Mairsy Dotes

We’ve been on vacay for a couple of weeks. Not much access to computers, nor much access to the internet, nor much caring about that. I was way too focused on sitting in the hottub, drinking wine, and watching the sun set into the pacific from our beachfront vacation rental.

But now we’re back, and back to reality. And so: some musings.

I’m 32-years old. Well educated. An increasingly capable mother of two. Strong willed. Direct. Opinionated. I don’t tend t worry TOO terribly much what people think of me. So why is it my mother can reduce me to the emotional level of a three-year-old simply by looking at my head and asking, “So what are you doing with your hair?”

I’ve spent the last few weeks co-habiting with more testosterone than I am used to–M, my dad, and my two brothers. And that has me wondering: do ALL male animals experience such lingering enjoyment while taking a shit, or is it just human males?

Sarah is the cutest baby EVER when she’s trying to wake up. She’s laying beside me right now, stretching and curling and tooting up a storm. She toots full-grown toots. No tiny, demure baby toots from my girl. It’s as though she’s decided, ‘If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.’
Then when she finally opens her eyes and sees me beside her, she grins the biggest, sweetest, most breathtaking baby grin ever. Yep. Being Sarah’s mom pretty much sucks. 😉

She’s also a talker. She’ll talk to anyone and everyone. Recently she’s started this new thing where she’ll ‘talk’ to me while we nurse before she goes to sleep. This little recap can often last as long as 5 minutes, and she’s staring me in the eyes the entire time. It’s my fault. When she was tiny-tiny, and she’d start to babble, I’d encourage her by asking, “Really? And then what happened?” Clearly, she’s come to the only possible conclusion: her mother, while devoted and loving, is an idiot. As such, Mama must be reminded as frequently as possible what has happened in our day, and a good time to do this is when she’s got Mama’s nipple clenched in her tiny jaws–Mama’s attention wanders less this way.

We’ve just spent the last several minutes doing nothing but looking at each other and smiling. I love being a mom.

So we’re frantically trying to get ready to leave for vacation. We’re short-tempered with one another, and with Linnea. When I went to the bank to get money for the trip, I found out we were overdrawn. Not by much, but still: overdrawn. Seems like Jesus just didn’t want me to bounce a check at work–to which I say, “Thanks, dude!” Luckily, I had some checks I’d been saving for travel money, so I could deposit them and get us back in the black.

Linnea is clean over the moon about going on vacation, and has been a pest par excellence about it and about her sister–hugging her, shouting about vacation just as Sarah is dozing off, etc. I’ve snapped at her repeatedly today, sent her to her room, threatened a swat, actually told her, “I’ll give you something to cry about if you don’t stop crying right now!” (I can’t even believe I went there…). Blegh.

And at one moment, Sarah was fussing. I was changing her, and Linnea came over and gently took her hand (remarkable, that gentleness, since usually Linnea grabs her hand as if her entire goal in life is to tear Sarah’s arm off in love) and started to sing:

“Come stop your crying, it will be all right.
Just take my hand, hold it tight.
I will protect you from all around you.
I will be here don’t you cry…”

And I just lost it. I’d been thinking about how tired I was of being so damn poor, and in that one moment–as my youngest daughter looked into her big sister’s eyes and calmed, I realized that there are many people who have a lot more money than I do, and who aren’t nearly as rich as I am. I’ll take my riches any day. So thanks, Jesus, for that, too.

My friend Julia informed me today that I need to blog more. I believe her exact words were, “Boo to you, you once a month blogger!” Or maybe those weren’t her exact words, but they are something she’d say, so: I’m leaving the quote as it stands.

And she’s right. I do need to blog more. I blog a LOT in my head, but then y’all never get to read it, because it’s floating around in my brain along with “The Cheese Rollcall” from Pinky and the Brain, my locker combination from senior year, the number of poopy diapers Sarah has had in a given day, and the answer to almost every question to the Millenium Edition of Trivial Pursuit.

But somehow, when the girls are awake, I feel guilty coming in here to blog and leaving M all on his own with them (mainly because he never gets time to do his nerdy M stuff…well, he does, but his nerdy stuff is stuff he can do in the living room while he’s “keeping an eye” on the girls) and taking time away from them. And when the girls are asleep, it’s like, “Thank GOD they’re both asleep. Now I can lay on the couch and watch Alias.”

I have nothing profound to write. I’m getting ready to leave for vacation, to the Oregon Coast (where I always wonder if I might bump into Dennis). Some REALLY cute pieces came back into the store, and I thought maybe I should buy them for vacation–it was a grand debate that I had with my boss, “Do I spend money and have cute clothes for vacation, or do I save the money and then have money to spend on vacation? Because I can’t do both.” So I tried on said items. One was a glorious faux-wrap shirt that looks good on everybody, and comes in many colors. I have it in almost every color it comes in (because it’s especially flattering on the boobalicious, and God knows: if I am anything, it is boobalicious). But this was too light a color–sort of a robin’s egg blue–and it showed off my back fat. So, um, we’ll pass on that. The next was a cute cute cute skirt. Tried it on, and almost couldn’t get out of it because the zipper was bad on it. Apparently, Jesus wants me to save my money for vacay. Past experience tells me that when He speaks this clearly, it’s best not to argue.

Speaking of Jesus: those of you who have read me for awhile will know that I am, in fact, an ordained minister. I’ve been “on leave from call” (a polite way of saying, “Can’t find a church I want to work with to save my life”) for nearly two years now. Now that M has wrapped up his PhD coursework, we’re free to go anywhere we want. There’s a congregation I’m very interested in. Word has gotten out that I’m very interested in this congregation, and they are very interested in return. So interested, in fact, that on Monday (yep, the day after the day after the day after tomorrow) I have a lunch meeting with the head of their call committee. And I’m so excited, and I’m wildly hopeful that it all pans out, because this call would be so freaking good for us. We’d be close to family. I’d be back doing something that I’ve come to realize I love, and that I’m really good at. I’d get to preach, for the sweet love of Jesus and all that is good and holy!

And, as much as I’ve enjoyed working retail: I’m capable of more. There’s a frustration factor that I went several tens of thousands of dollars into debt getting my degree, and I’m not using any of it. I sell pants. I’m good at it. But still: one doesn’t need a master’s degree to sell pants.

But mostly? I’m just excited about sitting in a hottub, watching the sun sink into the Pacific while enjoying a glass of wine. Who can’t get excited about that?