I fold laundry/heave myself through a quick workout/eat leftovers for lunch/check ebay for small cake domes and then suddenly:

it's 3 o'clock!

And the stories of the day are upon me, about the politics of the classroom and how much nine year old girls love to braid each others' hair-- and how baffling that is to my own cute nine year old who prefers to keep her hands and hair to herself. Anyway, today I also received a diagram:

(Of Lolly being perfect amidst the chaos that consumed her classroom while the teacher tested a student for reading placement... she insists that she and two other [perfect] girls were the only ones not out of their seats and YET, tomorrow, they all have to stay inside for exactly six minutes of recess. I shall duly note that the representation of flicking rubber bands and headstands and boys threatening their counterparts' hair with scissors is the artists interpretation of the crazy scene and not necessarily fact. But the heart? That's my way of remembering which little perfect girl is mine.)

What 13 Years Looks Like

2010-09-01T20:03:00.000-07:00

On Sunday last my dearest and I celebrated 13 years of marriage.

We gifted ourselves a long afternoon nap that precluded any possibility of a drawn-out celebratory dinnertime, made the children some mac n cheese, put them to bed early and stayed up late unwrapping frozen Reese’s to make our latest cookie discovery: oatmeal peanut butter and Reese’s. So good. Too good. A tummy ache is almost its accompaniment. (Forget milk.)

It was a long quiet evening just the two of us and honestly, at this point, I can’t even remember how it passed. In hushed conversation. In eating cookie dough. In marveling at the fact that it’s just a day, it couldn’t be helped, it couldn’t be made any more romantic than it was—in that we are in love with not just each other, but with our life, with these kids, the crumbs, the mess—lest we had a baby who was older, airline tickets somewhere fabulous.

Whatever the case though, it was not lacking.

On Sunday I went to bed with 13 years of wedded bliss under my belt, in a king sized bed comprised of high thread count and the most expensive quilt we could afford (‘cause we’ve learned a few things along the way: having a large bed being one, splurging on bedding being two), with some See’s Candies consisting of dark chocolate, toffee and nuts, a Boden catalog, and the latest Time magazine.

Bliss.

(That Joel Stein is pretty funny.)

Who is this baby? And other things I'm thinking...

2010-08-30T19:45:00.000-07:00

Today I nursed Jude inside because it was too windy to enjoy the evening outside. But boy could I hear it: the kids screaming on the rope swing, the speaker blaring whatever Pandora whipped up for us when we typed in Wham, the rustle of leaves turning toward autumn, a puppy that barrels heavily against the grain of the deck.

I feel lazy for being a mother that abhors extra-curricular activities for the little ones and selfish that I just want them to myself, all the time. Even if it’s only to listen in on them, and chuckle at their loud antics, then yell at them for doing something naughty.

But when it’s such a lovely night, and a lovely dinner follows, and then an even lovelier, quieter Family Home Evening, then I don’t feel lazy about it at all. I just feel pretty smart for not shooing them away, for not wanting them anywhere but here.

And also, because I get to catch moments like these:

I love him. And it hurts.

2010-08-26T20:36:00.000-07:00

I find that my self worth is completely wrapped up in this baby!

(I don't remember this part by the way.)

If he cries I take it personally and sometimes when I leave him (in quick moments of potty, fixing and scarfing down food), I feel like until I can coax a smile out of him, he's mad at me.

And that when I finally do get that smile, he's forgiven me.

"I don't think his emotions are that complicated," my husband insists.

But I know better. Because sometimes, when the baby's really happy, and standing on my lap and flailing his arms and his eyes are as piqued and shiny as the sun in the sky, he will give me the best, most hugest smile ever-- dimples, gums, squints, the works. And I'm pretty sure he reserves that particular gesture for me (and the lampshade that he thinks is his best friend in the whole wide world. And the black armoire. Ok, and daddy) only when I'm being a good mommy.

Somehow, the tear-stained version doesn't have quite the joyous effect as the unadulterated happy one. But we're getting there.

(We're getting there...? Right?)

And We're Off...

2010-08-23T12:39:00.000-07:00

8 a.m. I walked the two oldest to school and came home to the two “babies,” one of which starts school at precisely 12:30 today, the other of which I hope will simply nap.

So far, so good. I got them settled in their classrooms, Peaches refusing a kiss in front of everyone but giving me a high five instead. That helped actually, had he been wanting me, my heart would have torn in two at the prospect of leaving him and I’d still probably be there, leering through the small window outside his classroom. Instead I found myself walking home and chuckling out loud at his new found indifference to smooches and lighthearted because he was brave. More than brave. He was excited. (And if he can be that way, maybe I can too.)

He got straight to work and was all efficiency: putting his head down to focus on his papers, making sure his pencil box was just so. That was my last sight of him and the picture I will hold with me today—not him looking back at me, but him focused. Ready.

12:30 p.m. I walked my little Boo girl to school, Judesie asleep in the stroller. I held her hand and we talked like this:

Her: “I’m getting a little bit scared.”

Me: “It’s ok to be scared.”

Her: “I think I’m going to cry.”

Me: “It’s ok to cry. Sometimes mommy is scared and cries too.

And then she wondered why our little neighbor in her class is younger than her and braver than her, the equation implausible as she mulled it over.

“Here’s the thing,” I said to her, giving her an extra squeeze on her hand, “You can be scared and cry until you’re done being scared and crying. And then you can have fun and eat a snack, and before you know it, I will be there to get you.”

She smiled up at me and was truly fine walking towards the drop off spot, and I turned to go, giving a quick I love you, singing it to the back of her head as I steered her to the arms of her kind teacher; she ran to them and by the tilt of her head and the almost perceptible heart beating out of her little chest, I knew she was nervous. But she was doing it! (And me too.) And I couldn’t linger because I would have snatched her back, so I tried my best to walk quickly away wondering if I looked back and she was looking at me, would I wave big and smile? What would I do? I decided to be like Peaches, and not look back.

1:15 p.m. I am home, writing this, the baby still asleep by me. The house is a disaster from a morning spent making fairy crowns with foil and town maps out of butcher paper, and searching for lost library books whose missing state cause my email inbox to fill with expensive threats from the librarian. I should take care of messes, but let’s face it: I probably won’t. There is an after-school snack to bake. I’m thinking peanut butter bars with chocolate.

On Being A Wimp

2010-08-22T14:27:00.000-07:00

The haircuts always get me.

I think it’s because it makes them look older in a startling instant. Boo sits here by my desk with a new blunt hair-do that just barely skims her shoulders and robbed her curls of all their summery gold. And this becomes, right before my eyes, the literal representation that the freedom is dwindling and it’s time to start school.

Oh, I know we need it, know our family inwardly craves the schedule that begets order and bedtimes (and it will be good to have a quiet house for the baby to nap), BUT I am so not looking forward to homework.

Or watching Peaches walk away for an entire day of school. I fear I won’t make it and he won’t make it and I’ll miss him all morning. Is he ready for it? The thought of him sitting in the cafeteria eating his lunch makes my heart ache. Isn’t he too little?

He’s not even little.

But I’m struggling. In a way I thought I wouldn’t.

I guess I always do.

Such Luck

2010-08-05T14:48:00.000-07:00

I’m up late because my daughter lost a tooth and won’t go to bed and keeps traipsing downstairs to ask me when the tooth fairy will be coming. In my fist is a wad of ratty one-dollar bills and I’m hiding them, but she knows better than my vague answer and presses me. Eventually she retreats when I get annoyed at her and tell her to go to bed or maybe the tooth fairy won’t show up at all.

Minutes later, she’s at my side again, and earnest: “But I just want to know where you put all my teeth!” And I wonder if I should just hand her the money now so that I can go to bed; and I wonder why we go through the coy rigmarole of playing parts and pretending.

