The real deal

Ten years ago my alarm went off before the sun rose. It was unnecessary. I had been awake for hours.

Ten years ago I had my hair curled all fancy and applied two coats of waterproof mascara to my blond lashes.

Ten years ago I cinched up a pretty white dress, took a deep breath and walked out into the warm New Mexico sun.

Ten years ago I walked down a grassy aisle with a dad on one arm and a father on the other.

Ten years ago I stood across from the most incredible man I'd ever met and promised to love him always.

Ten years later I still do.

Whew!

It's over. 30 posts. In. A. Row.

And I would do it all again. Just not tomorrow. I really enjoyed it more than I anticipated. I actually looked forward to my daily post. It forced me to pause and reflect on what that day had given me, or in some instances taken away. I am busy. By choice. And I am often so caught up in the jam-packed schedule that I forget to reflect. For 30 days straight I had to. I learned a thing or two. I'll share those learned tidbits of knowledge with you tomorrow. Or the next day. I might need to power down this bad boy for a day(ish) and give it (ahem, me) a much needed break. Until then....

Conflicted

You know when your gut is screaming at you to make the right decision, the decision that you know is absolutely without a doubt the correct one, but you want to tell it to shut up. Because that decision is the hard one and you want easy.

That's the battle waging in my mind.

You see there is this little girl in my life who stole my heart just shy of seven years ago. Sure she makes me crazy eight days a week, but I want all of the absolute best things in life for her. I want her to have everything her little heart desires plus some. And I never want her to be lonely or sad or hurt. And I certainly don't want to be the cause of any of those things.

Only I fear I have to be.

Cora loves gymnastics. And she's good. I mean really good. When she's in her zone, she impresses. But lately that has not been the case. Here's the story:

For about a year Cora's coaches have been asking us to move her to team gymnastics. Mark and I felt she was too young and too immature to handle it so we repeatedly refused. There were long practices involved, a pretty big financial investment and all sorts of fears about the scary world of competitive gymnastics to consider. But she kept improving and they kept asking and she kept begging for us to say yes. We finally did but only on a trial basis.

After her 1st official team practice the owner of the gym pulled me aside and told me that she stood out. They wanted to move her up another level. That meant longer practice hours and a bigger price tag. But Cora was thrilled, and deep down I was so proud of her. So we moved her up.

My six-year-old was now practicing for 3 hours straight. Those practices included a rigorous conditioning segment that left her whole body sore. I noticed her performance slipping. Her exhaustion and the new schedule was taking a toll on her emotions at home and at school. For the first time in her short academic career her teacher had to have a discussion with me about Cora's behavior in the classroom. Not the kind of talk you ever want to have.

Fast forward to tonight. I sat in on a good portion of her practice. Now before I go on let me just add that she has amazing coaches. They are so loving and positive, but they also have a job to do. And that job is to win titles. "Go deeper in that stretch," "point those toes," "tuck your abs in tighter," "I want to see straighter legs." They were treating my baby like an adult; barking orders and demanding she push harder, be better. I saw her gymnastics career flash before my eyes. I began to panic.

The older team girls practice at the same time as the younger girls. Their practices are like Cora's on crack. They practice for 5 hours a night 4-5 times a week. They are good. They are really good. But their dinner is served up in a brown paper sack and not hot on a dinner table surrounded by family and "how was your day" conversation. They have little time for friends outside the walls of the gym and their homework is squeezed in on the car ride to practice. Gymnastics might pay their way through college, but I'm just not sure it's worth the price they pay. And I'm not sure that's a life I would ever wish upon Cora.

But she's good. She's really good. And she loves it. She really loves it. How can I take that from her? And yet how can I not?

Say Cheese, Say Cheese, Say Cheese.....

Yesterday the girls were outside basking in the short-lived sun for hours. When they were reluctantly called inside they returned with a camera full of pictures. 168 pictures to be exact. In every single shot Cora was the "model" and Claire was behind the lens.The pictures she took, well....

They. Are. Awesome.

Cora was putting together an instructional series of photographs on how to exercise, complete with the best warm-ups, stretches and jumps. While the photo above is one of my favorites, there were too many great pictures to choose from so you might see a few more of these gems.

The best part about the entire photo session? In every last picture Cora is wearing a skirt she randomly found in her closet, size, wait for it, 18-24 months!!

Perspective

Cora was complaining today that we have a lack of dandelions in our yard for her to make wishes on. She said there were plenty at school for her to blow, but she couldn't find any in our grass. I explained to her that dandelions were weeds and that Daddy did everything he could to keep them from popping up in our yard. She was furious he would deprive her of thousands of potential wishes and vowed to stop him from killing them.

Pesky weed to me, delightful flower to her. Much as a torrential downpour is welcomed by a drought-stricken farmer and despised by a baseball bound boy, so many things in my life are met with opposite perspectives.

To the extreme we have situations like September 11th. Our nation mourned one of the greatest tragedies on American soil, while the masterminds behind the attacks rejoiced and patted themselves on the back for a job well done. And on a much smaller scale we have the fight Claire and I have daily: to nap or not to nap. I believe with every inch of my being that her body is exhausted and her mood/attitude/happiness (ahem, my sanity) will be positively affected by a few hours of mid-day shut-eye. She believes with every inch of her being that she will be missing out on so much while tucked snugly in dreamland. She is certain we have wild princess parties where we stuff ourselves with an endless supply of Swedish Fish and popsicles.

