We are still here.

I haven't posted since we lost Frannie. It's been a hard year but you can't stop the wheel from turning. Even more than ever, I'm a believer that is for the best. I've been dreading doing our year end video because I wasn't sure how to make it. Today felt like the first day I could tackle it, so I did with a lot of input from the boys around here. So, 2014! In review.

My Sweet Frannie

When Gray was in the hospital there was a nurse who had a picture of her little boy in the badge holder that hung around her neck. One morning I watched as she weighed a brand new boy while his elated dad stood by taking pictures. He noticed the photo and very enthusiastically told her how cute he was and asked his age. She thanked him and told him that he had passed away when he was a few weeks old. The dad stumbled out some sort of sympathy and she changed the subject back to his baby.

I couldn't do much those days except sit next to Gray’s little crib and watch the nurses work. All day I watched her care for new babies. Hold them, change their diapers, bathe them, and rock them back to sleep when they cried. Many days I watched her doing her job wondering how she did it. How did she come back? Her loss was fairly recent, within the last year or two. Still, there she was, taking care of new babies without any signs of outward bitterness. She was so good with all of those perfect babies, mine included.

While driving home one night, Somewhere Over the Rainbow came on the radio. I knew the song had often been associated with loss, but I felt like I was hearing it with new ears. I was in an emotional place, leaving my baby in the hospital, and it hit me that she at one point must have driven home from somewhere realizing that she would never see her baby again. She could not go home, shower and come back to him a few hours later, safe under the watch of a sweet nurse. She would never run to the store, grateful for a few minutes of alone time but still tiptoe into his room when she got back and kiss his perfect sleeping face. She could not throw him birthday parties or try her hardest to fulfill bizarre Christmas gift requests. She would never even hold him again. Not even for a few minutes. I cried for her all the way home and wondered how God could take babies. I thought about how lucky I was, because isn't that what it comes down to? Often times, the most terrible things in life happen by chance. Some of us skate through never knowing how chance spared us time and time again.

I've thought of her off and on over the last couple of years, but never so much as I have the last few weeks. I've read that placental abruption occurs in one percent of pregnancies. Who imagines being the one percent of anything? How can you possibly be the one percent? You’re always the 99. My little Frannie was born on April 19th. She was so beautiful and so, so perfect. I told Jared over and over that I have never seen such perfect little toenails. Perfect little toenails that would never be painted. She only lived for a few minutes. I would endure anything to be able to live those moments of her kicking her little legs and stretching her arms again. I would give my limbs to be able to spend a few more minutes holding her. I play a game in my head while we’re driving these days. I try to come up with the most terrible punishments I can think of and ask myself if I would bear it for another few minutes with Frannie. I haven’t thought of one that I wouldn't so far but I’m pretty far from sane at the moment.

 Driving seems to bring out the irrational in me. I tell myself this is all one of those vivid nightmares you can’t wake up from. I look out the window while we go to my parents and try to convince myself that my brain could come up with all the details I see. Yes, I tell myself, your brain can imagine that gravel. Each individual piece. Your brain can visualize exactly how the rust would form around the dent in the car in front of you. Your brain is pulling all of the names on these political signs out of it’s subconscious. None of this is real. In a moment you will wake. You’ll sit up and grab at Jared. You’ll tell him about the horrible dream you just had and he’ll say something incoherent that he thinks in his half-awake state is comforting. Then when he’s back asleep you’ll lay awake, so scared you’ll have the same dream.

But it isn't true. I won’t ever wake up from this. Frannie is never coming home. I had to watch her die right in front of me. I had to call the nurses when we decided it was time for them to take her. We had to call the nurses when we decided that we were wrong and that we needed more time, please, please bring her back! Then we had to call the nurses and tell them it was time all over again. I had to walk out of the hospital without her. With a memory box and literature on grief. We had to cry when we told her brothers. We had to cry when we called to cancel doctor appointments and delete the reminders from our phones. We had to cry when we moved my pregnancy pillow to the basement and when we saw the little slippers I had bought sitting on the shelf. We had to cry when we picked out her urn. We had to cry when we decided we weren't dressed properly to pick her up. We had to cry and cry and cry. Every day we cry.

I was the first to see she was a girl when she was born. I’m strangely proud of this. I want her to know I saw her first. I loved her first and will love her forever. I’m back at work now and it’s awful. It’s awful when people act like everything is normal because everything is not normal. The whole world has changed forever and they can’t feel it. I know that is a crazy, self-centered view. Our loss is not everyone’s loss, but it feels like it should be. I want to scream, but I can’t. That seems to be the theme of my life now. Wanting what can’t be.

