Lately, in my mothering, I've been feeling like a laptop whose battery has been pretty well zapped.
It's like no amount of charging keeps me going; I'm completely drained ten minutes after I'm unplugged from whatever source I was finding power to keep on mothering these beautifully challenging souls.
Maybe it's a phase {oh, please tell me it's a phase}, but lately, one of my boys has two switches: emo and high octane emo.
Um, so do boys enter the pre-teen years now starting at age almost 6? {Related: I buy organic dairy and meat, free of hormones, so I thought I was taking care of this whole early on-set puberty thing ...}
Also, if boys are this emo, then really having two sons is not a consolation for not having a daughter who is emotionally charged, so the next person who tells me that, well, they're in for an earful. Because, friends, I can personally attest to a boy being quite moody over the Light Saber he's sporting or, consequently, not sporting. It's nothing short of a full-fledge trauma here.
Maybe it's summer {oh, please DON'T tell me it's summer!} that's brought my formerly helpful 5.75 year old into a fit of emotionally driven turmoil over a certain pair of shorts not being clean?
{Yes, please tell me again about that daughter thing?}
Or, perhaps, it's a developmental leap nearing? Maybe his quickly approaching summer birthday is sending us him into fits of heavy emotion?
Whatever it is, it was wearing thin on my patience before my husband left for Paris last weekend.
So you can imagine what kind of ice everyone is skating on now, right?
If you said "NO ICE because it's SUMMER and your husband is in Paris" ... well, now you're tracking with me.
My friends, there's no ice left here. NO PROVERBIAL ICE!
We're hanging on here ONLY because God graciously gave me the best in laws and mother a girl who currently has no battery life could ask for and multiple friends who have extended hands of care and offers of dinner and play and rescue and cinnamon rolls. Reread that part before you send reinforcements or try to "save" my children from their crazy mother. We have been cared for! I repeat. We have been cared for above and beyond, and it's enough to get us all through safely to ....
the home stretch now, yes. We are close. We are closing in on John's re-entry to the real world where the Effiel Tower is 4,140 miles away {what? like you don't measure how far away your husband is when he's gone?} and the only things that are really towering above anyone in this house are two little boys will be giggling while standing over the mother who is lying on the floor, waving her white flag of surrender to the phase or the summer or the developmental leap or whatever it was that reared its ugly head these past few weeks.
And probably the only thing that sweet hubby of mine will hear from my lips that are smooshed against the wood floor are pleas for
a glass of wine without any accompanying whine
and begging that those piano lessons we're going to be forking out money for will at least lead to us having a *good* emo band practicing in our garage in the near future here.
Showing posts with label I am ridiculous. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I am ridiculous. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Monday, July 23, 2012
Dear Diary: On Hysterical Laughter
Dear Diary*,
It began normally enough.
I'd made Friday night plans to linger at a long dinner with two friends -- Melissa and Brook -- here in Lake County the night before we ventured into downtown Chicago for the Social Rev Up Brands and Bloggers Summit at the Hard Rock Hotel. I envisioned relaxation, as Melissa and I had just engaged in five days of backyard summer camp with 11 kids seven and younger all week.
But because I no longer had any clothes that fit and were appropriate for anywhere other than the gym we found ourselves at the mall, the mecca of Friday nights in suburbia for teenagers and desperate-for-clothes moms everywhere.
That's where the actual madness of the weekend began -- specifically in a dressing room: I got trapped in a carnivorous dress.
No, really -- the thing wouldn't let me out, and I had to be extracted from it by Brook, who firmly and appropriately directed my panicked self to reach my arms into the air, take a deep breath and stand up straight while she yanked it over it my shoulders.
Needless to say, I settled on a beautiful white flowy dress that held not even a remote chance of trying to devour me.
But it did require us to run through the mall like mad women at five minutes before closing time in order to make it to Victoria's Secret before the gates slammed shut so I could fix an imminent underwear emergency: apparently it's frowned upon for one to wear pink and black flower printed under garments beneath white linen dresses.
While we were breathlessly explaining to the sales associate #underwearER12 as she was shutting the gates, another employee ran up to the front of the store yelling "they stole our underwear!"
My heart began racing thinking that she had misunderstood what we were saying about an underwear emergency, thinking we'd actually five-finger discounted some thongs, but then the security guards made a dash for a group of teenagers who'd just exited the store.
As my pulse began to slow from both the excitement of being almost completely consumed by a woman-eating dress and then the thought of being sprung from jail by my husband after wrongly being accused of shoplifting underwear, Melissa marched us back to the dressing rooms, white-linen-dress-appropriate underwear in hand.
Luckily, the shoplifting excitement didn't deter Melissa from our mission and she generously gave me a strapless-bra-wearing demonstration atop of her clothing in the middle of the dressing room; with her direction and guidance, the underwear emergency was doused.
Somehow, in spite of the adrenaline rush keeping all of us awake, we all made it out the door by 7:10 a.m. the next morning and were swinging through the Starbucks drive through by 7:12 a.m.
But by then we were in the thick of #CoffeeEmergency12, as Melissa's husband had run out of java and was expected to keep the children all day and night and work a midnight shift from home.
So we did what any loving wife and friends of wife would do during such an emergency while trying to remain on time.