We talk in circles until I am almost screaming. Until I remember that she is four. She views the world differently. She still believes in a dandelion's beauty. On the days I pause my because-I'm-the-mom-and-I-said-so rants to remember that, we skip naps and feast on candy and ice cream at an afternoon princess tea. Because I fear the day she walks the lawn with a bottle of weed killer is just around the corner, I'm making a conscious effort to enjoy every moment before the perspective shift.

coras ADVENTURES

hi my name is...cora.and i like...chocolate bunnies. and i have one to. and i've eeten some of the ears and a little bit of a foot.

i like school and my teacher is nice and her name is mrs. davis. i also like to plant in the garden and i'm really good at gymnastics. i like gymnastics too. bars is my favorit thing because i can do a back hip circle.

and thats my post. thank you for reading coras ADVENTURES

I Can See Clearly Now...

Is it just me or does Claire look older suddenly?

Pinkalicious, Eggalicious, Sugarlicious and other Licious things

We did the typical Easter song and dance. Egg dying. Check. Fancy schmancy dresses. Check. A day full of friends and family. Check. Easter egg hunt? Check and check.

I took a few pictures to document the fun. I'm uploading half a ton of them below. A few things to note:

1. My children are currently in a pink phase. While pink does NOT dominate their wardrobe, it is currently the only thing they will let grace their little bodies. There is so much pink in the photos below it will make your eyes cross.

2. Bedtime was a joke last night. Perhaps the excitement of the Easter Bunny's pending arrival kept them up until almost 11, or their love of sheer disobedience as of late. Regardless, they went down late and woke up at the crack of dawn. Make a mental note of this.

3. They refused to wear their actual Easter dresses. Something about not being pink enough.

4. They refused to wear their actual Easter hair accessories. Something about they weren't pretty enough.

5. They refused to wear their actual Easter shoes. Something about it felt like summer so only flip flops would do.

6. They refused to let me do their hair. Something about being pains in the butts.

7. Regardless of how their outfits deviated from my original plan, they are still ridiculously adorable.

8. So much so that when, in an exhausted fit of rage, they came to blows in a knock down drag out fight while rolling around in the grass in their very pink Easter dresses I did what any responsible adult would do. I stood back with one of my girlfriends and laughed. A lot. It was like half-pint MMA. And I've never seen anything like it come from my typically non-violent daughters. I guess that's what happens when sugar-high meets lack of sleep.

9. The Easter egg hiders apparently forgot their small children are not 6 feet tall and do not possess skin thick enough to ward of cactus pricklies and thorn bushes. My bloody fingers thank you.

10. Without further ado, our Easter 2011:

 Pretty sure they've covered every last pink color/design combo ever invented.

 Because there were so few eggs (a bazillion) and so many kids fighting over them (4) Claire was in competition mode.

 

 The spectators were a lively bunch.

 What they will never know is the candy inside those eggs is the very same candy that filled the eggs of their 1st Easter eggs hunt the previous day. Crack open eggs. Steal candy. Refill new eggs. Repeat. Yeah, I'm cheap like that. Yes those are snowflakes from Christmas still dangling from our light fixture and yes that is a Valentine's Day table cloth. It's how we roll.

Cora's nest of baby chicks. The chicks: adorable. The Easter grass: worst invention ever.

Somebunny Loves You

I walked outside to clean up the driveway, which was littered with an assortment of scooters/bikes/helmets, sidewalk chalk and other sunny day activities to find this:

I mean really. How adorable is that?

A Big Fat Thank You

Remember when I begged you for your votes. Well it paid off! Look at the email I got today! And while I am all about a free portrait session, the point was to make her school some money. Mission accomplished. Thanks for making that happen.  I heart you guys!

A Wise One

Overheard Claire talking to a friend:

My mom still has her wisdom. Sometimes the dentist takes out all the wisdoms but my mom got to keep hers cause she has a big mouth.


ps. The picture has nothing to do with the post except for the fact that I was wise enough to marry Mark, therefore validating what Claire said. Minus the big mouth thing.

And the card attached would say...

During the day I write blog posts in my head. Trust me when I say they are brilliant. Then I sit in front of the computer after a long exhausting day and my mind is mush. I try to pound out the once genius post ideas and I'm left with a screen full of word vomit. Not pretty and quite a big fat waste of your time.

Take today for instance. I had lunch with a friend I haven't seen in months. There was a time when a solid 80% of my incoming/outgoing calls were to/from him. I spoke to him 10+ times a day (granted I worked for him, but we rarely talked work). Slowly new numbers began popping up on my phone and that percentage dwindled until his calls completely stopped.

After lunch today we were texting back and forth and I couldn't help but think how great it was to see his name pop up on my phone again. I was flooded with memories of how my life was when he was constantly in it. I began writing this mental post about how easily solid friendships slip away and how a few minor changes in your life can lead to entirely different needs in a friend. We never had a falling out, our lives just began to separate us to the point I couldn't even send him a Christmas card anymore because I no longer knew where he lived. Stark contrast to where we were a few years ago: he sat around our dinner table weekly, was the only single male at Cora's birthday party and frequented our girl's nights (if you know Nick, you know why that last sentence makes complete sense).

