The End

And so it happened.

Some how. Some way. Even though I tried with all my might to prevent it.  September is here.

I have never minded turning another year older. I've never been one to lie or hide my age. While thirty five seemed old when I was in high school, now it's nothing. Thirty five? Wow!

Usually I am up to celebrate, preferably with a yummy cake and lots of presents. I'll admit, I like being the center of attention. Sing to me at restaurant if you must. Scribble your name on a card. Even hand me some birthday balloons, and I'll gladly accept.

Happy Birthday to me!

However, this year, the thought of my birthday brings a little pit in my stomach. My birthday has always been the signal that summer is coming to an end. The time to prepare for back to school.

For nearly eight years, I spent my birthday getting my own classroom together. I'd still get those butterflies the few days g before. The anticipation, the excitement coupled with a small dose of worry over the pending school year would come to a fever pitch that first day.

Would there be any issues?
Would I be able to reach them all?
Would they learn?
Would they have fun?

That first morning, I would get into the school extra early. Adjusting my new outfit, ensuring desks were in perfect rows, pencils were sharpened, and the date meticulously written. Texts, workbooks, folders, crayons, glue sticks all brand new waiting for their owners.

The little bodies would meet me in the front of the school. Lined up ready to go, as parents stood along side. Wiping away stray tears, waving good bye feverishly as they shouted wishes of love and luck to their wide eyed children as they parade down the hall to their new classroom.

There's nothing quite like that first day of school!

Now, it's been some five years since my last first day. I'm now experiencing those jitters as I'm on the opposite side.

How did this ever happen?

On Wednesday morning, she will wake up extra early and adjust her new outfit. She will check and recheck her tote bag, ensuring it is filled with the new folders, crayons, scissors, and glue sticks her teacher has requested.

The excitement and energy will pulsate through our home as we ready Moira for her first day of Kindergarten. Amid anxiety, I will force her to eat breakfast as I choke back my own tears as we head off to school.

Instead of walking down the hall to meet my own class, I'll be on that other side.  Her teacher will emerge, as Moira joins in with her peers leaving me waving furiously goodbye. I will watch her disappear into elementary school, placing all my faith in her teacher.

I'll be left questioning:
Will there be any issues?
Will her teacher be able to reach her?
Will she learn?
Will she have fun?

How did we get here already?

Being on that other end, has given me a unique opportunity. I already know what magic is in store in the Kindergarten classroom. This June, she will be a totally different creature. It is inevitable as she will have grown and learned so much. Knowing this, I am so happy for Moira, but I can't help but inhale a bit deeper as I think about how quickly these five years have flown by.

So, Happy Birthday to me! This year amid the cake and presents, I'm hoping to savor these next few hours. While my birthday may be over, we still have one day of Summer vacation left, and then

Kindergarten, here Moira comes!

And God created Yoga Pants.

"Your kids are always so nicely dressed and put together."

My cousin recently mentioned this to me at a birthday party.

It is true.

I am a bit of a crazy person with the older girls and their hair.

If they want it long, then it has to be up. From an early age, I would put their hair up, no excuses.

Thus, terms like "soccer hair"- two french braids, "softball hair"- half -up braid and then another braid to ensure the batting helmet can stay on, and "swimming braids" - two braids to keep goggles in place, have become part of our lexicon.

They don't expect to be permitted to leave the house with their hair down or in a headband alone.

Call me crazy, but the last thing I want is having to negotiate knots and tangles at the end of the day. I have been known to change out pigtails for braids mid-way through an event, like a baptism or party.

Clothing is another debate. Moira would prefer t-shirts and comfy shorts every day, while Maeve rotates from a steady supply of summer dresses. If I need Mo in a dress, it's a production. Conversely if we're going somewhere that necessities Maeve in shorts, it's a production. 

Two girls, same parents, same house, similar DNA, yet so very different. 

Thank God Margo still lets me put her in whatever I desire. 

It's not them, however that I'm choosing to write about today. 

It's me. 

I have a confession.

Margo is a week away from eight months, and in this period of time, I can count on two hands the times I have worn bottoms that do not have elastic waistbands. I shy away from jeans, shorts, capris, instead wearing yoga pants, yoga capris, and elastic waisted skirts. 

The same skirts I wore last year with my pregnant bump. 

I am in a style rut.

I look disheveled.

I'm not proud, and honestly, I'm kind of depressed about it.

My belly is disgustingly stretched out, and my clothes all fit strangely. Add horrible nursing bras to the mix, and I'm one sad looking individual.

I feel like prior to getting pregnant, I was slowly getting back to some resemblance of me. Grant it, I wasn't one hundred percent happy with the way I looked, but I had started to develop some style.

And then I got pregnant.

Maternity dressing wasn't so bad either. I did my best to accessorize, add color, and change it up.

But now, here I am wearing the same uniform almost daily: black yoga capris & a t-shirt or a pull on skirt with a v-neck t.

How Exciting?!?

I hate feeling like this, but I don't even know where to start. I've tried shopping online, but I know that I need to physically try things on. I really wish in the explanation of items they would say, "This piece is great in hiding that mama pouch!" or "Perfect for those breastfeeding enormous boobs!" Until that happens, my purchases online for clothing will be reserved for the girls.

As for shopping in person, that's another obstacle. I'm rarely in a position where I can try things on alone. Usually, all three kids are in tow, thus leaving little room for me to twist and twirl in front of the mirrors.

Yesterday, on a trip to Target, I brought a few things into the dressing room. Under the watchful eye of my budding fashionistas, I collected various skirts, a few shirts, and two pairs of jeans to try on. Not five minutes in, Margo started crying, Maeve kept going on and on about the toy aisles, while Mo asked when we would be finished. This is exactly the type of environment that leads to ridiculous purchases: like an orange, pink, and white skirt that for some reason had side cut outs like running shorts.

I ended up buying that skirt and a pair of jeans, after getting votes of approval from Moira and Maeve.

Yes, my five and three year old were my votes of validation.

I should have known better, because they were off. Trying the skirt on at home, without the pressures of the changing room, I realized how ill fitting it truly was. Bryan's confirmation of my suspicions led to another field trip to a different Target today to return the skirt.

I've tried scouring my closet, but I'm just too damn tired and lazy. Some of my previously favorite pieces aren't fitting the way they once did. I've looked to the web, and pinterest for inspiration, but I'm at a loss. I wish I could figure out how to do it, without breaking the bank and my self esteem.

I just want to look pretty again, and I don't want to put any time or energy into getting that way.

Is that a lot to ask for?

So, for now, when you see me in real life, wearing the same yoga pants and t-shirt for the one hundredth time, be kind.
I'm working on it.

Family Ties

The sound of waves crashing on the beach find their way intermingled among the giggles and shouts of  "Watch Grammy". Back and forth they swim. Grammy in the deeper water, while Grammy with the Bracelets stands closer to shore.

