It's been a while, but the PANIC is rearing it's ugly little face again.

Waffles and ice cream.  Lunch for the kids today.  


I am telling you this, because we had a swim meet tonight, and there is nothing that sucks the life out of me like a swim meet.  Well, except for addressing 70 valentines on behalf of the twins during their preschool years.  Now THAT was a buzz kill. 


Don't get me wrong.  I LOVE seeing my kids swim; it's the  3.75 hours between their events that's the killer of sanity.


Anyway.


Waffles with ice cream was on the list of things I wanted to do with the kids this summer; it was scribbled on my mental notepad, right next to my imaginary reminder to feed the hamster and hang the bathing suits up (again).  The thing is--there's always that GUILT over not feeding them something that would be considered a *normal* lunch food, and it is always in conflict with the DESIRE to be a fun mom.  People who are obsessed with healthy food, I assume this means that you own a small piece of my soul.  


I am SO. TIRED.  It's just one of those weeks, where the kids are at Vacation Bible School every morning, and yet my life seems so incredibly busy and complicated.  There is something going on every. single. night., and a couple of bigger-type projects coming up REAL soon.  And then there's like, one million requests by my kids to have playdates and sleepovers, and I want to, but I'm so tired, and we are currently awaiting an air conditioner repair, which has left my kids sleeping in the living room for four nights, and (in case I haven't mentioned it), I am so tired, I can't even think.  We all know this is the panic talking, but my stress level is rising, and having to pack the equivalent of a European vacation's worth of luggage for tonight's swim meet didn't help. 


I might be a wee bit on edge, blogworld.  So please forgive my lame post about waffles; I think we all know that this is really about holding my sh#! together.  

Playing tooth fairy DOES NOT highlight my gifts as a mother.

Our fourth child, Little J, lost his third tooth today.  This marks the THIRD time we have lost his actual tooth before bedtime; but also, it is likely the s10th? 12th?  time that the freaking fairy was overloaded with lost teeth, or unable to find our house, in order to deliver her promised treasure.


The problem is that "donut time" after our church service is a TERRIBLE opportunity to rip a tooth out of your mouth.  A tooth, coincidentally, that I didn't even realize was loose.  That sentence, right there, just summed up the difference between a FIRST and a FOURTH born, along with the fact that he doesn't have a monogrammed tooth fairy pillow like his oldest sister.


Instead of something appliqued and bedazzled, I placed the tooth in an empty cup that I took from the church's lemonade table; while resourceful, I was not smart enough to hold on to the cup and NOT place it directly next to the other (identical) cups containing lemonade backwash and donuts that had been discarded by grubby little three-year-old hands.  And hence, it was thrown out with the other trash, not even a half an hour after it was ripped from Little J's gums.  This surely wouldn't have happened if it was encased in a hand-sewn pouch--thus proving that Pinterest projects can often preserve the dreams of children.


This is okay though, because in our house, the tooth fairy is a son-of-a-bitch who is always a day (or four) late and full of excuses.  And probably drunk.  


We are THE WORST.  


And it's really enough to give me a HUGE dose of mommy guilt, until I remember that this is a fictional character who collects children's teeth--and I am sort of okay with them not buying into this one, because it's a little Silence-of-the-Lambs-ish, and my goal in life is to shelter them from scenarios in which strangers build furniture, or construct intricate mosaic patterns from their body parts. 


Welcome to a new week, blogworld.

This has got to be against some kind of fire code, or the general rules of safety.

As a parent, there is nothing that will drive home the IRONY of parenting, like a five-hour swim meet.  You remove the bumpers from their cribs to avoid strangulation, you sleep them on sheets made of organic yak's fur, you tell them not to stick their fingers in electrical outlets (a few thousand times), you prohibit peanut butter for 24 months, and you teach them to look both ways when they cross the street.  


And then you realize that all those lessons designed to keep your kids ALIVE are null-and-void, when they are six-years-old, competing in their second swim meet, and told to jump in a pool that looks like THIS:

Holy hell.  That is a lot of little kids in a deep body of water.  But this is where CHARACTER is formed, friends.  If they can survive the warm up (pictured) and being responsible for themselves for FIVE STRAIGHT HOURS in a bull pen governed by their peers--well, that's gotta mean something, right?


Five. Freaking. Hours.


Totally worth it to see L swim butterfly, though. 