He was not a seasonal friend. In fact, I was the one he called at 2am when he was stranded downtown. That's the kind of friends we were. Are. Just in hibernation. Because we don't need each other in the same way anymore.

So many friendships are circumstantial. You are automatic friends because you work together or you live next door to each other or you attend the same classes at the gym. Those friendships are easy and a kick in the pants. But take away the convenience of those friendships and many will dissolve. Or change up living situations or marital status', add moves across town or take on new hobbies and a few more bite the dust. Then add in a change in your emotional state or an adjustment in your dreams and goals and again numbers start disappearing from your recent calls list. And then there are the times your calendar fills up so fast that from sun up till your head hits the pillow you aren't left with a single second to cultivate any meaningful friendships at all.

There was a time when I mourned those friendships until I realized most of them were just as they should be.  Friendships take work. Friendships take time. Friendships take effort. It is impossible to believe we have enough of any of those to sustain every last friendship we've ever had. Can you image the chaos of your days if you even attempted it?

I am grateful for every friendship I have ever had. And as I was scribbling away in my mind, a beautiful post on the little life's lessons so many of those friendships have taught me began to form. But now I sit here ready to clack away at the keys and not a single click of brilliance can even be mustered.

So what's my point? Well if I were to have paused my day and gotten that post out earlier before it had time to bounce around my brain and turn to junk, you would have heard how blessed I am to know you. Chances are if you are reading this I consider you a friend. And chances are our friendship has evolved. You might be the number that now graces my phone 80% of the time. Or you might be the one I have on speed dial who would receive a 2am call but will rarely hear from me otherwise. Or you might be the one whose friendship I will be forever grateful for. We might not see much of each other and I might not even know your number anymore, but my life is as happy as it is today because at one point you were in it.

Thank you for being a friend.

The Bubble Maker

Some days I just want clear my plate, take a deep breath in and just blow bubbles. No appointments or schedules or deadlines or dinner to make. Today I want my sole responsibility to be the production of bubbles. Nothing more.

The Mustn'ts

"Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be."  -Shel Silverstein

Claire told me she is going to build 12 Disneylands when she grows up. Want to know the first thing that came out of my mouth? "That's silly, Claire. You can't build 12 Disneylands."

Well why not? Who says she can't build 12 Disneylands? Well besides me. And you. And probably every other adult in her life.

My first instinct was to bring her back to reality. There is some goodness in setting her sights so low that she will always be able to hit them. She may be a chronic underachiever and might never realize her true potential, but she'll never fall short of realizing her dreams. Know why? Cause she won't have any. The jaded grown-ups (and I use the term loosely) in her life will have already shaken them out of her.

12 Disneylands? Oh really you logistical pint-sized wizard. Well who's going to fund them? And where will you build them? You got zoning permits you little bright-eyed go-getter? You can't go slapping up Disneylands like Walmarts. And listen you fresh-faced 4-year-old, where is your business model? Where are your well thought out plans?

Thinking back on my response makes me embarrassed. It was cringe-worthy. I'm not sure how I got to the point where a response like that would roll off the tongue so easily.

I want my children to believe every bit of that Shel Silverstein poem. Not just hear me repeat it, not just read it in a book, but actually honestly truly believe it. I don't want this world to make them jaded. I don't want it to crush their spirits. I don't want people (ahem, me) to tell them no when yes is possible. I don't even want anyone to teach them what impossible means.

I want to bottle this zest for life, this belief they can accomplish anything their little hearts desire, and I want to give them a full dose when the world smacks them in the face in a few years. It's easy to forget. So easy to forget. Lucky for me I have two optimistic half-pints to remind me.

Come to think of it Boise, Idaho just might be a perfect location for the next Disneyland. You'd come wouldn't you?

Speaking of Washing Machines

After I wrote that post about my anti-clothes folding dilemma the other day, I remembered that was not the first time I had posted about laundry (Is my life really this lame? Yes. Yes it is). I searched through the archives and found the following post. It was originally posted in December 2007. I know re-posting old posts is a cop-out, but it's almost midnight. Plus it sorta made my night. Enjoy:

Here's to You Washing Machine

Flu season has struck with a vengeance. I have lost count of the number of puke/poop covered clothes/bed sheets/towels I have jammed into my trusty old washing machine in the past week, but I bet if you ask our washing machine she would know (I refer to her as a "she" because to me she has a maternal aura about her). And if that reliable piece of metal could talk, oh the loads of secrets she could share (pun intended).

Purchased used with $200 of hard earned Red Lobster tip money, we found her about six years ago in a newspaper classified. Although fully functional when we bought her, her previous owner had tossed her out into the garage where months of dust and grime began to hide the shiny, hardworking machine she knew she was meant to be. When we brought her home I began the restoration process. I dusted and scrubbed and shined and polished her back to her former self, and for that she has repaid me with years of loyal, uninterrupted service.

