Just a Giggle

A good friend of mine and I were recounting the other day a funny experience I had while I was at VCU. It was one of those embarrassingly hilarious moments that has lived on, despite the fact that it still kinda makes me want to crawl under a table when I think about it.

I was sitting outside on a gorgeous spring day (probably skipping class) and had taken the opportunity to grab a hummus wrap from one of the local cafe's for lunch. My friend Reggie walked over and plopped down beside me and we started chatting about the weather, music, random stuff. While we were talking (and quite unbeknownst to me) a fly had landed on my wrap. I had just finished telling Reggie about how I was planning to go out and catch some music later that night. He nodded his head and then said, without any change of inflection, "..fly on your wrap."

Not, "hey- there's a..." to preface the last part, or even so much as a motion to swat it away. I've always reasoned that maybe if he had done either of those two things, I would have realized that what he was saying should be taken in the most literal sense. But Reggie is black. He's also an awesome musician {little bitty plug for Bon Iver here} ;-). I say that, not because it really matters (especially the race thing) but because it at least gives a bit of context.

Always one to try and keep up with the trends, in that moment, I just assumed that this was some new phrase akin to "that's cool," or "I dig" or whatever else jazz guys said. So, without breaking eye contact with him, I nodded my head and said, "yeah," in agreement. There was silence for about 5 seconds. By this point, I can only assume that the fly had had enough time to not only walk the entire surface area of my sandwich, but also barf on it a half-dosen times. Reggie shook his head, and repeated himself- this time overly-enunciating each word. "Kristin, THERE IS AN ACTUAL FLY ON YOUR WRAP." I looked down just in time to see it buzzing away.


Ohhh.


He burst out laughing, then playfully busted my chops for trying to be "down" as I frantically thought of a way to recover. But there wasn't any graceful way out of that one. It was out there. I was not only white, but white trying not to be white. As the day progressed, several of my other friends got wind of my new catch-phrase. Even months later, I would randomly find it scribbled on notepads around my apartment, and a few of my favorite people still like to give me a hard time about it.


Where am I going with this? I'm not really sure. I just like to laugh. Sometimes when things feel a little too heavy or serious, I look for levity where I can get it. I don't even mind others having a good laugh at my expense every once in a while- or at least, not in this instance. It's kinda funny to me too, that of all of the random memories of what feels like the lifetime ago I spent at VCU, this particular one consistently comes to the surface and never fails to make me giggle just a bit.


Some days, those giggles are what gets me through the day. ;-)

Lessons In Chocolate

Jake and I have never been big Valentine's Day people. We avoid going out to eat- opting to stay home, cook a nice dinner, and open up a good bottle of wine. We usually exchange cards, and occasionally there are flowers for me, and that's usually it. Very low key. Now, if you know me, you know I like big. I like overdone. I like surprises. I can take an idea that I'm on fire about and run like the wind. I love planning and organizing. My heart can usually be found in the teensiest details of holidays and celebrations. In the end, I want to make a fuss over you, so just sit back, dammit, and let me have my way.

My husband on the other hand, doesn't like a fuss. Wants to fly under the radar. Less is more. Thinks a birthday is just another excuse to spend money for more stuff. He will tell you he already has enough stuff and he truly means it. This is a man who would be content with a mattress on the floor, a lamp, and maybe his iPhone or laptop.

Let me break it down for you even further. This is a typical conversation we have a couple of times a year:


Me: What would you like for Christmas/your birthday/Easter/Chinese New Year?

Jake: Nothing. I don't need a thing. (translation: I don't need anything at all).

Me: Okay, cool. But seriously, what do you want?

Jake: Really, nothing. I don't want anything. (translation: your love is all I'll ever need in this world).

Me: Oh. {fidgets and looks away}

Jake: Why? What do you want??

Me: Oh. You don't have to get me anything. (translation: there's a strategically placed magazine lying on my side of the bed up in our room, turned to p16 and you BETTER take a hint).