"Watch me put my face in!" Maeve instructs.

Both grandmothers stare intently as she bobs her face into the cool water.

Immediately lifting her face, she waits for their responses and they do not disappoint, as a chorus of praise finds it way to Maeve.

Not wanting to be overshadowed by her little sister, Mo chimes in, "Gram, Grammy Bracelets watch me!".

Their focus turns to her, as Mo perfects her streamline, kicking her feet as fast as she can from one grandmother to the other.

They repeat the scene over and over, as Moira and Maeve spend an afternoon in the Atlantic with their two grandmothers.

I shift in the chair. Margo sleeping in my arms, as my feet find the towel. I watch in amazement, as four of my favorite ladies spend time together. I watch the generations ahead of me, and I smile.

My girls are lucky.

I have heard horror stories of in-laws, where tension exists and family events can be uncomfortable. Where grandparents feel the need to compete for the affections of their grandchildren. Or, worse, situations where grandparents ignore their grandchildren all together.

This is not the case with our family.

Strange as it may sound, we all get along.

Just last summer, my mom would join Moira, Maeve, and I for weekly pilgrimages to my mother in law's house. Together we would spend the majority of the day at the beach. Heading back to her house for a late lunch, we would sit and talk together before returning home.

Unlike the formality that many in laws seem to possess, they have developed a friendship and honestly enjoy each other's company.

And as grandmothers they are very similar. Together with my father, the three are the grandparents I would wish for every child, including myself.

They dote, spoil, and absolutely adore my children. They go out of their way to ensure the children's happiness.

Grammy Bracelets fills her candy dish with the girls favorites before every trip. Sharing sideways glances with Mo & Maeve as they sneak another gummy fish between giggles, the mutual adoration is evident.

My mom has perfected her Wicked Witch cackle, as she chases the girls around the dining room table. The chorus of "Chase me some more Grammy" echoes through the air intertwined with screams of delight.

While Popsie cannot enter the front door without requests for soccer, softball, football, walks, and promises of vanilla and chocolate ice cream in the event Mr. Frosty makes his way around. He knows the there is no rest time when he visits.

Bryan and I have often talked about our parents growing up. Obviously they did a great job, as we consider ourselves pretty great successes in life, contributing members of society and all that. However, in this role as grandparents, they have far exceeded themselves. They are my girls favorite people and they love spending time with them. They've got this grandparent thing figured out.

My kids are pretty lucky, and I realize so am I.

Reality Skewed

I waltz down the staircase. 

Their footsteps follow close behind. 

Lovely pink dress pressed and ready for the day ahead, with white sandals tightened and clean. Her braids flop with each step, as her little sister follows close behind. The full skirt on her dress, bouncing up and down just as her little body does. 

Into the kitchen, we walk. They sit down at the table with breakfast sitting on each place mat. Vitamins, popped into open mouths, as I finish pouring glasses of orange juice. 

"Thanks Mom!" they respond in unison. 

I take a minute to smile then respond, "You're welcome my lovies. Eat up and then we'll take some pictures before school."

"Okay" Mo says, "I'm so excited for school today." 

Finishing their breakfast quickly, cleanly, and with little hesitation, they walk their empty plates and glasses to the sink. 

"Head out and get your backpack Mo!" I instruct. "Maeve go with your sister and we'll take your pictures for the first day." 

Cleaning up their dishes, I hear the cadence of Bryan's footsteps as he bounds down the stairs. Finishing we meet together near the front door. 

Mo holds the sign as the smile fills her face. She poses alone, then with her sister, as Bry eagerly snaps photo after photo of our two delightful little ladies. 

Glancing at the clock, I notice we have ten minutes, and suggest we head out. 

Into the minivan we pile, excited smiles shared between Moira and Maeve, as we travel the short distance to school. 

Interlocking their arms, the girls walk a few paces ahead as Bry and I follow into the open doors, as we prepare ourselves for the first day of four year old preschool. 

How was that for a first day?

Blissful!
Happy!
Fiction, I say.
It's all fiction!

This year, the calm, the peacefulness, the joy, I would typically associate with back to school was missing in our home. In it's place, plenty of chaos, screams, and even a few tears.

It wasn't pretty.
It wasn't fun.
It wasn't anything I would put in the "proud category".

It's real life like that.

We did make it out the door on time, the only aspect of the above piece that was true.

I did get a picture before we scrambled out the door.

Yes.
One
singular
photograph
before the start of school.

The pink dress, the braids, and the white sandals were ready for the first day of school.

Mo was not.

I do this to myself, my kids, and my husband. I make myself crazy worried about silly little details and then rush around like a chicken with my head cut off attempting to play the role of perfect wife and mom.

Confession here, I'm not the perfect mom.

I scream too much.

I curse too much.

My patience is thinner than it should be.

My time as mom shouldn't be all chaos and running around with a camera in my hand, yelling at my husband and kids. It shouldn't be rushing out the door checking the clock, in panic mode. It shouldn't make my brow furrowed and my blood boil.

These moments happen but once.

For me, luckily the memory of that crappy first morning before preschool was soon forgotten, as two lovely teachers swiftly whisked Mo away into her classroom. The morning continued to improve with photos of the first day in the hall.

So maybe the first day sign wasn't there, but did it matter?

No. Not at all. Take that pinterest.

Instead of the forced, rushed pose, I got that real smile I melt over. That excited, giddy, joyous face of a kid excited for her first day of school.

That's what I need to remember. Bring out that smile, not the forced one Jac, because that's what she'll remember.

That's what she'll model.

That's what they need.

Linking up with Shell, and her fabulously cathartic Things I Can't Say meme.

It Gets Better

I pull out the plastic chair and comfortably ease my weight into the seat.

"Mommy, here. " Maeve says, handing me a fork and knife. Taking the maroon cloth napkin, she attempts to cover her plate.

"No babe, " I start. "It's a napkin. We put it on our lap. Look at mommy and Aunt Lynsay. Our napkins are on our laps too".

In just over two years of life, she has never been to a restaurant with cloth napkins. Their addition to the dining table causes a bit of confusion. Furrowing her brow, she focuses her attention from my lap to Lynsay's.

"Oh, Okay, mommy. I put it on my lap." she says, nodding in agreement.

"Mo, " I say. "Take the napkin from under your plate. It's not a place mat, it's actually a napkin. Put it on your lap like this."

"How about I do it like this?" she asks, placing the napkin on the arm of the plastic chair.

"Fine." Bry chimes in. "I think that's a great idea Mo".

Once upon a time, dinners out were leisurely affairs. We'd stroll out on a Friday or Saturday evening. Over glasses of wine, we'd sample some appetizers, savor entrees, and share desserts. Over a few hours, our night would be spent sharing stories, laughs, and each others company. Back then, it was the four of us: Lynsay, Steve, Bryan, & I at our favorite Italian restaurant, seafood joint, or just enjoying pizza and beer at the bar.

