Why I shower

Remember awhile back when I swore off showers because of this and this and this and this? Maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe giving them unparented time on their own is really the secret to unleashing a creativity that my over-parenting thwarts?

I was showering.

Cora found my camera.

And this picture was born.I love everything about it. The fact that Cora accidentally shifted the focus from the self-portrait Claire was narcissisticly showing off, to my naked, counter top perched daughter was icing on the cake.

So here's to 2010: the year of the shower perhaps?

It actually was quite merry!

If you ignore the puking.And the caved in gingerbread house.And the Christmas tree that was completely dead a full week before Christmas (I swear that is not how the tree decorations looked in the beginning. I'm no Martha, but I have a few more skills than that. But you see, when a tree doesn't suck up a drip of water-even if you beg and plead in your harshest tone for it to do so to keep from breaking the hearts of two little tree obsessed girls- and all of the bristles harden and all of the branches sag, all of your lights/ornaments/garland shift to whereeverthehecktheywant. It makes for some lovely pictures Christmas morning. I mean if that ain't the prettiest backdrop you ever did see...).And the broken car (That is not supposed to be broken because it is a Toyota. And we bought a fancy Toyota so it wouldn't break. But broke it did).

And the water that seeped under the driveway, froze, expanded and caused thousands of dollars worth of damage to the concrete.

Yep, ignore all of that and we had a very merry Christmas. Really we did. Oddly in spite of all the bahumbugness, we were feeling the season of perpetual hope. Because how can you not when you see this:
Or this:Or this:Or this:Especially this:We have had a wonderful Christmas and have been repeatedly reminded how blessed we are. Here's hoping your Christmas was as jolly (although slightly less eventful) as ours.

Dear Procrastination,

Although this letter pains me to write, it must be done. I'm breaking up with you. I have to put it simply so there is no way you can misunderstand. It's over.

But man did we have a good run in 2009.

Remember that time when we were going to finish decorating Claire's room and finish painting Cora's. What were we thinking? Or what about that time we had that wild idea to slurp this little blog into a book for posterity's sake. Right, like that was gonna happen. Or my favorite was when we decided to organize the closet in the master bedroom. Man, we are such an awesome team. We accomplish so little together. Ah, those were some good times.

Now this shouldn't come as a surprise to you, as we have never been exclusive. I have always had a little crush on Motivation (although we both know how out of my league he is). So I ask that you please respect this decision and do not attempt to contact me again. Don't call. Don't write. Don't even mail the letter you write tomorrow in six months, once you have finally purchased a stamp, assuming I will be ready to take you back. Not gonna happen this time.

And no tears. Tears create messes (and we both know how long that will take you to clean up). Another eager, unaware soul will snatch you up in a heartbeat and I will become a distant memory (you would of course have pictures to document our time together if we had ever gotten around to uploading and organizing all of the 2009 photo folders).

We will always have the memories of what could have been.

Fondly,
Amber

ps. When January 15th-ish rolls around and I am pounding on your door, begging you to come back to me, please ignore me. And promptly re-read this letter.

The half that is better

It was Mark's birthday on Monday. He wanted a good steak (which obviously meant I would not be cooking it). So steak he received.

Truth be told, he deserves much more than just steak. This family survives because of him. He swears otherwise, but he is the glue. He brings balance to this family. And strength.
Plus, I'm a sucker for a man in uniform.
And a man who will dress up if I beg enough.
And a man who loves his babies.
And who is not afraid to show it.
And I can't get enough of a man who can build a tree house with his own two hands (although it looked much sturdier 15 years ago).
Or start a fire (even if it is a tiny one on command, so his little ones can roast some marshmallows).Or conquer a few mountains.
And a few massive rock slabs too.

He is pretty amazing. And I'm a lucky girl.

And there is no one I would rather be navigating this madness with.

Happy Birthday babe. Heaps of love.