 I've had a song for each of my babies while I was pregnant. The song that I heard and loved for Frannie was Rainbow Connection. The one that Kermit sings. I know. When I told Jared this while I was still pregnant, instead of thinking it was silly, he listened to it with me over and over. He thought it was perfect. The first time we listened to if after she was gone we both cried. It reminded me of the other rainbow song.

I played the Ingrid Michaelson version, it's my favorite. It brought me back to what I felt for Gray's nurse and suddenly here I am. I am another person that wants to be on the other side of the rainbow. I too am one of the people that God took a baby from. I can't believe that I have gone from hurting for someone else I didn't know to this deep pain of my own. I realize how shallow my previous feelings were and I want to go back and beg her to forgive me for being just another person that didn't understand. At the same time, I'd give anything to be just another person that doesn't understand.

Not on fire, anyway.

My Mom had five kids. Even though every one of those kids was planned for and loved, when you have five, parameters must be set.

“If no one is dead and nothing is on fire than you better let me finish this phone call.”

That’s the line my Mom used on me the day my brother and I built a see saw in the backyard. I jumped on my end before he was ready and a two by four flew up and hit him in the face. There was a lot of blood. Sometimes the line she used included a part about blood, but not that day. When I ran inside to get her, she dropped that on me and I ran right back out. A second later Steve staggered in, bleeding all over the place, pointing at me.

“Why didn’t you tell me Melanie!” “He’s not on fire! And he’s not dead!”

I keep wondering when I’ll bust that sucker out on my own wild ones.

A wedding in 36 hours

I was married young. I am thirty years old and just celebrated my tenth wedding anniversary. Really, really young. Sometimes I tell Jared that it is sheer luck that despite our age and the general dumbness that accompanies that part of one’s life, we married the right person. Lucky, lucky, that’s what I say.

Because of this, I strictly forbade any of my sisters to even think about getting married before the age of twenty five. They all signed the contract in blood and thanked me for hard earned wisdom. Or they walked out of the room before I finished my thought. One of those ways, for sure.

So when my little sister called me Wednesday of last week and told me she was going to get married on Friday, I couldn’t argue. She is past the 25 mark. They really love each other. We all love her Ryan. He really loves her son. We all love his family. Really, there was far too much love going on to be anything but happy. Her original plan was the classic courthouse move, but as evidenced by this blog, our family likes a party. So we planned a wedding in 36 hours.

It was beautiful. A family effort. We cleaned multiple stores out of candles, and filled the place with pumpkins and leaves. My sister got to catering, my sister in law got to flower arranging, and my brother got to anything and everything that was asked of him. The music was provided by my grandma, who played the piano like an angel. One of my sister’s best friends happens to be an official officiate. My cousin had his camera in his car, so poof, photographer. Her mother in law has a salon so the wedding party prepped there. My mom made the wedding cake and Christi and Thomas brought everyone’s favorite salad. Everything just worked.

I don’t have many pictures, not even one of the groom, because I was too busy enjoying the wedding and trying to help everyone make sure that our candle wonderland didn’t turn into a raging house fire with the assistance of five crazy boys under the age of five.

She was beautiful. There were tears during their sweet, impromptu vows. So perfect. Happy marriage little sis! I hope you enjoy many holidays, weekdays and even sick but not very sick days. I hope that when you wake up, even on those crummy days, you look at each other and realize you have someone on your side, always.

Babies, cougars and fire

There are logical questions one must ask themselves when camping. Such as, will I be eaten by a mountain lion?

The posted signs say it’s possible. They say they are drawn to small children. I smell like small children. No amount of showers can ever truly erase the smell of cheerios and Desitin. They are going to eat me. My last meal is going to be deli meat and giant marshmallows. I am going to die with black boogers.

Jared’s internal dialogue is a little different. I haven’t seen anyone for the last five miles. Where are all the people? Do we have the whole forest to ourselves? Sweet! Wait, that doesn’t seem possible. There must be someone else out here. Where are they? They’re hiding. Hiding in the trees. In camouflage. Armed. Do I have a knife? They have guns and scopes and shiz. Oh crap, we’re totally going to be datelined while we sleep.