FYI, L DOES NOT know how to swim butterfly.  Now, if it had been G that was in this spot, I would have spent the past two days researching proper butterfly technique; but as this is my third child, I am now well aware that it is ONE LENGTH of the pool, and breathing in a little chlorine never hurt anyone.  Oh wait.

The 48-inch mark is making my pool life complicated.

One of the perks of our new house is living ONE block away from our suburb's public pool.   I know this congers images of old slimy tile and naked 80+ year old women in locker rooms, but in these parts, and the rest of the country (I would imagine, because St. Louis is rarely on the cutting edge of these things), the gross pools of yester-year have been replaced with brand new, beautifully landscaped water parks.   Also, I am realizing that my view of public pools was 100% shaped by the YWCA, and it is a terrifying memory that makes my toes automatically curl into club feet when entering a locker room.

I love this pool, and that we walk or ride our bikes to it; however, it has a system of governing laws that are matched only by the BIBLE.  And that makes me a little crazy--which is FUNNY, because I'm the kind of girl that prides herself on rule following.


There are height requirements and restrictions for the BIG water slides, and the little kid slide.  This rule is a steady 48 inches--less than that, and you are considered a toddler, more and you might as well pop a beer, because as far as the pool is concerned, you're an independent adult.  And NEVER has this been so much of an issue as this year, when three of our four children hover within an inch (or 4, in L's case) around the 48-inch mark.   This makes our pool time very much like a complicated word problem, trying to figure out who can do what activity with whom; and 48-inches is very subjective (I'm dead serious) to the teenage lifeguard that is on duty at that particular moment.  I get that Little J is .5 inches too short for the big slides (though he is RARELY turned away)--but what KILLS me, is when Big J is blocked and reprimanded for going down the little slide, because he can neither SWIM, nor see without his glasses.  While his twin, L, on the other hand, who can swim like a fish, is having herself a ball cutting in line in front of the two year olds, as the self proclaimed queen of the toddler slide (she will officially meet the height requirements for the big slides when she is 23).


What I am getting at here, is that there is ALWAYS a story behind and beyond the RULES.  


Which is a really great life lesson for me.

KNOWING and NEEDING the Gospel.

This past Saturday, Mike and I were part of our church's annual day of service.  Once a year, members of our church organize a long list of community projects and coordinate the volunteers to get them done (no. small. feat.).  It's a logistical nightmare; but what's even more difficult, and NEVER talked about, is how hard it is to motivate a group of Christians to sacrifice their time and energy.  Because there's this idea that a church is always selfless and never self seeking.  Or tired.  Or unwilling to do yard work on a 90+ degree day.  


Quite the contrary.  


A day of service is the perfect picture of the church; full of the biblical purpose of serving those in need, and in exactly the same breath, challenged with the schedules, pride, guilt and selfishness of sinners.  Who both KNOW and NEED the Gospel.  


We've been members of our church for 13 years--longer than we've been committed to anything really, including our children.  I'm not sure when this day of service began, but it was sometime around the years when G was shoving full sippy cups of milk into closets or trying to play catch with yogurt, and other such shenanigans that generally made it IMPOSSIBLE to see a world in which I willingly had the DESIRE to serve others.  I was tired and hormonal--and there is a very good chance that someone(s) were receiving meals from my very own nipples (if the twins were born)--which felt like my own, constant, three-and-a-half year service project of feeding the VERY needy.


As the body of Christ, we want to make our church lives HOLY--which, when translated in the language of a midwestern suburb, means nice, moral, and full of casseroles tied with dishtowel ribbons when we're sick.  And very often, we're frustrated and discouraged when sin and brokenness shatter the image of what we think the church *should* look like.  We go to services on Sunday, put on happy faces, singe praise songs about the glory of God--and often spend the rest of our weeks overwhelmed with dirty dishes or children who won't eat chicken, or toxic milk spills in mini vans.  We don't really TALK about it, because Christians shouldn't be so consumed with LAUNDRY! We're given the charge of leading mankind to salvation, and yet we don't have the patience to survive a trip to Target in which the children ask for Sponge Bob macaroni for an entire hour straight.  


