It's the Most Wonderful Time to Check my Mailbox

I got my first e-Christmas card yesterday.  The friend who sent it explained that in an effort to be green, she was emailing cards rather than sending them through the mail.  I consider myself fairly green, so I see where she's coming from, but it didn't feel the same.  Take away my "saving the environment" status if you must, but I'm sending real get-em-in-your-mail-box-hold-em-in-your-hand Christmas cards this year.

I love getting Christmas cards each year.  I brave the snow and ice to head down my driveway to my mailbox, starting the weekend after Thanksgiving, to see how many cards are awaiting me that day.  I love that I know my friend Susan's is the first I receive every year.  I love that, even though I have never met the daughters of Wade's former co-worker Joe, I get overwhelmed seeing how much his girls have grown since last Christmas.  I love when we get a card from someone for the first time and I rip their address off the envelope and stick it in my address book to add to our list.

I proudly display all of the cards we receive.  I suppose in part to show off how many people like me enough to send a card, but mostly because all of the pictures create a beautiful collage of the people most important in my life.  Family I don't see often enough and friends I see almost every day.  Sophie and Max are getting old enough to recognize the people they see on many of the cards.  Yesterday we opened one from my aunt Dawn.  It was a picture of all of her grandchildren and Sophie pointed to the oldest, Amelia, and said "She's the one who gave us popsicles at the 4th of July parade."

I love to see the cards and the pictures that each family chooses.  It's a little insight into who they are.  And the letters!  Fewer people are writing letters now-a-days, but I love to read them.  Okay, I admit that I don't always read the long ones (did you really need to dedicate an entire paragraph to your new car?), but the shorter ones are a lovely snapshot of each person's year.

The other day I was talking with a friend of mine.  She mentioned that now, with Facebook, sending Christmas cards isn't really necessary.  How sad, I thought!  I get it, sure.  I can see pictures of anyone, anytime, by clicking on their Facebook albums.  I see the status updates.  But seeing a picture and reading a letter (long or short) isn't what Christmas cards are really about.  A Christmas card says "I am thinking about you at this most wonderful time of year."  I suppose even an e-Christmas cards says that.  But this time of year will feel much less wonderful with an empty mailbox.

Here a pig, there a pig

We got a second guinea pig.  I'm not sure what I was thinking, exactly, but I was the one who instigated getting another one.  I stalked the website for the humane society nearby and checked Craig's List several times a day looking for anyone who was looking for a new home for their furry friend.  I researched how to introduce the new one to the "old one" (our first is only 7 months).  I looked at larger cages and other guinea pig paraphernalia that would be necessary with two.  As Max stated, "We have everything we need for a second guinea pig.  Except the second guinea pig."

It took my two older kids a year to convince me to get Elizabeth, our first piggy.  I didn't want the mess.  I didn't want the stink.  I didn't want the responsibility, despite my daughter's promises that she would do all the work (yea, right).  But I finally gave in and we got little black baby guinea pig.  She's cute.  And as she got more comfortable around us, she really started to grow on me.  We fed her carrots and spinach.  I would throw in the core of the apples after my kids finished their snacks.  She makes this happy little chirp sound whenever she sees me (I feed her, so it's more about the food than about how wonderful I am). 

As more people found out that we had a guinea pig, I heard more and more that they are pack animals and they like to have a companion.  I blew this off for the first few months, but as my kids lost interest, I started thinking about what a sad little life Elizabeth was leading.  She's not like the dog or the cat who demand attention by nudging your hand with a wet nose or curling up in your lap when lounging on the couch.  If we don't take the initiative and get her out of her cage, Elizabeth is left to watch.  Alone. 

Our babysitter volunteered to bring up her two guinea pigs so we could see how Liz would get along with others of her kind.  The three of them huddled together in a box.  No fighting.  We fed them carrots.  Still no fighting.  Ok, I thought, I guess we're going to get another one. 

Once the decision was made I was hardcore searching for a cage-mate for Elizabeth.  The picture of Lucy on the humane society was not flattering.  I don't mean to tell them how to run things over there, but if you're trying to get people to adopt your animals, wouldn't you make an effort to take a cute picture?  It was of her back.  She looked like a furry, fat, egg.  I called about two other guinea pigs that were also shown (and had cute pictures posted, I might add) but both had been taken (point made, thank you).  I spent the next few days scouring Craig's List.  When we had decided to get Elizabeth I had turned to trusty Craig to find a cage.  I found one that seemed reasonably priced and called.  In addition to the cage, she was wondering if I wanted her guinea pig as well.  Sure, I said.  And Lizzy joined the family.  But this time around the only piggies I could find were male or currently lived in Orono. 

And then it dawned on me that while I was frantically searching for a second guinea pig, Lucy was waiting for a home.  She may not photograph well, but did that mean she didn't deserve a family?  I packed up the kids and drove to the humane society.  She was cute.  And liked to be held.  She even put up with Lily's patting (which is much more like hitting than petting).  We brought her home. 

Lucy and Elizabeth are currently neighbors, not cage-mates, but I am hoping that will change eventually.  Mainly because I'm already tired of cleaning out two cages.  We ordered a bigger cage, and we're giving them time to get to know each other.  When we let them out to spend time together they sometimes fight, but like siblings, in the next moment they are best friends, cuddled up together in their little cardboard box. 

I am a little afraid of being that family.  You know, the one with all the animals.  Who's house smells like a barn.  But so far I think I've managed to keep my house from smelling (I'm sure my mom will tell me otherwise, however) and I like that we have animals.  I like that my kids have creatures to whom they show compassion.  Sure, I end up cleaning up the cage(s), but the kids feed them and give them attention.  I like watching them care for something that's dependent on them for safety and kindness.  And I like that something around here makes a happy chirpy sound when I'm around. 

New Age

The kids left the television on earlier today and an infomercial started. Something to make me look better.  Younger. Cindy Crawford was selling it with Valerie Bertinelli.  I wasn't watching it.  Wasn't listening, really.  Until I heard someone say, "Who wants to look older?  Who wants crows feet and laugh lines?"

I know I may regret saying this one day, when I'm really old and my skin is sagging and full of soft, paper-like wrinkles, but I like looking older.  I like my crows feet.  When I look back at pictures of me from college, or even from my wedding, I have a baby face.  Smooth, yes, but there's something lacking.  Life is lacking.

I don't recognize myself in those pictures.  My face today shows a little wear and tear.  There are lines around my eyes and mouth.  My lips aren't as plump as they used to be.  My skin is blotchy, though nothing that a little foundation won't cover up.  But I'm not complaining.  When I see a picture of myself from last year, or last month, I like what I see (except my thighs, I would definitely change my thighs). I like that there's a glimmer of wisdom in my eyes, and that my mouth has learned to hold it's tongue.  I like that my skin has survived the acne of, not only my teenage years, but three pregnancies. 

A friend posted some pictures of me on Facebook a while back.  He had taken them when we were in college.  They were black and white shots of me looking off in the distance.  When I saw them all I could think was that my face looked round.  I don't ever remember having a round face.  I've been told me whole life that my face is oval.  But in those pictures it was round.  Maybe smooth equals round.  Now my face is thin.  And I like it thin.  I like the indents along my cheek bones when I take the time to put on some blush. I'm okay with the fact that my nose looks pointier now then it did fifteen years ago.  I'm not afraid of looking my age.  Like I said, I may regret saying this someday. 

I'm not saying I don't want to take care of myself or my skin.  I want to look healthy.  I want to look attractive.  But I don't want to look twenty-two.  Because I'm not.  I'm a mid-thirties mother of three.  And I am quite happy looking like just that.

But seriously, Valerie Bertanelli looks as young now as she did thirty years ago. Maybe that stuff really works!  

A Model Dentist

Dentists should not be good looking.  I have had male dentists before, but they were old.  Not that old men can't be good looking, but my dentist wasn't.  Plus, I was 16, so old was probably 40, which doesn't sound so old anymore.  Anyway, since college I have had a female dentist.  She is good looking, so I should refine my statement to read: Male dentists should not be good looking.

I suppose there's a bit more to it than that.  Until this morning I was able to brag about the fact that I have never had a cavity.  Fine, I had one in a baby tooth when I was a kid, but baby teeth don't count.  At my last cleaning, at the end of August, the hygienist informed me that my dentist was out of town.  Would it be okay if one of the other dentists at the practice checked my teeth?  Checking my teeth has always meant my dentist took her little pointy metal thing and poked at my teeth for a second, then sat back and said "You have beautiful teeth."  Any dentist could do that, right? 

In walks Dr. Peterson.  Dreamy, tall, perfectly coiffed bed-head hair Dr. Peterson.  Only he didn't say I  have beautiful teeth.  He said "You have a break in one of your teeth.  We need to get that filled."  He didn't even say "a break in one of your beautiful teeth." 

