Hope Chest.

The smell of cedar is overwhelming. Sickly sweet.

First, come Christmas stockings. Eight of them, woven, with embroidered names. Picking them up in my hands, I remember how the Christmas goodies would catch and snag on the threads inside. But the orange fit so perfectly in the toe. And peanuts, which always ended up abandoned in a bowl. Left for my father to eat.

More stockings, but only 7 this time. Red felt, with cut out felt shapes glued, untidy, on the front. Names with glitter on glue. I remember sitting at the table in an olive green kitchen and choosing the shapes for my own stocking: a reindeer, a bell, and a star.

A wedding dress, the satin with a slightly yellowed sheen. An a-line ball gown gown with a tiny waist. Long sleeves. Dust on the hemline from my mother's wedding reception. Beneath the gown, the veil--brittle with time.

Christening outfits. Baby blankets. Elementary school projects. A pair of tiny toddler cowboy boots. A Marine dress coat, cut to fit like a glove.

Going through my mother's hope chest is to step back in time. Filled with her hopes fulfilled. Reflecting years of my own hopes...
to wear a dress like this.
To marry a man like that.
To fill my arms with babies.
To hide their blankets in my own hope chest.

Which stands against the wall of my own room now.

Christening gowns. Baby dolls. Faded, dried roses. Graduation caps and tassels.

The smell of cedar, sickly sweet.

Day 164: Ainsley, Part 5

Tuesday night. My kitchen. I finally, gave in to a much needed nervous breakdown. Crying into my husband's shirt. Copious amounts of saltwater flowing down my face. Hiccuping, gulping sobs.

And then? I felt better. Much better. Prepared to wait another week. To be patient.

My husband tucked me into bed, and I remember smiling as I dozed off. I looked forward to an exhausted but refreshing sleep.

An hour or so later, I opened my eyes. Something was off. I lay there in the dark and looked up at the clock. 11:30. I yawned and rolled over. Then I thought "Oh no. I know this feeling. It's the stomach flu."

At this point, can I just interject and say, is there anything worse than waking up with that feeling? The pre-urp, stomach ache, "green-apple quickstep" kind of feeling??? Because if there is, I have not experienced it yet. Moving on.

Sparing you the details, I made my way to the living room--expecting to spend the night on the couch, alternating between the ever handy huge Tupperware mixing bowl and the porcelain throne. I felt so nasty and crampy, but really low. Not like contractions. Contractions were up high. Like they had been on Friday. I decided to call my mom. She's two hours behind me, so it wasn't all that late where she was. And of course, there was a small nagging voice that maybe, just maybe--this could lead to something? If this was labor, my Mom would be able to tell me. So I got on the phone and chatted with her, aimlessly, as I walked around and straightened the house. The couch was in the middle of the family room, covered with picture frames and fall decorations that had been taken down while I was painting. One by one, I moved them back into their places until the couch was clear. I was starting to wonder if the coming and going of severe intestinal cramping wasn't contractions, and my Mom told me to call the triage nurse over at Labor and Delivery. I hung up with her and lay down on the couch, hesitating. I mean, the cramps were painful, but I really felt like it was a stomach bug more than anything.

I sighed and called L&D triage at my OB office and the call was answered by a nurse named Wayne. I explained to him that I was having pain, but it was really low. He asked if my water had broken--I said no. He asked if I had contractions that I could time--I said no. I told him that the pain did seem to back off sometimes, but it was erratic. He said "Ma'am, I'm going to guess it's probably gas cramps. Take some antacid and call me back if and when your contractions are less than 5 minutes apart, or if your water breaks." I nodded to myself and hung up, although I was feeling more sure that this was the beginning stages of labor.

Around this time, Dave came out of our room to see if there was anything he could do to help me. I told him that I thought I was going to take a shower, and asked him to call my doula Heather and ask her to come over. He did that, and then left a note on the front door. It said "Heather--come on in. We're in the shower. Don't worry, I'm in my swimsuit."

I knew it would probably be several hours, but I gave up on the idea of sleep for the night.

Day 161: Ainsley, Part 2

By the first Friday in September, all my headstands had done the trick and we had a head-down baby. Perhaps this was the reason I scheduled myself a pedicure. I can't think of why else that would've been, unless I was feeling really sorry for myself. Also a reasonable hypothesis. But I'm pretty sure there wasn't anyone in the Northern Hemisphere that wasn't feeling sorry for me at this point. I was 50 pounds heavier than I had been 9 months earlier, my thighs were tan but still the size of pylons, and I had to get out of bed to go pee at least 10 times every night--a nearly impossible feat because my sciatic nerve liked to play games with my ability to walk.