She has been hauled, and not gracefully I might add, to three different houses; never complaining about the dents and dings sustained along the way. And she sat quietly by as she watched our lives evolve through loads of laundry.

They began small, dirty and random. Days hiking through the wilderness and climbing mountain tops lead to some smelly socks and rarely changed underwear (I'll pause momentarily while you cringe). Mixed in with the assorted outdoor wear was a server apron or two, and occasionally the sheets from our makeshift futon (and the lack of regularity would make Martha Stewart cringe).

As the years past, the futon sheets became Queen-size sheets that became King-size sheets with a side of crib sheets. The hiking shorts were replaced with workout clothes that rarely saw sweat because they rarely saw the inside of a gym. The server aprons gave way to crisp blue uniforms and coordinating dress suits. And new loads of onesies and spit-up riddled pajamas were added to the mix.

Oh yes, she could weave you the story of our lives if she could talk. And if you got her talking, perhaps she would inadvertently blab the washing machine's most tightly guarded secret: the exact coordinates of the Land of Mismatched Socks. But in all honesty, after years of experimenting with bleach and testing new detergents, spinning in circles and endlessly churning, I doubt either of those things would be her chosen first words. I bet she would impart years of washing machine wisdom.

She would tell you that 9 times out of 10, disasters can be avoided by simply reading the directions, the tag variety in her case (fluffy pillows, dry clean only attire and a lone climbing harness would thank her). She would probably tell you that even though hers boast names like Shout, Tide and Bounce, she still gets by with a little help from her friends. And finally, she would tell you that regardless of how many different methods you use, that grass stain is never coming out. But what defines you is how you choose to deal with said grass-stain, or the now-pink white blouse or the accidentally bleached designer jeans. You can have grass-stained pants and be happy, or you can have grass-stained pants and be angry. Either way, at the end of the day, you still have grass-stained pants.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to go stuff another load of my life into my wise washing machine.

Let Them Have Cake

Here's the only thing I want to know. Why on earth would you ever make a cake if you didn't plan on eating it too. It's not like you would bake it to just sit there and look at it and watch as its deliciousness goes to waste. Of course you're going to have your cake and eat it too. Who wouldn't?

* I have been sitting here staring at a blank computer screen for 20 minutes and that was the only thought that kept running through my little brain.  So that's all you get tonight. I'm going to blame my sicko state of mind. Head pounding. Throat scratchy. Eye sockets achy. Lungs coated. Note to self brainiac, when getting sicker by the day might be best not to run 4 miles. Cause then you get no pity from your husband or any of the more sane people in your life. And right now all I want is pity. And cake.

"When I get sick, I stop being sick and be awesome instead. True story..." -Barney Stinson

As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be

Say it ain't so. This little thing just registered for kindergarten today. I suppose it's cause she's not so little anymore. My baby isn't a baby. My baby will be a kindergartner in a few short months. My baby is independent and doesn't need a mommy in the same capacity anymore.

Pause while I choke back the tears. And then freak out about the world eating her alive.

Because she is my last I wanted to savor her littleness, which was in direct conflict with her desire to be as mature as her sister. But at night as we get her all tucked in and she takes my hand, cups it with her chubby fingers and tucks it safely under her chin, I know her attempt to be wise beyond her years has been set aside. She wants to be my baby as much as I still need her to be.

Man this letting go stuff is hard.

Washing Machine, Now Wash

Mommm, I can't find any clean socks.

Well did you look in your drawer?

Yes.

Did you look in the massive heap of unfolded laundry that has been sitting on our love seat for days rendering it useless?

I believe I am actually allergic to folding clothes. It's an honest and true physical ailment. Just thinking about it makes me twitch. For some reason my husband just ain't buying it.

So I just want to know: is it wrong of me to make my children sort through 5 loads of laundry in search of clean socks? Probably not any more wrong than seriously considering an offer from the dear neighbor girl to fold said loads for a $1 a pop. Would have actually hired her except for the fear that when pressed at the dinner table by her parents to explain her sudden windfall, she might just fess up to folding the Abercrombie's unmentionables. That's a call I don't want to get.

But I would pay a million bucks to anyone who invents a clothes folding machine. Of course you would have just invented a clothes folding machine, so my million would be chump change to you.

Speaking of laundry and machines, anyone remember the book The Marvelous Mud Washing Machine? "Washing machine, now wash. Washing machine, now wash! Washing machine. Washing machine. Washing machine, now wash!"

It was one of my favorite books growing up so I thought I'd hop on Amazon & order it for my girls.  It's being sold for $575 new. Ay-yi-yi. I need to be writing children's books. I also need to be folding laundry but I digress.

The Importance of Knowing Nothing

In a rare moment I was standing sans children in a checkout line. Taking full advantage of the calm I picked up a gossip magazine to get my fix. In an unexplainable way when I see celebrities driven to the brink of madness, shaving heads and throwing chairs through perfectly good windows, it makes me feel a little better about my own inadequacies. My crazy seems like peanuts compared to their crazy.

But on that particular day I actually found inspiration sandwiched between the flagrant drug abuse and latest divorce scandal. I had flipped to an interview by Reese Witherspoon. She was talking about turning 35 and how she got it all wrong in her 20s. And then she said one of the most profound things I've ever heard come out of anyone's mouth, celebrity or otherwise, "I definitely know now that I know nothing."

