The journal entry from my birthday on May 10th 1984 simply reads, "It's going to be 82 degrees today!!". Well guess what, little one; fast forward 27 years and you will find yourself with a 94 degree day with a central air unit that decided not to work and sweat running down your cleavage for no good reason.
The moment the kids woke up, they hurried me into my sewing room and insisted I stay there for a second. They came back with two wrapped gifts that they eagerly opened with me. Thanks to a super thoughtful friend-you know who you are- they felt awesome about giving me some gorgeous shell earrings, two bags of cotton candy, a bag of Twizzler nibs (which may or may not be stuck in my teeth at this very moment) and a mint chocolate bar. Someone knows me well. Last week Ronan kept dropping unsolicited hints that went something like this, "I'm just going to give you one hint, OK? Coooo-tttt-oooonn Caaaa-nnnnndy. OK? That's all I'm going to tell you." Sheesh. Don't ever share close, personal secrets with that kid. A phone call from Afghanistan rounded out my morning and now here I sit trying to decide if I should tackle all the little responsibilities I have today, or should I just be decadent and read my Kindle and not take a shower. Yes. Yes, I just made my decision.
All this birthday talk reminds me of a cringe-worthy gift I gave Skip our first year of marriage when he hit the age of 23. Somehow we were able to stay in a hotel (a parental gift? I can't recall) and had some friends come and hang out and swim. Later it was time for Skip to open the many gifts I lay before him, and I picked some doozies. We were both in college with no money, but we sure liked candles so who *wouldn't* want about seven individually wrapped cheap-o unscented candles to beautify our basement housing with the corn and punkins on the linoleum? I'll tell you who wouldn't. Probably a YOUNG MAN. Also I was able to procure a special kitchen item that we use to this day. Skip loved ice cream back in the day before the evils of dairy and its consequences were brought to our attention. I just so happened to have held onto a SteinMart gift card from our wedding. Are you leaning forward now? I had just enough to purchase a zany ice cream scooper with an ice cream man's head on the handle....and batteries that allowed him to call out "Ice Cream! ding-a-ling-aling" whenever it was tipped down ready to do it's scooping job. And this is where I cringe. But I have to say, our kids love to use it and maybe there was a very wise, big picture prompting in me that knew this was going to be a coveted heirloom. I think I have gotten better at giving him gifts over the past many years together. He'll have to be the judge on that one.
So. I am now 36 years old. If you were to investigate my google searches this morning you would find "Why do I have stark blonde hair in my eyebrows?" The word on the street (the world wide web street) is that it is graying hair and just to deal with it and color those brows in. But it's not gray, it's blonde and pops up overnight like someone who has had a horrific trauma and they wind up with a strand of solid white in their locks. So I'm not convinced and I don't feel old at all. It feels like yesterday that some big lump of a boy told me at 7th grade recess that I had a unibrow. He was right. Hence, I went home and took a razor and went straight down the middle of my uni with it. Now look at me, trying to get that youthful hairiness back. Well. Not so fast.
The journal entry from May 11 1985 reads "The banquet was fun! But we had to bear with a very, very bad storm." Goodness, I hope that May 11 2012 will be more low key and safer than that.
Here is perhaps a sign of my age. I am hopeless with technology, and have lots of old photos I have tried to scan and post here, to no avail. I simply can't make it happen. My vast viewing audience was so very close to seeing me with my curly, carrot colored hair and thick, dark eyebrows. Two of them.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Saturday, April 9, 2011
back in the saddle
This morning I also feel normal. I am once again the single wife and parent, back to shaving my legs sporadically and half heartedly at best. My attempts to get motivated today are weak. Does scribbling a to-do list and sticking it into the tattered, half hanging off pocket of one's bathrobe ever really pan out? Time will tell, but that I cannot seem to put away the folded laundry on Cedahlia's floor is indicative of my lackluster attitude. Yet, I kept fully abreast of the possible government shutdown last night. The kids are watching Veggie Tales and here I am, up in my treehouse like office, feeding my addiction to the internet. Yep, pretty normal.
