Bedtime is But a Dream

I had, in my head, this idealized version of what parenthood would be like.  It all comes in stages, but somewhere in my head I had this picture of the boys all tucked up in bed while Trip or I read to them from the childhood classics.  They would be - as I was at that age - spellbound by the words weaving in and out to create the tapestry of story.  Of course, then they would drift off peacefully to sleep and we would kiss them on the sweet-smelling foreheads, tip-toe out and switch off the light.

The reality is something more akin to a scene from Lord of the Flies.

Generally, half-naked children are streaking through the house, screaming they can't find the charger for the handheld games, or that they are out of toothpaste.  We wrestle them out of dusty jeans and change sheets that nobody realized were dirty until bedtime.  There is a frantic last grasp for a glass of water, a missing homework assignment.

"Can I borrow one of Dad's t-shirts to wear to bed?".

"I didn't finish my dinner. Can I have a snack?"

"Do we have school tomorrow?"

"Can I play my DS for just 10 more minutes?"

Meanwhile, the baby is crying because she's decided it's CLUSTER FEED TIME! so even though she was nursed an hour ago, she can't possibly survive five more minutes without a good gnaw at the boob.  And she probably just transacted some unpleasant business in her diaper, for good measure.

Once everyone is finally tucked into bed and the Papa Bear and Mama Bear have settled into the overstuffed cushions of the sofa for some much-needed quality time with The Doctor, you can just about set the clock for the time when the patter of four-year-old feet will be heard coming down the stairs.  Milo loves Dr. Who, too.  At least, he loves the first ten minutes or so -- after that, he can be depended upon to nod off to dream-land, turn sideways on the couch and start kicking someone in the head.

Yes, I had an idealized picture of what parenthood was going to be, and it bears about as much resemblance to the reality as I bear to Gwyneth Paltrow. 

But I still have high hopes they'll one day love The Phantom Toll Booth as much as I do -- even if they read it to themselves or each other instead of having it read to them by a frazzled mother who would probably fall asleep before they did, anyway.

Land of Opportunity

When we moved to Colorado, one of the intentions was that we would get out and enjoy all the opportunities of the outdoors here more than we did back East.  We used to live 5 minutes from the Appalachian Trail, but we never got very into hiking on the East Coast.  It's not a culture we were familiar with.

So here we are - The Land Of The Outdoors - where the sun shines 300 plus days a year, and I have to admit that I was skeptical.  I wasn't sure we would be able to really get off our behinds and get "out there" -- out in the Big Blue Room of nature. 

I am pleased to report that the husband, affectionately dubbed "Twitch" since his epilepsy diagnosis last year, has been lighting the fire under me and we are actually going outside and breathing lots of fresh air while viewing the spectacular sights of Colorado.  We are explorers in the brave new land, and after more than a decade on the Eastern Seaboard, it's amazing to be in a new place with so many new places to visit.

Friends "back home" laugh at me when I breathlessly describe how the sun shines all the damn time and how it snows, sure, but not like in DC. There, the snow falls and stays and turns to black and gray sludge that freezes over on itself again and again while the gloomy gray clouds laugh at human misery overhead.  Here, we don't even have a neighborhood plowing service. Usually we can see the steam rising from the pavement in the heat of the sun, Mother Nature providing a broom to sweep away the white stuff so it vanishes completely in a day or two. 

So, yeah, it probably sounds to people who know me like I joined a cult.  I might have to start calling myself "Sun Child Winter Smiler" or something, just to really seal the impression.

I've never made it through a winter as an adult without bone-deep blues and desperation for spring aching in my soul come April... until now.  I actually laughed as the unseasonably late snow fell through the afternoon and evening yesterday.  I smiled at the erstwhile white flakes and mentally perused the catalog of available outdoor adventures waiting to be sampled this weekend. 

Those cute little snowflakes.  They fell as the sun shined down from above, and when the moon glowed bright through the windows of the bedrooms where we slept, cocooned and dreaming of adventures yet to come.

Education - Once More - With Feeling

When I finished my associate degree last year, I felt a little weird about it.

 I consider myself educated; I read constantly, try to stay up on current world events, and I'm a bit of a spelling nazi.  My grammar is probably not what it once was, because I have forgotten a lot of the more esoteric rules and most of the rest has changed so much I probably couldn't tell you a predicate for a participle. (Random Alliteration Drive-By!)  The fact of the matter, though, is that I officially dropped out of college twice before finally getting that piece of paper with my name on it in fancy script, and even then I kept thinking "yeah, but it's not a REAL degree, right?"

So here I am, 34 years old, and once again in school and pursuing the elusive Bachelor's Degree.  Except now I have 4 kids, a house to maintain, very little patience, and a brain that refuses to cooperate with my directions most days.  Also, I still have absolutely no idea what I want to be when I grow up, except that it will likely involve healthcare administration (my area of study) and I would like it to somehow involve working to improve the state of Mental Health Care in this country because, sweet chili peppers, do we need it.

