The Pits

Like most summer-hungry folk, I've been MIA in the blogging world lately. Totally worth it for the better weather. 

*ahem*

But I thought I'd take this opportunity to share a funny moment.

The other night, Dan and I had a date at home. Put the kids in bed. Got subs. Watched some TV.

A commercial came on and asked us, "What kind of pit are you?"

We're talking arm pits, folks. 

And then it continues to describe different kinds of pits. Not only is this an all-time low as far as desperate marketing moves, but as I bite into my super favorite sub, the commercial offers, "Hairy pits?" 

Gag. Barf. Gross.

Maybe next time we should rent a movie.

Six Months

Watch out, world.

I'm Eve Lorraine.

I can roll this way and that. 

I can put things in my mouth.

And since I'm a breastfed baby, I can count. 

To two. 

I'm social and smart. 

I'm cute as a button.

I gnaw and thrash when I want to learn.

I took a while to get here, so I've gotta get going to make up for lost time.

Gotta go. Gotta learn, spin, roll and eat.

Watch out, world.

Gardening

We put in a garden this year. 

I'd like to say that it took a half hour to do. 

Of course it took longer.

(Those durn half-hour home improvement shows did me wrong.)

But I digress: Point is, we did it.

This cute guy made the beds.

(Must resist commentary on how it's the only bed he's made.)

The ultimate boy toy: a dump truck.

(Pound chest here.)

Morgan is a great helper.

Roll call: radishes, carrots, lettuce, tomatoes, rosemary, cabbage, brussels, peas and others.

Bathing Suit

Dear God,

Please help us to find Morgan's swimming suit. 

You know the one that I special ordered?

Because it was one-piece and wouldn't fall off my growing daughter's body? 

That one.

Yep.

It's wicked hot and she'd sure like  to use it.

Love, Emily

iBlog

When I first began blogging, I did it for the fun of it. It was my "dear diary" online. I did do some minor editing because not everything I think or feel should be available to everyone... but on the whole... a diary. 

I considered blogging to make an empire of myself and have a massive following but I'm not that type of person. I'm more of a "behind the scenes" gal. 

Now I realize that the real reason I blog/read blogs is to know that I'm not alone; it's cathartic. 

And when I feel really, really stressed and lonely, I think of women in far worse situations:

The pioneer women who I hold in such high esteem for eschewing all things culture bravely left family, friends and support in favor of...well... I'm not exactly sure. Personally I think they needed their heads checked. They probably followed their hunky stud of a man (think "Marl*boro man") into a situation that he described as the "Wilderness of Love" and found themselves promptly pregnant, bored and without many means of changing their situation. The most excitement they could hope for was a coyote cookout or a good, strong Dust Bowl. And there's only SO many ways to serve prairie dog and ketchup. Blogging would do them a heap of good, says me.

It might take a while for the Eskimo wife to begin blogging anything of worth... (Day 1: Boy it's cold here. Day 2: Still cold. Day 3: Today it was chilly. Day 4: I like ice.) But in the end I think she would start to find friends in far out places who could bring a little joy to her frozen tukkus. She might, for example, share recipes with a Caribbean friend she'd find online, put out a line of fish sticks that would put Long John Sil*ver outta business and start her own cottage, er, igloo industry. It could happen.

I fantasize on behalf of these women, but the truth is that most stay-at-home folk probably feel a little unmoored from people or from reality. I'll just throw this one out there: There are so many days where I find myself in a strange, strange situation that doesn't fall neatly in any categories or goals for my life that I feel exactly like the lonely Pioneer Woman. 

Just the other day I went grocery shopping with my father in law. (I know... isn't he great?) He suggested that we needed some more Pedia*lyte for the little one. They were plum out of what we needed on the shelf. I was content to leave the store, but the provider instinct in my FIL kicked in high gear. "Stay here, Em... I'll find someone who works here." 

He came back a few minutes later with the following information: 

"Okay... there is a red phone in the next aisle. Pick it up and tell them what you want." 

A red phone. 

Okay, I'm game. I found the brightly colored phone and picked it up. 

It rang about 10 ten times before a disgruntled gentleman answered. 

Him: "Hello?" He sounded confused.

Me: "Hi. I was told to call on this phone to ask if you have any more Orange Pedia*lyte."

Him: "Who gave you this number?"

Me: "Um. Well, I was just told to pick up this phone. No number."

Him: "What do you want?"

Me: "Pedia*lyte. Orange flavor please."

Him: "I'll send someone over to the aisle."

Me: "I know where it is. The shelf is empty of it. Do you have more in the back?" 

Him: "What's there is there. (Thanks, Socrates...) We don't have any more."

As I'm talking to Mr. Backroom, my father-in-law is staring at me with great hope and wide, twinkly eyes. I want for all the world to tell him that his kind gesture offered us several bottles of the stuff. More than that, I wanted to leave the store and forget this whole thing happened. Me. 

