And So It Begins (Again)

I have thought about blogging a lot over the past seven months. Nearly every day something niggles at the back of my mind to make me think I should just sit down and type it out - but always, up until this point, I've shoved it away - not wanting to spend the time. I haven't even read more than a handful of blogs in that time. I've missed my friends, my outlet and my 10-minute break from reality.

A lot has changed in seven months:

• We're buying a house - a very grown-up (and totally out of character for me) thing to do - and a statement, I suppose, that means that we're really here for awhile, no matter what.
• Buying a house and leaving the neighborhood we've inhabited for the past 4.5 years has made me realize how few roots I've put down. I will miss the convenience of being so close to downtown and the canyons. I will miss Woodstock's pre-school and the convenience. But it was startling to realize I'm not really going to miss anything else. I've not fit into my neighborhood very well - "the new girl on the block" mixed in with those who are life-long residents of both The Frontier and the neighborhood. I'm excited for the new adventure - and RIDICULOUSLY excited over my new kitchen. Giddy almost. Best (and most expensive). Christmas. Present. Ever.
  
• I've taken on a very part-time gig as a college instructor (which could be my dream job if it didn't involve going back to school for a ridiculous amount of time and money)
• The Seventies Palace had a Great Flood in late summer that essentially threw the world as I know it off its axis - the mental disruption from which I'm still recovering
• Pebbles had surgery (a congenital hernia repair - relatively minor, unless you're the one in 250,000 people listed on the "what could go wrong" risks sheet that had major life-threatening complications as a result of a "relatively minor" surgery - TWICE - which essentially negates the "relatively minor" term placed in front of any medical procedure for the rest of eternity)
• Woodstock started school - a pre-school program at the local elementary that both she and I love. She loves it because she's Woodstock - insatiably curious, social and independent almost to a fault. I love it because she loves it. And because I adore her teachers.
• I ran a 12k (7.4 miles) race in September - a mere 12 weeks after being able to run no more than a mile without my asthma strangling me. It was my second-biggest personal accomplishment of 2011. Oddly, it awakened me to the realization that I love running. Unfortunately, I also realized that living in The Frontier and having asthma means running in the cold, pollution-filled air of winter is virtually impossible, and it means I've had to take up what a friend terms the "hell-iptical". Alas, far from being as satisfactory as running, but it does offer time to catch up on The Hunger Games - because true to form, I'm several years behind the rest of the world in all that is "popular."
• And my biggest accomplishment of 2011: This week I will finish the Old Testament (no small feat, given that I read it last year cover-to-cover, and so I still remembered in great detail the challenge it was to slog through Leviticus. But not only that, it marks the accomplishment of a goal I had this year - to read all of the works included in our church's canon: Old & New Testaments, Book of Mormon, Doctrine & Covenants and Pearl of Great Price - cover to cover - in 2011. I did it. (Or will - I have 38 pages left in the Old Testament, my last work in 2011). I've gained an entirely new appreciation of scripture, doctrine and the above works this year - as reading them all one after the other in succession has helped me realize how closely the are intertwined. Reading 7+ pages a day of scripture has also solidified the foundation of my faith and made me realize what a great blessing it is in my life.

2011 has been a year of incredible turmoil in the sense of "life is never ever still" - and at the same time has brought some really good things (reference the new kitchen line above). Hopefully, the very end of 2011 also brings a return to blogging. I desperately need an outlet.

The Women of Tidewater

Today was an odd, reflective sort of day - not quite melancholy, not quite "in a funk," just deep in thought - meditative, if one can use that word when one is dealing with month-end reporting at work and two kids with cabin-fever at home.

Anyway, as talking heads discussed the events of last night ad nauseum and friends and family shared their thanks and support of the miliary community, I found myself reflecting back a decade ago (simply typing that makes me feel old), when so much of what was on the news this morning was part of my every day life in some manner.

10 years ago this spring I was in the middle of so many changes I wasn't sure where my life would end up. I was four or five months into a new job, in a new town (living, for the first and last time of my life, 5 minutes from the beach), among a new community of mostly active duty military families, acting in a leadership role of the children's organization at church (yes - someone actually put ME semi-in-charge of small humans at the tender age of not-much-over-twenty - me! Somehow we all survived and I'm pretty sure I'm a better person for it) and writing e-mails to Himself who was cruising around the Mediterranean in an enormous ship, eating his way through Europe.

It was an era of many defining moments - not the least of which was the horrible, terrifying events that would commence that fall. The events spearheaded by the man whose name seemed to roll off someone's tongue every third word this morning.

It has been awhile since I've taken out that portion of my life and examined it much. Today, I did just that, as I reflected on what the events of last evening meant to me - and how I felt about them. I thought about "the beginning" - where I was the evening I got word of the USS Cole bombing - and how sick I felt, as I had just begun my foray into life with active duty military friends, which made the whole thing seem that much more vivid and painful. I thought about the gauzy, laid-back summer of 2001, spent learning the ropes of adulthood and responsibility and real life. I thought about the pain and confusion that commenced with the terrorist attacks on 9/11. I thought about the people I knew deployed to the heated sands of the Middle East to fight a war without geopolitical boundaries - and of the constant reminders at home that the world had changed - the loaded fighter jets, the naked horizon devoid of ships at port, the startling absence of the menfolk in the church congregation ... And I thought about the day I stood on a cold, windy pier with a restless, 5-year-old Grover, peering into the horizon for the first sight of Himself's massive ship - returning home after a 7.5-month absence and a combat engagement in the Persian Gulf. I thought of the thousands of people crowded onto a little strip of land jutting into the mouth of the James River, crying and belting out the words to the Lee Greenwood anthem that makes me cry every time I hear the starting chords.

Mostly, however, the startling, unsettling news of last night made me think of the wonderful people who became permanent parts of the fabric of my life that year, in the days before the world changed forever. The women - mostly military spouses - who taught me about strength and love and loyalty and faith. The women, hailing from far-flung places, ideologies and experiences, who taught me about true friendship, support and patriotism. Women who shared tears and laughter and road trips and stories and e-mails and testimonies of love and faith and commitment.

Strangely, I found myself today not reflecting on the terrors brought about by the man whose life ended yesterday, but the friendships that came about the year he left his indelible mark on the world - the relationships that grew, blossomed and still nourish me today - a husband, two kids, a half dozen moves, several jobs and a few gray hairs later.

I truly believe God had a hand in helping weave together an afghan of warm hearts and open arms to prepare me to face the challenges that lay far beyond my young adulthood.

It was that, I reflected on today - that blanket of warmth, love, acceptance and friendship - the good things and people that helped shaped me into who I am now, and who I hope to raise my girls to be. Sometimes, out of the ashes of something terrible, a true treasure is discovered.

