S'more Lovin'

Cora was with me last week when I picked up these supplies during a coupon run (got all this-and more-for .99 cents!).I had no plans to use them right away, but Cora kept begging. So Mark whipped up a mini fire beside our house, and using our garden boxes as benches, they got to work making smores.And this was Claire's reaction when we told her she couldn't have any more. She looked so sad that I almost gave in and handed over her 3rd smore!

All you need is love

"Who doesn't long for someone to hold. Who knows how to love you, without being told." Soulmate, Natasha Bedingfield
As I was walking down the aisle 8 years ago today, my thoughts were not on the family that lined my side. Not on the friends who traveled thousands of miles to celebrate with us. Not on the grass that tickled my toes through my hidden Doc Martin sandals. My thoughts were not on the cracked, gray chairs that should have been white and wooden as promised. Not on the tears that threatened to wreck an hours worth of make-up preparation. Not on the ridiculously perfect weather or the crisp blue sky. Not on the wind that picked up and reeked havoc on my perfectly planned out center pieces. Not on the music that wouldn't start or the glare that the sun would cause in all of our pictures or the arbor that would have been positioned behind us as I stood to say "I do" had the wind not knocked it over, smashing it to pieces. Those things never crossed my mind. My thoughts were on him. Standing there, watching me.

I wondered what he was thinking. Was he worried that he was making a mistake? That this walk down the aisle would eventually make us a statistic? Was he concerned that settling in Boise to lay a foundation for our future family wasn't the best idea, because it meant transferring roots that had always been solidly planted in Alabama? Was he worried that we would fight to much? Not communicate when when we needed to? Was he afraid that we were too young? Too immature? Too naive? Or standing there did he believe, as I did, that none of that mattered. The only thing that was important to me in that moment was the look on his face. The look that told me he was sure and that he loved me and he knew that would be enough. And it has been.

When my father was killed, he sat with me on our living room sofa for hours. We talked on and off about my father and about the baby I was carrying that he would never know and about how people ever come to terms with death and the unfairness of it all. I did not know how to get off that couch and make my life normal again. He told me that we just figure out how to get through the next hour and we would eventually get through the next day and the next month and the next year. He was so sure that everything would be okay. And so I believed him.

In my 11th hour of unnecessary labor, as he stood helplessly by my side, he had that same unwavering look on his face. Even though I was beginning to doubt myself, he did not. He might have been scared, but he was strong and sure. And then, so was I.

No one ever told him how to love me. He just knew. It might not always be a perfect love and he might not always remember how to express it, but there has never been a day in our 8 years of marriage that I ever doubted it. I know that makes me one lucky girl. And one happy girl too. Because it is so easy to be happy when you are married to someone like Mark. And it is so much fun. I have loved these last eight years of my life, and am so glad I have had him by my side to share them with.

5 Brothers and a Million Sisters

I met Jordan Knight (sat next to him, talked to him and did not hyperventilate. Proud?). We sat a few seats down from Danny Wood. Rachel and Joey MacIntyre shared a "moment," that ended with a much photographed hug. We have the street address of Jordan and Jon's mother, penned by Jon Knight himself (long story). Our time spent with those 5 guys from Boston was priceless. And the best part of the trip, right? Strangely, no.

The cruise itself was also phenomenal. The massive ship. The relaxing spa. The late knight dancing (pun intended). And the eating. Oh the eating (many waited in line for the shows, while we were the first in line for the midnight Mexican buffet-and I wondered why my pants wouldn't button on the last day.) I also loved the merchandise pushing locals. And the camera-is-a-must scenery. Those postcards you see with the white sandy beaches and the crystal blue water, those places are real. They do exist. I know because we crashed the private beach that graces a number of those post cards. And if I could, I would go back. Tomorrow. So, perhaps that was the best part of the trip? Also, no.

