The spaghetti squash disaster.

Fresh off of our four-day juice cleanse, I decided it was time that the kids were introduced to vegetables, aside from our ol' standby, green beans/corn/peas/carrots in a can.  I didn't realize it, but over years worth of time I had conditioned my children to love ONLY soft produce--and when confronted with the snap! of a fresh green bean, they have this tendency to believe I am feeding them poison.


My biggest conundrum here is that my kids are HEALTHY kids.  They are skinny kids.  The chicken fingers we eat don't *appear* to be killing them, and trust me when I tell you, they are not lacking in energy.  They hate soda, so we have that (inadvertently) going for us.  But aside from Little J, who always hovered around the 40th percentile, I haven't had a kid who wasn't on the really small side of the weight scale as a baby--which is where all of this started, because our pediatrician wanted to see them gain some weight, and you just can't do that with  a three-ounce jar of pureed vegetables.  You do that with mac-and-cheese and snack crackers and braunschweiger.


And then you go to the grocery store, and you can stock up on 30 cans of soggy vegetables for six dollars, which is a HELLUVA deal, compared to the $4 price tag on a single bunch of organic kale.  I KNOW you healthy people are having a small aneurysm, but it's true--and I suppose I am looking for the happy medium, that allows my kids to be *healthier*, without it costing the equivalent of our budget for a two-week Disney World vacation.


I believed that I had found that option, in the form of a spaghetti squash, which I slutted up with with ritz crackers and cheese.  A respectable vegetable, a few preservatives, some sodium for good measure--THAT'S my version of balancing the budget, baby.   I REALLY thought I could sell this to the kids, but it might as well have been brussel sprouts grown in the ass of a wart hog, because it DID NOT go well.  Which just goes to prove that this entire healthy living stage of life is a freaking nightmare, and I can't wait until I'm 80--at which point I will no longer be concerned with bathing suit season, and I will have earned the right to eat ONLY ice cream until the day that I die.


I know there are some of you who don't watch videos, but dude.  WATCH THIS VIDEO.  This pretty much sums up what it's like to feed vegetables to young children.  And share the love, because I KNOW we aren't the only parents that have ever had a vegetable...backfire.

The big reveal.

Let's see, where did we leave off--


Oh, right.  Mike had suggested that we broaden our house search and I thought this was the worst idea I had ever heard--until seconds later, I typed our search criteria into the residential real estate database, and I saw this:

...And then it was like the BEST idea I have ever heard in my entire life, because LOOK AT THAT HOUSE.  I have been perusing the database for months, watching activity, stalking houses--and trust me when I say that houses like this are NEVER listed for rent.  FYI, it only takes a wrap around porch with a swing (ohmygod, a SWING) for me to compromise my very rigid stance on school districts.  


The truth of it is, we knew it the moment we saw it.  We knew this was it.  We knew we LOVED it.  Every light in the house could have been a neon beer sign, and I still would have been sold on it.  It was unlike anything we were looking at, and it was the ONLY thing on the actual rental market that would work.  It was so, so very obvious--and our decision was made in seconds.


I will also tell you--the house we *almost* submitted a contract on was WAY different.  It was extremely modern, quite ugly from the outside, and very, very odd.  And by very, very odd, I mean that it had two large tree houses attached to it's back deck; and in one of those tree houses was a waterbed, a sink and a toilet.  I mean, after you gasp and get over the inital shock of it...it's kind of awesome.  Certainly unconventional.  But it didn't have any kind of neighborhood (one of the things we were most motivated to find), it wasn't for rent, and it had a multitude of issues we were willing to overlook--almost all of the criteria we had established, actually--and so I can't tell you what an amazing miracle it was the God closed that door.


Because two days later, we were staring at this.  A 100-year old Victorian, in an amazing neighborhood.  It is old, which means it overflow-eth with CHARACTER.  Great open space, staircases hidden in bedrooms, a third floor with TWO nooks.  I freaking died and went to a two nook heaven.  But it gets better!  We are ONE BLOCK from the community pool, an ice rink, and a huge park with tennis courts and a new playground.  The community parade goes DOWN OUR STREET.  Two blocks in the opposite direction (still on our street), we have a frozen custard shop, a fire station, a working train station, a dance studio, and a candy store geared toward kids, with large jars of candy that they sell for 10 CENTS and up.  Just like when I was a kid, and I would ride my bike to "The Goodie Korner" and buy candy cigarettes for $.50.   Four blocks down (and still on our street) is the farmers market, which is also the pumpkin patch and the Christmas tree lot.  The best margarita in town is three blocks away, and one street up.  There are summer concerts and fireworks and swim teams (same one we were on last year), and a public library--and all of them are no more than five minutes away (walking).  To say this is ideal is an understatement.  


There is not a day that I will spend in this house, that will not feel like an incredible and undeserved gift.  And that is the home the Lord has prepared for me, that he had designed all along--a place of deep and unshakable thankfulness.  He didn't desire for me to be plain, or to sacrifice everything I love, or to be neutral about my choice.  He didn't stir my heart to change, only to have me NOT care about where I ended up.  He didn't desire to teach me an "I told you so" lesson.   There was always this incredible feeling that came with letting go of everything predictable and trading it for a new kind of adventure; but with it came fear that the adventure would be hard, and out of control, and full of really terrible wall paper.  And that is the precise moment when I was sure I was going to hell, because this was supposed to be about following Jesus and apparently my loyalty ended with houses that had pink carpet.  It is precisely this kind of guilt that leads me to believe that God's answer to my cold, materialistic heart is a shack, and perhaps, and oral disease that leaves me toothless.  It just isn't so, friends; and I am smack in the middle of the lesson where I learn how incredibly big he really is.


When I said we were looking for something smaller, I meant it--and I believed it would be much smaller than this.  There is a part of me that carries some guilt that it all worked out the way it did, that it all looks so  charmed and easy.  It speaks to the Barbie debate we talked about last summer, the insecurity we carry as women, wanting other women to like us, and feeling like we need to downplay ourselves.  It's really a post for another day, but I'd be lying if I wasn't thinking about it, and worrying about how it's all perceived--you know, this tiny sliver of my reality, that I put out there on the Internet.  


I prayed for OBVIOUS, and he closed doors.  He timed it down to the hour that Mike came home from work for lunch, the day we impulsively decided to expand our search, the moment we casually perused the rental market.  It was starting to feel like the very start of drowning, and then suddenly it was a 100-year-old Victorian in the most ideal location, that met every bit of our criteria.  We made an appointment to see it as soon as possible, and within two hours, I got a text from a friend, who had a friend, who had a friend-- that wanted to rent their house.  Same house that we were already in love with.  We had an in, a connection, a reference that would testify we were unlikely to cook meth in the bathroom.


We walked through the house the next day and met the owners; a family with kids almost exactly the age of our own.  They were making a hard choice to move out of state, to do what was best for their family.  Letting go of everything familiar, and trading it for a new kind of adventure--and I could understand the same tide of uncertainty, because we were treading in its water, too.  We had to wait a few days, but a couple of weeks ago, we were told it was ours to rent.  And then came the news that we would have to switch schools THIS YEAR, and it all started to feel out of control again, until we remembered that all of it has been incredibly OBVIOUS--and that even in the things we know and love, there is still lots of things to fear apart from the Lord.  


The details are falling into place, the PODS are being delivered, and now that we are seeing patches of 60 degree weather, I am about to be reunited with all of the children's winter sweaters.  And I am so, so excited.  And EXTREMELY grateful. 


And this is our year of being really intentional with what the Lord has given us.

Don't worry, it's just reflux.