It was simple.
It was lazy.
It was fun.

And then Moira was born, and it all changed.

Yes, we did do a few dinners out with her in the infant car seat. Sitting at the outdoor table, they dined like normal while I hovered nearby. Instead of a leisurely pace, I shoveled food in frantically, anticipating the newborn cry all too familiar with a two month old. I couldn't really relax, as the thought of her crying bothering other diners made me jump with every moan and coo. I prayed she'd sleep, stay out cold in the seat while I feigned normal, and I hope she wouldn't need to nurse as I had yet to lose that modesty of nursing in public.

Things changed that summer of 2008 as we became first time parents. Not too soon later, Steve and Lynsay changed too. Leaving the confines of suburbia, they became real New Yorkers. Living in the City, in a small apartment, forgoing cars and grass for taxis, subways, and the crowds on the sidewalks.

Our paths diverged that year, and for the next few, it remained that way.

But today, we came full circle sitting outside, dining at a new Italian restaurant near our* new hometown.
Yes the collective "Our" as Steve and Lynsay could not keep away from the lure of suburbia, and moved into a home of their own only two blocks away from us. 


Instead of a late night dinner, we're out at six. Once our party consistently was for four, but now it has grown with the addition of Moira, Maeve, and most recently Patrick, their ten week old. Our seven top around the table, glasses of wine interspersed with sippy cups of milk, an infant car seat situated between Steve and Lynsay, as Patrick quietly sucks on his pacifier, blissfully asleep.

"Can I see PJ?" Mo asks, focusing her gaze on the black car seat in the chair. "Him asleep?"

Lynsay responds, "Sure come on over. He's still sleeping and hopefully he will for some time."

Mo glances into the car seat, and Patrick offers a bit of pirate eye, looking up. Lynsay finds the pacifier, placing it in his mouth.

"You want to go to sleep Buddy" she coos.

That feeling, trying to coax my baby back to sleep, comes rushing back. Trying to sustain nap time, trying to find normalcy while everyone around goes on with their lives.

He falls back asleep as our table examine our menus. Placing our order, conversation flows easily, comfortably.  Not soon later Patrick begins to squirm and cry.

Up she goes, the familiar bounce in her pace as she waltzes back and forth.

The appetizers come to the table.

Placing a mozzarella stick on their plates, I say, "Dig in".

But Mo and Maeve are both concerned, asking for Aunt Lynsay.

"She gonna miss eatin'.  When she gonna come back?" Mo asks, while Maeve raises her arms in the universal sign for where are they?

"I promise Aunt Lyns will get some food." I say, "just after PJ gets his food, Aunt Lyns will get hers".

"Oh, okay mommy. She'll be back soon?" Mo asks, peeling off a bit of the breadcrumb out layer and placing it in her mouth.

"Yup, she'll be back soon". I promise.

Appetizers are finished, and a plate sits waiting.

Dinner is served, as her place remains empty.

"Don't wait" Steve says, "We don't know how long it's going to be".

We finish.
Thunder and lightning begin, and we hurry to beat the impending rainstorm, just as Lynsay returns with a sleeping PJ in her arms. The steady cadence of rain hits the canvas rooftop, as now Maeve cries in my arms.

"The rain, mom. I no like the rain. It scary." she cries.

Pecking Lynsay on the cheek, I spit out my apology, and race to the car just before the downpour.

And with that, dinner is over.

Riding home in the rain, my heart goes out to Lynsay, as I can only imagine how she has categorized this evening.

A failure, I bet.

But Lyns, and every other new mom out there,  you need  know even with the impromptu feedings and then the abrupt endings, it is a little victory! Getting out of the house with a new baby is overwhelming and frankly each time sucks a little less.

I get it.
I lived it,
twice,
and Lynsay, and all other first time mamas,
it will get better.
I promise.

But on the days like this, where you are out, and the baby starts fussing a bit. That moment where you think you have to do it all yourself, stop.
The next time, my advice is simple:

Pass the kid off to your husband to bounce first for a bit. When he can't calm the kid anymore, then it can be your turn. Until then, let him deal and enjoy your wine & appetizers.

It will get better.

 

Perspective

At ten months old, with a stolen sip of milk,  the hives take over her face.

In a frantic call to the pediatrician,  "bring her right over" I'm told.

Panic overtakes my belly, as Maeve giggles in the car seat.

"Most likely, we're looking at a milk allergy" the doctor responds after a five minute examination. "I recommend you make an appointment with a pediatric allergist as soon as possible."

Only a month later, I hold Maeve  in my arms as we are ushered to the exam room.

Sitting in my lap, blissfully unaware of what is to occur, she leans her head back onto my chest. Reaching her hand up, she finds my hair, and starts playing.

I take a deep breath as the nurse enters.

"We're going to do a scratch test. We'll test her for the most common allergies: milk, egg, peanuts, tree nuts, and wheat. You'll have to be here for a while, as we wait to see if she has a reaction."

Those big blue eyes meet my own as the tears stream down. She tries to scratch, as I bat her hand away.

"You'll be okay" I whisper into her ear, reassuring both of us in that moment.

I see the small bumps have formed in seven of the eight areas, allergic reactions to everything. Only the control group has failed to yield a hive.

The diagnosis hits like a weighted brick square in the chest:

milk,
egg,
peanut,
tree nut allergies,
and for good measure
a sensitivity to wheat.

What am I going to feed this kid?

No ice cream?
No grilled cheese?
No french toast?
No peanut butter and jelly?

Life goes on.

Over time, avoidance and substitution become the norm. Easily soy milk finds its place instead of cow's, jelly sandwiches minus peanut butter, Italian ice in place of ice cream. Benedryl and an epi pen always close by, just in case.

It surprises me, nearly a year later, that a blood test reveals the milk allergy may have dissipated. We are given a date to meet at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia to partake in a milk challenge.

Two weeks prior, a nurse from the allergist calls to further explain the process. Over the course of a morning she will consume milk in various quantities, while we wait in between, hoping for no reaction. We will be in the safety of the hospital, in the event an adverse reaction occurs. She is not to have any food or non clear liquid after midnight, and the process should take six to eight hours from start to finish.

"Do you think she'll pass?" Bry asks.

"I hope so" I respond. "It will be so much easier for her not to have this milk allergy".

On Wednesday, I wake at 5:15, and spend the next forty minutes feigning sleep, the anticipation of the day keeps me from rest.

At 6:55, we're heading to the hospital,  a cooler packed with cow's milk, soy milk, juice, soy yogurt, apple sauce and other foods, my laptop, assorted toys, and the diaper bag fill the car.

At 7:28 we find the waiting room and register

By 7:50, we're taken up to the floor.

We are showed our space. Formerly patient rooms, they have been modified to meet the needs of the four children who will challenge their food allergies on this day.

Maeve is weighed, her height is recorded and an overall exam is performed.