This morning I was in to have it filled.  Having never really experienced this before, here's what I thought would happen: I sit down in the chair and make a joke about not having my coffee yet this morning.  Dr. Peterson, chuckling, says, "We'll get you outta here and having a cup of coffee in no time."  He has me open up and then gently fills the break with whatever they use for that type of thing.  Then he says, "That's it.  Wait 20 minutes for that coffee, okay?  Oh, and you have beautiful teeth." 

That's not what happened. 

I sat down in the chair and made a joke about not having had my coffee yet this morning.  Dr. Peterson said "We'll get you outta here and having that coffee in no time."  He laid my chair back, I opened up and he sticks a needle in my gum.  A few minutes later he has both of his hands, a cheek shield and the hygienists fingers all crammed in my mouth.  Then he starts drilling.  DRILLING!  I've heard the sounds of drills in dentists offices and often thought how awful that must be.  And now I know, for an absolute fact, how awful it is.  I get that this is a normal, every day occurrence for a dentist.  But not for me.  For me this was scary and sad and a little bit humiliating, now that I don't have perfect teeth anymore. 

But as I lay there with my mouth stretched open and the horrible sound of drilling in my head, I suddenly realized I was much more concerned about the fact that I'm due for my lip wax, but haven't gotten it done yet.  I started regretting my decision to just throw on sweats.  I could have at least put on decent shoes. What if I have a booger in my nose?!  None of this would have mattered to me if it had been my normal dentist.    But because Dr. Peterson is soap-opera-star handsome, not only was I depressed that I now have a filling (I refuse to use the word cavity), but I had to feel self-conscious as well.

The whole thing seemed to last forever, but couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes.  My tooth feels funny and now that the Novocain is wearing off it's starting to hurt just a bit.  He told me not to eat anything hard for a while and not to drink my coffee on that side of my mouth.  He said he'd seen me at my next cleaning.  He didn't say that I have beautiful teeth. 

A Moment of Expense

Imagine coming home to a clean house.  You just walk in the door and the floor is mopped, the bathrooms are sparkling, the baked-on chili, which no amount of scrubbing seemed to loosen off the stove, is gone.  Of course it only lasts for a moment, just long enough for dirty shoes, a little boy's bad aim and boiled over mac'n cheese for lunch.  

Ugh, housework.  It's something that I hate.  And I'm not good at it.  So, I hired a cleaning service.  They only came once a month, it's not like I had a live-in maid, but it was definitely a big help.  I got to have a clean slate (pun intended) once a month, and my goal was to maintain it until they magically showed up again four weeks later.  But my cleaning fairies are no more.

I started thinking about how expensive that moment was.  That moment, post cleaning crew, just after I open the door to my house and just before the kids and dog catapult in behind me.  It's an amazing, fresh, sparkly moment.  And for a little while I was able to convince myself that it was worth any amount of money.  But now that I've mostly quit my job, and therefore mostly lost my paycheck, I had to reconsider how much that moment is actually worth. 

Tomorrow is the day the cleaners would have come.  They would have dusted my dining room hutch and Windexed all the mirrors.  They would have gotten my kitchen sink cleaner than I've ever been able to, almost as clean as my mom can get it.  They would have stacked all the kids' books in nice, neat piles and lined up the stuffed animals on Max's top bunk.  They would have.  If I hadn't called earlier this evening and told them not to come.  Again.  Ever. 

So, tomorrow I'm going to get up and dust.  I haven't really dusted since the cleaners were here a month ago.  That's first on my list.  And then I'm going to wipe down my kitchen appliances, taking great care with my coffee maker, of course.  Wiping down appliances was something I never really did before, not unless something was splattered on them during one of my baking fiascoes, but it was my favorite thing the cleaners did.  Made such a difference.  It really did.  And I'm going to do windows tomorrow, too. 

I have a strange kind of excitement about whipping this place into shape on my own.  I think I've been feeling kind of useless lately (a topic for another day) and I'm ready to create my to-do list while sipping coffee in the morning.  And I have always gotten some satisfaction from crossing items off as I get them done. I don't need that cleaning crew.  But I definitely need to tell Wade to splatter less of his chili on my stove. 

Love at First Grade

My daughter came home from school today and told me that she has a boyfriend.  She has been talking about this boy for a few weeks now, but it was just today that things started to get serious.  She's hoping to marry him someday, but she said it's too early to know that for sure.  I was happy to hear that, as she's six years old.

She has started to care about what she wears and talks about how she looks. Until very recently, Sophie asked me to pick out her clothes.  And if she picked them out herself she looked like some kind of deranged clown.  Competing patterns, glaring colors, a thick heavy sweater on a 95° day.  But even in her crazy get-ups, she is stunningly beautiful.  So put her in a cute pair of jeans and a fitted little tee and she's a six-year-old knockout. Who wouldn't have a crush on her!

Years ago, when Sophie was about nine months, we were in an ECFE class.  All of the moms sat in a circle and in the center was a roly poly mess of babies.  My only memory of that class is Sophie, who wasn't quite crawling yet, sitting amongst the chaos.  A bigger baby started crawling in Sophie's direction and I watched as Sophie's little face lit up.  She reached her arms out toward the approaching baby.  But that bully of a baby plowed right over her and kept on going.  The anger I felt toward that other baby frightened me.  Of course, rationally, I knew that that baby hadn't done anything wrong.  But the mama bear in me wanted to hunt that child down (she was lost in the gaggle of babies and I had no idea which one had wronged my Sophie) and set her straight. I sat there, in that circle of mothers, as Sophie picked herself up and happily continued to look around.

I think what amazes me most about my eldest daughter is her ability to bounce back.  I have always been so afraid that people won't like me, that I'll be rejected somehow, that I have a hard time putting myself out there in the first place.  But Soph isn't like that.  On top of being cute, Sophie fearlessly, and with great vigor, puts herself out there.  She will talk to anyone, about anything.  And she has no qualms about announcing her feelings openly.  She will declare to a little girl she has just met at the park, "You're my best friend."  She loves everyone, and she assumes that everyone will genuinely love her back.  I have a lot to learn from this little six-year-old. 

Still, I am at a loss as to how to handle this boyfriend business with Sophie.  I know first-graders are too young to know what is means to fall in love or get married, but I don't like the idea of her only focusing on one friend, boy or girl.  On the other hand, I don't want to squash her excitement and I don't want to instill in her the fear that I'm now trying to overcome.  Plus, I know, in her future, there will be broken hearts.  Just a word of advice to those boys: watch out for mama bear.

Washed Up

I have a very strict laundry schedule.  Mondays I wash sheets.  Tuesdays are towels.  Wednesdays I wash the kids' clothes and Thursday I wash my and Wade's.  I have it written out on a piece of paper... somewhere. And sometimes I even stick to the schedule.

On the weeks when I follow my strict laundry schedule, everything seems to go smoothly.  I don't feel overwhelmed by large monster-sized piles of clothes or bath towels.  I walk upstairs and it feels so big, so roomy, without having to step over the separated lights, darks and reds (my mom can at least be proud that she raised me well enough to do that) looming in the hallway.

It's not just the laundry.  When I stick to my laundry schedule, I tend to be better about vacuuming.  Most likely because I can see the carpet.  It's easier to get ready in the morning, both for me and for the kids.  Instead of trying to piece together an outfit, Sophie can pull her favorite shirt from her drawer and off she goes.  I don't have to try on all my clean pants to see what fits me, when the laundry is done I just have to grab my sweats and head to the bus stop.  My house feels more organized, and therefore my life feels more organized. 

One would think, then, that I would stay on top of the laundry to ensure that the rest of my life is running smoothly.  One would be wrong.  It starts on Mondays when I forget that I'm supposed to wash the sheets.  Or I remember that afternoon, when I know I won't have everything washed and dried before bedtime.  That means that I put the clean sheets on the beds, but the dirty ones are in a pile on the laundry room floor.  Tuesday, already feeling behind, I get to work washing the sheets, and pile the towels in the hallway upstairs.  Wednesday is when things really fall apart.  I start the morning sorting the kids' clothes, but rarely get to putting them in the wash before heading out for the day.  That means that Thursday I have sheets, towels, clothes for three kids and two adults and, lest we not forget, the cloth diapers, too boot.  Needless to say, I rarely get caught up.  And all too often, I'm so overwhelmed that I don't even get started.

It seems that for every good laundry week I have, there are two or three bad ones.  For some reason, I can think of three off hand, I just can't seem to get it together the way I imagine most people do.  I do have high expectations for myself.  My mom is the perfect homemaker.  She works very hard and it shows.  Her house is clean.  Yes yes, she no longer has kids at home, but it was clean even when the three of us did live in her home.  And I don't remember stepping over heaps of laundry when I was growing up either.  Although, I do remember one time when my mom had covered her bed in folded laundry, ready to be put away, and my brother and sister jumped on the bed, creating a huge laundry mess.  My mom sat on the edge of the bed and cried.