You don't know the Big Bopper. You probably never will. You might not understand why we know Rachel to be a mathlete now, or why "Let's get this," will most certainly cause a fit of giggles. You have never met the Celtic twins (trust us, that is a good thing), or Mama Spike (if you do happen to see her around these parts, could you possibly give Rachel a heads up so she can go into the Witness Protection Program), or Sailor Steven (which is a shame, because knowing Sailor Steven makes the PCD a little bit more bearable). And much like my Philmont post recently, none of that will ever make sense to you. And that is okay. Because, of all the stories I will tell of my time sailing the high seas with NKOTB, those are the ones I will hold closest to my heart.

When I think back on this trip, I will remember the laughter. The deep from within, can't-stop-it-if-you-want-to kind of laughter. The laughter that brings you back to those 6th grade slumber parties (the sleeping hand in warm water, bra in the freezer type of slumber parties), when you giggled so much it physically hurt. The kind that erases all the bad, and forces you to let go of the worries. The kind that adult life makes you feel is unnecessary and inappropriate. Oh, yes. We laughed. A lot. Loudly. Obnoxiously. Freely.

When I think back on this trip, I will remember the tears. The tears from the Indonesian maid, who worked her skeletal frame to the bone to send money back home to a son she would only see twice a year, and who sobbed, on her knees in front of us when Rachel wrote her a check for half of what she makes in a month because, as Rachel so perfectly put it, "It is just money. I get to go home in 2 days and hug my children. " Or the tears of joy during the concert, when the lead singer of an NKOTB tribute band, Troy Kids (which started as a joke when he was in high school to "pick up chicks"), that we had befriended, saw his dream of performing with them realized after a crazy series of events had them calling him up on stage to sing "Games" right alongside them. Or the tears that wouldn't stop when the reality of the whole event washed over us, as we stood shoulder to shoulder with girls we had never before met, but now felt like sisters to us; the New Kids being the common thread weaving our lives together.

We boarded that ship, idolizing 5 superstars. After hearing Joey talk about his wife, Jordan tell stories about his son and watching Danny interact with his daughter, we saw them for who they really are: fathers, friends, husbands, brothers. And great ones at that. They might make millions, sell out concert venues and have bodyguards to fight off the psychotic fans (and there were a few of those on the ship as well), but at the end of the day, they too are just eager to get home to read bed-time stories and offer good night kisses. And that made me respect them more and idolize them less.

Yes, the cruise was one of the best trips of my life. And as an added bonus, I was able to share it with 2 of the most amazing, hilarious, genuine women around (Krista and Rachel, I know a regular old "thank you," will never be enough. So I will say, "Thank you. Let's get this," in hopes that will suffice.). This trip, much like those 5 kids from Beantown, will always hold a special place in my heart. But the best part of the trip. What made it all worth it to me, was when I realized that my real life, the one that matters, the one that gives me something to look forward to even after an indescribable trip like this, is right here. And shockingly, I'd choose an evening cuddled up next to my husband over an evening cuddled up next to Jordan Knight (and that is not the jet-lag talking!).

And now, no offense to them when they said, "Stop. Let me take a mental shot of this moment." But I feel a few actual images might beat out the mental images. So for your viewing pleasure, our cruise in pictures:
And so it begins....

And this is the end. We are making our best sad faces, to hopefully portray our state of depression.

There are a hundred more pictures I need to share. I might just do a photo blog once I get the pictures Krista shot with her mad skills and fancy camera. My pictures don't do the trip justice. And sadly, I don't think my words will either!

It's a rough life I lead

Wish you were here....

Country That I Love

They call it "God's Country." Nothing more perfectly describes the almost 140,000 acres in the Sangre de Cristo mountains that make up Philmont Scout Ranch. Three of the best summers of my life were spent there. Outside the walls of my own home, it is my favorite place on earth.

I tried, and failed, numerous times since the inception of my blog to craft a post that would do Philmont justice. I needed you to understand. I needed you to know what I know. I needed you to share the passion. And then I realized I could load a post with the most carefully chosen adjectives and it would not matter. Because try as you might, you will never "get it." No offense to you. You just can't "know" unless you have stood shoulder to shoulder and swayed to the Philmont Hymn during closing ceremony. You can't understand, unless you have seen the sunrise from the Tooth of Time. You can't "get it" unless you have lived it.