I was certain after 31 years of trial and error, I would be wise. But I think she hit the nail on the head when she said the wisdom is in surrendering to the idea that you will never truly know anything.

Just when I begin to feel discouraged by the world and truly believe that everyone will disappoint me, a random act of kindness will change my mind. Just when I begin to feel let down by eroding friendships, stronger friendships form to lift me up. Just when I throw my hands up in despair, certain every step I've made as a parent has been in the wrong direction, my children will do something that makes me ooze proudness.

As much as life is about the journey, it's actually embracing the idea that your journey, while riddled with perfectly good learning opportunities, may not give you all the answers. Will you come out stronger? Sure. More capable of handling whatever life throws at you? Most definitely. And you will probably come out on the other side a little bit wiser too. That is until life knocks you down again, even after years of learning to stand tall.

And while most days I choose to stay on the ground and kick and scream like a small child, in a rare moment of maturity I will pick myself up, dust myself off and prepare to tackle another craptastic day. Here's hoping I handle tomorrow with a little more of Reese Witherspoon's grace (also a little more of her beauty wouldn't hurt either, as she certainly wasn't hit with an ugly stick).

And So It Begins (Again!)

Today I'm trying to figure out how to cram everything in & still have time left for me (story of your life too?). Time left for me to bike, swim, run.

It's that time again. Hardcore triathlon training starts on Monday. Only 2 months until I slap on a seal suit and tackle the Cascade Speed Tri. If you don't remember what a joyful experience training was for me last year, let me refresh your memory. It sucks. Makes you wanna vomit. Hurts everywhere. Remember THIS post? Yeah, that was fun.

All lying aside, you know what was fun? THE RESULTS!

And that's why I'll grin and bare it through the next two grueling months. If I'm cranky and mean, with a side of mean and cranky please forgive me. I promise to be nicer come June 18th.

A Favor (pretty please)

Although I might be slightly biased, I think my children are adorable. I also think I happen to know one of the most talented photographers on the planet who happens to take amazing pictures of those adorable children. So when Cora's school asked for submissions into a photography contest so they can (fingers crossed) win some money for their school, I thought, hmmm, let's see what we can do.

So I uploaded the beautiful picture above. And now I need your help. I need you to vote early & vote often.  Although I have no idea if it will actually help her school win any money, you can vote for your favorite picture (which because you love me and because she's cute and because you want her school to earn some moola should definitely be Cora!).

Head HERE and click the little thumbs up by her picture. While I'm not big into contests like this, I am big into supporting her school. So help me help them would ya?!

My Pretty Valentine

I found this picture while preparing a Valentine's Day post for tomorrow (better late than never, eh?). My favorite photos of Claire are ones in which she looks angelic and innocent. A bit misleading? Yes. But it's a side to her I get to see often as her mother that few others ever do. She can be such a peaceful, snuggly little thing, and it is in quiet moments like those that I am most grateful for every aspect of her.

Things That Make You Go Hmmm

I was sitting in my living room tonight when I remembered an event from a few years ago that made me laugh so hard I almost choked on my water. It really was a shame there was no one else around to share it with. Then I remembered I had you.

Before I tell you what happened, the story needs a little setup. I was on a cruise to the Bahamas with the two beautiful ladies you see above. It might have been because we were on that cruise with The New Kids on the Block or that it was our first cruise ever or our first time in the Bahamas or the fact that the food was delicious and the scenery unbelievable or any combination of the above, but we were giddy. We found ourselves in "pinch me please" scenarios frequently during those 5 days.

One such scenario found us soaking up the sun by the pool overlooking the ocean without a care in the world. Krista decided that incredible situation deserved bragging rights and took to facebook on her phone to make all of our stateside friends just a little bit jealous.

Funny thing about the internet, once you hit send you can't ever get it back. So in your haste to rub it in, if you happen to forget a crucial letter you will find that not a soul on earth is envying you as you are "lounging by the poo in the Bahamas."

Sorry Krista but 2 years later and I am STILL laughing as hard as we did in the airport after discovering one of the best typos of all time!

Weekend Project

Most people plan DIY projects or have spring cleaning lists a mile long when the weekend rolls around. And I should too. But I don't.

I only have one little thing on my to-do list this weekend. Perfecting these scrumptious looking Nutella Scones. If you know me well you will know how appropriate it is that the only thing I have planned involves food. I wouldn't have it any other way.

It's my sorta step-mom's fault (see, she's my sorta step mom because she never technically divorced my father so I'll continue to give her that title regardless of the fact that she's happily remarried. But I can't bring myself to call her my ex-step mom. Sounds too harsh and I adore her). She posted this over on her baking blog and I've been obsessing since I saw it. Um, do I need to mention that in addition to the Nutella topping, there is also a middle layer of Nutella. Be still my heart.

So I'm baking these. Until they are perfect. I might even be forced to eat my mistakes. The life of a pathetic baker is a rough one.