She lost her tooth after her last race at the swim meet this morning. Actually, she swam a 50 back, won four stuffed animals (out of five tries!) from a “claw” machine, swam the 25 fly, then, reclining on a throw by the creek, took a bite of berry bagel and saw her tooth sticking out from the chewy top. I was late because a certain cute baby slept in and I couldn’t bear to wake him… so I missed her races. When I saw her she ran toward me and I gasped, “Oh-my-goodness, how did it go?” thinking that she improved her times or made finals, but her feats were that of stuffed animal luck and lost canine (or bicuspid?) with no mention of the races.

And that’s how it should be when you’re nine. Right?

Then, in no rush to go home, the kids hunted yellow furry caterpillars and chased and fed ducks. They called a white goose a good luck charm and ate pears and a full sleeve of Oreos between them. A crack of lightning close enough to split our view in two interrupted laughter, and all kids ran to me with wide eyes as the thunder rumbled immediately behind. Within seconds, we were ensconced in a downpour and threw everything into bags and buckled the baby into the stroller and ran to the car in the warm rain, the palpable humidity. They were a little scared, but we were laughing, hair slick against our foreheads, shirts dotted and spilled with rainwater.

Again, tonight, the sky explodes and a thunderstorm is around me. Lightning, thunder, pouring rain, the works. It feels like Christmas morning—what with all the excitement, every gift of a rainstorm open and at us at once. The clouds have been looming for days, “Thunderheads,” my husband called them yesterday. Thunderheads-- that made me giggle. And I don’t know why. Maybe because it seems a bumbling word for such a marvelous thing.

some thoughts tonight

2010-08-04T22:02:00.000-07:00

Have I written about this before?

I can’t remember.

It’s just that people keep asking me how I’m doing and how Jude is as a baby and if I’m tired or overwhelmed or what. And I am all those things—especially the unidentified what—but mostly I’m just so happy.

I feel so lucky. It’s like a heady, drunk sensation that I can’t articulate except by saying that when I am especially heavy-lidded and verging on the possibility of overwhelmed, Aaron will look at me and say, “Can you believe we have this?”

No. I can’t. A healthy baby boy? It’s too lucky. Three other healthy kids? Gainful employment? A house? Love for one another? Happiness?

I don’t feel especially deserving of my life and so I want to shout praises to it all the time. I want to write it a sonnet and sing it a hymn, and bake it a cake and roll around in it like a dog would in something filthy and odorous—but what I do instead is mumble feeble and simple prayers to a loving god for giving it to me, for making this wonder mine.

Anyway, I guess what I want to reiterate is that my life isn’t perfect. And when I say, “this is the life,” what I mean is that I love my life. Specifically for what it is: messy and unlovely on most days—and difficult (yes!) in the physically tiring way that motherhood is difficult. But I do love it. I love the hard and bittersweet as much as I love the cookie, sugared, pretty part of it that may hint as glossy veneer but is just a daily attempt to be positive and thankful. I want this life. I want everything about it.

Every day I live feels like a miracle, a revelation, luck, a gregarious and almost embarrassingly abundant blessing. And so it doesn’t make sense to me to ever complain or vent about it for sport—life isn’t supposed to be perfect all the time: it’s an organic, changing thing that glistens in brilliance one minute then craps all over itself the next.

And I love Eve for that: that opposition that makes me fall into a punctuated dreamless sleep against a small grub like body that grunts as though to wake himself into a flirty, smiley love fest that I’m too tired to have, but have nonetheless.

totally MFEO

2010-07-20T14:17:00.000-07:00

It's been one month.

One month of pure bliss and aching tiredness, tears outta nowhere and more love and snuggs than we could have ever imagined.

One month of no more heparin shots (hoo to the ray!) and one month of that baby smell, those baby coos, the contented sighs, the kissies on his supple cheeks, the neck that smells like stinky cheese: dribbles of milk lost and forgotten in all his chubby rolls and double chin.

One month ago I was tearful (okay, hysterical) at the thought of having to induce because of various complications and was terrified at the thought of being in labor for three days (cue the memory of my first delivery) but our prayers were answered in quiet tones that certainly reassured my husband and I was only afraid because:

a) sometimes I lack faith, and

b) sometimes Aaron can't be trusted. (I'm KIDDING.)

Anyway, I've tried several times to write this and can't yet. It's not the moment for it perhaps, or somehow the right words haven't bloomed within me. When I'm ready to write something, the words flow unrestrained and I only hold on for the ride and go where it takes me. I don't have that yet: the magic of his delivery is still elusive... and beautiful yes, but choppy and fragmented, as though I remember it in sentences and adjectives, not paragraphs and phrases.

Needless to say, I'm in love with this kid. I could stare at him all day.

And pretty much do.

(Sorry, other three neglected children!)

aaron is crazy

2010-07-19T13:47:00.000-07:00

because aren't you supposed to get the puppy when your kids are asking for a BABY and you don't want to have any more?

and isn't our plate full enough for at least a season or two?

and who's going to take care of this lil' thing?

(everyone. i know. but who's going to help me with the baby now? i've lost my helpers!)

that's our new puppy: lil' sunshine dog, stealing mister baby jude's thunder.

seriously??

2010-07-14T13:50:00.000-07:00

i love these.

(and them, of course.)

(and michelle.)

four for 4[th]

2010-07-04T21:53:00.000-07:00

though i didn't get to see any fireworks tonight (and pretty much didn't escape the house at all today-- or this week for that matter), i am loving having four kids.

(can i please have four more?)

i want to write it all down before i forget...

2010-06-29T21:24:00.000-07:00

but i'm too busy staring at this guy all day long to even think straight.

sigh.

it's true love.

(again.)

a long weekend in june

2010-06-23T18:48:00.000-07:00

On Thursday I got a pedicure.

On Friday I made 84 banana muffins and stacked them 20 at a time in the freezer.

On Saturday I saw Toy Story 3.

And on Sunday,

I had a baby.

(details to follow... but for now: 9 pounds, 9 ounces, 22 inches long.)

on the corner of tired and done

2010-06-16T12:17:00.000-07:00

here's the thing about all things:

i am still pregnant. yes. ripe and full like a heavy bosc at its prime, ready to be plucked and devoured and done. just a core spent and tossed aside.

this morning i woke up to a text:

"what is going on over there?? where is that baby?"

and indeed it seems to be in the collective conscious of those who see and know me, so i write it here for all to see

and texted back:

"i think he's decided to take up permanent residence in the three bedroom condo that is my uterus."

(meaning: he ain't budging, guys. and also, i'm huge.)

in the neck, clavicle, upper arm region too. and i think my nose is plumper. is that possible? and even my armpits are fat.

also, i think look more freckled than usual.

i admit that i'm getting weepy and emotional. i'm feeling worried and antsy, like having bad dreams about his health and my health and missing a sale at anthropologie where bedding was only $5. but not antsy and worried enough to take the matter into my own hands and demand an induction. still, i'm embarrassed. and tired of feeling guilty for still being pregnant.

in the store on friday, a woman asked me when i was due. i said, "in about a week." and she shuddered. like a literal repulsed shudder. i felt for a minute the need to comfort her but then i just looked away and said nothing.

at a swim meet on monday a teenage girl gasped, "oh my gosh, that woman is so big."

and i stared at her agape and shocked before i could self-edit my response. she knew i heard her too, with her lithe and slender 14 year old body and her giggling friends with lithe and slender thighs to match.

on a hike yesterday someone said as i walked by, "wow." and it didn't sound awe-inspired... it was the other kind of wow. the statement kind: critical, sarcastic, of the what-the-hell-are-you-doing-lady?! variety.