Today, I thought not of innocence and life lost, but of wisdom, friendship and faith found. To those who played a role in that - you know who you are - God Bless You, every one.

The Super Mom Attack: Naturally Dyed Easter Eggs

Once in awhile (okay, really more often than I'd care to admit), I get ideas.

Brilliant ideas.*

*Note: The above should be read with a heavy dose of sarcasm to ensure full appreciation of what is toe follow. Rolling your eyes and adding a British accent (after all, aren't we all wannabe Brits this week anyway?) would probably help.

It came after reading my favorite "Crunchy Mom" blog, where she extolled the virtues of naturally dyed eggs. Think of it! No artificial dyes seeping into your egg and possibly giving your kids ADHD. No packages. No chemicals. No fuss.

I was in heaven. No artificial anything? Wonderful! As it is, artificial sweeteners are banned from our house and the word "artificial" is looked at with little tolerance - mostly because I have no willpower once something enters my house, so if I keep it out, everyone is happy. And because my girls have enough of their lives to make all the food choices they want - my goal is to keep them healthy enough to have that option.

Of course, I stopped reading at this point. I missed the rather large caveat at the bottom, the inevitable, "BUT WAIT!".

Instead, I decided to try it out. After all, I was working from home the Friday before Easter - the perfect time to try out egg dying au naturale during my lunch hour. Woodstock thought I was quite possibly the coolest mom ever. That was enough for me.

She helped me fetch the necessary ingredients:
Turmeric
Paprika
Purple cabbage
Blackberries
Spinach
Carrots
Vinegar
Boiled eggs

And multiple pots. At this point I should have realized just what I was in for - anything that requires MULTIPLE pots and all four burners of one's stove should be examined a little more closely to see what the fine print had to point out.

Because fine print is not for Super Moms, I forged bravely ahead. I quizzed Woodstock on what colors the various edibles would produce, and she put them in little bowls. I measured water. She dumped crushed veggies, spices, and such. I added vinegar while she held her nose and asked, "Will it make the eggs stinky?!" We waited for the water to boil and the color to leach out into the water. We poured it over white eggs nestled in coffee mugs. This should have been another warning flag - it required the use of every coffee mug in the house. 12 eggs. 12 coffee mugs, which means I even had to use the ugly golfing mug I got as a white elephant gift and have been meaning to part with (for once, it's good thing I procrastinated!).

And then ... we waited. And waited. And waited. It wasn't so hard for me. At this point, my lunch hour (and then some) was over, and I was beginning to feel the hairs on the back of my neck raise in alarm given the color of my (now formerly) white counter top (yes, white, with gold speckles - an homage to the 1970s), along with the amount of dirty dishes now piled in the sink. Pots. Knives, cutting boards. Little bowls. And soon ... 12 coffee mugs, whenever the eggs decided they were done soaking.

Woodstock, however, being only 3 1/2, was not so into waiting. Every 2 minutes like clockwork she asked to see the eggs. After a couple of hours, she forgot and eventually focused her energies on something else.

Dinner rolled around, and I re-entered the kitchen. Inwardly I groaned. Not even Mr. Clean's fabulous magic eraser (reserved for special occasions) could remove the turmeric-blackberry-paprika infused stains on the counters.

The moment of truth had arrived. One by one I pulled out the eggs and dried them with a kitchen towel (which also now bears the rather psychadelic hue of turmeric-blackberry-paprika). As it turns out, carrots make lousy dye. As does Spinach. Probably because it was the last one, and I forgot and boiled all the water out of the pan and had to add new - all of the green likely evaporated into thin air with the original water. Bad mom. Although purple cabbage was a much-touted source of natural blue dye - and the water was a lovely blue violet color, the egg was ... white. Maybe a touch whiter due to a slight tinge of blue. But really not noticeable to Super Mom and her offspring.

But the other 9 eggs? Beautiful pale Easter egg colors - they looked like Robin's eggs and other naturally occurring colored eggs. A bit speckled. A bit uneven in their color. But beautiful.

Woodstock gasped, "Oh mom, they are soooooo beee-uuuuu-ti-ful!" Pebbles said, "Egg!" repeatedly, as if we were mid-way through a vocabulary lesson. I began to wonder what possessed me to dye 12 eggs when 1/3 of the people in the room (ahem, me) didn't even like eggs and the remaining 2/3 had the collective appetite of a sparrow.

As it turns out, 5 days later, my counters are still stained. I had to wash the mugs twice. (It turns out natural dyes dye everything else right along with the eggs). I still have 6 sad hard boiled eggs in pretty colors in my fridge, taunting me. "Do not waste us," they chant, "Even if it means giving in, salting the heck out of us, and eating us just so you don't waste food." Because those eggs know I'd rather choke them down than throw them away. I still am exhausted thinking about the sheer amount of chopping, measuring and boiling required to eeek out those pretty pale colors.

But Woodstock is terribly proud of her beee-uuuuu-ti-ful Easter eggs. And while naturally dyed eggs are a PAIN IN THE NECK, it required close supervision, which meant spending a solid 90 minutes sandwiched between the two girls standing on stools in my one-and-a-half-bum kitchen. Some day, while Woodstock will likely not care about how hard I worked to save her from the evils of Red Dye #3 and Yellow Dye #6, maybe she will remember the time she and I spent in the kitchen conducting her very first science experiment, and remember how much her mom loved to spend time with her. That will probably make staring at turmeric-blackberry-paprika stained counter tops for the next six months worth it.

Until next holiday, when Super Mom attacks once again.

Good Friday.

If I ever needed Good Friday, it was today. There was nothing particularly wrong with today - other than this lingering chest stuffiness (which is trying its hardest to turn into bronchitis), two kids beyond tired of winter, a pile of work that was not very motivating, a house that would probably cause the child protective service people to gasp in horror and a pending drive to Happy Valley. (It doesn't matter that I lived for 18 months in Happy Valley or that it technically has fewer inhabitants than The Frontier. It still has worse traffic, more construction, more sprawl and results in more under-my-breath grumblings in the car while Woodstock says, "What mama? I can't hear you."

Tonight, once it was quiet, the girls were asleep, the laundry and dish washer were started, I listened to a podcast I'd been wanting to hear while scrubbing pots and pans and sweeping. (Sometimes I'd like to tell people my third job is as an after-hours janitor).

It was on Good Friday and Easter and how the celebration has morphed over the years.

I stopped to think about Good Friday - the day when many Christians observe the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ. Yet, little is said about the single most significant event in human history - the time CHrist spent in the garden atoning for each of us - individually - the loneliness and sadness and hurt and pain and disappointment and grief and guilt and sorrow and sin. The event that came before Christ surrendered himself to be presented before Roman officials in a mock trial.