-Hopper

Giddy

You see this book:This is a book written by a friend and former boss, Mark Griffin. It arrived on my doorstep yesterday, fresh from the printer. It is a solid book. It chronicles the history of the Philmont Training Center. The very training center that changed my life. The place I met my husband. The inspiration for this post.

And this 2 page spread in that very same book makes me want to jump up and down, flail my arms and do some rendition of the dance of joy (please don't watch, as I am sure it might get awkward). Because those are MY words. In print. As in, published in a book. That will sit on a shelf. That people can purchase.

I realize it is not MY book. And I realize it is ONLY 2-ish pages. But those are my pages. And you can't wipe this ridiculous grin off my face if you tried.

Just be

About a year ago I posted this. It sounded like a very doable New Year's Resolution. It wasn't. I am dumber. 12 months later and I am certain of it. Not for lack of trying, but for lack of retaining. I guess I was just not cut out to be an intelligent adult. I'm not upset about that. I'm coming to terms with it. But what I am upset about is not keeping my resolution.

The point of a New Year's Resolution is to motivate us to better ourselves. So why do they always make me feel inadequate and pathetic. Perhaps if I would actually stick to them and follow through, the resulting feelings would be quite different. But this year I just don't feel like setting myself up for failure. So I am taking a preemptive strike. I am making an early resolution for the new year: to NOT make a New Year's Resolution.

My resolution for 2010 is to just be. Be content just being me. Who I am. Right now. I am all about trying to better yourself and not becoming complacent or lazy, but 2010 will be a year of acceptance. I think in our haste to improve our lives, we forget to cherish who we are and what we have at this exact moment. We are always trying to move forward, be better, progress. Nothing wrong with that. But I get caught up in that and I forget, and this is as cliche as it comes, to live in the moment.

So no trying to be thinner, no longing to be wiser, no attempts to become richer. No desire to keep a cleaner house, to be a better cook, to learn a new skill. I don't want to better at anything. I want to look at myself in the mirror, my life as it is right this very second and I just want to be.

And this may very well be the hardest resolution of my life.

Do social butterflies die?

A social butterfly. That is what my mom called me growing up. I made and kept friends easily. I usually had a core group of friends that I relied on for the important things, like borrowed hair crimpers and shoulders to cry on during rotten-good-for-nothing boyfriend breakups. But I also had many acquaintances. Still do. And they are a fun, solid bunch of people. Funny thing is though, my core group has shrunk these past few years. Significantly.

Perhaps that is based on what consumes my time these days. My free time is now devoted to my bubbly daughters and that handsome husband of mine, so any non-family related functions must be worth it. The people I am surrounded with must be good enough. Sounds absurd, I know. But I am so selective now in who I hold near, and in who I make an effort to get to know or maintain relationships with. I don't have the energy for crazies. I don't have time for shallowness or drama or ignorance. I need quality people in my life. People who lift me up. People who embrace life. People with substance.

With that said, I am fully aware that sounds "holier than thou." And believe me, I am aware my friends are getting the short end of the stick in this relationship. I'm a mess most days, and am borderline crazy myself (which is why I can't be friends with "mes"). But I am fiercely loyal and occasionally funny. And hopefully the combination of the two is enough for those in my inner circle.

Do you want to know the strange thing? While some of the women in that inner circle I see often, many are not people I hang out with daily. A few of them even live miles away. But they get me. And I feel connected to them in an indescribable way. And if they were sad, I would hop in my car and drive for hours so I could show up on their doorstep with Sour Patch Kids, a tissue and a mixed tape, er, CD. Because family aside, these women get me through. And I'm lucky to have them.

And while I am not out to make new friends (Cho, get out your "Who Has More Friends" list from the 5th grade cause you actually might beat me now), I am not closed off to the idea. I am just a lot more picky. Maybe that comes with age. Is there a bit of truth to the older and wiser thing? Not sure. I do know this. The small but mighty saying rings true. My circle of friends may be shrinking, but it consists of pretty stellar people. And that makes it plenty big enough for me.