We did a drive-by caffeination mission, quite literally heaving a few-pound bag of coffee out the window of our moving car and into the front lawn, completely shocking Melissa's unsuspecting neighbor who was quietly watering his flowers when the coffee bag thunked into the grass.
We did arrive appropriately clothed and caffeinated at the conference despite our potential setbacks, thankfully.
Which is good because we wouldn't have wanted to miss any of the content or the panels or educating me in '80s pop culture by watching St. Elmo's Fire until the wee hours of the morning or the chance to take a thousand different Prince tribute pictures in our hotel room mirrors before leaving the Artist's floor to find coffee and food and then head home bright and early Sunday morning.
And I certainly wouldn't have wanted to miss trading in my standard mom outfit of yoga pants and a tank top to play dress up and don feather earrings and run around with my girlfriends like giggly teenagers for an entire 24 hours.
Because sometimes a mom needs to laugh hysterically at something other than preschooler knock-knock jokes, poop talk and the insanity of living with a bunch of light-saber wielding, plank-walking manic boys that often prompts the *other* kind of hysterical laughter.
You know?
XOXO,
Me
*As you know, I normally don't write Dear Diary esque posts, but I thought it necessary since I spent the weekend drawing out my inner school girl. ;-)
It began normally enough.
I'd made Friday night plans to linger at a long dinner with two friends -- Melissa and Brook -- here in Lake County the night before we ventured into downtown Chicago for the Social Rev Up Brands and Bloggers Summit at the Hard Rock Hotel. I envisioned relaxation, as Melissa and I had just engaged in five days of backyard summer camp with 11 kids seven and younger all week.
But because I no longer had any clothes that fit and were appropriate for anywhere other than the gym we found ourselves at the mall, the mecca of Friday nights in suburbia for teenagers and desperate-for-clothes moms everywhere.
That's where the actual madness of the weekend began -- specifically in a dressing room: I got trapped in a carnivorous dress.
No, really -- the thing wouldn't let me out, and I had to be extracted from it by Brook, who firmly and appropriately directed my panicked self to reach my arms into the air, take a deep breath and stand up straight while she yanked it over it my shoulders.
Needless to say, I settled on a beautiful white flowy dress that held not even a remote chance of trying to devour me.
But it did require us to run through the mall like mad women at five minutes before closing time in order to make it to Victoria's Secret before the gates slammed shut so I could fix an imminent underwear emergency: apparently it's frowned upon for one to wear pink and black flower printed under garments beneath white linen dresses.
While we were breathlessly explaining to the sales associate #underwearER12 as she was shutting the gates, another employee ran up to the front of the store yelling "they stole our underwear!"
My heart began racing thinking that she had misunderstood what we were saying about an underwear emergency, thinking we'd actually five-finger discounted some thongs, but then the security guards made a dash for a group of teenagers who'd just exited the store.
As my pulse began to slow from both the excitement of being almost completely consumed by a woman-eating dress and then the thought of being sprung from jail by my husband after wrongly being accused of shoplifting underwear, Melissa marched us back to the dressing rooms, white-linen-dress-appropriate underwear in hand.
Luckily, the shoplifting excitement didn't deter Melissa from our mission and she generously gave me a strapless-bra-wearing demonstration atop of her clothing in the middle of the dressing room; with her direction and guidance, the underwear emergency was doused.
Somehow, in spite of the adrenaline rush keeping all of us awake, we all made it out the door by 7:10 a.m. the next morning and were swinging through the Starbucks drive through by 7:12 a.m.
But by then we were in the thick of #CoffeeEmergency12, as Melissa's husband had run out of java and was expected to keep the children all day and night and work a midnight shift from home.
So we did what any loving wife and friends of wife would do during such an emergency while trying to remain on time.
We did a drive-by caffeination mission, quite literally heaving a few-pound bag of coffee out the window of our moving car and into the front lawn, completely shocking Melissa's unsuspecting neighbor who was quietly watering his flowers when the coffee bag thunked into the grass.
We did arrive appropriately clothed and caffeinated at the conference despite our potential setbacks, thankfully.
Which is good because we wouldn't have wanted to miss any of the content or the panels or educating me in '80s pop culture by watching St. Elmo's Fire until the wee hours of the morning or the chance to take a thousand different Prince tribute pictures in our hotel room mirrors before leaving the Artist's floor to find coffee and food and then head home bright and early Sunday morning.
And I certainly wouldn't have wanted to miss trading in my standard mom outfit of yoga pants and a tank top to play dress up and don feather earrings and run around with my girlfriends like giggly teenagers for an entire 24 hours.
Because sometimes a mom needs to laugh hysterically at something other than preschooler knock-knock jokes, poop talk and the insanity of living with a bunch of light-saber wielding, plank-walking manic boys that often prompts the *other* kind of hysterical laughter.
You know?
XOXO,
Me
*As you know, I normally don't write Dear Diary esque posts, but I thought it necessary since I spent the weekend drawing out my inner school girl. ;-)
Monday, May 14, 2012
Everyday Life: Dear Diary
I knew John's departure for his work trip last week wasn't going to be a cake walk the minute I heard what happened at a seemingly innocent carpet time at G's preschool:
Since I'd expected this, I'd been brainstorming ways to help him cope with missing daddy.