So I mustered up the energy to leave my kids home with the Spouse (snort) and plunked myself down in a lovely, cushy pedicure chair and became instantly engrossed in "Days of Our Lives", which I'd never seen before but had no trouble following, while "Allison" from Vietnam went to town on my hairy legs and calloused feet. Because of some miscommunication that was either pregnant brain or the nuances of the Vietnamese language, I ended up getting not only Harlot Pink toenails but an orange salt scrub and paraffin foot waxing as well. Perfect.

It was about the time that the delicious smell of chemical tangerines hit my nose that I began noticing them... contractions. Blessed contractions. Based on the commercial breaks during "Days", they were about 5 minutes apart. Perfect. "Bring 'em on," I thought, as I slipped my now soft and sweet smelling feet into the little foam flip flops.

I drove home, patting my very cooperative belly. My mood was ebulliant. I had never gone into labor, but these contractions felt just like the ones I'd had hooked up to pitocin in my two former deliveries, so I assumed they were a good sign. I grabbed my laptop and brought up every full-term pregnant woman's best friend: Contraction Master. The contractions continued, not painful, but very easy to time. We had dinner. Got the kids to bed. They were now two to three minutes apart.

I called my doula, Heather, and she came over to walk with me. I had showered and put on makeup. I could tell I was headed for the perfect birth. Finally, we agreed that we should head to the hospital. It was baby day.

Day 160: Ainsley, part 1.

There are times in your life when you think "Wow. This feels like a movie... is this really happening to me??"

In my life, I've had that feeling three times:
1. Laying in a field of wildflowers next to a sparkling aqua stream in the Alps, nibbling on bread and cheese.
2. The night my true love proposed.
3. The night I had a baby on the couch.

To kick off my return to writing life, I present "The Tale of the Night When the Nurse said it was Gas Cramps so the Paramedics Didn't Make It On Time and We Had to Get a New Couch Cover."

This story begins actually about 6 weeks before Baby was due. We didn't know if we were having a boy or a girl. We thought the surprise would be fun--you know, the big announcement at birth by the doctor. We thought it would be fun. For about two weeks after the ultrasound. Then we realized that it was one of our stupidest decisions. But too late. So, anyway,6 weeks before my due date, I felt like I was still carrying this baby in the breech position. I had an appointment with a new doctor at the practice, whom I shall refer to as Dr. Doogie.

He walked into the tiny office and tripped over my two children who, as usual, were playing with plastic glove balloons on the floor. He looked disconcerted at the presence of other children, and his eyes kept skittishly flitting to them as he looked over my information. While he did this, I was noticing the lack of wrinkles on his forehead. He seriously looked like an 18 year old doing a "Try Out a Profession" project for their civics class. He asked me the standard questions, and then asked if I had any questions for him.

"Actually, I think I'm still carrying this baby breech." I stated.
"Oh." he said, eyeing the two year old, who was busy stacking the little pap smear tests.
"Um...is there any way you can tell?" I asked, without confidence.
He felt my ample belly and then said "Nope. Can't really tell."

Cue awkward pause.
"So. Um. Who in this practice is best at external versions, just in case?"
"I don't think we keep that kind of information."
"Oh... Is there any way to get that information?"
"Um. Well. When I was in medical school, we googled how to turn a baby. We lit some herbs on a lady's toe and it worked. It set the fire alarms off in the hospital though."
"In medical school?" I stuttered, "And how long ago was that?"
"I graduated two months ago." Dr. Doogie stated proudly.

At this point, alarms of my own were going off inside my head. Dr. Doogie offered to schedule a c-section, on the spot, but I tried to decline politely. I didn't want to be his first, you see.

I went home and proceeded to put on my old lady maternity swimsuit and do headstands in the local swimming pool at every opportunity, trying to get this baby to turn. I had a new purpose in life: to avoid having Dr. Doogie deliver my baby at all costs.

And so a month passed.

Day 80: The Potty Train

My favorite part of parenting has to be potty training.