I would love to someday pursue a Master's Degree as well, but in the last few years I have learned not to plan too far ahead.  Life has thrown too many curve balls, and I keep the horizon a little closer these days.  Like waiting for the next 3 months to see a geneticist for Jack, or looking for a new psychiatrist so I can get meds sorted out once I am done breastfeeding Little Lady. Like keeping an eye on the housing market back east and hoping that our house there gains enough value to be worth more than the mortgage before the kids go off to college.  Like hoping we can find a house here and figure out a way to buy it so that we aren't consigned to be renters forever after.

There are days - like today, as I worked on a college paper and ignored the sink full of dirty dishes - when I start to take stock of everything on my plate and I can't help but think that a grand, metaphysical mistake of some sort was made.  These are challenges for someone better equipped to handle life than I.  These are challenges for someone who can remember to pack the school snacks, who stay on top of the laundry, who is always on time for preschool pick-up and who always knows the perfect words to talk their special needs child down from an oncoming tantrum.  On those days, I think that I Have No Business being back in school, as well as training to race and participating in Listen To Your Mother, when I can't even take care of everything else perfectly.

But when that happens, I get hung up on that one word.

Perfect.

Because perfect is a lie.  Perfect is a story that we tell ourselves when we look at the cover of Real Simple magazine and think that everyone else's house looks like that all the time and we are the only ones whose kids take their pants off when they come in the door and toss them on the back of the couch before dumping half a bag of Pirate's Booty on the coffee table for a snack and leaving the crumbs for the dog. Perfect says that nobody else ever breaks out the blue box macaroni once in a while and cuts up hot dogs into it and calls it dinner.  Perfect says that you are too out of shape to be in the gym embarrassing yourself on the treadmill - that gyms are for people who already look like athletes and models. Perfect whispers in your ear that it's pointless to go back to school at 34 because by the time you are done you will be too old to pick back up on a career, or to be of any value in the working world anyway.

Perfect is an ugly word.

So I guess I am learning more than how to write a college paper in the proper (New. Again.) APA format, or how to finish discussion question responses while juggling a baby with one hand and opening a juice box for a four-year-old with the other.  I am learning that being educated means more than finishing a degree (or two or three) by 25.  I am learning that, while it is important to live in the moment and keep my eyes on the immediate goals, there is nothing wrong with dreaming of a future yet to come and working for it - walking the path even if I'm not yet certain where it leads.

“Never give up on a dream just because of the time it will take to accomplish it. The time will pass anyway."  ― Earl Nightingale

It's equally important not to get discouraged simply because you are not where you want to be right now.  Celebrate the baby steps - the associate degree, the basket of laundry that got folded and put away (even if there are still 4 more waiting).  It's all adding up to where you will eventually be.  To where I will eventually be, too.  Where we are right now is exactly where we are supposed to be.

For today, where I am is finished with my paper and ready to enjoy a good husband-made thai curry along with this face:

Which is pretty a pretty spectacular place to be, actually.

29 version 5.0

Friday was my birthday.  My 34th Birthday.  I'm fine with turning 34, but it's been a running joke at our house the past several years that I am turning "29 again".  This year, the kids finally caught on.  Jack, ever the stickler with the eyes for detail, started telling people "My mom is turning 29 - version five-point-oh". 

Baby girl turned 6 months old on Friday, too, because - like the BFF's we are going to eventually be (whether she likes it or not) - we share each others' half-birthday.  And she gave me a birthday present of her own by allowing me my first 8 hours of solid sleep in six months.  EIGHT. HOURS. OF. SLEEP.  Booyah - who wants to go Do Stuff? Because I can totally Do Stuff after actual sleep.  Real sleep to a mother with a newborn is like PCP for a normal person. I could leap tall mountains, fly around the room, or... like, fold laundry. Heady stuff.

We had a birthday dinner at home with friends on Friday night.  After 9 months in Denver, I realized we really are making a home here.  A few glasses of wine, way too much food, and even more laughter floated over the evening like so many incandescent bubbles.  Also there were a lot of highly inappropriate jokes, which was - obviously - awesome.  You know you are finding your tribe when an extremely large loaf of Italian bread is equally funny to the entire table.  (My tribe may share a sense of humor with 13-year-old boys.  It was still hysterical.)

And Saturday morning was the first read-through for Listen To Your Mother, Denver edition, which... I don't think there is a way to describe it other than to say that if you are local and you DON'T make it to this event, you will be missing out on something transcendent.  I still can't figure out how I ended up in a room with these people - talented writers, humorists and all-around amazing humans - but I will be forever thankful for the chance to be a part of this.  We laughed, we cried, and even my arm-hairs were tired by the end from all the goosebumps.

It was a nice reminder that life will still surprise me with wonderful things, and great opportunities still lie ahead.  I just have to be ready to go for it when the doors are opened and not let fear keep me from walking through into the next big adventure.  That's a pretty spectacular birthday gift.

So happy 29 version 5.0 to me.

Listen To Your Mother!

I sat down two or three or twenty-eleventy (my 4-year-old insists that's a thing) times over the past two weeks in order to compose a post.  It just hasn't seemed to come together for me, despite the fact that I have a lot to say.

Partially, I think this stems from an innate deer-in-headlights response.  You see, I was officially selected as one of the readers at this year's Listen To Your Mother! - Denver show.  So I will, in just over a month, be standing in front of several hundred strangers to talk about motherhood. I've never done anything quite like this before.  Part of me thinks maybe this is the beginning of a new renaissance here at Stay At Aum Mom.  The rest of me just hopes I don't cry too hard or pee my pants on stage.  (Setting the bar high since 1979!)

