"What's That Smell??"

There are few things I find more disgusting than, say, pulling a sippy cup of old milk out from it's week-long hiatus under our sofa. But lucky me.... today's treat was a pile of dried puke in the corner of Milo's room (and it clearly wasn't from Milo). This is definitely another first. I guess I never thought I would just happen to stumble upon something like this, in part, because I'm usually pretty tuned in to Ella when she says her stomach hurts. Honestly, I figured if she did get sick, (if it wasn't all over me), then she would probably tell me or show me, or somehow I would just know.

Rewind to a few nights ago though and it makes sense: I brought Milo in to his room to feed him and put him down and told Jake that I smelled throw up. He came in the room, sniffed, looked at me and said, "you and that NOSE." Shook his head and left the room. I said, "it's called mom nose and it's quite accurate, thank you very much." I can tell the difference between teething poops, regular poops and dairy allergy poops, smell spit up from across the room, differentiate between a carrot and sweet potato stain on a shirt just by sniffing it, and of all things-- I know vomit when I smell it. Everyone does. It probably takes all of us back to our days in elementary school when some poor kid didn't make it to the bathroom and then the janitor whipped out that horrid orange stuff. Ugh.

So now, I'm stifling the urge to say, "I told you so!"- only slightly stronger than my urge to gag and run for the Lysol. She must have gotten sick while she was playing, then just moved on to something else. I never heard a word from her about it. She has told me that her tummy hurt over the last few days, but she also tells me this often at bedtime as a stall tactic, and has otherwise seemed fine. So for now, I'm just grateful I didn't have to fight going into my "stomach bug OC" mode because well, I didn't know about it. On another level, it's in some way reassuring to me to know that it wasn't even a big enough deal for her to say anything to me, even though I hate that she was sick and I didn't know.

So, lesson learned from my two year old (and one that I'm unfortunately dropping some bones to have to re-learn myself): Life is too fun to let a little puke ruin it.

Slow and Steady

There's no other way to say it: some days, it's still hard for me to accept that anxiety is a regular part of my life. It's not who I am, but it sure does feel that way. On the one hand, I know I'm making progress because I probably wouldn't have setbacks (at least, what I perceive them to be). Ironic as it might sound, I know that If I'm feeling uncomfortable/nervous/anxious, it's usually because I'm doing something to push the envelope and that brings a bit of perspective. On the other hand, it's been five years. FIVE. On my own self imposed time-line of recovery, I was supposed to be sky-diving by now. Maybe running marathons. Getting a degree in clinical psychology so that I can help people through this very same process. (See the problem?)

I never thought of myself as a competitive person. I think I assumed this because I never played a lot of sports and I always associated being competitive with something like running up and down the field with a hockey stick, or maybe getting so pissed in a tennis match that I break the racket over me knee. Turns out, I am pretty competitive- it's just not super-obvious. I don't want to do something unless I know it's going to be the best at it (competitive meets perfectionism). I don't want to do something if I think I'm going to fail miserably (competitive meets passive-aggressive perfectionism. Oy). And I especially love to prove people wrong- defy the odds. If you want to motivate me, just tell me I can't do it.

The irony of this anxiety though, is that I'm not out to prove anyone wrong but myself. Not a single person in my life in the past five years (or ever, actually) has said to me, "Kristin- you're in way too deep and there's no way you'll be able to do ____ again. Might as well throw in the towel."

The only person saying those things to me is me.

So, a couple of truths for today, in case anyone else can identify....


Truth #1: I would feel a lot better about myself on those particularly anxious days if I talked to myself the way that all the people I love in my life talked to me.

Truth #2: There is no deadline to recovery. Slow and steady wins this race.

Day 4- Oh, the Packing {Chill the Eff Out Series}

One more day until we leave for the beach. "Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow...you're only a day aWAYYYYY." {Okay, moving on}.

Every year, I make a list of the things we need for the beach. (Note that my definition of "need" and my husband's definition vary slightly. Last year, he said, "what do we need a portable DVD player for? She'll be fine." Let's just say that this year, the portable DVD player was one of the FIRST things I secured for our 6 hour car ride). But that list has more than doubled over the last 3 years. And every year, I vow not to overpack. I scale down the list. I take only what's necessary. (Sort of. Because, it always turns out that I DO need 4 pairs of shoes, and I will not waver on that). And every year, I stand back and look at my car, and it always looks more like we're going to some kind of Fisher Price toy expo than the beach.