The Boy is nearly two and a half. People tell me that this is the critical age to potty train. They say that if I don't start now, then he'll start resisting. If I don't start now, he'll be in diapers until he's FOUR. Besides, a friend of his just potty trained in 4 days--how bad could it be?

So, in an effort to avoid 18 more months of Wrestlemania: Diaper Edition, today we made the trek to buy Big Boy Pants. A small but insistent part of my mind was wondering what delusional psychosis I was laboring under. It drug up memories of a not-so-distant past and potty training the Girl. It moaned of messes and stress and begging and pleading that had all come to NOTHING until I backed off and let her do it when she was ready. I tried to silence this part of my mind with the promise of a date with Mr. Pillow at naptime. We made our way to the underpants section, where I held up Thomas, Spiderman, and Lightning McQueen options for The Boy. I used my excited, but calm, authority voice. The voice I reserve for large, strange dogs. I asked Boy which underpants he wanted. He chose Spiderman. For good measure, I tossed Lightning McQueen in the cart as well, in case his whim should change.

Before we'd even gotten out of the kids section, he was trying to chuck the Spiderman unders out of the cart: "No want." I insisted that we were going to go home and wear Big Boy Pants. I told him treats would be involved. Suddenly, clutching his precious underpants as the key to his desires, he started asking for candy, yogurt covered pretzels, pop, toys, a new bike, and a shiny hairbrush with tourmaline in it. I caved like the frightened deer in the headlights of a mother that I am.

Upon arriving home, I discovered that Spiderman and his gang had disappeared on the drive home. "Uh-oh, no pants, sorry" he said. He looked triumphant until I proudly pulled out Lightning McQueen. Defeat. With some trepidation, we put on the glow-in-the-dark underoos. I placed the potty in front of Bugs Bunny with some yogurt pretzels and grapes and left him seated upon his throne.

And guess what? The Boy did it. All by himself. What joy! What rejoicing! What chocolate came his way! (That little voice was back--reminding me that The Girl had gotten a SINGLE M&M for her potty training successes. I silenced the voice with grapes.) I made a huge deal out of it, pranced around with him, and told him he was wonderful. The light in his eyes showed that this potty thing might be okay after all.

So, at the end of the day, I am proud to say that I changed one less diaper today. Yes, we may have had to do a whole extra load of laundry as we do damage control for less victorious attempts. We are going to have to figure out how to teach the kid to aim. We may have just begun a journey that very well could take the next 18 months of my life, and bring me to within an inch of my sanity. Tomorrow that small voice will be stronger, and I will curse the Potty Training Muses, but for tonight I'll dream of the Potty Train Express. And, in the meantime, if anyone out there would be willing to come and potty-train my child in 24 hours, I'll happily pay you your weight in grapes and yogurt covered pretzels.

Day 73: She Came with the Couch

So, the Wee One is almost five months old. I've been reflecting on that this week a lot because one of my sister-in-laws and a really good friend both gave birth to Bouncing Baby Boys on Thursday. This brings up happy remembrances of labor and deliveries past, and a slight smug gladness that I'm not the one about to be grabbed by the ears and spun about by life with a newborn until I'm chucked on to a couch with no energy left for joy. But I digress. Because I have a great birth story, and I want to tell it as I've been reflecting on it.

