Forty-Nine Squares

There was a nostalgic but happy feeling that came to me as I crossed off 49 squares in my calendar today. My pencil made little slash mark after little slash mark though days I had been looking forward to for months... days that turned out to be so full of fun and emotion that they could never actually be represented by those tiny squares. Days of happy craziness as McKenzie filled the house during her school break (seriously, how does one child add so much chaos!?); squares of tiring preparation preceding seven squares marked with the capitol letters B E A C H T R I P ! ! !; squares filled with visits from family and then five more blocked off for O R L A N D O ! ! !; then, sprinkled throughout, there was a cookout and a carnival, a brunch and a bookclub, kindergarten activities and a healthy handful of playdates for the whole family. And though it's not there, each square could justifiably have a watermark that reads, 'Brian is home!'

I feel the whirlwind of the last 49 days dying down into a gentle breeze, and I'm a bit sad to see them go. I recognize the scarcity of times like these, times where we're swept off of our feet in a wonderful sort of chaos as opposed to the much more frequent overwhelming sort, and I have been quietly tucking these days into a chamber of my heart marked 'treasures'.

I suppose it's time to plant my feet back on solid ground again... we can't live ignoring the world and our calendars forever. But we're all home this time. Together. Finally enjoying again the peace that comes from living under one roof. Yesterday morning, McKenzie climbed the stairs of her bus after a week long vacation in Orlando. Her sweet bus driver called through the open door, "Welcome back! We missed you!" When I mentioned where we had been, she shook her head in a jealous fashion. "Oh, Ah KNOW you had fun down there!" she said. "Now the only bad thing about goin' on vacation is that you have to come back!" I smiled and waved to the bus as it went around the corner. Yes, I thought, you're right... but I think I'm ready to be back to normal for a change. The bus slowly drove out of sight and I started walking back to my house with a happy feeling filling my heart. With Kenzie on her way to school, Brian working back in town, Miles propped on my hip, and Carson holding my hand, I felt complete and whole again.

I find it interesting that the fierce winds that kept me down and rubbed my face in the dirt while Brian was away seem to be the same winds that recently carried me up and allowed me to soar. It looks as though Heavenly Father really did hear my prayers. Help me rise above this, Lord; please lift me and strengthen me. He just chose, in his infinite wisdom, to answer them along a different time table than I would have chosen for myself. If I'd have known that He would answer my prayers after Brian returned, I would have said He'd be too late...

But, you know, I think these soaring days were worth it.

I have scores of pictures to sort through and plenty of random thoughts that go along with them. And, don't worry, you'll get a smattering of them shortly. Because, you know, I know you've missed me and that your happiness hinges on that sort of thing.

The Happiest, Happiest Day!

 

PS - don't be offended - 'hoe-jew' is not an offensive term used to describe our religious neighbors...it's just what Miles says when he wants to be held. (hold you!)

Messes: to clean, to stop, or to ignore?

I smashed a mosquito on my bathroom wall three days ago while I was brushing my teeth.

Tonight while I was flossing I realized how ridiculous it was that it was still there. It's not hidden... smeared right next to the window pane - right about eye level - right close to the hand towel. I've probably seen it there 10 times, and yet...

I pondered on it for a while, both hands working away in my mouth. Really, it would only take one little piece of toilet paper, I thought, the toilet paper that is less that two steps away from me at this very moment. I chastised myself for being so nasty and made a conscious vow that I would try to be better at cleaning things up as they occur - starting with that mosquito. I chalked it up to being so frazzled at the end of this long husbandless 5 months I've had. But then again... this sort of thing seems to happen a lot. If I'm being honest with myself, I don't think it actually has anything to do with Brian being gone. This opened up a whole new pathway for my brain to explore as I finished cleaning under my permanent retainer.