My loves

Ah, my favorite people on earth. Is it just me or do you kinda want to squeeze them?

Valiant

I understand that we are all mortal. That regardless of how well we have lived this life, eventually death will find us. And I understand how deadly cancer, in many varieties, is. So when one of my girlfriends found out her husband, who was my age, had been diagnosed with an advanced and rare form of skin cancer four years ago, I naively believed he would be fine. Everyone did.

We saw the cancer creep in and slowly suck the life out of him. We saw his feeble frame further weaken and could not help being taken aback by the stark white that replaced the rusty brown of his pre-chemo hair. He was almost unrecognizable. That is until he spoke. Then he was Jason again. And it was easy to forget his body was under attack.

When I got news Tuesday night that he had passed away, I gasped. No way. That was impossible. Sure he had this deadly cancer. Sure he was bed-ridden and could no longer hold his children. Sure his body was wracked with pain. But Jason was not going to die. We had never even entertained the thought. Because it didn't matter how bad it got, he always bounced back. He was a fighter. He would kick this.

And that is why it felt like I had been punched in the gut when I heard the news. People die every day, but not people like Jason. It is not often you hear the word "valiant" used anymore. But he epitomized the very definition. He was "boldly courageous; brave." His battle was "marked by bravery and valor." He inadvertently inspired a small community. Even when there should have been very little reason to, he allowed all of us to hope.

That is why it is hard for me to come to terms with the fact that he is gone. Although he is now pain free, that pain has been multiplied and transferred to his young wife and three small children. And for that reason, every pathetic problem in my life, every hurdle or trial pales in comparison and seems ridiculously trivial. His family has been slapped in the face with the knowledge of all that is important in this life, and my heart aches for them.

Gifted

I know this gal named Pam. She takes pictures. You might remember her work from here (or splashed across this blog!). She has mad talent. The kind that can't be taught. She was born to be a photographer. She freezes in time the essence of my family in a way no other photographer has ever been able to. And she captures my little ones just as they are, but in such a beautiful way that I want to have fliers made and hand them out any time I get evil-eyed glances when they are throwing tantrums on the floor of the grocery store. Then I can say, "See they might be crazy, but they are freakin' adorable!"

A few weeks back we met up with Pam because it's that time of year (and as a bonus, Mark's family was here from Alabama). We might not be another year wiser, but we have aged a year. From 4 and 2, to 5 and 3 means a lot. So we got all cleaned up, got all matchy matchy and smiled until our cheeks hurt. It was well worth it. Don't you think?She's pretty dang gifted I'd say! Thanks so much Pam. I might have mentioned this before, but you rock!

ps. This is just a little taste, so you might get sick of me posting pictures from this shoot. I can't help it; I just can't get enough of her pictures.

My happy Halloween

I have tried since Halloween night to complete the traditional carving-pumpkin-trick-or-treating-pumpkin-patch October post. And while I have immensely enjoyed yours, I just can't seem to finish mine. I just keep going back to 2 photos (from the hundreds I took of said events).

I have realized if I try to force a post and it just isn't sitting well (I know, I'm a freak), I can't post anything. A posting freeze takes place. So while I may soon post pictures of my adorable little munchkins scooping guts out of pumpkins and eagerly hitting up the neighbors for candy, here are the 2 photos that just make me happy.Um, Claire, you've got a little somethin' on your cheek. A little more to the right. Nope closer to the chin. Getting warmer, just a tad more towards your forehead. Well, close enough. Just the price you pay for a good caramel apple!Ahhh, success. Let the sugar high commence.

The reason

I took the girls in for their annual checkups. Claire is a tank in the 92nd percentile for weight and the 98th for height. If I round way up, Cora is inching closer to the 40th percentile in both.

I heart their pediatrician. He says things like, "What have you learned by being Claire's mother?" And then today, after Cora read to him and counted to 100 and Claire serenaded him with a sweet version of "You Are My Sunshine," as if he knew how my yesterday turned out, he wrapped up the appointment by saying that I had two well-adjusted, smart, happy daughters. And Mark and I should be proud because we were doing everything right.

