There she is...

She's 23, self-consumed. Holidays. Two hours to get ready. Loads of makeup, and fancy jewelry. Boyfriend picks her up, they go Christmas-party hopping. She spends the evening flirting with him, making sure he notices her. Hopes for an engagement ring. Drops hints. Flirts more. Drinks a bit. Flirts more. Gets more agressive with the hints.

...

She's 25, exhilarated. A college-student finishing up her finals for her first full semester back in school. Realizing the joy of Christmas break and nowhere to be tomorrow, she showers, dresses, gets ready for the Christmas party. Her husband asks her what she's wearing and she replies a black turtleneck and jeans. He passes her in the bathroom and backs up, does a double take. Smiles. Checks her out. She is secretly pleased. Tonight will be a great night.

...

She's 26, tired. Finished up finals for college, and her clinical work, and her GRE test for Grad school, and applied for a spring practicum. On top of it all, she has pneumonia, is on two antibiotics. She's officially become an adult, so she's pulled through, managed. Christmas parties are not an option, but she sends her husband off on his merry way alone, telling him to have a good time. She'll stay home and watch a movie. But, to boot: food smells make her throw up, she has a residual headache, and can't sleep. She doesn't know it yet, but she's pregnant.

...

She's 28, wishing. For another baby, for a healthy Christmas, for diamond earrings. She's thankful to be wearing her old jeans again but wouldn't mind them not fitting if it meant she was pregnant. So, she eats a cookie, packs up her daughter, whips up a dessert, and heads to a Christmas party. Her hubby smiles at her, helps her pack the car. It's back home by 8:30pm so she doesn't miss her daughter's bedtime. But, secretly, she wouldn't mind going to bed then, either.

...

She's 29, sick. Stomach bug, throwing up, two different times during the holidays. Despite this, nothing fits. She feels huge. And, 16 weeks pregnant doesn't seem like enough baby to explain the tight pants. This is ridiculous. She throws on a tunic, long enough to cover the fact that her pants can't button, and heads to a Christmas party. Some things look good, but most things smell bad, so no holiday eating. Then it's home by 9pm for her bedtime.

...

She's 31, thankful, busy, tired. All new pants this year because baby #2 has eradicated the waistline (and hipswaistthighs). Husband is downstairs with the kids, she is getting ready. Throwing on a bit of bronzer and eyeliner, she finishes up with good earrings. Hubby sticks his head in the doorway and smiles. Checks her out. Gives her thelook. She is secretly pleased. Packs up h'ors d'oeuvre. Packs up kids. Packs up car. Packs up gear. Husband holds her hand in van. Head to party. Great time. Forget bedtimes. Forget tired. Stays at party, with kids, and enjoys holidays.

There she is.

Kharmic Distribution

First, let me say that I do NOT believe in kharma, but I do think SOMEONE SOMEWHERE has a sense of humor.

Helpful: read in the voice of Sophia Petrillo from the Golden Girls:

Picture it, Toledo, 1998, a young girl, ravishing, no body fat (ok, I'm ebellishing on all accounts, here), falls in love (again, embellishing) with beautiful boy. Doesn't work out. Fast forward.

Now, picture it, Perrysburg, OH, 2009, Giant Eagle parking lot, Friday night at 6:oopm. Middle-aged girl with sappy chick flick pauses in parking lot crosswalk. Nearly gets hit. In the midst of avoiding a collision with a Dodge Ram, girl sees man and woman in a Jeep Cherokee, watching her event unfold. Middle-aged girl recognizes man in driver seat. Doesn't know how or why. Remembers. Becomes embarrased. Realizes what she's wearing. Becomes mortified.

Old, ripped Adidas sneakers.

Fuzzy blue slippers with butterflies made out of applique beads on the outside, stuffed inside her sneakers like socks, but bulging out of the sides under her jeans.

Jeans that are stretched out and too big and bunched into the tongues of her shoes.

A dressy ruffle Caribbean blue shirt, too dressy for the jeans.

An old hoodie, ripped on the arm, army green, too casual for the shirt, whose ruffles are pouring out of the zipper, which is zipped up unnaturally high to avoid the cold.

Hair: one side matted down because of a nap, the older side taking flight; the back is a whoosh of abyssinian guinea pig and then abruptly flattened against her head because a portion of the nap must've been spent laying oddly on back.

Realizes she's standing in the middle of the parking lot crosswalk with other cars waiting for her to finish her cross. Realizes that the man behind the wheel is staring at her.

This ought to teach that girl a lesson to never never never leave the house looking like this ever ever ever again.

consuming

She's quiet, sleeping. Her mouth gapes open and her arms are draped over her head. The whooshing sound of her breath is rhythmic and regular. I can hear it. For a full minute, all I do is listen to her. You would think I was listening to a violin concerto, the way I'm mesmorized by her.

I stand above her. I resist compulsions to touch her, to kiss her. It would mean this moment would end, and I'm not ready.

She sighs and rolls over to her side. My breath catches, and for a second or two, I do not make a sound, move a finger, fearing even the unnoticeable rise of my chest filling with air will lure her to consciousness.

Her hand reaches for her sucky blanky, to find its security, even in her sleep, and its texture is instantly wrapped up inside her fingers. It's become reflex, her need for her sucky blanky. With the few reflexes our babies are born with, it is our world that creates new ones, and extinguishes the old. Her hands are still tiny, her body is little. The outline of her shape rises like a moutain chain under her princess blanket, and I am struck by how much I love her. She's four, and yet I want to envelop her into my arms, a swoosh of consuption, and hold her close like when she was a baby.

I kneel down and look at her. Her dark eyelashes. The tiny visible pulse in her neck. Right now I realize the weight of losing her, and I stare at her. She is a miracle. She is MY miracle. Even now, as I watch sitting silently next to her, she is growing, changing. Right now, she is bigger than she was a minute ago. She is moving in a black tunnel, in a cavernous force like the Bernoulli effect: as time is marching onward, she is moving away from me, faster and faster, seeking independence and abilities her own, separate from me. And, the humor in all of it is that I am encouraging it. I am fostering it.

With every victory, I cheer her, I clap. Can she see that there are times when this is false? When my heart is breaking because her victory means she needs me a little less?

*********************

He is predictable. It is 3:52pm and, though I am sitting and reading a book on the couch, I have detached from the novel. I am on autopilot, listening. For him.

A noise.

No, it's just a dog barking in the distance. Wait... there he is. His voice is scratchy at first, growing clearer by the second.

MOMMY! DONE!

It is functional, what he says. His calling for me has less to do with love than it does function. He wants out of his crib, a wooden cage that prevents him from exploring, or digging, or empyting cabinets. He wants out.

I open the door a crack, peeking in, trying to provoke a smile out of him. His smiles are like prozac. They bring a rush of endorphins that make me feel like I want to burst. He cries and says, "Nooooo." My heart sinks a bit, but I try again. I know him. I know there is a reason.

"Where's your blanky, Mak? What happened to it?" In the darkness, I see he hasn't moved from his spot standing in his crib, and as I turn on his light and open his shade, I see he's pointing.