This has been one of those incredibly long weeks. Two sick kids, one sick mom a seemingly endless season of rain and cold and damp, a house that has self-reproducing piles and an imaginary cleaning fairy that listens about as well as a 3-year-old. One of those weeks when the silence is too quiet, the noises are too loud, the to do list is too long ... I caught myself thinking how the atonement takes care of times like this too. That Christ felt all of this - and more - as he submitted himself in prayer to his Father. That he knows what it feels like to be a parent who doesn't feel well and still must plow through without thought of sleep or noodle soup or respite in order to keep the world (and the children) functioning at a semi-appropriate level.

It's a simple little thing - this too shall pass - and yet ... I'm glad for the rmeembrance that my Savior knows ME and suffered for ME and submitted Himself to unspeakable horrors in order to make MY life a little easier.

Good Friday indeed.

It's That Time of Year Again...

CAUTION: If small children (or adults still longing to be small children) are reading this - I'm warning you now, the Easter Bunny is about to be discussed in full detail.

There are eggs and plastic grass strewn from one end of the house to another. My mom friends are "making a list and checking it twice" regarding what an over-sized imaginary. Every store has beautiful (and overpriced) frilly dresses hanging in the front windows.

It can only mean one thing: Easter is just around the corner.

I've caught myself a few times nearly uttering the blasphemous phrase, "I hate Easter." Truth be told, I LOVE Easter. I love the message of redemption, the time to reflect on the most significant even in Human history - the atonement, sacrifice and resurrection of my Savior. The act that will ensure my myriad of human faults won't be enough to keep me from exaltation.

What I don't like is "Easter" - the "celebration part." And not just because I don't like eggs and I get stuck with a ton of them every spring. One can only hide them in so many things, and while the girls would gladly eat them 3 meals a day I cannot in good conscience indulge them.

I love spring. I love egg hunts. I love giving little presents to the girls. I love frilly dresses (as long as I'm not the one that has to wear them - or pay full price for them). But why do we have to completely overshadow what is arguably the most religious, solemn holiday of the year with fluff and consumerism?

Maybe I'm jaded - after all - there was no Easter Bunny in my house growing up. We got small baskets, but my parents made sure it was known that they were the providers. We did egg hunts and egg dying and had an annual Easter picnic - but we did it the day before Easter. Easter Sunday was a day to don new dresses (or dress in our best clothes) and attend services. It was a slightly more reverent, religious Sunday than normal Sundays.

One could argue the same thing about Christmas - but I dissent to some degree. Christmas is FAR too over-commercialized and very much a "gimme" holiday and could stand to be toned down a lot. However, the celebration of Christ's birth is about good will to all men and the gift our Father in Heaven gave the world in the form of his only begotten Son. I find no fault with giving in the spirit of giving, of celebrating life and family and good will. Even Santa is fine (to some degree) - as he embodies the spirit of Christmas in giving and celebrating the good.

The Easter Bunny and baskets stuffed to the brim with more candy than is handed out on Halloween are another thing entirely. I understand where the tradition of egg coloring and Easter Bunnies and so forth come from - as part of the Spring Equinox celebrations and the joyous celebration of the new season. But over-sized furry mammals and plastic eggs (and ESPECIALLY that horrendous green plastic grass) have incredibly little to do with one of the most solemn, significant and religious observances there is. I am fine with the "rebirth" theme - after all, the celebratory point of Easter is resurrection and the rebirth of humanity's soul as we are provided a way back "home." Yet other than an alarmingly high fertility/reproductive rate, rabbits are still a long ways from being the symbols of the true Easter holiday.

I'm not totally grinchy. Woodstock and Pebbles get small token gifts, and will color and hunt for eggs (I'm soliciting egg recipes now - only the good ones, please) - on Saturday. On Sunday they will dress in nice clothes (probably not new clothes because it is disgusting how many clothes they already have) and attend church.

Some would call me a whacked-out religious zealot. I'm not. I have a very simple faith and I am not nearly as devout as I would like. I simply dislike the rampant "gimme" holiday that Easter has become - without regard to the amazing miracle it celebrates.

Okay, off my soap box. Back to cleaning up that @#$@%^$^@$^$^&%&^$&%*&(*( Easter grass.

Teenagers in Toddler Bodies

I have a theory - that the only thing separating teenagers and toddlers (besides a decade) is a few pounds and a few inches and a broader vocabulary.

Cases in point:
Drama Queen. If Woodstock didn't mis-pronounce "frusterated" as "fruster-dated", you wouldn't know she was 3 1/2 instead of 13. She'll sigh, roll her eyes, thrust out her hip and say, "Oh mom!" [insert "my-mother-has-no-idea-what-on-earth-is-going-on-poor-thing" tone of voice here] or "I'm so fruster-dated!" when I have the never to correct a behavior, make a suggestion or calmly point out that her case for having bedtime snuggles ("but mom, I'm so lonely in here, I need a friend") is being denied. Or there are the times when she has what I swear are hormonal mood swings - though in pre-schooler/toddler years those are called "someone didn't get enough sleep," where she dissolves into a puddle of tears, wailing, lamentations and gnashing of teeth over nothing or almost nothing.

Incomplete Logic. Woodstock dumps an entire bottle of shampoo on the floor one day. I ask her why. Her response (complete with rolling eyes), "Oh mom, I just wanted to see what would happen, that's all." As if we should all do things just to see what happens. No need to rely on the laws of the universe, physics, experience of those going before us, etc. Because the world simply did not exist before they did.

Excessive Phone Use. Pebbles last night was wandering around the basement for 15 minutes, having an entirely one-sided conversation (in which the only words we could decipher were "He-wow" (Hellow) and "Gee-Gee" (her nickname for Woodstock) with Himself's iPod (Pebbles uses it as a Phone - she does not like using her actual play phone because she can't make it light up and "work"). The entire conversation was complete with head cocking, sighing, dramatic pauses, hand gestures and a flood of what I assume are words - just not anything verifiably English. After 15 minutes, when her conversation was still going strong, and there was no end in sight, I announced that it was bedtime and the phone time was over. Pebbles shrieked, "No no no no no!" and ran (toddled?) down the hall. I put her to bed still crying for "Phone!"

Budding Independence. Two weeks ago, Woodstock and I had what would pass for a heated conversation in Target in which she begged for a particular yellow skirt. Anyone who knows my kids know there is no danger that they will ever run out of clothing and be forced to run around naked. Ever. Even if I go on laundry strike. It's ridiculous. On that principle alone I was not going to buy any more skirts for Woodstock. Even yellow ones. Then she remembered her gift card from Gramma L. "But I have money!" she exclaimed. "I can buy whatever I want." She bought the yellow skirt. We'll save the "I can buy whatever I want" conversation for a date when it will actually mean something.

