Content

I have been promising my husband, since writing the post on love several months ago, that I would write a flattering post about him.  Here it is!

Yesterday was Valentine's Day and I got nothing.  To be fair, he did give me a card he made out of printer paper on which he drew a heart.  In the past I've gotten flowers or my favorite Dove chocolates.  Or, a million years ago, a weekend away somewhere.  But this year I'm perfectly content with my printer-paper card.  No, seriously, I really am.

I don't need Valentine's Day to know that my husband loves me.  I don't need flowers, or fancy dinners, or jewelry or candy.  Because, everyday, I get so much more than that.  I get respect.  And security.  And comfort.  Wade has given me a family and a house and the ability to stay at home, in said house, to raise said family.  And he also gives me independence and encourages me to do things outside of him, like writing.  Or flying to see my brother or sister. Or spending three days walking around Minneapolis and St. Paul to put an end to breast cancer.  Or to get away with my girlfriends for an evening.  Or a weekend. He knows when to stand back and let me have my way (tiling the floor twice in one year) and when to put his foot down (tearing our house apart so that I could have main floor laundry).  He puts the kids to bed almost every night because he knows that it's my least favorite part of the day. 

Rosanne Barr was on Oprah yesterday, and while I never would have thought of her as some kind of relationship guru, I actually found her rather insightful.  When asked if she's happy with her life partner, she responded that she doesn't like the term happy because it implies that you have to come down from feeling that way.  She said she's content.  I like that.  I am often happy in my marriage.  Rarely, I'm frustrated or hurt.  Or even a little bit bored.  But the vast majority of the time, I am content. 

I hate that being content is looked at as being less than happy by so many people.  I don't see it that way at all.  Once upon a time I was in a relationship that was all ups and downs.  It was understood that the ups made up for the downs.  Made the downs acceptable.  Made it okay for me to be treated poorly.  Because the next day I might be treated like a queen.  At first those grand gestures, all that being swept off my feet, was thrilling.  But then, once I wised up and saw what was really going on, once I understood that the up was only paving the way for the next down, I realized it was exhausting.  I think, as women, we are led to believe that being "happy" is what's important.  But what's "happy" if it's not contrasted with the opposite?  And if you're reasonably happy most of the time (if you say you're happy all of the time, you're lying), if there's nothing more you could want in a marriage or partnership, isn't that being content? (It is, I looked it up on dictionary.com)   I'll take steady, stable, satisfying contentment over that terrifying roller coaster ride any day. 

I don't mean to imply that Wade is boring.  Sure, sometimes he brings me flowers or takes me out to a nice dinner downtown.  But that's not what shows me he loves me.  He shows me he loves me when he unloads the dishwasher or makes me popcorn after the kids are in bed.  I suppose, by most standards, we're both pretty boring people.  Most evenings will find us watching television.  And an exciting night out for us is playing a board game with friends.  But, honestly, I don't need or want anything more than Wade's company.  My perfect evening would be going out for sushi (or better yet, getting take-out sushi and bringing it home) and then curling up on the couch and watching Modern Family with my husband.  Heaven on Earth!

In full disclosure, I should say that I didn't even give Wade a card yesterday.  I bought him a pair of socks and a box of Dots (which he promptly opened and ate, except for the yellow and green ones).  Then I left for the evening.  Without him.  Valentine's Day came and went and I'm still content.  I don't love my husband any less today than I did yesterday and I know the same goes for him, too.  As a matter of fact, I think he might love me a little bit more. 

Strapped

 I was looking through pictures today. I noticed that I have several really cute ones of Lily.  Strapped in her high chair. Proof, I suppose, that she spends quite a bit of time strapped in her high chair. 

It's so much easier when she is stuck in one place.  When she can't get into things.  Or climb up on things.  Or pull things out of cupboards.  Or drawers.  Or the garbage.  If she isn't sleeping (and lately she has decided that she no longer needs to nap) or buckled in her chair, then she's wreaking havoc.  And the havoc makes me so tired! 

Lily has some kind of radar or sixth sense for when something has been left un-baby-proofed.  We leave the door for the main floor bathroom closed so that Lily can't get in there and splash in the toilet or empty out all of the drawers.  But if one of the "big kids" leaves it open, Lily is immediately in there, pulling out all of the towels, unrolling the toilet paper or drawing on the floor (my new floor!) with a long-forgotten lipstick she somehow found in the back of the "hair things" drawer.  I spend most of my day unlatching and then re-latching the cupboard with our kitchen garbage.  I never realized how many times a day I throw something in recycle or the garbage until I had to lock it to keep tiny little hands from digging through the banana peels and coffee grounds.  But every once in a while I don't re-latch it after throwing something away.  I get so tired of doing it over and over again.  And again.  And I'm standing right there.  It can't hurt to leave it for just a second, I think.  But it can.  It does.  She's there.  She's always right there! 