I hustled to grab their coats and hurry the girls out the door before he saw my lip start to quiver and the tears brim over. Because that is why we halved our income so I could stay home and focus on being their mom. That is why I know the lyrics to the entire Disney Princess Sing-a-long. That is why I returned those jeans. That is why I don't have time to crease my pants.

Because I am busy raising two well-adjusted, smart, happy daughters.

Thou Shalt Not Covet

I saw a woman walking into Target today. She was gorgeous. And seemed flawless. Like the type that inserts a worn out dollar bill into a soda machine and watches as it sucks it in on her first try. She was wearing makeup that made it look like she wasn't wearing makeup and her hair was styled in casually messy curls I would have to pay $40 at the salon to fake. And she was wearing what I can only assume were Rock and Republic or Big Star jeans (I had pocket envy!). And she had creased pants. As in, she ironed them. It made me giggle. I mean, who has the time?

But deep down, that giggle masked a lot. I want to be that put together. I might have even owned a big fat can of starching spray before I traded in Banana Republic for Toaster Strudels and my 9 to 5 for Butt Paste. But I don't even think I could fake that look anymore. I think it would be laughable.

I am pretty much frumpy 90% of the time. I prefer to call it comfortable, because that other F-word makes me want to cringe. Because I swore that would never be me. But it is. And today, for some reason, I can't shake that. So much so that I went to the mall and spent an outrageous amount of money on a pair of jeans I will never keep. In fact, I will never even take the tags off of them. But I bought them. And I took them home. And I tried them on again and again. And I ran my fingers over their big fat stitches while mourning the woman I once was. And then I glanced at that $170 price tag and my real life came crashing back into focus. So I folded them back up and put them back in the bag and tried to stop the pathetic ache for material things.

I try to fake it every now and then by getting all dolled up and putting on some eyeliner. And that usually makes me feel better. But today I am just angry that I can't keep those jeans. And I want to throw an all out tantrum before I drag myself back into the Buckle to return them. Because that 1 pair of jeans is the equivalent of almost half our entire monthly grocery budget. And that is the life I chose.

So I guess all I have to say is can you crease yoga pants?

BFF

When you run over your cell phone with your very heavy unforgiving car and you are about to leave on a road trip and you are in desperate need of a new one and you can't afford the $300 the mean man at the Verizon store is promising is the lowest possible price to get a replacement in your paws and you borrow a 1990something version that a friend had lying around and you have to activate said phone while trying to pump gas and wrangle a complaining toddler and you are on hold for 30+ minutes before finally hearing something other than that Godawful elevator music and then you have to call out on the replacement phone on one ear while still talking on the other ear to the overly kind rep who is so kind in fact that she agrees to stay on the line while you drag your 3-year-old into the gas station bathroom because she swears she can't can't hold it for another second and then avoid the glares of the other pictureperfect parents who can't believe a sane mother would be talking on not one but two cell phones at the same time and then repeat that entire process again after your now diarrhea stricken child tells you she must go again and oh wait she can't hold it so now you must juggle two cell phones and hold your child at arms-length so not to get the poop that is currently dripping down her leg on your leg and then spend half an hour in a public restroom before carrying a bare-bottomed child out the door because what else do you have to do on a Friday afternoon except oh right pack for a quick girl's weekend getaway and as you are driving away to enjoy that much anticipated 24 hours sans children your OBGYN's office calls to let you know that of course the culture came back positive and you have a bladder infection because why would you not when you will be driving for 3 1/2 hours straight and then you arrive at your destination and forget all of that because you get swallowed up by the fits of laughter that overtake your entire weekend and you remember how completely and utterly essential good girlfriends are.

A balancing act

We had homemade apple pie for dinner. Not WITH dinner, FOR dinner. And ice cream too. My kids loved it and thought Mark and I were crazy for allowing it. Perhaps we were/are. It was the best dinner we have had in a long time.