I think, all too often, I try to live up to her standards, and when it becomes clear that I can't, I just give up completely.  So I'm trying to set my own standards.  I'm working towards understanding what my limits are and reaching those, rather than always trying to go beyond and being disappointed.  I'm also working on remembering to wash the sheets on Monday, so that the rest of my week, in more ways than just laundry, gets off to the right start.

Today is Wednesday and I just heard the laundry buzzer.  I'm happy to report that I am currently washing the kids' clothes.  From last week.  Maybe next week will be the good laundry week. 

Hi Sister

Sometimes, around 3 or 4:00 in the afternoon, my sister and I have a cup of coffee together.  Over gmail chat. She's in New York City and I'm here in suburban world, so a computerized cup of coffee is the best we can do.  If things were different, that's to say that if she lived here, I would like to think that having a cup of coffee together would be a regular occurrence. 

Many years ago, when Molly and I were growing up, we shared a bedroom.  As the older sister, I hated it.  And loved it.  She was a fun little sister, cute, silly, gullible.  Once, when I was mad at her, I put tape across our room and told her she had the half with the window and I got the half with the door.  She stood at that tape-line and cried for over an hour.  When I was nine and she was five we moved to Bloomington, IL and into a house where all three of us kids had our own rooms.  For the first couple of weeks she slept in mine.

Molly is just enough younger than me to have been a true little sister.  The kind of little sister who yelled things like, "Sara loooooooves Joel." when the boy I liked happened to call.  She and my brother spent hours making silly movies in our basement and ganging up on me for siding with my parents when we were deciding where to go for dinner.  And then, one day, she grew up.  As we got older, and became closer, we started talking about boys, relationships, friends.  It took me a long time to take her advice seriously.  As she would be talking to me, and usually giving me very good, insightful input, all I could see was a little seven-year-old girl blabbing on and on about her made up language or singing one of her silly songs (pizza pizza patio / how do you know it?).

Seven years ago she moved from Chicago to the Big Apple.  Her life is so different than mine - acting, roommates (although now she lives on her own, which is equally different than my living situation), taking the subway, working in Manhattan.  She lives in Astoria.  The last time I was out to visit her I helped her move into her new place, a cute basement apartment with a sweet, if not over-protective, landlord. 

Eventually I was able to see that she's not a little girl.  But she is my sister.  She knows me better than just about anyone else on this planet.  She might be worlds away from husbands and changing poopy diapers, but she has helped me through trying times and laughed with me through the joyful ones.  She's been here for the birth of all three of my kids.  She calls me Suki (she's the only one who's allowed) and tells me when I have too much mascara on or when my butt looks really good in my jeans.

When I was pregnant with Lily, but didn't yet know it was Lily, I would think about having another boy or another girl.  I know that my brother has always wished that he had a brother, and there was a part of me that wanted that for Max.  But when it came down to it, I couldn't imagine Sophie not having a little sister.  Maybe someday, when Sophie and Lily are grown and living their lives on the same block or different continents, they will meet for coffee.  Or, at the very least, their holograms will (because it's the future...get it?).

Like Me

I started this blog to get myself writing.  Again.  And it's done that.  While I'm writing I tend to forget that other people may be reading what I'm writing.  Except for right now, because I happen to be writing this to you.  I discovered something new about my blog.  New to me, that is.  I'm pretty sure it's been there all along.  It only took me 6 months to notice the "stats" tab for My Life in Coffee and when I clicked on it I was pleasantly surprised and completely terrified at the same time.

I knew that friends were reading what I wrote.  And it still catches me off guard when someone, seemingly out of the blue, says something like, "I've thought about getting a tattoo" or "I had a sinus infection once, too."  Like we're in the middle of a conversation.  Then I realize they are responding to what I had written and I go from feeling confused to flattered that someone actually read what I wrote.

I know my mom reads this from time to time.  When she first read it she called me and said she thought I was a talented writer (she has to think this, she's my mom).  And my dad said he laughed out loud when he read the last line of Slow Down.  That made me happy because I laughed out loud when I wrote it. 

Even knowing that friends and family were reading this, and hopefully enjoying it, I'm still able to honestly share my thoughts, sometimes better than others.  But the stats were crazy!  At least to me.  I am sure, compared to most writers (bloggers?...not sure how I feel about that term) what I saw was small potatoes, but to me it was overwhelming.   I saw how many hits my blog has gotten.  I can see how people stumbled upon my blog, mostly through Facebook, obviously.  I'm not going to throw out numbers (they aren't that impressive!).  But I am going to throw out a country.  Latvia.  Okay, a few countries.  Russia.  The Netherlands.  South Korea?

I can only assume that the people in places other than the Unites States, or Minnesota for that matter, who looked at my blog ended up there by random chance.  I'm sure they typed amoxicillin into Google and ended up at my Pharmacy post or typed tile and found themselves rolling their eyes at my do-it-yourself disaster.  But it's blowing my mind that someone, anyone, that I don't know might be looking at my blog.  In a good way.  In an overwhelmingly good way.

So, now that I'm world-famous, I thought I would give my little blog a Facebook page.  So please, if you like my blog, like it. 

Pharmacy

I don't usually take anything when I'm sick.  So right now I feel like a walking pharmacy.  Well, at least a walking drug store.  In the last hour I have taken Sudafed, ibuprofen, amoxicillin, and a dash of Afrin.  Now I'm just waiting to feel better.

I went to the Minute Clinic today because I suspected I had a sinus infection.  I was right.  My head feels like a balloon.  A big, painful, snot-filled balloon.  I'm supposed to be doing laundry right now, but instead I decided to sit on my couch.  And write.

This is when the guilt sets in. Wade has been sick and I wasn't the most, um, sympathetic wife. But, of course, as soon as I told him that I had a fever and a sinus infection he has been sending me texts that say "I'm sorry" and sad faces.  :(  The equivalent of bringing me chicken noodle soup in our technological world, I suppose.  And I know that when he gets home he'll take the kids out so that I can have a break and maybe even take a little nap.

So, I've been thinking about why I'm unable (because I try, I really try!) to show that same sympathy when he's sick.  Obviously, having three kids takes up most of my patience and energy on any given day.  After making meals, cleaning up, changing diapers, chasing Lily constantly (she never stops moving!!), being yelled at, being told "I wish you weren't my mom", doing laundry...you get the idea, I don't have much left over to wait on my husband.  And yes, I know that makes me a terrible wife.  So when he's sick, all I see is one more person depending on me to take care of him. 

That's only part of it, though.  And the other part doesn't make me out to be much better than the first.  I get jealous.  When Wade was home sick last week he got to lie up in bed.  He read.  He listened to his sports radio.  He slept.  I told the kids to leave him alone so he could rest (I may not have been overly sympathetic, but I'm not completely heartless).  But I've been sick, too.  I've had a cold for weeks.  But so have my husband and daughters, so no one seemed to notice. 

Then, today, my head started imploding to the point where putting my contacts in made me want to cry.  But I didn't get  to lie in bed.  I had to make breakfast and get the kids ready for school.  I had to entertain two kids while waiting at the Minute Clinic.  I said earlier that I was sitting on my couch, but that's not entirely true.  I got up because Lily only slept for a half hour (instead of her usual 3 hours).  And then I got up because she got a hold of and then dumped an entire box of spaghetti noodles on the floor.  And then I got up because Mia arrived (a little girl I watch a few days a week).  Snacks were requested (more like demanded).  Then I heard Lily splashing in the toilet.  Then I found out that Max and his friend stole Mia's sucker and threw it in the woods.  And that pretty much brings us to now.

I'm not complaining.  Well, yes I am.  Obviously.  I don't get a sick day when I'm sick. I just get a regular day, only I fee like crud the whole time. 

I think all those meds are finally starting work.  But don't tell Wade.  I'm still hoping he takes the kids out of the house for a while. 

Hunka Hunka Burning Love

Wade and I are in the process of deciding where we are going to celebrate our anniversary this month.  For our first two anniversaries, before children, we got away for a weekend.  Since having Sophie, we're lucky if we get out to a movie.  But this year my parents have offered to watch all three kids for an entire weekend so that we can get away once again.  I knew I would be excited about a break from the kids (it's okay to want a break from my kids, right?) but it caught me by surprise how much I'm looking forward to two whole days alone with my husband. 