Last night my wonderful mother in law took the kids for the evening. The Fleur Cinema was playingJane Eyre at 4:30, so off I went. It was the perfect movie to see alone. Oh, Mr. Rochester, with your swarthy, intimidating manner and British teeth that somehow wind up being endearing. I ate all my popcorn and also a Christmas Reeses Peanut Butter Cup that I was thrilled to find in the bottom of my purse. I always make an effort to chew quietly, as loud, smushy chewing so puts me over the edge that I want to smash the offender's face into the table. The gentleman behind me chomped and cracked on his popcorn so voraciously that I kept wondering if there was really a canine back there, devouring his dinner. During the quietest parts of the movie, he ramped it up, smacking his way through what must have been uncomfortably emotional scenes for him. I imagine when his wife needs to talk he grabs a banana and loses himself in that repulsive eating that only a baby should get away with.
Toby has been a little weird since Skip left. The first fews days here he was elated and would sit on his lap on the couch, but kind of facing him and staring him down in a blissful way. Lately I let him stay out for short amounts of time and he does just fine, never chewing things up or going to the bathroom. Never, except for yesterday when during the 15 minutes I took Cedahlia to school, he (I am imagining) angrily went to her room straightaway and pooped right on top of a pile of sweet little toys she had on the floor. A tiny fox, with poo on his paw...a ring bearing the telltale signs of animal rage...a teeny tiny doll holding an even tinier Hello Kitty, looking unscathed and yet, was there a slight chunk in her golden hair? Yes, yes there was. Looks like Tobes needs some therapy.
Skip bought the kids a ton of candy, and they each have a glass cannister full of it, with around 100 pieces in it. Each day they are allowed to choose one and they will slowly see the days go by until Dad is home for good. I say 'around' 100 because I really enjoy Sugar Babies. Adjustments can be made towards the end...
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| These are really cumbersome, especially when you are balancing on a pegleg |
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
backup
Weeping in a Best Buy is not a scenario I ever aspired to be in, but there I found myself today.
I’ll back up.
Three and a half years ago, our laptop died and with it went all of our data. We did not have an external hard drive at the time, and this was before I uploaded hundreds of pics on facebook and other online locations. These past years I have toted that old Dell around with us, always hopeful that one day when I wanted to cough up the dough, a computer wizard could retrieve all the videos and pictures from those pivotal years. In a sense, I felt like I still had all those memories in my back pocket and it was just a matter of taking it in somewhere and putting it all on a disc.
Last week I took the laptop in to a recommended computer store, and was told after a cursory look, that it would be no problem to retrieve any data on it. Four days went by as I dreamed of looking at all the videos I could recall; Ronan in his snug little retro car footie jammies at 18 months, bouncing up and down to the beat of a band down the street while we sat on the porch of the missionary house…Cedahlia at 2, laughing her head off each time we put Mr. Wendel down the slide at a park in Omaha….Newborn Ronan snoring loudly on my shoulder after feeding him- I whisperingly begged Skip to grab the camera and preserve what I knew was one of those moments that would make my heart swell forevermore...all of our pictures from when we lived in Minneapolis, Omaha, BoysTown, Hawaii. I have a terrible long term memory. Legitimately, there is something wrong with me. Often I am embarrassed when a friend or loved one recalls a shared experience in detail, and I have *nothing*! I only have certain scenes vividly preserved in my head, and most often they are because photos have jogged them.
When I stopped in today anticipating The Backup Disc, Mr. Just Rolled Out Of Bed Computer Wizard sheepishly told me that he had ‘read the notes wrong’ and that in fact, the drive was completely ruined and after trying three different avenues, there was no chance of retrieving anything. I was heartbroken. It takes a lot for me to cry, but I cried on the way to the car….while in Campbells getting those sugary gummy bears I had happily promised Ronan before the bad news…and then while at Best Buy where I immediately headed to purchase a 1TB Passport. Ronan just watched my struggle curiously and said ‘Oh. So this is what you look like when you cry?'. I explained to him why I was so very sad, and he told me to just ‘look at the pictures in your head when you are feeling sad about it’.
Desperately I wanted to see my kids as babies again; to hear their sounds, to see their baby faces in the hopes that more would come flooding back to me. What is it about photos and videos that trick us into believing that *then* everything was better, perfect even? The moment we decided to capture Cedahlia playing in the shore at Onekahakaha Beach, while 7 month old Ronan scooted off the towel to eat sand; was that pure happiness, sheer joy? If I’m honest, I have to admit that those were some of the most tumultuous times of our married life, our professional lives, that back at 141 Alawaena Way awaited a half dozen angry, violent girls, my nervous eye tic going at a ridiculous rate. Yet, if I could just see that 30 second memory again, I know my heart would flood with nostalgia and longing.