So I've spent all day today sorting laundry, packing, and meticulously planning outfits (rather than my usual tactic of throwing random things into the bags and saying, "I'll figure it out when we get there)." I'm actually quite proud of myself, regardless of the fact that it took half the day. And of course, I got a little bitter because Jake came in the door tonight, threw some boxers, T-shirts, pants, shorts, flip-flops and deoderant in his half of the suitcase in 5 minutes flat and said, "well, I'm all packed."

Hmph.

But it's all good. Even if it turns out that my sanity is packed up somewhere in the back of my car with the eleven other bags, I'm fairly confidant it will be restored around this time tomorrow evening when I'm finally able to breathe in some fresh, salt-water air. :)

Day 3 {Chill the Eff Out Series}

You know those days when you sit on the floor with your kids while they play, and everyone has woken up from their naps in a sunny disposition, dinner is already in the crockpot and you just smile and say, "ahhhh..."

Today isn't one of those days. Matter of fact, today is the complete antithesis of that day. So here, I give you, "My Life Is So Horrible and My Mommy Doesn't Love Me," by Ella and Milo.




If you don't laugh, you cry. So I'm choosing to laugh.

(...all the way to the wine cabinet.)


Happy Friday Eve everyone! :)

Day 2 {Chill the Eff Out Series}

When I was about 3, I decided to scribble a silver crayon all over the back of my parents dark orange corduroy couch. I was doing it a favor, I SWEAR.

Consequently, that was one of the first spankings I ever remember getting...

And now, 26-ish years later, I have a an artistic and extremely expressive little girl of my own who loves to prove to me, time and time again, that what goes around comes around. Thanks Ella!! *thumbs up*





That would be the back of her door in her room.

It's going to stay that way for a while too. On that note, I would like to claim false advertising because those crayons are, in fact, NOT washable. (At least, not as it pertains to soap and water). So, I guess until the door gets a fresh coat of paint, I'm just going to- wait for it- chill the eff out. ;-)

Day 1 {"Chill the Eff Out Series"}

I'm throwing in the towel.

I've been letting far too many little things get to me. I suppose that everyone's definition of "little" is different, but for me, it truly is the "little" things that drive me batty. ISFJ's like myself love to have control- all the time, over everything. (A coincidence that I've dealt with anxiety for a large majority of my life? I think not). Anyhoo, there's nothing like having kids to make you realize once and for all that control, really and truly, is nothing but an illusion. Yay! .....???

In terms of priorities, the question no longer is, "what should I do first?" (assuming I would actually be able to knock out my entire to-do list in one day. HAH). Instead, it's become, "what is the worst possible consequence if ____ doesn't get done?" All this week, I will be posting pictures of things that I've decided to chill the eff out about, for the sake of my family and my own sanity. No facades. No sugar-coating. No bitching. (Okay, maybe just a little griping, but under my breath). Some of the things that get under my skin will probably be hilarious to some, but hopefully relatable to others. We all have our vices, right?

{deep breath} Here goes.



I give you....my kitchen sink (dun-dun-DUUNNNN).




I almost always clean as I go, after breakfast, after snacks, after lunch. Can't STAND to have messes or clutter. But I've decided I don't technically need to clean them all up right away. I can wait until naptime (but not a second longer, daggone it. Hey, progress is progress). Maybe eventually I'll work up to letting them go...*gasp*....ALL DAY before I wash them. ;)

Exhale

I like to talk out both sides of my mouth sometimes. Not super proud of that. For example, I talk about how I wish that the kids would sleep in and give me that much more time to center myself for the day. And then on the rare occasion that they both sleep in (it should be noted that "sleeping in" means 7:45 a.m.), I can't leave well enough alone and find myself worrying that maybe something is wrong. So instead of sitting back with that second cup of coffee, I risk forfeiting my alone time in the morning to creak open their doors and watch their little bellies go in and out.

