The Beautiful Stuff

I'm not really sure how, but we still have power. (Although I'm sure that now that I've typed it, the lights will flicker and go out). In any case, we're feeling SO incredibly lucky. And while Irene was bending and snapping trees and power lines outside, Ella and Milo seemed intent on doing the same to my nerves, but alas, we have survived. Kids are in bed, glass of wine is in hand and I'm feeling very much DONE with this week. Mother nature can kindly take her storms and tectonic plate-shifting and shove it.

In spite of the storms (both literal and metaphorical), there were some good moments today. Ella and I made "smores sticks." So easy and fun and she loved it. :)





(....and then I wondered what in God's name I was thinking giving chocolate to a house-bound two year old).


Then, after relentlessly begging to sit up in our bay window and watch the rain, I finally gave in to her, all while keeping a watchful eye out for falling branches. She was so fascinated to just sit and watch the storm that I became entranced too.



And of course, Milo had to get in on the action- per her request. I love that she asks me to get him and bring him to her.










While the storm was raging outside, memories were being created inside. Would I have missed out on them had it been any other day? Would I usually just sit and watch the rain? (Um, nope). Unfortunately, sometimes it takes something like a hurricane (or an earthquake) to get us to slow down (or perhaps stop dead in our tracks) and take a good look at the beautiful stuff. Needless to say, I'm feeling very grateful- especially at the end of this particular week.

"Irene"

Gotta love Richmond. We're all- "holy crap-- go out and buy up all the bread, water, toilet paper and chocolate chip cookie dough because Jesus is coming!!!" every. single. time. mother nature decides to send us a storm. Granted, the last time a hurricane got this close to us, it caused some pretty significant damage, so I'm not saying a little bit of concern isn't warranted (and certainly, those in the Carolinas have good reason to be prepared). But since Irene is a "Category 2" storm, and more than likely staying far enough east of us to put us solidly in the orange "tropical storm warning" area, I see no need to prepare for the apocalypse just yet. Matter of fact, I'm beginning to think I'm the only one who's not freaking out about Irene. (I mean seriously, how can you be scared of something named "Irene?" It's like being afraid of your great-grandmother). Now, if someone were to change her name to, oh I don't know- "Hurricane Bad-Ass" or "Hades" I might be more enticed to go out and buy three dozen jumbo packages of bottled water, ply-board and lots of batteries.

Instead, here is my hurricane "emergency" kit:

Playdough
Crayons, coloring books, paints
Yo Gabba Gabba and Baby Einstein DVD's
Books
Dark Chocolate
Popcorn
Ingredients for crockpot Vegetarian Tortilla soup
Craft and scrapbooking materials
Wine
Corkscrew (duh)
Earplugs
Tylenol, Motrin
Scented candles
Yoga Pants


I realize I could eat my words. But I'm hoping and praying that I don't, and that for once, the forecasters are right. If that's the case- call me weird- but I'm kinda looking forward to a rainy weekend. Stay safe (and sane!) everyone. <3

Sometimes Love Hurts

Milo is loving life right now (well, except for yesterday- but that's another post). If I were to list his current "hobbies," they would include: pinching (he's perfecting that pincer grip and especially enjoys using it on the tender, meaty parts of the backs of my arms), pterodactyl-like screeching, drooling, gnawing, the tummy twist-and-shimmy (a Milo original) and army-crawling whilst attempting to pull random, inanimate objects off of table tops and dressers by their cords. (He's gonna be the popular one at the playground, no?)

I'm also starting to believe that he's enjoying kicking my @$$. I'm not just referring to his 3 hour schedule during the day or the fact that he's been waking up a few times a night for the past 2 weeks due to teething (he finally popped his bottom two teeth a few days ago! Yay? Maybe?) The sleep deprivation kicks my butt too, but in a different way. As I just alluded, we've recently entered what I like to call the "happy-slapping" phase. It's cute, and I'll take it because I know all too well that this eventually segues into the "Eff-off, Mom, I Can Do It MYSELF" terrible two's slapping phase. But while I can tolerate the quasi-coordinated flailing of limbs, I gotta say- kid can pack some punch! At a healthy 20 pounds (and some change) at 6 1/2 months, I guess that's to be expected. I'm still nursing him several times a day and although I love bonding with my baby boy, I gotta admit I'm looking a little rough around the edges: I have bruises on my triceps and my forearms, scratches under my nose and on my cheeks and claw marks across my chest. On several occasions, I've had tufts of hair pulled out by the roots. Then the other day, I learned- in the most painful way- that I can no longer wear my dangly earrings (I'm not even sure what I was thinking by wearing them to begin with). I'm also pretty sure that "the girls" will never forgive me for continually subjecting them to "the piranha." Matter of fact, Jake may not forgive me for subjecting them to him either. It's never usually a good sign when your husband walks in while you're undressing and asks (in reference to your parts), "is that, um, normal?" (What- the fact that they're hanging down to my belly-button and are the color of heirloom tomatoes? What's not normal about that??)