This was my very heart--and so, for a lot of years, when our church would serve our city, it was all about the work it would take for me to pack up a small wheelie suitcase with diapers, bottles and extra changes of clothes; drop off four (screaming) children at the church-sponsored childcare, or; arrange for a sitter, or (GASP!); bring them to a project that involved paint (no), power tools (no), electrical outlets (no), or mulch (in their diapers for WEEKS...no).  I was too tired.  Too busy.  Too overwhelmed.  I felt guilted into it.  It started too early, it went too long.  It made me too sweaty.  My friends weren't doing it, and I wouldn't know anyone.  I didn't know how to work a jack hammer.  It wasn't fun.  It wasn't my *time* to serve.   I wouldn't get a medal at the end, and they didn't serve ice cream.


There's NEED.  And there's SIN.  Constantly and at the same time.  


It doesn't matter that my kids are now out of diapers, that they are capable of pulling weeds, or helping with simple tasks.  They understand directions, they are capable listeners--and STILL, there is the part of ME that is too tired, too busy.  Too unwilling to let go of a Saturday.  I'm telling you this, because the work of a church doesn't always feel so...HOLY.  It feels an awful lot like work, contrary to the messages that are often put out there, that volunteers feel moved and called and overjoyed to sacrifice their time.  There are undoubtedly members of the church body that HAPPILY give up a summer day by the pool, or the comfort of keeping kids in their normal routines, for the sake of others.  It just always seemed so much harder, and less appealing for me--and I was content to wait for the service opportunity that would allow me to share the love of Christ on a perfect spring day with no humidity, at an ice cream social, or a free-monograms-for-the-needy event.  


This is not meant to justify my selfishness, but rather to tell you that this is the REALITY of the church.  Any church that challenges it's members to be the body of Christ.  There will be opportunity, and there will be a (sometimes) BIG and (sometimes) small part of us that will resist.  There will be people led out of slavery, only to beg to return to it; there will be disciples called PERSONALLY by Jesus himself, who will jockey for social status and the title of being the best; there will be believers so incredibly blessed, who will make every excuse not to sacrifice four hours on a Saturday.  That's the way this works, in our church AND throughout the history of the believing world--Christians who both KNOW and NEED the gospel, in equal measure.


I think I've mentioned that I've started a small group of women a few months ago--and it just seemed like a logical fit that we would do some kind of project together.  Selfishly, I was looking for something we could do as a group, to get to know each other a little better.  I mentioned it, and it didn't seem to go over with the enthusiasm of a free day at the spa; however, a few weeks later, one of the girls in the group mentioned that she knew of a single mom in our area who could just use some help with housework.  We had a general idea of what needed to be done, we bought NO SUPPLIES (simply brought stuff from our own houses), we didn't have a careful plan, and not all of us signed liability waivers.  We showed up, some of us had sick kids, some of us had birthday parties later in the day, some of us were running late, some of us had to leave early.  But we worked, and we talked and we cleaned and we decluttered; we distracted kids that were crabby and we did something in four hours that would have taken this woman a solid year on her own.  And it wasn't rocket science, and it was fun--not drinking-chardonnay-and-eating-sushi kind of fun, but the kind of thing that happens when you taken a group of women out of their carefully organized and put together lives.  There is a difference, and I tell you that, because I believe a day spent serving others, particularly as part of the church is, to me, so much more than happily and easily handing over my Saturday; just like every other aspect of my faith, it comes with my baggage, and pretending it doesn't is what disconnects me from the love of Christ out of guilt and fear that I just don't measure up.  I still carried some of my habitual selfishness, and YET, the work on Saturday was done.  There was my sin, and there was a NEED, and there was the Lord who showed up a bridged the gap.  He calls me, he uses me, he loves me, regardless.


I see that now.  That I have no chance of seeing his redemption, if I don't even give him the opportunity, because there's NOT a lot of room for him to work miracles if I am micromanaging every possible minute of my life.  I see that he will transform my attitude, and MAYBE even teach me something if I will just show up in obedience.  And I say this to all of you who struggle with what it looks and feels like to be part of a church body, because I get it--but there is MORE.  


There is what happens when our sin, and our pride and our selfishness meets the HOLY purpose of God.  

It may look like a tent, but it's really the gift of adventure--and the attitude to enjoy it.

Yesterday was Mike's birthday.

