LOST A SOCK

2011 in the rearview

Initially I thought to comment, Well that went fast, when I realized it was time to recap the year that just started five minutes ago.  But then as the past year came into better focus, I knew that the quickness of its passage was less about its days and moments, and more about the fact that the years--they are really moving.  I love growing, I love getting older, I love my grey hairs and tiny little wrinkles left from smiling, I love change.  Bring it, 2012.

But first, for the short and sweet in the record book, allow me to recap 2011.

We began the year as we always do, on a ladder with paint brush in hand.  (Myself, that is. Not my kids.)  My kids were elbow deep in homeschool, and in a bin of dry rice and beans at the time, and we were eight months into our wait for our baby to be referred to us, from Africa.

This was a path that I somehow knew I would walk, at least in the years after I became a mom, though I never could have predicted our story thus far to present as it does in this moment.  While waiting for our referral, we began learning of so much corruption surrounding the situation in that particular country, and eventually we made what felt like the only ethical choice to make, given the circumstances, and we brought our paperwork back home.  I know with certainty that even now, had we stayed the course in spite of our concerns, we still would not have had our baby home today, and if we felt waist-deep in a terrible situation at the beginning of the year, without going into detail, we would have been up to our eyeballs by now.  Even our own agency, who we once had so much faith in, has not emerged with clean hands, and it leaves me feeling just sick for the babies and children who are involuntarily growing up in the center of this cold and dirty hurricane.  In this way the world appears uglier than ever to me, having joined the scene ready to help a child or children as we could, and then having witnessed such an unfolding.  It left me feeling hopeless for the kids at the center, and so very sorry for the well-intentioned adoptive and birth families caught in the swirling periphery. 

I am sorry to say that I came away from this once-exciting time to experience a grief I hadn't known before- a miscarriage of sorts, only for which there are no pre-determined parameters for how one should expect to feel after spending the better part of two years preparing for and dreaming about this very real baby that would join our family, only to walk away with empty arms.  Adoption is not just a thing that people decide to get into, but something we get into with our whole hearts and with our kids and families and friends and finances.  We create space in our homes and excitedly count down until this little person who already feels like one of us, comes along to finally be one of us.  The process, then, of giving away the toys I had saved, the blankets and clothing I had collected and telling each and every person of our turn of events left me mournful and exhausted.  The winter went long, and it felt dark and sometimes lonely.

I journaled a lot through that time, and searched to find the silver lining day after day, because it was the best of my options.  And I opened myself up to the possibility that I could somehow come out of this experience with greater breadth, and build something from all the little pieces.

By the grace of God, I met a friend of a friend very soon after that, who somehow got me instantly, right where I was, and sat with me in the space where I chose to work through our adoption into its roots.  My sadness for everything that had ever failed was palpable, then.  I saw all of that emotion and heartache, some of which I had carried with me since I was my own little kid, and I picked it apart and allowed it to become something new when it was ready.  I had grown into a better mother for all I had learned, and a better self for what I now understood.  The process, the preparation, the loss and the disaster we witnessed was what we simply had to endure for all that could come out of it and still is yet to come.  

And just like that, Spring arrived.

We were okay. We were all okay.  We were built for these sorts of deep life lessons-- a whole Master's Degree, really, on what fear and disappointment and love are all about.  How thankful I am to have come through all of this with a heart open to possibility, though it was no picnic at the time.

It was Mother's Day before I knew it and I was the mom of three amazing little kids, and we spent the morning on a hike, and laying in green grass, absorbing the sunshine.  I will never forget that Sunday morning, because I think it was one of the most perfect, ever, in my book.  I hired our wonderful babysitter for a few hours a week, beginning last Spring, to give me the occasional break that I didn't know I could (should!) grant myself and my kids. I became more familiar with poetry and bounced along on positive, super-fun music.  We had kitchen dance parties in the afternoon and at night, just the kids and I, or the kids and I and Kevin and Sant and Leslie-- all through the house with the music blasting.   

I threw caution to the wind and painted on all sorts of canvases, and put hardwood floors in our house and painted a few walls more.

We saw art.  We made art.

We plastered art all over our walls, and we didn't apologize for the mess.

We hiked,

and we drove,

and we celebrated.  

I felt that I should meet my inner perfectionist, somewhere in all that, and shake her up a little bit.  The world was not perfect, and I was not perfect.  The world was ugly and messy and dissapointing, and I needed to stare into all of that to understand that it was somehow part of something beautiful.  And so with each opportunity, to this very moment, I am asking myself what I can do with the beautiful messiness, and who will still love and accept me should they walk right into it with me.

