the fourth trimester

I have had thoughts for weeks about writing about this time in the fourth trimester [yes, I know that tri means three...but just roll with it. It's a thing.]. But now that I sat down to write and the cursor is flashing I don't know exactly what to say.

Maybe I'll start here: Everyone keeps asking, "How are you doing?" or "How are you getting along?" Those are hard questions to answer, because if you've ever been in the fourth trimester you know that the answer to those questions changes moment to moment. But overall the answers would probably be: Okay. and Okay. 

And to me, those okays are pretty positive things.

Overall, despite some pretty crazy moments and a separated pelvis, I still think this transition from two to three has gone better than from zero to one. Notice I said "gone better" and not "been easier". I don't think you can quantify what is easy or hard after having a baby. It is a weird time where offering your bloody body to a newborn every hour and half seems doable but putting on real pants seems impossible and leaving the house seems like it will never happen again. Now which of those things should be easiest? Putting on pants. And which of those things should be hardest? Nursing a newborn every hour and a half. But your mind and your body have gone haywire and you don't know up from down for a few weeks and really every single thing you have to do that day is hard.

 But then you just start doing it. And you keep on doing it.
And pretty soon it's normal and hard things become easier and babies start walking and going to the bathroom by themselves. 

After Blythe I had a hard time recovering from labor. I thought I would never get to stop using a peri bottle. And nursing was nearly a complete disaster. There is no reason I should have continued, but I did because #firsttimemom. On top of all of that, I had to adjust to a human being needing me to sustain life. That's a mind shift, even if you've always wanted to be a mother. And on top of all of THAT, I had made the decision to quit teaching for the time and become a full-time stay-at-home-mom. I gave up a role I loved for a new role I knew I would probably one day love but was definitely not currently loving. And did I mention my body was still bleeding? 

Suffice it to say, nothing could trump that emotional nightmare, so why not have more children? But in all seriousness, I learned so much that first year with Blythe. And I rejoiced when it was time to wean her, and I realized that motherhood snuck up on me after its initial onslaught, but my biggest lesson? My biggest lesson was that I am not what I do. Or what I don't do. When I let Christ truly define my identity and started inviting Him fully into the messy details of my day as a mom, there was still hard stuff, but the hard was faced with a confident Peace. 

 All that to say this:
the transition to three has not rocked me to my core like my transition to one, but it has still been full of hard stuff just the same.

But really full moments of just good too.

Also, I think the idea that I deserve certain things has changed, which means that picking up a nearly petrified and half eaten peanut butter sandwich off the 2-weeks-since-last-vacuumed-living room floor and eating it seems like no big deal. And while showering without someone crying or opening the shower door or putting something in the shower with me sounds lovely, I don't feel like I have somehow earned that or that I deserve it like I once did. I still remember reading something a friend posted after I had Blythe. After she had her first born her mom said these words to her: You brought your daughter into this world.  She owes you nothing. You owe her everything.   

But this fourth trimester?  Let's see. Nan has been our most difficult baby. She's not a bad baby by any means, but our other two were pretty easy. Nan just has more fussy periods and still eats every two hours. Which has been interesting. But overall she's a good egg too.

This has for sure been the hardest transition for Brent and me as a couple. There is just less time where it's just us and quiet and where we have the brain capacity for a conversation. We're realizing this more and trying to be better about the time we do have, and finding ways to create more time, and also trying to give lots of grace and realizing this is just a season too. 

Two weeks ago was my breaking point. I think I just heard lots of women nod their heads and give a knowing smirk. Even if it was 20 years ago, I'm guessing you vaguely remember your breaking point after your children were born. We've just had several months of hard stuff: Blythe got pneumonia and spent a couple of nights in the hospital in March, and then things just got crazier and crazier. Becks had pneumonia. Then I got sick. Then I had a baby. Then I could do so little because the pelvis thing. Then when it seemed the clouds were finally breaking a bit, the older girls spiked super high temperatures. And that's when I broke. My mom came over on the worst day during lunch time. She said she saw that look in my eyes and was immediately taken back to when I was a [very difficult] baby and she would lay me down and literally crawl out of the room. And then I would start crying. And she would lay on the floor and just cry with me. And can I just say this: that all sounds dramatic until you've been there. 