As for the rest of the reasons I have had a hard time composing a coherent column, those would be three little boys and one baby girl who have demanded the bulk of my attention.  Breastfeeding alone.. my gosh, I forgot how intense it is to commit half an hour of every 4 to providing nourishment to a small, hungry person. A person who can scream REALLY loud if you don't make with the boob juice fast enough.  A person who, in baby girl's case, has decided that naps are for losers and nighttime is party time.  Having my breasts violently chewed on at 3 o'clock in the morning is not exactly my idea of a party.  But, hey, these are the sacrifices we make!  For The Children! And, yes, if I'm honest I still believe it's totally worth it. Even after 4.

For the record, by the way, 4 kids is not an indication that we missed that class in sex ed.  You'd be amazed how many people assume that.  We really did want them all.  If you ask my husband, he'd have more.  My lady-parts and I remain unconvinced on that score at present, however.

I'm also back in school part time - because I am determined, eventually, to complete my degree.  I'm training for my first 5k of 2013.  I'm re-attempting the novel idea that has been knocking around in my brain the past few years, which so far consists of carrying a notebook around with me and jotting down every idea about it that pops into my head.  I scheduled a glass-blowing class.  I am doing Things.

So now, I just have to carve out the time to write about the Things.

I'm working on it.  Stay tuned!

Learning to Speak Truth.

On Friday I auditioned (via google hangout, because I couldn't make the in-person auditions on Saturday) for Listen To Your Mother.  It's a series of performances - all around the country - of local writers, mothers, sons and daughters who perform public readings on the topic of Motherhood.

I consider myself an amateur writer.  Public speaking, however, has never been my strong suit.  But after seeing Kate Hood's frequent postings on the show, I decided to check it out many months back.  I watched recordings of previous shows, I read what other people had to say about the experience, and I thought maybe I had something to say.

Years ago I wrote about an experience with Number One Son, and in the interim of the last almost-decade (!) it had come back around to me with even more meaning.  SO I sat down and recounted the original experience, along with how the meaning of it has changed for me over the years as we have struggled to understand him and how to best help him.

Public speaking terrifies me.  That's putting it as mildly as I can; having been raised a Mormon, it was required once every year or two that we stand up in Sacrament meeting on Sunday and give a "talk".  I remember (what little I have not blocked out) my young voice quavering while my legs, behind the podium, shook uncontrollably.

But this - Motherhood - may just be the topic that could overcome my anxiety. Because it is important - because other mothers out there have to be struggling, too, to cope with a child whose future they can't begin to decode.  As I was working on the piece, and reading aloud to myself in the mirror and trying not to notice how tired my eyes look or how many new gray hairs are sprouting in the inch-long roots - (Because who has time to color their hair anymore?  No? Just me and my mouse-gray follicles with the occasional splash of silver?) - as I watched my lips form the words I started to realize that whether or not I ever deliver this message publicly, I needed to hear it myself.

My brain started to absorb what my heart already knew - and this piece was written, absolutely, by my heart.  Whenever my head started to get involved in the writing process, I started to panic.  Was it too personal? Was it fair to talk about my child to strangers this way? Who was I to think I had anything meaningful to say on the topic, anyway?  Somewhere along the way, I had learned to believe it was not okay to share my truth - to "air my dirty laundry".  That was the voice in my head telling me this was too personal to share, that I should lock it away in a drawer and forget the whole thing.

I ignored my brain and wrote from the heart... and as I stood alone on the cold tile of the bathroom floor and heard the tentative sound of my own voice, my brain started to catch up, and the anxiety melted away. This is my story - a small piece of what Motherhood means for me.

I don't know if I will be selected to share my words with other people. I'm not sure I know how I will feel if it is.  Whatever the outcome, though, I am learning to speak my truth - even if it just means speaking it to myself in the quiet of the master bathroom.

A Perfect 10.

Ten years ago I started this journal - first as a way to record life events for myself and for family.  Over time, it evolved into a way to share and partake in a community of bloggers and, especially, women who provided the digital equivalent of an informal "salon" in the intellectual sense.

Today I am starting it anew.

Ten years ago I was a newly-wed and a new first-time mom, living in a two-bedroom apartment in suburban Northern Virginia.  Money was tight but we were young and invincible, and I was naively certain that the biggest challenges of my life (of which, to be fair, there had been several significant ones) were behind me.

Today, I am a stay-at-home mom to 4 kids - 3 boys and a very spoiled baby girl - living in suburban Denver.  Money is still tight but we are no longer so young.  In 2011 I was diagnosed with a Mood Disorder.  In 2012, my husband was diagnosed with Temporal Lobe Epilepsy.  Our eldest child continues to defy diagnosis, but has a collage of features from the Autism Spectrum and likely Mood Disorder.  The challenges we have faced in the last 10 years have been, at times, more than we thought we could survive, but I am no longer naive enough to expect that the hardest days are behind us.  I fully expect that the biggest challenges may be yet to come.  This no longer terrifies me.