My youngest daughter, you see, was born on the couch in our living room. And this experience has taught me a few things:
1. When people find out you had a baby on the couch they always ask "Did you plan it?" with a slight tilt of their eyebrow. My response is always "Oh, heavens no!" and then they laugh and we can get on with the joke. Sometimes I wonder what their response would be if I said "Yup! Only way to go!" I have a hunch they'd then shift me to "Flower Child Tree Hugger" status in their minds.
2. Always, always the next question is "Do you still have the couch?" I find this to be a bit puzzling because I wonder, honestly, if other people have some sort of disposable couch, that I don't know about? Should I have chucked it to the curb with the garbage that Thursday? Should I have received a new one, in lieu of the free diaper bag provided at the hospital? (Really, with the refund that should've been coming from my OB, I could've bought a new couch.) So, to answer this question: Yes, we still have the couch.
3. When people ask if we still have the couch, they are implying that said birth on said couch must've been a horribly nasty, bloody affair. Some even ask if there was blood everywhere. Some of the people who ask this have had more children than I have. That's why I have to scratch my head a bit. So, to answer this one: No, my whole living room didn't look like a CSI crime scene. (We did throw away a few towels.)
4. People always want to know if you freaked out, or if your husband freaked out. Honestly? I think he was too busy trying to yell into the speaker phone with the lovely 911 people, get his shoelace off his shoes, pray to all that was holy that our other kids wouldn't wake up, and catch a child to freak out. As for me? I think I was already wondering about that OB refund.
5. Best advice from 911 dispatch: "Don't drop it! It's going to be slippery!"
6. Worst advice from Labor and Delivery triage nurse Wayne: "It's probably gas cramps. Call me back when your water breaks." (Oh--time from water breakage to delivery? 8 minutes.)
7. Apparently, according to 911, when you're about to have a baby you need a shoelace and a safety pin. The shoelace is to tie off the cord. We had no safety pin, so I never got to find out what it was for. I'm still curious.
7. Here's something I'd never known before: those labor and delivery nurses are hoping for a chance to deliver a baby on their own. They were all so bummed that I'd already had her when I got there, because they'd gotten a heads-up from my lovely friend Wayne that things were going along mighty quick. They hoped they'd get to catch her, before the doctor had a chance. Sorry, nurses. Maybe next time.
8. In my mind, that tiny newborn will always be named Bonnie. Because even though we ended up going with a different name, for just a couple hours, she was named Bonnie and everyone thought it was darling.
9. Okay, last one. It's this: home birth isn't just for Flower Child Tree Huggers. I grew up knowing that "Home delivery is for pizza." (A direct quote of my parents.) I have heard many lectures on The Things That Can Go Wrong. I would never have intentionally planned a home birth. But, you know what? I loved it. I loved welcoming my daughter into my husband's and my waiting arms. I loved that she was born into a quiet, dark room with no one rushing in and out. I loved the she was mine, all mine, and no one rushed to take her away for weights or measures or eye drops. I am not, at all, knocking hospital births. I am grateful for good obstetricians who are good at what they do. But would I do it again? Absolutely.

I'm still waiting on that refund.

Day 72: Dream a little dream

My oldest daughter went to her first ballet lesson today. I found a *real* ballet class. The kind where the little girls are required to have their hair in a bun, wear ballet slippers that aren't Isotoners, and aren't allowed to wear tutus to practice. The instructor takes this seriously, and it shows in her expectations and her methods. I sat outside in the hallway and watched my little girl with her teacher. I looked at the big blue eyes and the curly hair pinned into a tight little bun. I watched her as she watched herself in the mirror, her little person almost overflowing with excitement.

As I sat there, I wondered if she has it in her to be a dancer. I wonder if, unlike me, this will be a talent she has. I wonder if, instead, I should be enrolling her in ice skating? gymnastics? violin? I'm glad that she's in this ballet class because she asked, on her own, if she could take ballet. I'm glad I didn't suggest it because, I'm afraid, sometimes, that I'll try to live out my own dreams through my kids.

Growing up, I had a poster in my room of ballet slippers. Each January, I bought a new Hallmark "Ballerinas" calendar. I coveted pointe slippers. As I got older, it was the ballerina's muscular back and lean legs that I coveted. So, my junior year of college I enrolled in a college level Beginning Ballet class. I showed up the first day, breathless and excited. I had, in my possession, real dancing shoes. A black leotard. "Theater pink" tights. I walked in the door and sat in a circle with 20 other 20-something girls, all smiling at each other sheepishly. All understanding, without saying it, that we were just trying to live out unfulfilled dreams. (The lone guy in the glass, blushing in his dance cup, seemed to be confused about why he was there. I think he thought it would be a good way to meet girls.) Then, in walked our ruthless instructor who couldn't seem to grasp that none of us even dreamed of having the potential to be prima ballerinas. She called me to the front of the class one day, had me move me feet into first position, and pointed out that since my knees are hyper extended, I could never get more than a B in the class, let alone have any sort of aptitude for dancing. I withdrew from the class shortly thereafter--the end of my dancing career.

So, as I watch my daughter through a glass doorway, as she tendues and plies, I wonder, is it for her or for me? Have you ever wondered anything like it, and about what?

Day 71: In Hot Water

My morning shower has become something of a joke these days. Seriously.

