It's the Little Things

It's 8:15 on a crisp, clear, Saturday morning. The kids are away at Grammy and Pop's and thus, I went to bed entirely too late for my own good last night.

"That's okay, I'll sleep in tomorrow," I thought.

And like clockwork, my body woke up a few minutes after 7. And it wouldn't go back to sleep. My bladder was on the verge of bursting and I was ravenous.

I think I pleaded with my bladder in some kind of a lucid dream. Have you ever done that?

No...don't make me get up. Go away. Stop filling up with pee. Just let me sleep another 20 minutes. (Not entirely different from how I plead with Ella to just let me lay there for a few more minutes when she bounces onto my side of the bed every morning. But I have a stubborn daughter. And as it turns out, an impatient bladder, as well).

Then it was my empty stomach and the burning, ravenous hunger pangs. Oh, for the LOVE. It seemed my body was sabotaging any attempt I made to drift back to sleep. And so I got up and deliriously stumbled first to the bathroom, then downstairs to the coffee pot. Always in that order. I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that the days of truly good sleep are over. They ended back when I was maybe around 18. Right before I went to college and stayed up late studying and practicing by week, and lost sleep on the weekends in the name of having a social life. Then it was marriage, and my sleep was okay for a while, then pregnancy...and well, the rest, they say, is history. I might be able to salvage a few good years between now and menopause. But my guess is that good sleep will become increasingly chemically-induced, or happenstance. Alignment of certain planets and such.

But I sit here with a cup of french roast and although I'm awake a good two hours earlier than I would like to be, I'm savoring the quiet living room. Relishing that I'm not hearing Dora's annoying, repetitive voice. Breathing in the fresh citrus scent of the new candle I bought, rather than the stench of a freshly squeezed diaper bomb. I went out with a group of fantastic girls last night- one of whom happens to be a dear friend (and who also happens to be getting married NEXT WEEKEND). :-) And even though I only had one glass of wine, I'm surprised that I feel pretty rotten this morning. What's up with that?? I wistfully reflect on the stamina that my 22 year old self had. Where on earth is that intestinal fortitude I had in the midst of vile hangovers- the kind that got me through playing exams, juries, and 8 am classes when a night of drinking seemed to magically resolve itself by 11 a.m. or noon, at the very latest. (This wasn't always the case though, as I learned the hard way one time that's it's never ever EVER a smart idea to drink an entire bottle of cab sav the night before an 8 a.m. clarinet playing exam).

Here it is almost a decade later and this girl right here can have two (ish) glasses of wine and fall asleep in her own puddle of drool on the couch at 10:30 pm, then still somehow feel as though she got hit by a semi the next morning when she's trying to dice up bananas and mini-waffles for her kids. (I mean seriously, why can't they get their own breakfast??) ;-)

I'm not even sure where this post is going. I think I'm just enjoying being able to sit and write without being interrupted. Perhaps the silver lining of the cloud that is my inability to sleep in, is the opportunity to expand my definition of "rest." And for today, it takes the shape of a single blog post, written start to finish in one sitting, in a quiet living room.

The Truth About Weeds

There are times when we fail to recognize what's right in front of us.



But for the record, I'm not going deep here. This is not in reference to children, marriage, a warm home (although sadly, I know that I've taken them all for granted plenty of times).



For now, I'm simply referring to the eyesore that is otherwise known as my yard. Every day for the last few weeks, I've walked past my neglected flowerbeds and refused to acknowledge the weeds. This is primarily because I'm too pre-occupied with hauling 65 pounds of offspring, complete with sippy-cups, stuffed animals and the occasional diaper bomb. But if I'm honest, another part of me didn't want to acknowledge it because I knew that would mean I'd eventually have to do something about it. And children are great excuses for staying too busy to do yardwork. Or clean. Or sometimes cook. Maybe get a shower. I digress...



Kinda like when the credit card bill comes and you tell yourself you're just gonna open it later, but in the meantime, you secretly hope your procrastination will give it ample time to vaporize into thin air. Or maybe, you'll discover upon opening it that someone like Oprah took it upon herself to pay off the balance.



So yeah. At first, I had hoped the weeds would just disappear on their own or that maybe the flowers would bloom around them and cover them up. But even I and my brown thumb know that wouldn't be the case. Everyone knows that if you want to see the pretty stuff, you gotta deal with the ugly stuff first.



So I donned my fashionable $1 gardening gloves (I heart Target Dollar Spot), rolled up my sleeves, and took advantage of the 80 degree weather. I tackled the first flowerbed on my hands and knees- pulling, digging, occasionally cursing under my breath and, about every three minutes, getting up to scamper after Milo or retrieve some piece of something he had put in his mouth. I had initially said I would only allocate about 30 minutes, but as the pile of weeds began to grow and I made my way to the next flowerbed, I became aware of the fact that I was actually enjoying it. Now, a gardener I am NOT. Most things I plant tend to die within hours of planting them. It's a gift. But apparently, I'm good at unplanting them. To my surprise, there was something cathartic about the sheer act of grabbing and yanking at the unsightly overgrowth. Some were unrelenting at first, forcing me to really dig my hands down deep into the earth in order to break them free. Those were actually my favorites. Each one felt like a tiny victory. The next time I looked at my watch, I was shocked to see it was lunchtime. My back ached, my thighs burned, and I was fairly certain my neighbors saw more of my backside than they probably cared to see, but it was all in the name of landscaping. At least our yard looked better. Not pristine. Probably more like, "hey, those people actually give a crap." (Baby steps, baby steps).



I tease my husband all the time about being crunchy, but I think this week has proved that maybe I'm more crunchy than I realize, too. Because instead of dreading the back patio (which will probably take me at least a solid week), I'm looking rather forward to it- to getting my hands dirty, feeling the sun radiate on my back, and listening to my children squeal as they play in the yard. I think, particularly after these last few weeks, it was a simple reminder to me that it's those things I avoid which often prove to be the most liberating. I always come away wondering why I resisted it so much to begin with.



{And okay, I know I said I was going to keep this on the surface, but the irony is just too much}



Sometimes things are stripped away from us and it's completely and utterly out of our control. Then there are the other times- those times when we're compelled to roll up our sleeves and strip it away ourselves. We know it's what we have to do. It's a matter of survival. Strip away the old, the ugly, the toxic- so that something beautiful can take it's place.



And for that reason alone, I fully intend to spend a lot more time on my patio this year than I have in years past. ;-)

One Last Lullabye

I didn't want to write this post, for many reasons. But someone once said, "when in torment, document."



Someone also once said, "everything happens for a reason."



But I have to say, I'm pretty glad that person isn't standing right in front of me right now, otherwise I might consider punching them.



(Okay, maybe not. But I would possibly slay him/her with vicious rhetoric).



There are very few things which have proven themselves to remain true in my life, time and time again: love, in it's purest and simplest form, can make everything right. Always. Also, (despite my strong feelings about the aforementioned cliche) everything does happen for a reason. Even the painful things.



Especially the painful things.