This week, every year, stresses me out.  A LOT.  I don't know what it is about this stage in life and birthdays, and Father's Day (TODAY)--but there is an undercurrent of expectation that makes this entire celebration feel like dog paddling in a tidal wave.  When we were dating back in college, Mike bought me a fleece blanket for our first Christmas; I gifted him with a shirt from Abercrombie & Fitch.  It was perfect and simple, and didn't come with a 15-step scavenger hunt, or a schedule of planned activities.  But now we're married, and there's been a bout with cancer, and some premature babies and the death of a child, and a company built, and five houses lived in.  And I'm just really not sure that a golf club really SAYS all of that, or speaks of my undying gratitude for feeding the kids breakfast every morning.

It meant something when we celebrated back in 1996, but it means SO much more now.  That he's alive another year, that he's a father (and a really good one at that).  It all started so simple, but then birthdays and anniversaries became about power tools and surprise parties and week-long beach vacations, and home improvement projects, or elaborate and perfectly orchestrated plans.  At this rate, I predict that I will personally build a replica of Versailles on the plot of land currently known as our city's park, for Mike's 80th birthday.

We've moved.  We've changed a lot of things.  We look at life differently, except that everything is a safe routine that could use a little revision--the house, the new school and quitting the country club is just the tip of the entitled iceberg, friends .  It's really EASY to go out and buy a tent (our gift of choice this year), harder to plan a time to use it (according to sports schedules and summer temperatures), and MOST difficult to envision a weekend where we won't want to kill each other (or our most whiny offspring) when confined to an eight foot, nylon dwelling without air conditioning.

This year, for Mike's birthday and Father's Day, we are GETTING OVER IT.

To my dear husband--I love you just as much sweating on a riverbank, as I would in the best hotel in Paris.  In sickness and in health, in a rental house or a McMansion.  You deserve the best, but mostly the ATTITUDE and SUPPORT that makes it worth it.  Happy Birthday to the best father our family could ask for!!

The perfect summer, otherwise known as the magical years between swim diapers and string bikinis.

We have given Little J the freedom to wash his own feet.  And apparently, he finds it acceptable to do this in the sink (vs. the TUB).  I'm not really sure if childhood is about learning to make more logical choices, or if parenting is about embracing less conventional ways of doing things.  Somehow, I think we are meant to meet in the middle.


My bathroom is a perfect metaphor for my summer; freaking dirty, and caked with toothpaste, but functional.  Having fun over these next few months means NOT CARING about a mess that can be rectified with a wet wipe in five minutes.  


I am LOVING my summer with my kids--and I say this TRULY, and not from a feeling of martyrdom.  I am so thankful that (aside from swim practice), we have NOTHING on our schedule at the moment.  And I have all these meaningful insights and perspectives, but the chickens aren't in bed until 9:00 these days, and by then I am TOO TIRED to put together a coherent sentence...and so my deep thoughts will have to wait until tomorrow.


I hope you all are enjoying your summer--and if you are vigilantly keeping a toddler from drowning, or cleaning popsicle juice off your ceiling, just know that the good stuff awaits you.  

An unfortunate case of leg acne.

I am entertaining guesses, or trained medical opinions, as to what is happening here, exactly.


We are on Day #4 of skin lesions, or mutant bug bites, or whatever; and it all began last week, when I spent an evening outside, and picked up no less than 20 mosquito bites on my left calve.  I hope the f-er that did that too me exploded on my blood, because he was a greedy little bastard.


They were just your standard bug bites, but because there were so many of them they ITCHED...and so Mike suggested that I put some itch spray, or whatever on them.  I probably applied that stuff three times, and didn't think anything of it.  


On Saturday, we went on a date to the previously mentioned bar that I am so-not-cool-enough-for, and then we walked down to the Arch, and sat on the grass for a bit.  I mention this, because it's possible these are MORE bug bites.  Or just a flesh eating bacteria.


Just kidding about the bacteria.  Mostly because I already googled it, and if that were the case, I would be sick and my insides would be liquifying.  


I really didn't know it looked like this, until I went to scratch behind my knee cap a few days ago, and noticed that my skin was...textured.  So yeah, the entire area that looks inflammed and red in that photo?  It is also covered in small-ish bumps.  And as far as I know, they aren't contagious.


But the entire thing itches like crazy, until I scratch at it, and then it hurts like it's bruised.  


My best guess is that I had some kind of unfortunate reaction to the itch spray--so if you see me soaking in the local, public pool, rest assured that this (probably) isn't a sexually transmitted disease, or a case of leprosy.  Just a simple, social plague that is dragging down my confidence in a bathing suit.