There it is. It's on the floor. I stoop to pick it up, and he is rushed with smiles and coos. This blanket of his, it's special. It's a rung on a ladder that leads to the tunnel. The one that directs toward independence.

I pick him up and rub his back. He is tiny. He lays his head on my shoulder, heavy and unmoving, and he is still. He is limp, and I feel the rise and fall of his breathing against my body. I feel his shoulder blades, small on his back, and rub my lips over his fuzzy head. He smells so good, but it doesn't smell like clean. It's his very own scent, better than any other, and I wonder if someday he'll have a wife who'll love this smell, too? I'm not ready to share him, yet.

I sit down at the computer to check my email, and while I'm typing, he is playing, he is a boy. Straddling me on my lap, he is leaning in, touching my nose with his nose. He is giggling. It is a game. His eyes are so happy. I stop, see him, look at his smile, and he becomes shy. Throwing himself against my chest, he is waiting for me, hiding, beckoning me. "Will she do it?" I know it, so I squeeze my fingers around his sides and he wriggles with delight and laughter.

My boy.

*********************

Do they know?

Do they know that when we kiss them, when we hold them, when we sniff their little heads or trace our fingers around their fingers that it is not for them?

It is selfish; it is for us. It is for me. It is because my love for them is like a consuming fire, and unless I unleash some of it, release it to them, it will consume me. It is because there was a moment when she was all mine, when he was a part of me. They were in my body, and I didn't have to share them with anyone. Now, they are growing and changing, and as I sniff, or trace, or kiss, or hug, or tickle, it is for me: because it is a wonder that they are becoming all that they are outside of me, apart from me, and I am filled with awe.

They are marvelous little creatures. I am so selfish, I want to freeze time. I want them to stay little, for their hands to fit inside of mine for forever, for their voices to call me indefinitely with the trust that I can fix anything.

This is impossible, but today, this is what my heart is thinking.

Teaching compassion

You know, when you dive into the motherhood thing, you worry about eating and sleeping schedules, dry skin, or diaper rash. You just don't immediately contemplate the depth of the mysteries you'll need to teach your children. You don't list out the virtues that you'll need to instill in your children to make them well-rounded, good people. You really don't think a lot about all of this when you're pregnant, let alone when you're dealing with sleep-deprivation at 3am, or their refusing to eat their vegetables when they're 16-months-old, or when they're throwing temper tantrums at your feet when they're two while you're cooking dinner. You manage each hurdle, obstacle, trial as they come, thinking most of the time on your feet, instantly second-guessing yourself at some turns. And, you pray that they let you have a 10-minute phone conversation, or behave well while you go to the grocery store. You manage, minute by minute, task by task, and try to be consistent, even though you're too tired to remember how to spell some words. But, how does it happen that we teach our kids kindness? Or, honesty? Or hope? Or compassion?

It seems that in the balance of what we do, the amount of US that we pour into our kids, the times that we sacrifice for them, that they learn it. It seems that in our conversations with our friends (reminder to BE A GOOD FRIEND!), in our kindnesses to our husbands, in our concern for their hurts or the needs of another, we impart it to them. When we stop what we're doing to kiss a scraped knee, or when we carefully tape a ripped picture back together, or when we pause to undo a knot or broken toy or stuck gamepiece, or when we give them choices, we teach them compassion. We teach them understanding. We teach them sacrifice. We teach them kindness. We teach them concern. We teach them to be peacemakers. We teach them to be gentle. We teach them to love. They love like we do. They repeat what we say. And, someday, they will mother (or father) like we do. We teach them these virtues in the "between the lines" parts of the day. They become a concert of our best and worst features, character traits, and qualities.

My reminder for today, this day:

That, although my daughter will forgive my mistakes, she may learn them and repeat them. As much as I need grace to accomplish mothering her with success, I also need to remember there is no other job as important. My character is both on display and on trial in who she is and who she becomes.

Yesterday, Sophia gave me a picture with stickers on it. She was so proud. She pointed out "the six stickers JUST for me". I had been angry with Bri and yelling. I had found quiet and solace upstairs on the computer (of course). She was upset that I was yelling, and so she brought me the picture and said, "Mom, this reminds me of you. And your heart. And, inside, that is love. Does that make you feel happy?" ...to the point of bursting, Soph.

Compassion... check.

And the future of keeping up with the Jones'...

I think that we have a problem here that no amount of government intervention can rectify.

It seems to me, as I've listened to friend after friend tell me about their new computer, or new stainless steel appliances, or new tv, or new _________, that many of us have been so disallusioned to believe that we are as great as what we own. And, what floors me the most, I suppose, is that these people who have a long laundry list of recent BIG purchases are those who have the least amount of money to burn. These are also folks who are in debt up to their ears and still feel entitled to own more. So, is this what America is composed of?

Forget "the home of the brave", because we've avoided paying our debtors what we owe them, forget abiding by the confines of our paycheck because we have credit cards with high limits; we certainly ARE "home of the free" because we have opposed every effort our government exercises to promote peace in other parts of the world, yet we want all of the freedoms and accoutrements of high spending habits not limited by a yearly salary. And, of course, we can continue on our road to destruction because our peace-loving, freedom-ensuring goverment would NEVER kick us out on our asses for not paying our mortgage, right? They will institute programs to buy back our over-due home loans, lowering our interest rates, lower our monthly payments, so that we can continue on our road to load our shelves with the latest, greatest whatever.

Of all things these days, America is "the home of the entitled", and I am becoming more and more embarrased that we that have forgotten that the BIG things in life come as payoffs to a lifetime spent of hard work, saving money, living frugally, understanding perseverence, appreciating "the wait", and feeling the pain of going without. Shame on us, all of us, for feeling like what we've had isn't enough, that we want it sooner, now, and that the rewards of our parents' hard labor should be at our fingertips without a single drop of sweat dropping off of our brow. Shame on us.

God help us all if we do not recognize this.

I'll step off of my soap box, now. Thankyouverymuch.

Deciphering Chewbaka

And, he's (obviously) a boy...

My 15-month old baby, Mak, today showed me in full force that he is a BOY. Upon waking from his afternoon siesta, Mak was super stinky. This is not an anomale. This is ruitine, regular, and predictable. As I lifted him from his crib, the smells of his present contained in his pants wafted up to my nose and warned me. I replied with a wrinkled face and a "P.U., Makie is stinky!!!", at which point, Mak began his laughing. This laughing continued as I peeked into his diaper, only to quickly snap it shut, and tell him again, "Ewwww! Yuuuu-ckkky." Now, this is where Mak fully began being a boy. He made a farting noise with his mouth - how he did this, I have no clue - and began laughing uncontrollably, only to stop to make the farting noise again.

And, article B that I'd like to present: he was naturally ADEPT at making fart noises. Not at asking politely for a drink. Or saying "cow" when he sees a picture of a cow. Or saying "eye" when he sticks his little finger squarely into my cornea.