Pebbles, lest she be left out of it, is loudly asserting her independence about every 3.5 seconds. (We're hoping the "loudly" part gets toned down now that her ears aren't full of fluid - because that kid has two volume settings: Off and Loud. And the Off setting only reliably works when she's sleeping). Last week I thought, "at this age, I was not schlepping Woodstock everywhere, she was walking." (Of course, at this age, I was 5 months pregnant with Pebbles, so I really didn't have a choice). I put Pebbles on the sidewalk and had her walk herself into the sitter's, rather than having me carry her. Brilliant! Except - now she thinks she needs to do it (and demands such) every single time - even when we're in a hurry; especially if there is snow or rain puddles on the ground (yes, it's April, someone forgot to inform Mother Nature that winter is over); particularly if there are cars in the parking lot and always, always, ALWAYS if Mom didn't bother putting shoes on her. Oy.

Boundary Testing. Pebbles might as well put her thumbs in her ears and waggle her fingers and yell, "Nah nah nah, you can't stop me!" right before she does something she knows she isn't supposed to do, because she gets this wicked, mischievous grin that says the same thing. She makes a point of looking directly at you before she toddles over to push a button or dump out all the blocks for the 587th time or drop food over the side of her high chair or climb up on the kitchen stool to re-arrange the silverware drawer (doesn't matter where we keep the stool, or that it is as big as she is - Pebbles has discovered that that stool opens up a whole new world of delightful possibilities and has been known to drag it from one end of the house to the other to satisfy her curiosities). It's the equivalent of a teen saying, "So? Whatcha gonna do about it?"

It's high drama all the time in our house - and I can only imagine what it's going to be like when I can no longer physically pick them up and remove them to a different spot. Or what happens when behind all the drama and eye-rolling and sighing (side note: I've never rolled my eyes at my kids - I am not sure where on earth that comes from - unless hard-wired in) they run to me, arms wide open, and exclaim "Mama!" when they see me - even if I've only been hiding in the bathroom. I'm not sure what I'll do when I'm no longer "the best mother in the whole world" or when they're too big for my kisses and snuggles to right the world.

As similar as they may be, I'll keep my toddlers for now and hope the next 10 years and teenager hood takes a long time to get here.

Initiation: A Bloody Tale

While we've had two ER visits over the course of being parents - and a couple of stomach viruses, a freaky vaccine reaction/infection, ear tube surgery and a bout with pneumonia - we've been relatively unscathed (knocking on wood and anything else that will prevent Murphy for unleashing his Law after uttering that) in the illness/injuries department.

(Thank heaven for little girls).

In fact, until Saturday, we had not had a single incident that involved blood. The ONE bodily fluid that doesn't make my toes curl and it doesn't make an appearance in Life as a Parent for almost 4 years.

We've now been initiated.

It wasn't a beautiful day on Saturday, but it was warm, so when Woodstock asked to watch a movie after General Conference was over, I told her she had to get some exercise first. Two minutes later she sailed by me, wearing snow boots with her capris, and right out the back door. She ran laps around the yard for almost 15 minutes. Still not worn out, she begged me to play tag with her. It's not that I don't like tag, it's that every step I take lately involves shooting pain down my left leg - still, it turns out I can almost out-run a pre-schooler. Almost.

Tag lasted long enough for Pebbles to wake up from her nap, at which point she demanded to go "Ow-sigh" (outside) with "Gee Gee" (the name which Woodstock has instructed Pebbles to use). Of course, Pebbles is not the most stable on her feet, particularly on uneven ground when wearing shoes.

Blood. Curdling. Scream.

And then the dreaded silence that lets you know all is not well.

Pebbles had lost her footing and tumbled chin-first onto the patio. I picked her up - her chin was scraped up and blood was coming from somewhere.

Woodstock raced over and calmly asked what was going on. I said, "Pebbles fell. Her mouth is bleeding, so I need to take her in and look at her."

Absolute hysteria ensued. Woodstock - the unharmed older sister, dissolved into hysterics. "Mom!" She yelled (even though I was standing right next to her) "Pebbles is BLEEDING. Call an amb-lee-ance (ambulance). We hafta go to the hospital." At which point she raced by me and into the house.

I scooped up Pebbles and took her into the bathroom - only to discover the light source was too poor to ascertain exactly where on her face the blood was coming from. I grabbed some sterile gauze pads, the hydrogen peroxide and relocated to Pebbles to the dining room table (under our bright-as-noonday new light fixture - hooray for energy-sucking light sources).

That, apparently, was bad news for Woodstock who, no longer crying, yelled in a panicky voice, "Mom! You're not a doctor! She's BLEEDING!" Thank you for stating the blatantly obvious.

**I should note here again that blood is the one bodily fluid that neither grosses me out nor makes me panicky. I may be high-strung but am a very useful person to have around in emergencies or when someone is bleeding.**

After taking a look around (as well as one could while wrestling a 23-pound crying, squirmy child with razor-sharp teeth poised to chomp down immediately on whatever dared venture near the rapidly swelling lip), I phoned Himself to get his opinion on my assessment. (Himself has a knack for missing nearly every dramatic moment that happens - he was at work yesterday). We agreed that watching it and icing it was the best course. If it stopped bleeding, fabulous. If not, well, a visit to the doctor was in order - sans the ambulance Woodstock was still insisting we needed.

Of course, a 19-month-old, a mouth injury and ice do not go well together, so we determined a Popsicle would be the best remedy for both the crying and the swelling. I got off the phone.

"Dad says she needs a Popsicle," I remarked to Woodstock - hoping she'd give Himself more credit than she was giving me. After all, he's not a doctor either.

"A Popsicle?" Her panicky voice vanished. She sounded downright hopeful.

Then, her sister's ailments and her rallying cry for an amb-lee-ance forgotten, Woodstock asked, "Can I have one too?"

Funny how suddenly her sister's still bleeding lip took the backseat to the mention of frozen sugary ice water.

As it turns out, Popsicles cure more than just bleeding lips. They also cure hysterical pre-schoolers.

Lesson learned - keep the freezer stocked. (And don't let Pebbles near concrete).

Necessary and Absurd: Things I never knew I'd have to say.

There are things I swore I'd never say as a mother (most of which have come back to haunt me in the mere 43 months since giving birth the first time) - then there are things which, never in a million years, would I have dreamed would come out of my mouth.