Not quite 8:15, they mix the powdered milk substance into the soy yogurt.

"Are you hungry?" the nurse asks.

"Yup!" Maeve responds, and eagerly accepts spoonfuls of the yogurt.

A timer is set for twenty minutes.

Finding the doll stroller in my bag, Maeve eagerly reaches for it. Adjusting her small baby doll inside, she pushes it out the room, down the hall. Stopping at the nurses station, a few feet again, we turn and walk back. We continue the pace for twenty minutes until the timer beeps.

With a quick assessment more yogurt is consumed. She finishes and grabs her stroller and off we go.

Repeat.
Repeat.

Braver with boundaries, our path gets longer with each walk. Pushing the plastic stroller she makes her way to the end of the hallway.

I hear the beeping through the open door and sneak a peek inside.

The room is open, filled with the bright overhead light, and five beds sit along the perimeter. Kids sit in each bed, tweens and teens, if I had to guess, each with an IV running to their arms. One works on a laptop, while another, a girl, sleeps, a protective mask over her face.

"C'mon mommy" Maeve pleads, bringing me back to reality. With a deep breath, I walk on.

I notice a bulletin board filled with information regarding sickle cell anemia and blood transfusions. In that moment, I discover the food challenge shares the floor with blood transfusions.

I spy Maeve ahead, walking gingerly, pushing her beloved stroller.

Our visit is just for the day.

Our tenure at this hospital will be over before it really begins. Our life will go on once with leave, with this day, this food challenge, just one more moment in our life.

The kids in the other room aren't so lucky.

This is their life, frequent visits to the hospital, lost hours spent hooked to machines. They are familiar with these halls, with these rooms, with this staff.

Their reality so different from ours.

I can't help but think how very lucky I am.

After no reaction from the powdered milk, Maeve is coerced into drinking four ounces of cow's milk through the addition of strawberry syrup and a straw.

We wait for another two hours, to ensure no latent reactions and when nothing occurs, are discharged with the loss of one milk allergy.

Walking out, our spirits filled, we stand outside the oncology department as we wait for the elevator to the parking deck.

Again, taking a deep breath, I take a minute to be thankful.

The following day, we celebrate with strawberry ice cream as the milk allergy is officially gone. 

Linking up with Erica M's newest venture, the Hangout Grid on Yeah Write

Also linking up with Shell, as I pour it all out. 

Ridiculously Out of Control

"I'm just not looking forward to today", he says between deep sighs. Bry is leaning against the sink in the kitchen, while I sit looking through the doorway, at the expansive dining room table, various pirate related material at my fingertips.

It is nine o'clock, the morning of Moira's fourth birthday. Between running around making last minute goodie bag additions, I am navigating my to-do list to the best of my ability. His words and the disgusted look on his face stop me dead in my tracks.

"What are you talking about?" I mutter, lifting my eyes from the gluing to the living room where the girls sit, their own eyes glued to the television. Gesturing to our daughter, I continue, "It's Mo's fourth birthday! How can you be anything but excited? She's thrilled!"

On cue, she focuses her attention to us and chimes in, "I'm so excited for my Pirate party today!".

"Me too, baby!" I squeal. "Me too!"

Putting the glue stick down, I shuffle hesitantly into the kitchen.

"You just don't get it" he starts, "You do all this shit. Plan this party for what, months? You're the freaking ring master here, while I get to be the labor. Seriously, what do I do this whole party? Run around like a madman. Cooking shit on the grille, setting up all these ridiculous games outside, then cleaning them all up. I never get to enjoy these parties, while everyone tells you how wonderful they are. I've been dreading this since the moment I woke up."

Stunned, his words hit me like a swift blow to the gut.

"Are you fucking serious?" I ask. "You decide to tell me this the morning of the freaking party, not over the past few weeks while I was planning."

He looks up, as our eyes meet.

Those green eyes tell me everything, a result of sixteen years together. I know he is down.  He doesn't need to say another word, but instead he goes on.

"You seriously just don't get it. You are so fucking selfish. Look at the pictures from the past parties, Jac. Where am I? I think Maeve's party this year was the first one where I'm actually in photos, and that was just luck."

I am flabbergasted, confused, and mad

What can I say?

In three hours my house will be filled with friends and family.
In three hours I will be the happy hostess as we celebrate my Mo's fourth birthday.
In three hours my backyard will house a moon bounce.
In three hours Bry will be manning the grill.
In three hours we need to get our shit together.

What should I say?
What is the right thing to say in a moment like this?

I choose to say nothing.

"I've got to go add sand to the sandbox, and then set up the Walk the Plank. I just want you to realize how out of control this shit gets. I mean, really? Do you think anyone else does this crap? She's four not fourteen. She doesn't need half this shit. Seriously, it would be nice to not have to do anything." he finishes, leaving me in the kitchen with my thoughts.

The rest of the morning flies by in a blink as we respectively finish our to-do list just as our guests arrive at noon. The party goes on without a hitch, as our Pirates craft, eat, run, jump, fish, balance, and dig their little hearts out.

It is a success, but those words resonant through my brain even as the compliments start rolling in via texts, emails, and facebook status updates.

Am I selfish? 

Am I out of control? 

Am I ridiculous? 

Yes. I am. 

The problem with Bryan's argument however is that he thinks I should be upset by this, and over the course of the party, I realized that I am not. 

I cannot be upset, because this crazy, out of control, ridiculous person I am with my children is genetic. 

Don't believe me?

Consider the following evidence:

This is Mo, my brother, and my father at Moira's party. 

Yes, my brother in eye liner and a wig, while my father is in the eye patch and my mom's white blouse. 

This is who I am. 

I am the daughter of the man who would stand in line for an hour at Busch Gardens so we could ride Alpine Geist. 

I am the daughter of the woman who when I asked for a swimming cake for my birthday, figured out that using my trophies as swimmers, and lifesaver candies as lane lines would make a fairly good representation of a competition pool. 

I am the sister to the man who dressed up as Buzz Lightyear for Halloween last year because he thought his third graders would enjoy it. 

I am the sister to the woman who forgoes sleep to bake brownies for the nurse's birthday at the office where she is a pediatrician. 

I am the woman who plans ridiculous, time consuming, over the top parties, because this is the only way I know how to do things. 

It's in every fiber of me to get giddy over celebrations, to search for the perfect favors, to bake cupcakes and dip marshmallows in melted chocolate, to plan parties like this one. 

This is who I am.

And I can't be sorry for that. 

I can, however, realize that my out of control planning does affect the people around me, primarily Bry. He is right to extent, that I don't need to do all the activities I think. 

Editing has never been my strong suit. 

However, I did make sure this year that when it was time to sing Happy Birthday, Bryan was immediately at my side behind the birthday girl as she blew out her candles. 

Our girl is four, her party was a success, and this year I realized that I don't have to do it all.  