And even if you tried to understand, the language would trip you up (ie. creamie, pilot to bombardier, Phil-fling, "good game").

No, I am aware I won't be able to make you understand how Philmont is just a little bit magic. But it is part of who I am. And so, regardless, I will introduce you.

I had the hand-drawn map, penciled by my uncle (who understands, because he not only landed me the job, but worked there during his younger years), lying in my lap as my trusty pregnant roller skate (aka. 1991 Geo Metro) puttered down the tree-lined drive. According to the map, I was right where I should be. Yet, I had the desire to turn around and drive the 18 hours back home without a backwards glance. Who was I trying to fool anyway, taking a job at a Boy Scout Ranch in middle of nowhere, New Mexico to "find myself?" Who cared that 4 college majors later, I was a drop out and a miserable 9-5 job awaited me back home? My life might have had no direction, but at least back home I wasn't an hour from civilization, pulling up to a strange new job alone. Hopelessly alone.

What had I gotten myself into? I was going to spend 3 months without a blow dryer, living in a tent with a bunch of strange tree-huggers? By choice? Surely any pre mid-life crisis in Idaho would be better than that.

The map said turn, and so I turned. It was the only thing in my life at that moment providing direction, so I felt it best to abide by it. I pulled up to the offices of PTC (Philmont Training Center), and my life has not been the same since.

Everyone has a story to tell about what defines them—what event altered the course of their life, what experiences led them down the path they are currently on. My life exists as I know it because of Philmont. Snagging a husband aside, it changed everything about who I was and how I viewed the world.

Philmont is pure. She almost demands that you are in return if you choose to hike her valleys and temporarily seek shelter on her ground. You must drop the facade. Strip yourself of your worldly possessions, throw the curling iron in the back of your brand new car (in fact, leave that parked in the driveway, halfway across the country while you are at it). Wash the make-up off your face, so she can see who you really are. So you can see who you really are.

I arrived with a simple suitcase, and a lifetime full of baggage. I unpacked the suitcase, and the rest unfolded itself.

That summer we rock climbed until our fingers bled, sported killer tan lines (the socks-must-be-worn-with-sandals rule did us in) and ate more squeeze cheese and Apple Brown Betty's than I would like to remember. We forgot that adults have responsibilities in the real world. Bills were foreign to us. TVs and newspapers spouting a weeks worth of worldly calamities were ignored, as we spent our time lounging outside of so and so's tent, planning our next adventure. Occasionally, we would dab on a coat of mascara, run a comb through our hair, strap on our Tevas and pile into someone's car to make the 1-hour trek into town.

There we would rub our eyes, trying to adjust to that thing they called reality, while stocking up on the finer things in life that the dining hall deprived us of—namely, Cheetos and chocolate. Then we would marvel at the new songs on the radio, as we drove the windy road back to our canvas paradise.

Sand volleyball on our lunch breaks. The like-clockwork monsoon-induced rain showers in the afternoon. Piled into the Small Fry (daycare) building at night, to watch whatever portion of a movie we could keep our eyes open for.

Someone's boxers always wound up hoisted to the top of the flag pole, or someone had to emerge after a shower wearing only a shower curtain when their clothes were "accidentally" misplaced. And a cot-on-the-rooftop retaliation was inevitable. Someone was always dating someone else, and then breaking up with that someone to eventually dump someone else. Someone was always making dutch oven cobbler. Someone was always putting on their best western attire to line dance the hours away at Western night. Someone was always shirking on their bathroom cleaning responsibilities.

I miss all those someones. I always will. I have never loved a group of people as much as I loved my fellow staffers. The bond was unique because it was real. All of the shallowness, the competitiveness, the my-dad-is-stronger-than-your-dad antics did not exist. I am not sure why that was. It just was. And I established the truest, most lasting friendships because of it.

This post might not mean much to most of you. But, for those of you who understand that Waite is a perfectly acceptable man's name, Muchachas RULE, and buffalo meat is the only appropriate meal on a Tuesday night. For those of you who know just when to shout "MOUNTAIN MAMA" at the top of your lungs and how much it sucks to drag a boy scout up the Stockade trail. For those of you who ache for the simplicity of that place. For those of you who know. This post is for you.