Alas, I know this is a season- a relatively short one, at that. So what if he causes me to wince every now and then? When it comes down to it, I guess love just plain hurts sometimes. :) (I think I'd take the physical pain over the other kind ANY day). My boy is loving me the only way he knows how. In the meantime, I'm going to try to figure out how to wear some protective gear during our nursing sessions that won't end up sending him into therapy 15 years from now....

"Enough"

I'm a list-maker. I write lists of lists. A few times, I've even written down on my "to-do" list to remember to make a list of the things I need to list for the store. Yeah. Exactly. Hi, my name is Kristin and I'm anal.

Moving on though- I love being able to check off boxes as I go. There's a pretty nifty but simple app I use on my iPhone called TeuxDeux- LOVE it. (Another confession: I like to put things on my list that I've already done, just so I can have the gratification of crossing it off as soon as I jot it down. Some might call that cheating. I call it incentive).

But here's the problem with living by the list: I became so quick to label my day "good" or "bad" depending on how much of my to-do list got accomplished. I used to have it in my head that every. single. thing. needed to be crossed off of that list and if not, I bought into the notion that I had somehow failed. After Ella was born, I quickly realized I needed to re-visit that idea, otherwise I was looking at many days of "fails" by my ultra-unrealistic standards. Then, Milo was born and I re-defined my expectations yet again. Oh, I still write things down, but it's different now. Instead of lists, it's more, "don't forget the milk." Or, "you walked into this room to get your coffee" or "don't forget to shave."

So I've been operating under a new mantra lately and that is, "Let today be enough." I've even started writing it down on the top of all of my lists because I need to read it and be reminded that today, this precise moment, truly is enough. If it's not, then I'm simply trying to do too much. It doesn't make me happy to admit this, but my greed often extends further beyond just my resources. It encompasses my expectations of myself- and others- always wanting more time, more opportunities, more efficiency. But when I lay my exhausted head down on my pillow each night, I realize that my greedy standards haven't served any greater purpose than to wear me out or make me feel guilty because I'm not, in fact, super-mom/super-wife. And it's quite likely that I've missed out on more important things because I've had such tunnel-vision.

If I'm guided by the premise that I've always been given enough- because I truly have, in every imaginable circumstance- then I can trust that "today is enough" and that tomorrow will be enough as well. I will somehow be given the grace, the time, the patience {exhausted sigh accompanying that one}, the breathing space, the cuddles, the sense of humor {Lord PLEASE}, the caffeine....and on and on- to arrive at the end of the day thankful, instead of dissatisfied.

"It's a Bird, It's a Plane, It's...an Earthquake?"

So....there was an earthquake today. If this is news to you, it's quite likely that you can't see, hear or read. Or maybe 30 second periods of seismic shaking in your house is a regular occurrence (and I will refrain from going any further with that one). When it happened, I was just about to check out at Old Navy. It's funny to me that I have a tendency to jump to the worst conclusion in every other mundane circumstance, except the ones that aren't so mundane. (You know, like an earthquake). Instead, I stood there thinking up every other possible (but somewhat illogical) scenario for why I couldn't keep my balance. The following progression happened in about 8 seconds:

First:

"Dang, they've got some serious AC/ventilation system issues up in this place" (Plausible).

Then...

"Are we close to a railroad track?"

Then...

"Damn, this is one doozy of a panic attack...wait, why is everyone else reaching for their Xaanax too?"

Then...

"I bet it's a jet taking off. That's what it is."


Then...

"Nope, it's a helicopter. Definitely a helicopter. Some poor person is being medi-vacced from the roof of this Old Navy building."

Then....

"OMG it's the rapture. I must be getting ready to leave this earthly vessel behind!" (But can I take the suede ankle boots with me?)

Then...

Oh. Okay, it's an earthquake. Maybe I shouldn't be inside the building under these big box-things, hanging lights, and shelves. Off I go.


I looked around to see how everyone else was reacting. Some people were running to their cars. Some were huddled close together in doorways.

