At peace with wonderful

Never before in my life have I experienced a more visceral moment of what I feel is the quintessential spirit of Christmas than I did just moments ago. With snow dancing downward from a deep, dark sky, my 4-year-old and I plowed through inches of new-fallen snow to deliver homemade cookies to our neighbors. Giggling as our feet plunged into the unknown depths of each step, we hurried from house to house bearing more than ginger cookies but also a sincere feeling of love, kindness and gratitude. Love for our fellow humans, love for each other and our family; gratitude for the welcoming community in which we find ourselves now living; gratitude for being warm during such a cold, cold night.

My heart pulsed with love for my dear child* whose hand I held and, who later, I carried on my back while singing Christmas carols as we plunged through the pure white powder which was often illuminated with the festive, warm colors of Christmas lights.

Although I am so very fortunate to give my children gifts this year for Christmas, I feel that, by moving here, I am raising them in a place of beauty where neighbors actually know each other and where our hearts sing as we drink it all in, grateful for each other and for the peace in our hearts.

May all of you find such peace. Merry Christmas and happy holidays.

* It was too cold for my 2-year-olds but they were in my heart as well.

Tirade

In the grand scheme of things, the moment was trivial. Compared to the horrors being experienced by those in Mumbai and even ordinary folk struggling to live their lives anywhere on the globe, it was not even close to being a truly stressful situation; however, since I can only experience my own life (although I do empathize with others), I found myself baffled at how completely my 4-year-old could make me feel paralyzed and inept in front of countless witnesses. What a joy to behold perhaps but definitely not one to experience.

Before describing this special moment with my child, I'll preface it with a little history. The reason it was just he and I and not the whole family was due to two factors: money and maintaining our sanity. It already cost us $1000 to fly just the 2 of us so it would have been ridiculous for 5. Plus, who is seriously insane enough to fly with 3 kids 4 and under?

My son hadn't flown since he was 6 months old. He might as well never have as far as his memory was concerned. I was entering the realm of new and unknown experiences with my child which, in the past, hadn't always produced the best results. Being the "smart" parent, I thought of ways to prepare him for the trip. I made one big mistake. Thinking that going through security might be frightening for him, I thought it might be helpful for him to watch a video I found on the TSA's website regarding flying with children. It shows children happily going through security. It shows how they might use the wand to check for metals but it's all happy go lucky. No problemo.

Yeah, well. You can guess where this is heading. We get to security and he starts to panic. I manage to get his shoes off and his coat and put them in the buckets. I get his luggage up and mine. I pick up the now screaming child and walk through the metal detector. No beeps. Whew. Ok, the worst is over. . . except he runs off and down toward the guard at the end of the security area who tries to stop him which makes him even more scared so he turns back and runs BEHIND the security area where about 10 guards are standing completely baffled as this frantic, panicking, insane little 4-year old literally weaves in and out of the guards desperately trying to escape this frighteningly scary place while yelling, "no metal!"

So proud. So very proud.

Obviously, we get him out of there and we move along. We gave the guards a little something to chuckle about. It took a few minutes for my blood pressure to go down and to remind myself that patience is actually a virtue and that it is sort of in my grasp if I would stop feeling the need to strangle the little rascal.

This same child, who wove in and out of trained security guards screaming like a banshee, then boarded the plane and entertained (in a good way) the passengers nearby with his cute ways such as asking a nearby 12-year-old what he was thankful for. It was probably good that he didn't ask me that shortly after his tirade but, in the true spirit of a parent who understands the depth of a parents love, I'm thankful for that little rascal even if he can embarrass me like no other.

Ill prepared

How many times had I insisted that we have the Epi-pen handy even for the twins who may not have severe allergies? Despite my diligence, I panicked today as I looked for one of the many I thought I had around the house. One was supposed to be in my purse, one in the diaper bag but where the hell was it? The extra diaper bag. Why the hell do I have an extra one?

Where the hell are my keys? I just had them. Toys at my feet and babies crying in the car, what the hell did I do with my keys? He was getting worse.

Epi-pen found. Keys found. Unhesitatingly, yet recoiling emotionally, I plunged the Epi-pen into my darling son's leg despite his protests.

Which hospital to go to? The one that I took Dylan when he fell or the new, fancy one near the house? I'm not from these parts - which one is good? Thank you, Lord, my mother-in-law answered the phone. Going to the close hospital and she's meeting me there.

Husband informed and trying to not panic him as I speed to the ER.

Peanuts. Peanut butter on a cracker at a school he'd only been to 4 times. "Severe peanut allergy" listed on his applications. Epi-pen provided but I'm confusion about how well I had informed them of that and wondering why they didn't take it more seriously. How mad should I be that someone handed out the crackers provided by some parent with a child who obviously doesn't have a severe peanut allergy. Obviously.

Swollen, red and angry hives all over his little body. Bloody scratches from his itching. Crying because he's scared. Juggling three babies at the ER until my sweet mother-in-law arrives and takes the little ones - one of whom is missing a shoe because it wasn't important. Nothing was important except getting Neil to the ER.

Doctors, nurses, medicines, shots. Cries, giggles eventually and redness abating. He's going to be ok. Daddy comes and helps with the giggles and snuggles. My darling boy charming the nurses and amusing the doctors.

Instructions, relief and disbelief that everything is going to be ok. My little darling survived it and I can only humbly fall to my knees in thanks for everyone who helped my son survive the life-threatening exposure to the most innocent-seeming, childhood food of peanut butter.

Old and new

Apparently, we weren't the only ones to journey across Texas, New Mexico, Colorado and Utah. Hidden among our enormous truckload of belongings, a small gecko held on for dear life. Hot, bumpy and long, our journey took 3 days to drive from Plano, Texas, to Salt Lake City, Utah. Since we were exhausted, I can only imagine how tired the little gecko was considering, unlike us, he didn't have the luxury of food or water.

Although we brought along many things from Texas and even Texans themselves, the discovery of our secret passenger made me ponder how far we were from Texas considering Utah probably isn't hospitable to a little lizard from Texas. Fortunately, the gecko was found by a groovy chica who doesn't flinch at the idea of caring for the little rascal. Armed with a background in science and a knack for caring for creatures, Nikki confidently assumed the role of caretaker. We should know in a few days whether the little creature adapts to his new home.

As for us, we are adapting quite well. It is absolutely gorgeous here and surprisingly comfortable. Oddly enough, I continue to find elements of my old home. For instance, as we crossed over the Utah border, we stopped at a groovy restaurant in Monticello, Utah, called the Peace Cafe or something hippy sounding like that. One minute I was feeling how far from home we were but then I walked into a room that sent me back. It's pretty remarkable how certain smells can trigger very distinct memories and something about one of the rooms of the restaurant smelled just like my grandmother's house. Perhaps it was the age of the house or a certain kind of soap but I had never found that scent anywhere but at her house. Now that she is no longer with us and I'm unable to visit her house, I was comforted that perhaps I'd still have opportunities to connect with memories of her despite how far away I am from Texas.

While I was touched by a sense of home then, I have experienced many things which are far from it, although most of them are quite pleasant. For instance, I have enjoyed being outside more often throughout the day due to the cooler temperatures. I have been able to be outside in the late afternoon and evening without being bitten by mosquitos. I took a 10 minute drive up into a beautiful canyon and saw mountain rivers rushing along the road.

Of course, not everything is so pleasant, although I can't say I have experienced anything truly negative either. The fact that my Texas accent stands out like a sore thumb does make me feel a bit conspicuous. I also feel that I have dried out due to the lack of humidity which causes me to drink gallons of water a day. I still don't know how to get around here, although I did successfully get out alone today and find my way around a bit. (I had to pat myself on the shoulder for that one but I have to hand it to the city planners though because the city is laid out in a pretty orderly fashion.)

So, as I sit and rock outside listening to beautiful mourning doves (who thankfully live here too), I feel a sense of tranquility that I haven't enjoyed for a very long time. I do miss home for sure and I especially miss my family but my heart is telling me that it really needed this and I'm thankful we did it and am grateful to those who helped us get here.

Tired giggles

Apparently, I'm the best at using the fancy box tape mechanism. If you need a box taped up, I'm the chic. Confident in my abilities, I expertly began taping the bubble wrap surrounding a huge mirror from our dresser which was being supported by my husband and my mother-in-law. As my father-in-law rolled out the wrap and I taped, we were in the flow and were feeling very proficient until I got the tape all tangled and half stuff to the wrap and myself and anything in its way. So much for being the tape diva. Tired to the bone, we all found ourselves giggling relentlessly at the ridiculous situation and the laughter felt great.

Today, within hours, I found out that I don't have breast cancer, the house sale went through and Chris had a good interview for a job. Not bad considering how much of a beating the last few days have been. So, as we hustled and bustled to pack up the remaining items, it was great to have a moment of silly, tired laughter as we shared in a moment of fun after a very long day which followed a very long trial of various hardships to get to this moment and we're here and it's nice.

Since we're moving I won't be posting for a few days. Until then, may everyone be happy and well. My next post will be from Salt Lake City, Utah.