The Road Less Traveled

Years ago, after Mark had gone through all of his training and was officially a sworn officer ready to hit the streets, I asked him what he was most nervous about. His answer made me realize he was a perfect fit for the job. Instead of saying one of the many fears tumbling around in my head (say for instance, getting killed in the line of duty), he said he was afraid he would get lost while responding to a call. Because he was a transplant from Alabama, working the streets of a city he had lived in less than 2 years was a challenge.

We were childless back then, and had ample free time (which was taken for granted and never realized until AFTER we had children). We used that time to drive the streets for hours, trying to familiarize him with Boise's layout. He has been on the force almost 8 years now, and those days of aimlessly driving the streets of Boise are a distant memory. He now knows the streets like the back of his hand.

Or he did, until yet another subdivision popped up. You see, Boise is ever changing. Constantly growing. New houses being built on newly paved roads. Just when he thinks he has been to a call on every street in the city, he is summoned to a house on a street that Map Quest has never heard of, and his trusty map book can't guide him to. You can never master a changing city.

The same can be said about parenting. I have been a mother for almost 5 years now (seems like just yesterday I was carrying my little bambino in my womb for 43 horrible, exhausting weeks-no me and pregnancy do NOT get along). I have changed incalculable amounts of poopy diapers, had my REM cycle interrupted a ridiculous times and made hundreds of boxes of mac and cheese. And just when I think I have it all figured out. Just when I am beginning to think my children might make it to see kindergarten. Just when I have memorized every street on this journey through parenthood, Claire goes and eats toilet paper. After she has wiped with it. And she swallows it. While I throw up a little in my mouth.

Slow down, you move to fast.

I get so mad at all of you when you are posting slackers. I need to click on my dashboard and see a plethora of new posts (side note: when I first learned the meaning of the word "plethora," I tried to use it in every possible sentence. Now I hate it, and rarely use it. Kinda like how I used to LOVE Chef Boyardee raviolis in high school, but I ate so many back then, that I can't stomach them now). But I realized that I have no right to judge, because in the month of April, I posted a total of 4 times. Pathetic. Consider the wrist officially slapped. And this is my public vow to do better (because I'm sure most of you sit at the edge of your seat, clicking refresh repeatedly as you anxiously wait for a new post from me, no?).
Moving on. I have been troubled lately by my impatience with Claire. If you routinely read my blog, you know Claire is, well, a disaster. I am quick to point out her flaws, her antics, her naughtiness. But, if I pause long enough to catch them, she is a wealth of life lessons.

She marches to the beat of her own drum, moves at a snail's pace and offers unconditional love. She forces me to slow down. But, of course, instead of embracing that, I get frustrated and try to hurry her along at the world's pace. She will slowly pedal to the park, arriving there a good 15 minutes after her sister. It is not that she is incapable of pedaling fast, those sturdy legs are strong and able. She just chooses to pedal for a minute, then pause to stare up at the clouds. Pedal a bit more, then stop to examine the rocks by the road. She has a different concept of time. She is in no hurry. She will not be rushed. It's as if she knows I need to be constantly reminded to cherish each moment, so she takes 5 minutes to walk from the car to the gym door, 10 feet in front of her.

I am impatient (dial-up almost did me in). I want instant results. One of my old journal entries from high school reads, "I need immediate gratification. I would love to learn how to play the piano, but I would expect to be Beethoven after a few lessons. I want to run a marathon, and would, if a week would be enough time to train for one. I get it about Rome and all, but I want to drop 5 pounds in a day, learn Spanish in a semester, know that I am with the love of my life after one date." Regardless of how far I believe I have come since that time in my life, how many life lessons I believe I have learned. I am remarkably the same.

And that is why I have been blessed to know Claire. A daily reminder to slow down. She is such a happy little girl, and I think she holds the secret. There is no need to rush. Let the world pass you by. Seems easy enough, right? So simple even a 2-year-old can do it.