Reflections from the pews...

I like this quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Envy is ignorance, imitation is suicide." As I was sitting in church this morning (craving a baked apple pastry with almond paste) I was also sitting and reflecting. As obvious as this revelation may sound to others, I had an "ah ha moment" when I realized that the priorities that I have set for my life are not the same priorities that other people set in their lives. I know, pretty basic concept. Somehow this morning it seemed insightful. Some people have spent their lives with a drive to create something of their own; art, a business, a musical CD, ...a drive which outweighs their need for relationships, or a spouse, or children (my priorities). I realized it is narcissistic of me to assume that because someone does not have what I have, that they are suffering emotional pain because of it. I have allowed my creativity, and my career take a back seat. I have let this happen, because they were not my first priorities. Others who may not have families may have been fulfilled and successful in achieving their career and creative goals. I guess what I realized this morning, as I was once again mourning my friends' lack of spouse/family, is that I may be misguided in my assumptions. Or perhaps, even if they are very sad about their lack of family, their solitude and freedom has allowed them to accomplish many things. It may not be accurate empathy to assume that someone without a spouse or children feels like I would, if I were without them. We are all unique with different gifts, with different desires, and different successes!

After church I drove to the bakery. It was closed. Dang it. I really wanted that apple pastry!

Second-hand Insomnia

It is hard to describe the sheer frustration and exasperation that comes from being exhausted, yet lying awake at one a.m. in a loft-style upstairs bedroom, shared by your family of five, with no door, worrisome child-size holes between the railings of the extraordinarily steep stairs, a full moon shining brightly through bare windows, a Houdini-like insomniac two-year old, a four-year-old with a bloody nose, and a husband whose allergic sneezes echo through the loft like a lion roaring through the jungle. However, I will try.

I don’t know why, maybe it was the altitude, maybe it was because we had ignored his normal nap/sleep schedule for too long, maybe it was the new environment, or maybe it was because he ate too many of Grandma’s sour cherry candies, but for whatever reason (or perhaps all of those reasons) Andrew would not sleep. This was night number three of his sleep strike. I would put him in the Pack-n-Play, and he would climb out. I would put him in the Pack-n-Play, and he would climb out. I would put him in…you get the picture. So I tried to rock him. I sang songs, I sat silently. I tried this rhythm, I tried that. I tried to find a rhythm that would put me to sleep, hoping that it would also put him to sleep. I nodded off, but he did not. Finally, three hours later, yes THREE hours later ( I was desperate and yes, close to insanity) he fell asleep. I put him in his Pack-n-Play, and he did not climb out. I ever-so-quietly slipped downstairs.

Back downstairs. Adult time. YAY! My book was calling to me…or maybe a game of Scrabble? But no. As soon as I opened my book, a little face appeared around the corner. (Silent Primal Scream). A stinky diaper. I changed him, and John’s mom, Bev, perhaps sensing my impending psychotic breakdown, volunteered to rock Andrew to sleep. However, after about thirty minutes of a creaking floor, it was apparent that the only one interested in sleep was Grandma. A long day of grandsons and high altitude had taken its toll.

So, at 11:30, we relieved Grandma, and took the squirming toddler back upstairs, hoping, desperately hoping, for sleep. I put him in the Pack-n-Play, and he climbed out. I put him in the Pack-N-Play, angrily warned him to stay in it, and he climbed out. John put him in the Pack-N-Play, told him to “STAY IN BED!!” and he climbed out.

We put him in our bed. I have never had a fish in my bed, but I am guessing it would be similar to having an almost two-year-old under the covers. The difference however, is that a fish probably wouldn’t keep pointing out the window screaming “MOON! Stars! MOON! WooOOW! Stars! MOON!” Okay, so maybe you are thinking, “how cute!” Not at 1:30 am.

About this time (as the moon lit up our room like a 150 kilowatt light bulb), we realized that the bed we were sleeping on, a bed previously occupied by Sammy, a bed that did not belong to us, was covered in blood. And this was not just a little bloody nose. This was a previously rushing bloody nose that had not had adult attention. Stuffed animals, sheets, pillows, and poor little Sammy’s face were completely covered in drying blood. Perhaps normal, clean, non-exhausted and exasperated parents would have immediately gotten up and changed the sheets and changed the pillow cases. Nope. We wiped off Sammy’s face as well as we could with a few wet wipes and ignored the rest, immediately shifting our attention back to little Nemo who was now asking us to draw “letters” and “faces” on his brother’s Crayola Glow Pad. After several rounds of “A!” “B!” and “C!” and “More!” Andrew finally said, “Bed.” I put him in his Pack-n-Play and he did NOT climb out!!