This universe has revealed a metaphorical mascot for my LIFE.

On Saturday morning, Mike and I took the kids to Petco to buy a fish.  This is important, because we WON a goldfish (which really feels like LOSING, fyi) at the carnival last weekend, and while I had high hopes for it's life expectancy, "Flakes" lasted 72 hours before we found him floating lifeless at the top of the hurricane vase we were using as his bowl.  Problem is, we had invested $22 in fish-related products; yes, I am aware that these supplies can be purchased for less, but 3,856 children won fish at this carnival, and so I was forced to buy the super-sized versions of food and water de-contaminator, or else drive to a pet store in Kansas to save $15.

Anyway.

If you've ever been to a pet store on a Saturday, you know that it is like an adoption carnival--and that you are a cold-hearted snake if you walk out of there without 15 hairless gerbils and a Saint Bernard.   Good thing we forgot that little fact, or else Mike would surely have ruined the universe's plan for me to meet E.T., the Shar-pei/ Pug mix, and future mascot of this blog.  I saw that wrinkled little face, and searched for a solid 12 minutes to find his eyes, and I fell in LOVE.

LOVE.

I mean, it's like they took the already-ample skin off a full-sized Shar-pei (which are kind of big), and awkwardly fit it upon a dog the size of a pug--and quite honestly, I could just massage his neck folds all day long.  Turns out, I LOVE neck skin, and lots of it, which bodes really well for Mike when he is 97.

So, we've been there approximately 14 seconds, and I am somewhat obsessed with E.T.  And his FACE!  Oh, that face.  On the little body.  With the skin.  Seriously, I used every last ounce of my self-control NOT to cuddle right there on the cold floor that the shit-zu just peed on.  

We can't get a dog.  We just can't.  Mike is mentally not there, however, I am fairly certain I could bribe him sexually, or guilt him into it with a photos taken during my c-section, because dude, he OWES me restitution for seeing my uterus in a surgical pan.   Seriously though, he would actually have another CHILD--and they are a THOUSAND times harder to take care of than a dog with a curious case of the Benjamin Buttons.  But most importantly, our lease prevents us from rescuing E.T. and bringing him home RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE, and if I wasn't such a rule follower, I might attempt to just keep him on my bed and feed him bacon FOREVER.  Let's be honest, this whole lease problem is the ONLY detail holding me back.

About the time that it was getting kind of awkward in Petco, I pulled out my iphone to snap a photo of E.T. to use as my facebook profile pic.  When the woman who is fostering him saw this, she said that she had a coupon for a free PORTRAIT sitting, and she offered it to me, along with a complimentary 5x7--and wouldn't you know, the photographer was on-site at Petco that day!  


{Now.  Many of you will often tell me that stuff like this just doesn't happen to you.  To which I would argue--are you regularly making such an ass of yourself by whining, and carrying on, and french kissing a dwarf sharpei, that someone would take pity upon you and offer you a free portrait sitting?  Crazy things like this only happen when someone overhears your desire to tattoo a wrinkly dog face on your calve--so PUT YOURSELVES OUT THERE, friends, and watch the magic happen.}

Really, it's like God was handing me a blog post, in the form of a professional portrait of myself with someone else's dog, that will one day hang upon the walls of my home for ALL TIME.  And when my great-grandchildren ask about it one day, my kids will be able to retell the story of E.T., and how he wasn't ever ours, but how we met and were photographed together in Petco one magical day, and how his story in our family became like unicorn folklore.  Except that I also have a plan, and this involves YOU, blogworld.  Or rather, one of you, that is willing to adopt E.T., or house him for ME for a couple of years, while I try every Jedi-mind trick and slutty beer wench costume to get Mike to gift him to me for Christmas, in a custom made onesie with his new monogram (which would be just a long series of initials).

You see, friends--every once in a while you see something that is so incredibly YOU and it steals a piece of your soul.  For me, this happens with any piece of clothing made out of cotton knit; power ballads sung by Bon Jovi;  fictional high school football teams; and, dogs with excessive facial wrinkling.  What I have learned through the years is that we are not a neatly-pressed, chocolate lab, kind of family--but rather, one that would proudly love an E.T. and dress him in track suits.