Here's the revelation:

Women? You think your men need to talk more? Perhaps they don't talk because language development wasn't on the top of their priority list when they were 15 months old. Perhaps making mouth-fart noises was more paramount. Perhaps this is also why so many little boys related so endearingly to Chewbaka the Wookie in Star Wars. BECAUSE HE DIDN'T TALK. He grunted. He moaned. BUT, he was understood by little 7-year old boys everywhere. Don't believe me? Ask your husband to imitate Chewbaka.

His face will light up.

He will smirk a secret grin, remembering his fondness for the giant, furry sasquatch beast.

And, he will remember.

SOOOOOOO, the next time you're trying to find out how your husband feels about something, walk up to him, and in all seriousness, Chewbaka him with a grunt or mouth-fart him your request, and I bet he'll understand perfectly how you're feeling. He might even envelope your body in a mammoth show of affection because of your attempt to speak his secret, incomprehensible language.

STILL don't believe me?

If your husband is a football fan (or basketball, or hockey, or golf...), WHILE he is watching a game and is engrossed in it, say in a casual, notyellingabovethetv voice, "hey, honey? can I ask you a question?"

He'll throw a glance your way, give you a flash of eye contact, and mumble "yah... what's up... oh crap! he fumbled the ball... man! COME ON!" Obviously, you're getting no real amount of quality attention from him right now. The football game is winning, hands down.

Now, record a loud belching noise (nothing needed if you possess the skill to do it on your own). While he is still watching the very same game, and preferably while he is watching nearly the same play as your earlier verbal experiment, mumble you have a tummy ache and play the belching noise. You will have his fullattentionayeayesargent attention. He will stare at you, full eye contact, mouth agape, and tell you in an almost whisper, "we have some TUMS under the bathroom sink." All the while thinking, "wow. she's hot."

Try it.

Have I unlocked the secrets that the likes of Donahue, Sally Jesse, and Oprah have been scrutinizing for decades? I think I just might have... Maybe.

Tricksy little sayings

These kids of mine. They just have a way of cracking me up. Mak searches for moments to make me laugh and be a part of the action and some of the things Sophia says literally crack me up.

The other day, Sophia was throwing a temper tantrum in Target, and having to finish my shopping excursion because I had waited until the 27th hour and had a deadline, I pressed on toward the goal. The whole thing - Sophia in the back of the cart because I had to contain her - became a race to see how fast I could whip down the aisles, grabbing what I needed while ignoring her screaming, kicking, and trying to jump out of the cart. All the while, Mak, who was quietly strapped and sitting in the kid-seat in the front of the cart, had a look of utter amazement, tracking a make-believe ball back and forth from Sophia back to me, Sophia back to me.

...Whap! Sophia hits a fast one with the latest kick to the side of the cart...
...Kapow! Mom ignores it but sweat is dripping down her fac and I think I saw her lip twitch...

Because the game was too much fun to watch and there are no rules when you're 15 months old, Mak decides we're having too much fun without him. He begins shreaking at the top of his lungs, echoeing every one of Sophia's loud screams with a shrill of his own.

...It seems, folks, that a Capuchin monkey has joined us on the court...

The upside to temper tantrums is who needs exercise when you're so embarrassed and sweating and burning calories? The downside is that you may discover that your deoderant is less than ample to live up to the task.

And, Sophia, with her latest comments (she'll kill me one day if she reads this), trying so hard to be just and fair:

Mak, being a BOY, finds his PARTS every time he's naked and who needs bath toys when you have these PARTS? Follow me? So, last week, Sophia tells Mak he needs to share while they're in the bathtub. Our most recent sibling challenge is sharing, and I've taken cues from my friend, Nicole, in setting timers to mark how long one child gets to play with a toy before it's the other's turn. SOOO, in the sweetest most coddling voice EVER, Sophia says to Mak, "ok, buddy, go ahead and have fun, but next it's my turn to touch your PARTS, okaaaaayyyyyy?" Later in the week, while they were strapped in their seats in the back of the van, Sophia begins to call Mak a "little humper" which carries on into the afternoon and then the following morning.

Love this. First she's encouraging him to share his PARTS with her and then she's calling him a "little humper". I cannot begin to describe how special this was.

And then, in a moment I thought would be educational, I explained to Sophia how when we don't obey rules and laws, we might have to go to jail. To which Sophia replies, "ohhhh, weeeeeelllllllll jail is just like Heaven. You can die in jail and you die in Heaven..." Fantastic. That went well and I really drove that home. In fact, I can see that I've explained the whole concept of Heaven really well, too. Great.

All in all, however, life has been great. Sophia has started school and is doing fantastic. Mak is talking, running, continuing to play in toilets, and now has discovered that his little fat foot is the exact right size to fit evenly in Macy's water bowl. Our days have been crazy, but good, and they're going too fast. And, on this note, I'm going to sign off. Mak just put a plastic pig in my lap and "bye bye". Sianara, for now!

Radically

I've been taking a step back lately from the motions of "knowing" God and "serving" Him and I had admittedly gotten to a place of thinking, "if this is IT, then I'm not sure this is what I want."

Well, what I had been experiencing wasn't really "IT".

I've been seeing and learning and experiencing God's love. Not His favor. Not His provision. Not His endurance, or patience in affliction, or submission, or faith, or even His joy. His love. His vast, all-consuming, identity redefining love.

You know the friend you have that is your real friend? The one you can call and brag to when you make a fantastic dinner? Or have found the best pair of boots? The one that is your friend buried down deep in your heart that you have an affinity for above all the rest? Well, I have learned that that drive for a confidant, that drive for wanting THAT friend is from God. I have learned that God wants me to be that friend to Him. I have learned that if I'm quiet, God will tell me, giddily, the secrets of the universe. He will brag about the expanses of the galaxies, or the numbers of stars, or the excitement He had in creating the different trees. He will allow me to hear the cicadas humming and singing to God and show me how He is bigger than my worst moment. I've fallen into the Adam-and-Eve syndrome of hiding from Him when I don't want His accountability, but lately, I've tried to stand firm. I've tried to come to Him when I'm so angry, so pissed off, I see red. I try to call on Him when I need someone to listen. To be face to face. And, you know what? He's there. He's my friend, sitting next to me, listening as I vent and complain, and He's my friend that doesn't say "I told you so". He's become my "cry with me" friend and my "laugh with me" friend and my "i love you so much" friend. He's been my friend who's ran to get the tissues when I'm crying and snot is running down my face. Like with any friend, there is no promise that they will alleviate the crap that makes life tough. But, they're there. They get the call, and they're on the next plane. God gets the call and He's at my front door.

And laughing? Soooo comes from God. Um, He created it. What about laughing with God? When did we ever think that it was disrespectful? When did we ever think having the joy of the Lord was just designated for tough times? Hello? God is funny. He is humor. He is good, and gracious, and embodies holiness, and wisdom, and beauty, but He also embodies funny. He also enjoys a good chuckle. An inside joke.

Always a christian, always a follower, but now I'm changed. I'm different. I don't want to be minimal anymore. I don't want to talk about it anymore or teach on it anymore or meditate on it anymore. I want to experience it.