Flame me if you will, but after five years of marriage, no man in his right mind should show up on a major recognized holiday empty-handed, especially if he was instructed not to buy anything. I'm so sure of this that I plan to prepare Milo well in advance. I will tell him that when his future girlfriend/wife says she doesn't want anything, she's LYING. As a matter of fact, she wants that pair of shoes that she was eyeing five months earlier when you met her at the mall to grab dinner. It was probably when she said, "ooh, I wonder if they have those in my size." Or, if she fawns all over her girlfriend's new ring/bracelet/bag in front of you, you better PAY ATTENTION. She's only saying it out loud like that because she wants you to hear it and be able to conjure it up eleven months later when she says, "oh, you don't need to get me anything."

Does this make me sound shallow? Probably. But that's a limb I'm willing to put myself out on for a while, and here's why.


Because it actually isn't about the gift.


I know it sounds like I just contradicted myself, but let me explain. The night before Valentine's Day, I had to make a quick run to a nearby Walgreens to pick up some more Motrin for my little teething monster. While I was there, I walked past two well-dressed men standing in the card section and happened to overhear one of them joke to the other, "I'm not reading all of these. As long as I show up with something..." There were actually quite a few men in the card section that night. Some of them well-dressed. Some were in sweats with 5 o-clock (make that more like 8 o'clock) shadows. Young guys. Middle-aged men. The whole gamut.

I understand that Valentine's Day is really nothing more than a ploy to get consumers to spend more money and put unnecessary pressure on husbands, wives, parents, kids, and teachers to have something to hand their Valentines. And still, something in me cringed when I heard that exchange. I didn't think about it much more though, until Jake came home on Valentine's night with a dozen red roses and a card. The roses were beautiful, don't get me wrong. And the card was one that really spoke to what we shared as a couple- beautifully written and thoughtfully picked, I'm sure.

But there was a perceived problem: there were no chocolates. Yes, I'm aware that some women didn't get anything at all for Valentine's Day. I'm also aware that pointing out the absence of a heart-shaped box of truffles in light of the fact that I was given roses AND a card might make me sound incredibly spoiled. Furthermore, I'm aware that my husband is the bees knees and that he would prefer we didn't celebrate Valentine's Day at all for the reasons mentioned in the previous paragraph. I know all of this in my very core. But the thing is, I just really wanted some chocolates. I had even gone as far as to tell him this a couple of weeks ago. I was sure of it. It wasn't something I had simply hinted or given subliminal messages about. So I was disappointed, as much as I tried not to be. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I struggled against feeling entitled because, in typical me-fashion, I had gone all out (even though I had done it because I wanted to, not because I had ulterior motives).

Still, it bugged me, and he could tell. So I told him. Then I felt like crap. Then he felt like crap. Then I felt even more like crap for making him feel crappy. At first, even I couldn't figure out why it felt like such a big deal to me. Then, about halfway through an awkwardly-silent dinner (which also didn't taste nearly as good after my "where's the chocolate" conversation) I realized that it actually wasn't about the chocolate. I realized it had more to do with the crazy long hours we've both been working lately- him at his job, me at home with the kids. It's the almost constant-state of fatigue we find ourselves in, how we often go to bed at different times because there's always some project keeping one of us up, and how we can be in the same room with each other but sometimes not really see each other. And all of that lent itself to a small paranoia that saw my husband standing in that group of men at Walgreens the other night, randomly plucking out a cheesy card written in iambic pentameter because "anything would do." Yes, I wanted chocolate. But, I think what I really wanted was to know that, even after almost 6 years of marriage and 2 kids, we're still in sync with each other. That we can still tune out all of the ambient noise- the deadlines, appointments, kids, finances, artistic endeavors and everything in between- and dial into each other.


Of course, we don't need a holiday to reaffirm the bond we have with each other. I'm often guilty of putting a lot of pressure on a single day instead of realizing that I can take full advantage of the other 364 days a year to do the same thing. So I guess we both learned a valuable lesson the other night. Jake learned that there is no such thing as overrated chocolate (really, there's not. All chocolate is all good, all of the time).

And I learned that sometimes, it's not really about the chocolate at all...