In the last ten years I have learned that I have a deeper well of strength than I would ever have believed possible, and a network of friends and loved ones standing at the ready to cushion my fall.  I have learned that my marriage can survive the crucible of life; for better or for worse are no longer esoteric concepts, but the realities of a life together that we continue to build and nurture every day.  I have learned that I can be imperfect, even fractured, and still be a worthy soul.  I have learned that our imperfections are what make us real.

My name is MeL and I am a mother, a writer, an artist, a baker, a cook, a yarn geek, a great friend, a terrible dancer, a confirmed weirdo and (I hope) a pretty decent person.

Ten years is forever and a blink.  If you were with me for any of the last ten, I thank you and invite you to continue this journey with me.  If you're new here - Hello! It's lovely to meet you and you look spectacular today.

Wake Up And Go

It's... been a while.  Things have changed around here.  Actually, the "here" has changed around here.  We moved last summer from our small town home outside DC to the urban-ish jungle of Greater Denver.  Oh, and we had another baby! A GIRL one!  Apparently we finally figured out how to make those!

Clearly my articulation is lacking at this moment in time.  I want to make rash promises about how THIS time I'm back for good, and THIS time I'll be full of wit and wisdom and fabulous insight, but we both know that would be premature.  I propose we take it slow.  We can get to know each other again (or for the first time) little by little.  We've both changed, right? I mean, now I'm a mother of four.  I'm still running, still cooking, and still really, really bad at laundry. I have  special needs child, a husband with epilepsy (Surprise! I'll tell you about it some time!) and a lot more gray hair.

I'm also still pretty nuts, but hopefully in a good way. 

Running Down a Dream

I had a miscarriage in April. The day before my birthday. It was really, really awful, but I'm okay now.

Part of getting to "okay now" for me was getting back to the gym. I used to work out somewhat sporadically, then really regularly, then sporadically again, and then not at all. Lather, rinse, repeat. As a chubby teenager I took up jogging and long walks to help trim down, then went off to college and promptly cut that crap out because I was too busy losing my mind.

Last October I "ran" my first 5k, which is to say I walked most of it and the 70-something guy who started out behind me finished in front of me by quite a lot. The moms with their jogging strollers pretty much kicked my butt, too, since we're being honest here. But the experience, over all, was pretty awesome. The energy was intense, everyone was having a good time (I know, right? Sweating, gasping for air, and still having fun. I wouldn't have believed it either if I wasn't there.)

So when it came time to mentally recover from everything, I went back to the gym. It felt good -- the energy there, the endorphins. Endorphins are some addictive stuff, y'all. Their street value would be huge if it didn't require exercise to get them. (Actually, I know exactly what the street value is -- $19.99 a month. Yay for Gold's Gym!) <-- a="" endorsement.="" not="" p="" paid="">
Anyway, for the last month or so I have been doing a treadmill 5k three times a week, and doing some light cardio and weights the other two days. (Yes, I go to the gym 5 days a week. I'd hate me too if I didn't know how much I weigh and how incredibly out of shape I still am. It's a necessity, people. Trust me.)

All of which is leading up to, I hope, running in 2 different 5k's this year. The first one is a local run in October. The second one is THIS little piece of awesome -- the Hot Chocolate 15k. Because an event that includes both running AND Ghirardelli chocolate is pretty much my current idea of Nirvana.

I am nothing if not a walking contradiction, people.

Tap-Tap-Tap... is this thing on?

I feel like my voicebox is broken, and I must only be hearing my voice in my own head.

This would explain why my kids hear me repeat the same mantras endlessly, and yet ignore me with impunity.

"Don't hit your brother!"
"Close the fridge!"
"Stop yelling!"
"No sitting on the dog!" (Yes, really.)
"Pick up the legos! Pick UP the LEGOS!"

And the list goes on and on. In between the thousand things I hope to accomplish every day (and you and I both know that, of those, I accomplish - optimistically - 4) I find myself saying the same things over and over until I am pretty sure I'm developing that vein that my Dad always got on the side of his forehead when he got mad. I can FEEL it pulsing and swelling until it threatens to explode in the Mother-Of-All-Aneurysms.

But I keep hoping, in spite of all signs to the contrary, that maybe NEXT time will be the time that sticks, and suddenly they will get it.

This is when I remember the most succinct definition of insanity that I have ever heard:
Insanity is repeating the same action over and over, with the expectation of a different result.
(See also: Slot Machines that never pay out, vending machines that won't take your dollar no matter how many times you try to straighten it out on the edge of the machine, and expecting there to be a roll of toilet paper available when you need one).

Which proves it: Parenthood makes you crazy. It's totally not my fault, y'all.

The Life List

This list is a living document. It breathes, it grows, and it changes.
Just so you know. The newest additions will always be in blue.
**I'm noticing a trend here; most of my list items have to do with cooking and travel.