So when she saw that look in my eyes, she tread lightly.  She gave me a hug. Brent saw the look as well, as I'm sure most father's have seen at some point, and he asked how he could help and I just didn't know so I yelled things about unloading the dishwasher then went to the bathroom and cried. It was a crazy day.

But then the clouds really did start to break and some sunlight has been coming in and I think, dare I say it, we are really about done with the fourth trimester and just headed back into life?!

This transition has gone better than zero to one, but it has required so much more physically of me. I am needed in three places at the same time many times a day. Getting children in and out of the car is about like you could imagine it when they all still require buckling assistance and yes, I use snacks to lure them into the vehicle all the time. 

Also, something I wasn't expecting? My older two hitting their "difficult stage" at the same time, while also having a newborn. Blythe breezed through age two. I loved it. Terrible twos? Not a thing. "Oh just wait, she'll be a threenager for sure!" Not really. But age four? The attitude and tantrums have arrived. While at the same time Becks has hit her stride at age two. One minute they are completely fine, and the next they are both screaming and I am poised to call the ambulance because someone only screams like that when an amputation is inevitable. But no. It's just that Becks thought that Blythe's socks were really her socks but they aren't they are my socks...no they're my socks...And then Nan wakes up and it's time to eat.

Twenty minutes later all is well. Because usually twenty minutes is all it takes.

So this fourth trimester? It's been okay. We're okay.  A good okay.

And I think this is why:

/I'm enjoying Nan Louise at this stage more than I have any other infant of mine because I have perspective. I know this is a season. I know she will grow. I know she won't demand I feed her every two hours forever [actually, Blythe still does so....?]. She's already started smiling and, like one of my friend's said, when they start doing that it's like someone has opened a window and there is fresh air to breathe again.

/ Help. Oh my word. I've heard some people say that with each consecutive child the amount of help offered during the fourth trimester diminishes. This was not the case for me at all. The outpouring of help I received was staggering. Obviously our mother's were a HUGE help. The entire first week home one of them stayed the night with us. They swept the floor and kept the dishes reasonable and I don't think my mom set foot in my house for three weeks without doing a load of laundry.  I had someone here around the clock for the first two weeks of Nan's life. The next two weeks I still had a ton of help because moving around was still pretty difficult, plus I wasn't really supposed to be doing too much until the cartilage all healed up in my pelvis. So people took the big girls for me. Or they came and let me sleep. Or they came and held a baby so I could tend to my big girls. Or they came and brought food and sat and talked with me. My elementary best friend's mom showed up one day! I hadn't seen her or talked to her in years. YEARS! And she came with a meal, and cookies, and she stayed and played with my girls and she let me sleep and she did my dishes and folded laundry [even our underwear!] and I realized again how God created us to live in community for a reason. I had a meal train coming from church for almost 6 weeks! A former co-worker and friend gave me an iTunes gift card to get some music to chill out to. Another friend brought a quiche and let me drink my coffee while it was still hot.  And I know, without a doubt, that all of that and all those people made this transition better for me.

[Side note: if someone you love is about to have a baby, or just had a baby, here is my advice: SHOW UP. If you don't like to cook, order them a pizza [or bring them Olive Garden like one of my friends did!], or sweep the kitchen, or fold some underwear.  Bring her her favorite coffee. Every little gesture helps. And if you're about to have a baby, here is my advice: let people help. When someone says, "Hey! Let me know if you need anything." Give them something specific right then-- maybe a meal would be helpful, maybe keeping older children would be helpful. "Could you come and hold the baby so I can take a nap?" Or if they are a great friend, "We are pretty set for meals this week, but I can't even begin to tell you the last time I cleaned my bathroom. Here's the toilet brush." Most people are offering because they really want to help. This time I needed help for a really long time. And that was hard to accept. But I had to ask sometimes.]

/ My expectations were a lot lower. I didn't expect to bounce back within two days. I didn't expect to have head over heels feelings for this baby I was just meeting and knew it would take time to grow. I knew I would be getting less sleep but I also knew my body would acclimate to that new schedule pretty quickly. I knew nursing would suck, but also that in 3-6 weeks even that would get better. I just didn't expect anything to be perfect and wonderful for awhile. :) [However, when people said their body was totally different after their third, I maybe didn't believe them. But now that I'm sitting here and see myself in the reflection of the computer screen, I'll just say this: it's all true.]

So that's it I guess. I have perspective. I've had help. And I lowered my expectations.