Ironically enough, simply watching them sleep centers me in a way that few other things can. There's something so soothing about watching a slumbering babe- completely unaware of world events, politics, terrorist threats, deadlines, mounting to-do lists. Watching them sleep reminds me that I, too, came into this world with an innate sense of being in the moment. I slept when I needed rest. I ate when I was hungry. I played with abandon. Whatever it was I was doing at the time almost always got 100% of my focus. The concept (burden) of multi-tasking was not yet dictating the structure of my entire day.

Do more. Be more. Not enough. Finish this. Start this. Don't forget. Email, text, call, log on, connect and whatever you do, don't drop the spinning plates you're balancing all day, every day. Round and round and round...

Then, the inevitable crash and burn.


Thank you, my sweet boy, for reminding me that sometimes it's enough to just breathe in and out.

Milo Takes Flight

"It was bound to happen sooner or later, I suppose."

I've heard this phrase a good many times since the kids were born. Maybe it's just me, but I almost always have high expectations that either saying or hearing it will make me feel better, and I'm always sorely disappointed.

And hey, speaking of "sore,"... Milo got up close and personal with our stairs two days ago. Every single one of them, to be exact, all the way down to our hardwood floor. Try as I might, I cannot get that sickening thud out of my head or the sound of Jake yelling and the terrifying scream (although I think it was actually mine and not Milo's). He seemed okay, sans the hysterical crying and a growing goose egg on his forehead, but we became pretty concerned when he started throwing up and then proceeded to get sick four more times before I hurried him and Jake out the door to the E.R. I sat on the couch with Ella and cried. God love her. She rubbed my back and said, "It's okay mama. Milo fall down and bump his head. He get a bandaid, make it feel better."

Oh if only it were that easy, baby. I didn't feel like trying to explain to her that there are some things that band-aids just can't fix. I figure she'll learn that soon enough though, so I'd like to let her believe that for as long as she wants. Instead, what I'd like to have a quick fix for are the inevitable pangs of mom guilt. I've already been sensitive to the fact that my little bean has gotten the short end of the stick when it comes to attention, (although thankfully, he has nothing to compare it to). But he doesn't have his own scrapbook like his sister's, doesn't have nearly the same amount of pictures in the ol' iPhoto library, kid came into the world already missing a finger. When Ella was born, we had visitors streaming in and out of our hospital room all day, every day. I finally had to tell people we couldn't see them because I was flat exhausted. I still remember when Jake went out to announce, "It's a GIRL!!!!" to our families and it was immediately followed by hoots and hollars and all kinds of jubilant screeches, so much so that a few nurses reprimanded them for being too loud. When Milo was born, things were just different- as they almost always are with the second. Less fanfare, less attention. I spent the first day of his life lying in a hospital bed, barely able to hold him, nauseated and shaking from pain meds while my parents and Jake's parents popped in and out to meet him. Mom guilt then too, but I think the percocet took the edge off of it that day.

So to say that I've been conscious of the fact that he hasn't gotten near the limelight that his sister has (and her limelight could stand to be put on a dimmer switch, in my humble opinion) is an understatement. And a couple of years from now, I get the bonus of being able to tell him about the time he did his best imitation of a slinky all the way down our stairs. You know, just to rub some salt in that "Why Wasn't I Born First?" wound.

So a couple of realizations I learned the hard way (although probably not nearly as hard as they were for him):

1. 6 month olds who've just learned to crawl are incredibly fast.

2. Momma's with adrenaline pumping through their veins are also incredibly fast. I think I bounded up the steps by threes in about 1.5 seconds to get to him and practically pulled my hamstring.

3. A goose egg IS, in fact, a good sign.

4. Vomiting is sometimes not (although not altogether unusual).

5. It's usually not the worst case scenario. And that was the case for us as well, thankfully. But my mind still went there- and I knew it would. That's part of being a mom. The other part of being a mom is honoring that little voice that tells you to go with your gut, just in case. (It would have been nice, in my case, had that voice decided NOT to be on mute or "en espanol" when I left my child up in his room "just for a minute" to play with his toys while I went to throw clothes in the washer. Lesson learned. *sigh*

6. I don't remember things from when I was 6 months old-- and neither will he. THANK GOD.

So needless to say, there's a lot of gratitude in our house today.

That, and two more brand-spankin' new baby gates....

"Kristin, Meet Change."