Others were so shaken up, they just stood there, frozen:




I rushed home to my babies- who were staying with Grammy- to find that they were both still sound asleep. Really?! I couldn't hope to sleep that good with a glass of wine and some Ambien. Then I came home to our house and couldn't believe what I saw in the kitchen...




That was it. The only sign in my house that an earthquake had actually occurred.


I make light of it, but in all seriousness, it could have been worse and I'm grateful there's been only minimal damage and no casualties. (And after this, I simply cannot imagine what the people in Haiti felt a couple of years ago). So, an eventful afternoon- to say the least- and another thing to add to the list of "Things I Would Rather Not Encounter, Ever Ever Again."

A Confession {Of Sorts}

Some days just begin with a short fuse, unfortunately. Today is one of them. I attribute it mostly to the usual fatigue, plus a teething and irritable baby, another meltdown (brought to me by the terrible-twos), and a growing to-do list of chores I can't ever seem to make a dent in. I had just put Milo down for his morning nap and went to switch on the monitor in our living room but turned it to the wrong channel. I immediately heard wailing and gnashing of teeth, and a pi$$ed mom who was yelling, "GET UP!! Go sit on the potty NOW!!...{rumble-rumble, static, mutter, heavy-sigh, possibly a four-letter word}. "I am SO tired of...{static, more wailing}..I said GET UP!!!!"

And I smiled for the first time all morning.

Because a few doors down, some poor mom had also apparently hit her breaking point by 9:33 a.m. I could just hear the fatigue in her voice. She, too, was cleaning up poop, pee, spit-up, dishes, and crusted macaroni & cheese on booster seats from the night before, when all she probably wanted to do was sit her @$$ down somewhere and have a bloody mary. (It's Sunday, for cryin' out loud).

Oh, Angel-Care monitor. You were so worth the money. Not only can I put my baby down to sleep with a certain peace of mind, but I can also eavesdrop on other houses in my neighborhood, you know, when I start to think that we're the only ones just trying to survive until naptime.

URGENT

There are no words to adequately describe the desperation I feel for this little girl. She is dying, and she needs redemption. Read about Lilliana's Ransom. here. This blog is a friend of a friends, and after reading this story, I felt like the very least I could do was re-post on my blog.

What would happen if we truly let our hearts break? If we just didn't turn a blind eye- because we just couldn't live with ourselves if we did? This is happening. Right now. No more pretending...

Rules of Sleeping In {According to a 2 Year Old}

1. There is no sleeping in.

2. If it's light outside, it's time to get up. {Were you not aware that we live on a farm? Fresh eggs anyone??}.

3. If Mommy and Daddy stayed up late last night, I will wake up at least an hour earlier the next morning.

4. If Mommy and Daddy had that special red drink they never let me try, I will wake up at least TWO hours earlier the next day.

5. When Mommy gets up to feed Milo, I figure she might as well stay up, so I'll stand at the gate to my room and start throwing toys and wooden food down the stairs.

6. I will sing Yo Gabba Gabba songs at the top of my lungs if the toys and wooden food elicit no response.

7. I will stand .25 inches away from Mommy's face, all while poking her in the ear, nose and eye and asking for waffles. Especially on mornings when Daddy lets her sleep in.

8. I'm most curious between the hours of 6 and 8 a.m. and this is when I ask Mommy all of my good questions (I try to get them in before her first cup of coffee) . "Does Brobee have ears? Can I have some strawbehwwies? What's that name? Mommy, you change your shirt? What's in dat ceweal bar? Is dat Curious George's Daddy? Where's P-pop? Are those cars sleeping too?"


Check back soon for the "Rules of Sleeping In {According to a 6 Month Old}" post...

"I Do It By Myself."

My daughter is a lot of things, but timid, she is not. I am continually amazed at her sense of adventure and her "take no prisoner's" attitude, but find myself watching her take on new challenges with baited breath. (For the record, we've only had one trip to the ER and ironically enough, it was because she tripped over her own two feet and became fast friends with the corner of our shoe-mold).

So, to my Ella-"Go-Getter"-Bug: May you always have enough confidence to climb the highest jungle gym on the playground (with kids four times your age), enough humility to know when to ask for help, and enough determination to get back up when you fall off said jungle gym. In turn, I promise I'll always be there to cheer you on, and remember to let you be a kid. (And of course, be on standby with lots of hugs and Dora band-aids, just in case).

Seriously though- there's nothing you can't do. <3

"These Are a Few of My Favorite Things.."

In honor of my little boy's half-birthday, a few things that are simply and utterly "Milo."