I have also learned that a momma's intuition is rarely ever wrong. Okay, fine. There have been a few times I've been wrong. (Maybe only two or three....) but I do know that those times became increasingly rare since having Ella and Milo. Call it a sixth sense, call it a "word" or a feeling, but it's there- for better or for worse. In my case, I've been the...um, beneficiary...of vivid dreams, premonitions, whatever, where in freakishly clear detail, I've been able to see ahead into the bigger moments in my life. For example, more than 6 years ago, a dream with letters spelling the name"Jacob" a few weeks before I met Jake on a blind date (and before I actually knew his name). Then another dream, three-ish years later: me, holding a pregnancy test with two bright pink lines- only a week and a half before I found out I was pregnant with Ella. A few nights after the pregnancy test dream, I dreamt of a car accident. I awoke in a cold sweat after seeing bright headlights at night, my car spinning, and my hand on my protruding belly. Fifteen weeks later, I was T-boned in an intersection at night. I held my belly as the car careened to a stop before going into a ravine. I remember being surprisingly calm, even as I was rushed to the ER while a doctor wasted no time searching for the heartbeat. I remember wanting to freak out, but inside, I had this profound sense that I was okay. We were okay. Two agonizing minutes later, the doctor found her heartbeat. He looked up at me, smirked, and said, "Everything is fine. It just wouldn't be still long enough for me to pick it up." (Is that not my Ella, or what??)


So those are just a few of the dreams I always remember right away. I needed to give a bit of backstory to set the stage for yet another one I can now add to the list. This one featured me, lying on an exam table, a wand on my belly and a screen in front of me. I can make out the distinct features of a baby that I know immediately is mine. She is dancing and wiggling about, stretching her tiny arms and legs. I see her nose, her perfect profile, and I feel warmth. Light. Nevermind that I said we were done with two. This baby is coming and the love is palpable. I then turn my gaze on the wall beside me and I see the number 3 in bold. I stare at it for what seems an eternity. From there, I climb into a shower, crying. And then I woke up to find Ella hovering a mere 1/2 inch from my face, asking to watch TV downstairs, so I dragged my tired self out of bed to make her breakfast.


Mid-way through buttering her toast, I thought, now THAT was a weird dream. What the hell did I eat last night before bed? Never again... And I went on about my day. It wasn't until a few days later that I started to feel....off. Warm. Flushed. Barely able to keep my eyes open. Stuffy nose and sore throat. One minute I was starving, and the next, I was sure that my bowl of cereal was about to make a repeat appearance. Milo pressed his head against my chest one night as I rocked him to sleep and I suddenly felt a very familiar pain radiate through my boobs. Wait, wasn't my period supposed to start? I grabbed my calendar and started counting. Not late yet, but very close. I bought some pregnancy tests and didn't tell a soul. (Well, I maybe told one or two souls, but I swore those souls to secrecy). First test was negative. At first, I was relieved. And then, strangely, I wasn't. Was that disappointment lurching it's way up into my throat? I swallowed hard. We said we thought we were done. We had our girl and our boy. Healthy and happy. Surely, that was enough. I wasn't charting or tracking anything. We weren't trying. Hell, if truth be told, we were preventing. But I simply couldn't shake that unmistakeable feeling. The same intuition that told me something was different when I got pregnant with Ella, and the same one that told me without a doubt that Milo was growing inside me, even when the first test I took with him told me otherwise. I just knew. Of course, some of this intuition stemmed from my unbelievable (and unfortunate) sensitivity to hormones and the fact that I was sick, like, 30 minutes after he was conceived. But really, more of it was because I just knew. I couldn't explain it, but I didn't have to. Two days after that initial negative test with him, I saw the word "pregnant" on a digital test.



So, it seemed I was in a very similar spot once again. I started making note of my symptoms, paying more attention. And also, despite my best efforts not to, I started picturing our new family. I saw Milo as the big brother instead of the perpetual baby. I saw him and Ella cozied up to me in a hospital bed- all at once jealous, and yet in awe of this new little creature who was joining our family. It started to make sense, even when I swore months ago that it never would. I took another test. Negative again.



I waited. I waited without knowing what exactly I was waiting for. A blood test came back negative as well. And yet, when most normal people would have given up on the initial idea, I came home and researched. I googled like a fiend. Shamelessly. I just couldn't let it go that something was different. I was now over a week late for my period. I woke up sick to my stomach in the middle of the night. My boobs felt on fire. I was peeing every 30 minutes. And in the midst of it all, I still remembered that dream.



A long and torturous seven days later, I finally got my answer: a very faint yet unmistakeable line on a first response test. I gazed at it, not entirely sure if I was hallucinating. But it was there. "There you are." I said. "What took you so long?" Then, I posted the picture on a well-known pregnancy/fertility forum, just to make sure that other women saw it too and I wasn't, in fact, losing my mind. (Turns out I wasn't- not yet, at least).



But I couldn't get excited. I was happy, relieved, and yet- reserved. When I found out I was pregnant with both Ella and Milo, I excitedly blurted out the news to our parents before the pee had even dried on the stick. Everyone knows a line is a line, no matter how faint. But there was something about this line that told me to wait. Just wait.



I contemplated arguing with my test. I had been waiting. And yet, intuition is so often a double-edged sword. If it clues one in about impending good news, it's certainly just as capable of preparing one for the opposite. I sat on the floor of my bathroom-turned-chemistry-lab and found myself pleading with my pee stick. Please get darker. Please stick. Don't leave me yet. I saw you in that dream and you were perfect and you were healthy. Don't go.... I thought about how long I had waited to simply close myself up in my bathroom alone (which is next to impossible with a preschooler and a toddler) in order to finally hold in my hands what I knew in my heart all along. But why couldn't I celebrate? I told very few people. When I did, I asked them to pray. And I continued to pray that what I was afraid of would never come to be. I prayed, this time, that my intuition would be wrong. I prayed to be sick as a dog, told God that he could throw all of the morning sickness at me he wanted. Please. I could handle it. I would do it.



And yet, even as I prayed, I was aware that I was holding back- that there was more I needed to say that I wasn't willing to say. Over the last four years, I guess I've re-defined how I view prayer, and consequently, how I view "God." I tend to avoid the cheesy, cliche sayings now (whether I believe them to be true or not) because there was a point in my life when I spouted such things without feeling a shred of truth in them. And yet years later, I still ultimately believe that there's this force bigger than all of us that we call LOVE- that works miracles, puts broken lives back together, gives second chances. And I still believe that the excruciatingly painful things are what will always have the most potential to change us, if we let them. But if I truly recognize all of this, it means I have to change my thinking. I have to force myself to say that I trust a bigger picture that I can't see- that perhaps, I might never see. I have to choose to believe that maybe, I really don't know what's best, even when I want to think otherwise. And hardest of all, I must come to terms with the fact that it's especially those things I try so desperately to hold onto that I must learn to let go of. If you love it, let it go.



If you love it, let. it. go.