While the pie was not exactly aesthetically pleasing, it made up for it by being a little slice of heaven. It was a new recipe and has now become a permanent fixture in my recipe book (and on my thighs).

What happened to no sugar for 30 days? Well, I broke up with that crazy idea after I ate mass quantities of pasta, bread and, well, every other variety of carb in place of sugary treats, and gained 6 pounds. I began wallowing in self pity when my pants wouldn't button and cursing the scale and anything/person near me. Not quite the outcome I had been hoping for.

I used to do these crazy no-sugar-for-a-month shenanigans with my sisters often. Although challenging, I always completed them with very little problem. I'm not sure what changed.

Through this experience I have learned a few important things about myself. My life requires balance. Demands it. A balance of friend time and family time. A balance of daily kid and kid-free interaction. A balance of exercise and relaxation, hard work and no work. Home cooked meals and pizza delivery, date nights and girl's nights. Hysterical laughter and deep conversation, steamed broccoli and Milk Duds.

It's who I am. It's how I stay (relatively) sane. And I am comfortable with that. Lesson #1 learned.

The second realization was a bit more alarming. I have recently come to a truce with my insecurities. After battling for years, I realized it was way to time consuming to care what other people thought about me. I was healthy and surrounded by good people. I was in a good place and I liked me. Or so I thought. What I realized was I liked the me who maintained a certain weight. As the numbers on the scale started creeping back up, a wash of insecurities flooded over me.

But I'm okay with that too. I think. Because I think it will keep me from becoming complacent. If I was comfortable with myself regardless of what I looked like, I might start popping bon bons like they were going out of style and wind up on the Biggest Loser.

So the balance has returned, although my Monday morning cardio class might pay for my apple pie transgressions. But as I lick the last crumb from my plate, I am certain it was worth every calorie-filled morsel!

Stay gold

Can someone find me a pause button? Mark could definitely use one. This is what Cora came home from school with today:Even in its blurry state, should be easy to make out that those numbers make up a phone number. And no, Marc is not short for Marcy. Cora scored a boy's number. She is 5. She is in kindergarten. She still wants me to rock her to sleep. And she is bringing home phone numbers. How do you like them apples?

*The good photos by PK Photography

You know you're from Kuna when.....

Yes, that is our dryer vent. Yes, that is a marshmallow. Yes, Claire's crack is showing and her shirt is 2 sizes too small and she has a mullet. Yes, these are normal practices around here.

But really....
Who doesn't love a nice toasty marshmallow roasted over an open laundry vent by 2 homeless looking kids?

Curse you Kim!

Tomorrow begins one LONG month. 30 days without sugar. 30 days without candy. 30 days without sweets of any kind. So long Sour Patch Kids. It was a good ride.

If you do not hear from me again, you will know I did not survive.

ps. Cold Stone, you can do your part and chain (padlock, double latch, dead bolt) your doors for the next 30 days, please and thank you.

Gimee a break

I am sitting here at 2:30 in the afternoon in sweatpants, un-showered, eating a Sugar Daddy. Why you ask? Well, why not?

I had mono. "Had" as in, no longer have and "mono" as in Infectious Mononucleosis, or the kissing disease. In fact, based on recent blood work I have had mono multiple times in my life (I guess something about your antibody count can weave a pretty interesting health history). The tests also revealed that I had a recurrence quite recently. As in, in the last 2 months.

Funny thing about all this is I have never been diagnosed with mono. In fact, I have never even been suspicious that I might possibly have mono. So when my doctor suggested it I laughed out loud.

Certainly someone with mono would know. The fever. The swollen lymph nodes. The utter exhaustion. How did I not catch it? I have certainly felt exhausted. I mean completely and absolutely drained. But I have always chalked it up to late night feedings, or improper nutrition or a million other things that come with being a mommy and a wife and a friend and an employee.