And the answer, of course, is this little, solid group of friends and family whom I have intentionally placed around myself, like a group of fluffy pillows to pad my falls.  I am blessed.  Not lucky, as I tossed out there in my last post.  I believe, actually, in neither luck, nor coincidence, nor accidents.  I am here and happy and more whole than ever because I chose to experience awe and gratitude, again and again, for all of the blessings that come my way.  I am following my intuition as best I can, always chasing truth and what is real, and facing the hard work as it shows up, so that I can continue growing into the best version of myself-- all of those failings, and all of that messiness included.  There is more work to be done.

I added to my inky collection last summer, the word that hums through the undertones of my life, and five little birds in flight, for the five of us- Kevin and the kids and I, making this journey together.

We traveled a good deal this year, down to Indianapolis to spend some days with these little buddies of ours while their Mama delivered their new baby, 

and with these buddies of ours (also speaking of new, third babies) to Wisconsin Dells for a fun vacation.

We did the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee this year with family, 

in a mountainside cabin with a view and a settling energy I will never forget,

and we found ourselves floating down a river in bright yellow innertubes.

Kevin and I took a trip to Vegas for our eleventh wedding anniversary, 

and we experienced Utah and Arizona, where we hiked through quiet and still, rocky caverns.

I collected twenty-three pages of favorite quotes this year,

and finally figured out a layout and an atmosphere that is comfortable to me, here.

We saw the Dalai Lama speak in person over the summer, and I attended a fantastic monthly Buddhist meditation class.  Each Kevin and I did something we said we would never do again, and spent the last six months settling into churches we both love, each of us supporting the other with where we need to be.  We've gotten involved with a monthly soup kitchen, and we've met more new friends who have turned out to be icing on the cake.

We've created bonds with our homeschool buddies and taken lots of day-trips.  I bought an iPhone, I conquered every version of Angry Birds, I took the kids to see lots of plays and musicals this year.   

Kevin and I saw U2, which was hands-down, the best concert ever (even if I failed to bring my real camera).

I read this year.  I read and read and read and read, 

and it was one journey inward (and backwards and forwards) after the next.

We said good-bye to friends, both very real friends and quasi-real,

and we watched quietly the sun set,

the silkworm dangle,

and the Autumn breeze blow.

We hosted the holidays again,

and counted ourselves so blessed for full tables and full bellies.

We enjoyed the glow, 

remain present,

and bring nothing but hope, bravery, possibility and love to the year ahead.

Semi-annual Somewhat-messed up Completely-accurate and terrible Christmas poem, from our family to yours

I really want to blog again but don’t know where to start.

We’ve hung the garland, trimmed the tree and made some Santa art.

I’m lying really, it was glitter trees and windows with bright lights,

But if I don’t say something here, it could be six more nights.

That’s Christmas-- no. Oh nevermind.  That day is drawing near.

Our car’s broke down, the gifts half wrapped, kick Santa in his… ear.

Why so violent?  Why so mean?  What did that round man do?

Took credit for all good presents now, and ate our cookies, too.

Fold laundry, Donder, change bed sheets Rudolph, is what that man should say,

For we have three young children here who busy me each day.

I like them so, I buy them gifts and take them lots of places.

We pick up donuts, sing Christmas carols and smile our happy faces.

Then we get home, it’s late and then the bath time is a must,

But if you know about little boys, they’re sure that they might rust.

Resist the bath, resist the bed, leave legos on the floor.

Why doesn’t Santa ever step on them, and expletive out the door!?

It’s late and it’s dark and I did not see that sharp remaining block,

I stepped on it, collapsed and cursed, I’m bleeding through my sock.

Oh shit, I say, I’ve got things to do that involve a lot of walking,

My foot is throbbing, I’m overtired and sick of all this talking. 

On Dasher, On Dancer, now Prancer in line behind our sweet little Comet,

Let’s stay away from the public this week so we don’t get the flu and vomit.

It’s going around, I’ve heard moms say, and doesn’t sound like fun,

Kids soil each surface and miss the pot and make me want to run.

Run, I said, not Runs, that’s different, though it accompanies too.

I have three kids so no surprise my poem just turned to poo.

Oh that was gross, I’m sorry friends, do say that you’ll forgive.

Let’s talk about happy things again, like Christmas dinner and gin.

Gin doesn’t rhyme and neither does vodka but it might be what I’m drinking,

If I don’t score more time this week, it’s the only way, I’m thinking.

Nativity play and Christmas break from homeschool are just fine,

Pajama day and craft away and memories that shine.

I hope they know when it’s all done I created this for them,

So when they grow up they’ll do the same and gift me a big gem.

A ruby maybe, or sapphire or diamond or giant loaf of bread.

What? I ask. All one in the same! Do not a sad tear shed!

I’m tired now, for real now, and I have to end this, friends.

Merry Christmas to you, I’ll be back real soon to show you how it ends.