I considered all these things today, as I wept for a lost baby Ronan and a lost toddler Cedahlia, barely realizing that they were right there beside me, begging to karate chop or read books. If someone documented my afternoon, it would be of me and the kids driving to two Pizza Huts before we found one that would redeem Cedahlia’s free personal pans from BookIt, and then me trying to get my hard drive figured out while they watched Alpha and Omega. Is today perfect and dreamy and something I will long for when they are sullen teenagers? Maybe?
Photographic memories are stealthily edited. Selective in the emotions they stir, they cut out the realities of financial hardship, painful distance between loved ones, sleep deprivation and being at the end of your rope with mothering. My heart is still aching over this loss, and I bet it will always squeeze with the realization of what has been lost to me and to them. But I do have to ask myself if I am trying very hard to enjoy the everyday moments here and now. Too often I am thinking of *then*...when they were tiny and life was pretty simple...or *future then* when Skip is home and we are a family again. Perhaps one day I will long for March 9, 2011 when it was drizzly and sleepy and we played with the stuff in our rainy day box and I ate most of the gummy bears while they weren't looking. Since no one is here to take a snapshot, I write about it and that works too.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
tunnel vision
A thousand apologies for my long, unexpected hiatus from blogging. There is tremendous pressure involved with entertaining such a fanbase. I mean, I.have.thirteen.followers. It has been a heady time, this blogging escapade of mine.
Where have I been, you ask? Well, I struggle every year around oh, say January 5th. I enter a tunnel. Try as I might, I cannot seem to scratch my way out of it. I can see the pinpoint of light at the end of it, which is called something like February 22nd, but it's a vigilant fight to keep crawling. Is there anyone that lives in the midwest who does not have this struggle on some level? If so, my hat goes off to you.
In an effort to stay sane and moderately active, I made myself a list in January, of projects and social engagements, and forced my way through it. And you know what? It actually worked! These dark days have gone relatively quickly, and here I am enjoying my new cd immensely and reconnecting with the world again. I gladly admit that I also allow myself time to be down, and stay in bed more than I should, and say no to people and things and to grumpily eat a whole bag of 'sweet heat' popcorn that causes serious, um, let's just chalk it up to a bad decision.
With the help of my sis in law, Ronan's room is now a tribute to his hero, Peter Pan. The walls have been painted 'charted voyage' blue since this photo. My sweet boy asks me to pray each night that he will 'dream about flying', and he fervently believes that pixie dust is real and effective and plans on asking for only that, come next Christmas.
I also painted my bedroom. That day I was feeling pretty confident, despite the fact that I hadn't painted a wall in several years. The thought was "if I'm just really careful, I won't have to tape off". Fast forward to now, when people come to visit and Ronan likes to give them a tour of my room and show them the 12 inch by 4 inch pool of dried periwinkle on the carpet. It felt good, rolling along on the walls, balancing the very full tray in my left hand while standing on my tempur pedic....surveying my work every so often....a sense of accomplishment with each stroke....and then I noticed that the tray had been cascading paint down the side of my bed and onto the carpet. Awesome. After some panic and self hate, I googled ways to try to clean it off carpet, but ended up saying 'screw it' and I went to bed, leaving the tray and brush and roller in plastic Target bags for the many, many days it took me to face my failure. It's all good now though, and I love the headboard I made this weekend. Can't show you a picture though, just in case Skip ever reads this. I want him to be surprised when he comes home.
On a sidenote, staple guns are inspiring and a new, super sharp utility knife is a dream! A dream, I tell you! I want to find things to cut, just because.
I made a big birdcage and have plans to make a modern, all white one for my sister's new house.
For Valentine's I made the kids each a heart pillow from this tutorial. Cedahlia loved hers, and it's newness made the top of the symbolic totem pole of her 237 stuffies. Ronan was teetering on the verge of handing his right back to me. It's Ok. He is his own man, and he likes guns and swords and that is about it.