Because my children, who are tucked away in their beds asleep, didn't get here because I willed them to. And neither did this one. I can't take any credit. And so, days later, I gave in. While the kids were having a snack downstairs, I stole a few solitary minutes to drop down on my knees in Ella's room. I heard three words come out of my mouth, completing the second part of the prayer I was unwilling to speak up until then. And even then, as I sputtered out the words, I was still somewhat unsure I believed them. "I trust You." And then I said it over and over again until the tears stopped. I saw our family. I remembered the tiny silhouette on the screen from my dream more than two weeks ago. At once, I felt immense joy for the blessings I have- that I'm so undeserving of- and yet, I felt my heart break as a familiar pain began radiating in my back and mid-section. Sometimes, whether we like it or not, pain may be the only indication that we're still alive, and that we're meant to live into a bigger story. So for now, as much as it hurts, I won't wish it away, because I know that the story isn't over.







"Dear God, I would have loved to have held this baby on my lap and tell them about you, but since I didn't get the chance, would you please hold them on your lap and tell them about me?"





{For our sweet angel baby, due 11/6/12}

"Go Shorty, It's Your Birfday"

My godparents walked in the door around 3:35 at the peak of Milo's birthday party. Popcorn was scattered on the floor, clusters of kids galloped through with cups of hot chocolate, and a duet of wails pierced through the ambient noise downstairs. Motorized toys whizzed between people's heels and a group of older elementary-aged kids had apparently created a secret society in our downstairs bathroom. No one was gained entrance because no one knew the correct password. As I hugged my godfather, he just shook his head, laughing and said matter of factly, "you've lost your ever-lovin' mind."

It was then that I noticed a few adults huddled close together in our dining room. At first, I thought they looked somewhat amused, but upon further inspection, I actually decided they looked scared. Milo clung fiercely to my leg and I gratefully took the opportunity to whisk him upstairs and nurse him. I knew, however, that it would take him all of four minutes to eat, and I wondered momentarily if I could get away with offering to feed anyone else's baby while I was at it. You know, just to buy myself some more time.

But all of the chaos was to be expected. We invited close to 70 people and 60 showed up. When it comes to birthdays, my motto has always been Go big or go home. No apologies. I wanted a special day for my boy, and that's exactly what we had. The mere fact that we had so many of our loved ones under one roof was, in and of itself, enough of a gift- both sets of grandparents, great-grandparents, godparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, second-cousins, friends from close by, friends from a few hours away. With the exception of a handful that didn't get to be here, these were the people that made this birthday so poignant. Strip away everything else, and we still had more than sixty reasons to be thankful. That's just beautiful.


(Instead of a guestbook, I asked people to write a message to the birthday boy on a picture that we'll hang in his room).



And that would have been enough. But there was a little bit of extra sparkle to the day- some "icing on the cake" (and I later discovered, quite a bit on the wall- literally). Richmond has had an unusually warm winter this year, much to my dismay. With average temperatures in the mid 50's since November, I had all but given up hope that we would even see so much as a single snowflake this year. I forged ahead in planning Milo's "Winter ONEderland" party, despite visions of people drinking hot cocoa in short-sleeved shirts and flip-flops. But then my mom told me the day before his party that they were forecasting the temperature to drop sharply the next day, so I was relieved to think it would at least be cold outside, for once.

Then, around 3:30 yesterday, as our guests mingled and tried to dodge loud, hyper children, I looked outside and literally shrieked like a kindergartner as white, chunky snowflakes started swirling outside. Richmond's first official "snow" of the season (those of you in the north and midwest- go ahead and have a good laugh here).











There was an almost palpable excitement in our house. Kids pressed their noses against window panes and watched. A few more guests trickled in and shook the wintry wetness off their coats. Some weren't even wearing coats, as it was 50 degrees only a couple of hours before the party started. In a matter of minutes, the ground was covered in a thin blanket of snow. Once Milo was situated in his high chair, I rounded everyone up and a chorus of 60 voices sang happy birthday to him as it continued to come down.


He clearly wasn't as caught up in the moment as I was.






(Really, were we that off-key??)


But, for all of the tears, it was still as close to perfect as I could have imagined it being.


And, as if on cue, the snow stopped a few minutes before the party ended as guests began to bundle up to head home. The kids each got a pair of mittens and some of the homemade hot chocolate mix we served at the party. Hopefully, Richmond still has a day or two more of wintry weather up it's sleeve so they can actually enjoy them in the right setting. ;-)








Milo may not remember anything at all about his first birthday, but it's one that I certainly won't forget. :-)

Stealing Christmas

I have to admit, I thought that I was above being scammed. I hated to hear stories of the elderly or disabled having money taken right out of their pockets but even so, I usually assumed it was a due to an unfortunate combination of "assholery" (it's my new word) on the part of the scammer and naivete on the part of the victim.

A Macbook Pro was supposed to arrive at our house yesterday at 1 pm. But it didn't. It never will, actually. And only after we did more extensive research did we realize- too little, too late- that we had been scammed. Awesome. All of the credentials had checked out. We had gone to all the various (and completely legitimate) sites and google-searched names. Nothing looked remotely suspicious. Jake wired the money through western union to a third party parcel service that told us they would then send us the laptop once they received the money. When the confirmation email didn't come yesterday morning, Jake got a bad feeling- a feeling he said he had the day before as well, but had just chalked up to a case of "buyer's remorse." Something just wasn't adding up right, but we both wanted to believe that this person was good on their word. {Hey! *looks up* someone wrote the word "gullible" in the sky!. . .} (sigh)

First, there's that horrible, sinking feeling when you realize someone made a fool out of you. Then a split second after that, a burning desire to get even, followed at last by the realization that doing so would only be stooping to their level. Of course, we reported it, but have zero expectations that this person will be caught. What's done is done. So, it seemed like a good alternative to instead, kick ourselves over and over again. Thankfully, we were able to absorb the loss, but there were other people that had been scammed by this person. Would any of them have to tell their kids that there would be no Christmas presents this year because they lost their money to some asshole without a conscience? I struggled with whether or not to accept that the unfortunate message this season is one that claims people simply can't be trusted, or that people aren't good. Who wants to walk around with that chip on their shoulder during Christmas?

This, unfortunately, has been just another thing to add to a list of some other rather disappointing events this week. No- Jake and I were not enrolled in the jelly of the month club, but let's just say that there were certain things that I had built up in my mind, counted too much on, maybe hoped a little too hard for. (Who, me?!?) Of course, I'm not saying that hope doesn't have a place and purpose in our every day lives because it absolutely does. But I often find it's a tough balancing act for me to maintain a sense of hope without a posture of entitlement. I want to think that the things I hope for should come about-and particularly, the way that I want them to- because of x, y, and z.

But life just doesn't work that way. Here I am, 29 years old, and apparently still scamming myself into believing that life should go the way I want it to based on a cause-effect equation. Sure, some things do work out that way. But many things don't. Technically, Jake and I should have gotten our laptop because we gave that person our money, but we didn't.