Picking up an actual old-fashioned, non-wireless phone. 

In red.

The whole situation had a back-in-time sort of feel to it. To be honest, it somewhat creeped me out; there's five minutes of my life I'd like to have back. 

And then I wonder: Are there other mothers out there who are totally strapped for time... have to choose between shower and breakfast every morning and find themselves sacrificially giving a slice of their sanity or a trickle of time to ... I dunno... a red phone scenario? Am I the only mother out there who forgets that 6 o'clock comes every night and, by jove, that's my cue to serve dinner? ("Maybe they'll forget about dinner," I reason.) 

Or am I the last lass on earth who find herself in a really hearty conversation about... brace yourself... shrubbery... and wishes she could swap this dribble for reading a book or enjoying a Margarita with her husband? I mean... how do I end up here? 

So, I blog. I blog to know I'm not alone. 

I blog to know that other people love food and friends and funny moments as much as I do. 

And then, after I've said my peace in Bizarro World, I'm happy. 

To Self

Sometimes I write these notes to myself. This is a letter to me before giving birth to Morgan.

Dear Self,

I am writing to tell you a bit about motherhood. You are about to embark on the most amazing journey of your life. Those words may sound cliché, but you'll learn to embrace clichés because they often hold a certain element of truth. 

Plus they're easy and witty and you don't have the mental energy to make your own. 

You've struggled a great deal of your life with being patient. Motherhood will either make you or break you in this arena. I hope you choose the former. This morning, for example, I had reserved a babysitter for my daughter (yes, you're having a girl!) and had to set aside my plans in favor of a doctor visit. Seems my dear 5 year old has a bought of strep and it's very likely that she has shared it with me as well. The time this morning I planned (yes, you're starting to get organized!) and held onto for dear life as a sanity preserver (did I mention Dan is out of town?) you had to lay down. 

Plus Morgan was screaming. No way to ignore that now, is there? 

Your efforts to be healthy will be a bit harder to come by, but keep trying. You need your strength. Morgan's doctor suggested that we give her some Gator*ade for her sickness (the whole "pumping fluids" thing). The shelf was laden with drinks that were not named in flavors. More like colors. So just forget the whole natural thing and get whatever colors she wants. It's alright. 

In the past you have allocated a week to prepare the house and fridge for guests. It probably fell under the category of "entertaining". May I gently suggest laying down entertaining for the sake of its gracious sister, "hospitality"? The in-laws are coming today to visit a bit early (Thank you, God) and the time you had allocated to guest-prep has been rescheduled. Indefinitely. It's okay to go grocery shopping once they get here. And it's okay to look a little disheveled because, most likely, you feel disheveled. Just do me a favor and brush your teeth. It's the least you can do. And it may be the most you can do this particular day.

I know I'm probably painting a picture of fear in your heart, but I'm really happy. Life is about basics right now. And it's really good. With the second baby (another girl, yes) I've learned to choose what matters. Don't worry your little designer-heart... I still like a cute house and bought a darling mini-palm tree for the guest room the other day. But at the end of the day, it's the people in the house that matter, not the house itself. 

Enjoy the moments ahead of you. You are about to embark on a wonderful journey... of self.

Your friend with the future in mind,

Emily

Obey, obey, obey

I should obey Mommy.

I should obey Mommy.

I should obey Mommy.

These are the lines I had Morgan write out after a series of situational difficulty in hearing. 

She balked as she wrote them. 

She writhed in her chair. 

She took a good deal of time. 

She questioned her parentage-- the maternal side.

And then, after all the fanfare, she wrote these lines:

"I love you Mommy"

*Heart pangs*

She knows I love her. 

Back Seat

I am in the car with the girls. I hear Eve crying in the back seat.

Me: "Morgan, why is your sister crying?"

Morgan: "Well..."

The long pause tells me that it's gonna be a good one.

Morgan: "Well, I asked her if she wanted the toy and she shook her head 'no'. "

Oh brother.

Morgan: "So I bonked her on the head."

Me: "You bonked your sister on the head?"

Morgan: "It was an accident."

Yard Sale

This weekend we had a neighborhood garage sale. It's a great time to get rid of stuff and it's usually a big hit since so many families participate. 

I had  a ton of baby stuff to unload. Cute girl clothes. Barely used baby equipment. Blankets.

I sent Dan outside to man the garage sale while I got the baby fed and clothed. I came outside just as a super cute pregnant woman was perusing our merchandise. She looked to be in her twenties and had two friends flanking her side and telling her, "Oh, you definitely need that" or "No, you don't need that... I never used my (enter baby equipment name here)". She was being mentored. It was beautiful to watch.

I took that opportunity to plug in my two "veteran" cents. I sat my super cute and well fed baby girl on my hip and popped over her direction.

"Oh, when are you due?" I asked the super cute pregnant lady.

"September." She gleamed.

"Having a girl?"

She was.