"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. :-)

Come One, Come All

In about 4 hours, there will be approximately 65 people coming over to celebrate my little guy's first birthday. So why am I sitting here writing a blog? Um, that's a good question. I don't know. It could be that I'm in denial of all that I still have left to do. Or it might be that I've just decided not to give a rip about some of the smaller stuff and let today be what it is.

For example. should I really bother cleaning the floors before 25 kids come busting through our door? I think not. But the Susie Homemaker in me wants things to be spotless. Then the voice of reason (for the purpose of this blog, I will refer to him as "Jake") reminds me that our house is never going to be spotless. Ever again. This makes my skin crawl a little but I try to ignore it.

I love that so many people are coming to help us celebrate- to have some of our most favorite people all under one roof is something I refuse to be too busy to recognize today. We are incredibly blessed. And I say that from a place of humility and gratitude.


Nevertheless, I'm pumping 35 adults full of coffee, and 25 kids full of hot chocolate and cupcakes. (I apologize in advance to all the parents for the potential meltdowns at bedtime. You are coming at your own risk). :)


And something tells me there will be a very large glass of wine- and perhaps a few tylenol in my near future this evening...





(Pictures to come). :)

Dear Ella. . .

Dear Ella,

We have not had the best day today. My mommy brain is trying desperately to understand what the big difference is between the clementine I handed you for a snack and the one you said you wanted. They are both orange. They are both round. They are the same size. Neither one of them has splotches.

But you wanted "dat one." As in, the one that I hadn't already just peeled and painstakingly de-seeded (for the love of all things holy, why aren't ALL clementines seedless?) And because it was only 9:20 a.m. and my second cup of coffee hadn't fully kicked in, I decided I was too tired to peel "dat one right dare."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say to you this morning.

And then about an hour later, I tried ever so gently to explain to you, sweetie, that blueberry muffins don't just materialize out of thin air. I know it hurts. Mommy has wished the same would happen with peanut M&M's and Double Stuf Oreos. But now, our next door neighbors have also been made aware that we have no muffins.

Remember when we played hide and seek this morning while Milo took his nap and I was hiding behind the shower curtain in the downstairs bathroom? Well, I wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry because I didn't actually tell you that we were playing hide and seek. I just went and hid there and played Words With Friends for six beautiful, solitary minutes while you took a brief hiatus from whining and danced to the Fresh Beats.

It was just one of those days, I guess. And the rain didn't help. I hated that it rained this morning, which meant that we couldn't go swing. Believe me, I wanted nothing more than to go to the playground too. All mommies know that the playground = long naps and God knows Mommy needed that kind of a nap from you today.

I just want you to know, Bug, that I'm trying to see things from your perspective- really, I am. I understand that you didn't want to put your pants on before we went to Target. And although I do want to indulge your flair for the dramatic, I draw the line at letting you hop down from the cart and walk around on all fours, pretending to be a cat while we're in Target. I'm also sorry that your legs aren't long enough yet to reach the pedals of Mommy's car that you wanted to pretend to drive when we got home, which somehow meant that I was supposed to carry you up the front walkway into the house, but in doing so, made you scream even louder that you wanted to go back outside and walk in the house by yourself all over again.

Oh, and I'm sorry I laughed in your face today when you cried so hard that you farted. Mommy doesn't mean to invalidate your feelings, sweetie. It's just that if I don't laugh, I'll cry too. It just seemed like the better option at the time. I did cry though, while you were reading your book to me at naptime. Two little wispy tears that rolled out of the corners of both of my eyes that you couldn't see while I tilted my head back and gazed at the ceiling in your room and listened to your sweet sing-songy voice. And in that moment, I prayed I wouldn't remember that, barely five minutes before, I was pleading and cajoling- practically selling my soul to the devil himself- to get you to go upstairs and take your nap. I just prayed that I would only remember you "reading" to me about the little boy and his penguin who wanted to fly.

