Finding the Joy

This one's for Gros Papa Phil.

And for my older, more mature self that will look back and cherish memories like these. Because I know I will.

Lucy (3) and Jackson (2) decided to take Christmas into their own hands this year. I don't know... maybe it was just taking too long to get here or they thought we were doing it all wrong. I guess I'll ask them what the heck when they get old enough to put reasoning behind their actions.

I'm pretty sure the morning went something like this:

J: Hey, Lucy. Are you awake? Because I've been awake for three hours and tried going back to sleep by singing Dora's version of Twinkle Little Star but it just isn't working out for me.  You know, "Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder... what you ate for breakfast." "Is that the right song?" "No Way!"

(Only parents with kids who watch Dora will understand what is going on here.)

L: Yeah, I'm familiar with that song. I am now awake. Which is bad because I'm generally pretty grumpy when I don't wake up naturally, on my own.

J: Right, well, I was thinking... we could really help mom and dad out by unwrapping all the gifts under the tree for them.

L: I'm listening. 

J: They've seemed a little stressed lately what with dad quitting tobacco and mom taking that test that determines the future of her professional career. I'm sure they'll really, really appreciate it. Let's go do that - for them.  

They proceed to plop down out of their beds and sneak downstairs in their cute, innocent, footed, penguin pajamas. I don't know how the mayhem begins, but someone had to start it and I'm guessing it was Jackson. The first, lonely tear of wrapping paper is the starting gun to a scene more commonly observed on CHRISTMAS MORNING.
It is 6:30am on December 24th, 2011.

After what was probably way too much time for a 2 and 3-year old to be sans the parental units on a separate level of the house, I wake up - probably from the innate sense that our children are having way too much fun doing something they weren't supposed to be doing. To be fair, things you're not supposed to be doing, as a rule, are more fun.

I walk slowly down the stairs fearing what I might see. About halfway down all movement from the first floor ceases and I hear Jackson whisper, "We need to hide!" Little footsteps scamper across the floor and I arrive at the bottom of the stairs to find an undisturbed first living room (we have two, don't question it). As I round the corner toward the second living room I see my sweet little angels hiding in opposite corners of the room. My eyes then scan quickly toward where the tree resides.

To be honest, my first reaction to what lies before me is excitement. After over-analyzing this event I later determine the reaction was Pavlovian. (It was Pavlov who had the dogs, right? A little help, mom?) Every time I have ever seen a room filled to the brim with torn wrapping paper prior to this it has been the result of me tearing the wrapping paper and therefore having new possessions.

That feeling lasts a whole two seconds until reality sinks in. And then I am shocked. And then I am angry. And then I don't know what the heck to do.

So, without looking my children in the eye, I turn around and walk in a zombie fashion back upstairs to our room where my husband is blissfully snoring. (At this point I consider just going back to bed, but then I remember the Christmas cookies sitting on the counter and there is no way I'm re-decorating two dozen cookies)

 Chris. I need your help. Chris. Chris. CHRISTOPHER! A LITTLE HELP HERE! 

We both snap out of it- he out of his sleep and I out of my state of PTSD- and we immediately engage the 4-Wheel-Drive of Parenting.

You will have to tilt your head to the right to properly view the following pictures since Blogger can't seem to get it right despite the files actually facing the correct direction. 

Suspect #1



Suspect #2

This is what we did (and we're not really looking for your approval or constructive criticism of our parenting style at this point. I'd venture to say that any decisions made during this time were made under duress): We took all the toys away. (To clarify; we had a minor incident similar to this a few weeks prior [this is what I get for finishing my shopping early] and both kids had been well-warned of the consequences. But, alas, they are 2 and 3-years-old.) We re-wrapped a few of them for the predetermined and approved Christmas present unwrapping times. They both had to do hard, manual labor for the rest of the day. Chris and I opened our gifts from each other.

I'm kidding about the manual labor part, but if they made snow shovels that fit a 3ft tall person I would have been all over that.