Wade brought the kids out to the 3Day for a Cure to cheer me on this past August.  This was the first time that two of my team members had ever met him.  We stopped and chatted with him and the kids for a few minutes, but as we were walking away one of these team members, said, "I bet you have a lot of fun with that hunk of a man."  My immediate visual was of Wade in his chair watching tv, mostly sleeping, mouth open, occasionally making a snorting noise, all while holding the remote and accidentally deleting my shows instead of fast-forwarding through the commercials.  Yea, fun.

But the thing is, my hubby is very handsome.  I just forget sometimes.  Every once in a while when we're out, say, at the grocery store, I'll momentarily see him through the eyes of someone else.  I'll come around a corner and see him deciding which soup he wants (usually split pea or something southwestern) and I'll think, Look at that good looking guy .  And then I remember that that good looking guy is mine.  And that I get to walk up to him and put my arm through his as we walk down the isle (the grocery isle, that is).

Wade and I met at the beginning of our freshman year at St. Olaf college and got to be good friends throughout our senior year.  We started dating about a year after graduation, but I do remember thinking, early on, that I loved his broad shoulders and his brown eyes.  Friends often said, even before we were actually dating, that we looked good together.  We did.  And we still do.  Only now it's harder for us to see it.

Not because we're older.  As a matter of fact, I think we both look better, healthier, now than we did before we were married.  It's harder to see my husband's handsome-ness because there are three little people standing in the way.  I love those three little people.  Very much.  But the chance to spend some time with Wade, alone, for more than a dinner at a restaurant on a Friday night, but for days, is much needed.  To sleep in and wake up without someone standing next to the bed saying "Is it morning yet?"  To have a conversation without someone interrupting to show us his newest lego creation.  To have a meal without the littlest of these people throwing her food on the floor.  Much much needed.

Because, my hope at least, is that once it's just the two of us we will remember (not to imply that we've forgotten) why we wanted to get married and have a family in the first place.  We used to have fun, be silly, hold hands.  That still happens.  Sometimes.  But now we have an audience. Funny how nine years ago having a family with this guy was all I could think about.  And now, all I want is a weekend alone with him.  And I plan to have fun with that hunk of a man.

Simply Sophisticated

You know, I'm a pretty sophisticated person. I went to an art gallery last night. Sure, most days I wear sweatpants and sometimes completely forget to put makeup on before leaving my house, but when need be, I can step it up and look the part. At least according to that woman in the ladies' room at that hole-in-the-wall bar last night in Hudson.

I don't get dressed up very often. So when I have occasion to do so, I'm never sure if I look like I have it all together, or if I look like I'm trying to look like I have it all together. I don't buy myself clothes very often. And when I do, I have a hard time rationalizing spending money on something I won't wear too often (ie. dress pants or skirts) versus something that I know I will (ie. more sweatpants). I watch What Not To Wear and lately, as I've been getting in my car to drive to Target (quite possibly to buy more sweats) I think about Stacy and Clinton forcing me to sit and watch a video of me shopping with no makeup, baggy pants and flip flops. And then the 360° mirror. It would be torturous!

Last night I went to an art gallery with two friends. We had kidded that we're obviously pretty darn sophisticated if we're the kind of people who go to art showings at art galleries. While we were joking around, I kept thinking about what I would wear, really. I have a pair of jeans that I finally fit into and with little heels they look pretty good. But my tops are all still a bit snug. I decided to wear a big-necked sweater and a little jacket. Oh, and I remembered to put on makeup.

They picked me up and my friends looked hip and truly sophisticated. I hoped that I didn't look like I was trying too hard, especially next to the two of them, who make it look effortless. We got to the gallery and fit right in. That's because there were people there dressed in everything from fancy dresses with leggings (that's for you, Shawnessy!) to jeans and flannel shirts. I think, even if I'd worn my sweatpants I wouldn't have felt out of place.

Someone once said to me, "Sara, you portray confidence, no matter what you're wearing." What's that supposed to mean? I thought. First off, what does that say about what I'm wearing? And second, I do tend to forget what I look like. For instance, Lily will be crying before I've had a chance to take a shower, and before I know it we're heading out the door to get to the bus stop and then I'm usually off to run errands. I'll catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and cringe. But by the time I get to Target (I spend a lot of time at Target) I have usually forgotten to be embarrassed about my hair or lack or mascara or the stain on my shirt. Is that confidence?

After the art gallery (and hob-nobbing with one of the artists, I might add), we went to a nearby dive bar. We had a couple of drinks and on our way out we stopped in the ladies room (which is putting it nicely). My friends struck up a conversation with a couple of other women waiting and as I came out of the stall one of them asked me, "Are you with them?" Before I could answer she said, "You look like you're with them." I know how junior high this sounds, and it really really shouldn't matter at all, but that one little drunken comment, just outside of a nasty bathroom stall, totally made my night. "Yea, I'm with them."

Video Killed the Violin Star

I watched The View today and heard about Tyler Clementi, the Rutgers student who committed suicide after his roommate and the roommate's girlfriend posted videos of him on the internet. The videos were of Tyler having sex with another male student, but that's really beside the point as far as I'm concerned. It would be, in my mind, just as wrong if they had recorded him going to the bathroom or picking his nose. Or studying. Whatever he was doing in the privacy of his dorm room (and to my understanding he had asked his roommate for just that, privacy) was his business. Not his roommate's. Not yours. Not mine. My heart is broken for Tyler's family.

But my heart is sickened by people who do this kind of thing. Tyler's case is pretty extreme, but in my humble opinion, it's completely uncalled for to video someone without their knowing. No matter what they are doing. And I think it goes without saying that posting that video online is unacceptable. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but this kind of thing terrifies me. I don't want to have to worry about my kids being videoed while in the locker room someday. I don't want to find out there's a video of me singing Mr. Big songs in the shower (I'm the one who waaants to beee with youuuuu). Trust me, no one wants to see that.

I saw this commercial and was appalled. I can guarantee that I will never purchase this camera, and probably anything by Panasonic in my own little boycott. Their marketing campaign is based on this camera's ability to upload videos of people who don't know they are being recorded. How is this okay?

I know several people who check out and laugh at that Walmart site. The one where people post pictures of other people they saw while shopping there. I've been to Walmart once or twice and there are definitely some interesting people in that store. Out of curiosity I checked out the site. It made me sad. As I looked at the first couple of pictures, that's all I made it through, my only thought was that these people, albeit interesting, for sure, are just out shopping. Just because someone has purple hair and a ring threw her nose, sporting pippy-longstocking socks and a muffin top doesn't make it okay to post her picture without her permission. Call me a party-pooper.

I think what made me so mad at that particular commercial and the Walmart site, is what it says about our society. It seems to prove that it's become acceptable to post whatever you want, regardless of permission or even simple respect. But it's not okay! It's not!

Elizabeth Hasselbeck, in response to this story on The View, made a good point. She said ethics has not caught up with technology. Kids (that makes me sound so old!) don't always understand the repercussions of their actions online. And because we (those of us older than kids) didn't have these same issues growing up, it's more difficult for us to teach our children how to handle it. This is not an excuse. I'm viewing it as a wake up call. My kids are still young. We haven't entered the world wide web yet. But I'm determined, starting now and as they get older, to talk with them about the consequences their actions may have, especially when it comes to the internet. I don't understand technology. I can write for my blog and check my email and Facebook. That's about it. But what I do understand is that someone taking a video of me without my saying it's okay is an invasion of my privacy. And that one video posted online can destroy someone's life.

I think what happened to Tyler is deplorable. I don't know what else was going on in his life that may have contributed to his suicide, but I wish he had had the faith to see that, while it sucks right now, it will get better. But, at the very least, his death got my attention. I hope it got your, too.

Imperfect

I wish I could tell you that after all the work, all the time and energy, we put into doing this tile floor ourselves, I can now stand back and admire it. I wish I could tell you that it was all worth it. I wish I could tell you that I have a sense of accomplishment. I wish I could tell you those things. But I can't.

The good news is that the floor is done. The better news is that I actually lost weight during this whole process (most of which, I can only assume, was in tears). The bad news is that when I look at my new floor, my should-be-beautiful new floor, all I can see are the mistakes we made. The mistakes I made.

Grouting the floor, being down at floor-level and seeing up close any little bit of unevenness, was awful. Not to mention that I did the grout wrong. But I will produce an anxiety attack if I get into that. I admire people that can do things. That have the confidence to tackle a task and when they are done stand back and feel good about it. I, on the other hand, am not wired that way. With each oops, I focus on what people will think when they walk into my home. Are they going to notice that it's uneven right there, right at the end of the hall? Are they going to see that the grout line is thicker here? Along the step?