Well, friends--it's official.  We have a signed, legal document that says we will be moving to our new home within the next week or so.  This chapter in our story is coming to a close, but only after we had a child vomit at the entrance of our church this morning.  The universe is a crazy, ironic bitch that way; we do something of significance, and there is always an undercurrent of a virus, or a permanent pen debacle, or a large contusion on a forehead.  If we cured cancer, I'm fairly certain it would also come with a bout of diarrhea--the yin, to the yang of picture-perfect happiness.  


On the plus side:  I'm fairly certain that only 50 people saw him throw up, and the button down shirt my husband was wearing was perfect for mopping it up (this sounds STRANGELY reminiscent of the time he cleaned the bathroom with his underwear).  Thank GOD for absorb-able cotton!  This is precisely the sort of thing that would have RUINED me--but as previously established (link HERE), I went through a phase of very public vomiting between the years of 1994-1998, and it has prepared me well for parenthood.  


I thought that Big J looked a little *off* this morning, and not just because he struggles with clothing and often wears things upside down and backward.  It was quickly obvious that something was up, but after prodding him verbally, he became slightly embarrassed and tried to play it cool, which coincidentally, happens to look a lot like sickness.   He ate his breakfast, there was no fever, no runny nose--just an instinct--and so we decided to head to church and keep him with us, rather than send him into a Sunday school classroom full of children.  Friends, if we stayed home for every *suspected* threat of illness, we would be hermits--and our kids are RARELY sick, so trust me when I say we are JUST LIKE Homeland Security, except that sometimes, a kid will vomit publicly, to the soundtrack of contemporary church music.   


You know how when you were a kid and you threw up at school, it was SOOOOOO embarrassing?  It's WORSE when you are a parent, because there is a lot of guilt about exposing people to germs, and being "out-ed" as a mom who OBVIOUSLY ate peanut butter when she was pregnant and serves her kids high-fructose corn syrup and McDonald's happy meals (how else to explain it?).  I mean, we have this talent for making it all about our imperfections, and that is that kind of bull that will get you talked into calve implants, if you're not careful.  


There was a time, when vomit TERRIFIED me--and back in the days of having only one child, the thought of any kind of child-related sickness was enough to send me into a tissy, because my happy reality felt so. very. thin.  As if we were a teaspoon's worth of mucus or a meal's worth of regurgitated milk from NEVER SLEEPING EVER AGAIN.  Honestly, it took me YEARS to be able to let G go to bed without eating a full dinner, because my greatest fear was that she would wake up at 2 a.m out of hunger, and I could never let that happen.  As all new mothers know, you have a baby, you forfeit daily showers, you begin to shop ONLY at Target--and you instantly structure your entire life/bedroom arrangement/sound machine/curtain selection/mail delivery/lighting scheme to insure that your child will remain ASLEEP.   I mean, you love the little beasts, but you want them to remain UNCONSCIOUS, right?  And when you have really little kids, this all seems manageable.  CONTROLLABLE, even.  I mean, we ALL do it, ladies--we breastfeed, or we make organic baby food, or we put those covers on the grocery carts, or we take at least five layers off our skin with hand sanitizer, and we feel GOOD about it.   Maybe your kid never gets an ear infection, or they are NEVER SICK EVER (just teething).  And then they head off to preschool, or kindergarten--and you are inundated with information about head lice, and regaled with tales, on a daily basis, of how Timmy "threw up during circle time and it was red and I touched it", and you become convinced that library books are laced with ebola.


When Big J & L were mere infants, we were told that we needed to be especially careful with them; that their prematurity meant their immune systems were compromised.  They came home in the summer, and we were given instructions NOT to have them around other kids.  When we entered into the winter months, their lungs were considered so compromised, that they were given MONTHLY vaccinations for RSV--most people aren't even aware that exists, but it is given ONLY to kids with the highest risk factors because it costs (depending on the dose), upward of $800, PER SHOT, PER MONTH.  Times two for the twins, and paid for, entirely  by insurance (have I told you I LOVE insurance).  To say that they were fragile is an understatement.


Ironically enough, having Big J and L, and surviving their prematurity is the thing that removed that proverbial, anal-mommy stick.  If something went wrong, if they got sick--I was VERY confident that there was an entire hospital NICU and related physicians who would take great care of them.  An entire staff of people who saved them from the brink of death, mind you, and there is an incredible confidence in that.  But also, Mike and I have NEVER been the kind of people who sit contently at home without visitors--and so the period of quarantine that should have lasted through their first year and a half became more like two weeks before we started to twitch.  At that point, it was still summer--and so we lugged those babies up to the pool, oxygen tanks and all.  We did not let anyone touch their hands or lick their faces, or cough directly into their mouths, but we were out in the germ-filled world.  I don't even remember when they caught their first cold, but it came and went without incident, or wheezing, or ventilators or extended hospital stays.  We defied what EVERYONE told us and lived a normal life in the winter--eventually I had to take them to the grocery store in January and despite duct-taping their mouths shut, they managed to lick every inch of the shopping cart, which inadvertently exposed them to the kinds of colds and viruses that we ALL carry at some point.   And you know what?  I'm not PISSED about the fact that sometimes, there are sick kids that spread germs in public places--because we ALL DO IT.   Our kids are always contagious before we see the actual signs, and we've all unintentionally spread it around the playground.  PLEASE own that, and pay it forward with grace.  We didn't invent the flu; it's an infectious disease-ridden world, and we're just living in it, friends.


Big J & L were at the top of the list of kids who should try to avoid the common cold.  And guess what?


They lived.  


And they slept.  


And they are some of the healthiest kids I know.  Rarely sick, and the handful of times we've had the flu, it's lasted no more than 24-hours.  NO signs of asthma, though we were practically diagnosed with it while still in the NICU.  And I believe this has everything to do with the fact that we vaccinate with trips to the McDonald's Playland.  


I'm asking ALL of us to please relax.  Please see the bigger picture.  Please see the woman holding the snotty kid, who is about to lose her freaking mind if she doesn't get out of the house and buy a gallon of milk and maybe a pack of smokes.  She isn't trying to give you croup, she's trying to survive.  Because, as I've come to learn amongst mommies--almost all of us are simply trying to survive.  And we can help each other do it, or we can make snide comments, and scoot ourselves farther away,  and un-subtly bathe our kids in hand sanitizer, and send daggers with our eyes.  This doesn't mean that I am an advocate of bringing kids with fevers to public places, or ignoring vomit for a social commitment--PLEASE don't here me say that.  I'm just saying that sometimes, a mother will bring a kid to church mere minutes before he blows, and she *probably* would have made a different choice in retrospect, but that this kind of stuff can happen, and doesn't mean she is a selfish douche.   

Bring it ON, Monday.  I am going to pack up a basement, do a crap load of laundry, *maybe* clean some puke, watch a few solid hours of cartoons and *try* to avoid public displays of vomit.

How hoarders are made.

{Observed last week, as we were making final preparations to leave our house.}

Mike:  So, you don't need to go over to the house today, I got the kitchen cleaned.  Everything is out, except for a pile of wood in the garage, and I'll get that later.

Me:  What kind of wood?

Mike:  I don't know, it's wood.

Me:  Are they like planks?  That I could paint and write sayings on?

Mike:  Yeah (tentative pause)...I guess.  But technically doesn't that describe ALL wood?

Me:  No.  Or maybe...yes.

Mike:  You're going to paint these and hang them where?  We're not talking about nice wood here.

Me:  But you could sand it, right.

Mike:  And where will you put them, exactly?

Me:  Anywhere!  Tops of bookshelves, dressers, on the kitchen counter!

Mike:  And this is why I'm terrified that you aren't going to get rid of anything.  EVER.

Ohmygod, he's right.  I am CLINGING to old wood planks, even though I'm pretty sure they sell those for free in dumpsters.  But in the midst of all this change and uncertainty, my tendency is to run toward something that I can control with a bottle of acrylic paint.