First off, our shower is pretty small. Not miniscule, but small. In fact, small enough that my husband once broke the wall with his butt when he leaned over. I laughed hard enough over it that it was almost worth the $1,000 repair job. (I kid you not.) This cozy little shower also has two temperatures: Glacial Waterfall and Volcanic Rain. It is either cold, or it is scalding hot. I personally go for scalding--to the point that my skin turns a lovely and most becoming shade of fuschia. The only exception to these two temperatures is an odd phenomenon known as Lukewarm that shows up on occassion. No idea why.

So, now you can envision this shower, right? You can see the narrow walls with slightly different colored grout. You can picture the showerhead spewing forth hot, steaming water. Well. Add to that picture me and all my childrens. Because why is it that I can plunk my kids down in front of "Martha Speaks" and leave them totally engrossed, but right as I'm going to lather my head with a generic Aveda rip-off shampoo, they come bursting in? Doors thrown open wide, socks flying off, insistently calling "SHOWAH! SHOWAH!" At which point the glass door is flung open and little clothed bodies try to wiggle their way in while my dripping wet arms, with the hot water cascading down them and on to the floor, try to disrobe my children in less time than it takes them to take two steps.

Imagine, too, that I discover that the Boy has a poopy diaper. Do I go and search the house, dripping wet, looking for wipes? Do I make do with toilet paper? Do I step out of the shower and just hose off his backside and wait until the coast is clear to get in again? Hm. You probably don't want to know which of those I choose most often.

Finally, all ready, we now have me and the Girl and the Boy in the shower. But wait! There's more! Because the Boy came in wearing a plastic construction hat and carrying a soccer ball and the Girl has brought along her umbrella, which she insists needs to be opened to keep the shampoo that I'm trying to rinse out of my hair, out of her eyes.

I am now furiously washing my face, determined to extricate myself from this brawl as speedily as possible. The Boy has plunked his pudgy bum down on the drain, so the water is now up to my ankles. The Girl is pretending to be a doggy and crawling in circles around my feet. Neither want their hair washed. I grab my razor to shave my armpits, and the kids spy a new toy. There is no compromise on this one: the answer is no, it has always been no, and they will always ask anyway.

As soon as I step out and wrap myself in my towel: they want the water off, they want towels, they want to be carried so that they don't slip on the floor that is wet from me getting them undressed. (Remember?)

Sometimes I daydream of a big, huge, ginormous shower with perfectly heated water... all to myself.

Day 66: Just a fact.

Can I get personal here for just a second?

Today is one of those days when I don't know how I'm going to make it through the next 6 hours, minus 4 minutes, until The Spouse comes home. Because here's a fact about being a stay-at-home mom: it can be gosh-awful lonely. Sometimes it feels like you don't have a single friend on the planet. (And really, there are days when it doesn't just *feel* like it, but it's actually true.) The worst is trying to call all the other stay at home moms, only to find that none of them are home. Now, while I'd like to believe that they're all sitting on their kitchen counters in their pajamas and just don't feel like answering the phone, I tend to believe that they're either all at some fun playdate to which I *wasn't* invited or, more likely, they're all at Costco with their shiny Costco memberships.

So, whilst all the other stay at home mothers are sampling the latest mini-pizza delicacies and maneuvering those massive carts down aisles of Boca Burgers and crates of Vitamin Water, I'm here at home trying to think of a single reason to exercise, get in the shower, put on makeup, or turn off PBS Kids. (I already turned it off once this morning, and such catfighting brawls occured after only 15 minutes that I decided it wasn't worth it.)

And now you know why I never post during the day.

Day 64: Sick.

*sniff* I'b sick. It's just a cold. But it's the kind of cold that bakes your ears feel all scratchy and your head seebs to weigh a little bore than usual. In other words: the kind of cold that should require insurance to pay for a nanny, a baid, and a cook for 48 hours so you can get some rest. (Hbbbb... I bight be on to something there. I'll put it on by agenda for by first terb as a senator...) Okay. Enough of the phonetic spelling.


This cold reminds me, by the way, that I have the immune system of... um... what has a really bad immune system? A mushroom, maybe? (And why, oh why, aren't there more medications out there approved for nursing mother's???? Because I can find, oh... none.) The Spouse pointed out tonight that Thing 1 seemed to have gotten his immune system, and Thing 2 got mine. I wondered how he had come to this conclusion. Could it be the constant flow of snot down my son's face? Could it be the fact that he always seems to be sick with something? (At least *just* sick enough that he probably shouldn't go to nursery on Sunday.) But, then again, Thing 1 is "sensitive" to tylenol and likes to spike fevers of 105. So it's probably good she doesn't get sick that often.