I will be radically changed because He has shown me how He loves me. I am important to Him. He is jealous for me. I will not be minimally affected. Oh, how He loves me.

Check 'er out:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JoC1ec-lYps

Sing me a song, Sophia...

Dear Sophia,

...Little girl with a big, deep, wise heart...

...My little girl that I named "Sophia" because it was greek for wisdom, which is what I want most for you. Beyond all riches and success of this world, beyond fame and happiness and lack of sorrow, I want you to have a wise heart.

Today you were singing to me at the table while we ate our lunch the song "Mighty to Save". You've been singing it a lot to me, and also making up your own "hallelulah" (that is how you pronounce it) songs. I love it that you sing constantly throughout your day to God. I love that I hear you praying and talking to God like He were sitting next to you. Do you know that He is? Sitting right next to you? Wispering in your ear that you bring Him joy and that He delights in you? It's true - the same joy you bring to my heart, you bring to His a thousands times over. The same proud tears you fill my eyes with, you fill His with, too. The same moments I notice your beauty, your humor, your innocence, He notices them, too. And the same moments I don't want to end, but rather to endure forever, He does, too. All the things that I feel as a mother, God feels with a heart that is bigger than mine will ever be. He loves you beyond the limits of the universe.

It seems the biggest change in your transition from toddler to preschooler is wanting to know "why". You have questions. BIG questions. "Why did Jesus have to die on a cross?"; "Why do we CRY holy, holy, holy? Why can't we just SAY it?"; "Why did God make me a girl?"; "How is Jesus God's son and also God?" You hunger and thirst for answers and a deeper understanding of the world, but you also hunger and thirst for understanding God. While this is so great, man, is it also so hard. It means that the burden falls on me to answer your questions, and sometimes I don't even know how to begin to explain God! How do I explain to you the being that was here before the onset of time, who CREATED time, and also wants to live in our hearts, helping us to serve Him and love Him but also paved the way for us to do this through Jesus? My prayer this year, as you turn four and grow in wisdom and age, is that God equips me with His holy wisdom to be able to guide you rightly down the path of understanding Him who saves. That you would grow in knowledge of Him but also that your heart would hunger and thirst for Him. That your heart would beat fast for God, all of your days.

And, my funny little girl... As you were singing today at the table, you sang, "For-ever... author of sal-mation..." and then asked me, "Mommy, do you know what salmation is? It's a white dog with black spots." In all of my teaching, you have taught me again to laugh, little girl. I am eternally grateful.

Deeper than the sea

Yesterday, while I was buckling Sophia in the car, I paused, put my hand on her face, and said, "Sophia, I love you more than anything else in whole wide world"

To which, she replied, "And, I love you ever a dolphin."

Tonight, as I was tucking her into bed, I said again, "Sophia, I love you so, so much."

To which, she replied, "And, I love you anything a shark."

I have no idea what she's talking about on both accords. She usually makes sense, but with her deep inflection in her voice, I know she is very serious in saying what she did. Apparently, there high stock in dolphin-love or shark-infatuation. There is high expressive love when you're three years old. Apparently the standard "I love you, too" just doesn't cut it. We've got to get nautical. Very cool.

And like a flash...

Mak, my once joy-filled baby, has now become my joy-filled Antilla the Hun. He is bent on taking me down, piece by piece, drawer by drawer, bit by bit of dog food, inch by inch of dirt eating.

And, as of Tuesday, he has waged serious war on me in public. It seems as if a battle becomes a full-on war once it's made public. Well, Mak sent his flare high into the air on Tuesday.

The Stage: My friend, Deb's house, lunchtime, roughly 13 kids running around playing while the mommies get lunch ready

Scene 1: The flash

Me: "Oh, my gosh, Deb. Where's Mak...? Anyone seen Mak? MAAAAKKKKK? MAAAAKKKK? Oh, Deb, he really likes stairs..."

Deb moves into hallway toward foyer with quick agility. Like a flash, a white Michelin Man runs across the foyer. No wait, it's not a Michelin Man, it's a midget. No wait, not a midget, it's a little boy. It's my boy. It's Mak. Covered and rolled, around both arms, head, and torso, in about 25 feet of toilet paper. And wet. From the toilet water.

Deb and I enter the bathroom, Mak is in my hands, squirming, arching his back, wanting down for another go at the toilet paper roll. The bathroom floor is completely covered in the remainder of the roll of paper.

Me: "Oh, Deb, I'm so sorry. So sorry. I'm so sorry..."
Deb: (laughing) "Oh, Mary, I have kids it's ok... Oh, wait, I think he got into the toilet because it's soaked in here."

I go to wash his hands and he is so upset at the prospect of being cleaned that he just lays his head on the counter as I scrub his fat little fingers and arms.


The Stage: around the kitchen table, six moms sitting in kitchen chairs talking as the kids play. Rachel is sitting in a chair next to mine, holding her sleeping seven-week old baby.

Scene 2: the banger

Me: (holding Mak on my arms because I no longer trust him) "Look, Makie, a baby. See? Baby."
Mak: "baby.... baby...."
Me: "Yes, Mak. Baby? See? The baaa-bbyyyy."

Mak arches his back, and at this point, I'm tired. I put him down. I'm going to watch the hallway heading to the bathroom with the skill of a bald eagle.

Mak walks around the back of Rachel's chair, turns to face the top of her sleeping baby's head, and hits the baby on the head as hard as he can while saying "NO".

Me: "Oh, Mak, NO. NO HIT."
Mak: "NO."
Rachel: "Oh, my gosh, Mak just hit my baby. Hard. I felt it. Do you think he hurt him? Oh, my gosh - he just hit my baby!"
Mak: "NO."
Me: "Rachel, I'm so sorry. So sorry. So, so sorry. Mak, NO HIT."
Mak: "NO."
Rachel: "I mean, do you think he hurt him? Mak hit him really, really hard."
Deb: "No, Rach, I really think he's ok. He didn't even cry."
Me: "Rachel, I'm so, so sorry."
Mak: "No."

The Stage: lunch, around the kitchen table, Mak sitting strapped into a booster seat and eating his lunch.

Scene: the wiper

Mak: "OOOHHHHH."
Me: "Here, Mak, bite. Open wide. Bite."
Mak: "No."
Me: "Mak, no. Do not throw the food."
Mak: (doing something underneath the edge of the table) "Oooohh."
Me: "Look, Megan! He's eating all his food! Good boy, Mak. Yay! Food all gone!"

I pull chair away from table. Reach to unstrap Mak from chair and realize that he's wiped all of his strawberries, mac 'n cheese, crackers, and watermelon on his crotch and feet. I remove him and take him over to the sink where I proceed to wash his feet, reassuring Deb that I won't let him run around her house this caked in food. I set him down, and watch as pieces of mac 'n cheese fall out of the leg of his shorts as he proceeds to walk across Deb's kitchen.


It's full-on war. If this kid has no qualms about playing in someone else's toilet, he'll have no qualms with eating someone else's garbage. He also sees innocent, defenseless babies as prey. Reminder to self: 1) don't have another baby right now; 2) watch Mak around garbage cans in other people's homes; and 3) find and purchase kid-sized, kid-safe leash to strap on Mak.