Even still, we camped. Twice in the last month. For our tenth anniversary we left our babies with my amazing parents, hopped in the car and headed for the coast. We spent a portion of our time in San Francisco surrounded by people and the other half in the hills above Santa Cruz in total isolation. It was so good! We watched the sun set and rise beyond the mountain lion infested hills, over the ocean. We saw no one except for a couple of turned around hikers for a brief minute. It truly felt like we stepped back into pre kid days. I have a habit of counting down while on vacation. “Only four days left, bummer.” “The day after tomorrow I’ll be back in my office.” I didn’t do it once. I really enjoyed every minute.

I imagine even the very best marriages go through moments where you feel disconnected. Like a couple of people who just happen to be wrestling the same kids into bed every night. This alleviated that. I’m still on a high a month later. Nothing like the fear of being hacked or eaten by wild animals to throw you back into the proper groove of things.

Jared must have enjoyed the whole thing too. The second we got home he went all consumer report crazy and bought a tent. We had borrowed equipment from my Dad for our trip, but now we are the proud owners of an eight man tent. Really, what other size would you purchase if your family consisted of two adults and two children who weigh under fifty five pounds combined? It’s bigger than our living room.

We tested the thing out in our backyard where the wild ones were able to climb inside and run laps out of the inclement weather for a couple of hours. After they broke that sucker in, we were ready for the real thing, the inaugural run. We attempted to go Friday, but in midst all the hoopla, forgot the star of the of the show. We left the tent at home. The tent.

So we tried again Saturday. We made spaghetti and meatballs in the woods. Hotdogs, I tell you, hotdogs are the way to go when you camp. It is much easier to keep a baby neat eating a hotdog. No post spaghetti bath in the woods. I almost tried to dunk the kid in the creek but he pulled out his best scare tactic on me and spouted off hypothermia stats while reminding me how high my insurance deductible is. Dirty baby won.

“Everything is more fun with kids!” we said as we set four little rocks by the fire to sit on. “Everything is better with kids!” we said as we ate cake mix dessert out of a dutch oven and told ghost stories. “Sooo much better with kids,” we said as we bundled those loves up and watched them giggle and dive in blankets and sleeping bags.

“Kids suck,” we said as we tried to get Gray to sleep approximately one thousand times between eight pm and five thirty am when we finally gave up and Jared drove the kid around the campground blasting the heater and NPR. Nothing puts a one year old to sleep like The Prairie Home Companion.

I still can’t decide if it was incredibly fun or traumatizing. Phin loved it, so I guess we’ll chalk it up to childhood experience gone right.

John Buck

When I look at my babies it always feels like they are exactly the age they were meant to be. Then a month or six or a year passes and they're different. Still, the feeling persists. I can't picture them older or changed. They are just one and three. It seems they are perfectly suited to be one and three and they will always be one and three. My own little defense against the time machine we live in. Other then brief feelings, imagining them 10 and 12 or 41 and 43 is so difficult. And 82? Never. Never can I picture them losing their little boy voices to puberty and manhood and then, eventually, to the crackle of old age. I wonder if that is how it is with any other mothers. If picturing them past the age they are is reserved for the times you fear you won't see it.
My Grandpa passed away two months ago. His mother has been gone a long time, but I wonder if she looked down on his final days and marveled on how she went from staring at a tiny baby to a man who lived completely.
John Buck has always had a big personality. He was voted most outstanding boy in high school. I mean, c’mon. Most outstanding? Pretty sure they made the category up for him. He was an all star in every sport. He played college football and basketball.He had five beautiful babies with my Grandma and was able to see four of them grow. He played handball with his college buddies for as long as I can remember and there was one fantastic moment where he danced with his pants on his head. You haven’t lived until you have seen your Grandpa do the running man with pants on his head.
He’s always told it like it was. One of our favorite Grandpa lines came on Christmas morning. He opened a package and stared down in silence. Somebody asked him what he thought and he said, “I don’t like it and I won’t wear it.” Tossed the unfortunate gift aside and that was that.
One last memory. When I was in high school I found an old letterman sweater of his. It fit like a dream and I wore it frequently. Years after I came into it's possession, we found a very old video of him wearing the same sweater while he was in college. It was taken on the old yellow film that people try to replicate with phone apps these days. He’s outside doing backflips, goofing around and looking very much like a silly college kid. I remember putting on the sweater and trying to picture it's past. It was once brand new and his. He threw it on as he was running out the door once. Maybe he wore it on a date with my grandma. He wore it when he had no idea what he would be doing when he was thirty or forty or eighty.
I called my grandma today, heard his voice on the answering machine and for a second it felt like he might have just stepped out. When he passed away the world lost something great. My uncle said it best, he was a real man. A real person. And I am going to miss him so much.