so to all who see me out and about, having to live my life, an advance apology for the size that i am. i'm sorry! i'm sorry, sorry, sorry. i'm just as embarrassed eating these cheetos on a lawn chair as you are watching me do so. i'm just as aware of my shirts no longer covering the bottom of my belly but don't know what to do about it. do you?

i have impossible emotions that banter between a state of flux at all times, like two sides of the same coin that exist simultaneously flipped up, and counter each other like bickering siblings:

i hate the cat. although this morning he sat alert on the couch peering out the open window at some fussy birds. and it was cute, the way his eyes were wide and his ears alert and wider. and for a minute i loved him. but just for a minute.

then i hated him again.

i love my new tablecloth. it's the only clean thing in my house.

i hate the dirty house.

but i don't want to pick it up. (and then i do! and i'm overzealous and everyone's afraid of me! what am i going to throw away??!! entire lego sets! carpet! boxes of who knows what pulled from a closet! the contents of the fruit bowl! all the artwork of the day!)

i hate that i'm reluctant to help my kids out and mutter crazy things like, "can't you make your own ramen noodles?! you're FOUR! geez!" but then get all soft and oozy as i watch them playing outside from my bathroom window, wearing blankets like superhero capes and bike helmets and boots and running down the street like the quintessential darlings from a charming nora ephron movie-- where everything is perfect but not pretentious and glowing but slightly rustic, and you want to crawl in the screen and spend the rest of your days in one of those incredible houses with blooming vase and bead board trim and people who seem to have just washed and blown-out salon coiffed hair fluttering across their pashmina-laced shoulders.

so then, penitent, i make them brownies. from scratch.

but then go to bed with a backache.

is it worth it?

i so love chocolate.

but i hate heartburn. (and the backache from the baking.)

so i want to go to see's candies and hand select a two pounder to hide in my dresser.

but i don't want to drive there.

or even do the hand-selecting for that matter.

two nights ago i ate half a cheeseburger, a shrimp taco with a nice and toasty corn tortilla and extra (extra salty) avocados, then half a bag of 60% dark chocolate chips before i realized i was thirsty. just really, really thirsty.

i'm off kilter, unable to discern even the most base of feelings.

this morning i found a canister of aveda pomade whose lovely natural scent speaks to me of my days in hawaii and wrangling my hair in the humidity and beautiful sunrises and thrift store denim, cut-off really short and frayed.

and it made me happy.

and maybe that's what it is right now-- about what makes me happy. and i'm a simple animal:

food/chocolate,

good smells,

leonardo dicaprio movies,

(or maybe just leonardo dicaprio?)

avoiding people.

and yes, i will keep you posted. promise.

After the Serpent: humanity, weakness, love

2010-06-12T07:53:00.000-07:00

(on another day, before the rain.)

In my backyard, in the early morning, the light is both ghostly and marvelous. And the deck seems to swallow it up while the flagstone patio reflects it, stony edges punctuated and dark by the swollen thyme and moss. The grass looks more Technicolor than the Emerald City ever did and the planters of dark pink geraniums seem fluorescent—and they glow. Exploding.

Inside, my house is quiet and little brown feet have yet to stir at the top of the stairs or seek me out in my bedroom. I want them to—I miss them—but I want them to sleep longer too—to flounder in the delicate place between waking and dreaming, and sustain themselves for a better day, less tears.

I love them so much. My heart hurts and surges and lunges and tilts with how much I love them. Will they ever know this love I have for them—I know they’ll know it through their kids, but will they remember that it’s how I must’ve felt too? Like my heart was swollen and dark and Technicolor and exploding and inexplicable? A rainy morning on a lovely yard? An Eden-esque picture, perfectly lit?

Two nights ago, my little boy's slack cheeks while he slept made my eyes water, the way he held his blanket against them, and the way two auburn fringes of eyelashes settled along them. He was so quiet. So still. So unlike the boy who bounds around me all day, so much like himself, so much still a baby, so long-limbed and solid. I counted down the hours till morning, when he’d cuddle in next to me and fit his knees against my back in perfect lumbar massage and his paint-covered hand would rest on his brother, my belly. It tickles a little, but I melt into it.

Yesterday at lunch, it was my oldest who had me choking back an unexpected sob. She is so big, such a good girl, but that sweet smattering of cinnamon freckles across the bridge of her nose belies this, and her chapped lips, and that wispy ponytail, the over-sized t-shirts and cut-off denim. She is a girl on the cusp of growing up, resisting the kids’ menu of quesadillas and attempting a steak burrito the size of her head (the burrito wins and she nibbles the uneaten quesadilla of her sister), and later coaxes me into two new dresses from Boden. Such a tricker. I know when the package arrives she’ll don her sporty look unabashedly and forget those dresses. She is not spoiled, she is just fun to be with, to spend time with, to stay up late with—doing things that two years ago were forbidden to her: resisting bedtime, reading all night, giggling at me and dad sleepy in our bed before her, sleeping in past breakfast, but waking up warm to come hug me, and wanting me to dote on her, but distracted by the television, ignoring us.

And last night when little Boo was spanked at bedtime—oh, how it punctured the heart even as Aaron and I exchanged a suppressed smile above her head. (Abnormally cute even when she’s naughty.) She grows feisty in her disregard for parents and their insistence on sharing. And not pinching. And not beating up a brother when he wants to play marbles too. Her disobedience is countered by her remorse and when she is punished by daddy, I agree with daddy, but pine to feel her limbs against me, her teary face tucked into my neck, messing up my hair. She looks at me from a shock of flowery pink bedding and hair that pays no mind to barrettes, and layers of what seem a hundred plush puppies and a hundred more books, and with heavy eyelids and her funny habit these days she whispers as if lip-synching a greater sound: “But I want you.”

And I want her too. But I resist.

(And then later, when daddy’s not looking, kiss her cheeks for almost 12 minutes solid.)

The light is brighter now. The kids are up, the small two. The rainy day makes the backyard look pixilated and speckled and surprisingly clear. There are low clouds that mask the black mountains but for their tips, soon to be gone (I know) as the clouds will rise and cover everything beyond the backyard: the forecast makes no promise of sunshine or clear skies. It’s chilly out, chilly in the house. I’ve made three slices of cinnamon toast for us—I’ve eaten them all myself—they’re too cuddled up under blankets, too cozy to leave their nests. Now they want waffles. I oblige. And now they want waffles served up in the family room, inside those cozy, blankety nests. Now they want me to serve them milk in cups with straws, hunched over them on the couch, holding the cup so they don’t spill, never averting their eyes from Tom & Jerry, The Smurfs, WonderpetsCuriousGeorge…

But,

I stop short right there.

I love them. But we can breakfast at the table like civilized folk.

lucky girl

2010-06-07T20:33:00.000-07:00

on sunday i walked into gospel doctrine and couldn't pay any attention to the lesson because i had to keep whispering in aaron's ear: "look at those peonies."

"those are such pretty peonies."

"don't they look fake?"

"i can't believe those are real."

"they are so pretty!"

"i love peonies."