Signs of the Times!

written sept. 8, 2008, and i'm sure i could add to this list...

21 Signs you're a stay-at-home mom...

1. You reheat your half-consumed cup of coffee like 10 times between waking up and 9:15am, when you realize that your coffee maker has automatically turned off and the whole pot of coffee is now cold.
2. Your hair is cut at chin level or shorter but you'd still call it "long".
3. Your wardrobe is increasingly made up of "cute jeans" and trendy tops that are play-date worthy.
4. You enjoy your tri-monthly appointment with your hairdresser way more than you should.
5. You know what GNO stands for, and you've just thought of the last off-color comment your friend made at your last one.
6. You ruitinely have cheerios or dried cereal hidden, becoming like petrified wood, underneath a leg of your kitchen table.
7. Every room in your house has some sort of toy-like paraphanalia designed to occupy your child while you're in that room trying to accomplish something.
8. The top shelf of your refrigerator has ring marks on it from the repeated half-consumed sippy cups of milk you've put in there after you've found them in the living room, family room, bedroom, or bathroom.
9. There have been days, maybe many, that you've foregone brushing your teeth for the sake of brushed hair when you're rushing to get out the door in the morning.
10. You rarely actually wash your travel mug of coffee; a simple rinse-out with some tap water renders a (fairly) sanitary beverage holder perfectly acceptable for consumption.
11. Your idea of "getting away" by yourself is to aimlessly walk around Target for an hour resulting in you buying a new headband, socks, lip gloss, piece of mineral makeup, or wipes.
12. You are very, very interested in what Supernanny has to say about temper tantrums and wonder how in the world she gets the results she does without a wooden spoon or a spank.
13. You really aren't sure what music is considered popular anymore because most of it has inappropriate lyrics and you're slightly embarrassed too, when you think about "it's getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes...".
14. You, by fortune of habit, ruitinely place everything back away from the edge of tables or the counter for your deeply embedded knowledge of placing objects near the edge results in little sticky fingers pulling them off and either spilling them or putting them in their mouths.
15. You actually like the idea of going to work for a day WITHOUT YOUR KIDS.
16. You've held a baby on your lap while you're going to the bathroom because you deserve to at least poop in peace.
17. Anything that provides "kidcare" while you do something else, i.e. exercise, is very, very alluring even though it means you probably will walk around sweaty for the rest of the day because you realistically won't have time to take a shower when you're done.
18. You are able, and even adept, at walking while you feel a baby, either nursing of offering a bottle, while talking on the phone and frequently do this on your way to wipe your toddler's bottom as they call you from the bathroom that they're done going potty. And if you should get poop on your hands after wiping, you can continue nursing/feeding/talking on the phone while you wash your hands. No problem
19. You walk into a clothing store and feel very old as you a) don't recognize the song playing over the speakers, but try to act like you know it, realizing you're doing the mom bounce instead of looking like you have actual rhythm; and, b) are constantly looking at mannequins to evaluate if "this is how they're wearing clothes now".
20. You've walked into a high-end clothing store with any of the following on you: a sticker of a pony stuck to the top portion of your breast; a piece of child jewelry somewhere on your body; a child's hairclip inadvertantly stuck into your hair haphazardly so you wouldn't misplace it again; spaghetti sauce, or something reddish, smeared down the front of your shirt and some sort of noodle hanging from your sleeve; chewed graham cracker in your bangs; or baby spit up dried and stinking to high heaven down the back of your shirt.
21. You've ever used a nursing pad/pantyliner/maxipad to wipe your kid's nose, face, hand, or coffee spill in the car.

Visions of My Father

Written about a year ago, July 2, 2008, right after baby Mak joined our clan...

Father's Day is long passed, and I have no special occasion other than my raging hormones post birth, but I decided to write today on the visions I have had this week of my father.

I look back on the last three years of my life, and I'm struck that most of my blog writing occurred when I was hormonal or sleep-deprived dealt by the sleep patterns of a one-baby Sophia. Well, now I write from the inspired sleep deprivation brought on by a one-Mak, and I kind of like my place of introspection and reflection.

Since I've been occupied by Mak's care, Brian has had to take over most of Sophia's daily duties and has to orchestrate her daily ruitine. This, I know, has been challenging for him because his typical day involves leaving at 5:00am for work and returning at 5:30pm, missing most of the inticacies that define the bulk of Sophia's schedule. Yet, the glimpses I've gotten, standing from the hallway looking through the doorway to her room, or from the kitchen sink, peeking at them in the yard, have been windows to my three, or four, or six year-old existence. There is something about a daddy. The way you can pull the wool over their eyes and "convince" them enough that "something" is a normal part of your day that they'll fall for it and actually DO it, or the way that they spend extra time with you at nap time or in lunch preparation. There are always extra choices with a daddy - lunch menu items, or clothing choices - and they never, never comb your hair. I think if Mak was a little bigger, Brian might even try to squeak Sophia into some of his clothes, and she'd walk around in a spit-up-stained onesie and crotch-snap pants. However, and I don't digress, there is something magical, too.

It's found in the way that they lay down next to you to read to you at naptime, or in the way that they will actually run with you through the sprinkler, or push you on the swing for 45 minutes. The way that our driveway turns into a Van Gogh work of art, and although the drawings look like prehistoric cavemen drew them to depict their lives, they were actually penned from the hand of a daddy.

I have memories of my daddy. And, whether or not you had a good or bad daddy, there are things that only daddies can do or not do. There are memories you either have or don't have because your daddy did or didn't do them, and this is what I've found hidden in the midst of Brian's parenting: that our children's daddies can help heal hurts dealt by our own fathers. Hurts administered decades ago can be slowly melted away when we watch our own husbands extend patience to our children; losses can become gains when we see our children's daddies paint, or draw, or read to them. And, although my very own daddy did so much with me, and I always felt so loved by him, I find myself being re-parented by my own husband as I watch him with my daughter. I feel so loved by him through her, and I relish the moments I see her with him. I doubt she'll remember everything he did with the accuracy that I will, but I know that one day she'll see her own husband with her own child and she'll remember the love of her daddy and maybe a memory will creep up and she'll hear Brian's voice in her head singing to her at bedtime "Jesus Loves Me" and see him tiptoe out of her room and she'll smile because she'll know that at one, at two, at four, and at six, she was so loved and cherished by her daddy. She'll think of all the things he did with her and instead of her thinking that she was entitled to his attention, she'll realize that he gave it to her out of the overflow of the love he had in his heart for her.

At least for me, this is what I have been experiencing. And, I'm so thankful that this special, early time with Mak has brought on the chance for me to see Brian this way.

A few of my favorite things...

i wrote this in february of 2007...

a few of my favorite things

Ok, now that the holidays have passed and I am feeling refreshed, renewed, and back to normal, I thought I'd just post some of my favorite things -- now that I have had a moment to think and, in a renewed way, enjoy these favorite things!