Things like:

• Please stop trying to ride your sister like a horse.
• No, the fact that you licked all the ketchup off your plate and left everything else does not mean you ate most of your food (uttered just today).
• You may not wear your flip flops with your snow pants.
• You may only play outside if you promise not to go visit the neighbors and/or ask them for fruit snacks (the joys of sharing a backyard).
• It is not a good idea to invite strange men home to play with you (Woodstock can - and does - make friends with everyone - for this reason alone, I refuse to teach her our address and am grateful I have an out-of-state cell number)
• Please put your belly button away
• Do your really have to use the bathroom or are you just interested in seeing what this one looks like? (after realizing Woodstock always has to potty the second we enter a new establishment)
• Just because daddy shaves his chin doesn't mean it was a good idea to try it yourself
• Try not to drown your sister
• If you are going to drive backwards, please slow down in the kitchen.
• Your diaper is not a pocket - or a purse

Any one of these sentences would have been enough to question my sanity 4 years ago. And yet, in the course of 48 hours these days, I could easily utter all of them without blinking an eye.

No wonder childless adults think we've all lost our marbles.

The Food Rules

I realized the other day, as I was explaining to Woodstock why we weren't going to buy grapes at the grocery store even though they had a yellow sign (she has figured out I buy mostly things with yellow signs - signifying they are on sale), that I have an un-written list of "rules" when it comes to food.

Well, formerly un-written, since I'm about to list some of them here. Some of them are goofy. Others are based on health and research. Some are because I have to compensate for the ridiculous amount of junky food my kids get at the sitter's. Some have been long-standing. Others came as a result of playing primary food source to one kid or another for 4 straight years.

The Food Rules According to Sara

1. If a food comes in a package, it should have 5 ingredients or less.
2. Produce is consumed primarily in season. The exception to this is apples, potatoes, onions, carrots and some herbs. In the case of fruit, this means grapes in late summer, citrus and fruites I've preserved in the winter, pomegranets and cranberries in the fall, peaches in August, apricots in July, cherries in June, Strawberries in March through May, Mangoes in the spring and so forth.
3. Tomatoes come out of the garden in the summer and out of cans in the winter.
4. Cereal whose first, second or third ingredient is sugar is not to be used as a meal.
5. Dairy must be hormone-free.
6. Artificial sweeteners do not enter the house (this does indeed mean I have shaken a years-long Crystal Light addiction - I haven't had a single glass in 4 years.
7. If it can be homeade, I don't need to buy it.
8. If it is local, it is worth a little bit more.
9. If it is chocolate, it had better be good chocolate, not the cheap stuff - after years of thinking I didn't like chocolate, I have realized that a. I love dark chocolate and b. it had beter be GOOD chocolate - preferably European.
10. A well-stocked pantry is the cure for high grocery bills.
11. Roasting makes almost everything better.
12. If the word "artificial" is on the package, it is reserved for treat status. If the ingredient is wholly unpronouncable and/or undecipherable, it is better left on the grocery shelf.
13. Whole wheat pasta, brown rice and regular oatmeal are not foreign foods if one doesn't know any different (ie my kids, poor little ones who have been brainwashed for years now).
14. Fruit or veggie for breakfast. Fruit AND veggie (or two) for lunch. Two veggies for dinner. My meal-planning mantra - though it sometimes means the second dinner veggie is used to "enrich" the meal (like adding pureed cauliflower to mac-n-cheese.
15. Water is vital and is therefore not optional
16. If I'm going to consume the calories, it is going to be fabulous and make my mind, tongue and tummy happy - if not, it's not worth the caloric or monetary cost.
17. (The most important one) One can never have too many cookbooks - even when one's three-shelf kitchen bookcase is completely full of them

There are a lot of other random rules, I think I create them to create order in my life. I get mocked for them or praised for them or derided for them. I had someone tell me I was harming my kids' digestive systems by feeding them whole wheat. I am told I'm a leftist tree-hugging vegan wanna-be for shopping at certain stores and limiting meat in our diets. And yet - it works for me. All these rules and all these things that govern what I eat. They are unspoken. They are mine. They are not everyone's.

But I will say - while Himself likes to mock them, he definitely enjoys what results. I'm a half-decent cook and he gets a hot breakfast and a homemade dinner a minimum of 5-6 days a week.

Some may mock, but no one has ever left my house hungry.

March Madness - of the non-NCAA kind

I typically don't mind March all that month - Daylight savings time resumes (which I love, after the first week of prying my eyelids open at an hour the week before would seem unearthly). The snow continues to fall, but it typically melts quickly - and to be honest, I prefer the sogginess of March to the bitter chill of January. The tulips start sprouting and the whole world waits on the bring of spring. And it means NCAA basketball playoffs - which means spending 3 weeks hoping Duke gets knocked off in the first couple of rounds.

Speaking of spring, Woodstock overheard that last Sunday was the first day of Spring. She was overjoyed - I had told her the flip flops and her new spring Dora pjs could not come out until Spring. She raced in to tell me. Of course, that morning we had woken up to snow. I made her look out the window. "See that?" I asked. "That is snow." Woodstock looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. "That," I said, "means that someone forgot to inform Mother Nature that the calendar says it is spring. Until Mother Nature knows it is spring, no flip flops and no Dora spring pjs." Woodstock sighed and remarked, "then why did they say it was spring already?"

Good observation.

This year? The Irish can keep their month o' luck (disclaimer - I'm 1/8 Irish). It has been one of those months where Murphy and his Law keep things hopping.

Let's put it this way: On March 1, we had used $0 of our $1,000 family medical deductible. As of March 25, we have now used (ie paid for) the entire thing. Plus another $500+ in co-insurance.

Pebbles was diagnosed with chronic fluid on her ears after 2 months of back-to-back ear infections (following a 3-month stint in 2010 with back-to-back ear infections) and needed tubes yesterday. It was a blessedly simple, fast ordeal - unlike anything that involves me and anesthesia.

I needed two very expensive tests that failed to result in any diagnosis for my 3 months of stomach pain other than "functional dyspepsia" which is a fancy word for saying upset stomach. Which is another way of saying, "Sure your stomach hurts, but short of throwing every drug on the market at you, we can't help." And no, it isn't ulcers, celiac, pancreatitis, fatty liver flare up, etc. And I don't have a gallbladder or an appendix, so those are out too. It's also not stomach, pancreatic or liver cancer - all of which weighed heavily for awhile.

The washing machine needed a new part, with labor that cost as much as the part. The car needs (still needs, reference the money shelled out for the deductible above) new tires. The Corporation made huge profits, touted them on the quarterly call, then dished out a pittance in compensation for 2011 because while I'm doing two people's jobs I wasn't eligible for a formal bonus since I hadn't been employed a full year.