I have TWO PODS worth of crap that will be upon me in a few short days, and aside from my couches, I can't think of anything I need.  Particularly in an old house that is light on closet space.  We have lived with a hanging bar in our dining room for the past eight months, but I think that most normal, functioning adults DON'T decorate their living spaces with business suits.  And we need to pretend to be normal and functioning, because there are new neighbors to impress!  With my painted wood planks, no doubt.  People in Kirkwood love that kind of thing.

Also on my to-do list:  Convince my nine-year-old that it is unneccessary to sleep with every empty vitamin container and empty Sam's Club box she can get her paws on.  Because *obviously* this is a genetic condition.

Sometimes the freedom of choice is EXHAUSTING.

It's a universal truth:  Choices are like bricks, drowning me in orange (or blue?) tables and school districts and furniture arrangements.  Well, that's the case in my universe, anyway, but I realize that we don't always revolve around the same sun, and it's endless expectations for housewivery, and mothering and general sainthood.  Some of you can actually manage to DECIDE things, without hoarding your choices in a lovely ocean of simple choices and never-ending projects and to-do lists.

Choices mean I don't make the same dinner in an eight-week period, and they keep me running to five different grocery stores a week to find the best produce at the cheapest prices. They sent me to Hobby Lobby, Target, Walmart AND TJ Maxx, searching for the *perfect* melamine plate this week.  Lately, I have been easily overwhelmed by choices in suburbs and school districts and proximity to community pools, and floor plans and full basements and third floor spaces with dormers.  Would I like a house with a large hearth room on a small lot, or a small and efficient house on a half an acre?  Will they be safer in a cul-de-sac than a corner lot?  The pressure to decide if my kids would be happier with a large yard or a great playroom is enough to violently drown me in the possibility of where, exactly, I will hang fabric buntings.  

That's the funny thing with getting what we want--the temptation to think it isn't enough.  Because too many choices manipulate us into believing there is something else, something more, something better, something that costs less.  

Today, I am struggling with the endless tide of choices.  Yes, the big ones are made--the house is *almost* ours, the plans are in beginning to fall into place to switch the kids to their new school, the PODS are being delivered, our boxes are being packed.  Today my choice is whether or not to send Little J to full-day kindergarten; a choice I've already made once.  The school we are moving into has just one, full-day class--and it tends to fill up on the day of registration--so I had always ASSUMED (fyi, every single assumption I had regarding this move has been WRONG) that he would be in a half-day class, and I've settled into that idea.  I've become used to having seven hours a day to get stuff done check facebook, and yet the idea of having him at home with me for part of the day is...appealing.  There's some stuff he could use work on, and I'd be able to help him and give him my full attention--even though, let's face it, I am romanticizing how this will play itself out.  At the end of the day, however, it's really my last chance to have a kid at home, with me.  Except!  He's in full-day now, and he likes it.  It would give him more hours to get used to his new school and make friends.  It will allow me to write (or unpack or check facebook, or run).  It will keep everybody on the same schedule.  


There are great arguments either way, so how do I KNOW?  I feel like I've made so many decisions--so many QUICK decisions--that I'm finding myself paralyzed with choices.  And it's all so freaking insignificant, and also so INCREDIBLY AMAZING that we even have options--and yet it feels like drowning.  Particularly as we play out these last couple of weeks at a school we love, and realize that we are CHOOSING to leave it, and it feels CRAZY and MANIC, even though we are only talking about moving two miles down the road, and not sailing a house boat in Arkansas.


Someone just tell me what to do.  And....GO.

The homemade granola stage of my life's story.

Mike has dubbed this my "homemade granola stage", similar to one he experienced in the mid-80's with my mother-in-law.  This is offensive on MANY levels, mainly because this isn't a "stage", so much as a lifestyle choice--if that's what one would call it after whipping up ONE, singular batch of granola.  And also, it is a universal truth that daughter-in-laws need to believe we are doing things DIFFERENTLY than our husband's mother, or else it feels like a gigantic Stepford-like experiment in cloning.  


I found the recipe on Pinterest (link HERE).  Freaking Pinterest--there isn't a single idea that hasn't already been glue gunned or bedazzled, and Pinterest will prove it.  You can no longer sport a wooly-mammoth skin, without finding it on Pinterest first, and then having it labeled as your "Lady Gaga stage".


I digress.


In a week or so, the juicer is being returned to it's owner that never uses it, and I will be without a fresh cup of kale/carrot/spinach/rhubarb/apple/orange/lemon juice for breakfast.  Hence, my need to find breakfast alternatives, so that I don't jump back on the Jimmy Dean sausage biscuit wagon (again).  I need to experiment with putting spinach and kale in the blender with frozen fruit (to make a smoothie)--but I fear that if it has any sort of leafy consistency, I will vomit.  Anyone have any experience with that?  The blending, OR the vomiting?  


So this morning, I chopped an apple, added a cup of low-fat vanilla yogurt, a shake of cinnamon--and topped it with the GRANOLA.  Ohmygod.  Apparently, healthy people have been doing this since the mid-80's (what's that?  LONGER, you say?), but I have been on the fat bus to diabetes town, so I am just catching up, people.  But let's call this not-your-mother-in-laws-granola, because my version utilizes a seafoam latte bowl from Anthropologie (purchased, ironically, by my mother-in-law)--because our generation cares about what we look like when we eat, and where our tableware is purchased.  This, friends, makes us bats#! crazy, but DIFFERENT.  


In case you would like to join me in my granola-inspired-by-the-color-of-seafoam-on-Martha's-Vineyard-in-June, here is the recipe:

*******

Homemade Granola


4 cups of Old Fashioned Oats
1/2 cups Chopped Almonds (I used sliced)
3/4 cup shredded coconut (meh.  I left it out, because I think shredded coconut tastes like wax)
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
2 TBSP vegetable oil
1/4 cup honey
2 TBSP pure maple syrup
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
1-1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 cup (each) raisins and dried cranberries (I omitted these also, because I wanted a more generic granola)


Combine the oats, almonds and coconut (meh) in a large bowl, and set aside.  In a saucepan, combine brown sugar, oil, honey, maple syrup and cinnamon--bring it to a boil.  Remove from heat and stir in the vanilla.  Pour over the oat mixture, and stir it well to coat.  Spread the granola in a large, shallow baking pan--and bake it at 350 degrees for 15-20 minutes, stirring occasionally.  Cool and add the raisins and dried cranberries.  Store in an airtight container.  


********


Welcome to my granola stage, friends.  In the event that you would also like to follow my Martha-Stewart-on-acid stage, follow me on Pinterest (link HERE).  But if you really want to help a girl out, you'll follow me on Twitter (@sdenckhoff), because it's been almost a year, and for the life of me, I can't figure out how to make more people like me on there, in 140 characters or less.  Because you know, I'm kind of wordy.

The laundry is militarizing, and armed with ebola.

I've been a little distracted lately, and as a result it seems that I have ripped a hole in the laundry-time continuum.  In case you are curious, this happens when you wash  a load of clothes, and FAIL to remove them from the dryer, before the NEXT load is done in the washer.  It gets even worse when you take the first load, and immediately dump it on the floor directly in front of the dryer.  And repeat this cycle three times.  Ironically, this equation can also be applied to Duggar pro-creation.  


I don't know WHY I didn't carry the clothes downstairs and fold them.  That would be like explaining WHY the Kardashians are popular, or WHY Snuggie's exist, or WHY I can't find five minutes to shower everyday.  Add to this mystery the fact that we are finding ourselves smack in the middle of the season when I can NEVER FIND ANY SOCKS EVER, which honestly gives me hives on a daily basis.  I will likely live in this kind of despair until allergy season hits in a few weeks, at which time I will *actually* have hives.  On my eyeballs.  