By the end of this week, the question gradually evolved from "why did this happen?" to "why did it affect me like this?" Of course, the first question was much easier to answer because I could direct my frustration to other people and other circumstances. It was their problem, not mine. But the second question was much more difficult to answer because it had everything to do with me and the simple fact that I've been putting too much of my hope in the wrong kinds of things- into life events, things, money, even into my relationships. In the end, not one of those things can withstand the pressure that I put onto them to be my happiness, joy, or quick-fix. So if, at the end of a week filled with certain disappointments, I'm still sulking and seething over what should have been, well then, I've lost more than just money. I've lost my sense of joy and contentment. And that was something that I handed over willingly- like I believed I didn't have a choice.

But I did.

So maybe this is another lesson in the "nothing in life is guaranteed" category. I often say this like I truly believe it, but too many times, I find myself in situations that causes me to act the complete opposite. So today, as I type on my "old" laptop, I'm grateful that the things in my life that have fallen through were just things. We have our health, we have each other, and we have infinitely more than we deserve to have- and for that, I'm incredibly grateful.

Confusing Complacency with Contentment

I will never forget my theory and analysis professor at VCU. She was a feisty but lovable woman and she never sugar-coated anything. One particular morning when she was handing back graded assignments, she came around to me and I immediately saw the B- in the upper right-hand corner. I breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. Then I flipped the paper over and there it was, scrawled in fierce, barely legible red ink:

Kristin, you are riding the coattails of your own talent and doing just enough to get by. I'm not impressed.


Talk about having the wind knocked out of you. Like a child getting the "I'm so disappointed in you" talk by their parents, at that precise moment, I wished she would have just gone ahead and given me an F. Not only had I not given it my best, I had been called out for it. I remember that I tried not to think about it for the rest of the day, but it stuck with me. She wasn't someone who knew me particularly well, yet if it was that painfully obvious to her that I wasn't truly giving myself over to something, I wondered what the other people in my life who did know me, see?

Nearly seven years later, I still think about that remark. I've often wondered why it stuck with me (other than the simple fact that we always tend to replay the negatives more than the positives). It was just an assignment- certainly not even a pivotal one at that. I think it carried so much weight, though, because it spoke to something much deeper in me than just a temporary moment of slacking off. Instead, I had developed a posture of complacency.

The problem is that in our culture, we confuse complacency with contentment. Contentment is defined as "enjoyment of whatever may be desired" or simply having enough. Complacency, on the other hand, is defined as "being contented" but "to a fault."

Take a balloon, for example. A balloon can be blown up, inflated, stretched. But it has limits. If those limits are blatantly disregarded, there is usually a loud pop. (In our world, we might call this breakdown). Contentment could be illustrated as a fully-inflated balloon- reaching its full potential, but not exceeding it. Complacency, then, is a balloon that thinks it's been blown up to it's full size when in fact, it hasn't even been stretched at all. It's not even aware that it could be so much more, but it's content to stay the way it is because as we all know, stretching can hurt. And there is always a risk that maybe you could stretch too much and then there might be irreparable damage. Or failure. Complacency likes to sit on the sidelines because, well, it's just safer that way.

If you've ever found yourself saying things like, "What does it REALLY matter?" or "it's not worth it," or "It's okay because no one else is doing it either," I hate to break it to you, but you're settling. And I only know this because I've said it far too much in my life. The reason my professor's words stung so many years ago is because she hit on a truth about myself that I didn't want to acknowledge- a truth that couldn't simply be fixed by turning back around and handing in an A + worthy project. It would involve pushing into something bigger than myself, something uncomfortable and unknown. It would mean changing my entire way of thinking.

So I did. I changed my perspective and everything has been awesome since then.

What, you don't believe me? Good. Because that's not how it works. (I wish). Things have been awesome, but they've also been downright hell-ish at times, too.

There is no one-time quick fix for complacency. And I wish I could say that it is (and was) only relegated to academia, but it extends far beyond into my marriage, my parenting decisions, my music, teaching, and writing. For some odd reason, I operated under the assumption that I would grow up, get married and become a mommy, and when I did, I would magically morph into someone who was no longer prone to complacency. But if anything, it's an even tougher battle now than it was when I was 21, especially since I have so much more on my plate than I did then. Instead, I got married, became a mommy and now I'm having to grow up. There are simply too many things that keep me busy, numb, and ultimately chasing my own tail and unfortunately, it's these things often get more of my attention than the things that really matter.

I can honestly say that most days, I just want to be comfortable. So much so, that I've gotten quite good at letting myself off the hook from everything from working out to writing...to letting the kids watch too much TV...to driving by the homeless guy at the nearby intersection and pretending not to notice. The truth that I act like belongs to everyone else but me is very simple, yet inescapable: I'm not called to be comfortable. Lots of times, this goes against everything I act upon in my day-to-day life. We're all creatures of comfort, to some extent or the other. But we're supposed to take risks. We're made to face fears and confrontations (whether good or bad) and come out better for them. We're built to love others more than ourselves. If we're lucky, we might embrace that early enough in our lives to act on it.

It's easy for me to think that my story is all about being a wife and a mommy and while I know that's undeniably a huge and very important piece to the puzzle, there's more. Lately, I've been wondering how much my tunnel vision has affected my way of thinking. What does it look like to live into a bigger story? What are you giving yourself to (for better or perhaps, for worse) this holiday season?

A Plea: Please Help This Family Bury Their Son...

Oh how my heart is breaking tonight. I share this story because, in the midst of this "30 days of Thankfulness," I had the nerve to sit on my couch this morning and moan to a friend that both of my kids had colds and were up during the night. Whoa is me. DIdn't they just have colds a month ago? Because I'm pretty sure that means we should be done getting colds until next year.

Then I read this story. A little boy, born just a few months before Ella, diagnosed with acute lymphatic leukemia when he was only 4 months old. He spent most of his life attached to tubes and machines, undergoing a bone marrow transplant and fighting to see his third birthday. His little brother- born this past March- was, in fact, his bone marrow donor. They lost him a little bit at a time, slowly. He gave up his fight yesterday afternoon while his Momma held him.

Within minutes of reading it, I found myself standing at the foot of Ella's bed, watching her breathe in and out, then soaking in the warmth of her body as I scooped her up into my arms for just a few seconds. Afterward, I tiptoed into Milo's room and laid my hand gently on his back as I listened to his soft snoring and watched his red angel lips pucker while he dreamt. I was all at once filled with such intense gratitude for this life that I live and yet pissed beyond belief that any parent should have to hold their child while they breathe their last breath. And I'm scared. Because I know deep down inside that there's no reason this couldn't happen to me. For as much as life is precious, it seems it is that much more unpredictable.

These parents have just done something I hope and pray to God I never have to do. It is truly every parent's worst nightmare. And just when you think it couldn't get any tougher for this family, the dad found out he was fired from his job at the company he had worked at for several years because of the amount of time he had to take off of work to care for his family. Yes, you read that correctly. Fired. They have drained their savings account due to the cost of medical bills and are now in the position of having to come up with enough money to bury their own son.

Could I ask something of you? During this season of thankfulness, if your child(ren) are healthy and sleeping away up in their beds, maybe you would consider donating something to this family in their honor? (Paypal address is listed on Tyler's website). Every penny counts. If nothing else, just hug your loved ones close and cherish the moment you have with them right now- right this second. it's the only moment that really matters, and the only one we're ever guaranteed.