Drowning

When I was little, I had an aquarium. I spent countless hours sitting in front of it watching my fish live out their lives. Most of the time, it was peaceful to sit there and watch them swim from one glass wall to the next, chasing each other or idling in one spot staring vacantly at something I couldn't see. At other times, I learned important life lessons such as the cruelty of nature and the inevitability of death.

I remember being panicked when I would discover a fish who was ailing. If they had a disease called ick, I put some kind of medicine in the water but I don't recall whether it ever worked. Most of the time, I'd find myself witnessing the fish's struggle to live despite his or her body's efforts to die. As its body became more limp and its attempt to swim grew weaker and more infrequent, I would become enraged and horrified as its fellow fish took advantage of the ailing fish's weakness and would begin to peck at it in a cannibalistic fashion. As the fish flailed around, struggling with every move, the healthy fish swam by and pecked at it impassively, not seeming to recognize what it was they were eating.

Thankfully, I'm not the fish and I'm in good health as far as I know but I am struggling. I'll be completely honest: my life is incredibly hard right now and there are times when I feel I'm not up to the task despite my best efforts. Unfortunately, while dealing with the often overwhelming task of raising 3 boys 3 and under (not to mention moving, being concerned about breast cancer, and all the aggravations one typically experiences in life), I find that there are some who take jabs at me when I'm at my weakest but, thankfully, there are also those who lift me up to the surface.

So, as I flail around over the next weeks, I sincerely hope that I can keep the nibblers at bay and that I can rely on the sturdiness of those who selflessly can help me stay afloat.

Choices

If you think about it, the act of making a choice is such a fundamental part of being a free spirit. Choices send us in a variety of directions, influencing our futures in ways we often can't grasp when making them. For some, choices are frightening. For others they're exciting. For many, choices are made without realization by a sleeping mind.

For those who chose to view the world in terms of good or bad, choices can be a frightening dilemma since there is the 50-50 risk of failure. If one strives to be perfect and unerring, it is essential to make only "safe" choices or those deemed to have the least risk factors. Although this perspective has its own validity, I find it stifling and limiting. I also feel that life is still too unpredictable for any life to truly be safe at all. Ultimately, the biggest fear (death) is awaiting all of us no matter how cautious we are.

On the other hand, there are those who take big risks and, speaking in cliche, throw caution to the wind. Blown from one whim to the next, their lives run the risk of being aimless and immature as they avoid being grounded in responsibility as they repeatedly make choices that help them escape themselves and their troubles.

I can't help but ask myself whether I'm more cautious or more whimsical with the choices I make but I find it hard to separate what it is I believe from what I think important people in my life believe about my choices. As I try to untangle the answer to this question, I can't help but feel I'm a mixture of both and that I often fluctuate back and forth between the two. I have noticed that I feel more calm about major decisions in the day when I'm fully rested and more insecure and cautious at night when I'm tired and trying to sleep. I'm not the first to notice that anxieties manifest themselves more dominantly at night. I believe it was the Navajos who had an expression along the lines of "even spotted leopards look black at night," or something along those lines.

Rather than viewing a choice in its simplest form, I can't help but ponder judgments regarding whether decisions are viewed as good or bad by ourselves and by others. Lately, I have listened to a variety of opinions about our moving to Salt Lake City. The more cautious a person is the more negatively they view our moving. The more adventurous they are the more they support it. However, we do have a few friends who I would neither characterize as overly cautious nor overly flighty who feel that, although there is risk involved in our move, we made the decision after very careful consideration. Perhaps I'm seeking support here but I would have to agree with them.

As the coming week unfolds out in front of us, I'm a bit intimidated by the many, many things we need to take care of. From packing, closing on the house, and moving to getting a biopsy (the mammogram was inconclusive) three days before we leave, I'm a bit overwhelmed by it all. As much as Chris and I support each other and our decision, I can't help but desire support from those who are, at the least, ambivalent or, at the most, are unsupportive altogether. Ultimately, the choice has been made and we intend to follow through as long as it is meant to be. I guess I have to make the choice to trust myself and my husband and to know in my heart that we're not making a reckless choice by trying to provide a better life for ourselves and our children.

So, as the time approaches 11:00 p.m., I'm reaching for a peaceful mind that will not only allow me to have a restful sleep but one that accepts the misgivings of others without taking on their feelings as my own.

Spilled cheerios

Nothing like a good, old fashioned breast cancer scare to make life a tiny bit more dramatic. With a family history of breast cancer, I felt it was only smart to get a mammogram after I turned 35. I'm sure it's probably nothing but they need a more detailed mammogram of an area in question - one week before I move out of my home state.

When I'm feeling sorry for myself, which is unfortunately too often these days, it's hard not to laugh at how ridiculous my life has been over the past few years. From twin babies, hospital stays, an ovarian cancer scare and subsequent surgery, the death of my grandmother, putting our house on the market, 52 showings, packing the house up and the emotional ramifications of my moving away from my family, I thought that perhaps I had had enough doo doo thrown my way but apparently not. One thing that I have learned is that my childhood idea of an easy life has evaporated into a stressful, amazing, insane, wonderful, nutso life and the best way to enjoy the best parts are to push my way through the crummy ones.

So, today I go in for the second mammogram. Although they reassure me that it's probably nothing, it's not easy for my mind not to go down the path of what if they're wrong. I'm waiting for them to prove the negative - that I don't have cancer - but until then I have keep on packing, pick up spilled cheerios and wait for the results.

High standards

I realized just now that my standards have really changed these days. I guess you could say that they've shifted away from me and toward my children. As I was preparing for a morning outing with the boys, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: hair in a lazy bun, no makeup, teeth unbrushed, clothes covered in pancake mix and I decided that perhaps I could make myself look a little "less than shitty".

The sad thing is that is my new standard for myself. When I said those words to myself (in my head and not out loud - I do have a little sanity left), I was struck by how little regard I have for myself these days. It's not that I don't care about myself or how I appear to the world, it's that I seriously don't have time to. Actually, maybe I don't care. Well, maybe I do. Perhaps I'm not sure.

Anyway, so I took a moment and brushed my teeth, put on a bit of makeup. There. I'm still in pancake clothes but I'm at least a little less than shitty. I guess if I change clothes I could be a little less than crappy and if I put clothes on that actually are attractive I might pass for ok. The days of cute, hot or decent are over but at least my boys look good.

On a roll

The luxury of moving is that I am finding more creative ways to occupy the kiddos. From letting them "help" me pack (which involves giving them boxes for them to play with while I do the real thing) to rolling out old wrapping paper on the floor so they can slip, slide or color on it, I'm finding that packing up a house is tricky but is ripe with many silly opportunities for play.

Of course, with the full heat of summer beating down on us, I feel trapped in the house with three energetic boys and haunted by an unending list of to dos. I would much rather rest, put my feet up and cool off. As I listen to the sound of a neglected tv playing in the back of the house, I find myself looking forward to the changes ahead - if anything because it will be different than this right now.

As I wander the house, going from room to room to room, I am reminded of different days by the pictures I'm now packing away. Today, I packed our wedding photos which is only fitting considering today is our 7 year anniversary. Is it time for the 7 year itch? Nah. Chris and I don't have the energy to cheat on each other. Perhaps our 7 year itch has manifested in this move. I think we both need a change especially after the challenging years we've had. Although my relationship with some are being upset by this move, I'm glad to know that Chris and I have only grown closer and we're more committed to each other and our family as we prepare for a new, and hopefully, exciting future.

One wedding, one honeymoon, two houses, and three babies later, we're still on a roll. Happy anniversary, hon.

Saying Bye

Our fate has been decided and we’re moving to Salt Lake City. Although we go about our daily routine of feeding, clothing and playing with our babies, our house is slowly emptying as towers of boxes climb to the ceilings. Trying to maintain order during a time of deconstruction is challenging but we’re doing it in stages in order to allow ourselves and our boys to adjust to the changes.

As I place one of our possessions in a box, I can’t help but remind myself that one day I’ll be pulling that same object out in a new home. I know how I’m feeling now – although I can’t really define it since it’s comprised of many emotions – I wonder what I’ll be feeling then. I can’t help but worry that I’ll be sad and filled with regret but I hope I’ll be optimistic and excited about our new life in SLC.

As we pack up our belongings, we’re also saying our farewells to our loved ones. Last Saturday, we met with some of our closest friends at a local bar. With the breeze of an afternoon shower bathing us in coolness, our hearts were warmed with the love of friendship and our appreciation of our shared histories. The night was ripe with giggles as we let our guards down and just shared the evening together just one more time.

Heavy with sleepiness, good beer and food, we drove home (Chris was designated so he had only had a beer or two hours before) later than we had in a long time. Feeling the vibration of 75 below us, I was soothed by thoughts of our friends. Spending time with our friends was like slipping into our childhood bed and snuggling in a nice, warm blanket. I was at peace despite not knowing when we’d see them again. I know our friendships are enduring and that the critical component is love and connection and I knew we had that.

Bitter and sweet

I’m struck by the word bitter tonight. As I feel the many emotions I’m experiencing about our upcoming move, I think of it as bittersweet. How can one person have such conflicting emotions? On one hand I’m very excited about the many adventures that lie ahead of us, while on the other I’m honestly scared about leaving my home state, my family and friends. I feel like the compass that guides me is calibrated for Texas and that, by moving, I’m not going to know my way – at least not for a while. Meanwhile, I’ll still be the busy mom I am now and have to function. I can’t afford to fall into despair or panic.