But seriously.  He is SO sweet.  And he needs a home, friends.  And I know, I JUST KNOW, that there is one of you out there who cannot stop looking at his face.  I would love it if one of my St. Louis friends would adopt this little nugget, and give me visitation rights.  Please?  PRETTY Please?  Look. At. That. Face.


ONE HOUR after entering the store, Mike pulled me out of there, sans E.T., and sobbing.  Coincidentally, the children picked out a Beta fish that cost $10 (W.T.H?????) that has ZERO neck folds, which goes against everything we stand for, and is a gigantic waste of money, considering that our longest-living fish lasted two whole weeks.  {Edited to note:  If any of you are nervous about us raising a dog, I will remind you that we kept a very unhealthy, overweight, thyroid-challenged and diabetic beagle alive for 10 years.} On the basis of price comparison, Mike was *almost* moved to agree that E.T. and his adoption fees would have been a BARGAIN.


Also, a big thanks to Melanie at Paw Prints Photography for catching this amazing moment in time--if you are looking a pet portrait, check them out at local Petco's on Saturday mornings! 


On deck for tomorrow?  My suspicion that I have leprosy, or a flesh eating virus; but probably it is just a BAD reaction to excessive mosquito bites.

Cool is dead and buried in a dress on the clearance rack at Target.

Blogworld, I have the most AMAZING story to tell you, and this time it involves a professional portrait that I posed for, spontaneously, at a local pet store.  Certainly not as creepy as that time in college that one of my friends won a photo shoot in a seedy motel (link HERE), but just as awesome.


Except that it's gonna have to wait, because it's Sunday night, and per my normal routine, I pissed away today's scheduled nap for a few solid hours in Dillon, Texas (aka, Friday Night Lights).  Also, I have learned the difference between eating like crap when you are 21 years old, and eating like crap when you are 35--and it is that every Sunday night I am now convinced that I am 28-weeks pregnant with a baby made of high fructose corn syrup and lard.  I am still very pro-french-fry; but I am also fairly certain that I could have smoked meth when I was in college, and I would STILL feel better than I do now, after indulging in today's Qdoba burrito. And last night's Dreamsicle bread pudding.  Plus my standard 742 ounces of diet coke.

The other difference between 21 and 35?  KNOWING I am not cool enough for the BATHROOM at the new bar in town, as evidenced by the fact that it took me 15 minutes to properly identify the soap dispenser.  Twenty-one-year-old me would have been content with a water rinse, probably because I was wasted, and my standards for hygiene can be expressed in the fact that I would occasionally swallow a cigarette butt from the beer-can-turned-ashtray I would mistake as my beer can (for all that tuition, I can identify at least 5 parts of that statement that prove college kids are often really STOOPID).   Thirty-five-year-old me, however, stood there perplexed, made an awkward joke when I figured it out, and even took an iphone photo, which subsequently, put the final nail in the coffin of my COOLNESS.  It's okay though, because there is freedom in admitting that the person who put the soap dispenser three feet away from the sinks and over the trash can is RIDICULOUS--and it is a liberation similar to realizing that I LIKE buying all my clothes at Target, and then having the balls to freaking rock the Merona maxi dress in five different colors.


But for now.  Please know that tomorrow's post will be epic, and COMPLETE with the previously mentioned photo.  As an added bonus, there will also be a puppy giveaway!  And by giveaway, of course I mean FREE to the reader that is willing to *donate* $300, and regularly swab the face folds of the most adorable living creature I have ever seen, and been PHOTOGRAPHED with, in my entire life.  And by adorable, of course I mean, rolling in neck skin.  


Bring it ON, new week.  Mike is the announcer at our first swim meet of the season tomorrow night, and the crap that is sure to come out of his mouth on a loud speaker in front of our entire suburb only means GREAT things for your, friends.

Raising a village of small children is COMPLICATED.

I think I am learning what it means to live in a community.  What I'm saying is that it's pretty easy to hide behind the walls of your own home, particularly when your kids are young, and to believe that "doing life together" means fun play dates when your house is clean, and snacks are purchased, and activities are organized and carefully orchestrated.  This is how it has always gone for us, when we had very few kids that lived on our street, and my children were too little to seek out friends and adventure on their own.