100 Things To Do Before I Shuffle Off This Mortal Coil:

1. Stroll along the Avenue des Champs-Elysees in Paris

2. Learn to make authentic pork tamales

3. Learn to ride a Harley

4. Open my Bakery

5. Stand on the Grand Canyon Sky Walk

6. Host a formal dinner party

7. Make a savory entree that includes fresh figs

8. Go to an old-fashioned clambake on the beach

9. Learn to play an entire song on my violin

10. Audition for a play

11. Read in the BlogHer Community Keynote at least once

12. Learn to make blown glass

13. Take a gondola ride with Trip in Venice

14. Attend the Newport, RI, Kite Festival

15. Take the kids to Walt Disney World, FL

16. Have dinner at Citronelle at the Chef's Table

17. Spend an entire afternoon playing outside and getting filthy with the kids.

18. Take a class in French cooking

19. Learn to speak fluent Spanish

20. Take a woodworking class

21. Learn to give my car an oil change

22. Learn to Belly Dance

23. Take a zipline tour

24. Learn to water ski

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Truth.

We have been going quite often of late to a local Unitarian Universalist congregation. More on the entirety of the experience later, but for today I want to focus on something I learned one of our first weeks there. A buddhist monk spoke about some of his journeys and experiences, and led a guided meditation with the following simple mantra:

"I am well. I am happy. I am peaceful."

There is truth in this for me. When my grief and my anxiety over what I have been through lately threatens to overwhelm me, I grab onto this mantra. I let it pour into me and fill my soul, and I embrace the truth of it. No matter what is happening around me, no matter that so many things in life are beyond my control, in that moment I can recognize the truth of that simple mantra.

It's not that I am free from the grief at the loss of the pregnancy. It has been over a month now, but it still feels like it just happened -- as fresh as the sting of a slap on the cheek. But I am walking on a tightrope, a narrow bridge that holds me above the chasm, and I refuse to look down. You don't get over something like this, but you do get through it. The only way out is through.

I spend a lot of time feeling anxious. Mostly I am anxious over financial matters - it's the number one worry of my life, because I know how quickly one horrible twist of fate can ruin a family and leave them destitute. We've been close to that before, when I was pregnant with Jack and Trip got laid off, and I never want to be there again. But when the anxiety threatens to be too much, I realize that even if we lost every dime we would find a way to provide the basic needs for our family. We would find a way through, because that is what we do.

When a grief, a fear, an anger, or a hurt begins to seem too big to face, I think of this mantra and force my mind and heart to open to the truth of it.

I am well. I am happy. I am peaceful.

And, wouldn't you know it, despite all the things swirling around outside the tiny bubble of this truth, the fragile and incandescent edges remain intact and I am safe, inside, where these things remain true.

By Definition

I often wish I was more organized.

This desire applies to all areas of my life, really, but when it comes to writing I often wish I was as crazy-organized and "defined" as some of the blogs I heart the most. Blogs like Dooce and Girls Gone Child and Mighty Girl.

I am not that organized, and this blog doesn't have so clear a purpose. It remains a place to simply vent out some of what is in my head and my heart and my life. I think I'm learning to accept that.

I wish I could post photos of cute outfits I put together, but the truth is that - while I own a fairly impressive shoe collection (which lately includes a pair of vintage cow-girl boots) - most of the time I can be found wearing some variation of jeans, shirt from Kohls (hey, we have but one department store here in the sticks, and we are grateful for that much) and sneakers.

And by sneakers, I probably mean the Hanna Montana brand slip-on black canvas sneakers that had rivet hearts on them, which I removed with plyers after purchasing them at Walmart. A fashion plate I am not these days.

But there are the rare and glorious occasions that call for breaking out the clothes that remind me that once upon a time I felt like a Pretty Girl. So once in a while I'll try to post a picture of those moments. If I remember -- since, as we have established, I am not so organized or good at remembering to "Do Things".

Trip and I also love to cook -- when we have time. That second part is the trick. Tonight, for example, I got back from soccer practice with the boys and stared blearily into the depths of our refrigerator, past mushy strawberries and wilted spinach. With a limited window before Cub Scouts, I finally opted for deli roast beef sandwiches and potato chips. It wasn't gourmet, but it was fast, cheap, and easy. (There's a joke about my character in there somewhere, but I'll leave it for the gatherers of such low-hanging fruit...)

On the nights we manage to pull it together enough to work out dishes like peruvian chicken, or homemade sushi, or lamb rogan josh with saffron rice, though... I will attempt to share that with you.

Basically, rather than a steady diet of brilliant and interesting things happening in my life, this is more like a buffet line of rants about laundry and wondering when my muffin top earned its own zip code. I may wish I could define it as something more cohesive... something with more of a purpose... but, let's be real, people. It is what it is, and filled with flaws... pretty much just like me. In both cases, I am working on learning to be just fine with that.

Happy Earth Day.

We were going to plant a tree today... but it rained.

We were going to pick up trash outside in the neighborhood... but (see above).

I was going to cook a turkey for dinner... but I forgot.

I was going to post something really interesting today... but I couldn't think of anything.

In lieu of anything interesting, I am throwing in the towel, ordering a pizza, dosing up on Nyquil (Hello, spring cold 2011! I wondered when you would make your appearance.) and settling in for a night of movies, pizza, beer, and relaxation.

I know it's both Earth Day and Good Friday, but I'm pretty sure that both Jesus and Mother Earth want me to eat pizza and drink Pilsner Urquell tonight. I'm sure they'd let me know if they felt otherwise, and I will totally be recycling the pizza box and empty bottles when we're done.

So HAPPY EARTH DAY! :)

Lost.

I lost it.