During the day, my heart beats excitedly about the many beautiful things I’ll be able to see in Salt Lake City, the fun things I’ll get to do with my husband , children and in-laws, the many opportunities for us to do things we can’t do here. At night, though, my chest tightens with anxiety, my stomach clenches and I worry about how I will ever be able to make SLC my home.

As Webster’s defines it, bittersweet is pleasure alloyed with pain - how succinct and how appropriate for my situation.

Tonight, in addition to my usual concerns, I’m thinking about someone very, very close to me. For the sake of anonymity I won’t identify her. She essentially accused me of pretending to be sad about leaving. Although I have not cried openly, this heart of mine sinks when I think of what, and mainly who, I’m leaving behind. It is not a pleasant feeling but I can’t provide a window into my heart large enough to prove it to her. I know she hurts and I hate that. I think she thinks I’m cold and that I don’t love her enough to stay. Unknowingly her own bitterness pushes me away and influences me to appear cold and unloving – fulfilling her prophecy and hurting us both.
Tonight, the sadness that is always present is burdened even more with feelings of being misunderstood, of feeling disconnected and angry. I’m at a complete loss as to how to rectify the situation since I still grasp at the illusion that I could fix the situation if I tried. Ultimately, despite how much I love her and how much I know she loves me, only she can let go of her bitterness and dare to trust the strength of our relationship and my commitment to it. Until then, I can’t take her pain on as my own because I have enough of my own to handle. I can only we’ll both awaken one morning soon with a sense of peace and untainted sweetness in our hearts.

Stretch and contract

We may be moving after all so I have started packing just one day premature. As I was going through one of my bedside tables, I found a notepad that had numbers listed all over it. Example:

1:40
1:45
2:05
2:30
2:45
3:50

and so forth until it stops at 9:15. It took me a second to realize these were my hastily written notes about the contractions I was having while in the hospital the four weeks before the twins were born. There are pages and pages of these, some written legibly and others written slanted and scribbled - indicative of how my energy and comfort level waxed and waned throughout the several weeks worth of bed rest.

After flipping through the pages, I then found something I had written semi-coherently to my boys. It's not art but it does show how I felt the weeks before I had Evan and Dylan. As I was ready for their birth, I was also sad to be away from my oldest, Neil:

My body aches
stretched beyond
my womb clenches
and the baby boys dance

My eyes droop
spent energy throughout
but I see a drawing
you made on my arm
I'm filled with my love for you (this was after a visit from Neil where he drew on me)

The love for the twins
growing in me
love for my husband
who shares all this with me
his unwavering committment to all of us

I'm a long way from those days. My twins are bouncing on the bed and eating graham crackers and my oldest sees me more than he doesn't. My love for my husband is even stronger and our committment to each other and our family has become even more evident as we prepare for our great adventure to Utah.

Twisted

I was simply turning to explain some nonsense to the boys when my knee decided to be rather uncooperative. I can't really even explain what happened but I had the sensation that my knee temporarily dislocated, I heard an icky pop, and I was immediately in a lot of pain. From standing to falling in mid-sentence, the boys thought their mommy was being funny. As I tuned out the world and felt the pain, I tried to figure out what had just happened and tried to figure out how I was supposed to take care of my boys when I didn't think I could even walk. As they all swooped in like puppies on a person who has laid down on the ground for wrestling time, I tried to fend off my babies in order to protect my now throbbing knee. As I got my senses back somewhat, I pulled myself across the kitchen floor and made a one-legged attempt at standing and reaching the phone.

Meanwhile, my husband saw our home number pop up on his work phone caller ID and he prepared himself for either a stressed-out wife or a casual conversation about one of his son's most recent antics. Instead he heard a wife in pain asking him to come home now. He left but it was going to take him an hour and a half to get home since he bikes and takes the train. (In Dallas, an hour commute is common so an hour and a half isn't that big of a deal.)

I couldn't figure out how I was going to take care of the boys for an hour and a half so I called my mother. Answering the phone she heard her normally cheerful daughter beg her to come over to help. She would be here in 20 minutes.

Twenty minutes isn't that long unless you have 3 boys 3.5 and under. I managed to make my way to the couch nearest the front door and laid down. All 3 boys joined me and I explained that mommy hurt her leg but that Mammaw was coming over. I asked them to be very good for me and, with the exception of one brief toy-stealing battle across my lap, they were. My leg screamed with pain and I tried not to stress out about what the heck I had done to my knee (and ultimately what the hell were we going to do if I did hurt myself badly). Gaining a little more confidence with the situation, I began to slowly bend and straighten my leg to see if I could do it. Completely absorbed in the task of cautious movement, I was initially unaware of Dylan, the one child now remaining beside me (Evan and Neil were busy doing something else). As I bent and straightened my knee, I happened to look at Dylan at the foot of the couch: My little almost-20 month old baby was laid back on the couch bending and straightening his leg too.

My distressed and anxious heart warmed and I laughed. Looking at me, he laughed then bent and straightened his leg again and again, each time followed by a giggle. My little precious babe was so cute as he did this and I relaxed and decided that we would be fine no matter what I did to my knee. He gave me what I really needed: not just an ice pack, pain meds and an x-ray but a pure, sweet and simple laugh.

A few minutes later my Mom showed up and corralled the babes, gave me the ice pack and the pain meds that I did actually need. I decided rushing off to the ER wasn't necessary and that I likely just sprained the tar out of my knee. An hour and a half after my call, my sweaty husband (from riding in the hot weather) rushed through the door to see how I was doing and to take on the nightly baby duties. Shortly after that, my Dad came to bring crutches. We then drank beer, ate nachos and put the babies down for the night.

Today, I awoke with a really sore and stiff knee but I think it's improving - either that or it's the pain meds I'm on. Either way, we'll be ok even if my knee isn't completely great. At least I can walk somewhat, I can definitely laugh and I have precious babes who can help me do so.

Endangered self

As the idea of our moving seems more probable, I find a stillness in me, a calm sense of waiting for my future to present itself. As we discuss our potential move with others, their emotions whip around me. I'm affected by it, obviously, but if I stay centered I don't get sucked into it. I guess you could say I'm in the eye of the storm and I'm trying to stay there.

From my sweet friends who express their sadness of our departure while stating their unconditional support (thank you, guys!) to my 88 year old aunt diplomatically supporting me while making it clear she won't be living much longer. Although she wants me to be happy, I don't think she thinks I'll be happy if we move. I guess that's what I have to find out for myself.

My parents recently told me that, according to an author whose name escapes me at the moment, Chris and I are from the "me" and "endangered" generations. The fact that I'm choosing to move with my husband and children to a place my family isn't thrilled about could be seen as a "me" sort of thing to do. The fact that we're concerned about the future of the economy and our country's livelihood with the oil crisis (whether people want to face that fact or not) could be seen as our feeling "endangered". I suppose we could be just living our lives predictably, following a course through our age and state of mind but it doesn't feel like we're intentionally following a set lifestyle. We live in this age as every human has - in our time. We're influenced by the world around us and we interpret it thus, whether we believe the earth is flat or being assaulted by humankind.

The only thing I know how to do is to live my life, stay informed via as reputable sources as a person is capable of finding, and make choices that feel right to me. Trust in news sources, in opinions about critical life changes and the ones we love is a tricky thing but, ultimately, you have to take a leap of faith if you want to live a full life. Risk avoidance is just as risky as careless risk taking. In my opinion, making critical life choices involves dissolving irrational fears, calmly evaluating the choices and following your gut instinct. As much as the feelings of others is important to a point, no one can live your life for you and you can't live your life for others to the exclusion of your life's passions, interests and loves.

As I drink a glass of wine, I am rocking away in our glider trying to find that center of the storm. As I feel for those who are sad about our leaving, particularly my family, I am truly sorry for the loss that they may feel. Meanwhile, I retreat into myself and enjoy the idea of what our future may hold and am hopeful that the transition will prove to be less traumatic for everyone.

Adrift

At times, I find myself feeling groundless and separated, floating in a psychological eddy, not sure where I will settle. Sometimes I don't mind the state of mind but other times, like now, I find it stressful and annoying. When I fight it, I think I only prolong it, like a dog circling his tail endlessly. Feeling that, since this is occurring in me, I then must fix it so I focus inward, nagging myself to death as I try to find my footing. As many times as I have done this, I almost always find relief only when I reach out to another: my husband, my parents or friends. Tonight, although I didn't realize I was doing it consciously, I found myself grounded after spending a very pleasant evening with a friend.

Having shared our youth together, then separated and then reconnected, I am comforted by our similarities, amused by our memories, and proud of what we both have managed to overcome at those difficult times in our lives. As grown women with full lives as wives, mothers, daughters, our young souls have evolved deeply and richly. Hours before, I was exhausted and anxious by my hectic life, but having spent an enjoyable few hours with her talking, I feel refreshed, energized and grateful that we are yet again in one another's company.

As my eyes droop and my body insists on sleep, I am content to settle into this restful state. Thank you.