The list goes on, but I don't want to list it anymore than anyone wants to read it. Suffice it to say - I'm ready to be in a new month.

The good thing is that we're all healthy - or mostly. On paper I am healthy. In reality, I don't feel healthy, but I'm tired of shelling out a ton of money for nothing. We have a home and food and vehicles that run. We have jobs and medical insurance and a washing machine. We have family and friends and have a better standard of living than 90% of the global population. We have faith and hope and a knowledge that it really only does get better.

I can't complain. I can, however, celebrate that April is right around the corner.

A Promise to My Girls

I am keenly aware, every day, that I am raising daughters. I am also keenly aware that being a girl/woman is incredibly tough sometimes when it comes to our bodies. I also know that while I'd love to shelter my kids entirely from that horrible self-criticism that comes with being a woman, it is neither possible nor healthy.

Instead, I offer up this promise to them - in public - so I have accountability:

• I promise that I won't do anything with/to my body that I will ask you not to do. I won't starve myself to lose 10 pounds for a big event. I won't be reckless with my health in pursuit of a body looks as if it has been artificially re-touched, airbrushed, surgically altered, and then roasted.
• I promise I won't criticize my body in front of you. I will strive to not do it at all. I will strive to be healthy, to be active and to develop and maintain healthy habits.
• I promise I won't criticize your bodies.
  
• I promise to do my best to teach you good nutrition, health and lifestyle habits that will hopefully make it easier to feel confident.
• I promise to love you, and to do everything in my power to help you love yourself.
• I promise to love me - to strive to understand and emulate, my place as a daughter of God, created in His image.
• I promise to age gracefully and to act my age. I promise to not spend my time and life obsessing over stopping time and dressing or acting like I'm 20. Even now - I'm too old for that already.
• I promise not to sit on the side of the swimming pool in street clothes because I don't look like Tyra Banks in a bathing suit. I promise to get in and enjoy the water with you.
  
• I promise to spend more time living and planning than I do ruminating over something that is no more than an illusory physical ideal.
  
• I promise to enjoy life.

Additionally, I promise to live and teach you to live the following:

• Life is an exercise in discipline, knowledge and love.
• We are daughters of God - part of a greater plan and have infinite worth. We have a purpose, a mission and have the power, intellect and capability to make good choices and make a difference in the world in which we live.
  
• Quality is always better than quantity when it comes to food (and most other things).
  
• Healthy does not equal boring. Healthy means balance, discipline and satisfaction.
• Being active is a part of having a vibrant life. It is not a punishment - self-imposed or otherwise.
• There are many times that there will be someone prettier, taller, thinner, more fit, more bronzed, less wrinkly, better dressed than you and me. Realizing that and accepting it is half the battle. There will people that look at you and think the same thing. It is all relative.
  
• How you dress matters. It conveys a lot about you on the inside. It is a powerful declaration of respect for one's self and one's environment. Confidence and self-respect and situationally appropriate clothing go a long way in getting others to respect you for you who are.
  
• Dress, speak and act with purpose - as you wish to be perceived.
• Bad days are to be expected. Bloating, bad skin, exhaustion, life changes, wrinkles, sags, lines, marks and the like are to be expected as well. Strive to live happy, live healthy and live active - and embrace the person that emerges.
  
• Be aware of those around you who may not see themselves as you see them - and be gentle. Being a girl/woman is tough.
  
• Live with purpose.

It's a tall order - I'd do well to review it more often. I've been overweight (I weighed more in college than I did 9 months pregnant with either kid). I have chronically awful skin. I had enormous feet until I grew into them. I was the tallest kid in my class for years (only to end up just slightly taller than average). My stomach, post children, is no longer flat. My skin bears the tattoos of motherhood - wrinkles and dark circles and stretch marks and a few dings and bruises from stumbling over a toy on my way to save a child from a nightmare at 3 a.m. My hair isn't straight or curly and will never be wash and go. My hands have horrible eczema and my knuckles are swollen. I bloat. I cannot pull of trendy even when I want to. I've complained and wailed and gnashed my teeth - and I've realized that I have two choices: I can live with discipline and purpose and joy, or I can spend my life (and money) pursuing the fountain of youth and cover girls at the end of the rainbow. I can strive to be healthy and dress appropriately and live or I can hide in a closet and wait until there really is a fountain of youth - letting life pass me by.

Kids are smart - and perceptive - they model their lives after those with whom they are in close proximity. Every day, through my actions, I teach my girls how they should behave, live, view themselves - either consciously or sub-consciously. Having them has made me more cognizant of who I am - as a woman, a daughter of God, a wife and a mother.  It has made me readjust my priorities and realize what is important and what isn't.

It has also made me deeply grateful for my mother - who taught me about exercise and food and cooking and health. And showed me, more often than not, that life is about more than the size of your jeans.

I never want my girls to see someone they don't love staring back at them in the mirror. I can't prevent that from happening, but I can help them navigate that rocky path with grace and confidence and an understanding of who they are.

I promise.

Yes, I'm one of THOSE people ... maybe

I hate the war that vaccinations have become.

They are good. Really, really good.

But there are times when they aren't as good as they are supposed to be. And that is when I really get the "other side" that opts to take their chances.

Like 3 months ago, when Pebbles had a severe reaction to her DTP booster. It took a full month until her leg looked normal and she was back to normal behavior.

It scared the living daylights out of me.

It was recommended that we report the reaction to the CDC - so when I went to the first of many follow-up visits, I mentioned it to Dr. Grumps (not his real name) - the partner of our regular pediatrician, who is very competent, but has very a patriarchal, authoritarian bedside manner which makes me hate having to schedule an appointment when he's the one open. Dr. Grumps dismissed it. "Sometimes we over-react and assume it is the vaccine and it isn't," he said. And then he pumped Pebbles full of antibiotics - sure. Over reaction.

Day 1. Vaccine. Totally fine kiddo.
Day 2. Morning. Totally fine kiddo. Small red spot.
Day 2. Afternoon. NOT AT ALL FINE kiddo. Enormous (her whole thigh) red/purply/rashy looking thing all over her leg. Her leg is 3 times its normal size. She's cranky. Low fever. Leg is burning hot. She won't let anyone touch it.

Weeks later, after massive antibiotics (the follow-up one causing nausea/diarrhea for several days), her leg still looked abnormal, she was still cranky, she still wasn't sleeping. She still wasn't the same child "before". The doctor still insisted it wasn't CDC-worthy because it was so rare. So rare, because no one ever reports anything?

I began researching - turns out it IS uncommon according to the CDC. It is NOT as uncommon as they think, however, based on the number of parents sharing pictures and reaciton stories about the DPT vaccine. Pictures that looked just like Pebbles' leg.