It wasn't until later that I was able to see the joy in this story. Instead of receiving looks of sympathy and dismay from the Grandparents after recounting the horrific details of that morning, we were met with that Santa-like glimmer in the eye. The one that approves of harmless mischief. Their bellies practically shook like a bowl full of jelly from their amusement.

This is a story that will go down in history.

They look so cute and innocent.




The evolution of Friendship.

Bekah Joy Hornor Kooy (your new married name means I consider you a poem), you can skip over the first half of this post because you've heard it all already.

Last night I got to spend 2 hours talking to one of my Best Friends, Bekah.
Saying "Best Friend" sounds weird and juvenile, but there are definite levels of friendship and she qualifies as a "Best".
I'd say there are three levels of friendship: Friend, Good Friend and Best Friend.
Best Friends, like Bekah, are those people who you can talk to about anything and you no longer care what they think about you. You're comfortable around each other and if a little fart slips out, then, so what?
Good Friends are those people you can hang out with and enjoy, but you still care (and wonder) about what they are thinking you might be thinking about what they are thinking about your parenting choices. And you are judging their parenting choices. And mostly you just gossip about other Good Friends with Good Friends.
Friends are more what Facebook would qualify as "Acquaintances".

Bekah is a Best Friend because I can fart in front of her (although I rarely do) and she will laugh and think it's funny and not start scrolling through her phone to discretely delete my contact information like a Good Friend or Friend would do.

Okay, Bek... you better go back and read that part because we did not cover that in our conversation last night.

I had an entire post dedicated to explaining to my Best Friends why I am now different from them because I have kids and they don't. After typing out the last sentence - "...and that's why I've become a complete drag after 9pm and usually have stains on my clothing." - I decided it was waaaaay too personal to have the entire world Singapore read. I highlighted and hit Backspace. I'm truthful and personal here, but it's pretty distasteful to be calling out your friends on Blogger. And after talking with Bekah, I've discovered that my emotions were headed in the wrong direction. When I thought I was justified in complaining that my Best Friends no longer understand me, what I was really feeling was their absence. I miss them. And I want to all be living in the same city again. We're all having life experiences that make us different from each other. I love that and I hate that.

It's going to take some getting used to, at least.

Last night Bekah and I were talking about our stress triggers and how they are different for each person, but carry just as much weight. My stress-triggers include having an office directly across from the bathroom so I can smell when people poop and kids (mine) who make Ewok noises during church. Bekah's include, understandably, almost all aspects of being a PA-C at the Cardiac ICU at UW.
So, let's recap: Poop and Ewok noises drive me to drink gallons of diet Coke and waste time blogging when I should be studying for the MAT's while Bekah might eat something that has Gluten in it if she's spent the day around people who are nearly dead whose lives she probably saved and sometimes wasn't able to. (No disrespect intended.)
It certainly puts it all into perspective, but we concluded that everyone is justified in their stresses because no matter what they are the level of intensity is the same. Or maybe she was just trying to make me feel better.

I think it's this disconnect or misunderstanding that left me feeling distant.
I'm over it now and I plan to start writing letters with pen and paper to bridge the gap. I'll even spritz them with a little perfume to make it more personal. Or I'll let my kids run around with them for awhile.

I love you guys. And that's personal.

