Memories of Potty Time Elmo are like war flashbacks.

BOOM, goes Mommy's head.

Obnoxious, noisy toys are from the devil, and what you see pictured here are my children's passive-aggressive attempts to kill me slowly and painfully and loudly and unrhymically. 

Since the move, we have *rediscovered* the Bop-It!  I take full blame, because I bought this thing and actually find it to be fun.  And up until a week ago, my kids weren't coordinated or focused enough to get the hang of it.  But now that they are capable?  They play it 23 million times in an hour.

Bop It!  Twist it!  Pull it!  Bop It!  Flick It!  Twist it!  Twist it!  Bop it!  Bang it!  Stomp It!  Throw it in a RIVER!!

Because WHAT THE HELL Bop-It! creators?  Where is the volume control?  This little demon is so damn loud, and when my kid picks it up at 7 a.m. it ACTUALLY sounds as if it's blaring at 76,000 decibels above normal human sound.  And it is ALWAYS a bad day when my morning begins with ear bleeding. 

Not pictured, but equally as miserable of a toy?  Potty-time Elmo.  Just the thought makes me want to curse and kill puppies.  Potty Time Elmo had faulty wiring and a bladder the size of a grain of rice, apparently, as he had to pee every 14 seconds and NEVER SHUT-UP about it.  I know this is used as a tool to garner excitement for potty training--but in essence, I believe this pushed our efforts to house break our then 2-year-old back by years.  YEARS.  And here's why:  We got bored and fed up with putting Elmo on the damn potty every other second, and he inevitably peed himself (and broadcast it to the world), and said something unforgivable like "accidents happen!" and "better luck next time".  Yes, this is what all first-time parents think, on the first two days of potty-training their only child.  But on day 13, with ZERO signs of pee in the potty, and tears and and M&Ms and promises to ACTUALLY build a fairy castle out of diamonds, it becomes clear-as-day, that the 2-year-old is in a stand-off for your soul and that she HOLDS ALL THE POWER, because her simple desire to not-want-to-do this is costing me time and laundry and SANITY.  So, no Elmo, ACCIDENTS DON'T JUST HAPPEN--they are the weapon by which the war for world domination is won.  Many a sane mommy loses her sh#! during the potty training phase, thanks in no part to your flippant remarks that it's OKAY to pee in the toy chest on a whim.  That is NEVER okay.  You are just as bad as that bastard Diego, who modeled TERRIBLE decision making in that episode where he cornered and confronted and CARRIED a baby crocodile in a bush.   Added to the list of things now necessary to teach my children:  Never, EVER, confront a wild crocodile/hippopotamus /hyena/jaguar/mountain lion in a bush, or frankly, any situation for that matter, because you will surely die.  

This will follow my lesson on NEVER letting a man photograph you in a roach motel, even if it is FREE.

On the market.

We are OFFICIALLY on the market. 

Today, our stager brought in nice furniture, to make it look like fancy people live here.  I thought this would be really tough to see, but it turns out that once other stuff was in the space, it clearly no longer feels like mine.  This was good closure.   It is beautiful, but none of it is me.

I take that back.  A table, a bed, a few hanging shelves and a framed print are mine--but taken totally out of the context of messy creative art that tends to be my life theme.  

To be clear:  I am not so much a fancy, beautiful house kind of gal.  I am practical and whimsical and colorful and borderline chaotic. I know this now, but it has taken 10 years of homeowning. 

Clearly, this is how this house was MEANT to look.  I walked in to see what the stager had done with the place, and suddenly it all made sense.  So THAT's how the room was intended to be configured.  Huh.

Now, the kitchen...oh, the kitchen.  Seeing it all remodeled and granite-filled and shiny makes me really want to chop this whole room off and pack it into a very large pod.  But we all know that I would take this lovely new space and fill it with 20+ piles of random paper in 13 seconds flat.  I believe there is a reason that Mike and I have done major remodeling to the houses we move out of, right before we sell them--we simply do not live this way, it isn't us, it's not important enough for us to spend this kind of money for the kind of lifestyle we find comfortable.  It made all the sense in the world when we made the decision to put the house on the market, knowing this would become someone else's home--but not ours.  Currently, I am working with a tiny, galley like kitchen--and I have to say, it has changed my LIFE.  Lesson learned:  Space is a KILLER for me.  I need good functional space, but NOT in abundance. 

So here starts the next phase in the adventure, and the next step pointing us toward our new home.  I've been patient and calm and purposeful in slowing down and letting it all play itself out, but that is wearing itself thin.  I just want to KNOW where we're going, already.  Even though, I also know, that I am being greatly (and painfully) refined in the waiting.   

The family portrait.

{In casual conversation, I recently stumbled upon this gem from my past...all events are TRUE, because I am/was this oblivious.}

Blog world, I did something REALLY stupid in college.

No, I'm not talking about the time I broke my finger TEACHING aerobics.  Or the time I neglected to close the lid on the tanning bed (to be fair, it wasn't a part of the instructions I was given).  Or the time I decided to take Russian as my foreign language because it sounded smart and college-like.

Thing is, I didn't realize this was so DUMB until two weeks ago.  When I was casually re-telling my husband the tale of the "Family Portrait". 

So.

I went to college at DePauw University in Greencastle, Indiana--an hour outside of Indianapolis.  SMALL school in a SMALL town.  NOT urban, NOT bustling.  We're talking about, maybe, 5 restaurants, if you don't include the truck stop 10 miles away.  Even though that truck stop was awesome.