When you've been married ten years

You can set up a tripod in your hotel room and take a couple of goopy photos. And you don't even have to talk about how dumb that is. You know.

You can yell across the house if you're out of toilet paper and the person can open the door and hand it to you. None of that squeeze it through a tiny crack in the door crap. That's for sissies. And people with class.

You know each other's annoying habits. Like never rinsing the pancake batter out of the bowl before putting it in the sink. Or putting empty containers back in the fridge.

You've seen your spouse at their worst. Like that time you taught them to drive a stick shift and you learned there really is no limitation on the number of times you can use the f word in a thirty minute period. And the time they got so mad that someone cut them off and almost caused a giant accident, that they followed that person for a quarter mile laying on the horn. Until the horn broke. And your spouse ran into a curb. Yup, cause that was the mature thing to do.

You've seen them at their best. Like the time they hung a sign the size of a billboard in your front yard professing their love, just to cheer you up. Or the time they crossed a bridge with you in the middle of a storm, in just their socks, so you wouldn't be alone.

Sometimes, when you've been married ten years, you get the chance to see each other become parents. You get to see your best friend become even more beautiful, right before your eyes, as they cradle your brand new baby.

When you've been married ten years, it's totally acceptable to steal from each other. Sweats, croutons off their salad,their last piece of gum, all the hot water, the covers. When you've been married ten years, you can do that. You'll still get annoyed when it's done to you.

When you've been married ten years, you are on the same wavelength. Like you both randomly decide to google the same person you haven't seen in five years. Same wavelength.

When you've been married ten years, you've had to hug it out. A lot. A lot.

I mean, a freaking lot.

When you've been married ten years, you realize you've been pretty lucky so far.

Happy belated anniversary to my Lesco.

All about those two going at it like zebras. Or donkeys. Or both.

Hear ye, hear ye!

Have you ever wanted to see the love child between a "brawny zebra" and "sassy donkey"? Yeah, me either, but sometimes the universe gives us little gifts we didn't even know we wanted.

Things like Zonkeys. Plus corndogs. Plus reality shows about guys who make duck whistles.

But back to Zonkeys! I was alerted to this by my very informed co-worker and now I can’t, cannot, stop smiling. And the author of this little piece of literary heaven? Read every word. I bet she shook her head the entire time she wrote. Impetuous Romeo indeed. Just goes to show that true lust can’t be stopped. No fence be holding these two back from a good time. Lordy.

NEW PRESS PHOTO / SPLASH NEWS/NEW PRESS PHOTO / SPLASH NEWS

Can I also remind the world that my baby, my teeny, tiny baby, is turning one in a mere week. How can this be? Every cliche is so true. I live in some sort of time warp or matrix or Bill and Ted phone booth over here. He is the sweetest. Don't challenge me on that. I'm weepy.

Also, also, also, it's freaking Friday. Phew.

A pretty perfect day in not so perfect circumstances.

Nothing extraordinary or exciting happened the day before yesterday, but everything fell into place and that was enough to make it a day worth writing about.

The problem is I have incredible writers block. Going on several months now. Every time I sit down to type I write out ten sentences, delete, start over, delete, walk away. Watch Rescuebots with Phin for 22 minutes, eat a bag of croutons, pin 42 recipes that I’ll never even look at again let alone make. You know, the regular.

So don’t expect anything but the facts people. My writing muscles are wimpy so this is more like a walk around the block than a marathon.

We celebrated Christmas in July at work. One of my very favorite people is moving at the end of August which will prevent her from helping me with our annual Christmas music countdown. This is serious business humans. Around October, we sit down with a calendar and plan the exact day we can start playing the occasional song to the moment we can bust it out full time. Then it is posted on the wall calendar for all to observe. I know everyone in our office is devastated, destroyed even, that this tradition is no longer. I didn't see any visible tears, but I work with a stoic bunch. They are probably all internalizing it.

To help ease the pain we brought out our Christmas wear, loaded our playlist with the classics and ate Christmas cookies and fudge around a tiny little tree we set up. My co-workers have learned that they just need to go along with these things. As long as there is food, “Merry Christmas!”

Yesterday I did hear one of my co-workers grumbling how the workday after a holiday is always so long. Also, my pants are a little tighter today. I always gain weight around the holidays. So gluttonous.

The afternoon was more subdued. I left work early so I could go with my kids and husband to visit my grandpa who is on hospice care at home. I really don’t want to write about this other than to say life is beautiful and life is hard. Sometimes at the same time, which is a very humbling thing.