Rest in peace, Tyler. <3

Thirty Days of Thankful {Days 1 and 2}

This probably should be the "29 Days of Thankful" but it doesn't have that nice alliteration and I plan to make up for it. Yesterday- the first day of November, I was thankful for a day to run errands and go to the grocery store by myself. This was something that would not have made it on the thankful list 3 years ago, but now joins the ranks with other things like oh, a shower, or maybe an uninterrupted cup of hot coffee (you know, instead of having to stick it in the microwave two or three other times to re-heat it). I wouldn't trade these crazy, exhausted years for anything, but I'm sure my husband might like it if I smelled good, occasionally. ;)


TODAY, I'm thankful for family- both Jake's and mine here in the area. I sometimes wonder how we would make it without them and I'm also fairly certain that NONE of us would have survived the move this summer without their help. I was never able to live close to my grandparents when I was younger, so the fact that Ella and Milo are already so close (and not just in proximity) to my parents and Jake's parents is something I consider a huge blessing. Between their aunts, great aunts, cousins (and second cousins) and even great grandparents, my children are continually showered with love and affection by family members who want to have a part in helping to raise them, and I love this. I love it, not just because it means that we don't have to shoulder the heavy responsibilities of raising our kids on our own, but because I hope it means that we are helping to continue the legacy set forth by our parents, and that is exactly what is printed on the picture in our playroom: "Other things may change us, but we start and end with family."

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.

"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.

The Grass Is Greener (No, Literally, It Is!)

One of the things I love most about our new house is that it has a front and back yard- with GRASS. Those who know us and have been to our last house know that our yard was, well, hardly a yard. We were good at growing weeds and our grass was best described as "ground cover." We bought the house as a starter home with plans to be in it for about three to four years and then put it on the market sometime between our first and second baby.

But the economy wouldn't have it that way. And as it turns out, Milo followed Ella by a close 20 months and I wasn't in any shape- physically or mentally- to try and move while pregnant. So nearly five years after we first moved in, my rambunctious daughter was confined to a deck and a small area of dirt behind it. After Milo got here, we finally decided that we just couldn't put off moving any longer. I was so desperate for Ella to have a yard to run around and be a kid in that I told Jake our next house could quite literally look like the Haney place on Green Acres as long as it had a decent back yard for her to run around in.

Turns out, we have an awesome backyard and a great house. We feel extremely grateful for both. But there have been several times in the past 2 weeks when I've found myself wanting more. Not necessarily a better or bigger house, or even a better or bigger backyard. But more...STUFF. I've been in the throes of brainstorming, decorating, and essentially re-doing every room in our house. (Ah, Pinterest, how I love thee). Milo now has his own room and moved into Ella's crib, therefore inheriting her dresser and other furniture. Which meant Ella needed "big girl" furniture, which meant spending more money. We now have a formal dining room...which, of course meant we needed a dining room table and chairs (and right now, we can still only seat four people at a time. Sorry, everyone else will have to get their Kabuto on and sit on the floor Japanese-style). Then there was a new kitchen table and chairs. Then oops- our old bedroom furniture wouldn't fit up the narrow back staircase. Voila! New bed and dresser for our bedroom. New sectional sofa for the living room. We haven't even begun to tackle area rugs, wall decor, art and new window treatments. I now refuse to let myself go on Etsy because of the 11 items currently in my cart that I can't purchase all at once because whadyaknow, we're not made of money after all.

I have no reason to wallow and every reason to be thankful. But for every minute I'm thankful, there's another minute not far behind it when I'm thinking, "I want....we need..if only..." My tunnel vision prohibits me from seeing everything we already do have. And then Ella comes up to me with her bright pink ball and says, "Mommy, go outside and kick the ball?" So I stop unpacking, stop playing decorator, stop thinking that our house would be just a bit more perfect if I could go ahead and buy that armoir I saw listed on Etsy...and we go outside to run around in our yard, our yard with GRASS...and I watch the sheer delight wash over her face as she runs around, giggling and squealing. This is all she wants. Even though it's a new house and new surroundings, as long as Mommy, Daddy and Milo are here, her world is okay and she's perfectly content.

So somewhere between two and twenty nine, we trick ourselves into believing that having more means living more. Having better stuff means living better. And sometimes, it takes running around barefoot in your backyard to bring everything back into focus. :)

"MINE"

The brain of a 2 year old is fascinating to me. They're perpetual sponges, sopping up buckets of information and storing it away until one day, seemingly out of nowhere, they bust out a new verse from a random song or count to 13 in Spanish. These are the wonder years because by the time you get to be my age, you do inane things like stuff dirty clothes into the diaper genie and throw poopy diapers in the laundry hamper. (Yep, just did that this morning. All new record low). But I digress. Ella simply astounds me the rate in which she's learning new concepts every day.

One thing that has already been completely hard-wired into her little noggin, however, is the concept of "MINE." I'm not exactly sure where she learned this word and I doubt she heard it from me or Jake, nevertheless, she picked it up somewhere and immediately knew the context to use it in, just like any other toy-hoarding tot. To say that sharing is not second-nature to these creatures is an understatement. But is it for any of us? I distinctly remember taking my lunch to school when I was only 5 or 6 and not wanting to share any of my Farley's fruit snacks. I knew someone would ask. But they were mine and I wasn't about to give them up. So I did what any kid would do: I opened the bag and coughed all over them, ensuring that no one would want to touch them after that. (Real classy, eh? Truth be told, I miiight still do this with my dark chocolate). All around the lunch-table, my classmates and I were in bidding wars about who wanted to trade their Little Debbie for a fruit roll-up or something else, but I had a death grip on my lunch box. I didn't want to share, plain and simple.

But I grew out of that.

Okay, I lied. I haven't grown out of it. That would be nice. I try not to be selfish, but I fail. Sometimes I doubt I even try not to be selfish. And I could sit here and say, "it's just our human nature that we all come into this world hard-wired to look out for #1 and it's just the way it is..." to make myself feel better, but what that does feel like is a cop-out, even if there's a shred of truth in it. Over the last few weeks, I've realized that my selfishness comes in the form of a sense of entitlement, in feeling like I deserve certain things, acknowledgments, praise, even naps. My iPad got cracked a few weeks ago (I'm still so sad I can barely talk about it), and I tried to reason with myself that they (Apple) should replace it for me because it wasn't entirely my fault that it got knocked off the coffee table. (P.S. Apple products and toddlers are like oil and water). Or, our family should be able to move into that house because we called about it first and it really is perfect for us, so naturally, we should be able to get it. Hell, I even feel like I deserved that parking space at Target today because it was hot and I had two kids with me. Screw everyone else. That little old lady who can barely see above her steering wheel, driving a boat on wheels and who probably only walks at a brisque .325 mph? Nope. That's my parking space. I saw it first. I put my blinker on first, dammit!

On second thought, maybe I do know where Ella picked this up after all. If she can remember random lyrics to a song she's heard only a handful of times, why shouldn't she be intuitive enough to pick up on this idea of entitlement? This is a concept that isn't often spoken but acted out. And lately, I'm afraid I've been letting my actions speak louder than my words.