Angst in Stream of Consciousness

When I sit down to write a blog post I usually don't have a topic in mind. I just get this itch to write - to communicate whatever is in my head. So, this post can go one of two ways: I feel a heart-to-heart coming on OR I want to pretend that I'm crafty because it's the holidays (but really I'll just steal other people's ideas, implement them into my home and look really put together and/or crazy). Where it will go, nobody knows...
Speaking of the holidays (do you like my blog decor?), I'm having Thanksgiving at my house this year. With Chris's family. I love Chris's family, but how can I not feel slightly anxious about this? (By the way, I know you're all reading this blog and that makes me a little bit embarrassed so let's just awkwardly not talk about this at the table on Thursday, okay?) It's all about healthy relationships. And about panicking and suddenly feeling very insecure about that particular green color and bold brick color I painted in our house. Will people lose their appetites because of my interior design choices?
And then there's the turkey. We received a 21 pound gobbler from Rocky Ridge Ranch at the end of our CSA season. It's so large that we couldn't fit it in our freezer and I ended up having to make a late-night run to a friend's house in my bath robe and slippers to stow it in their freezer.
I have the following questions about preparing a turkey for Thanksgiving:
One... How do you know you've gotten all the guts out?
Two... Do you have to stuff it with something once you've gotten the guts out?
Three... Will people be able to tell that I instead got one of those roasted chickens from Safeway and taped magazine pictures of beautiful, golden turkeys on it?
Chris's family is now thoroughly horrified. And scared.
Another slight concern I have is football. Here's the situation: When my dad was staying with us (for farming purposes - don't want to get the small-town rumor mill started) we bundled our phone, Internet and Dish. We didn't have a TV, but dad had one in his room. When he stopped staying with us (for newlywed purposes) we still had the bundle because we had a contract. By the way, why do those contracts feel more like that token bad relationship everyone's had where you know you need to get out, but you just can't? (oh, maybe that's just me.) I feel the same way with my iPhone cell plan, but that's more of a co-dependency situation.
Anyway, we have the basic channel options and I'm worried we won't even get the football games that everyone will want to watch. You know, those big ones like the bowls and stuff. I don't think you can get football games on Hulu or Netflix. And even if you could, I don't think people would enjoy gathering around the Mac to watch them.
So, with the angst of a teenage boy I prepare for my first holiday hosting. (Not true, I had Christmas Eve at my house last year.)
Here's the important thing this Thanksgiving: We're all together. Just don't mind the smoke coming from the kitchen. And thank God for Paula Deen.

If my Turkey doesn't look like this you all get a refund.

See? Now wasn't that fun?

It's a Circus in Seattle.

It's been awhile since I've laughed until my cheeks hurt.

This past weekend Chris and I loaded up the ol' Tribute with the popcorn maker, Ball jars and toiletries and headed over the hill to Seattle. Just the necessities ya know...

We checked in at the Red Lion downtown and headed directly for Anthropologie. I could wear/live with anything in that store with the exception of this little number:



Christmas is coming. Do not get this for me.



I then headed over to Bekah's loft for her Bachelorette party. Bekah is everything she sounds like. Smart. Beautiful. Fun. Repeat. We met at Whitworth where she was the best setter I've ever had. I'm pretty sure I was the worst middle she's ever had, but I picked it up Senior year which also happens to be the year we became soul sisters. Which I'm just now realizing our friendship hinges on my ability to play volleyball.

Jokes.

I love Bekah. And Bekah loves Matt. Which is why we were in Seattle in the first place.

The Bachelorette party consisted of Mimosas, Susan's famous enchiladas, Mariachi cut-outs awkwardly staring, lingerie and WhirlyBall.

What, you ask, is WhirlyBall? It's ridiculous. Put bumper cars, Lacrosse and basketball at the same table, give them a few stiff drinks and you have WhirlyBall. Google it. You won't regret it.



The gals! And Bek's loft wall that everyone wishes they had.

 The next day was Bekah's wedding! Bekah and Matt managed to pull off an incredibly sexy wedding. They had the reception and ceremony at Pravda Studios on Capitol Hill. Gorgeous. And Unique.

Can we talk about the umbrellas?

Having just planned a wedding I'm very attune to wedding details and Bekah and Matt had lovely, thoughtful details. The circus theme (thus, the popcorn maker) was a unique accent that screamed Bekah and the southern comfort food was a tasteful nod to the time that Bekah and Matt spent in Atlanta while she was in PA school at Emory. And Bekah rapped to Eminem so there's not really much that needs to be said after that.