I love you, good night, no I can’t stop, my gosh I’m just like the kids,

I need more water, I have to pee, my bed is full of squids.

Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight, goodnight, I’ll see you all tomorrow.

Or Thursday or Friday or Saturday, in happiness and sorrow.

Merry Christmas to all, I heard him say, the bulky man in fur,

Bring happiness and peace, dear Santa, of these I dream for sure.

Twas the day after Christmas...

Twas the day after Christmas and all through the house,

Not a soul had slept in, not even my spouse.

The shreds of the wrapping were tossed here and there,

Boxes under my feet, scotch tape in my hair.

The children were glued to the screen with the Wii,

New Mario, new Football, a DS playing spree!

What the heck are you doing, I begged of my clan,

And they looked at me puzzled, in fear of my plan.

Snow deep in the yard, casserole dried to each dish,

Legos spread far and wide, magic wand my first wish.

A hope and a wish and miraculous prayer, 

Beseeching the tot that a nap might be there.

At one o’clock, two o’clock, three, I don’t care.

An hour of silence or four is quite fair.

Holiday cookies for breakfast, more casseroles for lunch,

Larger pants on Monday for the whole snacking bunch.

New Year’s Eve party Friday and then Jack turns Five,

Holy God will I make it through hosting, alive?

Then up in the bedrooms arose such a clatter,

That I climbed from the laundry to see what was the matter.

Cinderella, they shouted, and My Little Pony!

The girl is trashing our loot, they did grumble and groany.

Snow White wed Luigi, she made Skywalker drink tea,

She messed up my bed! What’s that smell?  Did she pee?!

Oh sister, toddler, go play with your own,

Or bother our mother- just throw us a bone.

Where is your father?!  I then shrieked with delight,

He is off work today!  And should handle this fight!

Then what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But my husband with Bears game and bottle of beer.

We should relax, he proclaimed without doubt,

And I wondered what the hell this Relax was about.

No laundry or cooking or trash?  I did shout.

Just leave it a mess, he said-- then I passed out.

Then spouse and three children, they dragged me to bed, 

dropped my limbs, bruised my ribs, set my book by my head.

I began to recover, moved blissfully to read.

The children, they lived, ate Gramma’s brownies with speed.

Tomorrow is different, we’ll get back on our task,

And if they don’t help, a swift kick to the…ask.

Enjoy your new toys and don’t clean your house,

If you need forcing I’ll lend you my spouse.

A new sort of post-Christmas, I proclaim with delight,

Relaxation to all—I think I just might.

There were two in a bed and the little one said...

2008

My girlfriend Jenny buys a new mattress which is non-refundable and on which she is uncomfortable.  We need a new bed.  We buy hers.  All are happy.

6.2010

Our relatively new mattress is sinking.  How is this possible?  All are no longer happy.

11.2010

I can no longer sleep on said mattress.  The middle of the bed has sunken a full six inches lower than the head and foot.  My back is aching and I am pretty ticked off that a two year old mattress could possibly break down so quickly.  I spend a few weeks (hardly) sleeping on the couch.

12.12.2010

We suck it up, spend the money and buy a new bed.  A set, with box springs and headboard and footboard.  We are grown-ups!  The salesman at the furniture store warns us that if we get blood on the mattress, like he once did while clipping his toenails, we will void our warranty.  Freaking Gross, sir.

12.18.2010   8am

We empty out our bedroom in preparation for delivery of our new bed.  I list the old bed on freecycle, and we drag the old(ish) mattress to the living room floor while it waits to be spoken for by new owners.

12.18.2010   8:17am

Watching the children roll around on the mattress on the living room floor, I observe something peculiar: this two year old mattress, which upstairs could have functioned as a skate board park as it were, now appears flat.  

12.18.2010   8:18am

I lay down on the mattress.  Solid and comfortable.

8:19am

Kevin and I rush upstairs to inspect our box springs, which is original to us from my college days.  Sunken.  Cracked.  Garbage.

8:20am

DOH!

9:02am

Our new, non-refundable bed is delivered.  

We sit on the hall floor, half way between the new bed in our bedroom and the new-ish bed in the living room. We debate a solution.  Leave it on freecycle? Swap our boys' twin beds out for this queen size? They sleep together half the time anyway.  Give it to-- GASP!  Marin?  She's been climbing out of her crib for months, and soon we will be shelling out money for another twin mattress or a trip to the Emergency Room anyway.

9:47am

Kevin begins dismantling the crib in Marin's room.  I sit a few feet away and cry about my babies and all of the growing up they keep doing.

10:32am

We bid farewell to the crib that our three babies slept in.  Kevin's dad purchased this crib for KJ before he was born, and then he passed away in 2005, while I was pregnant with Jack.  He never got to hold Jack or Marin, but there was always something nice about the idea that they slept in the bed their grandpa bought.  