Some friends asked me the other day why my kids immune systems are so good. (Because, apparently, they are.) I replied, "You gotta let 'em suck on the shopping cart handles at Walmart. That'll do it." They laughed nervously and looked slightly dismayed. Maybe it's because I'll be watching their kids tomorrow.


And that makes me think of shopping carts, which makes me think of Target, and I wonder if maybe it was because of this cold that I bought that attrociously poo-colored sofa cover tonight. I mean, it must've been something. Surely, in my normal state, I wouldn't have come home with a sofa cover the color of "It looks like somebody missed." (One of my favorite quotes from my dad, by the way.) So, back it must go.


Oh well. Another chance for my kids to suck on the cart handles. Perfect.

Day 62: Parenting

I should write a book on parenting. It would be called Parenting By the Seat of Your Pants. Some people buy into methods of parenting: Love and Logic, Dr. Sears, Attachment. My parenting style?? "Please, get me through this day, so help me, amen."

I have, apparently, successfully taught my children the following things:

1) You can't go to church without some raisins or crackers.
2) Christmas lights make great home decor all year long.
3) If you wake up in the night and feel bored, go sleep on the couch and watch a movie.
4) Macaroni and tomato juice with mounds of cheddar cheese = heaven
5) Quesadillas are called "cheese bundles."
6) If you don't want to do something, say "Just a minute."
7) As my daughter informed me today "Cookies aren't treats. Cookies are food. Treats are candy."
8) Exercise helps us not to be "puff." (Sometimes.)
9) When mama says "You're killin' me, Smalls" she doesn't mean *killing you dead*... she means she's rapidly turning into a pumpkin.
10) When mama says "I am going to LOSE it" you should probably dump out a container of something. Maybe whatever she's about to lose, is in there.
11) Counting to three equals something bad. (How do all children know this?? I've never administered a punishment because I've never reached 3. Somehow, they come with the fear of counting to three already programmed on their hard drives.)
12) You need to take a bite of everything on your plate. (Yes, you can close your eyes.)
13) Whining gets you nothing. (Well. They know the phrase "whining gets you nothing". In reality, whining seems to get them quite a lot, in spite of me.)
14) When we are angry, we should apologize. (Maybe after we fling ourselves on our beds and scream for awhile.)
15) We should clear our places from the table. (Although, if you are quite a bit shorter than the counter and you end up dumping your food off the plate, down your front, and on to the floor, mama might wish that she'd cleared it instead.)

Parenting wisdom at it's finest... What have you taught YOUR kids???

Day 58: Home Again, Home Again

Let's talk about the state of my life today.

We had a three day weekend that ended yesterday, with Martin Luther King Day. Until we woke up this morning to snow. The spouse is still in Africa, another day off of school, and the board was set for the game. Among other things, my day contained:

*The making of first snow angels and a first snowman.
*Much begged for hot chocolate, that no one would drink.
*Watching, and getting teary-eyed, at every second leading up to and including the inauguration.
*A four year old who locked herself into her bedroom in defiance.
*A 29 year old who had a two year old that needed a diaper change, and said diapers were behind said locked door.
*A door that no longer has a doorknob.
*A two year old that jumped into a tub full of cold water, provided by the four year old, while I was nursing.
*Wondering if your four year old is going to start using the phrase "I am going to LOSE it." in front of her teachers.
*A trip to the local Wal-o-rama to buy stuff to make 9 quiches.
*Watching the Neighborhood Inaugural Ball and thinking two things: 1) Is Beyonce's dress just really pointy, or are those...um...?? 2) Maybe President and First Lady Obama, who had a wonderful and sweet "first dance" as the "first couple" should try out for Dancing With the Stars. That deacon shuffle was a bit painful.
*Making those 9 quiches, which eventually rendered my kitchen a perfect replica of an exploded quiche.

I really hope it doesn't snow tonight...