But I will have hives on my eyeballs in a new house, and it will be GLORIOUS.  


At the moment, I am packing the basement--and you with be SO GLAD to know that my 2007 ponytail has been placed delicately in a box of office supplies.  Right next to my post-birthing pads, because I am nothing, if not disgustingly consistent.  I'm actually saving those for some kind of blog giveaway, or birthday present--because I know you guys are TWISTED like that.


And because it's been a while, and I am yet unprepared to share the ending to our housing story, I will expose my innermost demons, and tell you that my weight loss total is anywhere from 8-11 pounds at this point.  Mostly because bloating is an unpredictable BITCH.  I am now so in tune with my body that I can tell by the amount my waist overhangs my flannel pj bottoms, as to whether or not it's going to be an 8 or 12-pound day.  The moon and global warming still factor in heavily with my weight loss; but surprisingly, (mostly) giving up Diet Coke has done jack.  And I miss it, dearly.


But in a little bit, I will be missing it in my new house, and it will be glorious.

I was thinking obvious like a porch with character--not a school door slamming shut.

Now where were we?  Oh right, basically nowhere.  Or everywhere.  I guess it depends on how you're looking at it, and what it means when you are considering 20+ houses with no concrete or obvious direction.


Let me back up a second and tell you that our suburb is divided into FIVE different grade school territories.  This is significant, because up until this point, SCHOOL DISTRICT was the driving force behind all decisions; which, in retrospect is really dumb, because this whole exercise in moving was to figure out what works for our family, and doing so means being open to CHANGE.  Except that we changed G's school this year, and so I was thinking we had already checked that box.  I was wrong.  Life is not a series of boxes, apparently.


Now.  From the very start of this eight-month ordeal, I was told by *people* that once our kids began their grade school career at our particular school (let's call it Hogwarts), we'd be able to STAY there, so long as we were still living in our particular suburb, or school district.  They would bend the rules and let you stay, mostly because "Hogwarts" isn't busting at the seams with kids, and therefore it's not so big of a deal to choose one school over another in our district--except that I'm beginning to learn that everything about suburban education is a big f-ing deal, so whatever.  This was me all young and naive and believing the playground banter.   And it seemed like a bible truth to me, because half of the families that I know up at our school don't live in it's particular territory, but as I was about to learn, opinions expressed during afternoon pick up are not always RIGHT.  


As I was informed, when I approached the principle, who told me I needed to write a letter to the District Superintendent and request to stay.  Ultimately, the superintendent would decide, but Big J & L's class is on the smaller side, and therefore has three very full classrooms--and "Hogwarts" wants to add another class (and teacher), so if our kids leave the school, then that might solve the Superintendent's problem of having to pay for another salary.  You see how that happened?  It just got political.   It's like the Komen Foundation/ Planned Parenthood debate--EVERYTHING is freaking political, people.  It's the nature of society, and to say it isn't is ri-donk-ulous.  I'm not going to change that without creating another whole sub-species of humans that can exist without opinions--and I am WAY too tired for that crap, because who has time to clone while MOVING???


But it's even MORE complicated, because we hadn't ACTUALLY found a house yet.  So I didn't even have a new address to reference, when begging the superintendent to please, please, PLEASE let my kids stay at Hogwarts.  I have 20+ possibilities and an active imagination for placing orange tables within them--but I was seriously doubting that was gonna fly as school-district-worthy criteria.  If we cut our house search down to the three square miles that is Hogwarts "zone", well, that gave us five choices, and again, it just didn't sound like we were giving ourselves any kind of freedom.  It felt a lot like the opposite of freedom, and EVERYTHING we sold our house for, actually.  So, I sat paralyzed and eating baby carrots, because I am still on my diet--but I would very much have liked for them to be bon bons, or Cadbury mini eggs (best. candy. EVA.).


Now is a good time to tell you that I have prayed, RELENTLESSLY, that our next choice would be...obvious.  I think we've established that with enough paint, I could be happy ANYWHERE--which is exactly why I need to know, definitively, what the right move is.  I assumed this would happen just by playing the odds; that of the 20+ houses we were looking at, some owners would want nothing to do with renting, and a handful would.  Once we had that list narrowed down, I figured it would be pretty easy to identify the Lord's hand in all of this, because he would manifest himself as some sort of "nook" or a third floor with slanted ceilings, or a finished basement--and that would be the equivalent of angels descending to earth and blowing trumpets, or something.  I'm joking, but I'm not.  How many of us envision heaven-on-earth as a large Victorian mansion (or insert your particular brand of architectural porn here), REHABBED with granite counter tops, but retaining all of it's old charm?  WTF is wrong with us.


I NEVER envisioned the obvious part of this being the letting go of our school.  Or, more specifically, it letting go of us.  The school I have grown to LOVE, even though I felt completely foreign there last August.  Do you see what I did?  We went forward with changing our lifestyle, and I went ahead and latched right on to whatever I could make mine.  Whatever I could keep and cling to.  Have you SEEN my basement?  This is what I DO, people.  I hoard everything, including schools.


On day three of my stress-induced baby carrot binge, Mike happened to come home for lunch.  For the first time, I asked him how he thought we should move forward.  And he said the words I KNEW he was always thinking, but waited ever so patiently for me to be in a place where I could receive them.  


We needed to look outside of our school district.  We needed to also be looking ONE suburb over, to the school district we thought we would move to when this whole debacle began.  There was NO reason not to consider it, since we had no guarantees that we would be able to be back at Hogwarts.  It was freaking obvious, but not like that charming sun room I was looking for.  


I knew I didn't have an argument, really--and so I jumped on my computer and pulled up listings, and I played my only card, the HEAVY SULK, which REALLY loses it's power in the age of the iPad, because Mike is never actually looking at me anymore.  Now he's looking at me on facebook, and my sulk does not translate there, in real time.  He suggested that I start with properties that were for rent--and then I sulked some more, because properties that are listed for rent are NOT WHAT WE ARE LOOKING FOR, MIKE.   I say this, because properties that are listed for rent are typically more run down and smaller than would work for us (because renters are generally NOT families with four kids).


And blog world, I KID YOU NOT.  I sighed, and clicked the "search" button, and listed among the ten houses that popped up was OUR HOUSE.  It stood out because of it's street address.  Because I KNEW that street.  Everyone KNOWS that street.  And then I clicked on it's link, and I yelped--and then I panicked, because I KNEW what I was looking at.  

A post written six minutes before the Nyquil kicks in.

...And I just took some Nyquil, so we are on borrowed time here, friends.  With the chardonnay and the hour in the hot tub, AND the sleepy-sleepy drugs, I imagine that I am going to knock out cold in seconds, after I regale you with tales of something that is freaking annoying, but wholly insignificant.


If you're wondering why I took Nyquil, it's because I appear fine until 1 a.m., at which time I COUGH for three hours straight.  Sleep is killing me, and I don't necessarily need drugs to get better; I simply need tranquilizers that are strong enough to coma myself right through it.  I consider this an *organic* choice.


I know you're all REALLY curious to hear about where we will be living.  Can't wait to tell you about it, but with the Nyquil and all, this story is likely to involve gangster clowns and unicorns--and that just isn't accurate.  Instead, I have been dying to tell you how STUPID it is that every drug store sells 17 brands of razors.  It sends me into a tizzy every few months, when my final razor loses it's effectiveness, and I decide it's time to buy more--only to stare, confusedly, at the aisle-long display at Target.  They ALL look f-ing familiar.  And so I gamble, and it's ALWAYS wrong.  And then I play this game six more times, until I get it right....