Dried and frozen

As Thomas the Train plays in the play room, I feel the need to toot my own horn. You see, I'm new to the homemaker business and, with a long history of feminist leanings (if not totally tipped over), I have rebelled against domesticity like most men. In the last few weeks, I have discovered that I actually quite enjoy it and am eager to learn how to be a better master of my trade. (What else am I going to do since I don't have time to pursue a paying career at this point, plus, this is such a critical time in our boys' lives that I want to do my best for the boys.)

From canning, dehydrating food and making homemade (and yummy) popsicles, I am thoroughly enjoying finding ways to preserve food so it lasts longer, making healthy and tasty treats for the boys, and learning new ways to make home fun, comforting and a pleasure for all of us. (Of course, I say this as one of my boys is whining but you understand what I'm saying.)
Although I canned the salsa weeks ago, we don't get to try it until this weekend (it required sitting a spell for the flavor to reach its peak). As for drying foods, my favorites so far are mangos, watermelon, peaches and bananas. Since we're beginning to purchase more locally grown foods, though, we'll have to eventually give up mangos and bananas. Today, my dehydrator is plugging away on honeydew. So far, it promises to be good as well. Interestingly, dehydrating foods makes the flavor of the food become more concentrated and the final product is an easily transportable and healthy snacks for the boys.

As for the popsicles, I have tried two recipes so far from Mormon Chic. (I figure since we're considering moving to SLC, I might as well see what these ladies know.) I have made the "Dripless Popsicle" which is tasty but, as Chris points out, is full of chemicals. The other one I made is watermelon popsicles. They are definitely healthier and all the boys seem to like it.

I feel that my slow transformation to domestic chic is timely because I think it's going to become increasingly necessary to preserve our food and waste less as oil prices continue to rise and our current food transporation system becomes challenged by it. (I highly suggest reading Animal Vegetable Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver which addresses issues related to peak oil and food security.) Buying locally grown foods and learning how to preserve food before circumstances actually require us to do that might make the transition a little less stressful if we are already confident in our abilities to take care of ourselves and our families.

Although I'm doing this as a way to expand my skills, ultimately I'm doing this because I feel that soon it may be necessary and I want to be ready for it. If things end up being fine and my concerns are unwarranted then the worst thing that happens is that we save money, waste less and our family eats a healthier diet than that found in processed, packaged goods made by people who don't know my children. If they don't, I'm hoping that what I'm learning will help us make the most of what's available so that we may have full bellies in the years to come.

Banana straws

Recently I invested in a food dehydrator. Just the sound of that makes me feel that I'm definitely not cool anymore but, anyway, I not only bought one but I like it and I use it regularly. So far, my favorite things to dry are mangoes, bananas, and strawberries. Although I ultimately want the kids to enjoy them as snacks, I find myself eating way too many of them as I peel them off the trays. I justify it that I'm testing to see how dry they actually are. "Hmm....that one was dry. That one was dry. That one was dry. Let's try one more. . . ."



When I first did this, all three boys swarmed me as I handed out the dried goods. Now, the twins are the only ones swarming and my oldest emphatically denies even trying one. Well, until I had a moment of mommy brilliance! He'd seen the plate full of dried bananas (which up until now I called "banana chips" to pretend they were unhealthy enough for his appetite) so I knew I needed a new disguise. Recently, my husband had bought some veggie chips that were in the shape of straws. The boys found them fun to whistle before they ate them. "Ah-hah!" So, with a little extra effort, I rolled the slices which are very nice and pliable when dried into little straws. Not only did he enjoy whistling through them, he gobbled them up. The funniest thing to me was that he saw me rolling them - the same bananas that were yucky looking beforehand. Shows how a little change in perspective can increase a stubborn kiddos appetite.



Ending with a silly pun, I guess I need to roll with the punches when it comes to feeding these little rascals.

What was I thinking?

The house was quiet - eerily so. This house should only be quiet when we're gone or when the smaller 3/5 of the house are sleeping soundly. Neither of those applied so I knew something wasn't right. I was in ear shot of all the guys and I had been paying attention to their movements for a while but then what I thought was a temporary lull in activity extended into the dangerous territory of being quiet for too long. It was time to investigate.

I found the eldest playing quietly by himself - good job! That left the twins. Nothing more dangerous than two mobile boogers teaming up in their mischievous pursuits. I saw signs of them before I actually tracked them down. They left the telltale sign of my bad decision to let them eat popsicles in the house - what was I thinking? A little drop of green here, a red drop there. I quietly followed the drips to the music room where they had closed the door. Hmmm.... I didn't want to open the door and find them playing nicely together and risk disturbing a wonderful moment for me! I also didn't want to ignore what my mommy instinct told me was too risky to ignore. They were just too quiet.

I slowly opened the door. No babies but I could hear them now talking twin to each other. They were at least fine so that was good but what were they doing? Ahhh. The bathroom. Joy. Our once clean, white bathroom was now a rainbow of popsicle. Lime and strawberry flavored toilet and floor. How lovely. I herded the little rascals out of the bathroom and they were agreeable thankfully. Of course, they went immediately to the rug on the floor and a huge glob of popsicle splatted on the rug - at least it was the lime one instead of the strawberry one. As I closed the door to the bathroom behind me, noting to myself to remember to return to it to clean it, I paused as I turned back to look at the two little rascals with their messy faces and shirts. It's hard to be annoyed with them even when they're that messy. They simply looked adorable, adorably sticky and colorful.

They returned to being noisy again, especially after they fought being cleaned up. The bathroom was eventually cleaned and their sweet tracks wiped up. Rather than being annoyed with them for making a mess, I laughed at myself for being so stupid. Popsicles in the house? Seriously, what was I thinking?

Bedtime

On Mother's Day, my husband gave me the best gift a husband and father could give: a free day pass. He gave me a guilt-free, unlimited day to do whatever I wanted. With so few opportunities to have a day to myself, I struggled with what I was going to do with my day. Go on a day trip somewhere? Spend time with friends? Shop?

Although I always enjoy spending time with friends, I found myself craving time alone. Being alone is so rare these days. I cherish those few minutes in the day where I am completely alone and can relax. I also realized that I'm always doing something - whether it's taking care of babies, folding laundry or cleaning house, I rarely just sit quietly alone and rest. After a long weekend, I realized it was time for my special day. As coo coo as it sounds, I had the best vacation I could think up and it was free! I laid in bed, ate crackers, watched tv and napped the entire day. It was wonderful.

I have to say we're fortunate to have the house we have right now (even though we are trying to sell it) because the "grown up" part of the house is separated from the kids' section so it's almost like being in our own apartment when we're in our part of the house. That's ideal when solace is needed and I was enjoying it yesterday.

Although I was still in ear shot of the kids' tantrums and fussiness, they were surprisingly good the whole day. I enjoyed hearing them giggling with their daddy, knowing that they have a strong bond with him and that they don't solely rely on me. They're actually better with him. He says it's because they know they won't get as much from him as they do from me. I'm sure that's true. I probably make things a lot harder on myself by answering many of their needs, even when they're silly ones. It's the curse of being a mom. As Chris said to me before we had kids, "Moms are crazy." He didn't mean this in a bad way but I totally understand it now. We moms are nuts and our kids are lucky because we are.

So, I enjoyed my day. I knew I had had enough rest though when, as the evening approached, I was missing my boys, wanting to hold them and kiss them. I needed a break so I could enjoy them again and so I had something to give. I won't lie and say that I'm now stress-free and completely calm, because I'm not, but I at least I had a little while to rest and gain some perspective and to again appreciate what is important. I especially feel thankful that I have such a good and caring husband who gave me the best gift of all: rest. Thanks, honey.

Box of crackers

It's 1:30 in the morning. I obviously should be sleeping but one of the boys woke me up with some half heartfelt whimpers. They're asleep again and I'm not. I'm hungry and stressed. So, what does a good girl like me do in such a situation? Grab a box of crackers and a cold beer. What else?

Today (yesterday?), was a long day: two showings and a visit to the hospital. Both actually went well but the whirlwind of activity surrounding them wore me out, or what was left of me. I took the boys out to one of the dreaded malls, suffered the innumerable questions about my children and the groovy stroller (Valco Twin Runabout with the additional toddler seat, in case you’re curious), returned home with semi-grumpy, tired boys, and then left to see my Dad at the hospital who was recovering from "minor" surgery (if there is ever such a thing). The good thing was that I got to visit with my Dad for a good while and, most especially, the surgery seems to have been successful. Can't ask much more for that.

So, why I am up in the middle of the night drinking a beer and eating crackers? Well, let's see, today I mopped the kitchen, vacuumed all the carpeted rooms, waxed the furniture, scrubbed the rubber play mat in the play room, loaded children in and out of the car (one extra time when I discovered that one of the lame parking garages at the Galleria - blah - did not have elevators - is that even legal?), I ate a tiny sandwich of soy turkey (ick) before driving across town to the hospital. Also, I know I have at least one showing tomorrow and it's around the time I was planning to have my sweet, Uncle Don come out for lunch with the boys. My dilemma is that I can't figure out what the heck I'm going to do to make it work tomorrow. Should I cancel lunch? Should I take the kids on a walk during the showing or go somewhere? Should I eat another damn cracker and take another swig?