A Tooth for a Tooth

If you were to see that face, watch those tears fall and hear the sad sobs that came out of her mouth, you would have lied too. Trust me. When she screamed from the backyard to let you know the ice cube she had been chewing on had dislodged her wiggly tooth and said tooth had popped out mid run and fallen somewhere onto the ground, swallowed up by the whiteness of the still dead winter grass, you would have gone against every honesty lesson you had been teaching them. Yes, when those screams became hysterics after an endless search of a zillion blades of grass yielded nothing and the realization that her tooth would be lost for good and the tooth fairy would abandon her, you would have done anything to make it stop. Like head inside to get some "binoculars" to assist in the search. And perhaps dash into her closet, tear open her baby book, find the "first tooth" container, rip it open and empty it of its tiny little contents. Then in one swift motion place that little tooth directly in her line of sight and watch as those wails turn to shrieks of joy.

And now the tooth fairy is gearing up to pay money for a tiny little baby tooth that she may or may not have already paid money for a year ago. But that will be our little secret.

Healing

 "As I sat staring in the mirror this afternoon, I couldn't help but wonder how people view me. I haven't always been comfortable in my own skin, but I have grown accustom to the way I look. Each morning, a full head of matted blond hair greets me as I rub the sleep from my eyes and run a toothbrush over my slightly crooked teeth. My fingers trace the scar on my cheek as I scrub away the blah of night and attempt to invigorate, refresh, brighten or whatever the cream-of-the-week is promising me. I am familiar with the face that stares back at me now. For awhile, I got hung up on that blasted cheek. Whenever I stood in front of a mirror, that scar was the first place my eyes would go. And the story was the same whenever I was having a conversation with anyone: the husband, my kiddos, a friend. Without realizing it, their eyes would drift from mine to the right side of my face. The scar did not define me, but it shifted the focus to imperfections. I had to know if those imperfections were what they saw in me too. What was I reflecting?"

I found the paragraph above in drafts from November 2009. I never posted it. It's a bit deep for my mood tonight and kind of rambly, but important for me to share it. I had surgery to remove a little bit of skin cancer in July 2009. I hated the ugly scarring on my check for a long time, certain it would not fade. The scar is hardly visible now. Staring in the mirror two years ago, you could not have convinced me that I would have to squint to see a scar while staring in the mirror today. As with most things in life, time heals everything. But that is only a lesson we realize after time has passed. With each new trial, each new tragedy, that is as lesson that must be relearned.

You know it's an interesting day when...

She's the angel:

And she's the devil:

That's exactly how it played out without prompting when I stuck a camera in their faces. It truly wasn't a reflection on their behavior. They were both on the awesome side today. Should I mark it on the calendar? Oh right, I don't have a calendar. So I'm marking it right here. Today was a good day. An all around, makes you feel warm and fuzzy kind of day.

Also I've got to make this brief. I've got a hot date. I need to go shimmy into some tight jeans and wipe some mascara on these blond lashes. And not just cause he said I had great legs.

He loves me cause...

Hey husband?

Yes, wife?

What are your 5 favorite things about me?

Why?

Cause I need a blog post & it's almost midnight. Help a girl out.

Hmm. Um. You are very nice.

Seriously? That's all you've got?

Well I just mean generous. You're very generous. Oh and beautiful. And you're a good wife.

No you cannot have a new motorcycle.

Fine. You're also a very hard worker. And you are somewhat scatterbrained.

These are supposed to be positive.

Oh right. Well I can think of a few more but you can't post them on your blog. Oh you can say I love your legs. You have great legs, but nothing else is blog appropriate.

And thus concludes my 4th consecutive post.... :)

The Comfort Zone

My husband hugs me. While he has different motivating factors to do so, he hugs me at least once a day. Sometimes it's a I'm-not-sure-why-you've-been-randomly-crying-all-day-without-reason hug and sometimes the hug is a thank you for a spotless house and my contribution to raising well behaved children (I can count on 2 or 3 fingers how many times I've been given the spotless house hug). There are the I Love You hugs and the I'm Sorry hugs and the I-really-want-a-new-motorcycle-so-I'll drop-whatever-I'm-doing-and cuddle-with-you hugs. The I'm Pregnant hugs and the we-made-it-through-5-years-of-marriage-without-killing-each-other hug, the Congrats on the Dream Job hugs and the thank-you-for-quitting-the-dream-job-to-stay-home-and-raise-my-babies hug.

He's been hugging me for 12 years. I'm sure at first the hugs were awkward. How tight do I squeeze this man I've just met and what is the appropriate amount of time to cling to him? And for the love where do I put my hands? Both around his waist/back/neck? One high, one low?

There were a few hugs early on where none of that mattered. It was during those hugs I began to find how I best folded into his arms and ultimately, his life.

It was the summer of 2000 and we were working at Philmont. At this point we were dating. Just not each other. We had been planning a hike to the tallest peak in New Mexico with a good majority of the staff and we were all eager for the weekend. The weekend came and with it a sickness so fierce I could not get out of bed. One by one my friends filtered into the doorway of my tent to jokingly promise they would carry me to the top of the mountain if I wanted. Then they were off.

When they returned late that evening with stories of adventure and triumph I was simply sad. I had spent the entire day alone, shivering through fever, vomiting what little I was able to force down. I was irrational and jealous and coveting their trip.