At the start of our sophomore year, my friend Ort entered a drawing at the local ice cream shack, Dairy Castle.  Like Dairy Queen but CHEAP and more dilapidated-like.  But freaking awesome, btw, and across from the liquor store conveniently called "The Crotch" because it sat at the interesection of two roads.  To this day, I really couldn't tell you if that was it's real name, but I do know that Ice House kegs were always $39.99.  It probably should have been called the "Crotch Castle" because we certainly had a knack for tacking that -castle onto everything.  And "The Crotch Castle" is an amazing name, RIGHT?

I digress.

Dairy Castle.  Free Drawing.  For a FAMILY PORTRAIT.

She won.

And a few weeks later, after a day of classes, 7 (or maybe 8?) of us got dressed up in khakis and set out to have our portraits taken. 

Here's where it gets weird. 

The photos were taken at the "College Castle" which is a shady, roach motel approximately .3 miles from our sorority house.  Very, VERY similar to the horror show on/near the Nashville airport runway that Mike made me AND OUR CHILDREN sleep in last March.  I guess my standards were a *tad* lower in college, because this part of the story never seemed to bother me.

Until Mike pointed out with big, buggy, bulging eyes that we happened to have a photo shoot AT A GROSS MOTEL. 

Well, now that you mention it.....

I went on to explain how the photographer was a little strange, but totally legit, because he had this big backdrop set up and everything.

Mike asked if that backdrop was a headboard?

Ha. Ha. Ha.  No, it wasn't. 

He asked if there was a window-less van in the parking lot?

Hell if I know, or if I was EVER that observant in college.  It's totally possible I was drunk, I just can't remember.  Drunkeness was the reason for a great majority of my stupidity in college. 

Thing is, NONE of us thought it was strange that we were having our pictures taken in a motel.  As evidence, I will note (as mentioned above) that we wore KHAKIS, which in 1995, was a dress choice of the most sophisticated and professional level.  We were ALL business.  Mike, however, believes that we were about to be sold into a prostitution/pornography, and the only reason we weren't thrown in a dark hole and asked to "put the lotion in the basket" is because there were 7 (or 8?) of us and Merv the Perv Serial Rapist couldn't possibly taser us/carry our limp bodies to his van without raising suspicion.  Had it been just three of us?  I'm pretty sure I might be doing Dallas right now. 

And end scene.

{Sidenote:  Please explain, at length, to your daughters, that it is NEVER OKAY to have your pictures taken by a stranger in a seedy motel.  You *might* think this is self explanatory.  It is (cough) obviously not. }

Happy summer.

Today, we said goodbye to preschool AND kindergarten.  It began as a normal, crazy morning, in which I gamble on an extra 15 minutes of sleep, before remembering that I had to write 4 thank you notes and wrap something in cellophane.  You know what they say--your day never really begins until you wrap something in cellophane. 

And then, of course, I had to photograph it.  Because if you craft until 12:30 a.m., but fail to blog it, did it ever really exist? 

For Big J & L's kindergarten teacher, I painted a small, square canvas, and wrote the saying "live what you love" with a sharpie.  I did something similar for Mike on Valentine's Day, and I really love all the blank space with the saying at the bottom.  Teachers, I know you all probably LOVE gift certificates.  I've heard this debated quite a bit, but I have to tell you, I am just not a gift certificate giver.  Sorry.  If I give gifts, they are damn well going to be personal and heart-felt.  Probably handmade and not from Einstein's bagels.  The sincerest outpouring of my thankfulness, love and appreciation is the time I put into creating something, and hopefully, if you don't like the actual product, you'll love the effort it took to get there.  If not, no problem, I won't be offended if you don't want to make out with me, or anything.

Little J's four preschool teachers (yes, FOUR), got summer-starter buckets.  Nothing too fancy, just a fun magazine and some flip flops and some nail files.  I fell in love with the idea of the fun bucket, and then realized it takes a helluva lot to fill them.  Note to self:  begin researching teacher gifts prior to the last 24 hours of the school year. 

Pictured:  Big J and L with a few of their friends, and their teacher, Ms. R.  This was Ms. R's VERY FIRST class, and I am especially thankful that she will probably remember these little hooligans as the very start of her long and distinguished career.  We loved, loved, LOVED having her, and are so incredibly blessed to have started this adventure with her.  If we do end up switching schools, we will no doubt miss seeing her in the halls at Bristol.

And then.  There was the end of preschool.  We've been here for THREE YEARS (with Big J and L before Little J).  The way they structure their classes, kids stay in the same rooms for the duration of their preschool years--and we've grown pretty attached to it, and to the teacher's we've seen and loved everyday.  I, myself, have grown pretty attached to my wonderful little boy, who has become such an awesome kid.  But I am losing my baby to kindergarten in a few short months, and there is a growing lump in my throat at the thought of letting him go.  All of them, really--Little J just happens to mark the end of an official era.  He is the last of FOUR, so most days I am running through his routine half-distracted and frazzled, but every now and again I take a hormonal punch in the gut when I see him all big and burly and joyful.  Man, is that kid happy. 

I know MANY of you are wrapping up the school year and heading straight for summer.  We are right there with you and I am simultaneously shouting for joy and hyperventilating.  But it's gonna be great.  Life changing and epic and frustrating and dirty and GREAT.

Jon Bon Jovi is the angel of mercy that hath saved me from house-selling hell.

Mostly, I feel busy.  Busy, busy, busy.  Like a gigantic cluster of throwing sh#! in boxes and wondering if I'll ever eat those canned beets that just got packed in with the guest bedroom sheets?

Maybe.  Put probably not. 

Sometimes, it feels thrilling.  A do-over, a clean canvas, a purging.  The excitement of starting new and making decisions differently, getting rid of my red/green/tan theme.  Painting something blue, perhaps? 

But.