 Having a baby is a whirlwind: physically and emotionally. But in the end, after the dust of the fourth trimester settles, it is one of the most beautiful experiences of your life. And in all of this? We get Nan Louise in our family, which is worth every second of hard. And through it all, I've learned in more tangible ways about our God who shows up in our weaknesses and becomes our strength. In my insufficiency He is sustains me; in my weakness, He is strong.

I am trying...

I just opened my "new post" tab and this big, blank box appeared. And I breathed a deep, cleansing breath. I have missed this big, blank box. I have missed this space. I have missed writing.

But I'm also trying to figure out how to be a present mom, and how to get two girls to listen and obey and love Jesus and maybe, in the process, still like me at the end of the day: me-- the crabby woman grabbing for another cup of coffee who didn't take the time to put on real pants* today and who just used that exasperated voice on you [again] simply because you asked if you could have strawberry milk instead of regular milk [the answer is no, right now, but should I be exasperated that you asked that? No. Sorry. My apologies, I'll try to be better next time].

*to be clear, I view "real pants" as the kind that require buttoning or zipping of some fashion

I'm also trying to survive pregnancy exhaustion [and pregnant women everywhere raise their fists in solidarity].

I'm clearly NOT trying to keep mirrors clean or stop Katniss from practicing her bow skills [see the bow at my feet]

I'm also trying to stay ahead of household stuff like feeding my family [they protest if I skip this step], paying bills [people also protest if I skip this step], and figuring out insurance for next year because, oh hey, FYI "we are no longer offering health coverage next year, " says my current provider.

I'm also trying to do well at my "new" job at our church: I guess I haven't really said much about it here, but I am working part time as the "coordinator of engagement and prayer."

I'm also loving taking more pictures for people, and trying to get pictures edited and back to everyone in a timely manner!  I even saved enough to update my camera. You read that right: not a new lens but a whole new camera. Very big deal.

Also, at 9 oclock this morning while the girls were eating their breakfast [we're late rises...praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost], I took one look at my filthy oven and it tipped me over the edge and I just dove into it. 

So that mess is happening right now. You should have seen my burners. Yikes. It made me think of Grandma Pat because 1. at least 12 times a day I think of Grandma Pat and 2. the day we moved into the house we had a lot of helpful hands on deck, hers being two of them. She manned the stove and she got those burners sparkling and she said, "Now I expect it to look this way every time I come over." Thankfully I knew she was joking because it most definitely did not look like any time she came over. Maybe after today it will. Maybe.

Oh, yes. And I am also trying to get everything updated in baby books for Blythe and Becks so I can begin baby girl number 3's book. I am keeping a "Belly Book" for her, just like I did the others, and so help me I will document this pregnancy and baby. But really, forgive your parents if you were not the first child and they didn't buy you a baby book.

But I want to keep writing and processing here. Hang with me. Maybe someday I'll put on real pants again. But for now I'll write when I can and try to keep my girls from burning the house down...if my dirty oven isn't the first culprit. 

#dirtypics: the car edition

When we last met to discuss our [#]dirtypics  , I can't believe I failed to mention the space that quickly becomes the dirtiest of all: our van. And when you all shared your dirty pictures with me, no one shared their car! So am I alone in this? I hope not. I think not. 

I once had a friend come visit with her two children. When they arrived after their several hour car journey, their kids came tumbling out of the back of their van with stuff literally stuck to them. There were so many snacks crunched into the floorboards I didn't know if I should laugh, avert my eyes, or start munching. The dad said he once judged one of his friends pretty badly when he saw the inside of his vehicle. One or two kids should not cause that, he condemned in silence. But as his own children shook off their debris, he laughed as he shared this story with us, shaking his head at his own ignorance. 

Here's the deal with the car: it gets you from here to there, and while going from here to there the kids are strapped in to a 5-point harness and can hardly move. Which means they are limited for entertainment. Which means you keep chucking toys back at them, and when that fails you dig into the snacks. And when they start throwing their Cheerios for entertainment purposes, you let them because they are being quiet. Parenting while driving-- we decided it was worse than texting. [But don't text while you're driving.] 

So all of the above happens, and you get to your destination, or your home, and all you want to do is get out of the vehicle. So you leave the remains. And the three pairs of shoes your three year old has taken off on three separate trips. And the books. And the toys. And the spare diapers. And I am just going to pretend that sippy cup that I know rolled under the driver's seat is gone forever because I don't want to imagine what it will smell like if I open it. 