I was prepared to comfort his heavy heart for 20 minutes or so after John left, expecting to usher him away from the door and engaging him in other exciting activities.
And even though I also even prepared myself for the WWF-style wrestling match that is "snuggling" the 2.5 year old to sleep, I neglected to prepare well by forgeting to wear a helmet and found myself staring in a special edition headbutting match where I was the unfortunate loser.
Exhausted, we all fell asleep only to be awoken several times during the night be an unsettled golden retriever who was equally disturbed about the daddy-car being in the driveway without ever bearing a daddy at the door during dinner time.
I didn't sign up have to take the dog to therapy because of his intolerance for cars turning the corner in front of our home while John is absent.
Know what else I didn't sign up for?
Zombie mommy.
Fourteen hours after he closed the taxi cab door, began jet-setting a path toward destination Europe, I pried open my heavy eyes and extracted my groaning body from bed at the insistence of getting some Peanut Butter Puffins for an early-morning snack.
Fourteen hours and six minutes after he closed the taxi cab door, began jet-setting a path toward destination Europe, I scrambled to find my referee hat to break up head-butting contests.
Sixteen hours: scraped mud from the walls, swept it from the floors and cleaned it from the carpets, shoes, small legs and paws.
Seventeen hours: sopped up soapy sink water from an overflowing sink and enforced another clothing change.
Twenty five hours: exhausted, I served more Peanut Butter Puffins for dinner for the boys and ate cold green beans like they were gourmet food.
Thirty four hours: more WWF-style wrestling with a toddler who is miserable and waking every hour because of a nasty cold disgused as emerging molars.
5:50 a.m. Wednesday morning: Can no longer calculate how many hours hubby has been gone because of sleep deprivation coupled with copious amounts of tired whining from two little non-sleeping zombies.
Wednesday: Can no longer see digits on the clock. Just know the day of the week. bluuuuuuuuurrrrrrr.
Wednesday, sometime while the sun still shining: Reinforcements arrived. Sleep was still for the weak, according to E.
Thursday, morning: doused firestorms of frustration over missing "guys" and their attached-to-plastic-hand "lie sabers", napped, reunited myself with almond butter, started sneezing. A lot. Reinforcements left. I cried.
Thursday afternoon: realized it was less math to count the time until husband emerged from the super blackhole that I've found Europe to be these days and found the reason that I was no longer able to count had a lot to do with the colonies of snot overtaking my sinus cavity compliments of a toddler who coughed in my mouth all night long the night prior.
Friday: No eggs, no milk, no green beans = no breakfast so took the kids to a cafe where they behaved like angels after finding a renegade Easter card from great grandparents that included money. Experienced no-sleep, snot-induced, feverish blur filled with moments of holy-cow-are-these-kids-Droids-with-endless-battery-life? moments. Took boys out to dinner, too. And didn't feel guilty one single bit. Better than eating their weight in Peanut Butter Puffins
Friday night: Seriously considered writing a prayer titled "Are you there God, it's me, Hyacynth."
Saturday morning: head feeling like an overinflated balloon, awoke to a smiling toddler at 6:35 a.m., survived the farmer's market and subsequent Target prepartion trips for hosting Mother's Day, fed the children nut and fruit bars for breakfast, bananas for snakcs and Peanut Butter Puffins for lunch. Didn't even think twice about it. Considered exchanging nuptials with the kleenex box.
Saturday afternoon: While tying the last ribbons around Mother's Day gifts, heard G squeal that daddy was home. Hugged husband, kissed husband, thanked God, searched for bed. Hugged bed, kissed bed and considered chaining myself while waving the white flag of surrender and resigning that even the best laid preparations cannot save Zombie mommy. Only husbands returning from forever-long business trips can.
One moment the children are signing the continents song, and the next moment my oldest son's chin is quivering as he shares with the class that his daddy will be going to Europe.Two minutes after he closed the taxi cab door, began jet-setting a path toward destination Europe, I calmly, lovingly, patiently wiped the tears from my four and half year old's cheeks.
"Oh, that will be fun for daddy," his teacher exclaims and smiles.
Chin quiver intensity increases, my preschooler blurts out through heavy sobs "but not for me!" and the entire class circles around him, offering stories of hope and survival from when their daddies were out of the country, successfully turning carpet time into an organic group therapy session.
Since I'd expected this, I'd been brainstorming ways to help him cope with missing daddy.
I was prepared to comfort his heavy heart for 20 minutes or so after John left, expecting to usher him away from the door and engaging him in other exciting activities.
And even though I also even prepared myself for the WWF-style wrestling match that is "snuggling" the 2.5 year old to sleep, I neglected to prepare well by forgeting to wear a helmet and found myself staring in a special edition headbutting match where I was the unfortunate loser.
Exhausted, we all fell asleep only to be awoken several times during the night be an unsettled golden retriever who was equally disturbed about the daddy-car being in the driveway without ever bearing a daddy at the door during dinner time.
I didn't sign up have to take the dog to therapy because of his intolerance for cars turning the corner in front of our home while John is absent.
Know what else I didn't sign up for?
Zombie mommy.