I feel ENTIRELY displaced.  This home isn't mine, my stuff is packed in an order that might suggest I have REAL mental issues, and my days are spent trying to locate *something* or organize an entire family for 3 months time, before realizing that it's 5 p.m. and unless we are having grilled cheese sandwiches AGAIN, I better get creative with freezer foods and microwave defrosting.  This makes me a nomadic, short-term organizer/diner cook, and suggests that we have entered an alternative universe headed straight for hell.  Coincidentally, it also makes me a pretty crap-tastic mom, as we have failed to complete any kind of homework/paperwork in a timely manner within the last 2 weeks and ALL possessions of any importance to my children are missing and likely shacking up in a POD with my extensive collection of baking powder.  And while I am crafting summer-themed teacher gifts (don't ask) and trying to figure out WHY the hamster wood chips are in the dirty clothes pile, I am about to lose a preschooler.  Literally. 

A lot of the time, this whole thing is heart-breaking, in ways I never expected.  To watch us be wiped away, slowly, from our home, erased in a layer of paint and granite and fixtures.  I KNOW I chose this.  But it sucks sometimes, too.  I am ready, but it doesn't entirely erase my desire for what is predictable and safe and reliable.  I am smack in the middle of watching something slip away and not knowing what is coming to take it's place, and it is often an overwhelming, busy place without an exact future to fixate on.  This is what life is like without Christ, I imagine; everyday decisions and changes that threaten to drown you in EVERYTHING that is uncertain.   

I believe, with all my heart, that what is uncertain is going to be amazing.  We aren't dying, we aren't suffering, we aren't wanted by the FBI, we aren't going to jail, we aren't being sold into slavery, we aren't crystal meth addicts, we won't be living in my in-laws basement forever.  We are going to Hawaii for a MONTH, for goodness sake, and until then, we are living in a free house with a pool. 

Also important to know: I might be terribly disorganized and bordering on an official "hoarder" diagnosis, but I am forward moving.  I DO NOT WALLOW.  Wallowing (for me) = death.  It's how I survive, I MOVE ON.  I'm sure there are issues of repressed feelings and baggage and insecurities that come with my life of the past 5-10 years, surviving cancer in my husband and the loss of a child and a 6-month NICU stay with the twins that is most accurately described as a medical Vietnam.  It was terrible; and I just don't choose to live there.  I have four beautiful children born out of GREAT uncertainty, and they are all I need to understand that my story is designed to make perfect sense out of unknown chaos. 
 
They are life.  Actual, living, breathing humans (often masquerading as demon spawn, but 92% human, I think).  And what we are talking about here is a house.  Drywall and some plumbing and some sort of nook if I'm lucky!!  A 2-4 month time frame. NOT the end of the world, just a temporary break from sanity and security.

Though, as a side note--I did attend the Bon Jovi concert here last night, and am *mildly* convinced that the Rapture was indeed real, and that I was carried to a heaven in which Jon Bon Jovi eternally sees a million faces and ROCKS them all.    

Peace out.

We have entered the traumatic brain injury and germ spawn stage of moving.

I'm not dead.  But I might as well be, because moving BLOWS.  As in, my head is going ka-boom and dripping gray matter all over the wallz.  It's gross.

Which brings me to my second point:  Moving is DISGUSTING.  But not until you move all the furniture and you realize that child boogers have been doing dirty things with the dust bunnies, reinforcing my belief that NOTHING GOOD happens in dark corners.  Ever.

To rectify this situation, we have an army of trucks and trailers camped out at our house and charged with the task of making it clean and shiny and livable by humans (and not amoebas).  I can't be sure, but I think they are planning to torch the place tomorrow, and simply rebuild it, because that seems to be the easier choice.  Or, possibly, they have found a dead body somewhere in the house--probably the shoe fairy, because I have been looking for her remains ever since it became obvious that the kids slaughtered her. 

Also, I am *slightly* on edge because we are in the final weeks of American Idol, and this is a bad, BAD time to be without a DVR-like recording system.   Tonight, for example, I took it old school and recorded on an actual VHS tape.  FOR REAL.   And then, I had to make a real-quick-like-switch-a-rooney at 8 p.m, for the season finale of The Office, and it's still completely possible that I sent a space shuttle full of teenagers into orbit while also recording MASH re-runs. 

That was a Space Camp shout-out, btw.  And that robot responsible for sending those kids into space was totally using the exact same VHS machine from 1984.  FOR REAL.

I digress.

The worst part about moving, as it has been revealed throughout this process?  F-ing LAUNDRY.  There is crap at the bottom of that pile that I haven't seen since I was 6-years-old, NOT KIDDING.  It has traveled space and time to make me miserable.  But as we are also amidst a seasonal change, our clothes must be washed and then sorted amongst no less that 47 different piles for proper storage.  And those piles are located in one of 6 locations:  Home, In-laws, the Pod, the garage, the dining room or that damn space shuttle with the teenagers that took off when I was in the 5th grade.  Inevitably, my current winter clothing has been thrown into a box with newborn onesies and a few canned goods, and this is sure to make my brain explode ALL OVER AGAIN when I unpack in the new house. 

The End.

The editting process.

A little back story:

Before we bought this house in 2003, we had owned THREE houses (all since getting hitched in 2000).   Two of those moves were done while I was pregnant with G, and Mike was in treatment for testicular cancer.  I couldn't tell you why, exactly, but our needs changed constantly, and we were young, and still figuring out what worked for us.  We didn't define happiness in just one way, and we certainly weren't limited by what was easy and comfortable.  We went to open houses a lot, and when the mood hit us, we packed up.  As a married couple, we have ALWAYS been inspired by change.