....or I buy a new razor.  Today I went for one that requires a small battery, and I'm not sure exactly why, but I think this means that it can make arts and crafts out of arm pit hair.  Hells yeah.  But if someone would tell me what congressman I need to call about making it illegal to have 86 brands of razors marketed for women, I would appreciate it--but probably won't remember it unless you post it on my facebook wall, because I have given myself the equivalent of a bottle of wine and a roofie, and I am almost too tired to breathe.

Also, I think I diagnosed the *official* problem today, and it's that my razor holder is from 1998, and that particular model is no longer in service.  Because the battery operated one ate it.  That is what we call forward-moving progress, people.  But as a means of never forgetting my brand of razor again, I plan to have "Schick Quatro" tattooed on my  hip/navel.  It's just as appalling as a Kermit the Frog tattoo, but able to save me years of drug-store frustration.  


And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna sleep through the next ten days, and wake up in my new bedroom after our impending move.  It's gonna be aweeeeeeesome..............................

Today we let it go.

Today was an exercise in letting go.  The prying of the final threads that stick to sweaty fingers and palms; the ones you have to be purposeful about loosening, long after the chord itself has fallen away.  And so we pulled up to our house after school, to live in it for our last ten minutes--except that it was a blank box of a house, and my kids imagined it to be a castle, a maze of legos, a house for stuffed hamsters.  I chose instead to paint it with memories; of babies born, and birthday parties and bed rest and Christmases.


I KNOW I have to mourn this house.  And so I walked through its rooms and talked myself into remembering it with it's once hunter green carpet, the way I fell in love with it.  It was SO big then, before the shots of hormones I took for WEEKS in the kitchen, while going through invitro.  When we had one, sweet baby--before the Lazy Boy, and the 13 weeks I spent chained to it in the family room.  Before going into labor, twice, in our bedroom.  Before we brought the twins home with their countless tanks of oxygen.  Before I had ever watched my kids--all of my kids-- take their first steps.  I can talk myself into believing that the memory of it all stays packed, invisibly in that house--but really, it's just the setting of their baby-hood.  


I wondered what today would feel like.  The letting-go, on paper.  I assumed that the hours of this day would be drawn with heavy shadows--that the adventure and excitement of it all would be balanced in equal proportion by a fear and anxiety that would emotionally cancel everything out, and leave me feeling very paralyzed.  But as it turns out, selling our house feels like brushing three sets of small teeth and tying shoes.  It was driving to school and taking a shower and checking Facebook every hour.  It was also signing some papers and eating some carbs to celebrate.  It was cleaning our basement and folding laundry and feeding the kids chicken nuggets for dinner.  Letting go feels like every other day, when the threads of their childhood are falling unnoticed from my grasp, as the kids learn to read, and multiply and rollerblade and fold their own clothes.  It's always about them; because time is FLYING by in the context of their little lives, and no house or castle or Lego maze can contain it.


And we are HERE, moving on.  It seemed like a big decision when we first discussed putting our house on the market, and again when it took over three weeks to pack up our family and move out.  We questioned it some--like when we were sure we were going to die in an avalanche of boxes in my in-laws basement, or when we *lost* all of our winter clothes (that we are soon to be reunited with...in MARCH.).  And again, when month after month would go by without a contract, and it seemed like we would NEVER have our DVR back again.  We loved that house, and our eight years there, and I suppose that for eight months it has been our fall back--but today it was about signing some papers and letting it go.  


To set the story for another young family, with one baby...

Let's start at the very beginning, that's a very good place to start.

So, let's start at the beginning.  I'm thinking that by the time I tell you the full and complete story of our new house, the kids will in college and the details will have worked themselves out...so there's no point in not getting started, because let's face it, we're not getting any younger.  Well, maybe I am, because I have sipped pure fruit juice, daily, for almost a month (translation:  I have earned a tattooed gold star OR a plastic surgery machine, you pick).


If you've been reading this blog for any amount of time, then you know that Mike and I have gotten the itch to "simplify".  It seems like it was so many moons ago, that it's almost hard to remember it--but you'll have to take my word for it, that our life had become really *complicated*.   And we had made it that way, with owning our own business, and growing that business, and being a member of a country club, and owning a nice house right next to said country club, and having four kids that went to three different schools, and NEVER having enough storage space in a house that had infinite amounts of storage space.   We were responsible for juggling So. Many. Things.--as most people are--but ultimately decided we wanted this to be easier.  We don't want to live conventionally--and by that, I mean that we don't want to teach our kids that there is only ONE way to do things.  That if you are tired or restless, you CAN change.  A nice house in the suburbs is NEVER a great excuse for growing complacent, you know?


However.  Mortgages, in this day and age, tie us down.  And I will tell you, that in his 36-years, and armed with his infinite real estate knowledge, Mike has NEVER rented.  He went straight from his parents house into owning a home, and he was a believer in ownership--until he wasn't.  And that is what I love about my husband, and why I trust him, without a doubt--he knows when something doesn't work, and he doesn't cling to old mentalities out of convenience or fear.  He reminds me that everything we are unsure of now (mainly, WHERE we want the kids to go to school), will be up for debate again in two short years, when G is on the threshold of middle school.  Locations based on this decision alone will work today, but may not be as appealing in a year.  Instead, we came up with parameters for what our best case scenario is, RIGHT NOW.  Right now is what we know.


But also, we have learned that having a big mortgage limits us--and in an ideal world, we would buy a house with cash, or a very tiny loan.  No debt.  We're just not there right now, but we're working toward it.  And so, from the very start of this, when we made the decision to put our house on the market, we always knew we would RENT.


GASP!  This goes against everything we are taught to believe as Americans, that owning your own home is the bees knees.   It has always been the way we thought, and might be again one day--when we really know what we want.  When we're ready for it.   We want to really love it.  I mean, REALLY love it. Because now, we have all the time in the world to figure it out, and I'm getting fairly good at knowing what it is that God actually wants for us.  It's pretty obvious, really--when you are still enough to listen.


The decision to rent doesn't change a lot for us; we were always going to have a monthly payment, and at the end of this, we'll save a little money, but that isn't really the point.  For us, this decision has always been about letting go of our mortgage--which gives us the freedom, real FREEDOM, to figure out what comes next and to act upon it in our own timing.  We aren't jumping into anything, only to decide we would have been better off somewhere else.  Now, that kind of discontentment can happen at any time, BUT, we want to be clear.  We want to study our new area.  We want to KNOW what we want, because honestly, I'm just not sure.  And there is nothing like a good ol' fashioned panic attack to prove that I just don't know--because we are literally changing everything, and mostly this is exciting, but it's served with a side salad of overwhelming.  Or maybe it's that we don't have a 25-year landscaping plan, or a vision for where our grandchildren will play someday--and that's somewhat terrifying, when it shouldn't be.  All of that will come.  But we feel strongly, that in this market, if you are going to buy something, you are committing to it for at least five years--and there is a lot that will change with our kids in that time.


Which brings me to our philosophy on renting.  It gets a bad, potential-for-a-meth-lab kind of reputation--because we are a society that covets OWNING, and we don't understand anything else because it's not according to the "plan".  Add to that the fact that the stuff that's out there and listed for lease is...pretty dismal.  But we were never looking for that.  We have been looking at houses that have sat on the market; and there is NO SHORTAGE of them, friends.  Homes that are sitting vacant, because their owners have purchased another house and are sweating through TWO mortgage payments.  Or, GREAT stuff, rehabbed by developers for a profit--that simply cannot be moved in this market.  If you open your eyes, and look unconventionally--there are amazing things out there that you don't have to own. In EVERY neighborhood.  You just have to educate yourselves, find the owner that NEEDS a solution, and convince them to trust you aren't going to sell narcotics, or house 14 great danes.  