Since then the crib has been broken and repaired, jumped in, chewed on, climbed in and out of, and recalled.  After three babies it has seen too much wear and we must have a new crib before the arrival of our next baby, for safety.  This was the end of something.

11:14am

A very small princess (dressed in a flower girl dress) in a very large bed.  With the most child-friendly sheets we could dig out of the linen closet-- flannel snowmen.  Does princess bedding even come in Queen Size, Extra Deep Pocket, I wonder?

11:17am

Antics.

1:25pm

Naptime is shaky as expected.  The security of her little crib is gone and she needs me to lay down with her, rub her back, rock her, stay with her.  She eventually dozes off for a little while.  

9:35pm

Pleased with my brilliant plan to keep her up past her bedtime, in order to create a tired, sleep-ready toddler who will stay in her new bed, I rock her, lay with her, read her stories and rub her back before I kiss her goodnight.

9:37pm

She joins me in the living room.  I put her back.

9:42pm

She climbs into her brother's bed.  She pokes his cheek hastily, attempting to wake him before I can reach her.  I put her back.

9:43pm

She follows me out.  I put her back.

9:52pm

She has emptied her toy box onto the floor and requests that I play with her.  I decline, politely.

9:54pm

She joins me in the kitchen.  I put her back.

9:55pm

She emerges.  I put her back.

9:56pm

She emerges.  I put her back.

9:57pm

She emerges.  I put her back.

10pm

As a necessary next step, I put up a baby gate in her doorway.  She cries for a minute or two and falls asleep.

10:22pm

She is at her gate again.  She requests that I sleep with her.

11:34pm

I am still in her room (less) patiently giving back rubs and coercing an unwilling toddler to sleep.  A first-night peaceful transition is what I am holding out hope for.

12:07am

I kiss her and head downstairs to turn off lights for the night.  It could be a long(er) one, I fear.  Then I crawl into my own bed.

12:42am

Just as we drift off to sleep I hear Marin toss a book into the hall, over the baby gate.  Then another.  Another another another another another.  Kevin reminds me that books can be easily cleaned up in the morning.  Maybe she will sleep soon, he suggests.

12:53am

She has emptied her entire bookshelf into the hallway, easily more than two hundred books.  Then she tosses her beloved pink blankie, sippy cup of water and Pegasus stuffed animal atop the pile.  And cries.

12:59am

I retrieve her blankie and pony, damn near kill myself sliding atop the large pile of books and climb over the baby gate, giving up all hope of sleeping in my own new bed, just hoping for any sleep at all, in hers.

1:12am

I realize that I need a decent pillow and maneuver my body half-way over the gate, over the pile of books and crane my neck around the corner to wake the blissfully sleeping father of this beautiful, insane child in order that he could deliver my pillow.  Then we will all sleep.

1:13am

In his sleep, he grabs my pillow and makes his way around our new bed, forgetting that we are now the proud owners of a footboard.  He slams his knee into the pointy wooden corner of the footboard, letting out a painful scream, and goes running down the hall.  (Then we will all not sleep.)

1:14am

I leap over the gate, over the books, and follow him downstairs to the kitchen, seeing a bright red trail of blood seeping into the carpeting down the hall and the stairs.  People do not think to dart into the nearby bathroom WITH THE TILED FLOOR, in their sleep.

1:15am

I direct my husband to sit in the kitchen and elevate his leg, applying pressure with a washcloth to the two inch gash on his knee.  I take a look to see whether I should wake the (two) sleeping children in order to drive their father to the hospital for stitches.  Surely Marin will sleep in the car.  The gash cannot be fixed by stitches.

1:21am

I begin scrubbing the carpet, from our bedroom all the way down the hall past the bathroom and down the stairs.  There is a large drip of blood every ten inches or foot, at least.  And none of it is coming out.  We joke about homeowners insurance.  Kevin utilizes lamaze breathing techniques.

1:43am

I return to the kitchen with a bottle of peroxide, large padded bandages and surgical tape.  I clean my husband's still-bleeding knee.  He refrains from punching me.  I bandage his leg.  I point him towards the dark brown, family room couch.  He will not be voiding our warranty on the very first night of owning our bed before we've even slept in it, as per Mr. Bloody Toenail Salesman.

1:52am

I begin scrubbing the bloody kitchen floor.  Our house, it appears, has been the setting for a massacre.

2:13am

Exhausted, I drag myself back upstairs, peeking in on our baby daughter, who I am positive is sleeping by now, since she has been so quiet.  And because it's after two o'clock in the freaking morning.  Our eyes meet and she greets me-- Hi Mom!  I lecture her, offering approximately eight million, nine hundred thousand and forty-six more words than she even understands in the English language, and I am sure that I sound exactly like Charlie Brown's teacher, but I don't even care.  