"peonies are my favorite."

they were sitting solitaire on the right side of the table, which was unadorned but for them, and yet they filled the whole room with their bursting, becoming, tissuey picture and perfume.

i kept my gaze upon them during relief society and after? the lady in our ward who brings the loveliness from her garden every week walked up to me with the peonies in hand and said, "is that baby coming this week?"

and i almost wanted to lie to be certain that i could have the flowers, but i told the truth instead and said, "probably not."

she handed me the heavy blue pitcher with blooms abundant and told me she would be thinking about me and i thanked her profusely and told my tale of longing and loving them for the past two hours, and as i walked away my friend tsked:

"so you're the lucky girl."

and really, i was.

and still am.

permanence

2010-06-04T18:39:00.000-07:00

really, i'm not my best self these days. or at least not my best-looking self. i don't really know who i am these days, who i will be in two weeks. who i was, if i want her back...

and it's okay.

on my little walk today (possibly averaging 30 minute miles?) i kept thinking about moments. and time. and the way it drifts and leaves, a moment gone and spent and silent almost as soon as it's quickened itself to life.

i kept thinking about the morning's photographs and of how, once my kids got home from school today-- the last day-- they wouldn't be the kids i sent off, with sleep in their eyes and excitement generating buzz around their firm legs wanting to walk. they would be older and a little different. like we all are every day (hopefully) when the day is done and we go to bed, and asses the imperceptible change, the difference, the progress.

anyway, at the end of pregnancy i'm always like this i guess: a little wistful.

a little panicky.

a little worried at time's aggression. his unwieldy insistence.

and wishing i could hit pause.

it is something i think other people don't understand. i am hugely pregnant. i'm a spectacle at this point; i shouldn't go out in public. strangers can't help but comment on my "huge baby," the possibility of twins, a hearty congratulations from out of nowhere. i look like a normal girl with a giant santa claus belly (bowlful of jelly) attached to my front. and when i tell them there is still time i get sympathy.

or wincing.

or questions about a possible induction,

or if my doctor is mean and

won't let me go early.

today i finished my walk through the school yard and a little girl at recess said, "woah. that lady is huge."

and then as i passed: "i'm never getting married."

i laughed. i laughed because it was funny. and because she will get married. she will get huge. she will have babies. she will be happy. or at least i hope she will.

because this part doesn't last very long. not really. not in the grand scheme of things. and i am not in a hurry. i am not ready. i want my little boy more than anything. i want to hold him. i want to see if he's dark or peachy. i want to search his eyes for hints of his remembered heaven. i want him here, in my arms, a part of this family.

but i still want this-- this slippery, inconstant now-- for a few more minutes.

just peachy

2010-05-24T11:41:00.000-07:00

(the perfectly serene nutmeg grating girl)

on saturday my little boy that's colored like peaches asked if we could make a pie.

and we just happened to have a glistening jar of canned, heavy, dark peaches on our counter that my visiting teacher brought me on friday.

and so we deemed it the dish for sunday dessert and after church i pulled out the food processor and started measuring the cold butter and flour.

i kept calling out, "does anyone want to help me?" even as my little peaches lie on the couch lazily and then looked at me cat-like and wry and uninterested and got up and dragged his millenium falcon from the play room then looked at me again and ignored me while starting a complex setting up of star wars figures.

but miss lolly heard me. and though intently practicing her "minute to win it" games, she was intrigued (and perhaps thinking that my pointed comments were for her and not the lazy boy?) and so she came over interested and cute and sweet... and in no time, had taken over.

i taught her how to roll our a perfect circle by turning the dough in quarter turns, and i taught her about pinching the edges for a pretty decorative crust. she did so well. and after, took the scraps and made a tiny dumpling sized pie for her little sister.

the results were yummy. a perfect finish for a springtime bbq when little appetites were swollen from hours in the hot tub and flippies on the trampoline. and we all went to bed with full, round tummies and me? dreams for better peach pies all summer, with more and more peaches, maybe made in a sheet pan for potlucks, glistening tops of sugar laden pastry in large rectangles dotted with vents...

but then we woke up and there was this:

and my dreams of summer and planted land, fertile yard, sunny afternoons, perfect peach pies were dashed.

and i cried.

brownies = love

2010-05-21T10:57:00.000-07:00

(you can't see it but this shirt is covered in brownie splatters from a melted butter and cocoa mixing gone awry.)

i think the 35th (36th?) week of my pregnancy should be called the brownie week, wherein i first make them to try and distract my children from the expensive cold stone ice cream mix in the freezer that i'm addicted to and don't want to share.

and wherein i finally want the brownies for myself but they're all gone because the kids didn't want to share with me.

and wherein i decided to make every single semi-intriguing recipe from jill's cookbook (cleverly entitled "brownie" and "loaded brownie" and "marshmallow brownie") because

this pregnancy might be over soon

and to that i just say BRING IT:

i wanna eat.

it feels like a weakness: but the weather makes me happy

2010-05-17T14:01:00.000-07:00

i spent all morning in the yard bending over my wide berth of a belly and trying hard to dig new holes in one sitting. peaches chose two pots of purple salvia ("because nanny has those") and i accidentally forgot to buy fledgling eggplant in a peatpot (i swear i picked it up) and mistakenly took a tiny pot of cantaloupe when i really wanted honeydew.

maybe it was my subconscious excuse to get to go back. because i already want to. my pallet cart thing was full to brimming in minutes and the geraniums were hanging over the side, the decorative vines a flowing trellis. and the kids were hanging on the handle bars. and losing their flip flops. and i still had to buy tomato cages while expertly steering my load through narrow passages of greenery. talk about balance. (and i can't talk about balance. i can't balance. i'm too front heavy.)

anyway, my new list includes the things i forgot plus more. more of this and that. more excuses for getting to dig in the dirt and play with the water hose. more picnics on the porch before school (which is almost over thank goodness) because we're too dirty to walk inside. and more of boo shadowing me with her pink watering can and planting hello kitty candy to grow a candy tree. wouldn't that be lovely?

i like her dreaminess in the prospect nonetheless.

i think you should

2010-05-05T07:23:00.000-07:00

buy this awesome book.

i just did.

33 weeks

2010-05-04T14:01:00.000-07:00

it has been a big day for a big girl:

i ate almost an entire carton of hob nobs (one in my mouth as i took that picture) and

i got a new caregiver, a lady who might possibly be the most wonderful midwife ever and

i made it through story time without falling asleep.

rainy day

2010-04-21T12:40:00.001-07:00

so...

cookies and this.

authenticity

2010-04-16T07:49:00.000-07:00

i spent the better part of my falling asleep hours last night (ok, that's like a maximum of 15 minutes these sleepy days) thinking about my blog and how it doesn't feel right to me: it feels forced, it feels NOT me-- when i attempt at making it cutesy and nicknamey and winsome.

the insecurity stems from a question of whether blogging is for me at all, especially since the past year has made me realize that the LESS time i'm online, the better my life is... BUT, then i really (really) love to write. and blogging is the perfect forum for that, as a stay at home in her pj's kind of mama.

anyway, my slight blogging identity crisis on the issue of my authenticity have nothing to do with the very real and authentic giveaway going on at bloom today. i love teal le creuset. (i love any le creuset. but my favorite is my teal dutch oven.) and i am entering. if that makes me a bona fide blogger for today, then so be it.

being brave

2010-04-15T11:51:00.000-07:00

my boo is a little bit shy-- and her siblings embolden her. yesterday at the pool, she clutched peaches in a bear hug while he walked her all over the deep end with six year old authority and blue-green goggles squishing at his temples. at the book fair a couple of weeks ago, she desperately wanted to have a picture with clifford, but couldn't bring herself to approach him without lolly's confidence, her bigger hand to clutch. in the morning, she waits for peaches's lead on what activity will keep them while i walk on the treadmill or unload the dishwasher; in the afternoon, she's aimless without a sibling to be with.

last night aaron and peaches threw the football around in the pleasant sunset of sky after dinner, the glow of the backyard too enticing for boo to resist joining in their togetherness. but she was cranky and tired and crying about an earache and so i made her stay inside with me and lie down with a flannel heating pad, hoping she would fall asleep to the sound of water sliding off the dinner plates, running into the sink, and the rhythm of the quiet scales of piano practice.

she didn't.

and then when aaron and peaches went out to fix his bike, and took that fixed bike out for a spin, boo cried and cried for daddy. she ran to the front window and watched his receding form, next to which was an identical miniature receding form, and the jealousy and ear pain and sleepiness welled up inside of her, and outside of her the tears came in earnest. but what she said was,