In the past couple months I have grown to love the Y Pump classes at the YMCA. One day I needed to get some cardio in and was feeling kind of sassy and risky and decided to try a step class for the first time ever. It was, perhaps the most humiliating 45 minutes I have endured as an adult. That wall of mirrors. That awful choreography with spastic arm motions. The instructor happened to be Erin Kiernan, a local news anchor, and she really took me under her wing, sensing my struggle with lack of coordination. She stood by me for far too long, willing my body to fall into line with those ridiculous, complicated 360s around the stupid step. Afterwards, while I waited for the shameful flush to retreat from my face, I thought about the last time I did 'aerobics'. It was 1986, in a church in small town Wisconsin. Our little private school did not have a gym, but it sure did have a dimly lit, windowless sanctuary where our teacher could pump out uplifting Christian anthems while we kicked our way around the pews, cullottes whipping a frenzy around our knee socks.
A trip to Minneapolis to see good friends...a pampering, weekend retreat for chaplain families...a surprise box of music and handsewn birds...treats dropped on my doorstep... a massage as a gift from friends...my brother in law fixing my house from falling asunder.....a marble mortar and pestle from Afghanistan for all the *cough* cooking I do....never worrying about shoveling....seeing my little girl come out of her shell as a 'dancing bear'...Isaiah 43:1-4....knowing Skip will be home on leave next month.....these are some of the many blessed ways I get through the darkest days of winter.
Where have I been, you ask? Well, I struggle every year around oh, say January 5th. I enter a tunnel. Try as I might, I cannot seem to scratch my way out of it. I can see the pinpoint of light at the end of it, which is called something like February 22nd, but it's a vigilant fight to keep crawling. Is there anyone that lives in the midwest who does not have this struggle on some level? If so, my hat goes off to you.
In an effort to stay sane and moderately active, I made myself a list in January, of projects and social engagements, and forced my way through it. And you know what? It actually worked! These dark days have gone relatively quickly, and here I am enjoying my new cd immensely and reconnecting with the world again. I gladly admit that I also allow myself time to be down, and stay in bed more than I should, and say no to people and things and to grumpily eat a whole bag of 'sweet heat' popcorn that causes serious, um, let's just chalk it up to a bad decision.
With the help of my sis in law, Ronan's room is now a tribute to his hero, Peter Pan. The walls have been painted 'charted voyage' blue since this photo. My sweet boy asks me to pray each night that he will 'dream about flying', and he fervently believes that pixie dust is real and effective and plans on asking for only that, come next Christmas.
I also painted my bedroom. That day I was feeling pretty confident, despite the fact that I hadn't painted a wall in several years. The thought was "if I'm just really careful, I won't have to tape off". Fast forward to now, when people come to visit and Ronan likes to give them a tour of my room and show them the 12 inch by 4 inch pool of dried periwinkle on the carpet. It felt good, rolling along on the walls, balancing the very full tray in my left hand while standing on my tempur pedic....surveying my work every so often....a sense of accomplishment with each stroke....and then I noticed that the tray had been cascading paint down the side of my bed and onto the carpet. Awesome. After some panic and self hate, I googled ways to try to clean it off carpet, but ended up saying 'screw it' and I went to bed, leaving the tray and brush and roller in plastic Target bags for the many, many days it took me to face my failure. It's all good now though, and I love the headboard I made this weekend. Can't show you a picture though, just in case Skip ever reads this. I want him to be surprised when he comes home.
On a sidenote, staple guns are inspiring and a new, super sharp utility knife is a dream! A dream, I tell you! I want to find things to cut, just because.
I made a big birdcage and have plans to make a modern, all white one for my sister's new house.
For Valentine's I made the kids each a heart pillow from this tutorial. Cedahlia loved hers, and it's newness made the top of the symbolic totem pole of her 237 stuffies. Ronan was teetering on the verge of handing his right back to me. It's Ok. He is his own man, and he likes guns and swords and that is about it.