**This makes A LOT of sense to me now, as moving is like re-writing a story.  And we all know how I LOVE to tell a good story.**

The house that we brought G home to was great, and worked well for us.  It was two doors down from a great Elementary school in a great district.  We knew it wouldn't be our *forever* home, but at the time, we came up with a plan for a VERY SPECIFIC neighborhood that we would love to end up in, some 5-10 years down the road.  A very small neighborhood with very little turnover, right on the golf course of our country club.  And...it just so happened, that Mike's parents had friends who lived on this street, so we called and asked if they would let us know if they EVER wanted to sell their house, because we'd be interested.  You know, in 5-10 YEARS TIME.

They called 3 months later.

We had one child, and suddenly, we were moving into a 4 bedroom house on a golf course.  It was amazingly simple, this whole process of accumulating a dream house, that we assumed would take years.  And we were so, SO incredibly excited for the life we would build here, and the house we would fill (with crap, apparently, if the contents of my current moving boxes are any indication.)

The problem, of course, is that at 27, I had NO IDEA what I would want or need in a home, FOREVER.  I just *thought* I did.  And as this house was a ton bigger and nicer than any we had lived in, I did truly believe that this was the case for most of our time here.  Because bigger and nicer are always the goals, right?

Now.  I've touched on our reasoning for change quite a bit in February, when I wrote THIS POST about quitting our country club, and the reasons that choice and it's expense were not working for our family.  And once that piece of the puzzle was gone, the house didn't make quite as much sense anymore, either.  Our only hang-up was whether or not it was worth the pain-in-the-arse of moving. 

I think it is.  I say *think*, because this still feels like home--and the future, and where we'll end up is still very unknown.  And that is unsettling.  As is living in someone else's house, and leaving for a month in the middle of it all.  I take it back, I want to stay. 

No, I don't. 

Yes, I do. 

No, I don't. 

GAH!

The idea of a new house, a new canvas, a new story--that is endlessly appealing to me.  Not a fancy house, for I am not a fancy person and I KNOW that now, even though I wore flannel pants to class regularly in college.  I moved in here *thinking* I wanted to be fancy, and now I own dark furniture and various accents that are Not. My. Style. At all.  Because I never took the time to figure out what I actually liked, apart from copying what I thought I should have.  Somewhere along the line, I stopped looking for and collecting ideas when it came to the kind of home I wanted to build, the way we used to when we house hunted all the time.  I settled in and decided to make something work, FOREVER.  I bought into the idea that I would never change my mind, and as a result, have constantly compromised around it. 

This big, fancy space is (and has been) WAY too much for me to keep up.  Particularly since it has had the pleasure of seeing me through the period where I birthed FIVE children in 3 years.  It has afforded us a lot of breathing room with so many ankle biters, but also it has provided TOO GREAT of an ability to hoard no less than 8 various boxes of medical supplies.  EIGHT!!!!!  And now, my infants and toddlers have now grown into full-time school-attenders; and suddenly, the space that I needed to give them the freedom to crawl and explore will be empty most of it's days. 

Instead.

I would love to paint my kitchen cabinets an unusual color. 
I would love an older house with smaller space and more character (where funky cabinets would fit).
I would love (LOVE) a nook of some sort.
I would love a smaller bedroom, because I can't always see the details on my t.v. at night when I'm in bed.
I would love to live within walking distance to my kid's school.
I would love to have less debt.
I would love for my kids to be able to ride their bike's to a friend's house without crossing a major, busy road.
I would love some sort of spacial limit on what things I keep, because we all know I have no filter or common sense for this kind of thing.

You get the idea.  None of this is a deal breaker, but it's a constant compromise, very similar to the things we were sacrificing to be part of a country club.  It's just not really the direction we want to go in, right now.  And both Mike and I are passionate and EXCITED about living a great life, and not just "making it work".  You can change your path, did you know that?  Even with four kids and 5.8 tons of crap, you can do it.

Also.  I'm not naive enough to think that I won't change my mind, and my priorities, and my preferences again.  But THAT'S OKAY.  It's only a house.  Or a paint color.  Or a bedspread. 

They are ALL just choices that we can do differently.

Stories we can edit, as needed, if we're not afraid to change.

For sale.

We are moving.

As in, 80% of our lives are currently in various boxes.  Our plan is for the remaining 20% to be shipped out in the next 48 hours, when the real work of removing ourselves from the walls and the kitchen countertops and the carpets will take place.

What sounds spontaneous and rushed and half-baked, is actually an idea we've been tossing around for quite some time.  When we decided that we were *mentally* ready months ago, we began the process of de-cluttering and found it to be the homeowner equivalent of ripping off a band-aid over 8-10 years worth of time.

Lesson #1:  Moving a family of 6 cannot be done in any sort of efficient or organized manner.  At some point, baby onesies and canned goods just NEED to be boxed together, in the hopes it will all be sorted out sometime in the next decade (possible, but FAT chance).  Or the more likely scenario, that our non-essentials will form a massive cocoon, magically grow wings, and, in a beautiful display of the cycle of crap, fly away to a gigantic storage space for people's junk.  What I am actually describing here is Goodwill; only, I would like not to have to drive it there myself. 

This all started off very casual and purposeful, until we looked at a calendar, about 3 weeks ago, and HOLY SH#!, we realized that if we were serious, we have about three months to sell this house and formulate a plan for our next home, before the start of the new school year.  Factor in that we are also spending a month in Hawaii during this time frame, and what we have here is a gigantic pickle. 

The alternative?  Dragging this out and moving my children mid-school year, as it's unlikely we'll stay in our district.  Moving + math homework + fall sports + confused children = me losing my freaking mind. 