You know how you like to pretend to fill up the gas tank in your car? Well, Mommy's tank is sitting on empty today. "Running on fumes" is probably a more accurate description. But it doesn't mean that I love you any less. It just means Mommy is tired. But that's why God invented 7:30 bedtimes. I used to think it was because that's when YOU go to bed, but now, I think it's because he knew that parents would fall into their own beds, exhausted, at ten minutes after eight on a Thursday night. I've come to terms with the fact that some days, being "mommy" to you and your brother takes extra amounts of a lot of things that I don't have even sufficient amounts of-- patience, energy, grace, humor, humility, perspective, adventure.





Oh, and blueberry muffins.






So, thanks for being patient with ME.







Love you to the moon and back....

More Than Fine

Just a few weeks ago, I was wrapping up a skype session with my emetophobia therapist. I had the calendar on my phone pulled up like I usually do to mark down our next session. For several months, we met with consistency every Thursday evening for an hour. Then, after some considerable progress had been made on my part, we transistioned to every other week. Occasionally, one of us would have a schedule conflict and it would then become three or four weeks between our sessions. But the tone had started to change. I wasn't having to work as hard to peel back the layers of my anxiety. I was becoming more comfortable with my own vulnerability. I noticed that we were talking more about "life stuff" and less about throwing up. The pictures and videos (yes, videos) of people being sick were becoming less gruesome and more, well, just people getting sick.

"Well, you tell me when you'd like to see me again," she said.

*blink blink*

What? I needed clarification.

"You've worked really hard to get to this point and you've got all the tools you will ever need when you start to find yourself feeling anxious. You're ready to just go and live your life now, and see how your emetophobia reacts with it. But my guess is that you're gonna be just fine. More than fine, actually."

This was it. She was breaking up with me. Not only that, but she was employing the whole, "well, it's obvious that you're moving on to bigger and better things, so now it's time for me to let you go" tactic. I sat there for a second, stunned, and looked down at the following Thursday's date on my phone. The fact that it was pure white nothing-ness was terrifying. Keep in mind that up until this point, I had been gradually exposing myself to pictures of vomit. First it was pencil sketches, then cartoons, then on to actual pictures of puke piles- chunky vomit, watery-vomit, dried splotches on roadways and floors. Then on to pictures of people mid-heave with their heads hanging over toilet bowls and trash cans. And finally, the last level of desensitization: watching entire video clips of real life people tossing their cookies for one reason or another, complete with sounds: carsickness, stomach flu, one too many shots of crappy vodka and one poor, unsuspecting girl who had her roommate spike her morning coffee with syrup of ipecac. (Why anyone thinks this stuff is worthy to 1) be shot on video and 2) be put on youtube, is truly beyond what I can comprehend. But maybe that's why I'm in therapy to begin with).

The point is, that moment of realizing I was being "let go" was in many ways more petrifying to me than anything I had experienced up until that point in my therapy. What now? I wanted to argue with her, that no, I wasn't ready. I was like a college graduate who had dutifully completed all of her degree requirements but was suddenly paralyzed with fear at the thought of actually walking across the stage and accepting the diploma she had worked so hard for. Suddenly I wasn't sure I wanted it. I was afraid that if I allowed myself to believe that I was finally strong enough to stand with my feet firmly in place, that maybe it would all be an illusion and the ground that I thought was so steady would give way beneath me.

We have some friends who live out on the west coast that got a real kick out of the devastating earthquake that shook the east coast last August. Not because they were insensitive, but because we all flipped our nut over something that they probably experience a couple of times a year. Unfortunately, for them, earthquakes are inevitable, so the only thing they can do is practice being prepared for one when it hits. The safest places are in doorways and under sturdy tables. (Whatever you do, don't run outside like I did and look up at the sky to rule out the rapture). Since our friends have young kids, they do their best to drill them on what to do without freaking them out in the process. Children in schools participate in earthquake drills on a regular basis and practice quickly getting into position under their desks or the cafeteria tables. My friend's youngest daughter asked her one day why they couldn't just hang out under the table all the time, just in case. And to that, her mom simply said, "because that's not really living, sweetie. That's just being afraid to live."