In the past couple months I have grown to love the Y Pump classes at the YMCA. One day I needed to get some cardio in and was feeling kind of sassy and risky and decided to try a step class for the first time ever. It was, perhaps the most humiliating 45 minutes I have endured as an adult. That wall of mirrors. That awful choreography with spastic arm motions. The instructor happened to be Erin Kiernan, a local news anchor, and she really took me under her wing, sensing my struggle with lack of coordination. She stood by me for far too long, willing my body to fall into line with those ridiculous, complicated 360s around the stupid step. Afterwards, while I waited for the shameful flush to retreat from my face, I thought about the last time I did 'aerobics'. It was 1986, in a church in small town Wisconsin. Our little private school did not have a gym, but it sure did have a dimly lit, windowless sanctuary where our teacher could pump out uplifting Christian anthems while we kicked our way around the pews, cullottes whipping a frenzy around our knee socks.
A trip to Minneapolis to see good friends...a pampering, weekend retreat for chaplain families...a surprise box of music and handsewn birds...treats dropped on my doorstep... a massage as a gift from friends...my brother in law fixing my house from falling asunder.....a marble mortar and pestle from Afghanistan for all the *cough* cooking I do....never worrying about shoveling....seeing my little girl come out of her shell as a 'dancing bear'...Isaiah 43:1-4....knowing Skip will be home on leave next month.....these are some of the many blessed ways I get through the darkest days of winter.
Friday, January 7, 2011
girl on a wire
Day Five of being home sick had given me ample time to think and decompress from the holidays. But only slightly so, as I haven't actually gotten up to do anything useful, like take down the Christmas decor or find designated space for the new toys. I have had some good, long, catch up talks with a few friends and also spoke to Skip this morning, which was great. We had all been feeling pretty disconnected over the holidays, try as we might. Last night Cedahlia (poor, coughing every 12 seconds child) lay in her bed, with Ronan on his makeshift mattress on the floor beside her. What began as a slumber party two months ago has developed into a nightly co-habitation, which I think is so sweet. I overheard her grumpily and sadly say to him, "Everything feels different. It's like we never even had a Dad." It has been five months since they have seen him, and now that the fun of the holidays is past, she appears to be battling that post Christmas slump adults often have, though hers is more complicated.
Within a few conversations this week, the book War, by Sebastian Junger, has come up and been highly recommended reading. I am on the fence about whether I want to check it out. My conundrum is this: while I am highly aware of the issues regarding deployed soldiers and their daily struggles, I do far better managing life here when I bury my head in our own, easy, comfortable American sand. I am balancing on a wire, with my husband and many friends in harm's way every day, and Christians being slaughtered for simply loving their Creator on one side, and living a quiet, predictably wholesome, Midwest life on the other. I am not naive or in denial; I would say that I know too much about the ugliness of the world. Long spurts go by without any news watching or reading....and then I find myself glued to the recent articles about self immolation or Nigerian Christian babies being hatcheted upon their mother's backs. I ask Skip about injuries because he never offers up that information, and I am told IEDs have been more prevalent than ever, resulting in many concussions and traumatic brain injuries. So then I am back to sword fighting with Ronan, who imagines himself to be Peter Pan, while my mind races with all kinds of imaginary and very real violence that is happening to our soldiers at that moment. I think of next fall and how Skip doesn't have a job lined up and then I read this and I try not to feel sick. Reducing troop strength means reducing active duty, while Guard and Reserves take up all the slack and have far more frequent deployments. This is not mentioned in the article.
It is bizarre to live this life; looking boringly around my living room and thinking up things to do to make it more interesting. New pillows! A new lamp to replace the one Toby knocked over repeatedly until it eventually died. Only, I can't decide on the lamp because I want it to fit in with the rest of the room. Only I want it to be contemporary, with maybe a blue lampshade. Yes, blue! And I was fully prepared to spend $150 on custom framing an Afghan tapestry today, except that was my estimate, and the framer's estimate was double that. Then, page through the mail and watch Ronan read the magazine about starving children and I explain again to them, how many children have nothing at all and a special peanut butter can help them live much better. Peanut butter on a biscuit, that I throw away because my kids have had enough and it didn't taste that good without a generous slathering of honey. I vascillate between wanting to simplify my closet and give away 90% of it, and then hear the siren call of post holiday sales and think how I really could use some basic tops, couldn't I.
