100 posts and counting

For a year now I have been unraveling the chaos that is my life in front of you. I have poured my grief, my joys, my struggles, my loves, my frustrations and my worries into my blog, sending it out there for judgment, encouragement, criticism or understanding. I have, in lieu of my failed attempt at scrapbooking, used it to document our family's adventures throughout 2008.

It began as a photo album, a journal, a record keeper, but it became so much more. My blog became a place to seek refuge. It transformed into a sounding board, an advice seeker, a stress reliever, a listener. And although, riddled with pictures of toothy smiles and rosy cheeks, it has maintained its duties as family historian, it is now a trusty non-judgmental companion.

And through your blogs I find the same thing. On rough days, when I am certain I cannot go on, positive that I have made a mistake when making the decision to replace business cards with sippy cups, I wander to a blog where I am reminded that feelings of failure and inadequacy are the norm and resonate throughout the blogging world. I feel less alone, more at ease while navigating without a manual through this thing they call parenting. I click on another post and am reminded that a few extra pounds does not a hippo make. And that the ponytail is the "in" thing this winter. I am more aware of the beauty and strength of women, inside and out.

I seek escape from my mundane (although lovely) life through various forms. I have lived vicariously through the famous mother/daughter duo of Stars Hollow (and felt for sure my life was ending when they took their last sip of coffee at Luke's) and I have lusted over a fictional teenage vampire. I have buried my nose in a book and immersed myself in the musical talents of others in an attempt to remove myself from the daily stresses of my life. And it usually works. The problem with those mediums is that they don’t talk back. Edward doesn’t know me from Adam. And that fictional town in Connecticut that I would pack my family up in a heartbeat to move to, well it just doesn’t exist. It is a very one-sided (albeit entertaining) form of escape.

That is why I am grateful for you, fellow bloggers. Not only do I feel we are privy to some secret society that posts allow you passage into, but I feel a strange connection to many of you who are (and probably always will be) hundreds of miles away. I feel you know me, quirks and all, and return despite it all. And, through your blogs I have not only come to know you, but appreciate your wit, your empathy and your insight.

You help me be a better mother, a more compassionate friend and a stronger woman. And when I fail at one or all of the above and blog all about it, you make me feel that is okay. So thank you. For your comments. For your blogs. For your wisdom. But mostly, for your understanding. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go clean up the aftermath of a “napping” 2-year-olds attempt at her own dirty diaper change. Fuel for post 101 perhaps?

A Sweeet Birthday!

My better half is 31 today. This is how we celebrate:
And a little of this:
(Okay so our spread wasn't quite that lavish, but you get the gist.)

I woke up to flowers this morning. Yep, he got ME flowers on HIS birthday. I think I'll keep him.

I'm not going to start signing "You complete me," or anything. Just know that I love him. Very simply. Very truly. Happy Birthday babe!

How lovely are your branches...

I never knew that my favorite of any Christmas tree I have ever seen would be one decorated by my dear 4 year old. Isn't it lovely? Now, do I leave it like this as a constant reminder to embrace childhood creativity and all things innocent and good? Or do I reform it using all of my perfectionist adult tendencies?
P.S. In case you were going to test the theory that, in certain conditions, glass ornaments bounce, don't waste your time. Claire has proven that theory false. Regardless of how many times it is tested, the results are always the same.

Why showers are bad for your health....

Mental health that is. I thought, because they were playing so well together in the playroom, I could sneak away for a few minutes with little damage. Obviously, I was mistaken.
I give up. Personal cleanliness is so not worth this! When will I learn?

Belated Thanksgiving

I'm thankful, I really am. For a lot. I have just struggled with putting that thankfulness into words without it coming out as a bunch of mushy, redundant gushings. Don't get me wrong, I am thankful for the usual. Roof overhead and food on the table, check. Amazing family and great friends, check. Stable income and happy life, check. Very very blessed. And very very grateful for all the usual stuff. Also grateful for some not so run of the mill things this year.

For starters, I'm grateful for Santa and the ability I have to incorporate him into my parenting methods until December 25th (goes a little something like this, "Cora, I wouldn't talk back to mommy because I'm pretty sure Santa is listening to you right now. Do you want to be on the naughty or the nice list?")
And as you can see below, Claire's reaction to Santa shows that same tactic will not work on her.
Also thankful for the fact that our dentist is an old family friend, so when Mark decides he's 15 again and tackles (um, attempts to tackle) a co-worker twice his size during what was originally a "tag" football Turkey Bowl resulting in a near concussion and a molar split in 2, we can interrupt said dentist on Thanksgiving to seek advice.
If the sun's glare wasn't so bad you would be able to read the "high-tec" scoreboard, which said 90-somethin to 20-somethin (helps ease the pain of the $500 dentist bill that followed-okay, who am I kidding, a truckload full of Novocaine would not help!).