As I reflect on the first few sessions I ever had with Anna, I remember that she never promised me a life without anxiety. She did, however, promise me that I could start living again, in spite of it. But it requires that I resist the urge to hang out under my dining room table, for all of the "just in cases," that 99% of the time never come to fruition anyway. There's nothing wrong with taking shelter when a storm comes out of nowhere, but once it passes, it can be easy to forget that we're supposed to crawl back out, hug our loved ones, and begin to rebuild.


Lyrics from a song that was always on repeat during some of my darker times. . .


"When I wake in the morning, I want to blow into pieces

I want more than just okay, more than just okay

When I'm up with the sunrise, I want more than just blue skies

I want more than just okay, more than just okay

I'm not giving up, not giving up now

Not giving up, not backing down

More than fine, more than bent on getting by

More than fine, more than just okay."


(Switchfoot, More Than Fine)

Dear Baby Corbin. . .

Dear Baby Corbin,

You were four weeks old today when your parents watched you take your last breath. I'm writing this letter to you because it's all I know to do. As a mommy, I'm just having such a hard time wrapping my head around all of this, and I know I'm far from the only one. You see, I don't know your mommy and daddy personally, or your big brother, who I'm sure is old enough to understand that something went very wrong, but I pray is still young enough that the coming years will dull the edges of this memory. I'm sure that he was the proudest and most loving big brother to you ever.

Sweet baby boy, you were so loved in your 28 days here on this earth. I have seen pictures of you and the word "angelic" fails to do you justice. As I looked at your pictures, I've tried in my own mortality to understand how your newborn perfection could be met with so many unanswered questions. What went wrong? Why won't you ever wake up? Why wouldn't you live long enough to be embarrassed by having those beautiful newborn photos dragged out in front of your future girlfriends?

I want to tell you something about your mommy, Corbin. She is one of the strongest and most beautiful women I think I would ever have the privilege of knowing. I am told that she held you all the time while you were sleeping, often times refusing to have her own basic needs met, just so she could be assured that she would be the one holding you when you grew your wings. I'm sure she went without sleep and probably at times forgot to eat and drink. Every moment- and every second of every moment- was for you, little one. Many times, I have found myself wondering if she knew, before you were born, that she was this strong. And I bet she wouldn't have ever wanted to find out in this way. No one would.

Your life was short, but it wasn't wasted. You left a legacy for so many, like myself, who never knew you, but who carried you in their hearts these past few weeks. If anything, you taught us how to hold on more tightly to our own children. To not take for granted even the slightest upset, right down to the 2 a.m. wake-ups and yes, even the tantrums, because all at once, they reminded us that your parents never even got to hear you cry. You showed us, in your own quiet way, how to better love our children. You see, I thought I knew how to hold my son. I even thought I knew exactly what he smelled like. But this past week, I realized how many times I have held him without really holding him. And so I took the time to memorize everything about him- every fat roll in his thighs, every dimple, the way his lips pucker when he starts to snore. I learned that no matter the time of day, he smells like the perfect combination of baby powder and banana. I thought I knew my daughter inside and out by now, too.. But in these past few weeks, I've caught myself staring at her while she draws and scribbles. Mesmerized, I've watched her as she reads books to her Elmo on her bed. I've listened to her tiny voice inflections and noticed how when she laughs- when something is really funny to her- it starts in her belly, uncontrollable, and bubbles it's way up into a shriek and at the very end, she'll stick just the tip of her tongue out between her teeth. And I noticed for the first time, the tiny flecks of gold in her hazel-brown eyes. I've stood outside the door to her room almost every night this week, just to listen to her sing herself to sleep.

Sweet Corbin, I'm so infinitely sorry that it took your sleep to make me realize what I have right in front of me. I'm devastated that not even your doctors have any answers. And if I'm honest, more than a little part of me is angry with a God that I claim to believe in that would even allow you to only be here- but not really here- for such a short time. My only prayer right now (because I don't know how or what else to pray) is that your mommy and daddy can find even an ounce of comfort in knowing that your precious life has touched so many others- even those that only saw your sweet face in pictures. You are loved, little one, and you will be forever missed.


12/28/2011-1/25/2012