Day 53: Bon Voyage

The Spouse is at the end of our bed, packing. I can hear rustlings of things as he folds, arranges, and re-arranges. Clothing (summer-type), gifts for his parents (candy-type), and other travel essentials. He's weighed the suitcase a few times already. Tomorrow night at this time, he'll be halfway across the Atlantic. This means a few things for the coming days:

1. I might get some really good blog entries written because I'll have nothing.else.to.do at night.
2. I might get no blog entries written because I'll be curled up in a ball on the couch watching various versions of Pride and Prejudice on repeat.
3. My kids will be eating a LOT of pizza.
4. I will not.
5. Something around our house is bound to breakdown, get sick, or blow up.

So, please, hands and feet inside the ride at all times. (Can't say I didn't warn you.)

Day 50: Excuses, excuses...

Woohoo!!! 50 entries! This feels so significant. Only 314 to go. *pale*

I didn't write yesterday. Here's why:

Do you ever envision that your weekends are going to be totally different than the reality ever turns out to be? I was so hoping for a relaxing, laid-back weekend. In my imagination, I would slip into my darling "date" ensemble and Dave and I go on our Friday night date, to our favorite restaurant, holding hands and already missing each other in anticipation of his impending departure. Saturday morning, we'd wear matching robes and make banana pancakes in our sparkling kitchen, and then go to the park with the children. There, we would run gleefully down the grass, holding pudgy hands, and laughing like we were in a laundry detergent commercial. After the kids drifted happily off to sleep, we'd talk and relax in the house that was still clean from a week ago. I'd head into this week, and into his 9 days away, feeling ready to go. Is this too much to ask???

Apparently. Because, instead, I want to fall over where I stand. I'm on the South Beach diet, which completely killed our Friday night date because we couldn't go anywhere fun, because I can't eat anything good!! Saturday morning I made banana pancakes that no one wanted to eat until I threatened them with tears. I bolted out the door to a church meeting, leaving Dave to command the troops, and--by the time I got home and he got home from going shoe shopping with said troops, he just wanted the afternoon off. Our kids were happily bent on destroying anything and everything in sight, all in the name of sibling solidarity. I was almost relieved as I bolted to the car to go watch someone else's children for the evening.

Don't even get me started on today. Let's just say that I ended up at church in a black skirt wearing brown shoes, a nursing bra that suddenly wouldn't unhook when the Wee One started to holler, and legs that haven't been shaved in so long they could belong to a yeti. My kitchen would make SuperNanny shake her head at the camera and whisper, "How are children supposed to learn struc-tuh in a home like this?" That, combined with the incessant pleading for Signing Time viewing was enough to drive my carbohydrate deprived body over the edge and right into the crock pot. I ate a pot roast. Almost all of it.

Somehow, creative writing just didn't make it into the mix.

Day 41: The Darkest Day

Please forgive me for missing New Year's Eve. I was "chaperoning" a dance with the teenagers from my congregation, who all happen to be spectacularly cool. Of course, I was the completely crazy adult dancing like a wild woman whilst they sat against the wall texting each other on their fancy phones. It's a generational thing. They did get up for three songs: Boot Scootin' Boogie, the Cha Cha Slide, and--my favorite--Cotton Eyed Joe. I made it through that last one, but I honestly thought I was going to have a heart attack. Muy pathetico.

Tonight, of course, being New Years Day is the darkest night of the year. Forlorn looking Christmas trees littering the curb like homeless orphans. No more cheery Perry Como or Bing Crosby on the radio. And everyone, in sync, quits plugging in their Christmas lights on their houses. So now everything is black and abysmal out there where, yesterday night, it was a cheery festival of snowmen, flashing icicles, and multi-colored trees. I don't know why it is we feel the need to begin the new year by plunging the world into darkness, but so it is.

This morning, determined not to be sentimental, I took down and put away all of our Christmas decorations. My daughter, upon entering the room and seeing me trying to hoist the Christmas tree out of its stand, took on the air of Cindy Lou-Who and cried "Mama! What you doing??" Me, feeling like The Grinch, explained that it was time for the Christmas tree to go back outside. She pitifully whimpered, "But it was happy in our hoooooooouse." Uuuuuh.... I considered, for a moment, screwing it back into the stand for one more night, but no. Nope. That is a slippery slope if ever a slippery slope there was. So, I explained that everyone everywhere was taking their trees outside and all the trees were going to have a big party together, so we had to get it out so it wouldn't miss the party. That got her in the mood to get it out of the house. I only realized my mistake when she came traipsing out dragging a string of Christmas lights and a big bucket of glass ornaments. To get it "dressed for the party." Uuuuuuuh....

Happy 2009 everyone.