In these dark, winter months what I most wish I could have is simple: the kids lovingly tucked into their beds at night, Toby curled up on the couch, and Skip and I watching a movieprobably a guy movie that I concede to, eating bad snacks and just being there together in the same place. I also wish that the world was peaceful and that everyone loved their children tenderly and no one was hungry or hurting. But that is a fantasy. At least I know that when my best friend returns, Tron:Legacy will be out on DVD and I will gladly watch it with him and two pints of Hagen Daz that we pass back and forth until our stomaches ache slightly.
postscript: You may wonder whether Skip reads this? I wonder too. I don't think so, and perhaps this will be better to read when he has safely returned, so he can sit and read my angst, while I read his war books in the comfort of our little nest.
Within a few conversations this week, the book War, by Sebastian Junger, has come up and been highly recommended reading. I am on the fence about whether I want to check it out. My conundrum is this: while I am highly aware of the issues regarding deployed soldiers and their daily struggles, I do far better managing life here when I bury my head in our own, easy, comfortable American sand. I am balancing on a wire, with my husband and many friends in harm's way every day, and Christians being slaughtered for simply loving their Creator on one side, and living a quiet, predictably wholesome, Midwest life on the other. I am not naive or in denial; I would say that I know too much about the ugliness of the world. Long spurts go by without any news watching or reading....and then I find myself glued to the recent articles about self immolation or Nigerian Christian babies being hatcheted upon their mother's backs. I ask Skip about injuries because he never offers up that information, and I am told IEDs have been more prevalent than ever, resulting in many concussions and traumatic brain injuries. So then I am back to sword fighting with Ronan, who imagines himself to be Peter Pan, while my mind races with all kinds of imaginary and very real violence that is happening to our soldiers at that moment. I think of next fall and how Skip doesn't have a job lined up and then I read this and I try not to feel sick. Reducing troop strength means reducing active duty, while Guard and Reserves take up all the slack and have far more frequent deployments. This is not mentioned in the article.
It is bizarre to live this life; looking boringly around my living room and thinking up things to do to make it more interesting. New pillows! A new lamp to replace the one Toby knocked over repeatedly until it eventually died. Only, I can't decide on the lamp because I want it to fit in with the rest of the room. Only I want it to be contemporary, with maybe a blue lampshade. Yes, blue! And I was fully prepared to spend $150 on custom framing an Afghan tapestry today, except that was my estimate, and the framer's estimate was double that. Then, page through the mail and watch Ronan read the magazine about starving children and I explain again to them, how many children have nothing at all and a special peanut butter can help them live much better. Peanut butter on a biscuit, that I throw away because my kids have had enough and it didn't taste that good without a generous slathering of honey. I vascillate between wanting to simplify my closet and give away 90% of it, and then hear the siren call of post holiday sales and think how I really could use some basic tops, couldn't I.
In these dark, winter months what I most wish I could have is simple: the kids lovingly tucked into their beds at night, Toby curled up on the couch, and Skip and I watching a movie
postscript: You may wonder whether Skip reads this? I wonder too. I don't think so, and perhaps this will be better to read when he has safely returned, so he can sit and read my angst, while I read his war books in the comfort of our little nest.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
cocoon
Some conclusions were made on my solo journey from Omaha to Des Moines tonight. I found myself in that dead zone, where the only musical options were unfamiliar Dolly Pardon songs or Delilah's sweet talking. I chose Delilah, and was reminded of that time in seventh grade when my friend Seneca and I called in for an all encompassing dedication to several boys we called out by name, who were in the process of breaking our hearts. We requested Joan Jett's "I Hate Myself For Loving You", and waited anxiously all evening for our request that was never granted. I noticed Delilah has relented to edgier offerings, Maroon 5 for example, which seemed oddly wrong.
Facing the unexpected gift of a kid free week, I pondered my familiar initial feelings of loss and panic and 'missing', before the week had even begun, which is always sprinkled with delicious feelings of excitement and possibilities and sleep, luxurious sleep, and reading and doing whatever I feel like. About 47 minutes into my journey I decided that the former kind of guilt is a wasted emotion, and I cranked up the Eurythmic's "Sweet Dreams" and passionately sang along with Annie. Hold your head up! Movin' on. Keep your head up! Movin' on.