As women and especially as mothers, we lose ourselves in serving others. We shelf our health and our well being to tend to those around us. It does not surprise me that I never knew I had mono, because who has time to pause our crazy schedules and listen to what our bodies are screaming at us. And even if we breathe long enough to suspect something might be amiss, who actually schedules and keeps a doctor's appointment for someone other than our kids/spouses?

I do not have a family practitioner. Aside from my yearly (or every other year-oops) girly checkups and prego appointments, I have not been to a doctor (before a few weeks ago) in years. I have been sick. Oh how I have been sick. But my only goal when I am sick is to recover as quickly as possible so I can restore order to my life and fall back into my routine.

So what good are test results when they only reveal past illnesses that no longer need treatment? Well, they can shake some sense into me and hopefully cure my patheticness (it's a word, Google it). Take a break already. I deserve it. You deserve it. We really do.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a Gilmore Girls rerun and a Sugar Daddy to get back to.

A look back

In honor of Claire's 3rd birthday, I bring you my 3 most memorable Claire posts. But first, I will start with this brilliant photo. Have I mentioned lately how I love this little thing? I mean how can you not have a good day when you walk out after getting dressed and are greeted by this:She kills me.

Moving onward, my 3 favorite Claire posts:

A lullaby for you

Wild child

Dear Webster

And then 2 more Claire related posts that I would rather forget (for very different reasons):

My worst nightmare

The one we shall not speak of!

Ah my little Claire Brooklyn. What fabulous chaos you bring to our lives!

For you Trista

As requested, the 3 Heide sisters:
Our family tree gets a bit tangled. We do not bother with half sister this or full-blooded that. There are 5 of us siblings at the core, more if you want to get complicated. But these 2 gals share my mother and my father, and I used to share their last name. They do not share my deformed cheek or my eyes or my nose. Actually, similar jawlines aside, we have always looked quite different. But on days I am feeling mediocre at best, they will say something to make me think mediocrity trumps greatness. And for some reason, I always believe them.

Little Miss Sunshine

Claire is a lot of things. Wild. Busy. Curious. Funny. Bratty. Stubborn. Playful. Spunky. It is hard to describe her briefly. She is a complex little being. But she gets you to the core. When she smiles, when she laughs, when she cries it affects my soul.

Now my little monkey is 3, and not so little anymore (she outweighs Cora by a good 5 pounds). We had a last second, spur of the moment because all of the family was in town focused on a pretty important wedding type of party. Claire didn't know the difference. She just knew she was important. She knew it was her special day. It was perfect.And really, all you need is a pinata and...
one of these bad boys to make any party a hit!
(FYI: I put my mother in charge of taking pictures. It took her the 1st 20 years of my life to stop chopping heads/limbs/people out of pictures. Sadly times have changed, and while she was perfecting her photo cropping abilities cameras were evolving. Now at Claire's party she was a diligent photographer. She snapped picture after picture after picture. About 50% were snapped in video mode. So instead of a picture, we have a 2 second video of my mom saying, "Say cheese," or "Everyone look at the camera." It is a work in progress.)
She is still talking about her party. She loved everything about it.

I am still blown away by the fact that Claire joined our family 3 years ago. She has done plenty of damage in those 3 years (my favorite Claire-related posts coming tomorrow!), but has also filled our home with so much joy. But going back to her trouble maker ways, I should have known from the very beginning she would be a handful. This picture was taken the day before she was born. It was taken at my chin looking straight down towards the floor (where my feet once would have been visible!). This was her preferred position in the womb. To ensure maximum discomfort, she would ball up on one side and crush ribs, my bladder and anything else that got in her way.
But all of that was forgotten when this beautiful pink bundle was handed to me:
My how she has grown.
Looks a bit like her favorite person on earth don't you think?
And of course on her first day of preschool she is sporting a nice scrapped up face from a tumble down the stairs. Pretty accurate portrayal of who Claire is though: a little rough on the outside, but perhaps the most loving little thing you will ever meet. Happy Birthday Claire Bear! And yes, you are my big girl now.