Those words get applied to so many things... The car keys. Those extra 10 pounds from the holidays. Your composure.

I don't really get how the same phrase can be applied to misplacing something, deliberately ridding of something, or freaking out.

In my case, it was none of those things.

In January of 2010 we started trying to get pregnant again. I know it seems insane. We already have 3 boys - 3 incredibly energetic and demanding boys - but we wanted baby number four to round out our craziness. And it shouldn't have been hard to get what we wanted, right? I mean, every other pregnancy was basically conceived by the time my husband waggled his eyebrows at me over the dinner table. Fertile as the Tennessee valley, that was me.

So imagine my surprise when months later, I still wasn't pregnant.

First came frustration. Anger. Depression. I didn't write about it -- what could I say? We considered.. should we see a fertility specialist? It seemed wrong somehow, made us feel greedy in the extreme with our 3 boys as we compared ourselves to the heartache of friends trying so hard to conceive just their first. We have an embarrassment of riches by comparison... what right did I have to complain?

Trip finished his Business Degree in November. By then, it didn't sting so much, this lack of pregnancy. We're pragmatic sort of people. We looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and said "So, it's not meant to be. We can move on. What do we move on to?"

The time seemed ripe for me to get back into school, myself. After all, I had withdrawn from my nursing program in 2002 when he got laid off just before we discovered my pregnancy with Jack. Trip had more time to pick up the slack, and we could use the extra income if I could finish school and get to work Nursing the sick back to health. And so... I enrolled in the local community college, lined up my student loans, and prepared to venture back into the wilds of part-time school.

I hesitated. A week before I was scheduled to start classes, I realized that I had not had reason to crack open the box of feminine products under my sink for about six weeks. "Hrm!" I thought. However, one negative pregnancy test later, I was reassured that it was just my body reacting to the stress of going back to school.

I started classes. That afternoon, I noticed my boobs were sore. Not just a little sore, either. One more pregnancy test left in the box, so... OMGWTFBBQ?! Two little lines. TWO.

Panic ensues. Rapid mental calculations. More Panic. Then... slow, like a match against kindling, the glow began to spread. It happened. It actually happened! Baby number four. My chest still hurt, but now it was because my heart was swollen up in its cage of bone, threatening to burst through with the joy of it.

I could tell from the first appointment that my OB was concerned. I had stopped tracking dates, so we didn't have any specific idea when conception might have happened. Still, he expected to see a bit more on that first ultrasound. Then, 2 weeks later, the bad news. No heartbeat. There was supposed to be a heartbeat. But maybe it was just too early? Maybe?

Weeks of waiting. Weekly blood draws. The levels were dropping. My birthday was approaching.

4 weeks later, 12 weeks into the pregnancy, and the day before my 32nd birthday, I lost my baby.

I lost it.

I don't understand that application of the phrase, is what I am saying. I didn't misplace it;I knew where it was. I searched high and low for some sign, some tiny clue, that would make it all okay. But it wasn't okay.

I renewed my domain for this little blog because I realized I was ready to start talking again. To start sharing again. Because it's so damn hard to talk to the people in my life. Or rather, the talking is easy... it's the saying anything that matters part that is hard.

I lost my baby. But maybe it's time I found my voice again. Even if there's nobody left listening.

At the end of the day, it's cheaper than therapy, and it's the easiest form of honesty I know.

I hate to come back and start again with something so painful. I wasn't even sure I should share it, because the wound is still so raw, the pain so fresh. I'd rather be funny, or snarky, or any number of things. I'm sure those things will come -- this is me we're talking about. I look for the laugh in most everything that happens in my life, because it's the only way I know to get through it. I am sorrowfully ill-equipped to handle most of the obstacles life throws at me, but as long as I can find a smile in it, a chuckle here or there, I can make it from today to tomorrow. We make do with the tools we have, and this is mine.

For the moment, though, I needed to open a vein and share. My hope is that, once shared, the wound can begin to heal in earnest. I'm ready to feel the sunshine again, and come out from under the storm clouds. I'm sure I'll write about it as it happens. Apparently, that's what I do.

So. That went well!

Yes, I lasted exactly 1 day before I achieved Epic Fail on NaBloPoMo. What can I say? I am an highly imperfect person. You should know that about me before this relationship progresses any further. Also, I have been told I hog the covers and occasionally snore. (Thanks for the honesty, Honey! You fart constantly in your sleep, by the way! Love you!)

The only clear solution here is to do what I always usually often do when I fall flat on my face. It's time to get back up, dust myself off, glance around furtively to make sure nobody was looking and keep marching onward.

So! Last night, we went out to our favorite local Sushi place to celebrate the End of an Era. Allow me to explain -- A few weeks back we attended Trip's college graduation, and we celebrated that day with an awesome meal at Mussels in Bethesda, MD. (I highly recommend it, especially the Belgian beer selection. Hello, Triples!) That was a great day.