Christmas was lovely and truly fun and happy for me and the kids. Of course we missed Skip, do I need to say that? Despite that empty chair, we had a wonderful time preparing for it and reveling in the actual day. Several friends who know my affinity for short lived crafts and art projects asked if I made any gifts this year. Not really, was my answer, but we did make some fun little things for around the house and Cedahlia and Ronan made gifts for each other, utterly secretly; one with great enthusiasm, and the other with bribes of watching two Batman and Robin original TV series episodes on youtube. Here is his favorite. Inspired by the monagrammed mug tutorial here, I decided to just hand over the special marker and let them do what they wanted for each other.
I love how Cedahlia drew all over his, even a special surprise inside. Ronan drew his most careful capital C, and then a tiny face of a cat, signed his name and BOOM, he was done. I also made several birdcages for teacher and friend gifts, and you can find the tutorial here. I plan on making a huge one, with lots of those delicate little birds, to hang above me in my sunroom/sewing/art/reading /but really we will just call it the 'office' when Skip gets back/ room.
My super talented sister also got me hooked on making scented rice packs, which the lavender ones have been awesome for warming up and putting in with the kids when they go to bed. Although, recently Cedahlia has complained hers smells like pee? And it oddly does, but I'm blaming it on microwaved rice?
On Christmas Eve Day, we found ourselves completely ready for the holidays with nothing but time on our hands. We played outside in the snow, and after the kids fashioned themselves some snowchairs, we brought out hot chocolate and I read them a Junie B. Jones book....but only made it two chapters before my jeans clad booty lost all feeling and stuck to the shovel 'chair' I had settled onto.
I have loved these past couple weeks of holing up in the house by 4:00, and baking and crafting and reading to the kids every night. I expect more of it in the dark, slow months to come, and while I typically dread them, it is my intent to make it as worthwhile as possible. There are pillows to be made, and murals to be painted on Ronan's wall, and books to continue like this one that I love, for how the male author of 100 years ago is able to make me completely relate to the heroine.
While I drove tonight, my thought process went something like this....tomorrow I need to go to the Y, then clean the house and maybe I could even get Ronan's wall painted and for sure I want to sleep in first though, and read my book and I should probably take Toby for a long walk, and also I would love to hit up some Christmas sales and I also need to finish sewing my dress for New Year's and along those lines, I haven't danced in so long....I wish we had Zumba at our Y, and maybe I should check out some dance dvd's from the library and bone up for New Years with Katherine and Georgianne, so I don't resemble Tina Fey in Date Night. Ahh, but who am I kidding? As long as my friend arrives from Florida to find a clean bed and fresh towels at the foot of it, I don't *have* to do anything at all this week. I will probably end up cocooning myself up in a way that is so pleasant and self indulgent, that I will look back at this week with wonder and envy of myself.
Facing the unexpected gift of a kid free week, I pondered my familiar initial feelings of loss and panic and 'missing', before the week had even begun, which is always sprinkled with delicious feelings of excitement and possibilities and sleep, luxurious sleep, and reading and doing whatever I feel like. About 47 minutes into my journey I decided that the former kind of guilt is a wasted emotion, and I cranked up the Eurythmic's "Sweet Dreams" and passionately sang along with Annie. Hold your head up! Movin' on. Keep your head up! Movin' on.
I love how Cedahlia drew all over his, even a special surprise inside. Ronan drew his most careful capital C, and then a tiny face of a cat, signed his name and BOOM, he was done. I also made several birdcages for teacher and friend gifts, and you can find the tutorial here. I plan on making a huge one, with lots of those delicate little birds, to hang above me in my sunroom/sewing/art/reading /but really we will just call it the 'office' when Skip gets back/ room.
On Christmas Eve Day, we found ourselves completely ready for the holidays with nothing but time on our hands. We played outside in the snow, and after the kids fashioned themselves some snowchairs, we brought out hot chocolate and I read them a Junie B. Jones book....but only made it two chapters before my jeans clad booty lost all feeling and stuck to the shovel 'chair' I had settled onto.
I have loved these past couple weeks of holing up in the house by 4:00, and baking and crafting and reading to the kids every night. I expect more of it in the dark, slow months to come, and while I typically dread them, it is my intent to make it as worthwhile as possible. There are pillows to be made, and murals to be painted on Ronan's wall, and books to continue like this one that I love, for how the male author of 100 years ago is able to make me completely relate to the heroine.