Wah wahwahwah wah wah, Wah wah wah wah stay in your damn bed wah wah.

2:18am

I flop into my new bed.  Marin stays in hers for the night.

7:04am

Marin is awake, already.  I snap photographic evidence, so that you may believe.

...And also so that I may have something to show her thirty years from now, when she is exhausted and would like me to babysit her own spirited toddler child.

Most thankfully, these are the stories we can shake our heads at and laugh about twenty-four hours later.  Just, er, not quite, while deep in the tiresome trenches.

Is snow. Is cold. Is Midwest. Is not manageable.

I remember being a kid and hearing grown-ups complain about the snow.  I grew up on the South Side of Chicago, where up and down city blocks people dug out their parking spaces and marked them like historic warriors might mark castles they had taken, jabbing large symbolic flags atop the highest tower with a grunt and a fist pump, only in Chicago it's done beside a concrete curb...with old kitchen chairs.  (You heard me.)  Aah the city, what a pretty time of year. Also there, snow was white for about five minutes, and you had to enjoy the untouched freshness of it then because in no time it became a dirty charcoal-colored slush along every street.  I still loved it all as a kid.

Of course now I am a mother to three children of my own, and I fully understand what the grown-ups were complaining about.  Every time the kids and I so much as make a quick run to the post office, or worse, Christmas shop, bulky sweatshirts, coats, hats, mittens and boots are involved. Then at least one child must shed all of those layers because he has to pee.  And you can forget the idea that even one of three children might make it to the car (which has now been warming up in the driveway for twenty-seven minutes while you bundled said children) without throwing snow, falling in snow, losing a glove or boot in snow, or being blasted by snowballs.  And we've not even gotten in the car yet, or tried to get buckles done over bulky coats.  Also, we've not driven anywhere, yet...sliding in the snow. 

We've hardly left the house in three days now, which is an insane concept for my family.  We are always on the go, somewhere.  (But oh the effort involved here.)  Ironically, my boys can't get enough outside time, despite the wind and fresh flakes and twelve degree temperatures.

Fine.  We will agree to your ridiculous layering ideas if only you will open the door for us.  

Why, look.  A snow drift.  What ever shall I do with it?

Common sense: Face Plant.

And joy!

This guy is actually the bigger outdoor enthusiast of the two.  

I tried, I really did try, to keep them inside where it was warm when all of this frigid snow business began.  Truthfully, it takes almost as long to double up on socks, snowpants and locate matching snowball-thick gloves as it does to play outside, and then once they come back in, everyone strips down and runs upstairs for new clothing, leaving me a heaping, sopping pile to contend with.  

They are pretty happy to come back in when I call them, though, when I observe that their noses and cheeks have reached an adequate shade of red and their play has slowed, because they know there will be hot chocolate.

It's an agreement I once made with myself, that I will give them certain norms that they can one day look back on favorably.  And coming in from the snowy yard always means mugs of hot chocolate on the table, with marshmallows heaped ceiling-high, and a spoon to eat them with, of course.  A dollop of Cool Whip stirred in, if we have any on hand.

Our mother was forever nagging us about clearing our dishes from the table and picking up the endless array of oww my foot, dammit tiny lego pieces from every square inch of the house, they will say, but at least the hot chocolate was well-marshmallowed.  

And then I will have served my purpose on this Earth.

This one (a fashionista, indeed, this one) knows all about the hot chocolate deal as well.  Just as soon as she finishes eating up all of the snow that has fallen in the door (don't judge) she too begins begging for marshmallows and choc-yet juju.

I believe the unspoken portion of the winter deal I made with myself is that no child shall play out in the snow until he or she can trudge through it on his or her own.  Toddler snow play?  Daddy's terrain.

(Have I ever told you how physically cold I am, all the time, ever since I lost almost a hundred pounds a few years ago?  The same is true for my sister Sant, who lost her weight at that same time.  We are cold, constantly.)

We are going to take these grey-white days one little hour at a time. Thankfully after the quiet that was the last three days, which had me climbing the walls and wrapping Christmas gifts a full week early, we have a flurry of activity to look forward to in the next week, including the Museum of Science & Industry's Christmas Trees from around the world, our annual Christmas Lights night in the car with Sant & Leslie, cookies with Gramma and gingerbread houses with Honey, our annual holiday movie day and finally, hosting our first Christmas.  I hope for the sake of my kids that everything remains white.  They are really pulling for a white Christmas, and it's looking pretty favorable.

Then it can all melt away until next December, yes?  A Midwestern girl can dream.

It's my kid in a box

Do your kids play in cardboard boxes?  

Laundry baskets, maybe?

Light sabers out of empty tubes?