"my ear, mom, my ear."

i took her up to bed and tucked all her lovies around her and started to dole out a motrin dose in a sacrament-like cup. but just seeing the orangey goo made her gag and then she was puking and crying all over again and yelling out the round, circling, repeated lament:

"daddy! daddy! daddy!"

she was red-faced and roiling, her eyes were puckered shut, her hair a crispy mess of chlorinated curls down her back, stuck to her cheeks. i pushed each tear-sodden strand aside and tried to console her when her daddy finally walked in and she calmed, outlining the injustices of the evening to him, the terrible trial of being left out and feeling forgotten. after condolences were duly given by the guilty boy-parties, and she had a fresh sip of water and peaches and i told her poem after poem of shel silverstein while perched on the edge of her bed, she drifted off on the bunk underneath her big brother and wakened only once in the night to come ask me if he was still there, above her.

it's like she doesn't get being on her own. it doesn't make sense to her-- this boo all by herself. it's like she doesn't understand that she shouldn't be included in every aspect of our family life and at every moment, everywhere-- and she should always be included, but it's like she doesn't understand it's ok if it's not like that. it's okay to feel lonely.

just a few minutes ago, the doorbell rang and she ran to it. earlier on, she chose her outfit and her flip-flops and the pink recycled gift bag from the closet to hold the plush puppy she chose for her friend. she was ready for her first birthday party all by herself, and she was ready when she heard the doorbell. only twice this morning did she confide in me that she was afraid, but then, kissing my belly (her little brother on his way), she stared straight into my eyes and said it plain,

"it's okay. i'll just be brave."

then, i watched her fly off the porch without a backward glance, and i believe her.

undecided, grateful

2010-04-11T18:36:00.000-07:00

at 30 weeks

i posted this on wednesday at segullah and then never set up a link to it. i don't really know why.

today in relief society we were talking about the holy ghost and it seemed more than coincidence. and though i didn't share this experience in class, i think i want to share it now.

when you have church that starts at nine am,

2010-04-10T20:39:00.000-07:00

this is what your saturday night looks like.

and they dwelt in a tent

2010-04-09T09:26:00.000-07:00

over snowy spring break, the indoor games got more elaborate, including the forts-- and this morning i found myself building a veritable bedouin camp in the family room. i was in charge of construction: table cloths, blankets, scarves, bits of cast-off dress ups; clothes pins, stools, the puppet theater, a few tiny chairs. and the kids designed the interior, explaining to me where their pretend televisions were in relation to their beds made from quilts set up inside. they took a picnic of pink and white circus animals with them into their separate his and hers entrances and haven't bothered me since.

which is good, because i'm exhausted. making that thing was the most energy i've expended since january.

I'm here again...

2010-03-24T08:04:00.000-07:00

talking about cookies again...

(is there nothing more to me?)

to my little girl, on a snowy afternoon

2010-03-13T13:22:00.000-08:00

I’m watching you through the window. I’m watching you play out back. I see you pause, lift your head to the sky and absently run your mittened fingers through the snowpack you kneel in. I see your lips sing syllables that are silent to me. It’s all quiet in here, a slight hum of the refrigerator, the gentle cadence of the wall clock.

I’m watching you through a perfect slice between two leafless trees—a Japanese maple and something else. If it was summer, I wouldn’t be able to find where you play and hide, but today I watch your pink marshmallow form, as it rises and descends and then walks toward me. You press your face against the window and then you say, when I ask you what’s wrong, to “remember to make the hot cocoa.”

Then you leave, walking away, sodden and soggy, pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, a trail of knobby footprints behind you.

I’m watching you my girl, and here’s what I think about when I watch you:

That I remember being brave. You said, “I’m brave because I know you’re in the house, mom.”

And I remember being little, impervious to chills when adventures awaited.

And I remember being alone, but being loved, and having my imagination as a friend was companion enough to span long Saturday afternoons before the sky would darken and the family t.v. went on, kicking out a pulsing blue glow.

The Difference of a Day

2010-03-04T16:38:00.001-08:00

I think it’s my down coat but then I remember it’s probably the baby growing inside of me. When everyone starts peeling off layers I realize it’s the weather, mild almost.

The kids abandon the couch and the playroom in a way that seems more familiar than novel, and I wonder how, during the long cold, dark days of musing over the spring, it arrives without saying much, a small whimper at the beginning of the day, and as though we knew it would come all along (it did), or as though it was just hiding around the corner spying on us. That silly joker Spring!

This time of year awakens something in me: it’s like the call of the wild, something animal and lupine in its force. I want to be at the ocean. I want the beach. I want the curling around of briny smell to nose and salty taste to lips and hair in thick wisps at my cheeks. I spend my afternoons booking faux vacations online and pining for a beach shack or even just a familiar, worn blanket set upon an expanse of sand with a view of the water. Aaron says we could book a hotel somewhere, take the kids to a fancy place with a pool, but I don’t want it—I don’t want thread count, I don’t want desert, I don’t want river, I don’t want anything but the vastness of a wide deep ocean in front of me, constant and forthcoming, like a reassuring hello.

I want what I want. Things happening how they’re supposed to happen—cycling themselves according to something larger than me and my wishes—that is hard.

That is life.

Later it starts to rain. And finally, to snow. When the darkness comes down I feel a quiet settling come with it: it is still winter. And I can wait.

[on] size matters

2010-02-12T08:40:00.000-08:00

(13 weeks)

so up until a couple of weeks ago, everyone i saw would say:

you look so small!

(15 weeks)

and i would say:

no, no, no. i am just bigger everywhere and was bigger to begin with and i don't need maternity clothes because all my clothes were fat clothes!!

(19 weeks)

and then i popped.

(20 weeks... almost 2 weeks ago...)

and now when people say,

you're barely showing!

i unzip my coat or move the lapels of my cardigan out of belly's way, while their eyes widen almost imperceptibly and they say,

oh! ohhhh-kay.

and so then i think:

am i TOO big?

oh no.

i'm smart enough to know that this is small compared to what i will be. and that this is the cute part and the easier part and that i really, really need to just enjoy it.

so i do

while making ANOTHER batch of cookies

or covertly diving into the hershey's kisses while i make dinner and my kids snack (right next to me) on frozen peas unawares.

so maybe she's a little hobo

2010-02-10T15:27:00.000-08:00

but at least she's my little hobo.

and then there's this:

before church on sunday she gave me this picture and i asked her, "oh! is it our family?"

and she said,

"no, it's a bunch of rock stars..."

oh.

never dull 'round here with a hobo-looking, rock star drawing girl.

have you been here before?

2010-02-09T07:15:00.000-08:00

because it's where i am today.

it started with a bang

2010-02-01T20:16:00.000-08:00

today that is. i woke up with a fevered to-do list that went something like this: tear apart the entire house and try to rebuilt it by bedtime.

it didn't work.

today i woke up to wilting tulips and crumbs on the cutting board, tempting leftovers [read: breakfast] in the refrigerator, and several neglected projects that needed doing.

disassemble the playhouse.
reassemble outside.
clean the mudroom.
load the car for d.i.
clean daughter's closet. [read: entire mess/junkyard of a room]
tackle playroom.
finish laundry.

and now those things are done.

but now the rest of my house is a disaster. and the tulips are more dead. and the crumbs are still on the cutting board. and that 1/4 of a chocolate cream pie?