The last bit of back story:  Since putting our house on the market, I have always kept one eye open on what's out there.  On any given day, in any given month, I could find something to get excited about.  But there has always been one house, in particular, that Mike and I have both loved in equal measure.  It was ODD.  But, surprisingly charming.  We could never mess this thing up, because it was so unconventional to begin with--but it met almost NONE of the criteria we had talked about.  It had sat on the market for MONTHS--and we were so close to breaking our rules and submitting a contract (for purchase).  


Until someone else did it first.  But you have to know the rest of the story, to understand that this was miraculous sign #1.  Because when our first choice fell apart, we were led, almost immediately to the one, perfect house that has met every parameter we have set since we began this adventure...

I didn't see that one coming.

Happy Valentine's Day, Blog World!


Now, in years past, I would have regaled you with tales of how I made tissue paper flower bouquets for the kid's teachers, and covered pretzels in red candy coating, and led my third grader's class party (followed immediately by volunteering with L's girl scout troop), and made cupcake fondue for the kids for dessert--and yet still felt like a failure for not fashioning some sort of breakfast food into the shape of a heart.  Isn't that the truth, friends--we can use an entire bottle of red food coloring on various valentine baked goods, and yet STILL feel like a douche for NOT waking our children to a balloon arch and magic show (damn you, Pinterest).  


But not this year, because I am sort of cutting out all that crafty b.s. in an attempt to streamline this blog.  As a disclaimer, I WILL still post about my craft endeavors if:  something explodes, or something dies, or I permanently stain my skin, or I permanently scar my skin, or I lose a toe/finger, or I learn how to monogram my skin.  But mostly, I am smart enough to know that no one is particularly impressed with my ability to create Abraham Lincoln's likeness out of felt--but rather, you guys are here because my brand of sarcastic, sweat-pant-wearing SEX sells.  


There is SO much I want to tell you.  SO. MUCH.  But I can't--even as I am having the best and worst week of my life, simultaneously.  This whole process of finding a new house has been incredibly simple and amazing, until it all became very complicated and life-changing.  Just when I thought I was all kinds of flexible, and going with the flow and *unconventionally* free, I find some sort of strong hold that I just can't bring myself to let go of.  Boy, do I like to cling to what is comfortable and predictable.  


The short of it is--we are moving.  SOON.  And we are changing school districts, heading into Kirkwood, where we imagined this whole little adventure was going to take us, back before we fell in LOVE with Webster (our current district).  Eight months changes everything, friends.  But, when I tell you the whole, authorized and unabridged version of the story, I think you'll agree that this is the way it was meant to be.  And it is so much GREATER than I could have imagined it would play out--minus the part where my kids have to move schools.


In a month.  

What does it cost to raise good kids?

Blogworld--have you SEEN this video?  Probably, because you guys are all technologically-saavy, I'm sure.  


I reposted it on my facebook wall on Friday, and it gave me the sweats a little--because it appears that in addition to becoming political, I am also becoming opinionated like an 80-year-old conservative man who believes in the right to bear arms (I know this guy isn't 80, but doesn't it sound like something your crochety grandpa might do?).  Please know that it is NOT in my nature to offend; I rather hate conflict.  Mike and I have discussed this EXTENSIVELY, and I'm fairly certain we wouldn't have blasted our kid on facebook; nor are we a big advocate of disciplining out of anger--but the overall message, about respect and civility and teaching our kids the consequences of their words...that we do stand by.  And while I can't say I would have handled it EXACTLY the same way, I also can't say that the way I raise my children is always right, or good, or effective.  


Because mostly, I am overcome with the guilt of wanting my kids to feel LOVED.   And there is guilt because I fail at it, daily.  There aren't enough hours or hamsters in the day to give them the love and attention they deserve.  I selfishly (and often) choose to be on Facebook, when I could be playing a game with them.  I don't schedule play dates for my kids when they ask, because I want to just relax.  I am easily annoyed.  I don't give them enough grace.  Or, I give them too much grace and they turn into gremlins.  We don't go to the park on 40 degree days because I am cold.  We don't paint much because I don't want to clean it up.  Thinking about (but not actually finding) a house has consumed all of my focus and energy.  I suck.  


But the guilt comes with the lie that loving them means always putting them first.  Always working around them, their schedules their wants.  I'm not talking about meals or the things that are necessary for survival; but rather, the part of us that believes our kids will DIE without real Ugg boots (or insert your own name brand and equally ridiculous item here).  I Pod?  Car?  Laptop?  Leapster Explorer?  Piano lessons?  We live in America, people, so let's not kid ourselves into thinking that we don't believe there aren't luxuries we can't live without.  To some extent, this is the way we were raised--that loving means affirming and encouraging and going out of our way to provide what our kids need (and want).


We all know that kids do not live or die by the kind of clothes they wear, or the grades they get, or the friends they have or the houses they live in, right?   Giving our kids the material desires of their heart is not necessarily a bad thing--who doesn't LOVE being Santa--but they can become the things our kids hide behind.  They are mistaken for personalities and morals.  I HATE that, but I also don't know how to separate myself from it, because it's painful for me too, walking that proverbial fine line.  The hormonal and still very immature part of our (eventual) teenagers will think that nice clothes and a nice car and a bedroom that looks like Pottery Barn is what LOVE looks like, or worse, that they DESERVE it for the disguise of good behavior.  And the part that kills me is that we won't disagree, friends.  Our teenagers will feel so distant and out of control that we will want to give them a glimpse of the undying love we have for them, and so we will do it on their terms.  But also because a part of us believes it, too.  That our kids need to be popular and accepted and wearing the right clothes to "make it" in this world.  So we excuse the outbursts and the disrespect because it's just the teenage side of them acting out--and we never consider that some of it will linger as selfish entitlement.  And I'm not saying that providing for our kids or giving them the desires of their hearts isn't a good thing (see my Christmas post HERE), but it's only a part of the story.  


Right now, my kids feel loved when I play with them.  When I take them to fun places that cost money.  When I buy them hamsters.  When we go out for ice cream.  When I see that they are hurt or embarrassed and I hold them for a bit (this doesn't happen so much with a 9-year-old).  Their concept of love is very whimsical, and often impractical, and sometimes, quite selfish.  They don't feel *loved* when I make them a batch of vegetarian chili for dinner, that they choke down under duress.  Or when we have to go to the store after school so that I can make them meals that will serve to mildly annoy them.  They are kids, they don't get it--that LOVE takes work, and that a lot of what is involved is mundane and boring and typically not about going to Disneyworld.  And then all you have to do is watch the Kardashians, to realize that their are grown adults who don't get it either.  I mean, I don't have the depth of knowledge that can really do this justice--but if you can buy whatever you want, if you can hire someone to do everything for you, if you can star in a "reality" show and yet NEVER be seen without make-up--won't it be so much harder to find happiness in a marriage that is tough, and selfish and immature and hard (as they all are, no judgment on just the Humphries/Kardashians)?  


And then, enter motherhood.  A relationship that is equal parts tough, and selfish, and painful, and immature and freaking hard.  And full of GUILT that we are sucking at this.  It makes us want to do more, to make it easier, to take away the things our kids will struggle with.  And so, every night, I sit with my 7-year-old boy who has ADHD, and without fail he CRIES when he gets a word wrong, and proceeds to sigh and sob and look at me for the answer.   He wants this to be easy, and for some kids it is--but it will never be for Big J.  I wish he could get through life without having to be stressed about this, and part of me wants to give him that obligatory trophy, just for being awesome.  But.  He needs to learn to read.  He needs to sound out the words, and he has to get better at it, which won't happen if I am always giving him the answers.  Answers, by the way, that he always gets to, after he stops feeling sorry for himself.  After we sit there for minutes while he bawls about it in frustration.  He needs to learn to read, yes--but he also needs to learn how to move past the frustration of not being good at something and come to grips that he is going to have to work harder at this than all his peers.  Let me tell you, it feels TERRIBLE.  It feels like failure.  It feels like pulling out all of his finger and toe nails would be less painful.  And that, my friends, is the LIE.