Andrew is finally asleep and I am finally dozing off, dreaming about sugar cookies and quiet places, when AaAaHHHTCHOOOOoooo. AaAaAaTCHOOOOOOOOOO. AAAAAATTTTCCCHHHHOOOOO— shocking, tremor- inducing noises bursting from my husband’s mouth and nose, echoing throughout the bright-as-day, bloody, doorless, A-Frame cabin in the middle of the Rocky Mountains, over, and over, and over again.

Sticky Blue Slush and the Sleep Deprived

Today was "one of those days." I should have known it would be. All three boys were up until almost 10 o'clock while John and I ignored the kiddos' circadian rhythm cycle in exchange for a few rounds of Spades with friends. We very rarely do this, but we had no agenda this morning, and wanted to have a little fun with our friends. Alas, you reap what you sow. Well at least I reaped what we sowed. There is a reason my children sleep for 12 hours at night.

Usually the mall is a fun place to go for a few hours. Play on the playland, ride the carousel, eat a little ice-cream, maybe a little dinner. We tried to do those things, but today everything turned into an emotionally tumultuous disaster. Aaron couldn't keep his hands to himself, bugging Andrew until threatened with consequences. Then he started to bug Sammy. His main goal appeared to be preventing his brothers from playing on their animal of choice. This was not acceptable to Sammy who began hitting Aaron, which then resulted in retaliation from Aaron, and may have turned into an all-out play-area brawl if I hadn't stepped in and physically carried them both out of there.

Attempt #2 for a good time: Ice cream! (Okay, so looking back, that was rewarding bad behavior...but I was just trying to salvage this trip if possible, and didn't really want to entertain them at home) Anyway, we walk to Dairy Queen, which is unfortunately at the opposite end of the mall and I have one of those umbrella strollers (made for parents much shorter than myself).... We were just going to get ice cream, but then the boys saw the hotdogs and hamburgers and decided they wanted dinner. Okay. Then I saw the "kids meals," with Icee type drinks. I figure I will surprise them with some cool blue raspberry drinks...what a cool mom I am! "Why didn't you get me the green one Mom?" Long story short, one of the blue drinks flies (accidently) across the table and lands in the lap of Andrew, sitting in his previously green stroller. Now the only child who had not been whining, teasing, or complaining is wet, cold, blue, and crying.

After all of that, I still got them ice cream (it came with the kids meals!). So they eat their chocolate dipped Dillybars, but the entire time, Andrew is crying because HE wanted an ice cream bar, not an ice cream bowl (and he is still cold, wet, sticky, and blue). Then Sammy sees a lady with a light blue head covering and shouts out, pointing, "Look Mommy!! It's Mary! She looks like Mary!" So while I am trying to discretely let him know that it is NOT Mary, and that he should never point at anyone, Aaron seems to YELL, "Mommy, WE don't dress like that!" To which I once again attempted a discrete conversation. My only comfort is that the two women were speaking to each other in another language and may not have understood? yeah right.

After Sammy's outburst, he decides it is time for wind sprints in the mall. He runs from the table, to the directory in the middle of the mall, and then back again, all with his shoes on the wrong feet. It was actually a quite humorous sight. Aaron, of course, decides to join him. At this point, I have lost all semblance of control, which was obvious to a very nice grandmother watching the whole drama (with her well-mannered granddaughters). I must have been quite the spectacle, mopping up ice cream bars (long deserted), dirty faces, and a sticky blue stroller (and it's passenger), all while throwing out random threats of violence (well, not so violent) to oblivious recipients. The nice grandma volunteered to clean it up for me. I think it was her nice way of saying "Go get those kids under control before it gets any worse!!" I thanked her, cleaned up a little more, and then got everything and everyone ready to go home.

As we are walking back to the car (once again, at the other end of the mall) Sammy is whining and complaining that we didn't go to McDonalds, and that he had TOLD me he wanted McDonald's and I had neglected that "need" of his.... I just picked him up in one arm, pushed that blastedly-short umbrella stroller with the other arm and walked as fast as I could out of that place, making sure that Aaron wasn't too far behind. I got in the car and told them that I didn't "want to hear one word" until we got home. I didn't. They both passed out within a second of putting on their seatbelts.

Bra Shopping...