So there you have it. Another "aw, crap!" realization that hit me square between the eyes. Something to keep chipping away at. And while I'm at it, now might also be a good time to retire the Eminem CD from regular use in the car...

"It's a Good Day"

I hate to admit this, but I have to try really hard to not be "the glass is half-empty" kind of person. It probably has to do with the anxiety I sometimes experience and how I like to jump to the worst conclusion because I can't keep my mind from racing. The point is that I realize I have that tendency- however and whenever I developed it- and it's something I don't care to pass on to either of my kids (among other traits). Parenthood is awesome in that it gives you this clean slate to work with (make that awesome and scary as hell). But I believe that optimism is a seed that, if planted early and cultivated over time, produces a perspective- and ultimately a life- of gratitude.

A few months ago, Jake started a ritual with Ella at her bedtime that when we tuck her in bed, we say, "today was a good day." We start listing things off the top of our heads about why that day was a good day- things we did, people we saw, what we're thankful for. And every single time I turn out the light and close the door, I'm reminded that our list is infinitely longer than the five or six reasons we named at bedtime- a roof over our head, clean water to drink, our health, a refrigerator and pantry full of food, to name only a few. If we never had play-dates and ice cream and trips to the swimming pool, life would still be awesome. So this exercise is just as much a reminder to mommy and daddy as it is to Ella, and eventually Milo.

But I confess that, even given all of the good things we have, it's tough to do this some days. As much as I want to say that I live in this place of gratitude and contentment, I often don't. I'm usually all too ready to have my "this day can SUCK IT" pity party when Milo won't nap and Ella has whined all morning or when the day doesn't go as I've planned. It's hard to lay Ella down in her bed only moments after a major meltdown when I've lost my temper and raised my voice and still be able to say, "today was a good day."

But it is. Even when there are umpteen timeouts. Even when there are tears and arguments and mommy fails. Even when my hair is greasy and I haven't had a shower. This is an exhausting season that will pass. But years from now, when there are heartbreaks, bad grades, and general teen angst, I still want to be able to say this to them. Because if they don't hear it from me or Jake, I fear that they may not learn to look past the trivial things- (the things that I'm guilty of allowing to get my own panties in a wad) and appreciate that every, single day is a good day. If you're alive and breathing and you are loved, it's a good day. End of story. It doesn't mean there isn't pain. It doesn't mean that some days aren't excruciatingly hard. Learning what it means to live in tension is truly difficult, and I'll be the first to admit that I have yet to master it. Finding something beautiful on the other side of it might be even harder. But it's a lesson worth learning- and for me, it's a lesson worth instilling in my children. Pain and beauty are never mutually exclusive.

Inevitably, there will be things I won't be able give to my kids, but I hope that perspective isn't one of them. I want them to see that they truly have everything if they can learn to see the world through "the glass if half full" eyes.

The "Monkey Incident" (and a few other thoughts)

There was a crisis in our house this evening. In fact, I'm still reeling from it.

Ella left her "mussy" at church. This would be the Curious George monkey that her great grandmother gave her 2 Christmases ago when she was but a nugget in my belly. Jake and Ella had gone to church tonight while I stayed home to put my feet up and well, continue to be very pregnant. When they got home, he walked in and said to me, "I think we left the m-o-n-k-e-y in the nursery at church."

*Dun-dun DUNNNN.* {What?!? You left what??}

I think I stared at him as if he had just told me that there was a world-wide shortage of dark chocolate. I'm sure he thought I was overreacting, and for a minute or two, I considered the fact that I probably was overreacting. Sure, she loved her "mussy" and yes, she slept with him every night and ate breakfast with him and took him for car rides and...uh-oh. This was not good. Not good at all. Still, I thought that maybe she would be okay to snuggle with one of her many other stuffed animals. Maybe she wouldn't really notice.

I had no idea how wrong I was.

After a particularly draining and frustrating day filled with motrin, molars and meltdowns, it was apparent that our little bug was perhaps in even more desperate need of her friend than most other nights. I knew she would be asking for him when we put her down- every night it's the same routine. One of us picks her up to carry her to bed and she immediately askes for, "beee??" (binky) and then, "Mussy??" Thanks to the ever-potent hormones coursing through my body, I could already feel myself beginning to choke up thinking about having to tell her that she couldn't have her monkey tonight, so I asked Jake to put her to bed and figure out how to break the news to her.

And then the shrieking started- the most sorrowful wail I've heard come out of my girl in a long time (she never even cried like this when she was sick or got shots). I went in to console her (bad, bad mistake) and, after seeing her big hazel eyes spilling over with crocodile tears as she begged me over and over for her monkey, we both emerged from her room with tear-stained faces. I carried her out to the living room where Jake was happily watching the game and squeaked out in a shaky voice, "we NEED the mussy...we REALLY need the mussy." (For the record, I am aware that I'm a wuss. I could have let her cry it out. But in my overly pregnant and emotionally fragile state, it just wasn't happening tonight).

So Jake made arrangements with Uncle Doug to go back to the church and hunt down her beloved friend. While he was gone, I positioned her atop my belly and rocked her while she continued to moan softly. And suddenly, I thought about this monkey- this toy- that she was so torn up about. I thought about the four and a half minutes or so that I let her wail for him in her room before I caved and went in to scoop her up. I considered the seemingly fragile security of my 19 month old daughter and how I was willing to do just about anything to restore it when it was threatened. I thought about how it hurt my heart to hear her moan and cry and how- 9 1/2 months pregnant or not- it physically pained me to hear her so upset. But this was over a toy- a very loved and cherished toy, no doubt, but still a play-thing. As I rocked her, I re-played the scene in my mind of coming in to tell her that she wouldn't be getting her "mussy" tonight (before I all but begged Jake to go get him) and seeing the devastation on her face.

And I wondered what that would have been like if she had been crying and begging for food...because she was hungry and because I didn't have enough to give her to eat. And I imagined- for one horrifying second- what it would have felt like to look at her face and tell her that she would have to go hungry tonight. How I would have to hold her and listen to her moan because her tummy was empty and she couldn't sleep. And suddenly, I wasn't crying over the missing monkey ordeal anymore, or because my back aches or even because my hormones have a death grip on me (well, okay, maybe that last one). I forget- on a daily basis- that I have it so incredibly good, and it feels wrong sometimes because so many others don't. There are mommies and daddies all over the world who have to hear their children cry themselves to sleep every night because they didn't get any food and that thought is devastating to me.

I will admit, I was never as moved by this kind of reality as I am now that I'm a parent. And I'm not even sure where this is going, other than that I had to get it out, first and foremost. If for no other reason, "the monkey incident" (which it will be called from here on out) stirred something in me that was more than just about pacifying my daughter. It's something that I'm sure will be weighing heavily on my heart as I go to bed tonight and in the days and weeks to come. Our babies can reveal so much to us about ourselves- certainly the good and the beautiful, but even more so the hard truths, the ugliness, the weak spots...those things that we'd rather pretend aren't there. If I've learned anything so far about being a momma, it's that it's a constant collision of the things I think I am and the things I really am.