Fourteen hours after he closed the taxi cab door, began jet-setting a path toward destination Europe, I pried open my heavy eyes and extracted my groaning body from bed at the insistence of getting some Peanut Butter Puffins for an early-morning snack.
Fourteen hours and six minutes after he closed the taxi cab door, began jet-setting a path toward destination Europe, I scrambled to find my referee hat to break up head-butting contests.
Sixteen hours: scraped mud from the walls, swept it from the floors and cleaned it from the carpets, shoes, small legs and paws.
Seventeen hours: sopped up soapy sink water from an overflowing sink and enforced another clothing change.
Twenty five hours: exhausted, I served more Peanut Butter Puffins for dinner for the boys and ate cold green beans like they were gourmet food.
Thirty four hours: more WWF-style wrestling with a toddler who is miserable and waking every hour because of a nasty cold disgused as emerging molars.
5:50 a.m. Wednesday morning: Can no longer calculate how many hours hubby has been gone because of sleep deprivation coupled with copious amounts of tired whining from two little non-sleeping zombies.
Wednesday: Can no longer see digits on the clock. Just know the day of the week. bluuuuuuuuurrrrrrr.
Wednesday, sometime while the sun still shining: Reinforcements arrived. Sleep was still for the weak, according to E.
Thursday, morning: doused firestorms of frustration over missing "guys" and their attached-to-plastic-hand "lie sabers", napped, reunited myself with almond butter, started sneezing. A lot. Reinforcements left. I cried.
Thursday afternoon: realized it was less math to count the time until husband emerged from the super blackhole that I've found Europe to be these days and found the reason that I was no longer able to count had a lot to do with the colonies of snot overtaking my sinus cavity compliments of a toddler who coughed in my mouth all night long the night prior.
Friday: No eggs, no milk, no green beans = no breakfast so took the kids to a cafe where they behaved like angels after finding a renegade Easter card from great grandparents that included money. Experienced no-sleep, snot-induced, feverish blur filled with moments of holy-cow-are-these-kids-Droids-with-endless-battery-life? moments. Took boys out to dinner, too. And didn't feel guilty one single bit. Better than eating their weight in Peanut Butter Puffins
Friday night: Seriously considered writing a prayer titled "Are you there God, it's me, Hyacynth."
Saturday morning: head feeling like an overinflated balloon, awoke to a smiling toddler at 6:35 a.m., survived the farmer's market and subsequent Target prepartion trips for hosting Mother's Day, fed the children nut and fruit bars for breakfast, bananas for snakcs and Peanut Butter Puffins for lunch. Didn't even think twice about it. Considered exchanging nuptials with the kleenex box.
Saturday afternoon: While tying the last ribbons around Mother's Day gifts, heard G squeal that daddy was home. Hugged husband, kissed husband, thanked God, searched for bed. Hugged bed, kissed bed and considered chaining myself while waving the white flag of surrender and resigning that even the best laid preparations cannot save Zombie mommy. Only husbands returning from forever-long business trips can.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Everyday Life: What My Relevant Roomies Should Know
In preparation for Relevant, dearest roomies Suzannah and Stacy {and anyone else I might ever spend considerable time with in person}, I thought now would be a good time for you to know that ...
1. I am a seeker of beauty in the everyday, and it seemingly directs my decisions and guides me ...
2. to randomly take pictures of sometimes the oddest things with my phone or camera or sneak away briefly to write it all out. Taking a picture of the hair dryer/toaster/your painted toe nails = normal and no cause for concern.
3. Both talking and listening are components to a great conversation, but I almost always fall into listening if there is no opportunity to speak ...
4. unless there is lack of sleep and caffeine in power combination, then the giggling/silliness emerges and the words flow until heads hit the pillow.
5. The morning after, however, pretty much will consist of me sleeping with my eyes open and feet moving until breakfast and tea have been safely procured and consumed. I rarely speak before refueling.
6. And by breakfast, I mean real nutritious food - not, like, a donut or pastry. Which also begs me to remind you: don't get me started on food integrity or whole food conversations unless you really, really, really want to go there.
7. While I'm mostly an enigma of shy clothed in abundant conversation and outspoken wrapped in carefully thought words, when provoked with subjects about which I am passionate, something compels me to speak the truth but to speak it in love
8. Because I care deeply {too deeply?} about the way other people feel and about the way I think I make them feel which is why
9. I almost always opt for a hug rather than a handshake {unless I know you are anti-hug, so please! Warn a sistah!} However, I am not a night-time snuggler, so no worries for my bed mate; there will not be awkwardness in the morning after a subconscious, unprovoked cuddle session.
10. Going to the deep places of conversation, the hard places doesn't frighten me or make me shy away, rather it draws me out and draws me in, so if you want to go there, prepare adequately for little sleep but let's plan to ensure a permanent pot of coffee or cup of tea brews into the evening hours.
And one bonus tidbit: There is a soundtrack constantly playing in my mind; I randomly insert song lyrics into conversation and prefer music to permeate the space outside of my head as well.
Linking up at Brooke's with everyone else who sharing about themselves in preparation for Relevant 11.