Hopefully I remember that in January when Maeve's third birthday comes around. 

Linking up with Shell of Things I Can't Say

And because it's Wednesday, linking up with the best little Blog Link up around, Yeah Write #51

In conclusion, this post won me, from the Yeah Write Duchess herself, Erica M.

Priorities

Traditionally, during the Lent, those forty days and nights leading up to Easter, one gives up something they value. My friend Aly, a soda fanatic, is giving up Mountain Dew and any other carbonated beverage, while my Mom is giving up carbs. I assume my sister Jeanna is giving up cake, cookies, and sweets, as is her usual. Up until early this morning I had intended to give up ice cream, just as I have every year since childhood.

Waking up before the girls this morning, I lay in my bed, eyes closed, letting my mind wander. During those minutes, I went over my plan for the day. First to the library, for our usual story hour, then I will venture to Church alone with the girls for the first time for Ash Wednesday services. I truly hope God has a sense of humor, as I do believe Moira may lose her crap when and if the priest attempts to put ashes on her head.

It was in those minutes I thought about how I spend my day, my usual every day. I will admit I became quite embarrassed as I calculated the amount of time I spent tweeting, blog hopping, Facebooking, pinteresting, and the like.

For all the time I spent on social networking sites, I am losing out on honest, real life socialization.

I am guilty of forgoing playing with my children on occasion for blogging. It abhors me to think of those moments when they ask to play and I respond, "One more minute!" while I'm pinning silly crafts on Pinterest.
Those conversations I could have had with Bry at night are instead missed will I tweet and read updates on facebook.

How much time do I authentically spend in the moment: playing? talking? interacting? really listening?

Not enough.

I can do better.

I will do better.

This year for Lent, I will be giving up my social networking dependence. Starting today, I will eliminate those moments I spend in front of the computer when my children are awake and instead actively become involved. Bye Bye morning twitter and Facebook! No more pinning in between preschool pick up and lunchtime. And maybe, just perhaps all those pins I have on my pin board for Kids will come in handy?

Ben & Jerry's your safe this year, as I'm giving up my bad mommy habits this year for Lent.

Hazard Zet Forward

Rolling over, I open one eye.

5:44

One minute before my alarm, as usual.

Taking a deep breath, I push the floral comforter off my body and pour myself out of bed. Clicking the alarm off, my roommate sleeps peacefully. Onto the floor I fall, a large yawn overtakes my body, as I quickly pull on my sweats. The big blue parka hangs off my desk chair. Offering warmth, I quickly cuddle inside as I zip it up. I slip on my sneakers, grab my wallet & key and head out the door. Throwing on my hood as I step out the door.

Rounding the corner, I notice fire trucks lining the drive. A usual fixture at school as the freshman dorm is notorious for fire drills at all hours of the day and night. I have little hesitation as I walk in to the pool deck.

The blue parkas file in behind, crossing the pool deck and descending the stairs to the locker room.
Emerging minutes before 6:00, we all dress alike,  bathing suit, cap, and goggles.

I notice a few freshmen missing, and attribute it to faulty alarm clocks. They'll have to make up the yardage later, I think.

Into the water we jump, the first of a double for the day.

It has been about twenty minutes when I notice between breaths, figures walking on deck. The big parka easily recognizable.

My feet touch the ground as the water calms around me.

I can only hear bits of her conversation:

Fire...
Dorm...
Fire Department...
Shock.

Leaving the rec center, I set across campus. I pull the blue parka tight against the January morning winds as I exit the side door. The whirling sound hits me first. Looking up, two helicopters circle the area. I walk with a purpose across the sidewalk, as a stream of ambulance and firetrucks line the drive.

I am only thinking that  I need to find my teammates.

I enter the cafeteria to a sea of faces.

Someone has turned the televisions on to the local news stations.

The image shows the devastation a few feet away. Groups are huddle together, as I make my way through.

Then I see what I need,

two big blue parkas.

My girls are fine.

It is through them, I hear the horror of what is happening, as they live a floor below.

We focus our glance to the television as the newscaster reports. At the bottom of the screen a ticker emerges, "fatalities presumed" crawls across the screen.

An audible gasp fills the room as I feel the tears in my eyes.

Things will never be the same.

The ribbon is a symbol that we remember those lost and share a sense of hope with all those who continue to heal. Ribbons are worn each year on campus and around the country by alumni who remember.
We remember January 19, 2000. 

Hazard Zet Forward my friends. 

translated: At whatever risk, yet go forward

Truth Hurts

We are the cookie bakers of the night. she sang.

Laurie Berkner band DVD, my choice babysitter giving me twenty five minutes of peace and relative quiet every morning. The girls be bop around dancing and singing while I let the hot water overtake me.

Solace.

Stepping out of the shower, I hear the familiar voices echoing through the second floor, and know I have two songs left until their attention will break. Grabbing the towel, I dry off and wrap my heir atop my head. Putting on my underwear and bra, I apply lotion to my face, SPF 8 infused everyday.

As I begin combing out my hair, Maeve jumps through the open door.

"Hi Mom, Hi Mom, Hi MOM!!" she screams.
Her voice reaching a crescendo, in anticipation of my response.

"Hello baby" I offer, kissing the top of her head.

"Bye mom!" she waves, returning to Laurie.

I continue combing my hair when Mo enters.

"What's up?" I ask, as her eyes focus on my scantily clad body.

Pointing to my abdomen, she laughs, "Ha, you got a chubby belly mommy!"

No.
She. 
Didn't!

My three and half year old just called me chubby!

I laugh her off as I shoo her out of the bathroom. Taking in the observation my child disclosed first hand. I look at myself, really look at my nearly naked self and I admit it.

She's right.

I am flabby in the middle.
and parts of the upper and lower too!

While I am quick to blame it on two c-sections in less then two years, the real reason for my "chubby belly" is too much ice cream and not enough vegetables, too much sloth and not enough exercise.

All together, I'd say, it's been nearly four years of too much of the bad stuff and not enough of the good.

And that needs to change.

I'm not really happy with the way my clothes fit me right now and I have no one to blame but myself. While Mo's comment hit a nerve, she is right. I HAVE a chubby belly and now I'm starting to do something about it.

On Sunday we joined the local YMCA and today, I intend to get back on the elliptical, chubby belly and all.

I have motivation now, something that has been missing.

Besides my sister's wedding in August, Mo is offering support. We have developed a game of sorts.

She keeps asking, "Mommy when we go to the Y so you can exercise?"

I ask, "Why do I need to go to the Y, Mo?"

Her response: ""Cause your chubby mommy!"

Yes, Mo, I am, and hopefully over the next few months, I'll be less chubby thanks to your motivation

Linking up this week the fun at Lovelinks &  Things I Can't Say.

A December to Remember? Ha!