And finally, the thing I have been recently most grateful for is motherhood. Cora had her first (ridiculously entertaining) gymnastics performance (see this or this) last week. The highlight of the evening was when they practically had to drag Cora off the stage. She would not leave. She kept striking poses and giving a thumbs up to the crowd long after her class had filed out. And between the laughter, I was oozing proudness. That little being, my overly confident spitfire of a daughter, can make my night with a silly, scattered "gymnastics" routine. Yep, in case I have failed to mention this in the past, I am unabashedly (Twilight anyone?) in love with being a mother.

And there you have a little glimpse of the enormously long what-I-am-thankful-for list of 2008. What's on your list?

Cora van Gogh

*I have been meaning to post this for some time, but I just needed my last post at the top for a few more days. Mark says I need to let the NKOTB fever die and move on (and for some absurd reason he thinks taking off the vinyl lettering from our car window would be appropriate..as if!). So, to honor his request, here is a fresh new post.*

Cora loves to draw. Give her a pen/marker/crayon and you are blessed with page upon page of, well as of late, the exact same picture over and over.

The formula is simple: Start with a grass base, add a few flowers, some mouse-like humans and throw in a couple of birds. Finish off with some lovely clouds and TADA, the most magnificent picture can be replicated over and over and over.

She has also started making lists and "decorating" her room with them. I suppose I should take it as a hint and finally finish her bedroom (eventually there will be a crown molding chair rail and a pink wall below it).
I'm actually glad I took these pictures because the flash allowed me to see the glue residue left over from when we put the flowers up. Let me put that on my to-do list and I'll get right on it....
And this is one of Cora's many lists. This one happens to be her list of the Netflix videos she wants (yep, makes you aware how much times have changed from when we were growing up, doesn't it?).

Now if I could only figure out how to keep Claire away from the markers when Cora is drawing....

I'll be loving you forever...

I am a responsible parent, a faithful wife, a law abiding citizen (Krista, let's keep that 100mph thing between us alright!). I balance a budget, cook meals, run a household (except when it occasionally runs me) and pay the bills on time. So what would possess this mostly grounded, almost 30 year old mother of two to cry, jump up and down, dance and scream for 3 hours straight (need proof, see this-and yes, that is me behind the camera but I cannot be held responsible for ALL of the screaming)? Five letters my friends: NKOTB (to be more specific, it would be 6 letters: JORDAN!).
I don't have an obsessive personality, nor am I routinely star-struck, but these 5 guys just make me weak in the knees. I simply can't get enough of them.

It all started when I was 10 and was first introduced to the New Kids on the Block. I fell hard for Jordan Knight. I knew it was true love. I attended my first concert when I was 11 and the rest is history. Or WAS history until Saturday night.

I'm at a loss for words to describe my weekend (and although, as I sit here voice-less, I could be speaking literally, I am not). Since I must get them out of the way, the facts are these: Krista, Rachel and myself left for Salt Lake bright and early Saturday morning.
We encountered a brief glitch in the plan 50 miles into the trip (blasted Meineke morons don't understand that after draining the old oil during an oil change, you must then replace said oil with fresh, new oil).
Josh (random gas station attendant/hero) to the rescue, and we are on the road again.
Upon arriving in Utah, we learned that our hotel was mere yards from the concert venue (that's right, that puts us mere yards from our boys!!).
We left plenty of time before the concert to fuel (um, gorge) ourselves.
And then off to the most magical experience of my life (right up there with child-birth and marriage).
I will include a few shots from the concert, but know that we have 450 more high quality photos on the way, so you will be subjected to more of this!
And this is us after the final bow, while still on a New Kids high.
And this is when the reality that it was over hit us and the depression began.
And wearing them close to my heart in an attempt to keep the memories of the night alive.
And there are the facts of the trip, now to the heart of the trip. We were attempting to find the correct adjective to sum up the concert. Amazing works to describe our near perfect seats (the only better seats in the house would have been front row, floor seats). Awesome would be fine when describing how it felt to have Jordan make eye contact with Krista and myself, point at us and smile while trying to read our shirts (yes, we were that close!!). Incredible would do to convey the energy we felt from the thousands of "Block-heads" (hey Rachel, maybe we should patent that?!), their screams harmonizing with ours, who would not dare judge us for crying like a baby or verging on hysteria when they made their first appearance on stage or even for the high decibel screams that left ears ringing for hours after the curtain closed. Yes, those adjectives are all fine and good when describing bits and pieces of the concert, but do not completely capture the spirit, the emotion of that night.

You see, we left the stress of our every day lives when the car sped past the Boise city limits. For a few hours, the baby's next feeding, the un-paid piper and the impossibly long to-do list was forgotten. Girlish giggles were allowed as we reverted back to a worry free time in our lives when the above mentioned stresses could not be comprehended. We were free to act immature, hyper and out of control without consequences and without being judged. We were encouraged to dance, sing off key and profess our undying love for a group of men who will never know our names, but who represent the carefree life we so often long for. No, amazing, awesome and incredible come close. But the word that sums it up best, the word that will forever be synonymous with that night is....PERFECT.