We are new to the idea of a neighborhood, in the sense that our previous home was a quiet little street that backed up to a golf course.  There weren't many kids in our neighborhood, which was just off of a busy street; add to that the fact that we were basically surrounded by acres of fairways, and you get the picture of how we were kind of isolated from other families with children who would wander, looking for friends.  Clearly, I could control and manipulate the kinds of adventures my kids would have--and it is now clear that they (we) were very sheltered, in this regard.


And then we moved right into the heart of the a suburb that is crawling with kids, amidst streets that look like a grid of yards and playgrounds.  We are SURROUNDED by children that go to our school, and it is exactly what we were hoping for.  


Except.


There is an undercurrent to this sort of lifestyle that is...difficult.  And stressful.  And 100% the opposite of doing things like brushing our teeth, simply and privately, as a family.  And maybe those of you who live in neighborhoods like this don't even notice it anymore, or maybe you know exactly what I'm talking about, or maybe it's just not a big deal to you, or maybe (in spite of all of my sarcastic tendencies) I REALLY do need a prescription for anti-anxiety medication.  


I want my kids here in our house.  I want their friends here.  Mostly because I know it's a safe place, but also because I want to see what's going on.  I want to play a role in how they treat each other, and  help to guide them in that respect--rather than letting them pull a Lord-of-the-Flies on  the park playground, if you know what I mean.  I want to know if there is bullying, or any of that ridiculous, clique-y, girl drama that I DESPISE. I want to hear what they are talking about.  I want to have a glimpse into what is on their hearts, and how they struggle.  And mostly, this is completely possible and 100% my choice, because with the exception of G, my kids are still YOUNG.  Like, too young to be trusted to cross the street we live on, by themselves.  I always had this idea that we would be a home that welcomes kids; but I'm beginning to understand that this is complicated.  Way more complicated than hamsters and lemonade stands, contrary to what I once thought parenting was all about.  


We have met a couple of sweet families that live just up the street--I've met their parents, and we seem to operate under the same set of invisible, yet understood rules of conduct.  Sending our kids to knock on doors at reasonable times, checking on our kids, exchanging cell phone numbers, making sure they are with older siblings when they cross the street.  We've had conversations; at least enough to agree that we are not cult leaders, mass murderers or meth addicts.  


We also have a neighborhood friend whose parents we have never met.  Who knocks on our door first thing in the morning, and every 15 minutes thereafter, until my kids are done with breakfast, or cleaning up, or getting dressed...and eventually, given the green light to play.  It hurries everything we do, and it changes our dynamic.  From what I can tell, she is a sweet girl, but most of our rules are foreign to her, and this is enough to make me CRAZY.  She will ride our electric scooters without a helmet, and cross the street at any time.  This doesn't seem like a big deal--until my six-year-old follows her.  I repeatedly have to tell her that my kids are not allowed to cross the street without G, or myself, and they DEFINITELY need to tell me where they are going.  THREE times today, my kids have been across the street and around the block, without a single word.  Now, that isn't her fault, because I FULLY expect my children to know better  (simply because it's our routine)--but her presence CHANGES the way we work.  And it's stressful.  

No one ever comes by the check up on her, or tell her to come home for dinner, or introduce themselves to the woman whose house she willingly walks into.  On the one hand, it is incredibly sad; and on the other, incredibly frustrating to have to be the watch dog, and the bad cop for someone else's kid (whom I never met).  My kids are not allowed to be over at her house (though she never offers that), because I just know nothing about it--and I've never come upon a situation like this, where friendship and responsibility are a one way street.  Parenting freaking sucks when you have to carry through with consequences, or take away privileges, or generally be an ADULT that manages the 274+ situations that could land a kid in the emergency room at any given time; and it's even harder to do this for someone else's kid.  And then there are the personality dynamics to deal with, and trying to watch the hearts of little girls ranging from ages seven to ten.  It's IMPOSSIBLE.  Or maybe I'm just overwhelmed, because we are new here, and there is a steep learning curve.  And it's a hell of a lot harder than it looks, this business of balancing responsible parenting, with the fun moments of walking eight kids to the neighborhood candy store (pictured).  


I'm not complaining (well, mostly not complaining)--but merely making a statement of how this careful little childhood bubble I have created is being tested and refined.  And it is FREAKING me out.


As Mike reminded me tonight, welcoming kids into our home and working on rules and boundaries is GREAT practice for the teenage years, when dangerous habits refer to street drugs, and not improper street crossing.  I have a feeling that the ages of 13-19 are going to do wonderful things for my PERSPECTIVE.