Wade keeps reminding me that this is the first time we have done this. Tiled. And we took on a monstrous project. But it's not quite that simple. Yes, it's probably too much to expect perfection on our first (or second, as the case may be) try, but this is the center of our house. Where everyone enters. Where we entertain. I can't stand the thought that it looks like we did the tile ourselves, first time or not. In order to help me, Wade told me about a coworker who had an area half the square footage as us professionally tiled. All told, doing it ourselves, we saved over $2,000. I know my response was supposed to something like, "Wow, that alone makes all of this worth it," but instead I thought, "I'd have paid twice that." I comfort myself by thinking that someday we can re-tile. And by "we" I mean "we can pay someone who knows what they are doing."

I think (I hope) that when other people, people who aren't as obsessed with my floor as I am, will walk in, instead of seeing all of the imperfections, they will see the whole picture. Because, the tile is really pretty. And it has completely changed the way my entire house feels, brought it out of 1975 and into the 2000's. It looks perfect with the paint and once we get new carpet, the whole main floor is going to feel like a new house.

I've realized something about myself throughout all of this. I guess I've known it all along, but this experience really brought it out. I think I'm some kind of perfectionist. I'm not the kind who needs things perfect for me. You should see my bedroom...not perfect. But when it comes to other people, what other people are going to think of me, that's were the perfectionist comes out. I guess I want other people to think I'm perfect. And that goes for my kitchen floor as well.

I learned something else, as well. I learned that paying someone else to do stuff, so that I can come home to find it done right, is worth every penny.

Forgotten

I have been quite productive today. By productive, I mean that I have spent hours looking for my cell phone, my keys, and now my credit card. I've found two of the three, so, at this point, I'm counting that as a win.

I'm mentally and physically exhausted. I hate to make it sound like this tile floor is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, but right now that's how it feels. My house is a disaster. I'm the first to admit that I'm not always neat and organized, but right now the chest from my entry way and the entire contents of my hall closet are dumped in my living room. Tools are scattered about my kitchen counters. And my refrigerator is in my dining room.

Because so many things seem to be randomly scattered about, I think I've subconsciously started doing that with everything else. It's not uncommon for me to misplace my phone for a little bit. Maybe I leave it in the car instead of throw it in my purse before getting out. Today I spent over an hour looking for it. I could hear it buzzing (it was on vibrate) but I couldn't, for the life of me, find it. I finally found it in the bathroom off of my bedroom (it's hardly a "masterbath" as there is only one sink and no whirlpool tub, only a shower stall). I'm, quite simply, not the kind of person who is going to chat away on my phone while sitting on the toilet, so how or why I found it in my bathroom is beyond me.

At this point I continued thin-setting the tiles until I ran out of thin set. I hadn't been to Home Depot since yesterday, so it was about time for me to swing in anyway. I should have been able to grab my keys and head out. They're always hanging on the hook. Except that they weren't. The tiles in front of the door to the garage, the one we usually use, were still wet, so when I had come home from picking Max up from school we had come in through the front door. The last time I got out of my car and entered through the front door was, well, never. Since my normal routine was off, my keys hadn't ended up in their normal place. Again, I searched my house, which in the state that's currently in is easier said then done. I checked the bathroom first this time. They weren't there. I scoured the kitchen counter and looked under the furniture in the family room. I remembered that I had made lunch after coming home, so I checked the fridge. I checked the laundry room. I checked and re-checked every place I could think of. And then Lily pooped her pants and while I was changing her, I remembered that when I had come home before I had changed her on the couch. Bingo.

An hour after I had intended to leave we were off to Home Depot. Grabbed more thin-set and checked out carpet (which is my next project...not doing that one myself, though). At the check out I reach in my purse for my credit card. You guessed it. I had them hold my stuff while the kids and I went back out to the car to look. Not there. Humiliated I went back in (thought about just leaving) and explained that I couldn't find my card, but asked that they keep my stuff so my husband could come in later to buy it.

I'd run out of steam by this point. I checked my purse again and looked around the house. For the third time today. Still didn't find it, though. We canceled it and a new one is on its way. I'm sure it will turn up. Probably in a strange place, like a shoe or the backyard.

I no longer really care much what my kitchen floor looks like (I'm not going to lie, it's going to be so pretty when it's finally done!), I just want my life back to normal. I want my brain back. I want my memory to work again. There was something else, but I forgot what I was going to say.

Starting Over

I've been wearing the same clothes for the past six days. And if I'm honest with myself, I'm going to be wearing them for at least a couple more. It's not because I haven't done laundry (although, I haven't) or because they are just so comfortable (I suppose they're pretty comfy, however). It's because I can only afford to destroy one outfit.

The last week of my life has been taken over by tiling my kitchen. It's more than my kitchen, actually. We're tiling my entry way, hall, bathroom and kitchen. None of us (us = Wade, my dad and me) have never done anything like this before. We'd gotten lots of advice from people who have. And like with anything, most of it was conflicting. But we thought we knew what we were doing, and we got to work.

Ripping out the old, ugly orange tile was hard work, but kind of fun. I'd been wanting to do that for five years now, and smashing it to bits was wonderful therapy. As expected (I watch those house flipping shows, I know tearing out walls or floors is like opening a can of worms), there were a few surprises awaiting us under that tile, but nothing we couldn't handle. Even the plywood and the backerboard looked better than the old tile. I was ready, so so so ready, to get that new tile down.

We started laying the tile this past Tuesday. From the start it didn't seem right. The tiles weren't level; the grout lines weren't even. I kept going, but with each tile that I put in place I had this nagging feeling. I also felt constantly on the verge of tears. I couldn't sleep at night, thinking about all the work we were doing and I didn't like the result. I didn't want to be embarrassed of my new floor. I didn't want to spend every day looking at the mistakes we were making. As anxious as I'd been to get started, I now just wanted to be done. I started thinking that it would be easier to move than to finish this project. I would feel this panic just below the surface.

Finally, I came to my senses and had my neighbor come over to give his "unprofessional" opinion. He confirmed what I'd known all along. We needed to tear out the tile and start over. We smiled. We thanked him. We walked him out. We closed the door. I cried.

Actually, before I cried, before I could change my mind, my dad and I started carefully popping up each of the tiles. My pretty floor was disappearing before my eyes.

The tears came when my kids came up from the basement, where they'd been playing, out of the way. I realized that I'd missed hearing about Sophie's first week of school because I'd been so busy shooing her out of the way. I had hardly said anything to Max beyond "Don't step there!" And poor Lily had been living strapped in her high chair. Even though they hadn't gone anywhere, I missed them. And I couldn't (can't) stand living in this mess. I just wanted my house back. Starting over, while I knew it was the right decision, seemed to turn this into an endless project. I sat on the couch and cried while Sophie comforted me and Max held my hand. Sophie proceeded to use that as an excuse to stay up late, repeatedly coming back downstairs to "check on mom." Wade and I pulled up the rest of the tile and got ready to start fresh the next day.

I woke up the next morning with new energy. Overnight I seemed to settle into the idea that starting over, doing it right, wasn't such a hassle. I wanted to feel good about the work we were doing. I wanted to look forward to having people visit, to see the changes we're making to our home. Making it into our home. Doing it right was the only way to go.

Our neighbor came back over that morning to help us get started (again). This time, with his advice, we used plenty of thin-set. We used bigger spacers (which not only made it easier, but looks much, much better). We started in the right spot. That day we got more done than we had in the four days prior.

Yesterday and today progress seemed slow. But we finally finished all the cuts, and that was the worst part (not for me, that saw scared the crap out of me!). So, we're getting close. Tomorrow I finish with the thin-set and then we grout. I have a feeling that's going to be a pain, but once that's done we're all set! I'm starting to see the light at the end of the tiling tunnel. My anxiety has lessened significantly. I didn't cry at all today, as a matter of fact! Even without the grout, it looks exponentially better than it did one orange-tiled week ago. But, more than anything, I'm excited to get my refrigerator out of my formal dining room and back into my kitchen.

Unfinished

I've been watching those Hoarder shows lately. People living in mass chaos, overwhelming clutter, to say the least. Piles everywhere. Whole rooms, levels, even, unusable. I watched one episode last night about a hoarding couple. Their dining room table was literally lost under a pile of stuff. From floor to ceiling, in every room, there were mounds of trinkets, boxes, clothes. Paths had been forged from room to room. This couple was addicted to shopping at thrift stores, and loved the hunt for a bargain. At the Salvation Army the wife saw an overstuffed arm chair marked half price, $30, and brought her husband over to take a look. "I thought it would make a nice accent piece for the living room," she said. They bought it. (Editor's note: my furniture-impaired husband didn't see the irony here and felt that I should explain. An accent piece, for a room that is buried in several feet of junk, has to be ironic, right?)