(pretty much gone.)

such a day as this

2010-01-28T20:17:00.000-08:00

this morning, i didn't realize the extent of my anxiety till i laid down and felt queer deja vu at having been there before, in july, on a cold table next to an ultrasound machine, my eyes glued to aaron's worried eyebrows that changed not and stayed worried: they said everything the technician wouldn't. that day there was no heartbeat.

and today, again, my eyes were tunnel vision to my husband's face. i couldn't hear the measured breathing and gentle sighs of the lady manning the ultrasound wand. i couldn't even read the relaxed slope of my husband's shoulders. i couldn't believe that something bad wasn't about to happen... and when aaron met my eyes seeking his so desperately, immediately he squeezed my ankle. immediately he nodded that even nod. immediately he smiled at me: it was ok. and then almost just as immediately, the tears came.

and then the prayers. i laid in the dim room, my sudden holy chapel, and closed my eyes with impassioned gratitude. could it be so? could it be so perfect?

my body is changing. i have felt the life force of gentle kicks each night as i lay down and try to readjust myself according to a bigger belly's needs. i have felt the peace in my heart that only my faith can bring-- that things will be okay, and yet i've been so afraid to get excited. afraid to hope. afraid to believe.

i think sometimes that bad experiences erase beautiful and good experiences. i have had three healthy pregnancies... but i can't remember them any more. i can't remember that the miracle of conception and childbirth has nothing to do with me. it only seems some foreign, impossible magic that i witness wistfully from a distance, bestowed on a very lucky few.

this is preposterous philosophy of course. i am beyond blessed in my own cocoon of a perfect life, and today it was reiterated.

we're having a baby.

we're having a baby.

we are really having a baby.

and guess what?

it's a boy!

wondering

2010-01-21T08:44:00.000-08:00

I look like I have a potbelly.

What I have is a baby belly.

I guess we're all in the process of change, all the time. But I can't grasp this one the way I thought-- even though it's backed by such fierce longing and over and year of up and down (literally) as I would get pregnant and then lose the babies.

I am so (so so so SO) thankful for this pregnancy but having a hard time staying in balance emotionally, physically, and creatively. I'm having a hard time in trusting my husband's affections because I've fallen to a place of lowly self-induced unworthiness. I feel unattractive and so I try and make it up by being docile wife and homemaker in a way that is wholly foreign to how I naturally operate. To say there is not joy in my movements is dramatic, but something is missing.

I am full of miraculous things and yet

something is missing...

?

(me. it's me that's missing.)

Motherhood is not new to me nor are these emotions and changes unexpected, still I'm struck by their endurance to pile drive me yet again. What do I want? How do I balance the me with the she (she should be)? And how do I have enough time for all of it while being the mother that my children deserve?

today i saw the sky

2010-01-19T16:30:00.001-08:00

(my baby, age: cute baby, circa 2000-something or other)

and i'd forgotten how blue it is. and how wonderful the clouds. and how squinty the sun makes my eyes. and how clear and clean and sharp the rain makes everything look.

i'm so grateful for a beautiful day. and for getting to walk and ride bikes in it (still freezing our buns off), and for deep breaths of luscious fresh air drawn in big gulps.

i feel happy. and now, life just seems... sparkly.

segullah...

2010-01-08T07:05:00.000-08:00

againsies.

it's snowing!

2009-12-22T13:33:00.000-08:00

long lamenting our utah inversion, i've held out hope for snow and every morning before i even turn on the light in my bathroom, i peek out the window with disappointment: still dry ground, yellow lawn.

this morning it started to snow. i can't tell you how happy that makes me. that means instead of taking them to the playground to slide down the slide with mittened fingers and runny noses, we can stop there with our new zipfys. (mittened fingers, runny noses.)

(although really that means we don't have to do ANYTHING today. well, anything besides crafts. and baking. and running to the porch excitedly for packages.)

enough

2009-12-19T18:36:00.000-08:00

when my little boy had just turned two, he barely could talk and so we didn't consult with him any more on presents than we thought we needed to-- he loved thomas the train and that was that.

on christmas eve he told me that santa was going to bring him a robot.

but that was the first i'd ever heard of a robot, and so not only did santa not fulfill a supposed promise, but i have since cringed at that moment duplicated every subsequent christmas as my kids seem to roll out new wishes when it's far too late for me to do anything about it.

now that my little boy is six, i am very aware of what he wants; overly aware. i know too much about too many toys. he's adorable in his anticipation and quizzes me constantly for what might be hidden underneath wrappings underneath the tree. we cuddle and he wonders. we sit together and he searches my eyes for possibilities. it's fun and it's heartache: he can't have everything he wants and i don't want to give it to him. still, i do attempt to fulfill the most longed for item and this year again, i think i may have failed.

the clone wars turbo tank. it was on the original christmas list before we left for argentina. it is still the sought after item. and i tried. i went christmas shopping in mid-november and it was sold out. i checked online and if it was not sold out then it was $160 plus shipping. no thank you.

so i bought a playmobile set with lots of little figures and a huge egyptian pyramid. and he did ask for it-- he really did. but somehow i feel i settled on second best.

yesterday we were all at target and as i was standing there by the star wars toys, a clone wars turbo tank was returned to the shelf right in front of me.

what?

just ONE.

(the last one on the planet?)

and it happened to be stocked in front of me.

the first i'd actually seen in the flesh.

but my boy was with me. and i refuse to get hysterical about holiday shopping, so i acted nonchalant and then woke up at six this morning with a panic attack seizing my fragile christmas heart. i know it's long gone and i don't really want to return anything and run around in a crazy way these last few days before christmas...

but still.

this reminded me of one of the bad things about santa:

my kids think that he's magic and as such can perform the same... but this man capable of christmas miracle? it's really just me. and i'm just a busy mom. with never enough time or wherewithal to track it all down.

or am i missing something?

maybe the magic is this-- that on christmas morning, no matter what, my kids will be dazzled. and i should know this (really, i should) as i'm reminded on a daily basis of how imperfect i am and how much they still love me in spite of it all.

for yesterday held all the holiday parties at school and each time i walked into a classroom i was greeted with the buoyant open arms of my one of my babies-- as they ran to me and hugged and hugged even in the middle of the circle of desks and friends and watching teachers. i could have been a hobo off the street or dressed in costume, so little was their regard for how my hair was extra frizzy and my jeans were too tight against my tummy. they didn't care about any of that-- because me being there, and me being their [hobo] mother, that was enough.

and that's what i need to remember: that whatever it is, it's enough.

good mary, great with child

2009-12-14T07:58:00.000-08:00

this christmas, i'm building my nativity and dissecting every part of it. why the animals? why the shepherds? why a stable? why joseph? why mary?

this morning i am especially thinking of mary. you can click to segullah if you want to think of her with me.

using my tuber shaped noggin

2009-12-04T14:25:00.000-08:00

today i gave up on my youngest's preschool education.

her tears seem not crocodile and yet I leave the conversation feeling bamboozled by a [barely] four year old girl with limited vocabulary.

am I giving up? am I giving in? am I letting her win? i feel miniscule pangs of guilt as we cuddle into each other on the couch, each in our respective (although not quite respectable) jammies in the early afternoon.

she pretend role plays with pollys and miniatures. she paints with watercolors from an oversized tray (our whole family! at least she intends to, only getting to me and chloe and our visages that resemble potatoes). we read the books we’ve been missing while out of the country and I think to myself so satisfied and proud:

it’s like preschool at home!

I’m so awesome!

she doesn’t need to go to school!

(and then I got sleepy and accordingly relented with remote control in hand as t

watched shows for two hours.)