Twitter: @HyacynthW
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/hyacynth
Chevy, Dr. Reena Jacobs and Kawa are all generously partnering with Bigger Picture Blogs to help sponsor our roadtrip to Relevant. You can follow our trip -- traveling 12 hours with a baby in the Comfort and Style of a Traverse -- on Twitter or Facebook. #ChevyDrivesBPB.
1. I am a seeker of beauty in the everyday, and it seemingly directs my decisions and guides me ...
2. to randomly take pictures of sometimes the oddest things with my phone or camera or sneak away briefly to write it all out. Taking a picture of the hair dryer/toaster/your painted toe nails = normal and no cause for concern.
3. Both talking and listening are components to a great conversation, but I almost always fall into listening if there is no opportunity to speak ...
4. unless there is lack of sleep and caffeine in power combination, then the giggling/silliness emerges and the words flow until heads hit the pillow.
 |
| Sometimes life demands mustaches on a stick, you know? |
 |
| No make, no hair style -- what I shall look like in the morning. |
7. While I'm mostly an enigma of shy clothed in abundant conversation and outspoken wrapped in carefully thought words, when provoked with subjects about which I am passionate, something compels me to speak the truth but to speak it in love
8. Because I care deeply {too deeply?} about the way other people feel and about the way I think I make them feel which is why
9. I almost always opt for a hug rather than a handshake {unless I know you are anti-hug, so please! Warn a sistah!} However, I am not a night-time snuggler, so no worries for my bed mate; there will not be awkwardness in the morning after a subconscious, unprovoked cuddle session.
10. Going to the deep places of conversation, the hard places doesn't frighten me or make me shy away, rather it draws me out and draws me in, so if you want to go there, prepare adequately for little sleep but let's plan to ensure a permanent pot of coffee or cup of tea brews into the evening hours.
And one bonus tidbit: There is a soundtrack constantly playing in my mind; I randomly insert song lyrics into conversation and prefer music to permeate the space outside of my head as well.
 |
| Normal, every day me for easy recognition. |
Twitter: @HyacynthW
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/hyacynth
Chevy, Dr. Reena Jacobs and Kawa are all generously partnering with Bigger Picture Blogs to help sponsor our roadtrip to Relevant. You can follow our trip -- traveling 12 hours with a baby in the Comfort and Style of a Traverse -- on Twitter or Facebook. #ChevyDrivesBPB.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Bigger Picture Moments: Sometimes it's really just about Jacques Cousteau and Chickens
It's not always philosophical thought, deep conversation and poetic prose tumbling around in my mind.
In the spirit of genuine and full disclosure, I just thought that you should know that mostly, around this house and in my head, it's a lot of talk about my deep, personal feelings toward chickens in relation to my loved ones as well as debate about whether Jacques Costeau {whoever he is} is actually dead or alive and if he wore really cool outfits and spoke with a French accent like his name would have you think.
And it's also quite a bit of giggling over conversations when my unsuspecting husband exasperatedly exclaims for our preschooler to stop stealing his brother's balls and share.
Oh, and sometimes there's just endless banter about really important things like if John's hippie name would be Keirajong or if we should take a cue from my former boss and put poetry in our bathrooms to help its guests relax when they enter so they can easily get down to business.
I guess I better dig out the road map and outline the trip before I totally am in Africa and you all are still in Chicago wondering what the heck this blog post is going and what the heck I used to spike my tea tonight.
Last night, the Bigger Picture Blogs girls and I had a hangout on Google+ to plan out BPB's fall happenings {exciting things ahead!}.
The conversation slipped away from productivity and straight down a steep hill of silly after I asked the girls a question about partnerships that center around visiting Illinois farmers and cows and chickens, oh my.
And as I was explaining my deep desire to engage in such a partnership {chickens, how I love thee and their farm-fresh eggs!}, I apparently confessed that if my lovely friends had any reservations about it that I would totally abandon ship because I love them more than I love chickens.
Which, apparently, isn't a normal thing to express to your friends.
Thus, that burst of giggles was the straw that broke the camels back, leading to many, many more fits of laughter that centered discussion around our imaginary computer hacker and destroyer, Ivan, and debate about whether Jacques Cousteau -- apparently the guy is quite famous, as spellcheck corrected my mispelling of his last name -- is actually alive anymore.
All of this randomness? It's totally par for the course around my house and my brain.
But apparently that doesn't always transfer over to my blog, I realized after reading one of Melissa's really sweet tweets last night after our Google+ Hangout ended: "Everyone should have a little @HyacynthW in their life, she's really not as cerebral as her blog would have you think, shes kind of giggly."
And that? That is tragic!
You all should totally know that I laugh. A lot. And sometimes I say really random, really weird things out loud that make complete sense in my head but actually sound quite ridiculous when given air time. And I use the word "like" a lot. And I often giggle like I've had too much wine even when I've had no wine at all. A lot.
I guess after spending all the live-long day, almost daily laughing about bodily functions with my boys and conversing about the intricacies of worm poop, I come here aching to spill the words that have been soaking in my mind and heart all day --so much so that I forget that part of the recognizing the bigger pictures is showing and documenting the whole picture in it's entirety.
My life is very much an intentional journey filled with epiphanies and struggles and beauty and learning and prose-worthy moments -- but it's also inundated with deep-seeded chicken-parenting envy, random conversations about poetry in the bathroom, lots of attempts at humor and laced with numerous successful giggling fits.