And then Mark appeared in the doorway of my tent. And where everyone else had stopped for fear of my contagious state, he entered. He walked over to my bed, knelt beside it and wrapped his arms around me. It was one of the first times I cried in front of him but that didn't stop him. He just held on. I placed my head on his chest just below his neck and nuzzled in. It was every cheesy romance movie cliche coming together with full force, but I didn't care.  I felt safe. I felt cared for. I felt loved.

I return to that spot every time he hugs me now. Hundreds of hugs later my hands instinctively know where to go. I know how our bodies fit and how tightly he will hold me. In times of my greatest joys or my greatest sorrows, I return there: my comfort zone.

It could be worse...

After yet another early morning wardrobe battle, I caved. I just didn't have the energy to spray the bed head from Cora's hair or even check to see if the tangles had been tackled. I didn't have enough fight in me to force Claire to change out of the too small, too neon, too see-through outfit she had chosen.  I threw my hands up and prayed everyone we ran into that day would be colorblind (because I felt it wasn't quite as demanding as requesting they all be actually blind).

Of course we ran into people I knew at every single stop we made. Old classmates from high school I hadn't seen in years, former co-workers from back in the day when my wardrobes choices were a bit broader than yoga pants: black, gray or blue. Even an ex-boyfriend I hadn't seen since my freshman year in college.

All while totting my homeless looking children.

I'm sure they were judging. You would have been too. 

But then I got home and happened upon a few photos from my past and suddenly felt better about the appearance of my children.

It can always be worse.

Exhibit A:

The most fantastic aspect of these outfits, as other pictures from the same time period prove, was their unisex nature. Interchangeable really. Judging by my sister's lovely haircut, the unisex theme was my mom's favorite in the 80s.

Exhibit B:

If I am ever bothered by my constant disheveled appearance in adulthood, I simply blame my mother's introduction to said appearance at a very young age. And yes, she did love my older sister more than me. Was it that obvious?

Exhibit C:

If the modeling career doesn't pan out, I hear the zoo is hiring zebra companions.

While I know it is inappropriate that these photos make me feel better about my inability to properly dress my children, um, they do. Plus, they just seriously make my day.

The 30 Day Promise

This is Cora's adorable 1st grade teacher Mrs. Davis and two of her little classmates on a field trip to the Boise Zoo (don't worry, the 6-yr-old kept the jeep in park!). Old blogging Amber (or recent blogging Amber I should say) would never have shown you this picture. In fact, I never would have shown you any picture at all. Because my blog was blank. The wild ins and out of my days faded without documentation. But that's all about to change.

Cause I'm back. For good. Well at least for 30 solid days. As in THIRTY days of blog posts in a row.

Have I lost my mind? Perhaps. I just miss the heck out of blogging so much that I'm willing to come close to the brink of losing my mind to force myself to make it a priority in my life again. And if I say I'm doing it, I'm doing it.

So you're stuck with me. And my ridiculous ramblings. Cause you better believe after a few weeks, when the creative juices are tapped, the posts are gonna get ridiculous. Buckle up. This is going to be one bumpy (albeit amusing) ride. You comin'?

A Blessed Debbie Downer

(Seriously does this photo not melt your heart? Am I alone here?)

Yesterday Claire told me I was her best friend. Because I buy her Swedish Fish. In the next breath she told me that she was thinking of collecting quarters. As she carefully placed two quarters in her eye sockets she explained they would be a good thing to have on hand if her eyes fell out. Then she somersaulted away.

My daughters are funny. And quirky. And a little bit crazy. I suppose I am to blame. Pretty sure that is a direct result of my parenting. Is it odd that I'm proud of that?

I adore who they've become and I occasionally (read: often) get so wrapped up in my own junk I take them for granted.

This man too:

I'm lucky to have him, and not just because he has a six-pack, although that doesn't hurt! Being in Hawaii with him and only him for 6 days reminded me why I love the heck out of him.

Point being: I have blessings. A lot of them. I also have pathetic trials. A few of them. I sometimes, in my I'm-a-human-so-sometimes-I-suck mode, only focus on the pathetic wanna-be trials. Which is of course pathetic. But I'm a work in progress. Forgive me?

ps. For the 2 or 3 of you still following this lame excuse for a blog, stay tuned for an exciting announcement coming tomorrow. And no, it's not an April Fool's joke.

A light at the end of the tunnel

The to-do list is an eternity long. Thing #1 has strep throat. Again. I'm on a first name basis w/ the pharmacists these days. The 10 pounds I was going to lose before I had to squish myself into a bathing suit somehow wound up on my thighs. But I simply don't care.

You see that pool? You see that ocean just on the other side of that pool? This is what we walk out of our condo to. As in Mark could pee into the ocean from our balcony. Not that he would (at least not in daylight when someone would catch him!). But the fact that he could makes all those silly cares above not matter.

Maui here we come.

Rock-a-bye

I don't like it one bit when my babies are hurting and, short of a drug overdose, I can't make it stop. But I do love it when all they want is to be held. I don't have many years left to enjoy that, so I'll take it.

We've been cuddling. A lot.