So my bras were as old as, well, almost as old as me, and I only had two comfortable ones. Time to go shopping. I put this kind of shopping off as long as possible for three basic reasons: 1. they are expensive 2. No one (well almost) sees them. 3. It involves a lot of patience and time--and I am short on both these days. I wait until my bras are basically falling apart and no longer fulfilling their desired purpose before giving them the heave-ho. Shoes are much cuter and much more enjoyable to purchase.

I drop off the two older boys at summer classes and head to Kohl's. They are having a sale tomorrow, but I would rather avoid the crowds, and have the dressing room to myself. Andrew is in the shopping cart, playing with the remnants of my iced decaf coffee which is basically sticky ice and a straw. It keeps him occupied, so I encourage it. I don't even mind as he spills it down his shirt, hoping that it will provide me a few more minutes of trying on clothing. However, as I am standing there half dressed, I start to wonder how clothed I would need to be to chase Andrew through Kohl's, if the necessity arose. How many male employees were there really? Is holding a shirt up to my chest enough? How far could he run in the time it would take me to put my shirt back on? I love those dressing rooms with walls and doors all the way to the ground--alas, this was not the case today.

Rows and rows of lace, bows, and padding...which ones will do the trick? It is no wonder women are wearing the wrong sized bras (according to Oprah). Is there really any standard? I tried on bras that are supposed to be my size and they were too small. I tried on the next size up, they were too big. The "lacy" bras look sexy and cute, but you can see the lace through my tank top--not so cute. The "minimizing" bras minimize by spreading your chest down your tummy or over towards your armpits. They might as well be called the smushing, flattening, man-like bras. Then there are the "stand-alone" bras which require none of your own filling. They pretty much stand up on their own, but might become concave if someone gives you a big hug. Then there are the "cone-shaped" bras..who wears these things? They pretty much distort your boob into a three dimensional triangle. Then there are the "soft, comfy" bras, the ones you want to buy until you put your shirt on and realize that the reason they are so comfy is that they are providing zero support... Ugh!

While picking up spilled ice, quieting screams of "too tight, too tight" (prior to his Houdini-like escape from the stroller) and "WET" as he points to his coffee stained T-shirt, I manically hurry through about 50 bras. About every third bra I retrieved the freed toddler from the empty stalls next to me. In the end, I walked away with six. One "stand-alone" bra, three slightly "lacy" bras, and two "soft, comfy" ones. (Andrew walked away with a stuffed dog, another attempt at distracting and pre-occupying. ) Here's hoping they last a long time!

It's summertime! We live in the pool now :)

Be careful what you wish for...

Yesterday my facebook status update described what I "wish"ed were easier about watching the boys at gymnastics (ie not having to chase Andrew around the viewing room). I immediately received a loud and blaring warning from my self-conscious: "Be careful what you wish for."

Andrew is at that hard age between one and two--I think it is the hardest age, at least until he becomes a teenager. He is into everything. He ambles up the cabinet drawers and sits on my stove top searching for snacks (which I need to move). He runs off and finds (makes) disasters wherever he goes. He is too young to formally discipline, yet he needs constant correcting. He is constantly moving. He is exhausting.

BUT he is SO sweet. He spontaneously uses his newly learned word, "hugs," and gives me full-body, full-strength squeezes around my neck. With concerned looks, he pats my back (like I do his) when he perceives that I am upset. He smiles at me, and then gives me wet little babykisses right on the lips. He demands, "up" and will cuddle right into my lap. His little body is so precious, words can't express my joy. I am his absolute favorite person. Be careful what I wish for.

As with everything, there is always the greener pasture, the other side of the fence. It is always so easy for me to look forward to a time when things will be easier. I suppose the challenge is always to take the good with the bad and enjoy it in the present moment. Pudding in the dogs fur, and high heels in the bathtub water are a small price to pay for the joy of his current, curious, exploratory, affectionate, mommy-worshipping age.

Proceed with Caution

So I guess this is kind of a "duh" statment, but when you write, you have to be honest and share yourself, or it's just a bunch of dull nothing. But when you share yourself, especially on the web, (even if I only have one follower :) ), you are putting personal stuff out there. I have been having "whoa nellie" moments, wondering if I shouldn't just put this stuff in my diary and call it a day. Perhaps I will. But, then again, some people express themselves loudly and clearly every day by opening their mouth and talking. I tend to keep my lips together quite often. I express myself best when I sit down at the computer, or with a pen and paper. So, perhaps, while it makes me feel vulnerable and exposed, it is a needed exposure. I don't know. Maybe it's not. Maybe I will just scrap this whole blog thing. Maybe not...