Every Thursday, we come together to share the harvest of intentional living by capturing a glimpse of the bigger picture through a simple moment. Found yours? Join us!
1. Grab our button in the sidebar and display it on your post
2. Link your post here!
3. Visit the two {or all!} people who have linked before you and encourage them on their journey!
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Everday Life: A Flare for the Dramatics
Ninety degree must be an understatement, I moan internally, as we trudge through the muggy afternoon air toward the park.
G, however, cares not about extreme temperatures, so he rides his bike full force a few dozen feet in front E's slowly moving stroller.
We play for about five minutes after arriving, and E toddleruns to his stroller and stretches out beneath his sun shade.
G and I play for three more minutes before I declare that I am absolutely parched and need some water before I fall face-first on the grass and need G to push both his brother and me home in the stroller.
G sighs and reluctantly resigns his play and boards hi bike so we can head back home for water.
Upon entering the house, we're met with a draft of humid air.
I groan, feel the top layer of a tshirt from my drenched skin and declare that the humidity is as thick as a rainforest's and that air conditioning must.happen.now.
I flip the switch for AC, and G and I go about the house closing all the doors and windows only to reconvenine in the living room and wonder where on Earth his little brother has gone.
We search the kitchen and the bathroom and the laundry room, and there's no sign of E.
G ventures toward the stairs to continue our manhunt and calls, "Mom! I found him. Come look!"
I venture toward his voice, and there's my baby ...
sprawled across the AC vent, slightly smirking, quietly basking in all of its chilly glory.
He has such a flare for dramatics, my youngest guy -- wonder where on Earth he got it from.
G, however, cares not about extreme temperatures, so he rides his bike full force a few dozen feet in front E's slowly moving stroller.
We play for about five minutes after arriving, and E toddleruns to his stroller and stretches out beneath his sun shade.
G and I play for three more minutes before I declare that I am absolutely parched and need some water before I fall face-first on the grass and need G to push both his brother and me home in the stroller.
G sighs and reluctantly resigns his play and boards hi bike so we can head back home for water.
Upon entering the house, we're met with a draft of humid air.
I groan, feel the top layer of a tshirt from my drenched skin and declare that the humidity is as thick as a rainforest's and that air conditioning must.happen.now.
I flip the switch for AC, and G and I go about the house closing all the doors and windows only to reconvenine in the living room and wonder where on Earth his little brother has gone.
We search the kitchen and the bathroom and the laundry room, and there's no sign of E.
G ventures toward the stairs to continue our manhunt and calls, "Mom! I found him. Come look!"
I venture toward his voice, and there's my baby ...
sprawled across the AC vent, slightly smirking, quietly basking in all of its chilly glory.
He has such a flare for dramatics, my youngest guy -- wonder where on Earth he got it from.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
365 Photo Project: Week 38
The creative crisis has seemingly come to close. {Well, I think -- I'm an artist, and I might stumble unintentionally into another one tomorrow or the next day, if I'm being honest.}
But this latest one is stick-a-fork-in-it done.
During my much-needed break, I spent some time trying to reconnect with my passion for photography by journaling and doodling and casually snapping pictures and reflecting {thank you, Creativity Boot Camp!}.
I found that without the self-imposed pressure and rules, I really actually still do love gathering all of my captures every week.
I really enjoy the harvest reaped from the project.
And I really like learning more about my camera.
But I don't like feeling like I've failed when I miss a day -- and I seem to miss at least one day every week or two because of one thing or another.
So I've had to jump over some internal perfectionist obstacles in order to come to a place where I want to continue in this endeavor.
All in all, I've jumped and cleared the bar {just barely}, which means that I'm forging on until I capture all 365 days {even if it takes 400}.
However, if I miss a day, I'm just going to move on mentally and with the project.
That means that my captures might have a day or two in between them but still be numbered consecutively.
And that's just life right now with a husband, two small kids, a business, a side project and, well, a summer that really needs to be filled with enjoyment and activity and movement and, you know, living.
But this latest one is stick-a-fork-in-it done.
During my much-needed break, I spent some time trying to reconnect with my passion for photography by journaling and doodling and casually snapping pictures and reflecting {thank you, Creativity Boot Camp!}.
I found that without the self-imposed pressure and rules, I really actually still do love gathering all of my captures every week.
I really enjoy the harvest reaped from the project.
And I really like learning more about my camera.
But I don't like feeling like I've failed when I miss a day -- and I seem to miss at least one day every week or two because of one thing or another.
So I've had to jump over some internal perfectionist obstacles in order to come to a place where I want to continue in this endeavor.
All in all, I've jumped and cleared the bar {just barely}, which means that I'm forging on until I capture all 365 days {even if it takes 400}.
However, if I miss a day, I'm just going to move on mentally and with the project.
That means that my captures might have a day or two in between them but still be numbered consecutively.
And that's just life right now with a husband, two small kids, a business, a side project and, well, a summer that really needs to be filled with enjoyment and activity and movement and, you know, living.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Virtual Coffee: Twelve
If we were having coffee today, this cloudly, overcast third of May, I'd be sipping my almond oolong from a steaming mug because it's still chilly enough to need the warmth of tea.