Yesterday was Pebbles' 18-month well baby checkup. I skipped the vaccines. Call me a horrible mother. Call me un-informed or ill-informed or paranoid or "one of those people".

Or call me terrified and cautious. She'll get the vaccines. Just slowly. One vaccine at a time. And not while she's still battling another ear infection.

I am dealing with my own medical issues at the moment. I just cannot have another "well baby" turn into "month-long-sick-baby". Yes, I know it means she could contract the disease of the vaccine I skipped. But right now, the risk of reaction is far more prominent in my mind than the risk of delaying it slightly.

Call me one of those mothers. I'll understand. Hopefully you do too, because I'm already lumped in the "oddity" bucket a lot lately.

(p.s. I should note, Woodstock got her chicken pox shot for pre-school two weeks ago - so it's not like I've abandoned the vaccine wagon all together. Just delayed it a little more than I normally do).

UNCLE! I want a do-over

As payback for waiting until every piece of laundry in the house was dirty (or nearly so), the washer started making odd noises on Saturday. Sloshing noises. My washer is normally very quiet (a requirement for me - I don't like the noises appliances make). Sloshing noises aren't good. Ever. Particularly when there is still heaping piles of dress clothes and sheets left to wash.

I went to investigate. Damp floor. Not such a huge deal. It's concrete, and there is a drain. Plus, someone had knocked over the stain remover - I assumed the bottle leaked.

Until I opened the washer.

Turns out sloshing is REALLY REALLY bad. The rubber gasket that keeps the water IN the washing drum (front-loader) was torn. Badly. Too badly to repair with innertube goop (suggested on a fix-it-yourself appliance blog).

Cost for part: $120
Cost for labor: Far more than that
Piles of laundry NOW in existence: 5 - apparently lack of a washing machine does not decrease the fertility of laundry piles (in case you were wondering)
STRIKE 1.

Himself took my car in for regular service, and we received the official death notice on two of my tires. I knew it was coming. I'd planned to shell out way too much money in March for new ones. Still, it didn't exactly give me warm fuzzies to have it confirmed.

Cost for two new tires: $300+
Number of minutes contemplating our overly priced public transit system: None (sadly)
STRIKE 2.

The final nail in my fabulous (insert sarcastic googly eyes here) week came today, when I received a call from the billing department of the hospital that will be administering my abdominal CT scan Friday. The woman chirpily asked if she could put me down for forking over my $500 deductible on Friday.

Um ... excuse me? I said, "Um, no."

Taken aback (really? does she get equally chirpy "sure, no problem" answers usually?!), she said, "Okay, we'll put you down for $200 up front then."

Whatever.

Out-of-Pocket Cost for Abdominal CT scan that could deliver very bad news, but will more likely deliver no news at all: $600
Out-of-Pocket Cost for Abdominal CT scan almost 6 years ago prior to my appendectomy: $50. I miss my old insurance plan.
STRIKE 3

Oh yes. And Woodstock drank the bubbles she was blowing today, necessitating a call to Poison Control. The Poison Control lady laughed and said, "Oh if I could count the number of times that has happened ..." It made me feel better at least - particularly when she informed me Woodstock would be just fine.

UNCLE. I'm done.

Borders

Growing up, the whole town had the same zip code, the same local phone prefix, the same everything. One elementary, one middle school, one high school. One everything pretty much.

So with that I find it rather amusing that I realized the other day I live on the edge of the universe so to speak.

My back fence is the border between:

• The city/county line
  
• 2 Zip codes
• 2 school districts
• Our church neighborhood congregational boundaries
• Stage legislative district
• 2 Police and fire districts
• 2 Water service districts
• 2 Trash services and recycling services
• And other random little things

We're also in the "grey zone" between a township and a neighborhood - both claim us - sort of. It's like our block is the step-child of the neighborhood.

It is, to be honest, not a bad place to be. Himself gets to be technically in the 'burbs. I get to be a few minutes from downtown and have access to city services without having to pay the extra city taxes. And - bonus! - we can have chickens in our yard. Seriously. We don't actually have chickens in our yard, because while I love the romantic notion of raising my own chickens and gathering fresh eggs in the morning (particularly since I'm apparently raising kids who would happily subsist on nothing but eggs and sliced apples), I really have no desire to actually have chickens inhabit the same space I do. But still, because we live on our side of the fence, we could have chickens if we wanted. And really that's all that matters is the notion that one can do something, even if one will actually never do it.

At the same time - the other side of our back fence may as well be Mars - short of standing on a step-stool to yell over it, the people that live in the mysterious redbrick house on the other side walk in totally different circles - schools, churches, neighborhood meetings, legslative affairs - heck, even their trash comes on a different day.

Kind of mind-boggling for a kid that only had to dial 4 digits to call someone in the same town until she was in the 9th grade.

Mourning.

My sister lost her baby yesterday. A baby whom she had carried for nearly 3 months, who had taken a very long time to come into being - who would have joined his/her 4-year-old sister and parents in a brand-new home. A home with a nursery - just in case.

A baby that was due around Pebbles' birthday. The one I greeted with even more joy than normal, because it lessened the discomfort of packing all of my baby clothes and maternity clothes and infant items in the dark corner of the garage - not quite certain I was ready to part iwth them forever, but nearly certain there will be no more babies. A baby - in the same season mine were born - meant some of my things would get more use, more love, more memories. I got the news, via text, at work. I tried not to cry. I tried to be an adult and not grab my keys and my wallet and drive the 300 miles to mourn with my only sister. I pulled out a journal entry later to re-read my own experiences with miscarriage - vastly different, but still painful.

I told Woodstock - who has been praying for the baby at every meal, every bedtime. "Aunt's baby went to heaven," I said - using that vague phrase parents pull out when they don't know how to give any more details.

Woodstock grew solemn, and then brightened, "I know! I can be Aunt's baby for a little bit - so she won't miss her other baby." Then her little face looked as if she was deep in thought. A while later she piped up: "Did her baby go to heaven with the raccoon that got ran over?" I was startled - a year ago, on our walk, Woodstock had seen a raccoon lying in the road - having her first brush with death. I was surprised she even remembered.

"Yes," I said "Something like that."
"That's good she said. The raccoon can help the baby."

Funny how kids instincively have a belief of the continuum of life - that we once existed, now exist, will always exist. Without question, they understand the eternal nature of life itself - even if their application is a bit off.

Today, I noticed Woodstock's prayers changed. "Please bless Aunt's baby to be okay in heaven. And please help Aunt have a new baby."

Amen.

Loving What Is

One evening, shortly after Himself and I were married, I was ata church function when what I'm sure was a well-meaning woman asked me when I was going to quit my job and stay at home.