BUT. it was noggin. and isn’t that just “preschool on t.v?”

family picture

2009-11-17T17:02:00.000-08:00

he turned six, the baby turned four, and we're off to argentina in a matter of hours.

it will be christmastime when we get back and still i haven't captured halloween or birthdays and mandatory (dreaded) parties to their desired effect with cute caption and sparkled picture.

there's something inside of me that lags and feels heavy. there's something that silences and pulls back, then retreats before i can name it.

or call it out.

and blame it.

what happened to the fall? the dead and brown of my yard came so fast this year and i'm cold down deep, the air needle pricks against my skin. even my littlest refuses to dress and we stay in cuddly pj's (oh, the miracle of fleece) till it's time to put on pj's again... and breakfast matches dinner and there's toast abundant made from stale baguettes because i refuse another trip to the grocery store.

i'm starting to wonder (and so are you?) about where i've been for so long-- and about what i've been doing.

and the truth is that i don't know.

and that i don't know what to say.

but there is this busy night, when i pack and pack things upon things in various cases (upon cases) and stack them in the entry. and there's the little girl who sleeps late naps sprawled in various positions on pillows and who's incapable of rousing even as i tote her around the house while i collect books and sweatshirts for the airplane. and there's the oldest during her piano lesson, excited to be unstrapped from scholarly duties for 14 days, and him, the boy, eagerly watching me puzzle pieces into a duffel and crunching caramel corn over my head and dancing intermittently to the tune of [silent] argentine tango.

we're still here. for now. and for my dad and the others who wonder: i will capture it. i will. soon.

(or in a couple of weeks...)

at segullah today

2009-11-04T09:12:00.000-08:00

talking 'bout brother joseph.

it was all yellow

2009-10-30T08:55:00.000-07:00

and then it was all white. because it snowed.

which made me feel all yellow-- afraid of an anxiety i cannot place.

the "too-soon-ness" of a christmas tree.

and the sudden onset of a holiday season.

i'm worried in my bones about things i cannot control.

and scared of a beast that's neither scary nor real.

but possible?

(because isn't everything possible?)

so i went early, in the snow, to the temple-- and crunched fresh new footprints across the lawn in the parking lot-- and lamented my lack of clothing, a choice that remains the same for the temple regardless of the season:

sparse. and easy to pull on and off.

(even my temple dress is button-free: easy to pull on and off.)

when i left the temple i felt more white in my heart-- i felt a clean open-ness i cannot name either, but it felt pure and peaceful and good and whole. it felt like the opposite of being scared.

but still my knees were cold.

and though first item of business might be to buy some thick white winter tights

(to wear under boots and cottony dresses),

second item of business is this:

to remember the ease of a colorless feeling,
and to fight against the blue, and especially--

the yellow.

trust in the lord with all thine heart;
and lean not unto thine own understanding.
proverbs 3:5

i love to see the cupcakes!

2009-10-08T16:23:00.000-07:00

i'm eating one today. (right now in fact.)

over the weekend i saw my sister in law, who asked me if i'd made any new cupcake creations lately. hmmm: stumped. the last i could remember were back in the spring and they were divine-- big, heavy, hostess-y, cream-filled nostalgic numbers.

lacking the time for those today, but wanting an indulgent little chocolate bite for to tote along in my friend's just-had-a-baby-dinner, i made these instead...

and wondered why it's taken me so long to get my cupcake groove back. i've missed these little niblets.

yuuuum.

I love to see the temple!

2009-10-07T08:42:00.000-07:00

And I'm going there today. Or tomorrow. Soon as I kick this cold.

I've had enough heartache in my life as of late to find my feet propelled to its door. Still, I made the goal of weekly temple worship when first I realized that I'd have a few hours to myself each week once my baby started preschool.

This goal jumped forward to the end of July when I had another miscarriage and felt empty in all hallows of my heart, mind, soul and womb. I prayed dearly to feel something and found myself up there early one morning and suddenly filled from tip to top with a holiness that I can't describe save for that it woke up the center of hope for me again, and made everything ok.

I don't profess to know answers or the why and how of things. I don't think I've been given specific revelation to my ache for more babies. BUT, I feel like a different person.

A better one.

And I'm so very thankful for it.

(I'm loving the temple even more at Segullah.)

Give Peas A Chance

2009-09-17T20:49:00.000-07:00

My heart stuttered an excited ringing out when just the other day I peeked through the shutters to try and catch the kitty on the porch, only to find a package staring back and me and no kitty. My dear Holly—who I’ve known for forever, i.e: preexistence or at least high school—sent along a couple of the sweetest aprons for my baking babes and though they begged to wear them during chocolate chip cookie construction, I hesitated because of the utter darlingness they imbued. And because they were clean.

“Let me take your picture with them on before you use them,” I insisted, not knowing this would mean a reluctance to model for me later.

They sighed. And then, sticking their fingers into the warming dough, were content to don the aprons like capes—out of the way, staying perfect behind their backs and for C, across that cloak of hair—which allowed me to examine them on the easel their backs became. And this is what I noticed:

That they’re perfect.

I don’t think Holly would tell me that they’re perfect. I don’t think she would take credit for such lovely stitches and clean edges. But I compare them to the “handiwork” I’ve done for my own girls and I see as clear as day that these are lovelier (and more temperate).

Tonight I went to link Holly’s blog to this post and guess what? She’s giving another apron away.

I’m wondering if it would be gauche if I entered?

I’m also wondering if she’s ever going to give away one of these adorable tutus? Seriously adorable.

And I’m wondering still if she’ll ever add another facet to her brand? I’m thinking “peas & carats” for jewelry and beads—semi-precious gems for the tot who wears sugar pea haute? Or what about “chick pea” for a women’s line? “sweet pea” for her skills as child photographer extraordinaire? “black-eyed pea” for some MAC meets Burt’s Bees like cosmetics? “peas corps” for her fans and followers on twitter?

This has the possibility to be an empire. Mary Kate & Ashley? Heidi Klum? Cindy Crawford? Gwen Stefani? Beyonce? (Geez. Who doesn’t become a actress/singer/designer/mogul these days?) Anyway, they’ll be small peas compared to this. I’m just saying, and you can quote me on this: that you’d better get your aprons now before they’re too much money and too high in demand and you have to get in a frenzied fight on ebay and

drag yourself through the pea patch

for the one last vintage sugar pea piece circa holiday 2009 (that may or may not have a small snag on the eyelet lace) trying to outbid that lass down south with children who are always better dressed than your own.

Phew. That was a tough one.

I’d better just let this post R.I.P. (Which is rest in peas. Obviously.)

But before I go, thank you, Holly. I love you and I love the aprons, and—channeling myself freshman year at BYU: peas out. And I mean it.

Also channeling my freshman year at BYU I bring you my apron photo shoot:

Pouring

2009-09-14T20:47:00.001-07:00

The morning teased with it's overcast heat and I wore a thin cardigan out and about (knowing full well that I didn't need it), along with the open-mindedness towards sweat coupled with a welling up hope for a thunderstorm. And T wore a white summer dress I carried home in my suitcase from Argentina, and felt glee in the possibility of a shiny new bauble carefully selected from the dollar bins.

We were lazy in our errands that turned more window shopping than productive and we lolled about in aisles, and ran into neighbors and forgot to buy anything we were supposed to buy. But our ears perked at the sound of raindrops above us-- and they were rapturous and proud, like the school band on a crisp fall day.

Who knows what we were considering: throw pillows? A snow cone maker? The thought was abandoned and we bought a pink polka dot umbrella instead and gathered the rest of our scant purchases and made our way outside giggling-- the rain now a finger drumbeat on the vinyl, my sandaled feet completely wet.

At home we made pumpkin bread. Great fat loaves of heavy bread with too many chocolate chips stuffed inside creating the need to bake longer, which created the wafting sweet of cinnamon and ginger-- the scent of which still lingers in my hair, against my [now quite appropriate cardigan] and makes everyone inquire:

"Is that gingerbread? It smells like gingerbread."

While the rain teased, off and on it goes, the kids played outside. We made cocoa on the stovetop. We had friends over. C started swimming again with the coach she adores. L sauntered around in a new bike helmet.