We've been watching Dora. A lot.

We've been eating popsicles. A lot.


And this momma has been enjoying the days at home, hibernating in our pj's. A lot.

The Love Letter

Tomorrow is the day of love. A day full of dethorned red roses and waxy chocolate boxes. An overpriced dinner dished up by an underpaid cook in a crowded restaurant. One day out of 365 when a man can gift cuddly teddy bears without losing his man card.  It's a holiday with the best of intentions.

But this year I'm not feeling it. Not even a little. I'm stressed that Tuesday my baby will be a mess of IV lines and heart-rate monitors. I'm stressed that for 6 full days we will be an ocean away from the two little things that mean the most to me on this earth. I'm stressed that I've made a poor choice regarding Claire's education that I can't take back. I'm stressed that the crunch-time planning sessions for a school carnival I am in charge of will take place when I should be worry-free on a sunny beach.

All those things stress me out. But the most stressful thing is that I can't stop myself from stressing, which is quite out of character for me. I can normally keep it in check. I'll hash out my feelings and dig through my worries on this here bloggity blog, take a deep breath and keep on keepin on.

Not this time.

It's consuming me.

But that's my fault. While I have no control over so much of what happens in life, I do have control over how I react. Well slap a nice big FAIL on that reaction these last few weeks, as was probably evident from my last post, ahem, rant.

So here I am putting on my big girl panties and changing that. It's pretty easy to get swallowed up in the negative when that's all you choose to focus on. Well here we go with that glass half-full business (I suspect if that glass contained a chocolate shake, that half-full mentality might come a bit easier. I'm just sayin'). I really didn't have to look that far to find all that is good in my life. In fact, I stumbled upon so much of what I love wrapped up in one simple picture above.

Things I Love (in no particular order):

Claire. A lot. She is such a misunderstood child, a difficult child really. But she doesn't have a care in the world. The worries of the world are a blur to her and as they scream by her she remains focused, determined and unfazed. I am blessed to have a child that reminds me of that every. single. day.

A driveway full of cars that do not belong to me. I am surrounded by people who would call 911 for a welfare check if they didn't hear from me in a few days. I am loved like that. And I am well taken care of by my friends and family. Emotional needs met daily. I often take that for granted.

A driveway full of cars that DO belong to me. We are not rich. Short of winning the lottery without ever buying a ticket, that will be a permanent reality. But we are comfortable. I have forgotten what it is like to truly need something. Do I still have wants? Sure. I mean who doesn't want to go on a repeat cruise with NKOTB (this is a rhetorical question because the answer is obvious. Deviate from the only acceptable answer & our friendship will be dissolved immediately). I was a promising gymnast without the means to explore that potential. My daughters will have that opportunity, as well as endless others. That is a blessing I am reminded of and am grateful for each time I wash a leotard.

A driveway full of chalk art, courtesy of Cora. She will be an artist. A great artist. She tells us that everyday.  And even if she lacked talent (which is not the case) she would still be an amazing artist. Because she believes herself to be. She allows me to continue dreaming big when adulthood begins to pull me into jaded territory.

A husband who is firmly planted. He is a strong man in every sense of the word. His job is solid. His values concrete. His love for his family and friends unwavering. He guides this family with a strength I rarely acknowledge. For him and all that he is, I am lucky.

A big green lawn. It is lifeless now. Brown. Useless. Ugly. But the memory of what it has potential to be gives me hope. What once was a drab winter eyesore will return again and act as a cushion for cartwheels and afternoon picnics. The ground will thaw and with patience, the beauty will return again.

When you can't walk the walk or talk the talk...

My life lately is much like a day of fun in the snow. It's good. It's really good. Until suddenly you realize your toes are numb, your cheeks are stinging and you can't feel your fingers. In an instant it's not fun anymore. And you're left to deal with frozen limbs and soggy clothes and you almost forget what a good time you had.

You have Child A lethargic and puking with Child B waiting in the wings. Diagnosis: strep throat. Pause and wait a few weeks. Cue puking Round II for Child A and throw in a side of vomiting blood. Diagnosis: torn esophagus.Wait a few days. And repeat. Wait a few more. And repeat. And repeat again. Enter freaky rash. Diagnosis: unknown.

Meanwhile Child B, not to be outdone, decides to stop breathing at night. Bring on sleepless nights of observation from the shag rug at the foot of a creaky set of bunk beds. Exhausted mommy welcomes diagnosis: massive kissing tonsils. Tonsillectomy here we come. Must cancel life and all prior obligations and commit to two weeks at home for recovery.

Girl's Retreat at lavish cabin in the woods is planned to escape from life. Night before said weekend, a sprained ankle and ugly case of laryngitis threaten to delay the trip. Ignore pain and head towards a weekend of freedom, a little bit crippled and a whole lot mute. Relaxing weekend turns into work weekend, chalk full of itineraries and schedules. Return with more on "to do" list then before.

Exhale.

Thaw.

Remember that at the end of a long day in the snow, hot cocoa fixes everything.

Replace hot cocoa with a week long vacation to Hawaii.

And commence countdown. 31 sleeps to go.

(I would jump for joy and shout it from the rooftops if I could walk. Or talk.)