During the holidays, many of the commericals seem to pull at the heartstrings a bit, leaving the viewer with a smug little smile on their face. There are the commericals with talking M&M's meeting Santa, big horses pulling beer trucks, and of course, the Hershey kiss commerical where the candy ring like bells.
I find myself tolerating commericals this time of year, to the point I often do not fast forward when I have DVR'd a show.

There are exceptions however to this holiday rule:

The luxury car commerical.

Specifically I find the Lexus December to Remember promotion the greatest violator my holiday cheer.

Why would I allow such a commerical to get under my skin?

Because I'm a stay at home mom on a budget and that's never going to happen.

That's the short answer.

The long answer goes something like this.

Strap in, it's a long ride!



Once upon a time, I worked.

I was a teacher in a fairly suburban and upper middle class school district where I made a relatively decent salary. My paycheck combined with Bry's let us live a rather comfortable lifestyle for two under thirty somethings. Lots of dinners out, weekend overnights to the city with friends, and a rather carefree view on spending. For the holidays, I would spend frivolously on my loved ones without much thought of budget, with the biggest purchases reserved for Bryan.

No, I didn't get him a Lexus, or even a TAG Heuer watch which he desired. I did however have the ability to buy what I wanted using my own cash, thus leaving a relatively untraceable trail of shopping expenditures. 

The element of surprise was on my side on Christmas morning when he unwrapped gifts from a variety of stores and price points.  

As his personal Santa, I'd like to think I did fairly well, except of course for the year of the pocket watch.

We all make mistakes.

With the addition of Moira and subtraction of my salary, I had to readdress my holiday shopping style. No longer could I just shop. Words like budget and responsibility became part of our combined lexicon, and I looked for sales and other incentives to keep the prices down.

For other family and friends' gifts, I made these concessions easily.

However, for Bryan, it was harder.

No longer did I have "my own" money. There would be no extravagant spending, as I had no money set aside for extravagance.

How could I, with no job or paycheck?

Besides this, Bry balances our books.  This means with every expenditure, I must procure a receipt with exact totals. I do believe he would notice a few hundred bucks missing from the account, or frankly I cringe at the thought of him seeing how much I hypothetically spent on gifts for him.

So that's where my disdain for those Lexus commericals is rooted.

I can't frankly surprise my husband with a Lexus or pretty much anything with a relatively high price tag because he's the one with the money and the one that does the books.

I wish I could lavish my husband with the gifts I feel he deserves: the new extra large TV he's been drooling over, the awesome stand from Restoration Hardware, and that TAG Heuer watch he's longed for for years. But that's just not going to happen.

Instead, this Christmas, there will be gifts under the tree for Bry, however none will have the price tag even a sliver of which comparable to a Lexus. There will be something chosen by Mo and handmade from Maeve, and frankly that's about it.

I know he'll still be merry this Christmas with these gifts, however the thought of how much merrier he could be sporting that TAG makes me nostalgic for those past holidays, or at least that paycheck!

I should mention even if money was no object, I would never buy him a car, because frankly I don't see that as a feasible gift for anyone, even if it's a Lexus SUV.



It's Wednesday, so I'm linking up with the fabulous Shell over at Things I Can't Say.

Not the Way I Planned

On Friday morning, the mall opens at ten.
A green shirt with Christmas trees in a variety of colors paired with her jeans, was the intended outfit for Mo. The intention was for Maeve to wear something similar, as recently she has been more decisive with her wardrobe.
We were to see Santa.
Beat the lines that form later in the day, and have some quiet time with the big man. Share our list of three things, with the hope that he would bring one. Capture the moment forever, paying for the overpriced package and place that picture, most likely with Maeve screaming, in the frame to add to the yearly collection.
That frame remains empty.
The visit postponed.

Instead of a visit to Santa on Friday with the girls, I spent the day in the Emergency Room holding my husband's hand as we learned that I was miscarrying.

The day before Halloween, with my period a day late, we discovered I was pregnant.
Ecstatic and excited, we decided to keep it a secret a little while. My only sister had just the week before returned from a vacation to Jamaica with an engagement ring. With my previous pregnancies, she was the first call I made. This time, I didn't want to steal her thunder, so I kept it a secret.
For two days, it was just between Bry and I. Then on the first of November, my brother's birthday, I shared the news with he and his wife. They vowed to keep the secret.
Over the next few weeks we shared with our parents, and waited eagerly for that first ultrasound. Because of a prior health issue, I am considered a high risk patient. I need to be on blood thinners throughout, so a visit to the high risk doctor early on to confirm a heartbeat is a necessity.
The Monday after Thanksgiving, with my parents watching the girls, Bryan and I headed to the doctor. Entering the office, the familiar faces greeted me, making me feel welcome. The appointment started normally, with the typical blood pressure, weigh in, and like.
As I laid on the ultrasound table, I had no idea how different this appointment would go. At this stage, the heartbeat should be quite visible in the ultrasound.
But it was not.
Things were not what they should have been.
Instead of measuring 8 weeks 2 days, it was 6 weeks 2 days.
The ultrasound tech asked for assistance, and then asked for the doctor.
He struggled to find a heartbeat, and his calculations again had the pregnancy two weeks behind.
My heart dropped, and looking at Bry's face, I knew he felt the same way.
Two weeks behind.
Could our dates be off?
No.
Could the ultrasound be off?
No.
Is there something wrong?
Yes.
He instructed us to come back in two weeks. Another ultrasound would hopefully determine more.
For ten days, the possibilities of what could happen danced through our heads, our hearts, and conversation.

Miscarriage.
Chromosomal Abnormalities.
Having a child with severe disabilities.

Then it was out of our hands.

I was in the emergency room hearing the confirmation that my body had miscarried.
The past few days have been physically draining, but emotionally I am okay.
Really, I am.
Having had the gift of that ultrasound two weeks ago gave us the time to process that a miscarriage could be a reality. We had time to consider our options, to consider what the possibilities could have been and what that would have meant to our family.
We had time to grieve this loss before it was definite, and for that I'm grateful.

The frame remains empty for now, however on Friday, I have a date with Santa and two little girls.

I Used to Be....

I used to be fun.

I used to be a night owl.
I used to be a riot.
I used to be easy going.
I used to be relaxed.
I used to sleep late.
I used to dress stylish.
I used to work out.
I used to work out of the house.
I used to be someone else.

Sometimes, I miss that person.
She was pretty cool, now that I think back to her.

That girl who's biggest worries were reserved for things like wondering if her pants made her ass look too big, or which restaurant for dinner on a Friday night.
Mortgage refinacing and nap training were not part of her vocabulary.

I think back to my time before becoming a parent longingly. If I could drop in for a moment, I think I would shake myself, and yell, "Sleep more! Eat out more! Vacation more! Spend more time just the two of you alone."

Don't get me wrong.
I love my life now.
We are truly blessed to have two smart, beautiful and strong little girls, a home we intend to live in forever, and a lifestyle that permits us treats like Laurie Berkner Band tickets for Christmas and occasional nights out to dinner.
But, when I think back to that carefree easy life, I'm jealous a bit,
Especially the way my ass used to look in those jeans.