Dynamic Duo

Cora's best friend is Lisa. There are a few things you should know about Lisa. First, and most importantly, she does not exist. She also is allowed to consume unlimited amounts of ice cream, even before she eats her vegetables. Lisa has a horse and a new baby brother and a new puppy. She is never forced into time-out for secretly eating the Halloween candy stashed under her bed. Her parents let her have Bratz dolls and ride in a car without being buckled up and go to bed without brushing her teeth (which are perfect, of course, even though she has NEVER had to go to the dentist). She never has to clean her room or clear her dinner plate. She is welcome to roam freely in sub zero temperatures without a coat, or socks or even shoes. Quite simply, if she were real and my daughter did not just live vicariously through this imaginary friend, I would not only wonder how she survived this long, but also how her parents have avoided CPS.

So now that you and Lisa have been properly introduced, the conversation below between Cora and myself will make much more sense (um, kind of).

Me: Cora, you need to brush your hair so we can get to preschool.

Cora: Lisa never has to brush her hair. And she has beautiful princess hair. Like Rapunzel.

Me: That is great for Lisa, but your hair is a rat's nest and needs to be brushed.

Cora: A rat's nest. That's strange. Like one time when Lisa and I went to the park we saw something strange. It was a man girl. We were mortified.

Me: Mortified? Wait, a man girl? What park was this?

Cora: Well it wasn't really a park. It was a ball game, but not like "take me out to the ball game." A real ball game. And there was a human girl who was amazing with diamond earrings.

Me: Let's get back to this man girl. What does that mean?

Cora: Well like when Lisa's mom and Lisa's dad have a baby. It is half a girl and half a man. So she calls it a man girl.

Seriously? Where does she come up with this stuff?

"C" is for coward

For years I was a factual writer. Too much time spent behind an editor's desk and the expressive side of writing gets trumped by a limited word count. Get straight to the point, no fluff, no emotion. It got me into college and paid my way through. It also landed me my first "C."

The assignment was simple: write a 5 page paper on a person in my life, living or dead, who had inspired me. The college professor, years of grading papers under his belt, dropped my paper on my desk without a word. Missing was the constructive criticism in the form of red ink. No chastisement for faulty parallelism or dangling modifiers. Not a mark on the paper, with the exception of the fat red "C" screaming at me on the last page. Attached was a small post-it note that read, "See me after class."

I was confused. My great-grandmother, Nana, had been the inspiration for my paper. I felt it was thorough and well written, and it had touched on all of the most important and relevant aspects of her life. My professor agreed, thus adding to my confusion. His explanation and the comments that followed forever changed how and why I write.

My paper read like an obituary, he said. Well written, but entirely fact based. It was completely void of emotion. It lacked heart. He said, after reading the paper, he understood why someone would be inspired by my great-grandmother, but he never felt that someone was me. As a writer, I was completely disconnected from the piece. I began to argue that I had been trained to do just that throughout my years on newspaper staffs, when he stopped me. He told me I had to make a choice. I either opened myself up when pen hit paper or I get a job with the AP.

It was so much easier to hide behind the facts. Facts are safe. Writing about me, my life, my fears, my inadequacies, opened it up to personal criticism. Essentially, if my writing was hated, so was I. I had, up to that point, avoided that type of criticism by avoiding that type of writing. But my professor left me no choice; spill passion onto my pages, or take the C and walk away.

He gave me 2 days to re-write the assignment. I trashed the first draft and wrote furiously for 48 hours. I had opened the flood gates and they would not be shut off. The revised paper was turned in on Friday, and the waiting began. I had never been so nervous about an English assignment before, but I felt the stakes were suddenly higher. I was invested this time.

The second time that paper hit my desk, I skipped past the red comma reminders and flipped directly to the last page. It read:

"Oh Amber,
I am absolutely stunned. This is a beautiful and touching piece of writing that I would be proud to have written myself. This is a shine of brilliance above and beyond my expectations. If I thought for just one second that my class helped you write this, it would make my semester. Blown away, John."

I saved that paper and stumbled upon it recently. It not only made me feel all warm and fuzzy, but it reminded me why I am so honest in my writing these days. When the years have done irreparable harm and I am looking back on my life through journals and blogs, I want to know what I felt as I experienced life. Might not be a "shine of brilliance" very often, but there will be passion behind the words. And that is worth an "A" in my book.

Out of the mouths of babes

This was the conversation overheard between Cora and Claire on our way to the gym this morning. Perhaps our vocabulary lessons have gone astray?

Claire: Cora, you not rude. I'm rude.

Cora: No, I'm rude.

Claire: No, I'm rude.

Cora: Fine. You are rude and I am pretty.

Claire: Okay. What's mommy?

Cora: Old.

Nice.