T and I tried to finish our abandoned errands while the wind drummed up another storm and set the sky to pouring again. We used our umbrella to run into a small camera shop but felt tired immediately afterwards. Home again, the rain continued, we finished our day with a handmade dinner courtesy of Miss C (English muffin pizzas, purple grapes, milk) and ate the cooled pumpkin bread after a family home evening lesson, during a marathon of Cadoo-- in which there was indeed a tie.

Pajamas. Teeth. Curious George, a chapter of My Father's Dragon. Prayers. Kisses.

(More kisses.)

And the day dissolves into a very wet night: I hear a tree against my window, the wind, the gentle roar of a football game on the television upstairs.

I hear C asking for help with the piano, a conversation with my neighbor about why we allow our kids to be with other adults for so many hours a day, and I hear too the gentle plea of my little ones for on more kiss, a sip of water.

To which I will oblige, but first I need to wrap my extra loves of bread up. Doing it with care, because I love the way they look: shiny with taut plastic wrap, cozy with a foil fold running along their length. And I just can't help it, but the feeling I have at that moment is so satisfactory. So perfect. So lovely and homey in a Little House, life is good, I am blessed sort of way.

The bread is tucked away; the children are tucked away. And soon I will be too. But first I kneel down and offer a prayer of gratitude for this, my overabundant, blessed life.

in a life

2009-09-02T07:11:00.000-07:00

this is my grandma.

when she died, I was little. and always full of the distinct feeling that she was watching me and it was her disappointment I feared more than God's, her loved that seemed closer.

still today, i sometimes wonder how she is and what she's doing.

i'm thinking about her in heaven. i'm thinking about women. about their lives, here and there. about what they collect along the journey. about how they become goddesses. about how they make it.

(and i'm thinking about it here: Segullah.)

First Days

2009-08-25T16:11:00.000-07:00

It’s near four this morning when my oldest wanders in my room and laughs at me (presumably at my gaping mouth still sleepy and dreaming of, now that I think back, a very pale boy with blue eyes who squats next to a barn, and who, now that I think back, may have been haunting me in nightmare).

shudder

It’s nowhere near four this morning when she does that. It only feels like it as I ascend from my dream/nightmare into a sludgy black and feel the heavy lidded befuddlement of drowning in my sleep. It’s really seven a.m. And the birds are out and the sun is up and she is in her gleaming uniform and I’ve no reason to feel so tired.

Perhaps it’s the first day of school arriving too soon. Isn’t it still summer (says the August on the calendar)? Isn’t it still time for sleeping in and last minute getaways, the bittersweet barbecue late on Monday night, Labor Day? When you’re excited for school to start but relishing your one last hurrah? Isn’t this the time for that?

Perhaps it’s our homecoming from the lake, and how I never want to leave, and how my husband and I go over and over it again: He says I would tire of a slow life like that, how I insist that I wouldn’t—and how I explain myself by throwing out the preposterous: that I may be the only person on the planet who doesn’t tire of vacation.

(But that’s not really preposterous right? Not any more preposterous than the braggart who says that they don’t like to vacation? Or maybe that’s not preposterous either because that’s just downright crazy.)

Perhaps it is the fact that my kids are scared at night. That I build and rebuild makeshift “beds” on my bedroom floor—out of folded quilts and extra pillows. And that I’m exhausted when the beckoning starts after midnight and my will is lost into theirs and they win and win and never have to sleep in their perfectly made bunk beds because they “miss me.”

Anyway, I’m tired today.

Still, I am a laundry-accomplishing machine. And all the sandy beach towels are folded into tight thirds and tucked into the closet. And the various layers required against the lake in the evenings are in the dryer. And a hot steamy load of delicate whites whirs above me as I write this.

And as I write this, my boy is by my side in a whit and he motions at me to lower my ear, and when I do he whispers this:

“How ‘bout breakfast for dinner?”

Which loosely translated means this: “Get off the computer, mom. French toast, extra cinnamon. Chop chop.”

And so I heat the griddle and mix the eggy stuff and I do as I do while the school year rolls in on us like a summer storm full of thunder, and before I can be afraid of it I take a page from my kids’ faces against the window glass—admiring the coming for it’s force, and later for the hope of rainbows and clearing, the promise of puddles.

the key

2009-08-05T08:15:00.000-07:00

this morning my kids figured out that used popsicle sticks can open the locks on all our inside doors. it was clever and cunning of them and they've showed me about 14 times so far how they can lock and unlock the bathroom door.

and it's like this: isn't it true that sometimes the very think to unlock whatever needs unlocking (questions perhaps?) are the things we never considered? the humble piece of splintered pressed wood (paper?) and not the ornate brass key? the humble simple answer and not the filigreed momentous one that appeases like a thunderbolt?

i'm thinking lots of things this morning. but mostly things about this.

july the four

2009-07-05T16:53:00.001-07:00

1. she was all fading light and darkness, movement and a quickness too fast for my lagging shutter speed.

2. i was all lazy and a chipped pedicure, a pastel version of an american flag like a whisper around my knees in an evening that seemed cool for midsummer and hid a full moon behind it's gray clouds.

3. they were all pyromania and a future study in scout camp, while he-- the little he!-- lit a small army man on fire and concocted homemade fireworks from the debris that fell from the sky or rolled to the gutter.

4. ...i recollected the day, and held a firm girl in my lap, and felt her skin that hinted at goose flesh, and thought over and over about the declaration of independence and about liberty and the freedom to worship, and the freedom to raise my children in a nation nobly built by faith and devotion, and tried to suppress a bulging lump in my throat that reminded me of the stark veracity of the goodness of god-- plain and simple-- while overhead the sky popped and exploded.

these days

2009-07-01T05:29:00.001-07:00

i'm only online if i'm posting at segullah, i guess.

(and what a little post it is!)

(i think i've run out of words, the summer sun has sucked them right out of me save for a two-worded chant that has me at hello: bear lake, bear lake, bear lake...)

about a girl...

battleship, balls; crafts, cleaning

temptations

my baby.

smooth & crunchy

Roasted Garlic and Beet Soup

Kale Slaw with Red Cabbage and Carrots

Detoxing

Girl, Interrupted

resolved.

35

adventures on the subway

Every Little Speck

a bike ride with m'jooj.

and so

first day done.

first day eve

The Guise of Things

a round

his and hers

banished

thank you, thank you, sunshine

Peaceful In My Flimsy Soul

slightly braggy and i don't even care.

This picture has nothing to do with anything... Except to say, At Least They Are Clean, Dagnabit

we make

teething

because i'm all transparent like that

baby/body image

After Hawaii, the Laundry

in paradise

anywhere but here...

a heaven on earth

Because she's just as wise as she is cute

All I Want For Christmas is Him

snowboarding

Huuuuuhhhh?

how about dem apples?

The Story About the Baby: Part One

the day after

A Secret Place

magic: his first laugh. at his own reflection.

lightness

Friday

a picnic for dinner

Something For the Ages: Funnest FHE Ever. (Ok, maybe not ever.)

I'd better start saving up

A Story With a Picture

What 13 Years Looks Like

Who is this baby? And other things I'm thinking...

I love him. And it hurts.

And We're Off...

On Being A Wimp

Such Luck

some thoughts tonight

totally MFEO

aaron is crazy

seriously??

four for 4[th]

i want to write it all down before i forget...

a long weekend in june

on the corner of tired and done

After the Serpent: humanity, weakness, love

lucky girl

permanence

just peachy

brownies = love

it feels like a weakness: but the weather makes me happy

i think you should

33 weeks

rainy day

authenticity

being brave

undecided, grateful

when you have church that starts at nine am,

and they dwelt in a tent

I'm here again...

to my little girl, on a snowy afternoon

The Difference of a Day

[on] size matters