A good friend of mine once said to me, "I think there are two different kinds of clean people in the world. Those who spend a lot of energy making sure messes don't happen, and those who spend a lot of energy cleaning up the messes after they happen. I think you're the latter." It's true that I don't spend much energy making sure messes don't happen; how many millions of times have I seen one being created and thought, that's what my washing machine is for, or looks like I'll have to get the mop out after this. But... DO I actually clean it up after it happens?

I've spent all of my adult life thinking that I was a pretty clean person, I certainly devote a lot of time to picking up after everyone and my house is in good order most of the time. But a mini lightbulb just started to glow deep inside my brain tonight, and I think - I think that maybe I'm not. Truthfully, that mosquito doesn't really bother me. And the cheerios that have dried hard to the tile underneath the island? They don't bother me either. They'll come up when I mop the floor, and that's on the schedule for tomorrow. I pick up the clutter because it gets in the way of walking; I wipe the crumbs from the counter because they get in the way of using the kitchen; and I make the beds every morning because then they feel cleaner when I crawl into them at night. But if it doesn't interfer with my daily life, then I don't seem to care about it. This could be life-changing, folks.

I should have probably let this mull around in my head for a while before letting it all hang out here - it's possible the morning light will shine a different light on the subject. I just thought it was funny that as I snuggled into bed tonight, teeth sparkling clean, lights out and covers up under my chin...

I realized that the mosquito is still there.

Wordless Wednesday

The Art of a Brush

It was time.

Actually, let's be honest, it was past time... by about 3 years. The last time I got my hair cut, I was standing in my own living room, head upside down, instructing my very nervous husband exactly when and where to snip. I was trying a little trick I learned on YouTube the previous day and, let's just be brief by saying, it ended badly. I tried to convince myself that mullets were coming back in - and that girls could sport them. But who was I kidding! Over the course of the next three days, we hacked away at it a little here and there until I felt a little more willing to show my face in public. Enter in the pony-tails and that's about where we've been for the last two years.

I guess Brian got a little tired of me complaining about my hair (or perhaps he got tired of looking at it) because a couple of weeks ago he excitedly mentioned that he had set up an appointment for me at a nice salon in the mountains. I was leaving the next day, kid free, to spend a few days with him. Relaxing in his apartment, touring the awesome city he lives in, reading during the days while he was working, and now... getting my hair done. I actually don't like getting my hair done. I'm not very good at small talk, plus I feel nervous about providing an adequate 'happy' reaction when the final look is presented. But, as Brian knew, I'd be happy once it was over.

I walked into the salon with my long hair in a thin pony-tail, dangling down in it's usual pattern and said hello to my stylist, Brett. Permanent smile, twinkly blue eyes, and a thick, stylish, sandy brown mohawk bleached blond at the tips. Yep, I thought to myself, he fits the part of a stylist. Warm and friendly, Brett put me at ease quickly - not unlike how I imagine I would feel around an older brother if I had one. He sat next to me and we talked for a while about what I was looking for - I showed him pictures and he gave me some suggestions...

"Alright!" he said, "I've got the look for you! Do you know how to use a brush?"
Odd question, I thought. Who doesn't know how to use a hairbrush? But his tone was serious, as if it wouldn't be weird at all for me to say no. My ego boosted. "Yep," I said. I use one every day! Why, I used one this very morning to put my hair up in this ponytail.

Soon my nostrils filled with the scent of hair color as the foils and highlights were painted, strip by strip, into my drab hair. An hour later, I looked like a frizzy martian as I sank into the cushions of a bay window to read my book, watch the people walk by, and wait for the highlights to do their damage. A wash, a rinse, and then clumps of hair - my hair - hit the ground with finality. I watched every move in the mirror in front of my chair, and I was happy with what I was seeing. The blow-dryer whizzed into action and a large, round brush came out of the drawer next to Brett's arm.

"Now we just blow it out with the brush!" he said. He set to work pinning up portions of hair to dry others. Some he curled under, some he curled over, some he didn't curl at all. I found myself studying his moves, questions filling my brain. I started to ask them, but then I remembered... Do you know how to use a brush, he had said.