Three and a half

Dissociative identity disorder is a psychiatric diagnosis and describes a condition in which a person displays multiple distinct identities (known as alters or parts), each with its own pattern of perceiving and interacting with the environment.
source

While this is the definition of Dissociative Identity Disorder (aka multiple personality), I think it also is a fitting definition for a three and half year old, or at least MY three and a half year old.

I just don't get.
One moment, she is loving and cuddly. Playing nicely with her toys and her sister. Sharing, laughing, and smiling,
Everything is good.

Then it happens.

Like a switch,
Her alter ego takes over.
Thrashing, kicking, screaming.
She has no control.

Who is this child?
How did she get here?
What the f--k did I do to her?
Then the realization takes hold.

I told her no.

Lunch could not be Halloween candy,
or I requested she share the five toys she was hoarding
or nap time had arrived.

In response, an action comparable to Regan from the Exorcist, takes hold.
As her body contorts and her hair tosses from left to right.
Primal screams from the pit of her stomach fill the air.

I am at a loss.

I try to stop her.
Raising my own voice, I start.
"Time Out" I yell.
"Do I have to take away Jessie? Mermaid? Red Dog? Peyton?"
Her smug response only agitates me more.
"No Video, tonight!"
"No Chick"
 No, No, No....

I can feel my own blood boil, as profanity fills my brain and whispers escape under my breath as her rant continues.

A new approach,
I pick her up,
Toss her into her bed.
Tell her not to get out.
Shutting the door (okay slamming the door), I walk away.
Leaving her interchanging sobs with screams.
I am done.
Defeated.
Disappointed.
Done.

Mere minutes pass as I hear footsteps on the hardwood floor.
The sound of the knob turning echos in the hall.
She opens the door,
Tear stained cheeks, with eyes face downward.
Her breathing strained as she chokes,

Mama, I
 breath
can't
 breath
breathe.
 breath
Help
 breath
Me
 breath

I gather her up in my arms, reminding her to breathe in and out, as her face buries itself in my shoulder. Her body heavy as her chest rises and falls quickly against my own.
It's over.
"I'm sorry." she mutters as she looks up to me.
Her eyes are different now, as I see contrition and love, which had been missing earlier.

Three is tough.

Kick me in the ass tough.

I love my kid, but I won't lie.
In those moments,
I really don't like her too much.

Evaluating Expectations

Moira started nursery school this year at a small program in our town. Twice a week, for two hours and fifteen minutes she joins fifteen other three year olds. Together with their two teachers, they paint, sing, learn, and play. Throw in a snack and bimonthly time in the chapel, it's the perfect first school experience.
Having had worked in the early childhood level, in Kindergarten and first grade for nearly eight years before babies, I feel like I have a pretty good background in child development, and in turn, realistic expectations in relation Moira at school.
For the most part, the routine has been going well. The transition has been seamless, as she enjoys going each day. The teachers are lovely, and the class appears to starting to interact with each other. I assume by May, just as the school year finishes, she will master all their names, instead of referring to them as "I don't know" or "the boy with the Phillies backpack".
Perhaps, that's why yesterday surprised me.
We had our first field trip, and in keeping with the autumnal theme, we headed to a local farm for a early morning hayride.
Driving ourselves, as a way to keep costs a minimum, we navigated the directions and arrived at the farm. Minivans, SUVs, and school buses quickly filled the dirt parking lot, and we walked to the entrance. Meeting the teachers, I noticed a few other parents and children. Three other classes from the same school waited as well for full attendance.
Our good friend D arrived with her daughter A, and together we discussed the awkward directions and the cool weather that surprised us at our arrival.
Soon after, we were instructed to line up and walked toward the tractors and wagon. Hayride time!
Filling up the hayride, Mo snuggled into me as I leaned back onto the wooden side. The tractor started forward as the wagon circled the large apple fields. Coming to a clearing, a field dotted with orange pumpkins spread before us.

 Leave it Moira, to run ahead into the field of pumpkins, as her classmates gravitated towards the same spot. Within minutes she found the most perfect one and with pride (and a little dirt) shared with me her discovery.

Climbing back into the wagon, we started back towards the farm. Sharing giggles with A, my goofy little girl was excited about the remainder of the trip.
As we readied ourselves to disembark, our teacher reminded us of the corn maze, play area filled with hay, and small animal area open for our enjoyment. Watching others leave the wagon, I notice they are walking away. Classes around us are joining together for a group photo.
Upon descending the stairs, I notice one of the teachers had wrangled many of the parents and children back. Bringing them into a group, the cameras and iphones begin snapping away at the adorable scene.
Again, the teacher mentions all the things for which to play, and dismisses the kids.
Off Mo runs, into the haystack maze, where many other children have taken to climbing on the top. My first instinct is to tell her to get off, but as I look around, it appears that running on top is acceptable.

D and I spend about twenty minutes with our girls and some other parents and children in this area. We make small talk with a few others as A & Mo ask to go somewhere else. As she runs into the corn maze, A, D, and I follow. About ten minutes into our trek, my phone begins ringing. It is Bry.
Mo's pumpkin is missing.
Someone stole her pumpkin from our front steps.
Luckily, we're at a farm so a new pumpkin is on our list to carve later with Popsie. (Who's home watching Maeve.)
After what seems like countless turns and a small bit of worry that we might be lost forever in the maze of corn, we find the exit. (Thank you D!) Walking around the other areas, we see parents and kids haphazardly. Other schools have arrived, filling the farm with an array of children and adults of all sizes.
As we walk to the farm store, I notice in the picnic grove, groups sitting down together for snack. Cider and donuts, or juice boxes and popcorn, as the groups sit, parents conversing in the background.
At the store we find a suitable replacement pumpkin $9 worth!, apple cider donuts without sugar Moira's request, strange I KNOW!, and a bottle of water. D buys similar stuff as we walk back to the picnic tables.
We spy no familiar faces at that point, and finding an empty picnic table, we sit and eat.
I expected other parent child duos to walk by, or to be sitting in the grove, but aside from one other mother and child, we see nothing.
After some time sitting and eating, I notice many of those around us are eating lunch. The clock reveals it's 11:20.
The trip is officially over.
There were no formal good byes.
No comments about Halloween on Thursday.
Nothing.
At first, I thought I was alone in my disappointment, however Mo revealed the same as she asked me to find her teachers and other friends. D confesses she too was disappointed.
Besides the hayride, the field trip was no different then one we could take on any weekday.
Sure, the kids from the class were all at the farm, but their presence made little difference over Mo's time at the farm.
I assume my definition of field trip needs to be altered.
Interaction amongst classmates appears to not be a necessity.
Providing snack for the  group, again, not a requirement.
While I believe it to be a major oversight, I must understand a formal dismissal is not in the cards.
This field trip may not have been the learning experience I expected for Mo, but for me, I learned a lot.