Obviously, I'm tired.

I think I may give off the impression that I handle my life pretty well despite its many obstacles and hurdles but, believe me, I have moments and I'm having one tonight. You can reach a point where you're just tired and want to surrender. "Uncle!" (Not Uncle Don, obviously, just alluding to asking for the pain to stop.) If I weren't so tired, I probably could easily figure out how best to handle tomorrow and, if I'm honest with myself, I know I will figure it out in the morning but right now the answers seem elusive because my energy is waning and my mind is muddled.

So, I'll sit here a little while longer, drink my beer, eat my crackers and listen to the rocking chair make its quiet creak as I rock myself to sleep once again.

Forever Texan

I've been tormented by my family for as long as my brain was actively firing about the fact that I wasn't born in Texas. It had less to do with my being born in Arkansas than the fact that I had broken a seemingly long tradition of being a native born Texan (if any of us honkies can be considered native). I was born in Hot Springs and we lived in Arkadelphia. My older brother, only a little over 3 then, had difficulty saying Arkadelphia. Instead, he called it Arkadelly. My sweet Pappaw named me the Arkadelly Queen.

From sharecroppers to cattle ranchers and plain city folk, my Texas heritage is rich with a wide range of stories covering various lifestyles. Inherent in all my family's past though is a strong connection to the land from whence most of us had sprung. Our horizons have varied from whirling wind mills, foreboding dust storms or electric thunderstorms to glass and steel skyscrapers piercing the hot, humid sky.

Wherever we have been, many common pleasures have been present: the smell of honeysuckle, blankets of bluebonnets, cool, sweet watermelons on a hot, hot August day, the soft coo-cooing of the gentle mourning dove, the joyful singing of the mockingbird. Fire-hot salsa and hot tortilla chips best complimented with a nice, cold margarita are like adding root stimulator to my long, deep roots nestled in the soil of my home.

As we have set things in motion which may lead us to leave the state of TX, I smell the honeysuckle a little more, I breathe in the hot air and I wonder what my children will know of Texas. I’m encouraged that my boys seem to have acquired my accent (my husband isn’t Texan so doesn’t have quite the same appreciation for it). I also understand that as long as my children associate love with Texas, they’ll find a piece of home here. Since Texas is filled with my family who loves them dearly, I’m confident that Texas will become a desired destination for them as well.

It may be that we won’t leave Texas and this mental exercise I’m undergoing may be pointless but, if we are, I’ll appreciate having paused to take it all in, the good and the bad, and let it fill my pores, my veins and my heart so I can take it with me wherever I go.

Blue green

I really have no business wearing shorts these days. Although I am getting trimmer, my legs are covered in scratches and bruises. The other night I counted around 13 but that was conservative since I counted as one bruise an area that technically had several small ones grouped together - I jokingly imagine that they are little hand print bruises. Today, I enjoyed the making of yet another bruise (with complimentary scratch) when Neil accidentally knocked one of their chairs over on my shin as he was eagerly making way for his car which was cruising a step in the play room. The chair was simply in his way. My shin wasn't very understanding.

When I woke up this morning, I put on a green shirt and blue shorts to match my bruises. A few hours later, I had to change my shirt, of course, because it was saturated in baby food and ick. I changed to purple and blue. It seemed fitting to change my colors like bruises do - the aging of wounds so to speak. Of course, I need to change the purple shirt now because more junk has been sprayed across it. Should I change to black or is that just pushing the bruise analogy too far?

Can

After months of reading, acquiring equipment and quiet contemplation, I took my first step toward preserving food. Last night, I lined up my first batch of canned goods, jalapeno salsa, and momentarily paused. The twelve jars, with their spicy fill still bubbling, represented a big accomplishment to me. I have wanted to do this for years. I couldn't help but wonder if I shared this moment with my grandmother who passed away in January. What was a normal part of life for her, was a new frontier for me, yet I felt that my canning just these few jars was creating a bridge between my generation where we purchase everything to hers where doing things from scratch was the norm.

I also was reminded of the book by Barbara Kingsolver that I recently read, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle which was truly an inspiration. In her book, she recounts her family's commitment to eat local foods or those they produced themselves for a year. With her poetic view of the ordinary and her soulful way of expressing it, she made a seemingly mundane topic magical, alluring and exciting. Thanks to her inspiration and that of other locavores, I made my jalapeno salsa from all locally grown produce, including onions from my own garden plot at a local community garden.

Tonight, I will find out if my first efforts at canning were truly successful when I test the seals on the jars. I'm filled with a tiny bit of apprehension since I only have books to reference regarding how to do it properly. Although the books I have are excellent (example: Ball's Complete Book of Home Preserving: 400 Delicious and Creative Recipes for Today), I still can't help but wish I had a coach to whom I could turn for my questions. As I watched my hands working in the kitchen last night, I secretly hoped the knowledge of my ancestors flowed through my hands and guided me. Magical and poetic thinking, I know, but preparing and preserving food for your family is a soulful activity that can open the doors to a deep and meaningful way of life that I think many of us these days are missing.

So, tonight when the kids are asleep in their beds, I will slowly test the seals on each of the 12 jars. With each jar, I will hold my breath. I know I'll be supremely disappointed if any of them fail, although I'll refuse to be discouraged from future attempts. I do hope though that I did it right and that I'll be able to be confident that I can, after all, can.

Riding the waves

We have had 32 showings in 4 weeks. 32 times we have left the house for strangers to evaluate, sometimes criticize, sometimes compliment the place we call home. Toys put away, carpet vacuumed, diaper smells eliminated or covered by yummy candles and "smelly sticks". I almost grow more attached to the house the more we make it nice.

As much as I try to be detached from unhelpful feelings, I find myself defending our house each time someone finds a "flaw" with it (from not liking the pedestal sink to finding the back yard too small) but when someone compliments its size, layout and general feel, my chest swells with pride. The rise and fall of being evaluated every day by strangers is a bit bizarre and emotionally exhausting at times.

Yesterday, we found out a couple we thought was very interested decided that the house wasn't a good fit for them. The night before, when we thought we were about to receive an offer, I began fantasizing about the next stage in the game: packing, moving and the adventure ahead of us. After finding out that they weren't interested, I was bummed. Moping around the house and being a grump, I finally got annoyed with myself and decided that enough was enough.

Stepping back, I evaluated the situation as this: selling the house is completely out of our control. If we sell it, we have things to look forward to. If we don't, we have things to look forward to. Essentially, the things that really matter will be the same whether we sell it or not. I decided what was most important was that I be a good mother to my children and a good spouse to my husband. Oh, and it would be good to be nice to me too.

So, instead of moping and allowing the tides of change and uncertainty beat me to death, I decided to break free of it and surf it like a groovy, hip, happy chic and to hell with letting things get to me.

Disarmed

I try to avoid the malls like the plague. Although I once walked briskly through their halls as a teenager, fantasizing about being able to purchase everything I wanted, I now find them hauntingly soul-less, unnatural and depressing. Their vastness, the piped in air and the focus on consuming innumerable products left me feeling hollow when I left. Knowing that I have an unpopular opinion of malls, I feel like a traitor to myself and my children any time I wheel them around these consumer meccas. My oldest wants to go to the malls all the time now and it truly makes me sick.

Why do I go? Free entertainment pure and simple. Since our house is on the market, it is one place we can quickly go where the children can be entertained safely, comfortably and free. Meanwhile, I try to internalize all my negative feelings and simply enjoy the fun my kids are having.

The last time we were at a mall, I was wheeling the boys around, killing time and I made the controversial (to myself and my husband who wasn't present but in my head) decision to go into the Disney store. Stacked from floor to ceiling and busting off their shelves and into the aisles were endless products and must-haves for children of all ages. As a kid, I'm sure the place was magical and amazing. To me, it was nauseating. Obviously, there is nothing evil about the products they were selling but the people behind the products, the big daddy executives and the marketing whores were whose stench I couldn't remove from my nose as I wheeled through the aisles.

There were so many products stuffed into the space that I began to find it difficult to wheel our double stroller through the aisles. With effort I managed to wind my way to the back of the store only to find myself stuck, trapped in Disney hell with three children eyeing everything with awe. It was time to go but I simply couldn't. Down one aisle stood a woman oblivious to my needs and down the other was a salesperson coming our way to discuss my babies, the stroller and how she could possibly help us purchase some product. I decided that I had to go toward the salesperson because the other woman was intent on examining all the varied goodies on her aisle.

I talked with the salesperson politely as I pushed the stroller toward her. At the tightest spot in the aisle, I found myself next to a mannequin sporting some merchandise that someone was going to have to have. Blushing with effort and gagging from my distaste of the store, I tried to be as polite as I could as the saleswoman began handing the boys cards for Narnia - just what they needed: free advertisements just for us. As all my feelings of annoyance and claustrophobia set in I inadvertently knocked the arm off the mannequin. Oops.

Making the joke that the aisles weren't designed for my ridiculously large brood, I apologized to the saleslady who was relatively understanding about it. I managed to free the stroller from the narrow passage and fled quickly from the store. Once I had relaxed and felt a safe distance away from the confines of the Disney store, I couldn't help but laugh at my unintended destruction of the mannequin. Obviously, what I did was relatively minor but I contented myself by pretending that I'd just stuck it to the man.