Sadly for Trip, he still had a few weeks left in his final class before officially completing his BS degree. Yesterday, he pushed "submit" on his final paper/project for his final week of his final class... and officially finished up with being a student. That's right, y'all, my husband is officially edge-a-ma-cated! Which, obviously, requires celebratory sushi and saki. Thank goodness the boys are as much whores for sushi as we are -- the little buggars ate 2 entire California rolls and were STILL picking at our cooked rolls. I managed to be magnanimous and not bite off any of their tiny fingers as they reached for my favorite "Good Time Roll". (What?! Tempura fried sushi roll in cherry brandy sauce! You'd totally threaten to cannibalize your children for it, too. Trust me.)

Wait, what?

Oh! Yeah, we were talking about school. Trip is officially done with school! This, according to the 5-year plan, means that it is my turn to go back to school. At the moment, I'm not exactly sure how I feel about that. I'm still working part-time from home 5 days a week, plus attempting to move forward with that whole Cake thing. Oh! And I've been sewing and crocheting and jewelry-making for a friend's shop over at Tiny Toes Bowtique.

And, you know, doing that whole Raising 3 small humans thing. Yes, I remember I have children. Don't worry, I manage to keep them fed, clothed, and appropriately tickled. In return, they manage to tell me at least once a day that I am a "stinky poopy head! A MEAN one! Who won't let us run around in our underwear or eat Halloween candy for breakfast because you are STINKY!" So that's, you know, completely awesome.

So at the moment I am generally standing on the precipice of the future and clinging desperately to the crumbling vines of my self-identity while I try to figure out what the heck I want to BE when I grow up. Heavy thoughts for a Wednesday, no? I'll try to make Thursday more light-hearted. Honest.

What?

Oh, you thought I'd be less full of angst and ennui after the long break from this chronicle?

You are so cute when you're optimistic!

...

*Cough*

*Tap-Tap-Tap*

*Cough*

Testing... 1-2-3.... Is this thing on?

Hallo stranger!

Let's pretend like we're old friends who haven't seen each other in a long, long time but can just pick up where we left off, shall we? I have a friend like that, and it's lovely. Really. And it's better not to dwell on the "Where have I been the last 8 months" and, in stead, focus on the present.

SO! Welcome to NaBloPoMo and I'm going to give it a go. Likely I will fail -- I don't have a fantastic track record of staying on top of things -- but it's the effort and good intent that count, and I have plenty of both to spare.

For today, allow me to leave you with some examples of what I have been up to of late. This applies to both the making of the following hats and the raising of the small models wearing them.

So. Now, then. How have YOU been?

Greetings, Earthlings.

Oh, 2010. How I do bow down to thee. No, seriously. I throw in the towel. YOU WIN.

Hai! You may be aware that I live in the lesser portion of the greater DC area. That is to say, out in the sticks, but if you throw one of those sticks you will have an equal shot to hit DC or Baltimore.

If you paid any attention to the news this weekend, you will understand when I say that I had a nice vantage point of the Snowpocalypse from my perch over the crapper. Where I was vomiting. Repeatedly and in a projectile fashion. My kids love me, so they joined in the festivities. My husband somehow avoided this plague, and now is officially suspect in an attempted family-wide poisoning. (Okay, so actually we picked up a bug at a playgroup on Friday, where several other families were also infected. But still! He could totally have been trying to off us. Just sayin'.)

Now there are 4 feet of snow in my yard and people keep muttering something about another 8-10 inches this week, but I can't hear them very well... mostly because I am sticking my fingers in my ears and screaming "LALALALALALA- I CAN'T HEAR YOUUUUUU!" but it's not really working. And the thought of more snow makes my already tender tummy do a little slow-roll that is highly unpleasant and makes me think that maybe I'm not quite as over this virus as I thought I was.

Which is to say... HI! I am still here, though the posting is sad and sporadic at best. I am vaguely working on the notion that perhaps it is time for a relaunch of the site with a new focus and new energy and MORE COWBELL, but you'll have to bear with me until I get through the Frozen Tundra that is February.

February is never a good month for me. Historically, I find myself in the bottom of a cavernous depression about this time of the year; the icy grasp of winter wraps frosty fingers around my heart and squeeeeezes for all it is worth, making my chest painfully tight until it's nearly impossible to get a good, deep breath of the fresh air that is so abundant in winter. My vision tends to go all dark and blurry, like before a good old-fashioned swoon, but without the security of a ready fainting couch and cushiony bustle.

Which is to say that I'm treading the icy water for now, dear friends. There is an abundance of gratitude in my heart, don't misunderstand me. It just happens to be frozen under a layer of crystalline ice at the moment, or sleeping soundly in the muddy bottom like fish eggs in winter. Give me a short time in which to thaw, and I'll be back to my old self again. For the small but dedicated few who continue to haunt these empty rooms, I promise to fill them again soon with the sounds of cocktail-party chatter over a background of jazz music and gently clinking glassware.

And wine. Lots and lots of wine.
(See! You knew it was still me in here!)

Birds Flyin' High... you know how I feel....

Welcome to a new year! ...

It's a new dawn, it's a new day, and all that jazz.  Or so they tell me.  The beginning of a new year always makes me feel so... somber.  Almost funereal.  It never feels quite real, as though the months from January to March happen in a fog-soaked dream on some other plane.  It's not an entirely unpleasant sensation, but certainly not a good place to be for overlong.  It's a good time for writing, at least for me.  It's the time I can release, at least a little, my kung-fu grip on the illusion of control.  Perfection. Control. My ever-present, invisible frenemies.  They live in my head and run taped loops all day long, critiquing every move. Critiquing every imagined move, as well.