Back to Work?

My resume has been updated. There have been discussions recently in our house over my return to the working world, and so a few weeks ago, I began the honest search for a new teaching position.
A visible break comes across from April 2008 until the present, leaving the inevitable questions:
Where have I been?
What precipitated the leave from a tenured position?
What have I been doing?

I can answer that in one word:
Motherhood.

However, during the interview process I do not think this will be an acceptable explanation.
Those three plus years will be explained away with excuses.
My husband accepted a new position which required us to relocate.
I became pregnant again.
We moved to this area.

Now, I am in a position to begin teaching again.
All of these things are true, but are excuses for this past three and half years.
Why did I give up tenure and a job I loved?

Because, honestly I found something I loved more.
My girls.

Now, I am scared, frightened, sad. Torn even, over whether this is the best decision for our family.
What sacrifices will we have to make with me working full time?
I was a teacher for nearly eight years working at the Kindergarten and First grade level.
I poured my heart and soul into every moment.
Getting there early, staying late.
I was vested, truly vested in my time as a teacher. Hours spent at home cultivating the perfect lessons and activities to motivate and educate. I remember feeling as if those students were my kids for the year, their happiness and success my responsibility.

Thus a problem has emerged.
That spark for teaching is gone.
That motivation that got me out of the bed every morning for my "kids" now has been transferred to my kids. I cannot fathom leaving my twosome for twenty other faces.
What will I miss?
What won't I see?
But the money will be helpful. In time for the holidays, the paycheck will make things that much easier. Then there's the personal fulfillment, walking back in the classroom, doing what I love and am good.

After a week of deep reflection, tears, and unfufilling sleep, a message greeted me yesterday for an interview for a leave of absence position. This opportunity brought the idea to reality. Discussions of daycare, finding balance, and the costs of my return peppered our evening conversation. The realization emerged simply.
I'm just not ready.

So the resume and cover letter sit, accumulating a little more dust. The time between my last position and the present continues to pass, making the possibility of return that much more difficult.
However, this is what's right for me, for our family, right now.

The Package

It sits collecting dust I assume, on the top of the cabinet in our dining room. Wrapped in crayon marked paper, the Father's Day gift we will never be able to give.
I walk past it countless times during the day. Sometimes, passing without notice, other times my eyes fixate on it, and I pause.
Thinking of the "should haves" and "could haves".
The days leading up to Father's Day this past June, we prepared handmade gifts. for Bry and the grandfathers.
Entering Michael's we found the aisle easily. An array of t-shirts stood in nice piles before her. White, grey, yellow, blue, red, green, and black sitting in their size specific spots. Of course, without delay she reached for two red shirts, her favorite color for some time. Placing them into the cart, I turned my attention to the variety of fonts available of iron-on letters.
Unfortunately my procrastination in purchasing the items led to a depleted supply. Instead of uniform color choices, I was forced to be creative.  In desperation, I was able to create a black & white pattern. Two P's, One O, One S, One I, and One E for Popsie, and Two D's, One B, One U, and One Y for Buddy. Luckily, the fabric paints had not been picked over. I decided on a variety pack of squeeze bottle paints and placed them into the cart.
I remember vividly taking the items to check out. I looked to Mo. Her smile gleamed as she eagerly offered, "I cannot wait to make these shirts for Popsie and Buddy! Them are going to LOVE them!"
I agreed. It would be the perfect gift for the two grandfathers, personalized t-shirts with hand prints of their two granddaughters.
Just perfect.
We returned home with our supplies and I went to work. Dusting off the iron, I easily attached the letters to the t-shirt. Waiting for the little hands to mark below.
Upon waking from their nap, we eagerly worked. First painting Mo's hand with black paint, then carefully placing it on the red shirt. Slowly removing the hand, her print perfect. We repeated the process again on the corresponding shirt, and then repeated the process with Maeve.
The shirts were completed with the addition of the girls' names under their respective hand prints.
The days passed, and Father's day was approaching. It was time to wrap the gifts. Giving the girls crayons and old paper made specifically for wrapping valuables during moving, they created personalized wrapping paper.
Their hand strokes evident as I wrapped the shirts for Popsie and Buddy.
Father's Day arrived.
At a small picnic at my brother's house, Mo eagerly offered her gift to my my father. It was just as I had imagined. Meticulously, he unwrapped the paper, mentioning to Mo the beauty of her art work. Finding the t-shirt, he held it up for all to see. She looked to him, jumping up and down with excitement. While sitting in the living room, he removed his standard Phillies shirt and replaced it. The new red Popsie shirt displayed for all to see.
He wore the shirt for the remainder of the picnic, making comments throughout the day about it to both Mo and Maeve.
We had initially planned to visit Buddy the following weekend. But as is customary in life, things come up and so the package sat on our table. The shirt hidden beneath it's paper covering.
As his health made a turn for the worse, a visit with the girls was out of the question.
We just assumed, like always, his health would improve and we would have the chance to have that visit.
But it never did.
I wish he had never gotten sick.
He missed out on so much.
He never really got a chance to know my kids. He never got a chance to run around the dining room table, or sit on the couch and read a book. He never was able to walk the perimeter of our property with Bry, examining the exterior of the house nor offer advice on old house maintenance.
He never got to unwrap that package.
And so that package remains.

Balance

As I peruse others blogs, I often allow myself to imagine the lives behind the photos and words I see.
In my mind these families are eternally happy:
 frolicking in the waves at the beach
 playing family games of catch on the lawn
 preparing organic dinners from scratch nightly
 dressing up for no apparent reason
 parenting immacuately clean and well behaved children
 tiding up well-styled and maintained homes
 all with a smile on their face.

I find myself overwhelmed (and frankly envious).
Of course, in my mind I know that these blog posts are only vignettes, mere snapshots of moments, not the daily grind that most follow. However, instead of celebrating these successes, I admit, I see my own shortcomings.
I feel a bit of failure with each children's art project we never complete, chicken dinnner I never cook, and homemade pillow that I couldn't sew.  With a click of a button, it's more of the same.
Perhaps I need a better hobby?
Or to learn how to sew or craft?
Cooking in a house without air conditioning is a crapshoot at best.
Maybe I just need to let it go.
So what if it's chicken nuggets for dinner (again)?
Who cares if my living room looks more like a college frat house then a PotteryBarn catalogue?
My physical appearance
I think that is something I can spend a little more time on, though I do not think I will be partaking in the what I wear posts that are popular elsewhere.
It is what it is until it's not.
I think the best thing for me to do to get over this hump, is to write.
I may not be too good in the kitchen or craft room, however I'm slowly finding my voice here:
wearing my pajamas, while my kids dance around the room, eating cereal bars.
And that's okay by me.
(At least until I start blog hopping again!)