At the end of the day, Jared and I made dinner in the kitchen while our kids played in the backyard. We were blasting Chicago's Greatest hits, one step away REO Speedwagon, watching them run and crawl around. It should be noted that I'm using the term crawl quite liberally. Gray uses one foot on the floor while dragging his other leg folded under him. Think Gollum. Either way, I kept staring at those wild, wild kids of mine thinking, “Holy crap, what else do I need?”

This has been a tough year for my little family, which makes us big wimps to be honest, but a day where everything fell into place made it all seem ok. There are days for adventure but right now I’ll take uneventful.

Don't judge me. Unless you love me. Then judge away.

You know what? Being a blogger is a lot like auditioning for American idol. Only a select few get the grand prize. Most of us, well most of us are the other guys.

You sit at your computer and write what you think is a brilliant entry. Sometimes you know it’s crap, but every so often you think you hit literary gold. Who cares if the subject matter was your clogged toilet? They always tell you, write about what you know. Then your mom and your friends, and all the people who like you, tell you you’re brilliant.

“You had me in tears!”
“You've got a real gift.”
“I’ve never thought to see things from the toilets point of view you dagnab genius!”

Of course your little ego is inflated. You probably lay in bed really feeling like you could be the next Salinger or Fitzgerald. That despite the fact that you're pushing thirty with nothing more then a witty entry about a commode, you will write the next great coming of age novel. There will be book signings. There will be panels you’re invited to sit on. People will read your words. People will be moved by your words. You have a voice!

But really, what more is a blog than karaoke at locals night? Where drunk people cheer you on while you belt out Whitney loud enough to break a bottle of Guinness right in half. They love you. Naturally you take the next step. Naturally.

So when Simon or J Lo or whoever the F is judging that show now insists you rip out your own vocal chords and take a vow of silence you’re genuinely shocked.

“I wasn’t ready. I wrote that while the baby was crying! I was just warming up my prepositions. I got a real good one on tooth decay, let me read that to you!”

Sorry doll, but this isn’t the career path for you. Have you thought about a vocational school? Maybe something in plumbing?

So that’s where I am today. I have some real juicy stuff on how my basement is currently being used as a litter box, but I just can’t bring myself to write it. Too bad, it’s gold.

Makings of a good weekend. Aka the time I rolled like a Ninja

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I'm almost thirty and not nineteen.

Right this second, no reminder needed. I just had to stop typing so I could re start the sleep sheep hanging off Gray's bed before he woke up and freaked the freak out. That seems like a real thirty year old thing to do.

Friday night my little sister and I did a spy roll in the middle of a casino floor while tracking what might have been a millionaire member of the Safari club. That was a little too close to nineteen. Said the security guard who looked at me with "Get a hold of yourself old woman" eyes.

Then I stepped outside to call my husband and check on my teething baby. Thirty.

Saturday we dropped the kids off with their cousins and went snowboarding. After we finished we hung out in the lodge and ate peanut m&m's. Nineteen.

This morning I woke up and could barely bend my legs. Oh yeah, thirty.

Today I skipped church and took a three hour nap with my two little boys. They were both on top of me and my head was wedged in the iron work of our headboard, but hot damn. It was the best three hours of a very good weekend.

Thirty wins.

In which I publicly declare Baby Year

Haven’t done one of my lists of laziness in a while and today is as good as any. So a little compilation of why this week is awesome.

Someone is having a birthday. Someone fantastic who just so happens to be much taller and better looking than me. Someone who has a black belt in Kung Fu. No seriously, this someone does. Happy birthday Lesco!

Go Niners!! Nevada’s very own Kaepernick happens to be, and I quote, the most dangerous quarterback in the NFL. Says one hundred sources. Google it. Did you know he came from Nevada? You probably did because they’ve said it over and over just the way we Nevadans like it. Don’t judge our enthusiasm, star quarterbacks are rare in these parts. If you’re suddenly confused because you thought he came from some place called NeVAHda, let me school you. Don’t ever say it like that. No vah. Never. Va, like the beginning of vacuum. Like we’re going to suck those dirty birds right up on Sunday. Like that.

PS – Kaepernicking > Tebowing. It’s been Lesco’s signature move for the last 20 years.

I started a book club. After reading this post by one of my very favorite bloggers, I thought, “Huh. I want one of those.” So now I got one. We probably have way too many members for any sort of insightful discussion, but who cares? We’re just excited to have another chance to get together and eat. In fact, the invitation stated as much. Who wants to join an eating club?