In no certain, specific order....:

1. My mother's apple pie. Oh, sooooooo award winning!
2. Sophia's sweet "peeeeezzzzz" while rubbing her chest (sign language) when asking for a "kaacka" (cracker)
3. Lots of snow, white snow, brightly-lit, star-lit snow
4. That feeling you get right before you fall asleep, like you're sinking into the couch and you can no longer differentiate where it stops and you begin
5. Coffee with Coffee-Mate French Vanilla creamer in it
6. A crackling fire in the fireplace
7. How, in a moment of silence, Sophia thinks the perfect contribution to the lack of conversation is her loud "moooo" (a cow)
8. How Sophia rocks her baby, pats her baby, and gives her baby kisses
9. Keeping in touch with old friends
10. Re-connecting with old friends
11. Laughing so hard you pee a little in your pants
12. That moment that you feel completely, absolutely loved
13. Getting a card in the mail for no reason
14. The outside smell of a fire burning in a fireplace
15. Jeans fresh out of the dryer
16. Ripping the tags off a new item of clothing that you are totally excited to wear
17. Flushed cheeks
18. Someone innocently flirting with you, and then you innocently realizing it, and then you walking away with the feeling that you were noticed for a moment, but it wasn't sleazy or cheap, it just made your day
19. Feeling a baby kick for the first time inside your belly (no, no I am not pregnant!!!!)
20. Watching a movie with a great kiss scene in it, like the Notebook, that makes you want to go out and kiss someone or be kissed by someone (for me, it just makes me think of Bri.... awwwww....)
21. The smell of a really clean house
22. Getting into bed when the sheets feel fresh and cold
23. Bright red freshly painted toenails and flip flops
24. The very last sip of ice-water with mostly melted ice in it that is so cold and perfect you wish there were more "last sips" to be had
25. Being called "mommy"
26. My husband's hands... they're just.... perfect

A peppered life.

written on june 5, 2006, this is getting truer by the day, hour, and minute. sophia is, and continues to be a massive inspiration in my life. only now, the difference is that she is also discovering the bad aspects of life, and, at times, that breaks my heart...

A peppered life

There is little to be left to the imagination.

There is certainly a point in life where you hit the maximum threshold and there are very few new experiences left to be experienced. For instance: I have gone to college and graduated, I have successfully planned, executed, and been in my own wedding, I have experienced nearly five years of marriage and survived, I have lived through nine months of pregnancy and childbirth, and my daughter, now almost nine months, is still alive and thriving, so I've experienced motherhood, I am, obviously, not a virgin, so I've experienced sex, I am a daughter, aunt, best friend, I have moved away from my home town and lived in a different part of the country. Get it? I just suppose that at some point, creativity becomes more paramount than anything else because it is this very thing that creates the thrill of an experience. No, I have never sky dived (or, should it be "sky dove"?) and I have yet to feel motherhood through the lenses of multiple children, field trips, little league baseball, brownies, soccer, and ballet. But, it's like a seasoned steak... You can season it, marinate it, and at some certain point, there is little more that you can do it to alter it any further. New experiences become, well, new experiences and stop feeling like NEW EXPERIENCES (lights, camera, action!). The one thing I can say, as I sip on my iced tea, sit in my lawn chair in the shade of my maple tree, and watch my daughter play in the yard (this is a euphamism), is that life is so much more wonderfully experienced through the eyes of my daughter. I feel like it is a privilege to get this opportunity and second glance at the big "firsts" in life. And, although she will, at 28, hardly remember her first independent two-wheeler bicycle ride, or losing her first tooth, I will remember and I will be so thankful to get to do it all over again.

Pour on the daddy!

I wrote this for Father's Day on June 2, 2006, and I remember being awestricken by how fatherhood had changed him. It had changed me, too, but in some ways it had just made me crazier while it made him more sane. What the? Well, anyway, he became more amazing as the days passed, and I remember writing this with tears in my eyes, inspired at the man he had become...

pour on "the daddy"

I hear ringing in my head the baby dinosaur (I don't remember which show this is from, and never was a devoted follower of its entertainment, but do remember this excerpt) screaming, "not the mama not the mama NOT THE MAMA!" while the daddy dinosaur tried to feed it its dinner. It's true. In so many instances, Sophia sees me and begins her cry-moan thing that signifies "I'm done with you, now I want my mama". BUT. There are shoes that I cannot fill. I don't even try. Brian's feet are too big and the responsibility is too much and I, if given the chance, wouldn't even know where to begin in carrying the role as effortlessly as he does.

As much as I'd like to gratify the irreplaceable role of the mother, I need to pay homage to the all important, ever-crucial role of the father. In this day and age, where single-parent families are really the norm and in most cases, the children live out the majority of their lives with their mother, we often fail to see the patriarchal role as being as important as it is. In fact, I really think in many ways, children glean things from their father that become the very backbone to who they become when they grow up. No, the effects of the father's role are often not as obvious, and it's easy to suppose, "sure, the kids are doing just fine living with their mother alone"; however, even in two-parent households, the lack of a hands-on father often leads to mal-adjusted kids and, most frequently, boys who lack in the skills needed to be good husbands and daddies and workers themselves later on in their lives. So, I guess this is just a tribute to the great fathers I know out there... my dad, my father-in-law, my hubby, and my brother-in-law.

Fathers...

...have ageless wisdom. We moms (admit it!) read books about this and that and are oh-so-often up on all of the trends in child rearing. When to do this, when to wean from that - its all stuff were concerned with and want to read more about. I can still recall debating with my mother about why, at 17, my curfew should be extended to 4am (not really) and, in one fell swoop, as my father walked through the room, all of my effort was debunked by my fathers one statement: "There are only three things you can be doing out that late at night: drinking, doing drugs, or having sex". He was right. And, then, there were the countless times my mother and I would argue about my friends. She would engage in a hostile crossfire that would leave me hotheaded and feeling indignant. My father, again, would say to me, as I stomped away from the argument with my mother, "Mary, be careful; you become who you hang around with". Ouch. I can just hear Abraham saying to Isaac those very same words. Timeless. My father always had a way of saying things that mattered, made sense, couldn't be argued with, and were buoyant. He always made me think, and still after all of these years, though I can't recall many of the words exchanged during one of my fights with my mom, I recall much of what he said.

...love fiercely. I remember having a tough conversation about sex with my father when I was in high school. We were sitting on my bed. It was soooo uncomfortable and he was pleading with me to wait until I was married to give away my virginity. His argument was that I could only give it away once, so I should keep my virtue until I had a worthwhile guy who was willing to spend the rest of his life with me. I was young and was dating a guy that I was contemplating whether or not I should "do it" with him. I know this must have been a tough conversation for my dad to have because it was painful for me to sit through. I do know, though, for him to drum up the courage to come into my room alone and make the effort to get past the stigma of the topic, that he must have loved me so much that it was worth all the pride and comfort to preserve his daughters virtue, innocence, and purity. It was really uncomfortable, but I felt really, really loved.