Prefer playing in the late Fall pots of dirt to enjoying the pretty Summer flowers? 

Find random spools of ribbon and make fifteen kinds of necklaces and bracelets and decide the only possible use for the leftover ribbon can be to hang post-Halloween ghosts above the stairs?  (Successfully frightening the daylights out of their father at 4:30am, might I add.)

For whatever reason, my kids have always been crazy about playing in cardboard boxes.  And with the beginning of Christmas present shipments rolling in, there has been a Cardboard Feeding Frenzy in our house.  They cut and color and tape (and tape and tape and tape some more) to make cars, houses, ships, you name it.  Last week they constructed a multi-room hotel up in the backyard playhouse, complete with Diet Pepsi box picnic table where they enjoyed lunch.

This week in our High Five Magazine Jack spotted an illustration of kids creating another sort of house in a giant cardboard box, with an opening door and a window.  And then the very next day Amazon.com found the largest box possible to ship a very small Christmas gift, and a new house was born.  

This time, Marin had plenty of space on her balcony to hang out her linens while they dried.

Might as well enjoy a little Ayn Rand while the laundry dries, eh?

Maybe I've been going about this all wrong after all.  Maybe we really should try gifting the kids shipping boxes, wrapping paper and tape for Christmas this year.  

Win, win.

During which he considered a new negotiating partner

Over the years I have become the new car hag haggler for the family.  Not only do I have little attachment to vehicles, but I am also incredibly cheap.  There are vehicles everywhere that can be sold for the price of my desiring, right?  (Yes.)

My youngest brother, Jakie (who is also known as Jake to ninety-eight percent of the planet who can get over it already, he's not a toddler anymore) totaled his car a couple weeks ago.  He walked away from the accident just fine, thankfully, but he needed to purchase a new car.  We negotiated his last car together.  Last night we set out to find a new one. 

Unable to find "the car" before dealers began closing, we stopped at a few closed lots to just peek at the inventory.  All of the car doors were locked. 

Except for one.  

Maybe I should have left a note: 

Good morning.  Sorry 'bout your battery.

I bet my brother can't wait to go back out with me this week.

Happy Independence Day!

Going to be a cooker in the Chicago area today, but looking forward to a fun day, just the same!  Be safe, friends. 

Random on a Thursday afternoon

• I strongly dislike the word "gasped" and wouldn't mind one bit if it divorced the English language forever.
• I love to paint.  Anything.  The same is true for photography.
• I would take a quiet night of long talks with a best girlfriend over a night at the bars any day.
• The Lego situation in my home has gotten completely out of hand.

• That being said, the boys and I recently sorted our stash and weeded out all of the Duplos for Marin and babies to come.  So far Marin builds every creation using only one color block at a time, which is adorable.
• After we sorted the Lego box, we moved on to sorting the rest of our family room toy bins.  Then I sorted all of homeschool and decided it was high time to get rid of the green walls I've not enjoyed.

• This, my friends, is proof that nesting is not unique to the pregnant mom.  We adoptive moms nest as well, apparently.
• I wish I had an "after" picture for you, but I've not gotten a drop of paint to the walls yet.  So far this summer camp thing has involved field trip chaperoning, lots and lots of taxi driving, toddler playdates and mini-project catch up.  I remain hopeful.

• We did the family 5K for Make-A-Wish Foundation last weekend, and unlike last year, there was only one child in a stroller, infinitely less whining and an actual crossing of the finish line.  It was still hot as hell (in case you cannot tell from my children's faces) but progress is nice!  I also got to try out my new Ergo baby backpack carrier when Jack needed some stroller time, and I am in love.
• Speaking of love, I have been carrying on a love affair with Peter Pan peanut butter for a couple months now, with no signs of slowing.  I eat it every. day.
• The smell of Cheerios in milk makes me so sick that I actually have to leave the room if someone pours it. 
• We have not used paper towels, paper napkins or paper plates in our house for over two years, and I have never missed them.

• The boys spending a few days a week at summer camp has allowed Marin to be my sole partner in crime in everything.  It has been fun to re-experience the only child thing again.  Here she has traded chopping vegetables with me for snacking on them.  "I eat you cawwot, mama," she noted.
• For years I have been fairly obsessive about sweeping and vacuuming floors, and wiping down countertops.  On the other hand, I allow baskets of clean folded laundry to pile hip-high along my bedroom wall, and make vision boards more often than I make beds.  Pick a neurosis, I say.
• Tomorrow is Kevin's 34th birthday.  He asked for a new guitar amp (and got it, two weeks ago) and orange jello cake.  Easy to please, that guy.  In running with the trend, I hope the coming year is his best yet.