With that I launched into a hard sell of how my super cute baby clothes for sale would fit her super cute style. She smiled politely, bought a few super cute pieces and left. The garage sale had been so stellarly bad that at this point I just wanted someone to take my stuff. Hard sell was necessary. 

Then I went inside to the bathroom sink and saw something horrible. 

There, in the mirror, was someone who was not super cute.

My hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Fuzzy little hairs poked out.

My face showed the fact that I had been up at 3:30 that morning to feed my baby. 

This wouldn't have been so bad if I had taken the time to wear makeup. 

I guess I thought my glasses would camouflage my face.

There were stains all over my black t-shirt. Black shows stains remarkably well.

I looked for all the world like the pale, tired, running-on-adrenaline mother that I was.

Years ago, I saw a woman wearing pilled forest-green sweatpants and I swore that I would never let myself go to that level. Every woman has her threshold of, shall I say, "comfort". For some, its velour. For me, it was pilled sweatpants. To borrow a saying from my husband, "What better way to tell the world you've given up than to wear sweats?"

I put the baby down, ran upstairs and brushed my hair. I freshened my face. I put on jeans instead of sweats. I put my contacts on instead of my glasses. 

In my overly-neurotic and somewhat sleep-deprived "I-want-that-stranger-to-respect-me-and-not-think-mothering-has-to-look-like-this" state, I ran downstairs and outside to the sale. The super cute pregnant woman was gone. Rats. 

"Where's that pregnant woman?" I asked Dan.

"Don't know."

"You know... that super cute one who was just here? Where did she go? Did she go down the street?" I was persistent.

"I don't know, Em. And why does it matter? She's gone now."

How could I explain The Threshold in 3 seconds to a person of the male gender?

*sigh*

But wait, Self... There is another way to look at this... You've just shown a super-cute-mother-to-be that even if you are a bit scary looking, you can be happy. 

In any case, she'll find out on her own. Probably in September. 

A Little Laugh

Over Memorial Day weekend, Dan and I were driving home from Iowa. We stopped at a McDon*alds to grab a bite.

I was feeding Eve when Morgan announced that she needed the bathroom. 

Dan looked at me helplessly. 

"Don't look at me." I told him, "Just take her in the ladies room. Or the mens room. I don't care... either one."

Several minutes later, Morgan and Dan came out.

"So?" I asked. "How'd it go?"

"We went to the men's room" Dan announced. 

"Good." 

"Yep." He paused. 

"Except that Morgan loudly asked me if all people have v*ginas while she was in the stall." 

Peas

My daughter Morgan is five. 

To the average person, Morgan may seem like a very short thirteen year old. 

Somewhere in the past year, Morgan's mannerisms and body have changed. Her plump baby fingers have become longer. She tells stories and moves her hands to add drama. She furrows her brow and uses the most adjectives she has at hand. She's very in touch with her feelings.

After a somewhat interesting afternoon with my pre-pre-teen (that's no typo) I told Morgan that I had something to show her. 

I took her hand in mine and went out to the garden we planted. To the peas, specifically. About a week ago, I filled Morgan's palm with pea seeds. For those unfamiliar, they look just like shriveled peas but lack the luster of fresh ones. They're easy to pick up individually... perfect for little fingers.

I used my index finger to poke one inch holes in the soil and asked my fellow garden gal to put the seeds in them. Then we re-covered them with soil.

As I brought Morgan to the garden today, I showed her how the peas were now growing. I was thrilled. Seizing the Mommy-teaching-moment, I told Morgan this story:

"Morgan, see how the peas are growing? Well, the peas are like you. When I teach you new things about how to grow or make friends or be kind, it's like I'm putting a little seed in the ground. I don't know if what I'm telling you will ever grow into something more, but boy am I excited when it does."

I used my momentum to drive my point home.

"I am so proud of you, Morgan. You are growing into such a young lady. I'm so proud of the way you're learning to get along with friends and taking care of your sister. So proud."

I gave her a heart felt, Momma-couldn't-be-prouder smile. Yes, the dorky kind. 

"Mom?" my sweet daughter asked.

"Yes, Morgan?" 

"Can I play with Emily?"

Thud.

I released the hold of my teaching moment. 

Smiling, I gently covered the seed with the soil again. Not yet, but maybe soon.

And Then Grace Came

Dan.

Roses.

A movie.

In bed.

Monday, Take Two

I don't know how to be still. 

I don't know how to eat sitting down during the day. At the table. With a fork and knife.

I don't know how to set an alarm clock so I will have a bit of "me" time before I'm gently erased throughout the day. 

And I don't know how to take the one million simple little tasks I have to do and just. do. one. at. a. time.

Laughing... I keep buying things to organize my life.  

So this morning I went to my Heavenly Father and told Him, in essence, that I'm lost. 

Lost, lost, lost. 

Too many waves have washed over and I need a Rescuer.

Come rescue me, God. You'll find me in the kitchen. Under the dishes.