Cue several long seconds of awkward silence while I tried to figure out if she was serious or if her attempt at humor had gone horribly awry. I responded with, "Well, not anytime soon. Himself is in school full-time."

I can't remember her response. I just remember feeling horribly perplexed as to why getting married in the 21st century would mean automatically quitting my job - even if it meant taking up residence in a homeless shelter or taking out even larger amounts of student loans than Himself already had.

Fast forward almost 8 years. I now have two children. I spent the first 2.5 years of life with children feeling guilty every.single.day. about leaving them to go to work. Never mind I've had a string of jobs each one more flexible than the last. Never mind I provided 75% of the household income. Never mind the stupid financial decisions I made in my 20s. Never mind any good that has come of it. I wracked myself with guilt. If someone asked me how I liked my job, I would say hopefully, "I'm lucky to have it?"

And then came the layoff last spring and the 3-month stint where I spent consulting. I had the time to be a stay-at-home (mostly) mom - who worked during the wee hours of the night so I could pretend I was a true SAHM. I made almost as much money consulting as I did working full-time. The girls and I took more field trips. I defrosted the freezer. I had my teeth cleaned and a mole removed and scheduled a physical - things that had been on my "to do" list for 2.5 years.

And I was miserable. I wasn't miserable being a SAHM. That part I loved. I was miserable being a SAHWM - that would be a stay-at-home-working-mom. All I ever did was think about my clients - securing new ones, doing new client proposals, keeping the current ones, all of the research and the constant flow of work that was keeping me up at night, giving me heartburn and causing my anxiety to flare out of control. I was constantly worrying about money. My guilt felt worse. I worried about the horrible economy.

And then ... a job fell into my lap. A real job. With an enormous company. I went from unknown to one of 80,000 employees in 10 days. The first words out of my mouth to Himself were, "I'm not taking it. I'd be crazy. Look, I'm home with the kids every day. We're making it work. There is no way this is the right answer."

I spent the weekend praying about it. And every time, this warm peaceful feeling came when I considered taking the job. I fought against it. Pure craziness! I was a mom, I should be doing every single thing I could to be a SAHM - even if my sanity was hanging by a single thread. And still, the peace.

So, I took the job - with the caveat that I not start for almost a full month - so I could play with my kids. I started the job and was amazed - it was uber-flexible - allowing for me to work from home several days a week. It has amazing vacation and personal time off benefits. And everyone in my direct line of reporting had children 3 and under. Best of all - I was sleeping 5 or 6 hours a night - because I wasn't working in the wee hours. I came home and didn't think about work - for the first time in years.

When I told people I had a new job, I was greeted with uncomfortable silence and then, "Well, that's nice, I guess, since you have to work and all." When people asked how my job was, I would hesitate and say, "it's nice."

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago when I was in one of my monthly head-shrinking sessions, and my headshrinker said, "Why are you not enjoying your life NOW. Why are you waiting for it to change?" She elaborated:

"We are in a culture that figuratively stones women for working. So even though
there are many women who, by necessity, must work - for whatever reason - we all impose this creed of 'Thou Shalt Not Enjoy Thyself' because, after all, you shouldn't dare find satisfaction in anything that isn't being a SAHM. And we trudge to work every day and feel guilty and grumpy and wesnap at people and we race through the week as fast as possible trying to run away from the guilt that consumes us and our own reality. And I say this: 'What is wrong with loving what is?'"

I think my jaw hit the floor. She said, "Do you like your job?" And I said, "I love my job, but ..." She stopped me. "But what? But you have kids. So you can't be allowed to enjoy it? But you don't plan on working forever, so you can't be allowed to enjoy it? But you feel like a horrible person when you say that, even though you KNOW you made the best decision for your FAMILY?"

Um. Yes.

So my challenge - my New Year's Resolution of sorts, was to Love What Is. All of it. To not wish away the imperfections, but to embrace them for what they are and find joy in living my life. If you ask me if I like my job now, I'll tell you, "I love it. I'm good at it. And it's working well for our family." I won't feel guilty. It doesn't mean I don't love my kids. It doesn't mean I'm not a good mom. It means I made a decision that was the best one for my family, and I feel blessed. I am blessed to have a flexible schedule and enjoyable work. I'm blessed to have a wonderful sitter whom the girls adore. I'm blessed to live in a place where the cost of living is low enough I don't have to sell my soul to the highest bidder. I'm blessed to have the education and skills that landed me this job.

I'm blessed. I'm happier and I'm more charitable and I'm a nicer person to be around and live with when I am Loving What Is.

What I've found, however, is that Loving What Is is more than just being okay with my current, imperfect, place in life. I've found that it means I find myself feeling oddly happy in the middle of the night when one of the girls wakes up and needs soothing - because the nights where I get to snuggle with a warm little head pressed to my chest are finite. I find joy in walking the halls of church with Pebbles rather than counting down the weeks until she's old enough for nursery - because that time too is finite. I find joy in folding the little socks and glittery princess undies because in the not-too-distant-future, they too will vanish. I find joy in lying on the floor with the girls and building houses out of blocks that they find great joy in destroying prior to completion. I find joy in my car rides each day with them as we sing along to primary songs. And while I did not find much joy in the situation when Woodstock got carsick in horrible traffic on the tail end of a roadtrip last week, I did find joy in the spontaneous stopover at a relative's home to change clothes and get a bite to eat.

Life is fleeting, and while there are days when my heart still mourns the inability to stay at home every day with my girls, I realize how blessed I am not only to be able to provide for them, but to have a newfound perspective on life.

Here's to a fabulous 2011.

Breaking the Silence

I'm back. Again.

The holidays are over, there is hope winter might end before the next one begins (if only because the high has been above freezing lately - the mid-winter thaw always reminds me that while there is still winter left, it isn't forever), and every day a blog composes itself in my head that never makes it quite down on paper.

So for the 1/2 a reader that is even still interested: I am back. :) Tomorrow.

In the last two months we've had Pebbles' scary vaccine reaction, two bouts of bronchitis, asthma issues, the issuance of inhalers for 75% of our household (thank you very much, Frontier inversion), a flirtation with motion sickness resulting in a very stinky kiddo & carseat and an emergency side trip to my aunt's since we were an hour from home, a variety of colds, an ear infection, a funky viral rash and the return flareup of whatever digestive ailment has plagued me since my early teens. No one will ever believe me again that we rarely get sick. I maintain we've been passing the same virus back and forth and it just manifests different ways - made worse by the Frontier's toxic January air.

It has been exhausting. Naps have been disrupted. Nightime sleep has been upset. Work schedules have gotten creative. And the house looks like a bachelor pad.

This too, shall pass ... hopefully without anymore recycle germs.