...protect, protect, protect. I saw this within the first week of my daughter's life. There was a risk of the babe being exposed to chickenpox, and I was hesitant to allow any risk of any exposure to the virus. I was debating, going back and forth. I was in turmoil. My husband was working, finishing our basement, and he came upstairs to go to the bathroom. "Why are you crying?" he asked. "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah," I blubbered in exchange. The phone rang. He answered it. And, in a matter of fact way, handled the issue in a way that only a protective father would. There were no qualms or apologies about it. He didn't see a point in arguing or seeing another perspective. He just simply would not allow the potential for Sophia to be exposed to the virus. End of story. And then and there, I saw my husband for the first time as a father.

...don't sweat the small stuff. Sophia wasn't sleeping - at all. It was Christmas time. I was exhausted and the thought of the holidays filled with traveling and shopping and packing and unpacking the car mixed with snow and bad weather and a sleepless baby and a sleepless mommy and daddy made my head swim. I was stressed and was reading a self-help book on how to make your baby sleep through the night. I became utterly obsessed with strategies to make her sleep, and became completely bah humbug. It was the day after Christmas, and, after a 48-hour jag that left Sophia's bedtime somewhere between 11 and 12 at night, I growled at Brian, "See? This is what Christmas does". At which, he muttered back, matter-of-factly, "So, what's the solution? Skip Christmas?" I got his point. Somewhere within my irrationality, I heard his message. Christmas is worth the inconvenience. We'll rebound. She'll sleep again. We'll sleep again. There's just nothing you can do about it and you might as well enjoy it. How the holidays often make mommies and daddies so much more tired than they ever thought possible is just worth the joy that can be found within them if we choose to overlook the inconvenience. And, it's just for a short time, once a year. Truly, truly small stuff and not worth wearing extra deodorant over.

There are so many more attributes to give recognition to, but I just must stop here. I think daddies are truly the hub of the family unit and are worth their weight in gold. I know that there isn't a single day that I could parent successfully without Brian. He is a great father and he is a great mommy co-pilot (and, by this I mean that he genuinely helps me keep a grounded perspective on what my role should be, should look like, and what really matters) and I know that he brings things to the table that only he can. I've seen it in my father. I see it in my husband. And, hopefully, the legacy will live on because of Brian's influence and I'll see it in my sons and son-in-laws.

Happy Father's Day.

Teething Woes

written on May 10, 2006, this cracks me up because you really DO forget these moments as you move past them:

teething woes

Can you tell by my subject to this blog that my life is all baby, all the time? Let me tell you, motherhood is not for the faint of heart, my friend.

In the aftermath of (doesn't that sound like something said after September 11th?) my intense 3-5am jag last night with anti-sleeping Sophia, who as of this week has officially gone on STRIKE against the horrible company called SLEEP AT NIGHT who completely infringes on her rights and doesn't apparently pay her enough dividends to keep her blissfully sleeping at night, I am left feeling zombie-ish and facing life today in a haze. However, this morning I see the culprit to the problem. A middle man from the union who is wooing her into thinking that SLEEP AT NIGHT (the company) is the problem, when they are, thankfully, not. He has been convincing her to act on his plots to sabotage any big wig who thinks that sleep at night is a viable, trustworthy company, and to thwart the efforts of SLEEP AT NIGHT's mediators in their efforts to convince Sophia that this company has nothing but the very best intentions for her. The middle man is.... drumroll, please..... two bottom teeth who are surfacing like a humpback whale for air. These chompers don't have too long, though because the mediator(s) are on to them (two of them) and will now do everything in their power to quiet their voice and limit (as much as possible) their power. Either way, knowledge is power and tonight will be better just because I know WHY she is screaming.

See what you who are childless peopele have to look forward to?

Seasons come, seasons go....

I wrote this on May 9, 2006, and it still resonates so deeply within me.

Seasons come, seasons go....

It's days like these where I can visibly see how motherhood has changed me. I was, and I stress was, the girl who slept in regularly, needed 8 hours of sleep, and ran at my own pace. I swear I don't even know who that girl is, nor do I ever really remember what it was really like to be her. Let's call her "Mary 5.0" for now for a sake of reference. Sophia was up last night from 2:30 until 4:45am screaming. Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep last night and this morning, awaking haggard and fuzzy-eyed, still sang the good-morning song as I marched into Sopher's room at 6:45am and joyfully tickled her belly as I changed her diaper. This person who is able to even sing at 6:45am I do recognize and she is no longer friends with Mary 5.0 because she is new and improved Mary 7.1 and also, depending on the day/night, comes in a version that is much more efficient called Mary ME. This Mary 7.1 does have some glitches, such as picking fights at 3am with her husband, and secretly eating baby food carrots, squash, and sweet potatoes, but is truly a nicer version to work with. Additionally, she comes with a "I won't yell at you while you're driving 15 miles under the speed limit in the fast lane" button (because there are children in the car) and a "it's ok that you spit up on my dry-clean-only sweater, I didn't like it anyway" lever. Much better. Maybe not as young and fun and carefree, but much more dependable, reliable, and more adept at managing the obstacles life throws at you.

I suppose you could say that if you never change with the changing seasons of your life, you become boring and annoying (like the girls, who, at 30, still go out Thursday, Friday, Saturday nights) and really show your inability enjoy where you are at the moment.

Where am I right now? Tired, hungry, stinky, demanded upon, imposed upon, and I need to go because I am aching to pick up my beautiful baby girl who has made the sacrifice all worth while.

I love this season.

Latest and Greatest!

Hi, everyone!

I am transferring some of my old posts from my discontinued blog over to this one. I am going to attempt to write often to keep in touch with those of you who are out-of-town. I miss you all and life is crazy, so here is my effort to keep in touch!

Overrated

I wrote this in May, 2006, and although it's old, I still firmly believe in what I wrote then...

Ok. I really think there are so many things in this world that we clamor and strive for that are totally, 100% over-rated. We are always pushing, pressing in for the next best moment, the next best this, or a bigger that, that I think we miss the beauty in our every day lives. I fall victim to this. I struggle with wanting more. I admit it. However, today I am acknowledging the over-ratedness of our society's valuables and vowing to make a concerted effort to markedly move away from this thought pattern into something more meaningful, lasting, and worthwhile. Here is my top 10 list of things I think are completely over-rated:

1) over-priced vacations
Now, I must say that my husband and I, before the baby, took our share of vacations. I've been on shoe-string budget ones and all-inclusive, eat your heart out, swim up to the Tiki Bar, pricey ones. Here's my opinion: there is truly nothing more relaxing than hanging out at home on a Friday night with your hubby maybe playing a game or watching a movie. Or playing cards with friends. You always think that there is more fun to be had somewhere else (and I am not discounting vacations as a whole), but typically all the fun you need to have you can have at home in your living room. That's a heck of a lot cheaper than Fiji and you dont have to pack to go there. Oh, and the disclaimer is that you're hanging out alone, sans children, on this Friday night that I'm speaking of.

2) brand-new vehicles
Ok, my last car was brand new. I convinced my husband to buy it and we got a pretty good deal on it. I told him that once, just once, in my life I needed to own a new vehicle to see what it was like. Now I know why he was convinced that I did not. Any new car, new or used, unless you buy it from Frank out of the classifieds, will smell new and definitely feel new to you. End of story.