Oh dear.

It was too late now. Besides, what would I say to him? So, do you remember that time you asked me if I knew how to use a brush? Well, you see, I thought you meant a regular hairbrush - of which I know all the rules - start at the top and move to the bottom, you know... I felt like an idiot. Of course he didn't mean a regular hairbrush! Who doesn't know how to use a regular old hairbrush?! But this... this thing he was using looked much more complicated.

I watched and searched for answers to my own questions in his work. How hard can it be, right? My hair looked awesome for two days - but then it was time to wash it. And dry it. Dry it. With that thing. I tried, I really did, but I only have two arms, and I'm pretty sure you need a third in there somewhere to help out. Plus, that round brush seems to have a mind of it's own on whether or not it will actually hold the hair I intend it to, and sometimes it decides to curl only the top half of the lock and leave it sticking out like a bad case of bed-head. Other times it curls it violently, leaving me with poofy anchor-woman hair.

Well, I've done it four times now, all by myself (thank you), with varying degrees of success. All I ask is that, if you see me walking around town with a funny looking curl in the middle of my head, just don't say anything.

It's not my fault... it's that blasted brush. (That's what we who are in-the-know call a round brush these days.)

I could be wrong, but...

...this seems to be a bit more deliberate than simple toothpaste splatters on the mirror...

Birthday Eyes

It's all in his eyes. Big. Beautiful. And sometimes the only clue I have into his little heart. He tries to mask his feelings - but those pesky eyes, they never lie. Not to me. When he's happy they sparkle, even when he hides his smile. When he's sad they droop, even when he holds his tears. When he's sick they're flat, even when he's bouncing. They squint when he's confused, open bright when he's excited, dart when he knows he's in trouble. When they catch the light just right they pierce my heart and my face melts into that puppy dog gaze as a reaction to the paradoxical pain that comes from beauty and love. He might just kill me with those eyes.


He seems sure that he turned five last week, but does he look five to you? Because I'm pretty sure someone snuck a couple of years in there while I wasn't looking. We had to be a bit creative with his birthday pictures because he seems to think that shards of glass will shoot out of my camera lens if he glances at it. I decided not to torture him on his big day, so I left my camera home. His birthday was complete with food, friends, fun ... and some of the brightest eyes I've seen on him for a while. Thank you to his best friend, Parker, an awesome sticker, and the museum of life and science for entertaining my child and making him feel like I'm the best mom ever. I'm also the best mom ever because I let Chick-Fil-A's play place take the lunch hour away from us (read: no mess for me to clean up), then I let them trade in their happy meal toys for ice cream (read: no cluttery toy collection to worry about), and we brought free balloons home (okay, this was pretty awesome of me because I hate balloons. Really), where I let them play away the afternoon in front of Mario (read: where I put my feet up and took a nap). I'm getting the hang of this mothering gig.


He felt like a king when the friends came over and he pulled out his new Star Wars encyclopedia. He can't even read, yet he pours over this book every night before going to sleep. The boys in the house were magnetized to it. These four specifically sat here for over half an hour turning the pages, gasping, cheering, and booing at all the pictures.


Then we pulled out the cake... I really outdid myself on this cake *squirm*. Ice cream, frozen in three cheesecake pans, plopped on top of each other, with star wars characters plunked on top. You know what? It tasted awesome. And the kids kept asking for more.

I learned a little something - the amount of time and preparation you put into your child's birthday really is no indication of how much you love them. And, it's not really an indication of how much fun they're going to have, either. Carson's birthday happened to fall in a season where I could give very little of myself into making it special for him. There was no formal party, no special outing... there wasn't even Daddy except for a few minutes through the computer screen. But it was full of his favorite day-to-day things, packed to the brim with hugs and kisses, and at the end of the night when I asked him if he'd had a good day, he looked up at me with those eyes - so big... so beautiful - and I saw my very favorite look flash through them. That look that comes one tiny second before he says my four favorite words,

"I love you, Mom."