Our plan is to move into my in-laws basement (they have a large, apartment-like basement), while our house is sprayed down with paint and rubbing alcohol being ready to be put on the market.  Also, our family living here + minor construction + having to be *neat* + all our stuff in randomly packed boxes = me losing my freaking mind.

Also, my in-laws will be in their house for approximately 1.5 weeks before they leave for their summer stay in Hilton Head.  Which means we have a free house with a POOL, until we live out our last days of summer on a tropical island.  Not. To. Shabby. 

So we are just getting out, and formulating a plan in our free house with a pool.  A plan, I might add, that does not include us having two mortgages, because one house for sale + one house being purchased + one trip to Hawaii + it costing a million dollars to live in three places at one time = me losing my freaking mind.

We do love our house, and when we bought it, we always envisioned living here FOREVER.  It would have worked, and we would have been happy here, no doubt.  But we are also really excited by the idea of new adventures; growing the comfort zones of our family; trying new things without fear of failure (it is a HOUSE we are talking about, not a decision that will result in public flogging).  Our reasons for it, and our timing of it, are a post for tomorrow, but needless to say, we are ready.  Overwhelmed, because it's A LOT of work, but really looking forward to something that is a better fit for our family. 

So there you have it, our BIG news.  Which is sure to provide much blog folly in the weeks to come, so rest assured, Internet-friends, you will reap great benefits from this little adventure of ours. 

Welcome to a new week--in the next seven days, I will have moved six people and  eight years worth of stuff out of an entire house.  And also, I will be sipping margaritas on a pool float.  While wearing a fleece suit, because it is still CRAZY cold here, with our best hopes for a summer warm-up coming sometime near November. 

Wish us luck (and a heat wave).

Consider this the preview before the show.

Happy Weekend, friends!  So sorry for the lack of posting yesterday...I was un-inspired...and exhausted.  Apparently, I could have just blamed it on some issue Blogger was having--but if you know me, that's not how I ROLL.  I like to claim and loudly broadcast my issues. 

I don't have much more for you today, either.  But that's okay, right?  It's Friday, and all.  I did, however, whip up this little pot holder this week, beginning at 10 p.m. on Wednesday night.  Okay, I didn't ACTUALLY sew the potholder, I bought it at Target.  But I added the ruffles and the "d", so there.  I'm not so fond of the "d", mostly because half the time it looks like a "p".  Sucks.   I love the ruffles, but I will never-do-this-project-again-ever-in-my-lifetime, because oven mitts are THICK and much like fighting a padded beast to shove into my sewing machine.  Plus, I'm guessing that cotton ruffles are flammable.  FYI.

I would, however, do this with your standard, square pot holder.  Without the ambiguous "p/d", in 12 years or so, when my interest in this type of project is ignited again. 

Big news coming Sunday, folks.  That's just a little teaser to keep you comin' back, ya hear?

Now.  Go have a margarita.  Cause I said so.

Signs of life.

It's official.

We've entered the days of summer,

And with it, we've welcomed back that old bastard...

HUMIDITY.

He is currently having a Busch Lite and releasing wet burps in the atmosphere.

My kid's winter coats are in the wash, as I type this.

One last attempt at *clean* before they are

Imprisoned in a dark, tight bin for the season.

Best purchase of Summer '11 (thus far)?

Water balloons in the $1 bin at Target.

Hours and hours of fun,

With little, rubber, confetti bits that festively adorn our yard.

I'm hoping those just blow away and disappear

(and NOT choke a robin, or a dolphin, or whatever animal is prone to that kind of mishap).

Second best purchase?

A Lite Brite.

Though, to be honest, this was gifted by Santa years ago

and BANISHED to the top of the refrigerator,

Because initially, it was a disaster of epic proportions.

But now it's awesome.

Ahhh, the covered bridges of Greencastle, Indiana. 

10 minutes outside of DePauw's campus, but strangely similar to the setting of Deliverance.

Kidding, it was BEAU-tiful.

The kids explored the bridge by foot,

and I panicked that they would be hit by a speeding car,

But then I remembered that we hadn't seen a car in miles.

Cue banjo.

Artwork by Big J. 

Which is huge, because prior to a few months ago,

He only expressed himself creatively in lines.

His fine motor skills have come a LONG way this year.

And that, friends, is photographic proof that we have survived winter.

Less of a tiger, and more of a cute bunny with fangs: My thoughts on parenting styles.

A few weeks back, I read "The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom" by Amy Chua.  Powerful stuff, if you haven't heard of the sh#!-storm it generated.  She's pretty blunt in what she says, but mostly, I think it feels like a gigantic-round-house-kick to the testicles for AMERICANS, because she's directly comparing traditional Chinese parenting styles with our modern, Western ways. 

Have any of you read it?  I'm curious to know your thoughts.

I really didn't hate it.  Maybe because I didn't see it as an attack.  Back when G, my oldest, was less than a year old, I VIVIDLY remember having to defend my choice to feed her yogurt, and ever since then, I have really stopped trying to justify every choice I make as a parent.  Because guess what--I WAS WINGING IT.  Oprah probably inspired 75% of my parenting choices, and she has a ba-jillion dollars and NO KIDS (not a wise or economical choice).

I have yet to meet a mom that doesn't fixate on something.  Newborn sleep patterns.  Breast-feeding.  Tummy time.  Homemade baby food.  Sign language.  Swimming lessons.   Dance class.  Private school.  Homeschool.  Manners.  Homework.  Friends.  We ALL have preferences for the way we parent our kids and the decisions we make on their behalf. 