3) watching TV
I don't know about you, but whenever I spend even ten minutes sitting in front of the boob tube, I feel lazier and uninspired to get up and take accountability for all I need to do with the day. Every person I know who is governed by TV program schedules seems to have way too much unfinished business in their lives -- whatever that may be!

4) fairy-tale romances
This is just really easy: everything that I value in my life requires work on my part and that makes it worth the while. Everything that has ever been handed to me, I stop seeing the beauty in it soon after I get it. The tough stuff, the nuts and bolts of life, are also what make life the most joyful. After all, happiness isn't true happiness unless you can counter it with a little suffering.

5) having only one best friend
I used to be a one-friend wonder. Doing all of my activities every day with one person, all of the time. What I found was that my perspective on every situation was so narrow, short-sighted, and limited because my resources were limited! Now, I have many, many friends who all, in blanket fashion, make up my conglomerate of the best friend category. They're all special and really good, good friends. And I just couldnt choose who is really the very best because they're all top notch.

6) sleep
Some of the best moments of my life have been at the expense of sleep. Hilarious moments with my girls on "girls night out"... sex with my husband... giving birth to my daughter (she arrived at 3:15am)... intense prayer moments with God... getting to know my sister-in-law, Jamey... and, as of recently, rocking my baby girl to sleep in the middle of the night after she awakes in pain from teething. There is just something so, so beautiful about watching her face as her body lays limp in my arms. That moment couldn't happen at 1:26pm; it had to happen at 3:17am and it was perfect.

**and, now, three years later, an additional baby, and many more moons full of rest, this is still the case: post-Mak's arrival last summer, he was a sleeper and didn't wake much at night. This was ultimately my loss because the busyness of life didn't afford me much isolated alone-time with him during the day. I missed out major on a whole lot of admiring his fingers, smelling his head, and enjoying watching him breath because he was more interested in sleep. Stinker.

7) cute pregnant clothes
There's a limit to how much an article of clothing can improve upon your looks. When you are 47 months pregnant, swollen and waddling, there is no article of clothing, no matter how cute it is on a hanger, that can make you look better in that moment. You just look bad, and that is that.

8) expensive, name-brand clothing
I am just too cheap now to allow myself to even shop in shops that carry clothes in which the price tag for one article is three digits, or even two for that matter, before the period in the price. The trends change way too fast (and I am usually behind them as it is) for me to drop big $$ on a look that in two months will be yesterday's folly. Ill take my $8.99 Old Navy bargains and my $22.99 Target jeans and happily wear them like they were Banana or Ms. Taylor.

9) big houses
Now, I say this with a disclaimer: we are beginning to look for houses because we want to move into something bigger but modest, not over-the-top, so hear what I'm saying from the standpoint of excess (or, a lack thereof). I once knew someone whose parents owned a large home that they couldn't afford. There is simply nothing more uncomfortable than being around people who live in a 3300 square foot home but cannot afford to put food on the table. I hardly doubt that they would say that all of the years of stress over money that resulted from their ownership of their BIG house were worth it.

**update in 8/09: we have found our house, it's moderate, not excessive, and I'm bent on making it our forever house no matter how many people I birth and try to pack into its bedrooms.

10) buying for the sake of a sale
It is a pet peeve of mine, but it hardly seems frugal when youre spending ALL THE TIME on sale items, but your spending totals half of your yearly paycheck. A sale isn't a sale unless it's an item of dire need and it's on sale at the exact moment you need it. My husband would laugh if he read this, but would also agree that I no longer spend money for the sake of spending. And I? Would much rather have a nice forever with him than that thing I saw last week at Kohls that was marked down four-thousand-nine-hundred-twenty-two percent and on clearance with an additional 20% off that will sit in my closet until next spring, but we always needed one, and then, ultimately, I will probably forget we have it or only use it once which will make the actual seventy-five dollars I spent on it similar to the act of throwing money down the drain. I know that was a run on sentence, but did you get the point? I dont know about you, but WE dont have a money tree growing in our yard...

And, quickly, the top ten things I think are priced just right:

1) flossing your teeth
Need I say more?

2) taking a bath

There is just something soooo good for your mind and soul to soak to the point of wrinkling after a long day.

3) reading a book
Time after time, I pick up a good book and become engrossed in it in a way that no TV show could rival. I love, love, love the days where I am pining for five minutes to find out what will happen on the next page, enfolding across pages uninterrupted by commercials.

4) keeping in touch
I am lousy at this. I simply forget and my lack of effort isn't due to my lack of sentiment. I think about my long-distance friends ALL OF THE TIME but fail to make the time to keep in touch. But, the ones I do talk to (or exchange emails with) are still vital parts of my days, life, and future. There is just something about holding on to the good parts of your past to make your journey feel seasoned and full-bodied like a good, aged bottle of wine.

5) sleep
Yes, I am contradicting myself. Having said what I said above, the feeling of my head being heavy on a pillow rivals about anything else and sleep often wins by a landslide at the end of most days.

6) motherhood
The sacrifice is huge. Your identity permanently shifts and all of a sudden going to the mall to make a return, not shop, becomes a big event, like planning a vacation. But, for all of the times Sophia has pooped on me, spit up on me, drooled or snotted on me, and for the reality of the fact that my body will NEVER be the same, I will probably never feel fully rested again or know the goodness of 8 consecutive, uninterrupted hours of sleep, and that I will never think of myself first again, she is the best investment I could ever make with my effort, time, money, and self. She is the hardest thing I have ever done. She is the very best thing I have ever done. I know that I am raising her, but I feel at times as if she is raising me because she has changed me for the better.

7) marriage
There is something so innocent about looking for the right one with whom to spend the rest of your life. You just never really see someone before marriage the way you see them after you marry them. And, marriage is just not as easy as anyone really thinks. It's hard and there are moments you might want to quit, but the grass is never really greener on the other side. I happen to have one who will stick by me until the end, no matter what, and he is worth more than gold. Working really hard at marriage makes it so good when it's good and gives you purpose when it's tough.

8) laughter
The kind of laughter where you make the seal noise... that's the best because it's so raw and unadulterated and genuine. That's the kind of laughter that burns calories, lowers your stress, help diffuse tough times, and actually can adjust your perspective on something. All for a minute of laughter. How difficult and costly is that?

9) God and prayer
I really don't know how to say this without typing a sermon. There is nothing more that you can do that is more effectual than prayer and nothing more meaningful in life than serving God. Period. We just have such a great deal: not having to go through any circumstance alone and the ability to invite divine power to intervene because of prayer; and, getting to spend eternity in paradise (aka Heaven) just because we confess Jesus is the Son of God. Really, really simple and really BIG and the price is so right: all of my earthly life for eternity with my Maker in Heaven. Wow.

10) driving with the radio off
I don't know about you, but sometimes the only quiet, uninterrupted minutes of my day are spent in the car and it seems wasteful to cloud them up with radio talk shows and stupid top 40 hits. I'd rather enjoy the quiet of the moment and the sound of peace.