Taking it in

Tonight, I was casually complaining yet again about the annoying tendency for people not only to be curious about all my children when we go out in public but the frequency of strangers to just ogle us without any idea how rude they're being. It's one thing for someone to look at us as we walk past them but it's an entirely different thing for them to stop mid-step, drop their jaw and stare at us in disbelief as we walk by. It's worse when there is a group of people since they feel even less inhibited and may discuss my family and my situation loudly as if we're not even present or capable of hearing them. Of course, there are also many people who will want to talk with me about my boys which I will do to an extent but like Willie Nelson singing, "Momma, don't let your babies be cowboys" for the 1 millionth time, I'm not very enthusiastic about responding to the same comments and questions posed to me every time I walk out the door with them. Having heard me complain about this before, my husband makes the joke that maybe they just think I'm hot. Quite amusing.



The funniest thing about his comment though is that it made me aware of something I had not considered before: my ridiculous tendency at times to get an unusual amount of attention, even when I'm really just trying to get through my days. When I was younger, I was sort of cute - cute in the all-American girl kind of way. To be honest, being blond, blue-eyed and skinny is rather boring. I couldn't take credit for how I looked. I was just how I was. Of course, I'd be lying if I said that it didn't come in handy when their was a hot guy I liked but there were plenty of times that I would have prefered to blend in with everyone else.



Again, I was no real beauty. Unintentionally, my trusting nature, naivety and youth invited all the predators to swarm me since I appeared to be easy prey. Good thing I wasn't but there were many instances where I found myself at risk. From strange men trying to get me to get in their pick ups to go to who knows where to being asked to have my photo taken with a large number of Japanese men in a tourest group who took a fancy to me, I have had some strange moments. I can't imagine what a woman with real beauty must go through if I experienced such things. The good thing is I survived all of that and I now am a grown woman who no longer draws the attention of horny, older men - either that or they can tell that I'd grind their balls into a powder if they got near me.



Since it has been such a long while since I turned heads like the days of my youth, I find it odd to yet again be in the spot light so to speak and I find it rather aggravating. I know that people mean well most of the time - I really do - but it gets old. As moms can attest, there are times when you're with your children and you're just not having a good day. All you want to do is to get from point A to point B without your kids misbehaving. When I'm having moments like that with any of my children, the last thing I want to be conscious of is some mouth-gaping goof gawking at me and my children. As I was getting a little beyond frustrated with one of my children today, some loud lady yelled, "Triplets?" to me and, unfortunately, my cursory response was anything but pleasant. I hoped that she didn't pick up on my anger but, then again, she wasn't considering me when she blabbed.



Despite my husband's amusing comments that people are looking at me because they think I'm hot, I laugh at how my life has changed in regard to how I get attention these days. At least I know how to handle it somewhat and I appreciate the fact that the people who gawk nowadays are doing it for much more benign reasons. I'll try to be more understanding to those who are polite enough to not do a 360 when we pass by but I can't say that I'll always have a kind word when one baby is screaming, another needs his diaper changed and the third is pulling my shirt up to expose my stretch marks to the world and some kind-hearted person is amazed by the fact that I have 3 children - the three children that I spend every waking moment with and who are not the least bit new to me. Yes, they are darling. They really are now get out of my way. Thanks. :-)

Rebirth

It seems I'm living in two worlds these days: one which is focused on an unknown future and one which is looking back to remember the paths that led me here. There was a time in my youth that I focused a lot of energy on my past, mulling over endless details as I found ways to regret many of the choices I had made. Once I met my husband and had my children, though, I focused on the present and the future and essentially forgot a lot of my past. Looking back over my shoulder nowadays, I see a different past than I had seen before. When I put aside all my regrets and focus on the substantive and meaningful parts, I realize how rich a childhood I had and how much of it I left it behind.

Last night, I had dinner with someone with whom I had been friends and had known since 1st grade. We hadn't seen each other in 17 years. As cliche as it is, I felt that we picked up where we had left off with the exception that we had 17 years worth of life to catch up on. As she laughed, I was reminded of her laugh back then. As she made funny statements, I remembered how witty and smart she always was. I couldn't help but regret the times we missed sharing together and I tried to remember why we drifted apart. As I pondered it, little memories popped up in my mind and I couldn't help but realize how trivial the reasons were for why I had pulled back and disappeared. I also realized that I did that to a lot of people at about the same time. I can only surmise that I was trying to find out who I was and I felt I could only do it by leaving my past behind me. Although I found reasons to "justify" my withdrawal, I think that I was looking for a way to shed my old skin in order for the new to appear. It was a time when I was very self-absorbed and unable to share friendships with anyone for very long.

I can't help but wonder what my life would be like now if I had held on to my old friendships. Perhaps I would have felt less lonely in vulnerable times or I would have heeded the advice of friends who had their heads on better than I did at that time. There is no way to know at this point and there is nothing I can do about decisions I made at the time. The good thing is that I have reconnected with my friend and I'm pleased to have the opportunity to know her once again.

Although she and I have matured and changed considerably over the years and have experienced our share of hardships, it was nice and reassuring to sense that she was still the same person at the core that I knew then and that, oddly enough, so was I. We both have new people in our lives, changed relationships with some that we had had before and our lives are richer than they were in our awkward, soul-searching days as teenagers.

As the evening came to a close, I felt very content that a part of my past felt at peace and that my future has the potential to be richer now that she and I have reconnected. If anything, it's nice to feel a connection with another soul with whom I've travelled with through life even if we've been on different paths. There is always the possibility that, with our busy lives, we may not communicate as often as I'd hope but at least we know where the other is and we have the opportunity to know one another again.

Showing

Before our house was on the market, I practically worked up a sweat worrying about how the hell I was going to manage the stress of bundling the kids up and running out the door at a moments notice while somehow making our house appear calm, clean and uncluttered enough for someone to come in and think, "Wow. What a great house! I'd love to live here." Most people who visit us, usually go away thanking their lucky stars that they don't have to live with us.

It's been a little over 2 weeks now since we put the house on the market and we've had around 23 showings, an open house and an agent's office tour and, not only have we survived, we've gotten positive feedback (including house of the week), we've had a few relatively interested buyers (although no official bids yet) and we've discovered that we're actually having fun more often than not.

When it was time to put the house on the market I had to get past my worries and figure out survival techniques. None of them are particularly amazing but they have proved to be very helpful - so much so that I plan on continuing some of these things even after the house is, uh, sold? Here are just a few things that I've done that have helped:

* Snack bag and cooler packed and ready: Instead of scrambling to pack snacks and drinks at right before leaving, we pack a bag full of non-perishable snacks and put perishables in a small cooler which stays in the fridge until it's time to leave. We have had showings without little more than 30 minutes notice so that is particularly helpful when we have had to flee the house quickly.

* Off limits rooms: In the morning, Chris and I get our bedroom and bathroom completely ready for showing and then keep the door closed so the boys can't go in there. We also do this with any other rooms that the children won't need to go in. When it's time to show, all we have to do is open those rooms up as we leave and they're already ready and free of boogers, toys and other such nonsense.

* Gates for temporary off-limit rooms: If we have enough notice, I can place gates in certain areas that I can clean up and keep the kiddos out of until we leave. We use this for their rooms particularly when they're busy playing in the play room and not interested in going in their rooms.

* Good and trustworthy cleaning person: I have a wonderful person who comes to clean our house. We can't afford to do this all the time so this is temporary but it is completely worth every single penny. I figure it's better to use the money on cleaning rather than therapy.

* Car seats: When everything is as finished as possible, I get all the little rascals in their car seats in the car (with the garage door down and the car off, obviously, for safety sake) and then I run like a freak around the house to do the last minute fixes. These are things that the boys would immediately un-do if they were in the house. This lasts less than 2 or 3 minutes and the boys usually are too busy giggling together in the car to even notice.

* Fun and free places to go: Since the boys are putting up with us grown ups, we're trying to make this a fun thing for them. When it's nice outside, we take them to parks. When it's not, we go to the awful malls and let them play there. When they're hungry and they really need something special, we take them to the evil Burger Kings or McDs of the world while muttering under our breath about how we hate the places, while we can't help but secretly wish that every place could be so kid friendly and (relatively) affordable.

The one thing that surprised me the most is that I discovered I could handle all 3 boys on my own in settings that I didn't think I could do before. I had had frightening visions of losing one or more of my boys among the swarm of kids at the mall for example but I discovered yet again that fears are often overblown and that, if I keep my wits about me, it isn't that bad after all. (One technique I use at places like the mall is that I dress the boys in similar if not idential outfits - usually bright colors too - so that I can easily spot them among the kids. I also find a seat near the exit of the play area and guard it like a hawk.)

Another giant reward of all this is that the boys have had a complete blast. Why wouldn't they? They're getting out the house, seeing new things and just enjoying being kids. How wonderful. It gives me a lot of satisfaction to make their life more fun and enjoyable rather than have their world's be disrupted by what is sometimes stressful and hectic for us adults.