I think the issue, for a lot of us Americans, is that we like to attach our children's *happiness* to the choices that we make.  Which is valid, to some extent, but if I were to parent my kid's based on what brings them the greatest joy in life?  They would go brain dead in front of the Wii and grow up believing they could actually become a lego, Jedi knight.  This would, in turn, bring them GREAT distress (and potentially jail time) as adults.  Because happiness is a really faulty criteria in parenting.

Take, for instance, my 8-year-old daughter, who generally dislikes all things sports-related.  This attitude alone pretty much guarantees that she will play a sport, mostly of her choosing, until my reign-of-terror ends upon her graduation from high school.  I do this for two reasons:  I never played ANY sports as a child and I find that a huge limitation; and I refuse to let her skip something so important simply because she hates physical exertion/being hot (dead. serious.).  Our compromise?  She swims, thus taking temperature out of the equation. 

Amy Chua believes in straight-A's and exceptional musical abilities.  Her kids had ZERO life outside of homework and piano/violin practice.  They weren't allowed to have play dates, they had to practice their instruments for hours a day, EVEN ON VACATION.  That folks, is hard core, and a *tad* extreme for me, seeing as I likey a few glasses of wine on vacation.  But guess what?  Her kids were straight-A students and Carnegie Hall-performing musicians before they graduated from high school.  She didn't expect less, and guess what?  They delivered.

Crap bag.  I don't even expect that Big J will be able to put his pants on properly tomorrow.  That doesn't say much about what I desire for my children, or how I'm going to push to get them there.  Chances are good, I will re-dress him myself to save time; this isn't loving or enriching, it's efficient.  And he will live in my basement as a 40-year-old and resent the fact that I still buy his clothes and *possibly* brush his teeth.    NOT efficient.

Listen.  I'm NOT a fan of her tactics, but I am amazed by the vision and goals she had for her kids, and her consistency in getting there.  I'm not even saying that I want my kids to be concert pianists or genetic physicists--but I am seriously reconsidering my goals for my kids and eliminating the word *happy* from them.  Happy is hamsters and ice cream and sleepovers.  Happy is what comes after teenage hormones and finals and painful-friendship-cliques.  When they come into their own and learn to give a giant finger to the people who tell them they can't feed yogurt to their baby.  Happy is not showering for two days AND walking into your kid's school in your *fancy* pajamas AND not caring that people think you might be homeless. 

Happy is NOT giving them their hearts desires today, only to grow an enormous entitlement complex. Or letting them get by with just enough effort in their school work, so that they are out-performed in the real world. Or trying 25 different activities and always moving on to the next best thing, so that they are left with a spirit of discontentment when life gets too *routine* as an adult.




I cannot make my kids *happy*.  At times, yes, but not as an overall life-goal.  No, it is my job to give them the skills of a strong work ethic, perseverance, time management and responsibility.  To expect GREAT effort, so that they do GREAT work.  And at this stage in the game, teaching those things means choosing a path for them--whether it be an academic focus, a creative outlet, a musical instrument, a sport--and picking a goal, and holding them to some sort of standard.  Lessons in attitude, and humility and forgiveness and kindness, and living the gospel will come via the choices we make--and ultimately their success, or failure (because there is MUCH to be learned in that, as well).  

Also (and lastly), I think it's a big mistake to believe that we can guarantee our kid's happiness based on our own *love* for them.  My love FAILS.  It is sinful and selfish and crabby A LOT of the time.  It is unconditional and never ending, but boy is it far from perfect.  My love for them also means saying no; it means discipline; it means crying it out as a baby and eating broccoli as an 8-year-old.  It means NOT buying them beer when they are 17.  When it is strong and well-meaning, it will be, at times, perceived as cruel and punishing and totally lame.

I don't do everything right for my children.  Far (far) from it.  But I do enjoy collecting bits of inspiration and ideas in my creative life, and I see parenting as much the same.  And there is a lot to be said for the Tiger Mom and her persistence in raising strong and successful kids.  And what I am taking away is a plan to work toward some actual, TANGIBLE goals for my kids.  Versus signing them up for a bunch of crap 2-weeks after the deadline, or working on a book report the night before it's due.

Just curious--do any of  you have a plan for your kid's time and focus?  Activities you'll pursue and your rationale for choosing them?  I'd love to hear feedback, because I am a *collector* of ideas and it truly takes an entire, virtual village to raise kids these days. 

Do share.

Is it really inappropriate if it's biblically true?

So.   I attend a Bible study once a week, and every year our last meeting is a brunch, where ladies share what the study has meant to them.  Each small group has a table, and is responsible for decorating it with a *theme*.


Usually, THEME is meant to imply something to do with centerpieces and flowers and prettiness, along the lines of "God grows joy in my garden" or "The Holy Spirit is a flower, watered by scripture" or "Jesus  delights in fine china" or "Tulle  is like the clouds of heaven" or whatever.  Semi-kidding, it wasn't that bad.  But you get the idea.
Generally speaking, I have yet to see anyone rock a dark and *slightly* morbid theme.  The UGLY. 

Until  yesterday.


Instead of decorating with flowers and linens, our group decided to just re-enact the Book of Esther.  Massive kingdom.  Jewish queen.  Evil plot.  Bad guy impaled and hung on a 75-foot device.  UGLY. 

And we went for a *literal* interpretation: 

 

(Notice, not even a tablecloth.  Wouldn't have been historically accurate.

Just kidding, we forgot.)

BFF Becky built the hanging device (and painted it, you know, to make it *cute*), another gal brought the Ken doll, discreetly covered because he was smiling and that just seemed wrong (note:  only his actual joy seemed inappropriate, not ANY OTHER element of this activity.  Just to be clear).  I contributed my kid's play castle AND a set of Christmas lights, to give it that ol' razzle-dazzle--but sadly, my extension cord was 50 feet too short to truly light it up, yo.  Boo. 