1. The grin. It's like he can't get his mouth wide enough and his eyes become little slits. This was the first grin I ever caught on camera- when he was not quite 6 weeks old:

And just last week...

2. The cheeks. (I adore both sets of them, but in the interest of sparing some of his future embarrassment, I'll be nice). Nom nom nom.

3. He's been such a good sport when it comes to tolerating his big sister. {She loves her Mi-yo}.

This will lovingly be dubbed, the "Desitin incident."

4. I've always had a thing for blue eyes (obviously). :) And I adore his. {Please don't change}!

5. I also love that he's 100% a Momma's boy. Sorry ladies, he's in a long-term, committed relationship. Fully attached (I'm sure you can wager a bet on what). But for the past few months, he's become increasingly affectionate. He grabs my cheeks with his hands and pulls me to his face, mouth open, drool abundant, and plants his smackers on my chin/nose/cheeks/eyes- basically whatever is available. It literally gives new meaning to the phrase "suck face." My son has this down pat (perhaps this should be a point of concern in oh, another 15 years?)

Like so:

6. And finally, this.


Happy 6 months to my lovable, squeezable, happy "Mi-yo Bean." <3

Just "Stuff?"

I may be many things, but a hoarder, I am not. I can't STAND clutter. (Smeone should have warned me about having two kids 20 months apart. Wait, that's right- they did). It looks like a Fisher Price bomb went off in my living room at any given time of day. Since we just recently moved, I've been in a very special frame of mind, trying to find homes for things on shelves, packing away storage bins, breaking down boxes, cursing under my breath and generally finding myself quite shocked at the amount of "stuff" we've accrued over the last five years.

I had always thought myself to be a realist when it came to deciding whether or not to save or "chuck" something. It was usually the latter of the two. "Out with the old, in with the new" was my motto. Obviously, pictures and family heirlooms are a different story altogether, but my general rule of thumb was that if I hadn't worn/used/looked at something in over 6 months, it was gone. Someone else could benefit from it. I would even go so far to say that I could stand to be a little more sensitive in this area. When Jake recently asked me if I was going to keep my wedding dress, I nonchalantly replied- "Nah. It's just taking up space." (Shallow alert: if it was a true designer gown, that would not have been my reply). ;)

In truth, I just never grew that attached to stuff.

{Says the woman who sat on the floor of the living room today, sniffling and crying as I went through bin after bin of Ella's baby clothes}. I'm going to preface this by saying that I'm pretty darn sure that mother nature is days away from giving me her first gift in over 15 months (I know you wanted to know this, right?). The point being, my hormones are on overdrive at the moment and I have found myself crying at odd and random times throughout the last week. But in my quest to tackle the post-move clutter from my house, I made a few appointments with several children's consignment stores around town and am scheduled to drop off the first few bins tomorrow morning. Originally, it was just another task on the to-do list. But when I sat down and started sifting through the itty-bitty onesies and outfits, I was flooded with memories of my little baby Bug and oh, the tears started coming. Her hospital hat, the itty bitty bikini she wore our first summer at the beach, some of my favorite outfits that I realized I had completely forgotten about, her first halloween costume, the outfit she wore when we visited Santa, the cute (albeit pointless) shoes that I couldn't resist buying for her- all tucked away so many months ago when I had said "just in case we have another girl." When we found out Milo was Milo, I couldn't have been happier even though a part of me knew I would never have as much fun dressing him as I did her. (And I was right).

Although I'm quite sure that we are done (or, done enough for me to say that I'm selling her clothes to consignment), something in me aches. Much the way it did the first time she said, "Go, Mommy. I do it myself." Much, I'm sure, the way it will on her first day of preschool. And oh GOD, her first day of Kindergarten- and every grade after, as I realize that my baby is getting older, and ironically, my memory is getting weaker. Even now, I try to conjure up images of her when the newborn sleepers were hanging off of her tiny arms and legs. Some memories are as clear as if they happened yesterday. But many have gotten swept up in the chaos of life, packed away like the little rompers and dresses I forgot we even had.

The practical side of me knows we don't have the space. But now, Kristin "the mommy" confronts the Kristin of 10 years ago- the carefree, untethered one who swore she would never be convinced to hang on to just "stuff." She said a lot of things though, before she had kids...

"Do-Over" (and over and over and over)

I've often made mention of Ella's obsession with Yo Gabba Gabba. Because of that, I frequently walk around the house/grocery store/Target singing their very crack-infused but catchy songs. One of Ella's favorite's is "keep trying, keep trying, don't give up, never give up. . ." She'll sing it to herself sometimes, when she's trying to fix a toy or buckle herself into her carseat. I'll hear her saying in her sing-songy lilt, "keep trying Ewwa, keep trying, don't give up. . ." A-freakin-dorable.