Backyard Chatter

The neighbor kids next door to us got a trampoline for their back yard this year.  It sounds like so much fun- the bouncing, squealing, squealing and bouncing.  They set it up right beside our shared six foot privacy fence, so we hear all of the fun but see only little heads bobbing up and down over the fence. 

So Kevin and the kids and I are out in the back yard recently, and we hear the bouncing begin.  There are four or five little girls and a boy or two jumping, giggling together and switching back and forth between speaking English and Spanish.     

We hear one girl announce excitedly in broken English that she has a game to play.

We're sort of half processing this from our side of the fence, as we're busy hanging laundry and pulling weeds in our back yard.  But hearing it nonetheless. 

So her game, she says, is for everyone to jump as Hiiiiiiigh as they can, and then jump off the trampoline, onto the ground!

Yikes, I think.  Dangerous.

And then, she continues, once you land on the ground--- the person who cries?  Goes to hell.

I laughed so hard I almost peed mah pants.

Short story gone nowhere

 
Get a flower.

Shoot a flower.

 
Give a flower.

 
Give a flower.

 
Shoot a flower.

 
Kill a flower.

The end.

FaceSuck

Once upon a time there was a mother of three who had twenty-eight forty-seven million heaping baskets of dirty, smelly laundry waiting for her, bills to pay online, lessons to plan for homeschool and, oh, right, children to care for.  And although normally when all of these things come to a head the mother runs straight to the protective arms of Bloglines or Google Finance to hide for a while, one day she thought she might try something new.  And she joined Facebook.

I'll just log in here and find my best gal pals.  And my blog buddies, the mother said to herself. 

But then she found that her friends were friends with other friends and old friends and far away friends and maybe a couple people who weren't exactly friends, but hell, she really wanted to see their pictures and they became friends for the sake of just that.

And all at once the afternoon was gone and the children had appropriately destroyed the living room (and the kitchen!) and familiarized themselves with the ins and outs of early Full House episodes (and the mother's heart sang for that.)   

(Culture, people.  Historical American culture, I give them.) (And a timeline using Uncle Jesse's hair.) 

(And parenthesis, I give you.)

The mother made dinner and all of the other things that (the law) says are important to supply children with, and she shooed them off to more Full House or bed or something and raced back to the computer to continue her own historical dig. 

By late that evening the friend confirmation emails were rolling in like high foamy tide and people were writing on walls and generally overwhelming the poor mother who thought so innocently, early that day, that she should look up an old gal-pal or two.  To put off laundry for another thirty minutes.  All in one day it was like re-meeting damn near everyone she'd ever met throughout her lifetime, and she couldn't stop clicking to find more, just around the corner.  She had been sucked in.

Holy hell. 

Are you there too?

(For the record, I've spent the better part of Facebook's existence with my nose in the air swearing to the four corners of the world that I would never go there.  Until yesterday.  And had I thought I would ever actually dedicate a blog post to it?  I'd have sworn something or other about that, too.)

I can has summer?

I will never, never, neverevereverever complain about the lingering seventy-five degree summer we are having here in the Chicago area.  For two months now it has been just warm enough to enjoy the shorts, the popsicles and our multitude of day-trips, maybe even hot enough some afternoons to break a sweat while mowing the lawn, and perfect enough to sleep with the cool night breeze blowing in through the windows.  This is what Tahiti must feel like.  

...You know, if you take away the corn fields, steel mills, Willis Tower (wtf?) and traffic backups, adding in the crystal blue ocean and black sand beaches.  

Okay, nevermind.

  

We have run our air conditioning only four times this year, and that combined with my heavily utilized laundry lines, my checkbook too is dancing a little checkbook jig.

Who knew hanging laundry outdoors could be such a pleasant, even calming experience?  Not me, is who.  But I've learned. 

Of course, my cordial next door neighbors are now well versed in exactly which colors and brands of underwear we prefer, and probably will discuss over dinner tonight that the neighbor lady with all of the laundry?  Is really slipping.  I saw her taking pictures of sheets in her back yard today.

(Don't worry too much, though, I am well overshadowed by the cooky little boys who play in the hose each morning, often while still wearing their pajamas, and sometimes one of whom refuses to wear pants.)

This morning while Marin napped we erupted Mentos and Diet Coke in our back yard, and then moved on to a water balloon fight.  It was our first quiet morning at home in many, so we took advantage of that kind of fun, too.

This is why I have a blog.  To remind my children, when I am old and grey and they sue me for Maternal Damages and demand therapy, that, actually, we had fun.

 

After the water balloons had all exploded (read: four point three seconds,) they moved immediately back to playing with the plastic pop bottle and the hose while I went inside to catch up on blogs work my fingers to the bone.  I had dumped most of the non-fountainous pop into the grass in fear of what the fallout might be once I had two highly-caffinated little boys on my hands, and so they created their own drink for me.  That they wanted me to enjoy before their eyes.     