The big boys are both at school, and there are a million things to do this morning.  Which probably explains why I got back from dropping Toby at school and then spent 15 minutes in the car, in the driveway, listening to NPR while perusing November's Vogue and daydreaming about auditioning for a play at the local theater.  

I auditioned for a real play exactly once - when I was in high school.  I was terrible.  Self-conscious and crippled with insecurities, over-conscious of my Rubenesque figure in a room full of anorexically thin California blondes, I knew I was doomed to fail before I started.  Naturally, I was correct.

Such a different woman am I from that emotionally crippled girl.  Some of the scars, however, remain.  So I look at the open audition notices (for a playhouse in our ridiculously small Mayberry town) and daydream about just going in with gusto and having a ball.  My husband encourages these flights of fantasy.  I shrug and say "maybe someday" and go back to my lovely daydreams and try to decide if the blouse on the clothes-hangar of a model in Vogue would hold up over my 38D's.  Then I jot down notes, ideas for a short story.  I head back into the house to finish my cold coffee from this morning.  I sit down to type up a few notes on this long-neglected corner of my digital brain.

Outside, the sky is gray and the frosty air burns in my throat like whiskey fire.

Inside, the house is quiet but for the crawling sounds of one tiny explorer and the low hum of the fridge.  Time to begin the day. Time to begin the year.

Hello, my friends.

A Month, You Say?

Really? It's been almost a month?

...

Wow. So that... happened.
...

I don't have good excuses or flowery prose to describe all the very intense reasons I haven't had time to post lately. Someone thought I must be exaggerating the other day when I said my days are scripted down to 5 minute intervals.

I wasn't.

But today was supposed to be spent with extended family, eating the Secret Gumbo Recipe and lounging in front of the fire. Instead? OH, the universe has funny plans sometimes, and now we're snowed in. People, there are a good 10 inches of snow on the ground with more falling and no sign of let-up soon. I gave in and made belgian waffles and now the boys are snuggled up downstairs watching Frosty the Snowman on DVR. I recorded it last night.

In lieu of coherent words to string together for you, allow me to ramble like a tired hobo and share with you some of my infinite wisdom. Or, as a once and never friend once shouted at me to my dismay, 'You know a lot, but you don't know everything'.
But I do know a lot that is dubiously useful! My useless trivia - let me share it with you!

1) Clarinets. Have you ever noticed how much more adeptly they were used for comedic musical effect in the sixties? You hardly ever hear a wry clarinet solo in today's modern television and holiday specials. It's a travesty, really. (See: Frosty the Snow Man, circa 1960's)

2) Dog sweaters. You mock them until you get sucked in, and then the next thing you know you are squeezing your poor pooch into a too-small turtleneck sweater that she probably outgrew about 3 months ago just because it's adorableyou are demonically compelled she's freezing. Really.

3) This probably doesn't deserve its own number slot, but I Just realized we probably don't have enough toilet paper to make it through to the other side of this blizzard. I guess we'll start with the dog sweaters and then move on to the dogs...

4) Thankfully, we are all stocked up on sugar. HOLY DIABETES, People! I'm 10 pounds down on the yellow brick road to my pre-baby figure, and the entirety of my acquaintances are attempting to sabotage this progress with a never-ending parade of Christmas Fudge, cookies, candy canes and festively wrapped Hershey Kisses. Okay, most of those might have been intended for the children but what sort of responsible parenting would THAT be -- for me to let the kids gorge themselves sick on sugar and die of a diabetic coma? I'm self-sacrificing, really. It was just taking one for the team. Also, I might have just busted the button on my new "look - I lost 10 pounds!" pants. (I can neither confirm nor deny.) (Totally Unrelated Side Note: if you happen to see a green khaki button somewhere on my kitchen floor, please set it aside for me along with my dignity.)

5) Okay, fine. I also split open the seat of my jeans at the post office. It wasn't pretty. Thank God for hoodie sweatshirts large enough to double as impromptu butt-skirts.

6) A few weeks ago an elderly Asian neighbor was out on the corner dancing around at 8 am. In his boxers. I was ready to make a non-emergency call to the police department or stop to see if he needed help when I realized he was actually doing martial arts exercises. Man was like 70 years old, but as I got closer I realized he was ridiculously muscular and also scarily good at roundhouse and vertical kicks. And exercising at 8am in his underwear. I think that might be my favorite thing I have seen all year.

7) I don't think I really have a 7, but I was getting into the groove and trying to think of something else useless to share with you. I mean, this snow isn't letting up any time soon, and my husband keeps muttering something about "vacuum" and "laundry" like I'm supposed to be able to focus on something so mundane when we're all probably about to be marooned in our house with nothing but a frozen turkey and box of fudge for sustenance. Hrm. I wonder if the sweater should be removed before one attempts to roast a small dog. Just, you know, as a purely academic exercise....

No charge for the wisdom imparted, just maybe send some moose jerky and few handfuls of dried berries. And if you don't hear from us in a few days, we've either frozen to death in the new tundra that was our home OR we've headed for Fiji and warmer climes. But probably the first one.
Cheers, everybody!