"Action and reaction, ebb and flow, trial and error, change - this is the rhythm of living. Out of our over-confidence, fear; out of our fear, clearer vision, fresh hope. And out of hope, progress." (Bruce Barton)

Some people love change. I'm not one of them. Oh, I like the idea of change. Won't it be great for Ella to have a brother or sister? Wouldn't it be nice to move back to the city? What if I were to start up my own business from scratch or go back to school- how awesome would that be? The truth is- all of those things are awesome. But my downfall is that I tend to idealize the end result without considering all the steps that have to happen in between. For example, when we started trying for #2, it didn't really occur to me that my second pregnancy would be the emotional roller-coaster that it was, nor that I would be sick for a good two-thirds of it. I just pictured two little cherubs sitting on the floor together, giggling and eating ice cream cones. (For the record, both kids have yet to actually sit on the floor together eating ice cream cones and giggling, but I'll sure as hell take a picture of it for posterity's sake if it happens).

And then there was our plan to move back into the city. That's been about as fun as, well, moving with two small kids is (in other words, I have gray hairs now). I remembered back to when we moved right after we got married- how I sat for hours on our kitchen floor, sipping coffee, gingerly flipping through cookbooks and enjoying the entire process of unpacking my kitchen, taking my time deciding where each knick-knack went. For some bizarre, illogical reason, I pictured myself doing the same thing again this time, then proceeded to scare Jake (and even myself) by my tazmanian devil-like antics as I hurriedly shoved pots, pans and cookie sheets into any available cabinet during naptime one day (still haven't found my butter-dish, but that's another story). Again, I pictured our new house and my mind went in a thousand directions simultaneously about how I wanted to decorate each room. I pinned the crap out of my boards on Pinterest. I pictured Jake and I perusing stores for various statement pieces, artwork, etc. I decided we would go antique-ing and try to have all original, one-of-a-kind pieces. Then I envisioned our backyard and the future garden we would plant so that when Ella and Milo got done giggling and eating their ice cream cones on the floor, they could mosey on outside and pick their own tomatoes and peppers...

What's that, you say? Moving costs money? Oh, right.

What's that? My daughter doesn't even like vegetables? {sigh}


So I sometimes get excited about the thought of change. But I have to admit that these days, that excitement is relegated mostly to getting my hair highlighted or the season's latest trends. In all honesty, there's been quite a bit of change (aside from the aforementioned ones). Here's the quick run-down: I gave birth in February and have since been attempting the transition from one to two kids. Haven't mastered it- probably never will. Jake's responsibilities at his work increased ten-fold soon after Milo was born, adding additional stress on his end. Then, our best friends moved 6 hours away. A month later, we moved out of the house that we were newlyweds/new parents in. My parents also moved back into town after being away for three years. And last, but certainly not least, the faith community we've been a part of that had for so long been a place of stability started transitioning and undergoing some pretty major changes. I had been plugging along, keeping myself busy, noticing that life was actually quite different, but not really accepting it, until one day out of the blue (or perhaps, not so out of the blue) I found myself driving home from a meeting with our faith community, completely broken. All of those changes had finally caught up to me, forcing me to finally acknowledge them. As the tears fell, all I could sputter and sob to Jake was that nothing felt familiar anymore. I felt alone. I was supposed to feel happy, because overall, most of the changes were good. Instead, I felt bewildered. "Life" just looked so different from how I had pictured it in my head not even a year ago.

And that's probably the bigger issue: I get an idea about how something should be, and I think it should be that way mostly because it maintains my sense of comfort. So many times, I pray and ask God to give me the change I want- on my terms- because, silly girl that I am, I think I should be able to call the shots. Then, when change comes knocking on my door, bringing it's two BFF's "awkwardness" and "uncertainty," I act surprised, as if that wasn't part of the game plan.

So yeah, there's been a lot of awkwardness in the last few months. There's been inconvenience. There have been moments when I've gotten my panties in a wad and declared, "I didn't sign up for this!" But the reality is that I can let the change make me or break me, but one thing is certain- it's always around the corner. I may not always welcome it with open arms, but in these last few weeks, I think I've finally began to understand that underneath the awkwardness, uncertainty and discomfort, all changes are capable of narrating a beautiful story- even a redemptive one, if I let them.

So here's to continuing on with the narrative with all of it's moments- the good, the awkward and hopefully, the poignant.