I'd ask what you'd like for your afternoon caffeine fix, and we'd likely let the conversation naturally drift from complaining about the bleak midwestern weather.
Because my irritation with the weather is getting old. :)
So I'd share with you something else that I am SO done with -- G's whole sassy almost-four attitude that's creeped into his normally sunny {albeit strong-willed} personality.
And I'd ask for prayers and any guidance you might have with helping to curb the sass.
Because the kid is driving me bananas. Ba-na-nas, I tell you! I just don't do sass well.
But, in positive news, I am doing well at something with which I normally struggle. Yesterday my Curves coaches and I began the Curves 90-Day Challenge, one issued to us by the head honchos of Curves at our spring training regionals event last month.
We're using the Curves Weight Management Program for the nutrition aspect and getting our exercise from working out the Curves circuit, which we all usually do anyway.
And it's going swimmingly! Curves has come out with some new awesome interactive tools to help guide us through the Weight Management program, and the coaches and I are test piloting it.
When it's all said and done, I'm hoping to have shed this last 15-20 pounds so hopefully I'll be meeelllllting. And maybe eight weeks from now you won't recognize me?
Maybe, also, eight weeks from now when I take another body shot I'll have cleaned the bathroom mirror, too, before inviting guests over for coffee?
Probably, also, we'd talk about how I broke my own heart yesterday: without fact checking, I posted a non-quote on my Facebook wall. Turns out, the first part of the quote was from someone else who wasn't nearly as famous as the person to whom I attributed it.
Don't you hate it when that happens? Or is that just me because of my inner journalist? I just hate printing anything that isn't totally accurate, even if it is just to Facebook or Twitter.
And I could probably drone on and on about the myriad reasons why I simultaneously love and don't love those social mediums. But I'll spare you my Neil Postman-esque monologue.
At any rate, it was a good reminder for me to always double check my sources.
And, yes, in that moment of truth when I realized my error, my mind went flashing back to the time in college when Dr. Murphy marked a big fat D on one of my papers for her senior-level journalism class after I'd misspelled someone's last name.
And that her heaping out a mega-dose mercy on my perfectionist soul; she normally assigned an F for that type of mistake.
Well, enough about me -- how are YOU! What's new? Have I missed a post close to your heart? Will you link it with your comment? Or just tell me what you're thinking about today? Or how about curbing the sass?
<
I'd ask what you'd like for your afternoon caffeine fix, and we'd likely let the conversation naturally drift from complaining about the bleak midwestern weather.
Because my irritation with the weather is getting old. :)
So I'd share with you something else that I am SO done with -- G's whole sassy almost-four attitude that's creeped into his normally sunny {albeit strong-willed} personality.
And I'd ask for prayers and any guidance you might have with helping to curb the sass.
Because the kid is driving me bananas. Ba-na-nas, I tell you! I just don't do sass well.
But, in positive news, I am doing well at something with which I normally struggle. Yesterday my Curves coaches and I began the Curves 90-Day Challenge, one issued to us by the head honchos of Curves at our spring training regionals event last month.
We're using the Curves Weight Management Program for the nutrition aspect and getting our exercise from working out the Curves circuit, which we all usually do anyway.
And it's going swimmingly! Curves has come out with some new awesome interactive tools to help guide us through the Weight Management program, and the coaches and I are test piloting it.
When it's all said and done, I'm hoping to have shed this last 15-20 pounds so hopefully I'll be meeelllllting. And maybe eight weeks from now you won't recognize me?
Maybe, also, eight weeks from now when I take another body shot I'll have cleaned the bathroom mirror, too, before inviting guests over for coffee?
Probably, also, we'd talk about how I broke my own heart yesterday: without fact checking, I posted a non-quote on my Facebook wall. Turns out, the first part of the quote was from someone else who wasn't nearly as famous as the person to whom I attributed it.
Don't you hate it when that happens? Or is that just me because of my inner journalist? I just hate printing anything that isn't totally accurate, even if it is just to Facebook or Twitter.
And I could probably drone on and on about the myriad reasons why I simultaneously love and don't love those social mediums. But I'll spare you my Neil Postman-esque monologue.
At any rate, it was a good reminder for me to always double check my sources.
And, yes, in that moment of truth when I realized my error, my mind went flashing back to the time in college when Dr. Murphy marked a big fat D on one of my papers for her senior-level journalism class after I'd misspelled someone's last name.
And that her heaping out a mega-dose mercy on my perfectionist soul; she normally assigned an F for that type of mistake.
Well, enough about me -- how are YOU! What's new? Have I missed a post close to your heart? Will you link it with your comment? Or just tell me what you're thinking about today? Or how about curbing the sass?
<
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Everyday Life: Flakes on a plane
You know your flight isn't going well ...
when your husband is sitting half naked in his seat, your moaning two year old sprawled across his lap, dressed only in underwear, baby screaming bloody murder in the other arm.
And you? The mother? Instead of helping your partner wrangle your two barfing, screaming children during the first hour of the flight, you've got your face buried in a flimsy white bag that couldn't have been made for vomit because, hello, who makes a puke bag out of paper?