And then there was the Photobooth. Enter: Sore laughing muscles.





We were completely inappropriate and loving it.



 Chris and Natalie are comedy soul-mates.



Matt: this is my all-time favorite.

So, congratulations to Bekah and Matt! And thank for letting Chris and I stay at your loft and watch after Hank and Ralph (we bonded)! We love you and in our limited marriage experience can honestly say that you will have the time of your life. In your vows you said, "I promise to love you when it's easy and when it's an effort". It's not always fun, but it's always love. We love you!

Date Night.

Last night Chris missed our date night.
You're thinking, "What a jerk!", right? Well, don't. It wasn't his fault.
One hears, especially in a time of war, about the sacrifices that men and women in the military and public service positions make in order to protect us. They carry the ultimate form of commitment to our country and their families; a willingness to sacrifice their lives, a willingness to sacrifice time with their families, a willingness to sacrifice the chance for normalcy when they return- if they return. I know, because my brother spent a year in Iraq and is confidently looking down the barrel of another tour. This commitment has affected every area of his life.
I can't tell you in actual English words (or any other language for that matter) how proud I am of my brother.
I know you're waiting for the part where I let loose on the fallacies and selfishness of the politics involved in war, but this post isn't about that. It's about the fact that we have people around us who are willing to sacrifice themselves - their whole lives, not just black and white, live or die, but the fact that the day they decide to join the service they are changing their lives forever - for us. Usually we're strangers to them. I can say for a fact that I don't have the balls to do that.
When I was a kid we used to play the typical cops and robbers games. By the end of the game I would be in such a state of terror and anxiety that I'd be exhausted after my blood pressure and adrenaline evened out. The thought of someone being after me to fake kill me was terrifying. The thought of someone being after me to actually kill me is not a thought I can entertain. Because I can't handle it. I can barely watch suspense movies. I love them, but I can barely watch them. Chris has the fingernail marks to prove it.
Does that make me a coward? Probably, but I can't help it. My brother got all the brave genes.
So last night I was sitting on my mother-in-law's leather couch watching Sex and the City, drinking a glass of wine and worrying. At around 10 pm my husband stumbles into the kitchen reeking of smoke and sweat. I gave him a big bear hug anyway.
Last night was Chris's first big fire since joining the Reardan fire department. When I asked if he was scared he said, "Nah, it was actually calming and if anything I was sad for the family." That's a hero's response. That's the response every person has who puts themselves into danger for someone else. They do what needs to be done and they have a sense of sympathy - even empathy for those they are protecting. My husband is a hero. And I find that to be quite attractive...
So, thank you to everyone who has the balls to fight for us - whether it's in the military, as a cop, fire fighter or EMT or anyone who has ever taken on the burden and responsibility of another person's life in the face of danger.

Country Mouse/Country Family

What's really the difference between a country mouse and a city mouse?
A country mouse has one option of refuge when it starts getting cold. A city mouse, on the other hand, has many options. Your house, your neighbors house, the school, the church... really, the options are endless for the city mouse.
If you live in the city you can consider yourself lucky in this conversation.
I live in the country.

When I lived in Wyoming I also lived in the country, but in a loft apartment instead of a farmhouse. When the mice started coming in during the Fall I used live traps to kindly encourage rodents to remain outside. Or to instead find a spot next to the horses downstairs. An actual loft. More barn, less city-chic. 
The mouse problem stopped after escorting a particularly insistent mouse to Grand Teton National Park to live out its last days dodging Osprey instead of in my bathtub doing the backstroke. And I stopped leaving food on the counter. Just, you know, as a precaution.

My current country mouse situation requires a little more- how do I say this?- ARTILLERY.

Remember this game? Still one of my faves.

Was it not enough to eat half of my beans and tomatoes out of the garden leaving them pitifully amputated while clutching to their vines? Or worse, to help their fat little selves to my certified organic, locally grown peaches, pears and apples that were securely stored in the barn? How rude! Now they insist on munching through bags of flour, oats and appliance owner manuals?