It hurts like hell, but it's best thing that's ever happened to me.

Things I Know For Sure

1. I'm a round, walking mass of hormones (might as well start with the obvious). I think I can best describe it as OCD meets Alanis Moriestte meets a Lifetime tear-jerker marathon. Believe it or not, I can move fluidly between all three scenarios in a matter of 4.2 seconds. Just ask my husband. I'm convinced that if I could step out of my own skin (which I would gladly do at this point), I would be both highly amused and completely wigged out by the metamorphosis.

2. I married a very good, good man. There is just no other way to say it. I think sometimes he might be scared of me (see #1) in this very pregnant state that I'm in. When he wraps his arms around me, his hands now barely clasp behind my back, but those wordless hugs do something to restore my soul that nothing else can. (I love you babe. ;) ).

3. There is no limit to God's grace.

4. There is, however, a limit to mine. Some days, I feel like I reach it about 26 times an hour and it's at those times I remind myself of #3.

5. I can eat chicken enchiladas at 10 pm and go to bed without even a hint of heartburn, but a handful of Craisins will inevitably bring me to my knees begging to the god of Zantac for relief. Riddle me that.

6. I have no problem admitting that I'm scared of what life with two under two will resemble. I'm also not ashamed to admit that the reason we decided to have two children is plain and simple: we do not want three.

7. Of the 45 lbs I've gained so far this pregnancy, I'm approximating 30 lbs of it to be semi-sweet chocolate chips and cherry limeades from Sonic (and the plethora of Arby's roast beef sandwiches I survived on during the first trimester).

8. I am loved. Absolutely, positively and unconditionally. But understanding and embracing this took far more than the years I spent sitting in church, nodding my head in quiet agreement whenever John 3:16 popped up on a projector screen. I've heard this all my life but in truth, those words never stopped me from continuing to try to earn something that was already mine, or to try to be something that I wasn't. There are still plenty of days that I struggle to accept that I am good enough- that I am just enough. Especially on days that I lose my patience with Ella and raise my voice at her, when my "fat" jeans are the only pair that fit, when I find it easier to run the other way than press in and press on. But at the end of those days remain the things that anchor me- my family, my friends. A little bit of breathing space. Rest (albeit very little). A relentless hope that no matter how "bad" the day was, I get a clean slate the next day. Good, good things.

9. Yoga pants are the little black dresses of pregnancy. You simply can't have too many. (Yes, I'm still trying to figure out a way to rock them with a pair of stilettos).

10. I will lose the weight. (I often say this in a sort of repetitive chant to myself when I happen to catch a glimpse of my naked body in a mirror). And for the record, I'm well aware of the many wonderful benefits of breastmilk, but I have to say that my intentions to do it again are quite possibly more selfish than selfless. You better believe I'm counting on that extra 600 calorie/day metabolism. So bring on the lanolin, cracked nipples and engorgement. No pain, no gain. (Or loss, in this case).

11. My daughter is going to make a fabulous big sister. She already possesses a very "take-charge" attitude- great for bossing around little brothers- and it's also become increasingly clear that she doesn't take crap from anyone. One high pitched squeal and she goes right for the hair. (Seriously, where did she learn this?) Yes, it appears our little girl is more of a fighter than a lover at the moment, but we're told it's just a phase. In the meantime, I'm comforted to know that her strong-willed spirit will never render her a doormat for someone else to walk on, and if my suspicions are correct, she will be all too willing to stick up for her little brother. Attitude and spunk aside, she's an incredibly loving and affectionate little Bug and I'm excited to watch her make the transformation into "Big Sister."



30 days... (although this is one thing I don't know for sure. Maybe less?? Please?) ;-)

Extraordinary Things

There's a load of dishes to unload from the dishwasher, and a Fisher-Price toy bomb has exploded all over the living room floor. The beds haven't been made and I may not get a shower today. Forget working out. Instead, I am snuggled on the couch with my daughter, flipping the channels between Sesame Street and the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. I sip my coffee and skim over the colorfully loud Black Friday ads and before I know it, I've started to convince myself that we actually do, in fact, need a 40-inch LCD TV. Then my eye catches an adorable Betsey Johnson charm bracelet that they're also practically giving away. I think to myself that maybe I "need" some more jewelry too. Before I realize what's happening, I've created a bulleted, detailed mental list of things that I'm sure I've said I wanted at some point in the past. Maybe it was sub-conscious, even. But I'm sure I want(ed) these things. And at $____ a pop, it would be a crime NOT to buy them.

The truth is, I don't really remember what I got last year for Christmas, with the exception of maybe one or two things. I don't even remember what I bought everyone else on my list- though I can be sure it was things like non-descript sweaters, bedroom slippers, jewelry, random stocking stuffers- all marked down to a ridiculously low price and all for the sake of putting a tiny check mark by a name. I do, however, remember the picture I painted for Jake last year to give him for Christmas as well as the poem I wrote and gave to him the very first "married" Christmas we celebrated. I remember car trips from the Detroit airport to my parents' house- my home away from home- laughing at crazy Mad-lib stories and playing games of peek-a-boo with Ella. I can almost always conjure up the smell of cinnamon rolls and my mom's famous egg and sausage bake that she makes every Christmas morning. I remember a fabulous bottle of wine that Jake and I shared after we barely made it home one snowy Friday evening last December when we got our first official snow of the year and the "ugly sweater party" we threw last year.

Yet, even with those memories, I seem to be a walking sucker for the over-sensationalism of the Christmas season (and you can bet that commissioned sales-people can smell me approaching from miles away). Finding obscure justifications for needless expenditures is an art form I strive to perfect. I am often guilty of over-indulging and I can almost guarantee that I will spend more than I should this year. My futile strive for perfectionism always seems to peak during the Christmas season. I envision myself making Christmas cookies and red-velvet mocha truffles that would grace even Martha Stewart's table. And darn-it, I want my Christmas gifts to be wrapped in color-coordinated wrapping paper. (True story). Every year, I face the "want-it-alls," as if my holiday season would be less memorable if I don't find the perfect Christmas Eve outfit for Ella or I end up having to mix my Christmas cookies in plain mixing bowls, as opposed to the dainty winter ones I've been eyeing at Sur Le Table. I catch myself chasing down picture-perfect memories to paste into a mental scrapbook that is nothing if less than perfect (and accurate). And the expenses for trying to create such a book are far more than just monetary.

But this morning, I am hit with a simple reality and it is this: I am an ordinary girl whose life is filled with the extraordinary. And it isn't because I throw on a pair of designer jeans (by the way, never make the mistake of buying said designer maternity jeans in your first trimester. It will only piss you off when you've gained too much weight to be able to wear them in your third. I'm pretty sure the word for this is "karma"). But seriously, there is nothing about my life that is "ho-hum" and it has nothing to do with stuff. (This is the exact conclusion that retailers during this time of year don't want any of us arriving at). The truth is, I wake up in mismatched pajamas in a bed that hasn't been stripped or washed in weeks and I don't even know the thread count of our sheets but I do know that I wake up next to the man who let me have his heart five years ago- free of charge. In return, I have experienced love that is always changing, always growing and never settling to leave me the same as I was yesterday.