It's like high school in Narnia.

I am living what can only be described as a downward death spiral that finds me wide-awake at midnight and sobbing (SOBBING) for a greasy-haired, FICTIONAL football player that is gonna graduate from high school and go to COLLEGE, y'all.  Except that he's also gonna have a niece or nephew, and at this point, I really might sell my soul to Peter Berg just to see Tim Riggins stay in Dillon and whisper sweet sarcasm to a BABY.  Shoot, he's come a long way since showing up to practice drunk and banging his best-friend's girlfriend in the pouring rain on the side of the highway--but didn't we all see the depth in that half smirk, and just KNOW he had it in him?  I mean, seriously.  With the way they introduced the first season of Friday Night Lights, did any of you die-hard fans EVER think that it would be Tim Riggins that you cried for when he left his cleats at the stadium?  That entire story line KILLS ME.


And Coach.  Coach, Coach, Coach.  If I ever run into Joe McCoy at the Alamo Freeze, or the burger joint, or Panther stadium, I will punch him in the testicles for you because he is a son-of-a-bitch and you deserve BETTER.   My blood pressure goes up 20? 40? 150 points? when he pops up on my television with that cocky little grin.   And where the hell is Buddy Garrity???  I hate Buddy, and then I LOVE Buddy, and then I HATE Buddy and then I kind of hate Buddy.  And then I hate Dillon, and the politics of it all, and the boosters.  There is a special place in fictional hell for the BOOSTERS.  And then I remember that the show isn't REAL, but it doesn't matter, because the aneurysm is half-way exploded by that point, and so I am *committed*.


{Edited to note:  I have watched two episodes of season four since those first paragraphs were written, and now I need a Zanex.  And a case of chardonnay.  And a shot gun for Joe McCoy.  And a Pinterest board of ideas to cutesy up Riggin's trailer, because that is sort of the rage right now.  It's not like I don't have a life; quite the contrary, I have an entire, fictional UNIVERSE.}


Blog world, I'm sorry if you have never watched Friday Night Lights.  It's like my Narnia.  But even if you don't have any idea what I am talking about, I am fairly certain I can entertain you with my tales of going off the freaking deep end.  What I'm trying to say here, is that I now COMPLETELY understand the homeless guy at the park who think's he's MacBeth.  Because every evening I imagine I live in Texas and that I am pledging allegiance to the flag of the East Dillon Lions.  


I have two seasons left of Friday Night Lights, and I have no idea how it's going to end, but I'm fairly certain it entails finding Cheetos stuck in my neck skin, substantial weight gain, the (continued) inability to seperate fact from fiction, and probably 23 stray cats--that will just happen to take up residence here, because that tends to characterize this particular level of crazy.  I'm sure there's a tube of red lipstick in there too, and I suppose I get why someone might leave the house with it applied liberally outside the boundaries of the lips, because the muscle relaxants that are necessary to uncleanch my very tight jaw (as a result of the Season 4 shake-ups), will do that to you.  


Texas FOREVER.

A view from the top.

Sometimes, all it takes is a carnival two blocks away from our house, and a ferris wheel, to remind me that the world looks different from WAY up here.  You can't even see the pile of dishes that are stacked up in my sink, nor the teeny-tiny french fries in a happy meal at McDonalds.  And I thought those things were all CONSUMING.  


I couldn't even see L, who was riding in a seat (with her friends) that was immediately behind Big J and I; this is because shifting my weight, or turning around, or looking down TERRIFIES me 70-feet in the air.   What we think we know and see is always so clear.  Until we step back, or round a corner.  Or look down from the top of a ferris wheel in the middle of our little town.  It's so BEAUTIFUL, except for the rusted frame that reminds us that we are at the mercy of metal and the mental acuity of a Carnie to survive this little exercise in perception.  That changes things, too.

Thank goodness.  Because if all I could see and know for sure was the laundry pile in my basement, or the swim team schedule that resumes tomorrow, I might never get out of bed.  Until someone spilled Cheerios all over the kitchen floor, that is; and obligation is just a short term goal for getting out of my pajamas.


But JOY and EXCITEMENT are the things I can't quite see yet, that are waiting just beyond that tree line.  They're gonna scare the shit out of me, and after I punch them in the face, I'm REALLY gonna love 'um.


Welcome to the week, friends.