I watch these shows with feelings of judgment and superiority. I certainly feel better about myself and my house compared to those on Hoarders: Buried Alive. But every once in a while I can actually relate. This woman, with her ugly chair that, quite literally, won't fit into her living room, had a vision, a plan. She knew what she wanted her house to look like. When she is out shopping, away from the piles and the clutter, she sees something that will bring her closer to that vision. I found it so interesting, endearing, actually, that after twenty-odd years of living in her house, filling it (to the brim) with "treasures," she still soldiered on in the belief that someday she would have the home of her dreams. But things got in her way. Life and kids and addictions and, in her case, actual things.

I can identify with that. I'm good at getting an idea and starting the process. But when it takes longer than expected, or there are bumps along the way, I lose interest. Actually, it's not that I lose interest, it's more like I lose momentum. So, like this lady who, in amongst (I love that word) all her stuff, has over 50 beautiful painted plates she had once intended to hang on her walls, I have empty picture frames hanging on mine. Now, my wall has only looked like this for a few weeks, but the task has become bigger than I intended. I found all the frames right away, but when I opened them up, a couple were missing the hanging thingies and when I took them back the store was out of the sizes I need. A couple more fell off the wall because I was too hasty in hanging them and hadn't anchored them correctly. Still haven't. Then, finding the right pictures, vertical and horizontal, isn't as easy as I thought it would be. Trying to decide which pictures should be blown up to 14 x 11 is really scary! It had better be a darn good picture to be that big and hanging in my family room where I have to look at it all day. So instead, all day, I look at paper taped to my wall with blank and missing picture frames. While it's not 7-foot piles of gum wrappers and old phone books, it's still an eyesore and not the look I had in mind.

But, I've stopped seeing it. When I first found the template sheets and taped them to my wall, I was gung ho getting the project underway. I went right back to the store, bought the frames and couldn't get them hung up fast enough. But now that I've hit a few glitches and my picture wall is at a standstill, I will go for days without even thinking about it. I spend easily 75% of my day in the kitchen/family room part of my house and yet I somehow stopped noticing the empty and missing frames staring me in the face.

That is, until I'm having people over. Then I start seeing my house through the eyes of the visitor. I like for people to come into my home and feel welcome, feel like they can relax, and feel like Sara must really have it all together. My picture wall is not sending that message right now (along with my stained carpet, but that's for another post). I use the act of inviting people over as my kick-in-the-butt to get the house cleaned and projects done.

I don't mean to make light of hoarding. I do realize that it's an illness and something far deeper than just being messy. But I can't help but notice that all of the hoarders I have seen have one thing in common; they have stopped having anyone come into their house. I wonder if, like the paper template I have stopped seeing taped to my wall, a hoarder stops seeing the mess. And because they, at some point along the way, decided not to allow others to come past their front door, they never have to see it through an outsider's eyes. If I stopped having people over, who knows what my house would look like!

So, last night while I lounged on my couch watching Hoarders and judging with no abandon, my less-than-half completed picture wall loomed above me. On the other hand, if I've learned anything from watching these shows, it's that the answer to my picture problem is not more picture frames.

Silence

So, I read a thing lately that said writer's block is not about anything being blocked, but about having nothing to say. I beg to differ. At least for me, lately, it hasn't been about having nothing to say, but about not knowing how to say it. Up until recently I was able to get an idea, sit down at my computer, and fifteen minutes later have a post written and ready to publish. You may or may not have noticed, but for the last month or so I haven't posted anything. Here's why.

Three weeks and one day ago, my father-in-law passed away. I wasn't sure if I was ready to, or if I even wanted to, write about it, but anything else that popped into my head seemed pointless in comparison. I had ideas, and still have several posts started and saved; one paragraph, maybe two and then blank space. One is about not doing things I don't want to do, but as I was writing that I realized that we ALL have to do things we don't want to do; like watch people we love make unhealthy choices that will ultimately lead to their early death.

Another is about how I love looking out my window at the trees in my backyard, but that before I know it winter will be here and the green leaves will be gone . Winter, and the thought of things dying made me sad.

I started one about Lily taking her first steps. Do you remember the commercial about the grandpa? He's sitting in a chair as his (presumed) daughter and grandson enter the room. The little boy is toddling along, clearly just learning to walk. The grandfather gets down on his knees to catch the boy, but then he disappears and the grandson walks right through him. The mom says "I wish grandpa was here to see this..." I'm living that commercial right now.

My father-in-law, Don, and I weren't especially close; he was a really quiet guy. But I know that he loved me. He would never have said those words, at least to me, but he did little things to show me. Once he took my car in to get the oil changed without telling me. It would have been a wonderful surprise, only he locked my keys in the car and had to call me for the spare set. He was embarrassed. I hope he believed me when I told him how thankful I was that he would even think to do something like that for me.

When I met my in-laws, over ten years ago, neither of them smoked. They had while Wade was growing up, but after Don's mother passed away from lung cancer in 1995 they both quit. Then suddenly, when I was pregnant with Sophie, their first grandchild, both of them started smoking again. Cheryl quit for good soon after, but Don didn't. For a long time I was angry that he had stopped for so long, seven years, but started up again just as he was becoming a grandfather. He tried to hide it from us, and he never smoked around our kids, but it bothered me nonetheless that he was making that choice, risking his health. He was no dummy. He knew what smoking would do to his body. We talked to him about quitting. Every once in a while he would say that he would, but he never did. We stopped asking. We decided to focus on the quality, rather than the quantity, of time we had left with him. Not knowing, of course, how little time there was.

We've had a few of those middle-of-the-night-phone-calls everyone dreads over the last few years. My mother-in-law has had trouble breathing and when the phone rings at 1:00am it's usually to let us know that she has been taken to the hospital. So when the phone rang early in the morning on August 1st we assumed she was back in the hospital. But this time it was Wade's mom on the line. Don was being admitted for stomach pain. They were talking about doing surgery later that day. She said she would call us again when she knew more. A few hours later Wade got up and drove the hour-and-a-half to spend the day with his parents. A CT scan reveled nothing seemingly wrong with Don's stomach, but showed a large mass on his right lung. Another CT scan on Monday, when both Wade and I were there, gave a clearer picture. Don's right lung was almost completely shut down. His left lung was filling with fluid. Tuesday the doctors said it was time to talk about hospice and nursing homes. They said less than six months. A meeting was scheduled for Wednesday morning, where the doctors, Cheryl and Wade would present the plan to Don. By the time Wade got down there Wednesday morning the meeting had been canceled. His dad wouldn't last the day.

We're grateful, on the one hand, that he went quickly. It's what he wanted. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and, looking back, we can see how sick he had been. And for quite some time. He had watched his mother suffer, in and out of the hospital; in and out of pain. I believe he never said a word about his own suffering in part to avoid the hospital, but also to save us the pain of watching his decline. Wade made a comment a few days after his father had passed away that will stick with me. He said that he can see now that his dad was fighting death every day. So, I'm glad that it's not a struggle anymore. I'm relieved that he's no longer sick, no longer smoking, finally at peace.

But for those of us still here, there's a void where he is supposed to be. It happened so fast that it didn't seem real. Doesn't seem possible. I'll be looking at a picture of him and it will suddenly hit me that he's not here anymore. It honestly catches me by surprise every time. He was so quiet in life that at times it was easy to forget he was there. Now that he's not, his silence is deafening.

It's an incredible story, actually. Thanks for letting me share it with you.

Thank You

I'm terrible at writing thank-you notes. Let me clarify. I'm actually quite good (if I do say so myself) at writing a very thoughtful, personal thank-you note. I'm not good at taking the time to actually write it.

It's not because I'm not thankful, because I am. And it's not that I forget about the gift, because I don't. I don't even forget about writing the note. I'll think about it at totally inopportune times, like in the shower or when I'm grocery shopping. Sometimes, I start writing the note, or I even get so far as to finish it and put it in an envelope. But we never have stamps, or I can't find the address, or I get distracted by a kid wanting a snack. It gets put in my "pile" and never seen again. Okay, not never. But when it finally surfaces again it's been long enough that I'm embarrassed to send it. But more often than not, I never get to writing it in the first place.

Of all the thank-yous I have forgotten to write, the only ones that continue to bother me are the ones I have forgotten to write to my Aunt Thiry. She's my godmother and she's the only relative (outside my immediate family) who remembers my birthday. She sends a check in a beautiful card and always writes a long message inside telling me what she's been doing and asking about my family. She includes a Bible verse, one that she chose just for me. This year she included a hand-made wooden cross. I used to write back. But since having kids (they seem like a convenient enough excuse) I haven't done that. Not because I'm any less appreciative of the card and Bible verse; I'm actually more so now that I have a nephew and a niece-on-the-way. I recognize now what a special relationship that is. But in an attempt to show her how much it means to me I reject the idea of a simple thank-you note and decide to write a letter instead. However, if I couldn't find the time to write a short note, it's even more daunting to find the time to write an actual hand-written letter.