I left work for two hours on Wednesday to go to a bounce warehouse with my kids. It was awesome. I felt like I was really connecting with my Phin while jumping down a two story, inflatable slide. He’s so cool. Yet, not as cool as Gray. Boyfriend didn’t even change his facial expression going down that thing. Like, “Please Mom, we didn’t even break the sound barrier. Try again.” Noted little one.

Do you ever wait far too long to grocery shop? We do. Then we end up running to 7-11 every ten minutes for bread, milk or Flintstone push pops because all we have left in the fridge is a limp head of purple cabbage and forty two salad dressings. So hallelujah for a stocked fridge because this family got it done. And I meal planned which is a giant feat for me. Don’t ever ask me if we actually made all any of the meals I planned. Little steps. Itty, bitty, we already ate the tortilla chips for taco salad night, steps.

Last, I feel like I’m finally getting my working mom of two feet under me. Sure, sure some things aren't getting done like they used to, but it’s a baby year. Baby year, you ask? Yes my friends, baby year. That means everything between the moment the kid was born to the moment the kid turns one falls under baby year. Didn’t get Christmas cards out? Baby year. Socks haven’t matched in three months? Baby year. Missed a court date? Baby year! Ok, that last one probably shouldn’t qualify. Let this serve as a public service announcement to check those speeding ticket dates. You’re welcome.

Go Pack! I mean Niners. Whatever.

Stories

Jared tells me stories. Really great ones. It’s one of the many things that made me fall for the guy. One of the many, many, mountain of many, things. That and his amazing ability to fancy up a box of mac and cheese. Swoon.

In the early years (can you say that once you hit that magic decade mark?), in those days they were about our future home or travels or even just regular Tuesdays. He was so good about including small details, my weird idiosyncrasies, that they seemed very real. Like days he was remembering instead of imagining. It felt inevitable that these hours of the future would happen. I remember laying in the dark, smiling, because I couldn't wait for whatever it was he just spoke about.

Some of my very favorite, burned to memory stories were about our future children. About Halloweens and Christmas mornings, all the good stuff. The stuff you picture before you have kids. So weird how you don't daydream about your kid peeing on the dog or running away from you in the grocery store. Yielding a broom. And a hard roll in a bag. Just me?

When I find out people are expecting their first kid, I remember all that imagining we did. I relay this excitement in a way that borders on creepy because the hope for our lives as a family without having any idea what it would actually be like hits me hard. I remember!

My kids are only two and .5 years, so clearly no expert on motherhood, but turns out those big events haven’t been the best moments for me. They're good, surreal even. Like I can’t believe I’m the mom that makes (or cough supervises the making of cough) Batman costumes and Valentine’s pancakes. It’s like when you visit a famous monument or art piece. You’ve seen it so many times in books or videos and then there you are, standing in front of it, in real life. You think, “I can’t believe I’m here, looking at this!”

I say that to Jared, “I can’t believe we’re here, doing this. For our very own children.”

But those big moments aren’t the best. For me, at least. For me, some of the very best moments can happen when it seems the most tedious. I had one of those instances a couple of days ago and I keep closing my eyes going back to it. I had just come home from work to two sleeping babes. I felt like I won the lottery. Jared had to rush out the door and try to get a few hours of work in but for once I didn't care. I had two sleeping kids. Late naps. Late naps!

I sat down and pictured, get this, nothing. I’m pretty sure my brain is unable to function most of my waking hours. Then Gray woke. Bummer. Five minutes later the dumb dog barked at an ambulance and that was that. Phin woke up crying because, well, that’s how dreams are broken. He was in one of those, terrible, woke up too early, nothing could calm him moods and was wailing at the top of his lungs. I was trying to calm him while soothing a now screaming Gray and shush my barking dog. Nothing was working and then Gray was screaming and Phin was coughing, boogers everywhere, and, and, and.

It went on for a good thirty or forty minutes. I managed to get everyone clean. Somehow, while balancing my two year old on one hip and my five month old in the opposite arm, got a cup of milk for my Phinny and the three of us made our way to the couch. I laid Phin across my lap one direction, Gray half on top of him the other and cradled both their sweet boy heads in my arms. Phin closed his eyes and sipped on his cup. Gray went right to sleep.