And that, folks, is how you rock a biblical theme as a slightly-out-of-proportion centerpiece.  

You're welcome.   

If pie and cookies mated, this would be their baby.

Teacher's Appreciation Day.

Tiny Cookie Pie (the size of a disposable tart pan).

Recipe from Our Best Bites (link HERE).

Complete with cellophane and polka dot ribbon.  My signature *look*.

People.  This is the EASIEST dessert recipe you will EVER find.  And it is *ohmygod* so good.  The recipe calls for a frozen pie crust, but to make the mini versions, I bought refrigerated crusts and shaped them into the small tart pans.  I thought I could get two, tart-sized pies per crust...turns out, if you re-roll your crust scraps and are frugal with your pie filling, then you can get FOUR small pies from one recipe/crust.  WINNING!

Somehow, I don't think Charlie Sheen had cookie pie in mind when he coined that phrase.  Or *maybe* he did.

Also a note:  I always bake these longer than an hour (minis took about 50 minutes, too).  I'm ALWAYS nervous it is going to be too gooey, but they always solidify. 

Friends, Pinterest has stolen all of my time this evening, but it turns out that I am now likely to define myself as a pink, painted, dining room table *and* some sort of contraption of fabric scraps draped from the sky.  I am okay with this.  In fact, this is much more whimsical than I am in real life.  But I unfortunately bought furniture in the age when olive green and khaki were "the thing".  Note to self:  Next sofa MUST be bright.

Tomorrow.  I will show you how a few of us managed to make the most morbid table centerpiece.  EVER.  Not unlike the Nightmare-on-Elm-Street gingerbread house of '10 (which was COMPLETELY unintentional...damn you, icing). 

Toodles.

The truth about our twins.

Blogworld, I feel like I haven't been honest, so we are going to have *that* talk.

(**awkward silence**)

Wow, I feel like that guy on the real world who *forgot* to disclose that he had done some work in the soft porn industry.  I didn't know that comparison was even possible.  Don't worry, I don't have a penis. 

But really, this disclosure is for my new friends.  You old readers are already acquainted with my real scars (this does not imply I once had a penis, fyi).  And thanks to yesterday's post, you are ALL familiar with my post-birthing rituals. 

Truth is, I didn't actually give birth to twins.  I had TRIPLETS. 

It's really funny to have to explain that, because it seemed for many, MANY years that it was our only identity.  The people who got pregnant with three babies, spent weeks on bedrest, delivered one pound preemies.  And survived the death of a son.

Now, we are the people who have four kids, of various ethnicity's.  It doesn't help that the 6-year-old Asian is the size of a three-year-old, and a five-year-old Irishman the size of a linebacker.  When strangers/new friends do the math in their heads, I'm pretty sure they factor in a blended family and an adoption and human growth injections. 

But NOT a child's death. 

To catch up to speed on our story, HERE IS A LINK to the post that I wrote when our surviving twins turned five.  It gives you a good dose of where we're coming from. 

We make the decision on whether to edit this part of our lives, everyday.  Every time we're asked how many children we have, every time we tell people about our twins.  It becomes like instinct, really, because there is no need to delve into that kind of heaviness for the purpose of a two-minute conversation.  We are ALWAYS protecting our audience.  But occasionally, we will realize months down the road, that some of our newer friends are missing a piece of the puzzle...and well, that's awkward to. 

This rarely happens, though, because Mike and I are VERY open about our son, Caleb.  For the sake of our other kids, but also because of who we really are.  We have, however, made the choice not to call our twins, "triplets", because that is a gigantic weight for 6-year-olds to carry and explain their whole lives.  They deserve to define themselves by Lego and sassiness and horribly uncoordinated Wii playing.  To them, the world is full of the same terrible rules designed to oppress every other grade schooler; only Mike and I will really know the miraculous measures taken on their behalf, and what it ACTUALLY cost to save their lives--in real dollars and in immeasurable grace. 

Yes, we have suffered great loss and I am so, SO thankful for the chance to parent my twins.  But WOW, they also drive us crazy with the whining and the playdoh-on-my-sofa-cushions, and such.  We don't walk in despair everyday, and we aren't easily offended, we don't cringe when triplets are mentioned.  We are scarred, but resilient and joyful; and both pieces are what make us complete.  It is simply the story we were made to tell, I suppose.

So glad we had this talk. 

Also.  You all might have guessed that I am a *bit* of a pack rat.  And today, as I have made my way through the bins labeld "childbirth", I came across this stack of letters.  Written by some of you who are reading this very post.  Sent to us following the birth of our triplets and the loss of Caleb.  I went through every. single. one this morning.  They are BEAUTIFUL to me.  If any of you ever debate sending a note of sympathy, or thanks, or encouragement, just know that these will be among my prized possessions until the day I die.  At which time these letters and 532 other boxes will be willingly pried from my hands.   

What happens to Molly Ringwald AFTER she dates the high school beefcake?

Helloooooooooooo, Blogworld!

This has officially been the BEST. DAY. EVER.  The sun is shining, I didn't hyperventilate on my run this morning, I actually took a shower, my giant pad/crotch bottle post was well received (I had a few panic attacks last night after the hubs told me he felt dirty reading it), I ate goat cheese TWO times, and I manged to only *mildly* screw up kindergarten orientation today.

Oh.

And I got to post on RANTS FROM MOMMYLAND.  No biggie.  Just the most awesomest mommy blog on the planet.  That's all.

Ohmygod, I am totally freaking out.  And by freaking out, I mean attached to my computer for the purpose of self-esteem boosting.  Because there's like a new comment every 3 minutes!!!  GAAAHHH!!!  Validation, thou art 614 facebook "likes" and 68 comments. 