The other piece of my guilt is my mother. She takes it as a personal failing on her part that I don't regularly write thank-you notes. And my Aunt Thiry is her sister. So while my mom has no idea that I didn't send a thank-you note to my friend Jen for the dinner she brought after Lily was born (I did, however, say several verbal thank yous...that has to count for something, right?) I'm sure she asks my aunt if I have sent a card yet. I can almost hear the conversation:
My mom: Did Sara send a thank-you yet for the birthday card?
Aunt Thiry: No, but I know she's thankful, I don't need a thank-you note.
My mom: She really should send a card. I raised her better than that.
Aunt Thiry: Oh, Sara is so busy. I don't need a thank-you note.
My mom: She's not too busy to write a thank-you.
Aunt Thiry: Well, I think Sara is beautiful just the way she is. I really don't need a thank-you note.

Ok, so I know what you're thinking (or at least what my mom is thinking). If I can take the time to write this post, why can't I take the time to write a thank-you note? That's a good point. And it has been bothering me all while I've been writing this morning. But there's another aspect at play. What do you do with the thank-you notes you get in the mail? I'll tell you what I do. First, of course, I read it. They pretty much all say the same thing ("Thank you for the such-and-such. It's just what I wanted. Love, So-and-so"). Then I, very gently and with great care, place the card and envelope at the top of the pile in my...garbage can. Is there anyone out there that keeps thank-you cards? If so, I will keep an eye out for you on the next episode of Hoarders. I won't get into one of my environmental kicks, but it just seems like a waste. Wouldn't a phone call make more sense? Or better yet, saying thank you in person? Unless you're going to write a letter (like I keep planning to do for my aunt) I don't see the purpose of wasting that money/stamp/paper. (BTW - I feel the same way about ALL cards. Except for Christmas cards. There's something special about Christmas cards.).

I'm not going to make any promises about being better at writing thank-yous. I know myself better than that (and lately I'm trying not to constantly set myself up for failure). But one thing I do want to be better about is saying thank you over the phone or in person. First off, I want the giver to know that the gift was safely received. And, obviously, I want the giver to know that I'm grateful for whatever it is that was sent. However, if I can't find the time to write one thank you note, I'm probably not going to find the time to call everyone who has ever given me anything. So, I ask that this post serve as a public thank you to all of the wonderful people in my life who have given me things and not gotten a thank-you card in return. You are owed more than this, but right now this is all I'm able to give. I'm hoping I can now consider myself up-to-date on thank-yous. Except for the one I owe my Aunt Thiry. I'm going to turn off my computer and write her a letter right now.

Dog Days

I have a dog, a black lab mix (with what we don't know). She's a good dog, doesn't bite the kids and sometimes sits when asked. She currently has a huge thing growing out of her eye that the vet doesn't seem too worried about, but that I think gets a little grosser every day. She's getting old. My husband loves her. My kids adore her. I tolerate her.

About eight years ago, after being married for just over 6 months, Wade and I decided to get a dog. Okay, before he gets all in a bunch, I decided to get a dog. Whatever. The point is, we looked at a few different Humane Society locations and after seeing many dogs of all shapes, sizes and temperaments we saw Sadie. Amongst all the barking and jumping she was lying in her kennel quietly. She was beautiful, silky black fur and a streamlined body. We took her out for a walk and fell in love. We brought her home and introduced her to my cat.

For some reason we decided to get a dog when I still had one week of teaching left in the school year. But she was a year old and already house trained, so I thought it would be an easy transition. And starting at the end of that week I would have the whole summer to work with her. Our first evening at home with her we lounged on the couch and watched T.V. It was exactly what I pictured having a dog would be. The next morning I fed her and gave her a pat on the head as I headed out for the day. I thought about coming home to her wagging tail, she'd be waiting at the door for me to come in. I had been coming home to Mona (my cat) for years at this point, but she always seemed more annoyed to have me back in the house. A dog, on the other hand, would be excited to see me.

Sure enough, when I arrived home I could see her on the other side of the door. She was wagging her tail. She was happy to see me. Perhaps she was wagging her tail a bit too hard, she was a bit too happy. As I opened the door and was greeted by her happy, energetic face, I was also greeted by the overwhelming, suffocating stench of poop. Everywhere.

Oddly, it never occurred to me to take her back. I was angry. I was disgusted. I was completely out of love. But I was also committed. I immediately went out and bought a kennel. All evening I worked with her on getting in and out of the kennel on command. I put a blanket in it to make it comfortable. And the next morning, in the kennel she went. Problem solved.

That afternoon I rushed home to let her out, feeling slightly guilty that she had been cooped up all day. As I approached the door I was, at first, happy to see her wagging tail. But then it dawned on me, Wait?! What's she doing out of the kennel!? Stupidly I had bought a kennel where the door simply slipped into a metal bar, there was no lock, and the latch was easily (apparently) maneuvered from the inside. And once again... Poop. Everywhere.

This time I went out and bought a combination lock. Not so maneuverable from inside the kennel. Morning. Kennel. Locked in this time for sure. But, you guessed it, she met me at the door once more. How did she open the lock, I thought, She doesn't even know the combination!! I wish I had taken a picture of the kennel. It was bent. Twisted. Completely mangled. And she had somehow squeezed her body through a tiny opening and yes, pooped. Everywhere.

I was at a loss by this point. But Wade realized we could put her in one of the rooms in the basement until we figured out what to do. It was an old house and had an old unfinished basement. She couldn't do much damage down there. So, I left her whining behind the closed door. Although I was fully expecting it, she did not meet me at the door that afternoon (wouldn't that have made an amazing story?), but when I opened the basement door the first thing I saw was wood chips and blood. She had completely scratched away the inner side of the cheap, hollow door. The next day, had we left her down there, she would have broken through.

We solved the problem by putting a huge chain-link fence in the basement. She never got out of that. We had won. I had won. But here's the thing, it was never really about winning (well, maybe a little about winning). I just wanted this dog to know she was safe with us. I hated that she was pooping all over my house. I hated coming home to that smell. I hated scrubbing the cream carpet. But what I hated most was knowing that she had spent all day worrying, scared to death that we weren't coming back. I don't know what her life was like before we got her, but it couldn't have been good. I wish I could have explained to her that with us it could be.

Having a dog is not what I had pictured. She is hyper, nervous and always underfoot. She makes my house dirty. She pushes my patience. But she's also gentle, protective and great with kids. I'm not gonna lie, I dream of a time when my house isn't hidden under a layer of dog hair. But I also know that when that day comes, there is going to be a missing member of our family.

On the Edge

I spent the last three days on a camping trip with three other moms and our collective seven children. It was fun and adventurous and rainy and relaxing and uplifting and terrifying. Yes, absolutely terrifying. Well, only parts were terrifying. And only for me.

We camped in the Gooseberry Falls State Park. Clean bathrooms, nice campsite, quiet evenings. Lake Superiour was breath-taking. Both in the sense that it was beautiful, and in the sense that at times when I stood by it I, quite literally, couldn't breathe. It seemed that every direction we turned there was a cliff. Steep, high, dropping to rocks, crashing water and certain death below cliffs. Well, I'm assuming that's what the cliffs were like. I never actually got close enough to look over the edge.

The first snippet of fear hit me when we took a walk after dinner on the first night. We thought we would wear the kids out a bit before stuffing them in the tents and commencing with mom-time, which consisted of sitting around the campfire drinking beer. The kids ran off ahead of us a bit and one of the other moms yelled "Don't get too far ahead!" Another said "Beware of the cliffs!" I laughed. Kids running near cliffs! Preposterous! And then we emerged from the path onto the top of a cliff overlooking Lake Superior. I'm sure the view was gorgeous, but I couldn't see it. I was too busy screaming at my kids to stay away from the edge. We'd had a long rainy day of driving and setting up camp, so we only stayed a moment and then headed back. I'd only gotten a taste of what was to come.

The next day started with doughnuts and a trip to Split Rock Lighthouse. We spent the afternoon watching the kids play at Agate Beach while us moms sat with our feet in the cool lake water. Probably my favorite camping adventure. It occurred to me that I didn't seem to worry as my kids climbed huge rocks. But that evening, on another after-dinner walk, we went to what appeared to be a tad-pole breeding ground. It was a large, flat area that had several puddles, ranging from an inch to several inches deep. But beyond the puddles was, once again, a cliff. The kids had all been there earlier, when one of the moms had taken them on a hike. They had wanted to bring the rest of us back to see the tadpoles. On their first visit, they had been so excited about the puddles, that they hadn't ventured near the cliffs. But this time, feeling gutsier and excited to be showing off their cool find, the kids were running everywhere. I was filled with dread. Dread and panic. Hysterics, actually. Every ounce of my being, every cell in my body was terrified. I was tense and almost shaking. It was hard to catch my breath and all I could do was yell ("yell" doesn't quite describe it) at my kids to come closer to me. The fear must have been written all over my face and in my voice because Sophie asked why I was so scared. She said she knew not to go near the edge. I looked around. None of the other moms seemed so panicked. Of course none of them wanted their kids near the cliff's edge, but they seemed to trust that their kids knew better. They didn't seem to think that the answer was to repeatedly bark "Stay away from the edge! Get back here! Please, get back here!" And now that I think about it, none of the kids were going close enough to the cliff to actually fall.