As I have found many times before, it's important not to let fear and insecurity prevent me from trying new things and challenging myself a little bit more. It has been 100% worth it so far regardless of whether the house sells or not. So, we're on the market and we may be for a long time but, whatever the results, I feel we've made a potentially stressful situation and turned it into something fun and rewarding for all of us.

Poisoned

It's been a long time since I gave up the illusion that Friday night's were a time for hanging out with friends, having a brew and experiencing carefree merriment. Although I still am blessed with the occasional opportunity to do just that, more times than not I find myself tucked in bed early and asleep before 10:30. Last night was altogether different. Unlike normal nights, I didn't go to bed until at least midnight but, also unlike the fun Friday's of my youthful, pre-children days, I was definitely not having fun.

It must have been the lettuce. I was the only one who ate it and, boy, am I glad that my boys, including my husband, weren't eager to chow down on a good salad. My body is probably as passionate as my heart because when it does something, it goes all out. Every bit of anything in my gut was out and out and out. I was dehydrated quickly and begging for a ride to the hospital as I lay face down on the cold, ceramic tile in our bathroom. I was supremely defeated and helpless.

Help arrived via my wonderful parents and my sweet husband. Down to a regional hospital, wheeled into the ER because I couldn't even lift my head much less my feet, we waited in the waiting room. I fought off passing out as much as I could by repeating the names of my children in my head and I begged for mercy to be given a sweet, sweet IV because I knew I was dehydrated. Thank God for the triage nurse who saw that I was "pitiful" and also had difficulty finding my blood pressure. Off to the back I went with my barf bucket in tow.

Oh, sweet, merciful medical care. I couldn't help but ponder as my body took in the fluid what a person would do if they didn't have access to care. Although we had tried to rehydrate me at home, I simply could not keep anything down. I thanked my lucky stars as I began to focus again, my nausea subsided and the stomach cramps eased to a dull, sore pain. I joked with the nurse that I felt like I had just had a ridiculous ab work out. No doubt I lost a pound or two too. It sure wasn't worth it though. I can tell you that.

Two bags of IV fluids later and a prescription for anti-nausea meds, my hubby and Dad drove me back home where my tired Mom waited. The crisis over and the hour way into the evening, my sleepy but relieved parents drove home and I promptly fell asleep.

Throughout the ordeal, as I was at the mercy of my body's rejection of the food, I counted my blessings: my husband and children, my sweet, caring parents, and the professional staff at the hospital. It was odd that my evening went from carefree to crisis to relief so quickly and I was humbled yet again by how life can throw you a curve ball without any sign the ball is coming and going to knock you flat on your keister.

So, I'm eating lightly today and taking it easy for now. Any food that might have been the culprit is in the trash and I'm just supremely thankful that I was the only one who went through that last night. I now have a real appreciation for why they call it food poisoning and am glad that I had access to the antidote that got me through it. Thanks to everyone who helped me last night.

35

I'm 35 years old today. 35.

35.

35.

Ok, it's time for me to get over that but it does have a different ring to it, doesn't it? If I weren't so busy right now, I'd probably find myself dwelling on what I have managed (or not managed) to accomplish in my whopping 35 years but then that might lead me to a mid-life crisis which I seriously couldn't afford these days.

It's a pivotal age at a pivotal time in my life where nothing seems definite and "the right life" is a bit illusive. I haven't been writing lately because we put our house on the market. If our house sells, we'll move. If it doesn't, we'll stay. It's as simple as that yet it's not the least bit uncomplicated.

From struggling with the emotional issues related to a potential move to the ridiculous logistics of hauling 3 kids out of the house at a moment's notice for house showings and the pure insanity of keeping our chaotic house in a state of appearing calm, clean and uncluttered is, at moments, exhilarating and adrenalin-inducing and, at others, sheer madness. I've decided to ban madness from my mind today because it is my birthday so I'm not going to let anything ruffle my feathers - if the wisdom of my years will allow me that strength. We'll see. Either way, as I live through another day celebrating and reflecting on my ever-distant birth, I hope to embrace this rare moment of calmness in my heart and appreciate how good my life is regardless of how hard it is.

I'm alive. I'm relatively happy and there is a lot of love in this house or in any house in which we find ourselves living.

Gasping for air

I watch the clock like I used to when I worked for pay. I eagerly await 5:40 which is when my husband typically comes home. Although it will still be bedlam until 7:30 or so, it is reassuring to know that I share this, uh, fun with someone else.

I still have to take a moment to reflect on how ridiculous my days can be. Today, it involved nice things like three boys playing with trains, running around in or near the sprinkler, silly giggles and tickles but it also included poop diapers removed in the crib (hence, poop on the sheets, blankets, child), pee on the carpet, getting Dylan down from the bay window above the couch, and, later, performing the Heimlich on him due to a jelly bean. (The jelly bean was meant as a treat for all 3 boys for playing so well together. As is so typical around here, a well intentioned idea turned into an unexpectedly crummy situation.) Thankfully, the jelly bean left his throat and his color changed back to normal after approaching a frighteningly purple color. Thanking my lucky stars for having taken the CPR coarse at the NICU, I headed off to make dinner, dumped out another potty full of pee, and consoled another crying babe.

Before I had kids, most days I stayed in the same basic mood for most of the day. With the exception of stressful times, such as being tailgated by an angry driver or a bad project at work, I was usually in a relatively content mood. These days, my moods change from bliss, despair, stress, panic, contentment, pleasant to bafflement at an unpredictable, seemingly crack-inspired, frantic pace. The days that I find myself feeling completely, utterly, and miserably incompetent, it's because I AM. Who wouldn't be? Perhaps if I were a robot I could get through the day, going through the motions, without succumbing to the mind-rippingly, emotional tornado that blasts through here as soon as my precious babies open their beautiful, little eyes.

It's taken me well over an hour to write this much. Since I started, I've dumped more pee from the potty, fed three kids, made bottles for two, rewarded my oldest for using the potty and jumped up and down in frustration as I tried to finish my post while being yelled at for something as simple (and annoying) as, "Mom, can you skip this song?"

And to end the post with more bliss, I managed to make my husband mad for immediately handing over a whining baby before he was able to eat and, mostly, for not being very nice about it when I did. He'll understand later after the babes shut up enough for me to explain why today was yet another fun-filled day in child-rearing bliss.

Tot pursuit

I sneak a sly glance over my shoulder. The coast is clear. False alarm. Another sound. Another glance. Typing faster. Subject in view. Cover blown? I won’t risk turning my head. Fingers type, eyes peaking. Subject gone. Now, two subjects and a bouncing ball. Perhaps the ball is more interesting than me. Steal a glance and see one subject looking away, trying to poop. Perhaps pooping is more interesting than me. Pitter patter the feet slap the floor. Two sets of feet. Ball hits my foot. “Ball” uttered repeatedly by subject. Standing super still. Subject retracts ball and moves away pursuing thrown ball. Whew. Close call.

How long will my luck hold? Perhaps I can risk moving one foot in order to be more comfortable standing here typing. Oh no. I got too confident. Looked as one subject saw me. The other subject is approaching. Afraid to look. Subject is still approaching but seems to have something in his hands that is more interesting than me.

Ah shit. “Bobble” and “mommy” uttered by each. Alas, they have found me. Repeat: they have found me.

Note: Third subject was having quiet time in his room; otherwise, entire attempt of doing something for myself for a damn change would have been completely impossible.

Stormy weather

If you've read my posts before, you would assume the title for this post is alluding to my tornadic-whirlwind-crazy-freaking life but, actually, I'm writing about the lovely storm that blew through last night.

I swear I have a super power to sense when a storm hits. I was in the middle of an annoying dream when I was bolted awake by the sound of wind screaming over the house. Not the best sound to wake up to in an area prone to tornadoes. After breaking through the thick fog of sleep encompassing my exhausted husband's brain (it was 3:45 a.m.), I convinced him we needed to get the babies up and that we all needed to get in the closet - our designated tornado "shelter". The TV, showing the angry red and purple storm on Doppler, was on full blast and we buzzed around the house snatching warm, sleepy babies from their comfy beds and rushed them to the closet. As I ran around the house, I caught snippets of the weather report: tornado warning in dallas and collin county. Joy. Winds in excess of 60-70 mph. Yippee.

My instincts have been honed after years of being scared poopless (such a mom) when storms came our way. Most of the time my concern is unwarranted but I don't feel I can risk being complacent when I have my babes to look after. Despite the chuckles from those who are unconcerned, I continue to wake up when storms blow threw. At the least, I quickly check the weather. If it's bad enough, I sit up and watch the weather until the threat has past. If it's really bad, I haul everyone out of bed until it's all fine (I only do this if there is a tornado warning which means a tornado has been spotted or has formed.)

My respect for tornadoes was established by two impressive events: a tornado hit my middle school when I was a kid, and, as a college student, I volunteered at a clean up for the town of Jarrell after a huge tornado tore through the town and killed several people. The tornado that hit my school was not a big deal and it only knocked some bricks off of one side of the building but, although I couldn't see it, we all felt the power of it as it shook the entire building as it went by. Volunteering at Jarrell was completely different. I was fortunate to be in Austin and far away from the tornado when it went by but the poor people of Jarrell were in its path. Having seen the affects of tornadoes for years, I was stunned into silence after exiting the school bus that took us to the fields - empty fields where houses used to be. The openness and silence was chilling. The land still had the energy of the category 5 tornado in the air which made the hairs of my arms stand on end. Finding the rotting carcasses of cattle in the field of tall grass provided a visual and olfactory understanding of the violence of the storm.