And it's not just messes.  It's the climbing.  And the doing of things.  Today, just now, as a matter of fact, she climbed up on a little chair, opened the cabinet in the family room, pulled out the bin of crayons and markers, grabbed her chubby crayolas and a piece of paper, climbed down and carried it all over to the kitchen floor.  Impressive?  Sure.  But yesterday she climbed up on that same little chair and opened up the guinea pig cage.  Maybe I just need to get rid of that chair. 

Lily is 18 months old, but she is under the impression that she is twelve.  She is adamant that she feed herself.  And if I cut up her meal and she sees that Sophie and Max's food is all in one piece, she will throw the plate on the floor in a fit of rage.  If I take her sippy cup off the counter and hand it to her, she will throw it on the floor and scream until I put it back on the counter, pick her up, and let her get it herself.  There is a lot of throwing.  And screaming. 
 
Don't get me wrong.  I am head-over-heels in love with this little girl.  How could I not love that sweet face?  I try not to wish away this time.  This phase in her new life.  It's so easy to get wrapped up in the frustration, both hers and mine, when she desperately wants something, but can't verbalize what it is.  It's easy to stomp out her excitement over the rainbow of markers she stole from Sophie's desk drawer because I can foresee that same rainbow of color on the wall.  And it's certainly easy to lose my patience on the fourth day in a row that she has refused to take a nap.  But every once in a while I'm able to take a step back and look at her adorable face, her sockless feet, her shortness and say a little prayer that God will freeze time and keep her exactly the way she is.  Plus, next up is the terrible twos. 

Mud on my Face

I realized something the other day.  I realized that it had been a really long time since I thought about how unfair, how tragic it is that I don't have a mudroom.  Not too long ago, less than a year, actually, we had contractors coming out to give us bids on building one into our garage.  And we even, ever so briefly, considered  completely reconfiguring our entire main floor to try and fit one into the layout.  I honestly thought that I could not live without one.  I thought about it every day.  All day every day.  But looking back, I realize that I didn't need a mudroom.  What I needed was a plan.

Last fall, early on, like in Sept or so, my mudroom-envy started to rear it's ugly head again.  I knew it was because the boots and snowpants season was right around the corner and if I couldn't handle it with two kids (and a baby in a carrier) I was foreseeing that I wouldn't survive this winter with three fully-booted and -bundled children. 

A friend came over one afternoon and I vented my impending frustration on her listening ear.  I said that we couldn't afford to re-do our entire house to make room for a mudroom and I didn't like the idea of building one in the garage stall.  She asked if we would consider moving.  I said no, we loved our yard and neighborhood.  She thought for a minute and then said, "Well, it looks like you've set it up so that you're unhappy no matter what you do." 

Ouch.  Only, she was right.  Okay, I thought, I cannot spend another winter in agony like last year.  And I can't have exactly what I want.  But I can have a compromise.  So, I searched Craig's List for a bench, bought some pretty hooks and picture frames at Target, and Viola!  A mud area.

I had the kids draw pictures, put them in the frames and hung them above their hooks.  I've always loved displaying their art and this way it helps to remind them whose hook is whose.  It also looks cute.  I hunted for and finally found a rug that I liked and that went with, and protected, our new carpet.  As it came together, it was exactly what I pictured. 

Only, it usually looks like this.  But I'm okay with that.  Surprisingly, okay with that.  The kids almost always put their stuff away.  Even Lily is starting to put her shoes and scarf in her bin.  I like it because it's a place to put all of the winter stuff, and, I like to think, at least, that it looks like it's supposed to be there.  Compared to before, when stuff was hanging on doors, above the basement steps or just thrown on the floor. 

The other day I was talking with a friend (a different friend) who is in the market for a new house.  We were talking about one in the neighborhood that may be going up for sale and she said, "It's just like yours," and then added, in a sheepish voice, "only, it has a mudroom."  I understand why she was afraid to say those words to me, but that's when it hit me.  That's when I realized that I haven't thought about a mudroom in months.  We are halfway through winter, the messiest, snowiest, bootiest winter we've had in years, decades even, and I haven't thought about how lacking my life is without a mudroom.  As a matter of fact, I often find myself looking at my little mud area and thinking how clever of me. 