And suddenly it was quiet. After all that chaos I had two peaceful children in my arms. I was too exhausted to think beyond, “Wow, that sucked,” for a few minutes. Luckily it lasted long enough for me to move past that. I realized that my days of little boys and little babies that fit in my arms are incredibly limited. So I sat there in the quiet and stared down at those two perfect for me kids and thought, “I can’t believe I’m here, doing this. I can’t believe I get to see this in real life.”

Maybe a little saccharine. I don’t care. I really needed it.

Now I’m remembering this story Jared told me five or six years ago. It was about one of those regular days. We were all in the back yard and it was late afternoon and cold. I was laying in the hammock with two babies snuggled under blankets while Jared did yard work. In his story we were talking and the kids were just content. I remember this because a few nights ago, on that hard turned sweet night, Jared came home. By now we were splayed all over the couch. Jared plopped down and we just talked for a few minutes. And it was just like the story.

So what I’m saying is, don’t let anyone tell you fairy tales, or future life as told by your spouse tales don’t come true. Sometimes they do.

It was Christmas!

Phin almost got it this year. Except for the part where I told him to be good because Santa was coming. He was over that by December third. Pretty sure to him it felt like I was talking about this guy for years and he hadn't showed, so what exactly was the point.

I get that. Santa bribery is for suckers anyway because come December 26th you got nothing in your arsenal. We'll stick with, do what I say kid or I'm going to burn your stuffed animals to dust. Kidding. Phin is all to willing to throw highly flammable creatures into a fire.

Christmas eve was the longest night ever. While I want my kids to do nothing but sleep 364 days of the year, I was so excited for Phinny to wake up and squeal with delight that I was up checking the clock every thirty minutes. There wasn't exactly any squealing, Phin's not a morning person, but it was incredibly sweet. He wanted to do it all over again the next day. Tried to explain to him that we had to wait a year but the concept didn't quite click. This is a guy who adamently believes Santa is two years old, like him. Try to explain limited resources to that. By the way, I hope he believes he and Santa are the same age next year. I don't know where he came up with that, but we couldn't convince him otherwise.

Gray was a sweet little babe who didn't care what day of the year it was as long as he was fed and cuddled. He got plenty of both. And a stocking full of baby socks and teething toys. He also received a plethora of jammies because Santa doesn't waste time on baby toys when big brother still has plenty. Next year baby Gray, you'll get yours.

Year review in cell phone movies

Posted this on facebook the other day and can't stop watching it. My babies and my guy are so freaking cute in 2.5 speed! Happy New Year!

My Movie from Mel A on Vimeo.

Because I feel like I have to say something even if I don't know what.

I don’t want to blog again without talking about what happened in the world but I don’t know what to say. Of course there aren’t any words that are big enough to convey sorrow to these families. So much was lost that day. I have deleted nearly every sentence I have typed. Over and over. What can we say?

You stare at your babies and feel grateful and guilty and wonder how you ever let life’s stupid, petty issues bug you. Then you feel even more guilt because why are you bringing this back to yourself? If I were one of the parents I’m sure I would be the crazy person screaming that I didn't want memorials or stupid blog posts about kindness or stupid poems about heaven. That my child didn't live and die so someone else could be a better person. That my child was a whole person that had a whole life and I would much prefer if they were here, being unnoticed and uninspiring and just living.

I don’t know. None of it makes any sense. Evil, illness or even random, awful accidents. It just doesn't make any sense.

Big Cup.

When I was an incredibly emotional teenager, I would lie in my room with my angsty music playing and imagine the perfect life I’d have when I officially grew up. I pictured big cities, low paying yet emotionally gratifying jobs and clinking glasses. Also stylish friends who shared their amazing closets with me because you know, low paying but emotionally gratifying job.  I felt like I would have to find the magic combination that would make my cup feel full.

What I didn’t picture was finding it here. On the cusp of Thanksgiving I’m feeling it. Exhausted, stressed and even scared about some looming things,  but full.

I write about my Jared annually when I should be composing sonnets weekly, not that he would want that. I’m sure he’d be fine with a bi-weekly or even a semiannual arrangement. He’s flexible.  He is so much more than a husband or a best friend. He is a force in this world and all mine.

When we were at store the other night we took Phin down to the toy section. They had one of those mini basketball things where you see how many baskets you can make. Obvoiusly we got into a serious competition. Like, this one’s for the gold, seriousness. Like, this one’s for dish duty for a week, seriousness.  Just a little thing that reminded me that we still got it. It being the ability to have fun anywhere. Even walmart on a weeknight with two kids. Halle-freaking-lujah. I love the life we led before we had children. I love this life we have with them. I can’t wait to see what life we will have when they’re grown.