So, after gathering all the kiddos up and piling into the closet, I worked to pretend that the storm was no big deal. My oldest is very intuitive and had already clued into the fact that this storm was different. When I came to get him out of his room, he said to me that he was scared and that the storm was really fast. How did he know? Maybe he has acquired my super power as well. Anyway, so as we huddled together, Mom, Dad, Neil, Evan and Dylan, we had a "closet party" as we waited for the "grumpy" storm to go by. When it had past and it was time to return to our beds, thankful that we were ok, I took Neil to his room and we waved the storm bye-bye. He was very brave and didn't insist on sleeping with us even though he did seem to want to. The tuckered little twins fell back to sleep pretty quickly. Since it was almost 5:00 a.m. by this time, Chris got up and started getting ready for work, and I, relaxed once again, and fell promptly to sleep.

Waking up this morning, I felt pretty good because we managed to handle the potentially stressful situation pretty well and we didn't have any significant damage from the storm with the exception of two sections of our fence knocked over. Although I'm sure Neil was a little nervous about the storm last night, we joked about happy and grumpy storms this morning so I'm hoping that he won't be in a panic the next time we have a closet party. Of course, he did want to have one today even though the skies are relatively clear and it's not raining.

I haven't had a chance to see how the rest of the metroplex handled the storm. I heard there were some cars on houses a bit west of us and that there are large chunks of trees missing around the neighborhood. At least it seems like we all survived the storm relatively unscathed and we can relax until the next line of storms comes blowing through here.

My ridiculous life

I'm beginning to believe that humans weren't designed for 3 children 3 and under. Well, 3 1/2 and under now but either way. Perhaps it's just me who is not designed for it but that would mean there is something wrong with me and I'm tired of beating myself over what is truly a ridiculous life.

When I try to find an analogy that might provide a glimpse into our world, everything falls short. For instance, I picture the I Love Lucy episode where Lucy is working at the chocolate company and is overwhelmed by the chocolate coming down the conveyor belt. I can relate to the sense of things piling up and occurring regardless of my capacity to handle them or not. I can relate to using every part of my body to hold, carry, or work with my babies but I can't relate to the background laughter because it just ain't funny. I can't relate to standing in one spot or having other people there to do part of the work. Finally, I can only imagine that it smelled good at the chocolate company (and thus not like dirty diapers), Lucy had probably had a shower and she was able to at least eat something.

Today, I had a moment that pushed me over into "beat myself up for not being an octopus with eight hands, a spider with a million eye balls, or a vegetable that doesn't react obviously to stressful, external stimuli." In brief, here was the scenario as I described to my hubby moments afterwards (Note: this all occurred within 5-10 minutes at the most):

"neil peed in potty (good). i didn't know he did (not so good). evan found it (bad). evan splashed around in it (very bad). rushed evan and dylan to bath (good). neil found lysol i was going to use to clean up play room (bad). neil sprayed it all over him (very bad). i bathed all 3 boys (good but bad). all three boys soaked me with water (annoying). put babies in neil's room with gate while i finished neil's bath (good). forgot neil had the scrabble game on the floor (bad). evan and dylan found scrabble game (bad). thankfully, other than scaring me to death, they didn't eat any of the pieces they had thrown all over the floor (good)."

To think that after all this ridiculous business, I actually beat myself up over my inability to take this peacefully. Only a zombie would respond calmly to this situation. Seriously, an 18-month old splashing in his brother's pee, a 3.5 year old spraying himself with Lysol, and so forth. Now I'm going to beat myself up for beating myself up. Now, that makes sense.

So, tomorrow will be just as stupid as today and, tomorrow, I'll feel just as incompetent. Perhaps at the end of the day, after the boys have survived the chaos once more, I'll pat myself on the back for a damn change and take heart that they're getting one day closer to being bigger boys and maybe, just maybe, our lives will be a little calmer and a little less ridiculous.

I can only hope.

My kind of strange

I'd have to admit that I'm kind of strange. I find myself appearing odd around other people. Sometimes it makes me laugh and other times I feel self-conscious. I always have a reason for what I do but I don't always have an opportunity or the interest to explain. As I have mentioned before, I'm a dumpster diver (i.e., I forage for things people have decided to discard). I don't actually get into dumpsters, although I know people do that. I just keep an eye out for what people put out for collection. When I find something, I either keep it if I can use it, donate it, sell it or freecycle it. Either way, I keep it out of the landfill at least temporarily.

The other day I was taking a walk after my husband came home from work. It was my free time so I breathed in the fresh air, shook off the constant feel of sticky, little fingers grabbing me and walked. It was a nice walk and I enjoyed feeling my blood pumping. At first enjoying the moment was enough but then I spotted something in an alley as I was passing by it. I swear I have a second sense for treasure. I decided to detour back to the alley and explore.

What I found was a crime as far as I am concerned: a children's bed frame in good condition (but it was under a lot of heavy stuff so I couldn't get to it) and a topiary (a metal frame where plants can be trained to grow around it into the shape). It was large and very rustic looking. Ok, so it was covered in fake plants - I knew I could remove that. I could see it's potential and it's value. These things aren't cheap. I estimated it would cost about $50-75 to purchase.

Now, remember, I was out walking alone in the neighborhood. How was I going to get this 5 foot tall, metal thing home? Being the goofball I am, I decided to carry it - several blocks. Here I am in our relatively nice neighborhood which is inhabited by mostly older, comfortable-living, NORMAL people and I'm digging through someone's trash and carrying a large, metal thing around like I do it everyday.

I walked and walked, shifting this large thing from hand to hand because it was getting heavier. I was obviously conscious of the fact that I looked like a goob but what was I going to do? Leave it there? Nope. So, I just tried to go faster and faster. Just as I was about to turn down our street I began to hope that no one was going to see me, or rather, I wouldn't see anyone seeing me. Hoping got me no where. A nice, normal lady was out in her yard talking with her nice, normal male neighbor and they both looked up at me. They appeared a bit puzzled. I know she said something to him with a chuckle but I couldn't quite make out what she said. It was something about "metal" and "walking". Whatever it was was not, "hey, she just saved that great piece from the landfill. Good for her!" No, it was more like, "she's weird and let's make sure we both agree that she's weird so we can reaffirm how normal we are." Ha ha ha.

I admit I'm strange and, frankly, I'm proud of it because being normal these days hasn't gotten us very far. It's normal to throw stuff away without thinking of the consequences. It's normal to buy cheap junk that costs somebody somewhere. It's normal to insulate ourselves from the world in our homes, watching bad tv so we don't have to deal with how depressing life can be when all you do is work and don't have anything to show for it. Normal isn't normal if you look at how people lived for thousands of years before all our great ideas of progress and consumerism came along to create the fake bubble we all seem to be living in these days. We've cut ourselves off from the real beauty of life and replaced it with a plastic, anaerobic, chemical-laden turd - but it sure is nice, isn't it?

So, I'm strange but I'm relatively happy. I buy fewer things than most. I try to buy local foods and products. I garden a small plot at a community garden. I try not to throw things away and reuse what I can. I'm still too normal though no matter how much I try but at least I'm trying.

Ova-achiever

As I watched my oldest coloring his first eggs for Easter, laying the finished ones on a plate, each ova with his or his brothers' name on it, I found myself having a different perspective on what eggs symbolized to me. With three eggs, one for each child, I was reminded of the many, many eggs I had produced for these guys to be here. As I'm sure I've mentioned in the past, my babies were all made possible by in vitro fertilization (IVF).

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure to find out all the sorted details related to IVF, let me quickly explain that the woman is given tons of hormones to increase egg production (rather they cause many eggs to mature since we don't actually produce new ones - we're born with them all). We normally mature one egg per cycle but in IVF you either produce a few, several or many. When they first give you hormones, they make an educated guess as to how much you need in order to make a good amount of eggs (or follicles as they call them). Until they have had a chance to observe their effects on you, you feel a bit like an infertile guinea pig.

My nickname became the ova-achiever (coined by myself, thank you very much, but used by all - husband, physicians, nurses. . . .) I was unusual. Instead of producing 8-10, for example, I produced about 60 - in each ovary. Think about that: a normal ovary matures one per cycle and I had 60. As you can imagine this did affect me a bit. My ovaries literally became the size of grapefruit.

Ouch.

Rather than bore you further with all the medical details, let's just say that I had a lot of eggs. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, we only had a limited number of embryos produced from this due to other fertility issues we had. Over the course of the next few years, we went through four rounds of IVF, producing 3 pregnancies, two of which resulted in my little dudes. It was quite an ordeal that I'm eager to forget. (Obviously, not the good pregnancies or my children.)

Back when I was going through IVF and swollen with eggs, the idea of the little buggers was so completely unappealing. I felt like a chicken who would be disgusted by the thought of eating her own eggs. Yuck! So, as I looked at the three little eggs, each with my sons names on them, I decided that eggs aren't so bad after all and I quite love the little rascals.