While I drove tonight, my thought process went something like this....tomorrow I need to go to the Y, then clean the house and maybe I could even get Ronan's wall painted and for sure I want to sleep in first though, and read my book and I should probably take Toby for a long walk, and also I would love to hit up some Christmas sales and I also need to finish sewing my dress for New Year's and along those lines, I haven't danced in so long....I wish we had Zumba at our Y, and maybe I should check out some dance dvd's from the library and bone up for New Years with Katherine and Georgianne, so I don't resemble Tina Fey in Date Night. Ahh, but who am I kidding? As long as my friend arrives from Florida to find a clean bed and fresh towels at the foot of it, I don't *have* to do anything at all this week. I will probably end up cocooning myself up in a way that is so pleasant and self indulgent, that I will look back at this week with wonder and envy of myself.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
littleness
Recently I've taken to sending the kids out to get our mail. Our block has the distinction of collective mailboxes on the corner, an inconvenient remedy to a dog phobic mail carrier a couple years back. This task thrills them, and I watch from our porch as they scurry to the box and negotiate who will put in the key and turn it. Each time I send them, I say "Don't let the mail spill all over!". And each time, they reach on their tippy toes, feeling their way through the box, inevitably spilling the mail I've let pile up for a few days. It makes me smile but a lump also forms in my throat, as I watch their little bodies hunker down, frantically working together to collect the scattered papers and bills and junk mail that have wafted around them.
Because they have developed a great need to be within inches of me at all times, this one minute respite puts things in perspective for me, and I am reminded of their 'littleness', and I feel more compassion. To borrow a phrase a friend recently shared, I feel as if I am nursing them again, and even the dog sometimes (don't ponder that for too long), as I can't step away for a moment without someone desperately needing attention or a drink or for me to brush their almost seven year old teeth for them(!). It's suffocating at times, and I recall those early baby days, fertively stuffing chips in my mouth, chunks falling on my infant's head in an attempt to nourish myself a bit before they devour me. Only now I stealthily wisk myself into the office/sewing room/getaway to check facebook or lose myself in delicious artsy/foody/crafty blogs before they boing back to me, giant amoeba that we have become. It's the moral equivalent of putting on my oxygen mask before assisting others.
As Christmas approaches, I am always torn with things I wish the kids wanted versus the plastic-y, commercial-y, junk-y things they indeed do want. desperately. Last year "Santa" (ahem) really dropped the ball when he purchased beautiful, well made hand puppets and wooden marble track sets and open ended art supplies. Cedahlia couldn't shake off her disappointment for at least 9 months, and I've had to come to terms with this. Now, we celebrate Jesus here and know that His birth is the true spirit of the holiday for us, do I need to write a disclaimer? I'm not writing a devotional here. If you know me, you know I love Jesus. We also love presents and I am still occasionally struck with that amazing *Christmas-y* feeling. Do you know what I mean? It may be when walking at night on a particularly jazzed up street, with the lights and snowflakes, and anticipation. Or sometimes just watching claymation movies with hot chocolate I remember and briefly feel that chill I used to get as a little girl. I love that magical feeling and I want my kids to experience it too. Life begins to suck pretty quickly, like say around 10 or 11, so for as long as I can bring some sort of magical whimsy to our lives, I am going to do it.
When I was 8, my dad braved the elbowing, viscious crowds to get me a Cabbage Patch Doll. If you don't understand the depths of love this act confirmed, watch this. If I recall correctly, they all came with cool, unusual names. I promptly renamed mine with the sensible choice of 'Maryann Kay'. This same year, Dad also made me my very own dollhouse, which was, and remains, totally awesome. It traveled around with me for over a decade, residing in various storage units before finally being passed on to a very happy 4 year old girl.
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| This is me as a lovely 8 year old girl of the 80's. When I unpacked the dollhouse in 2006, the toilet still contained tiny bits of toilet paper, as well as brown paper turds. |
This is how the nuclear family of the 1980's chillaxed amongst their shag carpeting.
She always commands me to leave when she really gets to playing. I understand. I did those voices too.
In my dreams, Cedahlia and Ronan long for faceless dolls made of corn husks, and wooden marbles and play silks that they're supposed to be endlessly entertained by. I know better. This Christmas I plan on blowing their minds with all the glitzed up, plastic nonsense they can handle.
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