And those kids? Those kids are better than I could have hoped for. It’s like they were custom made for me. Oh wait, they were. I did that. My parents have one of those little closets under their stair case. My Mom threw a whole bunch of pillows and blankets in there and told her grandkids it was a super hero cave. Sunday night Phin decided that everyone need to get in the super hero cave. Everyone. All his aunties, his uncle and cousins, his parents and grandparents. He gave us each a pat on the butt as we crawled in. When were all piled in, Phin chucked a Pocahontas book at my Mom’s head, I shined my phone at the pictures and we had ourselves a little story time with a side of oxygen deprivation. We were all laughing and trying to avoid getting an elbow or baby foot to the face, but my Phin made that happen. He is his own self.

And my miracle baby. My Gray. My little one that had us holding our breath every few weeks to see if there was still a heartbeat. Who made it into this world over five pounds when we all worried he might not clear two. So much to be thankful for with my sweet baby Gray.

So my cup. That sucker is filled. It’s full of music and books and coworkers who share my love of holiday music and nurture my new found love of professional sports. It’s full of developing new hobbies and returning to old ones. It’s full of nights where I cuddle in bed with my newborn and laptop and Netflix while my husband studies and my toddler sleeps in his big boy room. It’s full of Tuesday afternoons with my Mom, Sundays evenings joking with my day, Monday night football with my brother and Saturday donuts or shopping with my sisters.  It’s full of friends I can go months without seeing but pick up right where we left off. It’s so full and there is room for more. How? Who knows. I just know I am so very grateful for the cup I've been given.

Happy Thanksgiving. 

 

Hiding places.

photo credit

This month has been a fail for hiding places.

I've always been a fan of them. I want to either a)buy a really old and creepy, but not haunted, mansion full of secret staircases and trap doors or b)build one. I’m leaning toward the first option because I like the idea of the original builders/owners being long gone. I don’t want a contractor out there knowing where all my house secrets are. What if he turns out to be a killer? What if he sneaks into my house to attack my family and he’s wearing a mask so I don’t recognize him. Logically I usher my family into one of our secret rooms. Dude built the secret room. Bigger problem? He also built a kill the inhabitants of secret room mechanism that I'm not aware of. Game over.

I thought my current house had a pretty good hiding spot. So good that I put all of the Phin Santa stash back there. We learned the spot was not that great when Phin brought out a gift and asked his Dad “Who is this game for?” Darn it. DARN IT! I’ve had to re allocate the goods to other toddlers in our family I haven’t shopped for and start over. Really not happy about this turn of events.  Needless to say, I won’t be hiding there when zombies invade. Time to dig out a bomb shelter.

My Mom also had a hiding space fail. Of course my Mom had a hiding space. She‘s my mother. It was a good one too. Unfortunately, she had to give it up this week. Not fair. If you can’t hide from your husband and grown children in your own house, what have you got?

So I’m feeling bummed. Over Santa and my Mom and the lack of old mansions in the greater Reno area that are in my nonexistent price range. All of it.

First world problems yo.

I have lots to be grateful for around these parts. Starting with my house full of boys. Do enjoy your Thanksgiving week. Kiss your people. Cuddle your animals. Stay cozy. Or whatever it is that makes you happy.

Batman

You should know that I cried and cursed five minutes into costume making. That’s when Jared took over and I supervised. Either way, we ended up with the coolest little batman.

 Proof?

Gray's costume is, uh, currently under construction. Yeah.  

Wait, Apple Hill isn't a giant apple?

Because Phin thinks it would be so much cooler if it was. After two plus hours in the car with Mom and Dad trying to hype it up,

"Phin, we're here! This is Apple Hill!"

"Mommy, what'd you say?"

"We're at Apple Hill!"

"No! No, this isn't Apple Hill. No!"

"Uh, yeah, this is it." Crap. "This is Apple Hill!"

"No Mama! This, this, we not at Apple Hill!"

Poor kid was expecting a giant Apple Hill. James and the Giant Peach style, but bigger. And you know, an apple.

Vovo pacified him with a giant, but not hill sized, chocolate and caramel covered marshmallow on a stick. Yeah, we let him have that for less than a minute. And he rode a horse, a pony, which fufilled a Momma dream for me. Fun was had by all!

Gray slept most of the day but he ate when he was hungry and was cuddled by many loved ones. So I'm sure he had a pretty sweet day himself.

The whole weekend was pretty fabulous. Living the dream.