Parenting only works in the context of entire lives.  Everyday, this job is a walk in faith that the hard decisions we make will benefit our kids in some way.  That letting my kid cry it out in their crib will help them learn to sleep.  That not letting my nine-year-old sleepover at every house she's invited to will preserve her innocence a little longer.  That switching schools, two years in a row, will not damage her, but challenge her comfort zones instead.  That shooting a lap top will make a statement about entitlement that my kid will remember for the rest of her life.  I can't guarantee the outcomes my kids will take away from those things, but I can *hope* they'll get it some day--even if it's not until they are chasing a toddler or disciplining a teenager of their own.  And if not, I assume that you will point them to this here blog, and they will be overcome with equal parts embarrassment and understanding.


Now.  My kids will take away NONE of those lessons if my parenting isn't also characterized by patience, and kindness and grace.  In equal proportion.  And if I need help in determining when, exactly, to stand up to my kids, and call them on their bullsh#!, and shoot their laptops to bits-- then I certainly also need help in knowing when to shower them with praise, and encouragement and comfort.  I suck at that part too, because a lot of what they do is TERRIBLY annoying and hurtful.  I have had conversations with my daughter where I have pointed out that her behavior is selfish and that it hurts my feelings--what parent hasn't felt that way?  Where we may differ, is that some of you might not agree with laying that out there (age appropriately) for a nine-year-old to process.   There is a theory that as parents we need to absorb a lot of the crap that's thrown at us, without reacting in anger--and while I believe that's true (about the anger), I don't think it means not reacting AT ALL.   She NEEDS to know what hurts me, she needs to be stirred by it and moved to ask for forgiveness--in the context of a relationship that will ALWAYS forgive her and love her.  But she NEEDS to know that it takes work, on both sides.  She needs to understand repentance AND grace, because they go hand in hand.  


And I am learning that the BIG lessons I need to teach my kids are going to cost me something--my "cool factor" with my kids and their friends, always seeing my kids happy (though this is a myth), my time, my focus, the amount of hours I log on to Facebook.  Possibly a laptop, because I think that statement is AWESOME, that the cost of a computer is worth the woman he wants his daughter to be.  But the grace and the patience that I am also called to parent with?  They are certainly going to cost me my self-righteousness, my need to be right, my pride, my stubborn nature.  


Definitely worth it.

The curse of the fourth child.

So yesterday (also known as the day Little J left his lunch box in the car for the ninth time)--I decided there OBVIOUSLY needs to be a consequence for being careless.  It's also important to note, as stated in yesterday's post, that we were looking at our "perfect" house, and I was very ill-prepared to deal with the emotions of lunchbox shenanigans at 8:07 a.m.


And that is when I declared that Little J was going to lose his t.v. privileges for the evening.  Because I am noticing a pattern, and a general lack of concern regarding me having to go all the way back home, put on a bra and pants that are NOT pink and polka dotted, and drive up to school in my running costume (to look as if there is purpose to my hot, disheveled mess).   He wasn't so concerned about it at the time, but I KNEW we were headed for nuclear annihilation at some point.

Don't feel bad for Little J.  Feel bad for the Pioneers--they NEVER had television, and I'm sure (after this ordeal) that they bawled their little, wagon-covered eyes out for entire lifetimes.  I tried to reason with him using this argument; he was not so moved.  Of all my kids, Little J is most likely to develop a seizure disorder if not allowed access to a television or a Wii.  He's everything we SWORE our kids would not stand for!  OUR kids were going to solve Rubiks cubes or create entire screenplays while using their imaginations in the back yard, or teach themselves to swim without water.  They were certainly NOT going to play video games!


Poor fourth child.  Mommy must have given up on feeding you organically and nurturing your intellectual well-being many moons ago.  

Today, I actually asked a Star Wars lunch box to define me.

This morning began with Little J leaving his lunch on our outdoor playground.  This makes me crazy for many reasons, but mostly because me running BACK up to the kids school is becoming a habit that I am ill-equipped to deal with before 9:00 a.m. and an I.V. drip of Diet Coke.  Which I gave up this month, if you're keeping tabs.  


But also, today felt like a day of omens, and I don't really believe in those, except for when I feel like I'm 13-years old again, and the success of any given day can be predicted by whether or not I can get my bangs to stick (no less than) five inches, straight into the air.  I suppose I just need SOMETHING, like bang-height or lunchboxes, to trust in today--because we are SO close to loving or losing a house and I need to make (non)sense of it somehow.  Or at least I need to believe that it had nothing to do with my *amazing* personality.  


{For the record, I did not crimp my bangs and then proceed to tease them, today.  In case you were worried.  But, sadly, I did kill the ozone layer between 1987--1993.}

Also.  This afternoon afforded us an extra hour of time, because Little J lost his television privileges (more on this tomorrow).  And in this particular vacuum of the time-space continuum, I managed to coerce/encourage/threaten the boy into writing his valentines, which his teacher requested be sent prior to Valentine's Day--because I don't think she read my blog post about how I have given up all attempts to look like I have my act together (also reference paragraphs 1 & 2 of this post).  Except, here is where a small miracle occurred--I purchased STORE-BOUGHT valentines for the boys, which means I am definitely (sort of) evolving from the woman who stays up all night on February 13th, baking 15-batches of sugar cookies and hand-tying them in cellophane baggies with grosgrain ribbon (true story, link HERE).  I say "sort of" because the girls are still "making" their valentines; but also, this year was DESTINED to be easier, because Little J has graduated from his preschool class of 40 students, which was a technical, valentine nightmare. 

So, I bought myself a few extra hours, but I have to tell you--the Lego Star Wars valentines from Target almost gave me a seizure.  I know I'm kind of a Valentine brat, but WOW, $3 just doesn't buy you a licensed cartoon character bedazzled in diamonds anymore, does it?  I'm pretty sure I could have bootlegged these babies off the Internet and printed them onto cardstock in various shades of pink, and maybe scalloped the edges.  Scratch that--I DEFINITELY would have scalloped the edges, and embellished them in some kind of cool and not-widely-used font (translation: no Comic Sans).  They would have been rad.  


I suppose the lesson here is that I have visions of grandeur and...radness.  And if we are lucky enough to find ourselves in this house we are dreaming of, then I promise to resume my Diet Coke addiction so that I can make it kick ass.  Without painting/altering/damaging any of the actual property.

I am having a hard time prioritizing.

The problem is, I would be happy ANYWHERE.  


It's the details that make me crazy--and this is a time for details, apparently.  One house is perfect, but it's not in our school's zoned area, and there is a chance that the district won't let us stay.  Another house is perfect, but it means we are moving to a whole new district altogether, and we WILL be moving schools.  This house is smaller (less to clean!), this house is bigger (more space!).  I think I have a favorite, and then I see something shiny, and ooooohhhhhhh, that looks pretty too.  Choosing is not my strong suit, which is precisely why I want this to be easy and clear, one obvious choice.  


But everything is an obvious choice.  


It's the vegetables, it has to be.  EVERYTHING looks better next to vegetables, and so I am trying to figure out if I REALLY love these houses (all 57 of these houses) or if I just want to eat them.  I'm not sure.