This is not bragging.  This is more like me writing myself a John-Hughes-themed, teen-angst movie where I get to date Jake Ryan after giving my undies to Farmer Ted. 

So if you are here visiting from Rants From Mommyland?  Make yourselves comfortable, stay awhile, and get acquainted with my stash of diaper-sized pads and crotch bottle (previous post).  And if you are one of my faithful readers, who hasn't yet read the RFT post?  You're in luck, because I am going to link you RIGHT HERE.  It is extra snarky, if that's any incentive and I might have threatened to "cut a bitch" with a butcher knife.  In the grocery store.  

Enjoy! 

 

Note to self.

Dear Self,

Today, you have stumbled across a treasure-trove of *birthing favors*, wonderful remnants of the magical years in which you delivered four, feisty humans into the world.  A time of blunt-force trauma to the uterus and surrounding lady-parts.  I totally get why you want to hold tight to a few mementos of pregnancy and labor and the art of bringing life into the world.  You are sentimental, and it is a magical, MAGICAL time.  Completely EMPOWERING.  We love those kind of memories. 

But NOT SO MUCH the images associated with the suction tube that vacuums the womb after the C-section.  FYI.

For most normal human beings, newborn keepsakes would include tiny knit caps and impractical items made out of silver (that one would NEVER let a baby actually touch).  For many, the ACTUAL children themselves, with the whining and the milk-spilling and the melty-beads-up the nose, are the only reminders needed of the joy and pain of labor.  Because even at the age of 5, 6, 6 and 8, they are still much like newborns; terribly dependent little critters whose needs still include (but are not limited to) eating and dressing and diapering (aka ass wiping).  

Self, it's time to throw out the diaper-sized pads.  

Your last baby was born FIVE YEARS AGO.  Seeing as he was a bit of a *surprise*, and knowing that you had given birth to twins just 16 months earlier, I understand that you maybe thought another child was hiding just behind the spleen and waiting to yell "Boo".  But it's been FIVE YEARS.  I think we can safely say that the Freddy-Krueger-baby-monster is no more.  It is unlikely that there will be another pregnancy surprise, and therefore no need to stock pile hospital pads "just in case".

Which begs the question, "In case of WHAT,exactly?"

Because should you have another baby?  They give you those gigantic pads fo' FREE, as many as you like.  Because PEOPLE DON'T TEND TO LIKE THOSE, or hoard them in their bathroom closets.  And if said baby did joyfully arrive, and you returned home all sweaty and swollen and zipper-installed (because that's what they do when you have 4 kids by C-section, they sew in an actual zipper), AND bleeding so heavily that you require 5-years worth of saved pads? 

GO TO THE HOSPITAL IMMEDIATELY.  Because that ain't right and you are bleeding out.    

Also.  Dispose of that squeezy water bottle STAT.  Yes, I know that it was terribly convenient to have one for each bathroom, back in the day.  And it makes a great tub-toy for the very chickens that inspired it.  But ohmygod, you have NO REASON to ever shoot yourself in the crotch with warm water during pee breaks ever again.  And seriously, you are just asking for one of your offspring to use it as a water bottle. 

Gag.

Lastly self--let's talk about the vaginal suppositories.  Really.  REALLY?  When did you ever think you would have a use for those EVER again?  Let me remind you--they SUCKED.  Those would be extra-special favors from the days of invitro, and go quite nicely with the random syringes we found in the kid's medicine drawer.  REAL NICE.  There is nothing better than a waxy shot of hormones, straight to the va-jay.  Oh wait!  There was also the matching shot of hormones straight in the upper ass muscle.  Good times.  Also, if you happen to remember the shape of these little gems? Very much like small torpedoes.  And we all know how little boys LOVE anything appearing as a missile.  So please.  For the LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY.  Please dispose of the vaginal suppositories before you find your sons playing battleship in a hormone bath, 'kay?  If they take the squeezy bottle with them?  You. Will. Have. An. Aneurysm.

On second thought.  Knowing your HATRED of throwing anything away, might I suggest sending these as a lovely care package?  A giant stash of post-labor pads, a crotch bottle and a box of suppositories with a note that says "Thinking of You"? 

Brilliant. 

Keep it CLASSY self.

xoxo,
Yours truly

On Tiger Moms and the creative process.

Quick post tonight, folks.

Mainly because I just finished reading "The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom" by Amy Chua and my head is spinning.  SPIN-ING.  I picked this book up on Friday afternoon and could not put it down.  Maybe you've heard of it?  It's raising all kinds of hell, and catapulting the author to the status of Asian-devil-mom.

If you're not up on the controversy, just Google her name.  And THEN, read the book.

I'm gonna be honest and tell you that I didn't get that.  At all.  She is extreme (don't hear me say that she's not), but there is a lot I admire and take away from that book.  Which I will explain in detail, tomorrow.  When I'm not brain dead, as is often the case on Sunday nights. 

In the meantime, I am going to give you a link to a blog post my husband sent me this week.  Easily the MOST inspiring thing I have read in a long time.  This post is written for creative types, but really, I think it's a great list of ideas for anyone who thinks of life as a creative process--I mean, even MOTHERHOOD calls for us to stretch our inspirational muscle, right?  Take a look at how you're doing it and how you want to be better...and apply what this dude says.  It might be one of the reasons Amy Chua is striking a chord with me--one might say that I am a *collector* of ideas, who sees life as a work in continual progress. 

Click HERE to learn "How to Steal Like an Artist"...trust me, it's totally worth the read.  And I'd love to hear thoughts.  We'll have our own little intellectual revolution, right here on this blog. 

Hello week, here we come.