Now, if only we had a porch.  My life would be so much better, fuller, satisfying if we had a porch. 

To The Max

My son is funny, caring, sensitive, stubborn, smart, awkward, focused.  He loves Legos and Star Wars and, most of all, Lego Stars Wars.  He makes me unexpectedly laugh out loud and he frustrates me to the point that I  need to walk away from him mid-sentence.  Yesterday was his fifth birthday.

I call Max my "little man."  He was never a baby.  Not never.  He was born a baby, and then I blinked my eyes and he was a boy.  I put him in the pack n' play so that I could chase after Sophie, and when I came back to get him he was walking and talking and had built a 1,000 piece Star Wars ship out of Legos.  At least it seems like it all happened that fast.

When I found out I was pregnant with Max, Sophie had just turned one. I remember telling my mom that I was nervous about having two so close together.  She said , "Don't worry.  They don't come out running, you'll have time to work in to chasing two."  The thing is, she lied.  Max started crawling at five months old and walking before ten months.  Granted, he didn't come out running, but it felt like it.

We have several silly little words that Sophie said when she was little.  Words she mispronounced for years.  Max will ask what silly words he said, but he didn't say anything silly.  I started to worry about his verbal skills, which, compared to his older sister, seemed to be lacking, but he literally woke up one day talking in sentences.  I had heard of kids doing this.  I had thought the parents who told those stories were exaggerating for effect.  I wish I could remember his first sentence, but I honestly didn't realize he was talking until  it dawned on me that I was having a conversation with my two-year-old.


Yesterday my birthday gift to Max was time.  While Lily was napping and Sophie was at school, he and I played Legos.  I try to do this with him most days, but I usually spend no more than five minutes hunting for pieces (I am usually not allowed to touch the Lego creations) before I find an excuse to get up and leave.  It's not that I don't love spending time with my son, because I do, but while I'm sitting on his floor looking for a "puffy blue two" (Max has created his own Lego-lingo), I can't stop myself from thinking about all of the other things I could be doing.  Laundry.  Dishes.  Vacuuming.  Facebook .  But yesterday we sat in his room, the floor covered in Legos, for over an hour and built trucks and spaceships and cars and even a boat. 

Max is stuck in the middle and I'm starting to see what a difficult place that is.  My brother could relate, as the only boy between two girls.  For a long time I thought that being the only boy would be Max's "thing."  He isn't the oldest, like Sophie, and he isn't the baby, like Lil.  But he's the boy.  And he's all boy.  But I'm starting to worry that being the boy isn't enough.  I know he compares himself to Soph.  And he does that because I do.  Inadvertently, for sure, but that doesn't make it okay.  As a matter of fact, I've had to delete several lines of this post because I keep catching myself talking about what Sophie did compared to what Max has done and I want this to be about Max, not about Sophie.  And anytime we compare our kids, we take away from the accomplishments of the one, and give more power to the other.  And because Max has seen and heard me do it, even when it's been well-intentioned, he's now making the comparison.  And that makes me sad. 

Whoa.  This took a serious and preachy turn and all I really wanted to do was celebrate my amazing not-so-little boy.  Yesterday was a surprisingly emotional day for me.  Max turning five is a bigger deal than I thought.  He thinks it's a big deal because it means he gets to go to kindergarten in the fall.  It's more than that for me.  Being five means his chubby toddler tummy is gone. It means he thinks and reacts more like a ten-year-old than a two-year-old.  It means he can do pretty much everything on his own, including make his own lunch.  It means he is starting to form his own opinions.  Even if those opinions mostly revolve around which Star Wars character he prefers on any given day.

Just weight a minute

I joined Weight Watchers Online.  I swore I wouldn't.  I claimed I could do this on my own.  I said I wasn't going to do anything drastic to lost these last ten pounds.  But I did it.  I joined.  Today.  Actually, about five minutes ago.

I know how to count points.  I've gone to WW meetings in the past, when I was trying to lose weight for my wedding and again after Sophie was born.  I've also counted points on my own and successfully lost weight.  But this time has been different.  This time has been harder. 

I can think of several reasons (read: excuses) why it's been harder this time around.  I'm older.  I don't feel older, but rationally speaking I am older now than I was the last time I lost weight.  And I'm over 30, which I know is this magical age where fat cells become more permanent.  Stupid fat cells.

Those are easy explanations, but I know that the above is not the reason I haven't lost weight in the last six months, despite my "trying."  I haven't really been trying.  I have said that I'm trying.  I have even convinced myself that I'm trying.  But I'm not really doing it.  And here's why:  I'm terrified.