Mike has been PATIENTLY waiting for me to ask his opinion.  He's really given me no opinions, which feels a lot like I am drowning in a lot of really small, but really big, decisions about what I'm supposed to like, which ranges from finished basements to the color of cabinets.  Until today, when I asked him WHERE we should start looking for a house exactly--and he said the words I KNEW he would, but wished he wouldn't.  That we need to open up our search, outside of our school district.


Dear God, NO!  I like it there!  I'm FINALLY not driving over an hours worth of carpool a day!  It's close!  We're comfortable!  I have a trivia night table!  There HAS to be another way!


But he's right.  Which is funny, because this scenario he speaks of is precisely the scenario that prompted us to sell our house.  I had these dreams of moving one suburb over (which is LITERALLY across the street from our old house), and in those dreams, our house would have sold last summer, and we would have begun the school year there.  I wouldn't have shuffled my third grader into this year of limbo, and it wouldn't have ended up being a GREAT year.  Better than I thought it would have been back when I was trying to Jedi-mind trick our house into selling.  Now, I don't want to leave.  I want to stay at our school.  


Which is the trick.  I grow roots quickly, I fall in love easily.  It's pretty surprising that I didn't marry a meth addict, to tell you the truth.


Tomorrow.  We are looking at a house that is PERFECT on paper.   It is what I imagine my dream house to look like.  It is everything we want.   I find myself staring at it's pictures, and then talking myself out of love with it, because the popular house never picks the overanxious girl.  And unless it has an outhouse, I can't believe that I won't fall hopelessly in love with it, on sight.  It is like a GIFT FROM GOD, that's how well it fits our criteria.  


Aside from the fact that it's not in our school district.  


Which means that, potentially, we are starting this whole adventure all over again.  

How I am going to fund a new school wing with lost library books.

There appears to be a new policy in first grade.  One that allows students to borrow THREE library books a week.  Because OBVIOUSLY, the library is a fundraiser.


That means, at any given time, there are 11 borrowed library books in our house.  Or under or beds.  Or being eaten by mice.  Except that a couple of weeks ago, I asked Big J where his books were because the math wasn't working out quite right, and he said they were HERE and then I knew we were $38 worth of screwed. 


I half hoped they were in his desk and I half hoped that they had spontaneously combusted--because that would mean he wouldn't be allowed to borrow ANY MORE BOOKS until the end of the school year.   I mean, it's SO BAD that we have a rule that they are not allowed to take their books out of their backpacks ever, which I know *kind of* defeats the point, but let me assure you--there is no time to READ extracurricular books.  We have twins in first grade, which is the year of intense and repetitive and very painful reading, and when we are done with that we are smoking crack to take the *edge* off.  


But as it turns out, Big J's books were not in his desk--nor under his bed, or in the hamster cage, or in the black hole that is my mini (van)--and it was looking good, until he came home with 3 MORE BOOKS.  Which brings our total up to 14 school library books on any given week, but it's only February, and so I have all kinds of confidence that we are going to be financially responsible for at least 25 books come May--and 15 of them will be on the topic of hamsters, because my girls are OBSESSED with them right now.  Not the ones actually LIVING in a pink cage in our house, but the BOOKS that are written about the ones that look EXACTLY like the hamsters living in our house.  In an ironic twist of fate, those books are going to cost me more than the hamsters themselves, which is like life, imitating art, imitating hamsters.


We've reached that point in the school year where I have given up on pretending like I have my sh#! together.  And by this I mean, I have stopped returning library books AND filling out Little J's Kindergarten reading log.   I actually forgot that we were supposed to sell girl scout cookies, until I turned the form in, LATE, this morning--with only our single, sad, sad order for 11 boxes of thin mints.  I seriously miss the days when there was less paperwork and door-to-door selling, when reading was something we did all cuddled up on a couch; although back then it had the tendency to feel like I was suffocating in diapers and feeding tubes and velour sweat pants and the same old routines.   I guess we've simply traded bibs and sippy cups for ADHD meds and the struggle of CONSTANTLY confusing "that" and "what"--proving this stage (all stages) is awesome in retrospect, but still able to elicit profanities in real time.  


Oh, the joy of watching them learn.  Which is consistently matched by the frustration of watching them stumble.  

Of mice and men who don't have boundaries.

What would George Washington say (on Facebook)?

You know, I had a REALLY riveting post scheduled, about the Justin Bieber songs I listen to while I run--but that all seems incredibly dumb at this point, coming off of yesterday's *very* political offerings.  If you are new here, then you should probably know that I am a Republican that likes almost every song BETTER when it's sung by the cast of Glee.  Can we still be friends?


On a serious note.  THANK YOU for sharing yesterdays post, for commenting, for emailing me, for sending me text messages.  Because, true to the self-centered ego that I claim, this makes me feel incredibly important--and as I've proven, I will do anything for you to endorse me on the Internet.  Well, anything but porn, to be clear.  But if you want me to milk a goat in my beer wench costume, I can probably make it happen.


I think the debate we're talking about is an important one.  And I'm NOT talking about the whole Planned Parenthood/ Komen debacle, or the upcoming presidential election, or President Obama's healthcare plan--or any of the MILLIONS of things we could make this about, while we sit back in our nice homes and tell others to be ashamed about issues we are really doing nothing about ourselves.  It's about how we live, people.  How we treat others, what we unfairly expect, what we think we deserve, what we think OTHER PEOPLE should do about it and what we are willing to do about it ourselves.  I'm not asking you to be a Republican--I'm asking you to THINK about how you live your life and what it means.  When I said yesterday that I AM the problem, I completely mean it; but I also don't think that gives me license to sit back and be complacent.  I need to figure out what I am called to, and I need to DO IT.  I cannot fight every fight or every perceived injustice--I just don't have it in me--but I am definitely stirred to do SOMETHING, and I am *fairly* certain my God-given purpose in life is NOT heckling the Kardashians (even though I'm pretty AWESOME at it).  


To both sides of the equation, I say this:  SOMETHING has to give.  Can we agree on that?  This current political landscape ISN'T working.  And I'm not talking about having a Democratic president; I'm talking about it all just being so selfish, and ugly, and all about money, and impossible to get anything done.  We are spending more than we have, PERIOD.  I'm not an expert, but that means something NEEDS to be cut.  A lot of somethings, actually.  And if the whole PP/ Komen debate is any indication, cutting funds is UGLY.  People take it personally, and the mud-slinging starts, with the claims that we are taking a good intention and making it about "politics".  Well, duh, that's what it's about, people.  You can't change it.  If the government cuts funding to early intervention programs that help children with developmental delays (I'm using this example, because I am familiar with it, first hand)--then there is BACKLASH.   My kids were helped by this very program, no doubt about it--but I struggle with thinking that helping my kids is something my local government may not be able to afford.  It's emotional, and it's sad, and it feels like a personal attack for many of us, but the country is DROWNING people.  And we're all just so very concerned that none of our stuff gets thrown overboard, that we are sinking right along with it.   I don't really think we need to argue over how to tinker with a system that's already overburdened--but it's interesting to consider what I would give up to make it better.  What do I bring to the table, so to speak--verses, what everyone else is doing "wrong".  I don't really know, but I'm working on it.


Mostly, yesterday's post was just meant to give a voice to those of us (on both sides of the argument) who REALLY hate the mud-slinging.  Because I think there can be a voice that doesn't yell, and call names and tell others to be ashamed of what they believe.  That isn't who I want to be, and I think that's mostly how you feel too--so I just ask that you THINK about what you throw out there on Facebook.  Most of the world doesn't pay attention to the less-angry voices, because they aren't likely to rip the weave off a political candidate, and let's face it, we've come to expect that kind of *entertainment*--so a big THANK YOU to all of those who passed this on and gave it some volume.  PLEASE continue to do so, and share your opinions, because I will dance in clogs to earn your comments and to know that you are reading this blog.  


Now.  Go do some good.