I understand if, after reading this, none of my friends want to come over. It's gross. And it grosses me out. I wouldn't call it an infestation, but the tally of now deceased rodents is rising. Hopefully I'm winning the battle. I'd like to win the war, really.

Family Update:
We made it through the wedding! I hate to sound relieved that it's all over, but weddings are hard work. And I'm lovin' married life. It means there's someone there to remove the mouse carcasses.
But really... our wedding was everything we imagined it to be way back in January. It's so rewarding to plan and plan and plan and then see it all come together in a single day. Pics soon... I promise!

Chris and I went on a mini- honeymoon the week after the wedding to the Oregon Coast. That week marks the longest period of time we've spent with just each other. It was so great to focus solely on Chris and to have his undivided attention. Of course, I couldn't help but to call Jackson each night to see how his day was and say goodnight. It also marked, by far, the longest period of time I've ever spent away from Jackson.

People keep asking me if it feels different to be married. The short answer? No. It's impossible for our relationship to change just because we have a party. The long answer: I love looking at Chris and knowing that he chose me to spend the rest of his life with and that I get to spend the rest of my life with him. And with that comes a security in that there's someone taking this journey with you. I couldn't ask for a more loving, generous, hard-working guy and I'm so excited to live and grow with him, Lucy and Jackson.  

I'm Normal. You're Normal. We All Scream for Ice Cream.

Remember this post? And this? Neither of these posts were all that long ago, but the underlying failure and parental insecurity I've felt since posting them has surfaced its ugly little noggin more than I'd like. I don't think it's my own convictions that cause these feelings either. That's why I love this. After reading that blog post today I feel renewed. I'm normal. I'm just not normal for saying it out loud. But maybe I'm healthier. Maybe I'll deal with the rough patches just a little better.
I love our kids. And there are days when I love them just as much, but feel like I will explode and go postal if I have to [ insert difficult parenting action here ] one more time. I think I keep bringing this up because there are so many new moms around me right now. And I see that look in their eyes too. And that's okay. They're normal. YOU'RE NORMAL!!
So that's my soapbox for the day.

And for all of you who want to have kids in the future and don't know what the heck I'm talking about, I will say this: (because I mean this from the bottom of my heart and I don't want there to be a wave of hysterectomies had) There are more moments than not when you look at your child and you feel like you can't love any more than you love them and you want to scoop them up and hold them until they fall asleep in your arms, and even then you don't want to put them down.

And then there are moments you just wish they would go to sleep.

And then there's the shopping.

Lucy and Jackson hit the big time when I came across these little numbers:

Lucy loves shoes. I'm pretty sure she owns more shoes than I do. And that's saying something.

They'll be wearing them for the wedding and I'll be wearing a larger, but just as cute pair for the reception. I'm pretty sure my mom thinks they're the ugliest things on the planet and she's not alone, but there's something comfy-earthy (which is the technical term for my kind of style) about them. And the greatest thing about Toms is their One-to-One Movement: For every pair purchased, a pair is given to a child in need. I love companies who start with making the world around them better and just happen to make money while doing it. That's karma.

So... the wedding is 11 days away. I made Chris and myself official "Last-Minute, Holy-Crap, We're Getting Married in (at the time) Less than 3 Weeks" to-do lists. We've pretty much knocked it out of the park and aside from some things that can't happen until the week-of we're ready to go! It's a good feeling to know that if I sat on my thinner, but-not-quite-as-skinny-as-I-had-planned, but-I-still-have-a-little-time-I-guess, hiney from now until the wedding day that I would still be married and it would still be beautiful. But we all know that won't happen.

Oh- and a friendly reminder to friends and family to please RSVP here.

Most likely my next blog post will be as a married woman. Woohoo! See you on the other side!

You know you live in a small town when the person in Records at the Courthouse says, "I got your invitation and I was wondering when you were coming in to do this!"