I spent a good chunk of my young adult life over-weight.  Not obese, but overweight.  I lost weight for my wedding.  But even at my wedding I weighed more than I do right now.  After I had Sophie, almost seven years ago, I worked to lose the baby weight.  I did, and then I kept losing.  All of the sudden I wasn't overweight anymore.  I was normal.  Healthy.  Thin.  I felt good and I looked good and it had been relatively easy.  But just as I was realizing that I could feel good about my body, feel happy, sexy, attractive, I found out I was pregnant with Max.  I ballooned.  I gained over 50 pounds.  Even pregnant I looked fat.  Not cute fat.  Fat fat.

But my saving grace was my best friend's engagement and I was going to be the maid of honor.  A week after Max was born Annie, two of her other bridesmaids, her mom and I went looking for bridesmaids dresses.  I was too embarrassed to try anything on, but the other two did and we found a gorgeous dress.  I ordered mine four sizes smaller than my measurements dictated.  The sales woman scoffed at me and said "you know, it's much easier to take a dress in than it is to let it out.  There simply won't be enough fabric."  Eight months later I tried it on in the dress shop fitting room.  I had lost about 45 pounds.

The following year I trained for my first Breast Cancer 3Day and lost even more.  I kept that off for two years as I fell in love with exercise and started to eat more natural and organic foods.  I loved the healthy example I was setting for my kids.  For the first time in my life I enjoyed trying on clothes, getting dressed up to go out for dinner, wearing a slinky black dress to a wedding.  But all along I knew it wouldn't last.

I knew we were going to have another baby, so I knew I was going to have one more "free-for-all."  Two years ago I found out I was pregnant with Lily.  Initially I swore that I was going to do better, eat better, exercise more.  But as the morning sickness set in and Doritos are all that sounded good to me, my will-power wilted.  You've read about my struggles with that baby weight and nursing. 

We're done having babies.  There are no more "free-for-alls."  This time, if I lose the weight, when I lose the weight, it's for good.  It means making healthy choices for the rest of my life.  If I have my way, that will be a very very long time.  I want to make healthy choices because I want to have a long, healthy life.  I also want to fit into my cute summer cropped pants in time for my trip to Arizona.  I've been afraid of committing.  But I think I'm ready.

I was shopping with a friend of mine today and we saw lots of really cute clothes.  I kept thinking, as I looked through the racks, This will look good once I've lost these last ten pounds.  But when am I going to lose them? 

So, I joined Weight Watchers Online. 

Give Me (well, not me) Money

Ok, this feels shameless and sneaky and I promise not to make this the focus of my blog (what blog, you ask?  You haven't written anything in months.  And now you're asking for money?  For shame.)  Yes, I am asking for money.  Kinda.  To be specific, I'm asking for $2300.  No no...someone has already given me some, so now I only need $2250. 

I am walking in my fourth Susan G. Komen 3Day for the Cure this August.   (Click on the pic to the right of this post if you want to check out my 3Day site...you can donate right there!)  So, I don't plan to go shopping with the money you give me (you are going to give me money, right?).  It goes to fighting breast cancer.  Every cent.  A great cause.  So give.  Even just a little bit.  Please?  I'm not above begging. 

I haven't been able to write lately.  I sit down and get started with an idea.  I have about 20 drafts that seem to go nowhere and I have no idea how to finish.  I get worried about what someone is going to think, if I'm hurting someones feelings, if I write about my floor too often (there's another one of these coming folks...brace yourself), if I complain too much.  My mom told me I write as if I'm a "victim"...so now I'm overly sensitive about that.  I don't want to be, so I started thinking about what I could write about that wouldn't fall into any of those categories.  At least to get me started.  To open the writing floodgate, if you will.  Who can argue with saving lives?

I walked my first 3Day in 2007.  Honestly, I just wanted to lose weight and figured that the training would help me accomplish that.  But as I trained, and absolutely as I walked in the actual event, it became about so much more than that!  I did it again the next year.  Then I had a baby (surprisingly, I had her the weekend of the 3Day).  But I walked again last year.  And I'm already registered (and taking donations for...remember, you're donating?) for this year's walk.  I have met so many amazing people who have fought and beat breast cancer.  And I have heard too many stories about amazing people who have been lost. 


Anyway, I know many of us are still recovering from overspending at Christmas, or are saving for our spring break trips, or need a new couch, or..., or..., or...  I'm not asking you to give me the entire $2250.  I'm just asking for a little bit.  So, go click.  Now.  Before you forget. 


Oh, and thank you. 

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.