I watched as one of the moms walked right up to the edge, looked over, and walked back. She did this as if it wasn't any big deal. As if looking over the edge of a cliff didn't automatically mean plummeting to her death. Later, as I thought about how all consuming my fear had been that evening, I once again pictured her standing there, looking down. I thought to myself, The only way I could ever do that is if there were a rope tied around my waist. But then again, if the rope broke... I thought about a time, about four years ago, when we went to a family reunion in Colorado. Wade, my dad, my brother, my sister-in-law and myself took the cog rail up to the top of Pikes Peak. At the summit there was a restaurant and gift shop. I was difficult for me to step out of the building to look at the amazing views. But I did, and I was fine. However I wouldn't walk within 30 feet of the edge. As long as I was no where near the drop, I knew I couldn't fall. I didn't feel scared. I didn't feel panicked. As long as I kept that distance, I was okay. But at the top of the cliff over-looking Lake Superior, it wasn't just about me. I knew I could stay far away from that drop, but there were seven kids who were filled with excitement and wonder and who weren't willing to hold my hand.

Here's what I rationally knew, even at that time: I knew all of the kids are smart, good kids. I knew that the other three moms weren't going to let anyone get hurt. I knew that I was the only one who was reacting that way. And I knew that my hysterical screaming was doing nothing but sucking the fun out of that moment for everyone. But I couldn't stop myself. I couldn't stop because what I knew was overpowered by what I felt. And what I felt was that something terrible, something catastrophic was about to happen. And I wouldn't be able to stop it.

Even typing that sentence brought the panic back for a second.

I've never thought I had any phobias. But on this camping trip it was clear that I do. What I had felt around those drop-offs was more than just wanting to keep my kids safe. It was irrational. It was all consuming and completely beyond my control. I thought I might be afraid of heights, but after talking with my husband about my experience, he pointed out that I have climbed to the top of St. Paul's Cathedral with no problem. I don't mind flying and one of my dreams is to slowly float above the world in a hot air balloon. I'm not afraid of heights. I'm afraid of edges.

After searching Google I found some explanations:

"Fear of edges is not a fear of heights. I don’t mind being up high at all. Planes, elevators, skyscrapers, none of those bother me. It is standing at the edge and being confronted with an unreasonable belief that I am going to tip over and something horrible will happen."

"This Edges phobia is generally caused by some influence of "Edges" in the person's life through the media, cinema, childhood experiences, family experiences, dreams, books, news events, etc."

Apparently, there are over 250,000 people in the US who have the same fear. I'm still reeling a bit as all of this is coming together. Note the influences in the second quote. My entire childhood, and even rarely as an adult, I have had dreams of endlessly falling. I wake up out of breath and in a panic a split second before, in my dream, hitting the ground. And now that I'm thinking about it, I'm terrified of the edge of the platform for the Subway in NYC. Bridges with little or no railing are almost impossible (although I can make myself do it) for me to cross. Even walking along the dock at Rabbit Lake, which I have been doing my entire life, has never been easy for me. It's actually a bit of a relief to finally understand why.

On the last morning of our camping trip, before packing up and heading home, we went to Gooseberry Falls. There were edges, but we mostly stayed away from them. I'm sure for my sake, although none of the other moms made me feel badly about it. At one point they took six of the kids, including my Sophie, to the other side of the falls, where it was a bit "cliffier." Max had wanted to stay back and play in the water. As I sat at the rocky shore and watched him, I thought about the fact that Sophie was off with all the other kids and moms, out of my sight, too far for me to hysterically scream at her. I said a little prayer that she stay safe and tried to make sense of how I had been feeling. Before too long I saw the kids emerge and begin making their way across the shallow river back towards Max and me. Sophie, filled with excitement, came running up to me, barely able to contain herself, and said, "Mom! I touched the top of a waterfall!" I hugged her and told her that it must have been amazing.

Clearing Out

I purged my Facebook friends recently. I "de-friended" over 100 people. Anyone I didn't really know or who I couldn't remember when last we communicated was out. It was kind of addicting, actually. Deciding who got to stay and who didn't was very powerful. I think I'm in a purging place in my life, because I'm starting to feel that way about things, too.


With three kids, my home gets overrun with clutter on a regular basis and every once in a while I can't take it anymore. I've hit that point, once again. I have dedicated this summer to getting rid of stuff. Big and small. Whether it's a picture frame somone gave me 11 years ago or a sofa and love seat set that we just don't need anymore, it's outta here! I'm tired of keeping something because I don't want to hurt the feelings of the person who gave it to me. Most of the stuff I classify as "junk" is actually nice stuff. It works, it's pretty, it has a use, just not for me. So, if someone else can use it, I want it to stop taking up space in my home and go be used (or take up space) in theirs.

I know I have said this in previous posts, but things are just things to me. There is very little with which I feel an attachment. My mother-in-law, on the other hand, wraps up memories in things. That's not wrong, but it's different then the way I work. I often feel badly when she offers up something and I say no. She sees memories and meaning, I see one more thing I have to find room for on the basement shelves. The item that first comes to mind is an old fryer that had been in her mother's basment. Cheryl asked if we wanted it. Wade remembered making donoughts with his grandma, but all I saw was something that would be thrown in storage and never used. I was too quick to say no and hurt Cheryl's feelings, which I did feel badly about. But later, when I talked to Wade about it, he agreed that we would never use it and it didn't make sense to move it from her basement to ours.



It's not just my mother-in-law. My mom also gives us things and because she is my mom, it's harder for me to say I don't want it. But, I'm learning that saying no is okay. I just picture where it will be in my home. If it's going to be put to use, I'll take it. If not, no thank you. It's kind of empowering, actually. And I've stopped feeling bad about donating things she has given me. For years I kept clothes in my closet because she bought them for me. How silly! They were old, or didn't fit, or weren't my style. But they would work for someone else, so someone else should have them.



And it's not just stuff that other people gave me. It's stuff we bought, too. Probably the hardest decision I have made in this process is to sell my piano. We bought it off of Craig's List about a year and a half ago for $100. It's about what you would expect a piano for $100 to be, but at the time I thought it was perfect. Over time, however, I realized it's too big for the space, doesn't fit in with the decor of that room and it will cost a lot more than $100 to get it in good working condition. And while I played every day when we first got it, since Lily was born I don't think I have sat down to play more than two or three times. So, it's back on Craig's List. I know we'll have a piano again someday, but that isn't the right piano and this isn't the right time.



I'm struggling, however, with stuff I find during my purging of stuff that we have a plan for, but no actual use for at the moment. And by "plan" I mean something that may or (more likely) may not happen. For instance, in my purging mode I started cleaning out a closet on the finished side of the basement. I found a bunch of stuff that we shoved there when we first moved in 5 years ago and haven't seen or thought about since. When we bought the house Wade thought we could put a bar in the basement. We were new parents then and hadn't quite realized the impact that our one-year-old would have on our house. Fast forward five years and two more kids. I found boxes of Vikings pint glasses, glass boots and tiki cups. And the real kicker, a huge 3 liter Heineken beer bottle (yes, actually filled with beer). I completely agree that all of these things would be fun to have in a bar. Someday. But realistically, are we really going to put a bar in this house? And are these items meaningful enough to justify keeping them for the next 20 years, when we're empty-nesters and might actually have the time/room/space for a bar in our next house? I'm pretty sure I know what my husband's answer will be, but I'm not so sure.



We put our treadmill and elliptical machine on Craig's List. Unlike many people who never use their excercise equipment, there was a time when I used the treadmill every day. But we joined the YMCA awhile back and now I would much rather work out there then in my basement. So, the treadmill is gone and someone is coming to look at the elliptical tomorrow. So whether the buyers use them for exercise or as clothes hangers, I'm happy to have them out of my house. The finished side of our basement is almost going to double in size once the exercise stuff is out! I can't wait!



Funny thing. Even after losing 100 "friends," I haven't missed anyone yet. As a matter of fact, I have more room now for the updates from people I actually care about. I know the same will hold true for the stuff. I won't miss it. And I'll have more room in my house for the people I actually care about!