I had a doctor's appointment this morning to get some bloodwork done. I've been suspecting that I'm anemic due to the fact that I've made several dietary adjustments as of late. That, and I'm bruising like an over-fondled bag of apples, not to mention I'm seriously fatigued (you know, more than just your average mom of two). So I walked in to my appointment today when a) I'm already exhausted, lightheaded, and slightly nauseated b) I'm incredibly hormonal (that gets it's own letter) and c). I hate the doctor's office. I seriously can't stress that enough. Every time I go, I have to find my Zen place, do deep breathing and sing silly songs in my head (how's that for quirky?). Ever since I developed my anxiety disorder, doctor's offices have unfortunately served as a reminder of the dark place I lived in for the period of 3 years after Jake and I were married. Even now when I'm clearly stronger, better and more confidant, it still requires a ton of mental and emotional energy for me to go to appointments, and multiply that times fifty when I have to get bloodwork done. Before I can stop myself, I've already fast forwarded the horror movie in my head to the last scene when I'm passed out on the floor because I got woozy, or worse, I've thrown up my breakfast/lunch/iced grande half-caf two pump classic Americano from Starbucks.

The demons of emetophobia still beckon from time to time. Most days, I find that I have both the mental and emotional capacity to beat them back. Some days I can even knock them into next week (whatever that means). But today, I let them get the best of me and told myself that I simply didn't have it in me to sit in a lab with a needle stuck in my arm. So I excused myself quietly from the waiting room, gave the receptionist a lame excuse (read: big white lie) and left. Luckily, she penciled me in for a later time today. I came home, flopped down on the couch with some lunch and every intention of taking a nap (for real, this time) and switched on the TV. Of course, it's always tuned to Nick Jr and when it came on, I immediately recognized Plex, Brobee and the others and wouldn't you know, they're singing "keep trying, keep trying, you'll get it right, you'll get it right."

I know it's crazy that I'm about to wax philosophical off of something akin to a 22 minute acid trip, but the show has some merit in the lessons it teaches. (Seriously people, don't bite your friends. It won't end well). Ella and Milo will both inevitably have their share of missed opportunities and set-backs as they grow up. That's just life. But in this household, those situations will only be deemed failures if nothing is learned from them. Lucky for them, they have a momma who is well-acquainted with having to try, try again- for things that many people wouldn't even give a second thought to. A couple of things I intend to pass on to them:

-It's okay to get beat down, but staying down is simply not an option.
-Showing up is half the battle.
-Victories are victories, no matter how seemingly small and insignificant they might be to someone else.
-When you're offered a second (third, fourth, one hundred fifty-fifth) chance, you take it and say "thank you."


Now- lucky for me- I get to put all of these into practice again today at 4 pm. (I'll be that annoying person sitting in the lab singing the Yo Gabba Gabba songs under my breath). :)

Inappropriate Lyrics

I truly thought I was pretty well versed in nursery rhymes and kiddie songs by this point. I mean, I literally fall asleep and wake up to lyrics of songs like, "Don't Bite Your Friends" and "The Poop Goes in the Potty". Somehow, I think they lack staying power (except in the darkest recesses of my brain, where I desperately want to tune them out). Catchy? Yes (unfortunately). True classics? Hell, no. Thankfully, when I was little, it was "You Are My Sunshine" and "Baa Baa Black Sheep." My mom and dad used to sing "You Are My Sunshine" to me just about every night while I was in the bathtub or right before bed. That was our song so it's always held a special place in my heart. Consequently, the first piece of artwork I bought for Milo's nursery in our new house was this:

I plan to buy the second part to that song and hang it at another spot in his room...

Such a simple, sweet little song. Melodically stable. Non-abrasive, calming and soothing. The perfect lullabye, really. So I thought that maybe I'd take it one step further and find prints for the rest of the lyrics, interspersing them throughout the room as a mini-theme for his nursery. But unbeknownst to me, there's a second (and third) verse to this old standby and after reading it, I realized perhaps there's a reason I never knew about it:

"The other nite, dear,
As I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms.
When I awoke, dear,
I was mistaken
So I hung my head and cried."

{Debbie Downer trombone sound effect here}

Yeah, that would make a great print to hang over his crib. On second thought, maybe a wall hanging of lyrics to "Poop Goes in the Potty" isn't so bad after all.