Oh, and those clothes that your husband and 2.5 year old were wearing? They are nestled snugly inside one of the ten plastic garbage bag under your seat because they are drenched with baby and toddler vomit. And you, the mother? You kind of wish someone would PULease tuck you under a seat so the aircraft would stop spinning.
And that emergency flight attendant button? Yeah, that thing isn't for decoration and you, the mother, liberally tested it by calling the flight attendant who graciously brought you at least 10 garbage bags, hand sanitizer, 50 napkins and enough Ginger Ale and kind words to settle an entire plane load of stomachs all while spritzing air freshener up and down the aisles of the plane so as to keep the other passengers from declaring mutiny and voting your and the other naked barfers off the plane.
And when the plane finally barrels to a screeching stop at the end of the runway and the cabin lights shine? All of the other passengers within a six row radius, stand, turn and look at you with an equal mix of pity, disgust and thankfulness that the flight from hell has ended and they, indeed, were not the victims of any of your family members' barf. Some congratulate you because the flight is over. Others offer a chuckle of mercy and relief while asking "rough flight?" And you, the mother, who spent a flight nursing a sick baby in one arm and holding a puke bag in the other? You want to go all Bobby Knight on the next person who asks if the ride was a little "bumpy."
The highlight of the flight? At least you, the mother, managed to get all your barf into a bag instead of square on your husband's face and shirt and pants ala the kids. That, potentially, could have killed any sweltering romance that watching two baby births hasn't already knocked out of the park.
Thank God for husbands with iron stomachs, air freshener, no turbulence on an internally bumpy flight, carry-on suitcases that unknowingly house pajamas for a naked toddlers,two baby carriers that can transport two completely passed out, sick kids all the way from the gate to baggage claim to the car and saint-like flight attendants who sweetly bid you farewell by saying "Don't worry; it happens. See you next flight."
"Thanks. God bless you," you, the mother, say out loud. "See you next flight."
And then, you, the mother, mumble under your breath, "In about 10 years when the kids can fend for themselves and aim puke into a bag or when pigs can fly."
That would at least put your mess to shame.
P.S. If you are traveling with children and can choose to take a Southwest Airlines flight, ohmygosh, do it. You won't be sorry. The customer service is awesome. Even when you're barfing. (And just for note, we bought our plane tickets, and I'm not being paid to say this. The company just rocks; we've had nothing but good experiences on all 12 of our flights, and onmygoodness do you need good experiences when you fly with kids!)
when your husband is sitting half naked in his seat, your moaning two year old sprawled across his lap, dressed only in underwear, baby screaming bloody murder in the other arm.
And you? The mother? Instead of helping your partner wrangle your two barfing, screaming children during the first hour of the flight, you've got your face buried in a flimsy white bag that couldn't have been made for vomit because, hello, who makes a puke bag out of paper?
Oh, and those clothes that your husband and 2.5 year old were wearing? They are nestled snugly inside one of the ten plastic garbage bag under your seat because they are drenched with baby and toddler vomit. And you, the mother? You kind of wish someone would PULease tuck you under a seat so the aircraft would stop spinning.
And that emergency flight attendant button? Yeah, that thing isn't for decoration and you, the mother, liberally tested it by calling the flight attendant who graciously brought you at least 10 garbage bags, hand sanitizer, 50 napkins and enough Ginger Ale and kind words to settle an entire plane load of stomachs all while spritzing air freshener up and down the aisles of the plane so as to keep the other passengers from declaring mutiny and voting your and the other naked barfers off the plane.
And when the plane finally barrels to a screeching stop at the end of the runway and the cabin lights shine? All of the other passengers within a six row radius, stand, turn and look at you with an equal mix of pity, disgust and thankfulness that the flight from hell has ended and they, indeed, were not the victims of any of your family members' barf. Some congratulate you because the flight is over. Others offer a chuckle of mercy and relief while asking "rough flight?" And you, the mother, who spent a flight nursing a sick baby in one arm and holding a puke bag in the other? You want to go all Bobby Knight on the next person who asks if the ride was a little "bumpy."
The highlight of the flight? At least you, the mother, managed to get all your barf into a bag instead of square on your husband's face and shirt and pants ala the kids. That, potentially, could have killed any sweltering romance that watching two baby births hasn't already knocked out of the park.
Thank God for husbands with iron stomachs, air freshener, no turbulence on an internally bumpy flight, carry-on suitcases that unknowingly house pajamas for a naked toddlers,two baby carriers that can transport two completely passed out, sick kids all the way from the gate to baggage claim to the car and saint-like flight attendants who sweetly bid you farewell by saying "Don't worry; it happens. See you next flight."
"Thanks. God bless you," you, the mother, say out loud. "See you next flight."
And then, you, the mother, mumble under your breath, "In about 10 years when the kids can fend for themselves and aim puke into a bag or when pigs can fly."
That would at least put your mess to shame.
P.S. If you are traveling with children and can choose to take a Southwest Airlines flight, ohmygosh, do it. You won't be sorry. The customer service is awesome. Even when you're barfing. (And just for note, we bought our plane tickets, and I'm not being paid to say this. The company just rocks; we've had nothing but good experiences on all 12 of our flights, and onmygoodness do you need good experiences when you fly with kids!)
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