It contained two ounces of diet pop, icy cold hose water, eight white, slimy Mentos, three of which were bitten by Jackson, two brown apple slices abandoned in the grass after yesterday's picnic lunch, and a handful of clovers picked from the yard. 

I politely declined. 

Jackson has since run into the house for eighty-seven pee breaks, so you can assume who enjoyed the spoils.
 

Twas the week before Christmas

Twas the week before Christmas, and all through the house,

not a creature was sleeping, thanks to the three-month-old mouse.

The ornaments were hung (over and over) on the trees with great care,

still hoping for Lego Mars Mission to be there.

The children still putting off bedtime past ten,

while visions of actually meeting the fat man in the red suit well past midnight dance in their heads.

The mother is tired, the father is too,

now Jack has a fever, I hope not the flu.

Then up in the bedrooms arose such a clatter,

I stopped washing dishes to yell, "NOW what's the matter?"

"Oh nothing, dear mother. We're just playing blocks."

"And diving through clean folded laundry and socks."

Up to the bedrooms to assess the scene,

while the children protest that I'm no fun and mean.

Refold the whites, purples, reds and blues too,

back in the baskets before I kill you.

Time to bake cookies, see lights and wrap gifts,

plan kindergarten parties and one last field trip.

Christmas is fun, a special time of the year,

though busy and crazy and calls for much vodka tequila beer.

Our vacuum has broken, our car's in the shop,

I sprained my right foot, and now I must hop.

This year I'd like a maid, and sleep, and more time,

to have all three I would trade my last dime.

The gifts still not wrapped but the cards made it out,

"Almost done shopping," I excitedly shout!

On Weight Loss Wednesday I now take a pass,

the New Year shall find me still with fat ass.

There will be time in January, February and March too,

to eat almost nothing but tofu and poo.

But for now I eat cake and ohhhhh cookie dough

and hot chocolate and donuts after shoveling snow.

The holiday parties have now all begun,

with crackers and cheeses and beef on a bun.

Oh good Lord how did this rhyme turn to food?

It began about Christmas and a jolly red dude.

We're busy and happy, enjoying the season,

with family and friends for every good reason.

So now do forgive me, I really must fly,

the baby is fussing and I need some pie.

I hope that you, too, are enjoying your days,

Merry Christmas a tad early,

love, all of us Rays.

In the name of all things random

So now that winter is here, I have a question that is begging to be asked. 

I grew up in an older house, fairly typical for the south side of Chicago, with radiators for heat.  I remember coming in from playing in the snow and stripping back down to the last layer of clothing, putting all of our wet coats, hats, and gloves across the living room and dining room radiators to dry.  When it was cold in the house, I remember laying a blanket across the radiator and laying on top of it to warm up.  When I wanted to write on the winter ice that formed on the living room window most mornings?  I sat on the nice toasty radiator.  Both my younger brother and my younger sister split their heads open on those radiators and needed stitches, but that is neither here nor there.

The first house we purchased when we got married (that we very much still own, renters going strong, holla!) had forced air heat.  That was something very new to me, and I found that I was cold all the time that first winter.  Not that it had anything to do with the fact that both our non-existent insulation and our windows went back to, literally, 1904. 

So I ran the heat on 74 that first winter.

The second winter we realized that we should close the storm windows and cover the leaky front door.

The third winter we had KJ and finally put hair dryer plastics over the windows and ran the heat on 75.  Did I mention our furnace was twenty-five years old, too?

I was always so cold in that house.

Fast forward to this winter, 2008.  We live in a house that was built in 2004.  Our furnace and windows are four years old, and our walls have insulation (amazing what the human race has come up with over 100 years of house building).  I would like to tell you that it is because we have a new baby that I have kicked our heat up with the arrival of winter temperatures, but, eh, we carried the same constant temp last year.

74 during the day.

73 at night.

I hate being cold.  I can't stand the thought of a cold nose or toes, living in a sweatshirt and under blankets to keep warm inside the house.  So I keep it what I've been told is fairly-tropical in here. 

My parents, my in-laws and most everyone else I know runs their heat lower than we do, and even our doctor's office suggests we keep the heat at 68 or higher.  Sixty-eight, really?  Often times when we have visitors who have, ahem, visted in the past, they wear short sleeves - sometimes even pointing out that they are intentionally wearing short sleeves because our house is so warm.  (Not that I'm offended.  I'm completely secure in my heating needs, thank you.) 

Recently I wondered if I really should kick it down a bit, with the conversations out of curiosity I've been having with people lately.  So I set our heat on 70 before I went to bed.  And when I got up the next morning, pulling back my double blankets, I went downstairs to find my six-year-old watching television on the couch.  Wearing his winter coat. 

So I just need to know...

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