Extraordinary.

I am overwhelmed with laundry because I'm fortunate enough to be able to buy all the clothes that we need- and even more that we just simply want. Same with cooking and grocery shopping and cleaning out the fridge.

Extraordinary. (And undeserved).

I complain that we are very quickly running out of space in our tiny 1100 square foot home, but it's cozy and warm and filled with sweet nostalgia: a slow dance after a proposal that took place in what would become our bedroom, the first time I made breakfast for Jake when I burned all of the Belgian waffles, the late-night take-out and movies and bottles of wine, family get-togethers and birthday celebrations. Walking the hall at 2 a.m. on countless nights, shushing a tiny, peanut Ella and getting ready to do it again with my son in just two short months. When we move into a bigger house, I will cry for all of the precious memories that will be boxed up along with the dishes and books and knick-knacks.

Extraordinary.

I am inundated with cuddles and sloppy wet kisses from my daughter. Just because. She makes my world brighter and richer and full of possibility.

Extraordinary.

I struggle against an anxiety that threatens to consume my time, energy and thoughts- but it's a battle I'm learning never belonged to me in the first place. I'm learning, perhaps for the first time in my life, to loosen my white-knuckled grip on the handle-bars and let go. And when I do, someone is always there to catch me. Lots of "someones," in fact.

Extraordinary.

I'm grateful for the beautiful, poignant tapestry that is woven out of all of these extraordinaries in my life. May it always be more than enough to keep me humble. More than enough to propel me forward. And more than enough enough so that I can't keep it only for myself.

From a Bulging Belly to a Grateful Heart (Part I)

While pregnancy gives a woman much to be excited for, it goes without saying that it's not always a walk in the park. Between the first trimester nausea and fatigue, the growing belly and tightening clothes in the 2nd trimester, and the various body aches and pains that accompany the 3rd trimester, a pregnant woman can count on hurting in some form or another just about every day she puts her foot out of bed. (Lucky us).

And while it's easy to gripe and complain (and we have every right to), I thought it was time to write a post about all the things that I'm grateful for this pregnancy, in spite of the above-mentioned annoyances. First and foremost, I'm grateful for my health and the health of this baby. Stating that pregnancy isn't "a walk in a park" is a major understatement for many women who find themselves violently sick throughout the entirety of their pregnancy, or are put on bedrest due to threatened miscarriage or pre-term labor. I'm so thankful that I haven't fallen fall into either of these categories, and I know that I've surely taken it for granted at times. I am also grateful to have had a "textbook" pregnancy with Ella and that I wasn't even as sick in the first trimester as some women are. This pregnancy seems to be following suit (fingers crossed!)

But here are a few other things that I simply couldn't live without and are definitely worth mentioning (in no particular order):

1. Zofran.
It's no surprise to anyone who knows me well that I would mention this miracle pill, what with my unique fear of throwing up and all things associated with it. This tiny, unassuming yellow pill is packed with a punch that transforms even the greenest of green into a nice healthy shade of pink again. Oh, and did I mention the current price for just one of these little miracle-workers is $4? I might also add that I'm not expecting much for Christmas this year, since I've had it refilled about 3 times a month at 30 pills a pop. Yep, you do the math. Nirvana ain't cheap. (But oh, so worth it).

2. Coke

Ah, nothing is more refreshing than an ice cold coke on a hot day. And there's something about it that my pregnant body craves from the moment implantation occurs until my 40th week (or 41st, as was the case with Ella). Aside from the debilitating nausea, my insatiable thirst for coke was another big clue for me that I was knocked up, even before the pee stick turned pink. And it has to be real coke. The "fatty" coke that's chock full of empty calories. Not diet, not coke zero, not even coke with lime. Just good ol' fashioned Coca Cola Classic. (Even better if it's in a glass bottle). ;)

3. Chocolate

If you had handed me a piece of chocolate or a brownie when I was in my first trimester with Ella, there was about an 85% chance I would have gagged and run for the bathroom. Not so much with this pregnancy. It's no secret that I've developed quite the sweet tooth with this baby. Just the mention of chocolate or seeing a commercial on TV will have me salivating for some dark chocolate sorbet or a Milky Way bar. And that's not to say that indulging in a big chocolate chip cookie a few weeks back wasn't without it's consequences of immediately feeling sick and regretting the decision. Still, I craved it and continue to have a jonesing for something sweet every day. Although now unfortunately, I don't often have the backlash of nausea to make me re-think going for that second or third helping. Which, consequently, brings me to #4...

4. Elastic waistbands.

I lost the battle against my pre-pregnancy jeans about 4 weeks ago and have been living comfortably in maternity pants ever since. Honestly, it's a battle that I regret fighting so hard to begin with. After having the button of my jeans digging into my bulging belly for 6 weeks, secured only with a hair rubber band, stepping into my favorite maternity pants was like a little slice of love handle heaven. And now that my belly is actually starting to resemble more of a bona fide baby bump and less of a muffin top, I can feel even better about investing in a designer pair of maternity jeans, right? ;)

5. Naps

Naptimes are sacred in this household because Ella naps = Mommy naps. I am both lucky and grateful that she still takes two fairly long naps a day, and although it's a rarity that I actually get to have some shut eye when she does, I almost always take advantage of the time to put my feet up and rest (and maybe eat, again).

6. My husband.

I admit, during the lowest points of my pregnancy (i.e. moments I spent lying on the bathroom floor and every contraction leading up to my epidural with Ella), it was tempting to blame Jake for my condition (I mean, after all, I didn't get myself pregnant). But honestly, he's my rock. I know that I couldn't have survived either pregnancy without him. From late-night Wendy's runs, to foot-rubs and back-massages, to dealing with the ups and downs that was (and still is) the hormone rollercoaster I've been on, it goes without saying that the man has the patience of a saint. And the biggest heart of anyone I know. I know I'm a lucky girl, although I don't think I let him in on that fact often enough.

7. My daugher.

Amidst the tantrums and the ever-unfolding diva attitude she displays on a daily basis, she is without a doubt, my absolute joy. Even after a day of feeling worn down, hungry, nauseous, then hungry again, then scared to death of what life will look like with 2 under 2, I can take just one look at her and immediately know exactly why I'm doing this all over again. I remember that I literally felt my heart grow in capacity when they put her in my arms and I'm totally expecting for it to grow twice as much again when this new baby comes. Becoming a mommy has hurled all kinds of new things at me, but none have been greater than the joy it brings me to watch her grow into this incredible little person. While I have my moments of anxiety about bringing another baby into our already crazy life, I am reminded of what a gift it's going to be for me to watch Ella transform, before my very eyes, into "the big sister." Being an only child, I'm grateful to be able to give her something that I was never able to experience for myself- the love that exists between siblings. To be able to play a part in creating this legacy for them is something I never want to take for granted.


There will be more "grateful" posts to come, I promise, as I have much in my life to be thankful for....but only so much time before a certain little bug wakes up from her nap. ;)