I was thinking about all of this, and our need to be open and share our realities more. I won't lie, this is not THAT bad for my van. Nothing sticky was happening and the backseat was surprisingly calm. But here is a peek at the front and the back: 

Let me break this down for you.

The front seat:
/ A box of diapers. Obviously.
/ Goodnight Moon. Because I need an option to throw back at the girls at any given moment.
/ My purse… and oh my goodness that should probably be my next [#]dirtypics post. Yikes.
/ Hand sanitizer, for those emergency "I HAVE TO GO POTTY!" right now moments on the highway.
/ A giant cup from McDonalds. This is unusual for our van. I won't lie. But I snapped this on the day of our anniversary, and we celebrated after church my going to McDonalds and a park. We're so fancy, you guys.
/ Crunch candybar wrapper. That was all me.
/ Stickers from church nursery. Does your church have these? And if so are they EVERYWHERE in your house? When a number flashes on the screen at church are you panicking because you currently have 5 numbers stashed in your bible and 12 in your purse and you have NO IDEA if that number is yours because you have 17 to sort through?!
/ Sunglasses. Which will break in the next week. [True story.]
/ Two bottles of partially empty water.
/ A church bulletin.
/ And, if you look very closely, you will see that under the tray is a dirty diaper. Does that mean I win and you all can stop now?

Moving on to the back seat which, like I said, is relatively calm and clean:

Okay. Actually this is too calm. Some random toys and books, a snack container, and crumbs. I'm patting myself on the back. Nothing looks stained either, so bonus points.

But seriously, I get stressed out when the van is messy and I try. But after one day it looks like I haven't touched it in months. And during softball season when I'm driving out to the ball field everyday and hauling things? Forget it. I think Newton needs a new law: What goes up must land in your van. 

The girls don't seem to mind though. They actually find it quite peaceful, apparently.

Your turn! Email me or post to my facebook. I can't wait!

#dirtypics / Take Two

I seriously can't get enough of your [#]dirtypics. < Speaking of which, can someone please come up with a hashtag that won't get us all reported? [And if you missed the original post and are confused, click HERE.]  This is all coming from a person who loves organization, and no clutter. But reality doesn't always match my brain. I think on Pinterest there should be pictures of beautiful room designs, and then a side by side of the same room after it's lived in.

First, let me start with a picture of my desk where I am typing this: 

I couldn't NOT have a follow up after I got such an awesome response. So please, read through these comments I received and take a looksy at these pictures, and then go put your feet up on your piles of laundry and pour yourself another cup of coffee. 

//  It's funny about the laundry thing you said: this is my pile from a month ago I'm just now folding- the big piles are all donations because I'm sick of having to fold so many clothes-- I'm just donating the clothes we really don't need. 3 bags so far.

 //  I often think this while I am posting cute pics of A. when there is a sink full of dishes behind her or laundry baskets on the floor!

//  I am SO SORRY I cleaned the boy's bathroom before I read this, or I could make you feel like Superwoman. Just picture lots of soap scum and dog hair everywhere. I sprayed basically the whole room down with KABOOM, used the toilet brush to clean the shower and tub, and paper toweled the rest. If they don't like this, if they should notice their feet burning in the shower or the coughing up of dog hair, I figure they can clean as well as I can. Take that boys. grin emoticon

//  From the mom who had the upstairs bathroom painted light yellow because a teenage boy lives here and I hate to clean bathrooms (gross, sorry, but true). And this is my end of the school year kitchen island/bar..... (And I don't even have the energy to care....give me a week)

//  I so often fall prey to the, "our house is a mess, this dinner was terrible, I have no clean clothes, I'm the worst wife ever & (insert name here) always has it together!" mentality. It's easy to forget that no one has it all together!

//  Before kids my house was spot less, literally spot less! Now I 'try' to care but after running after a 3 year old and a one year old all I want to do is have 1 second of quiet. I 'try' to still keep a clean house but after putting toys away 100 times I just don't care "they will drag them back out tomorrow, so I'm going to bed." M's face stays dirty most all day, (she hates her face being washed) so it only really gets washed when we leave the house or bed time. I know every mother feels this way but it still makes me feel bad when I see everyone's 'perfect' house/kids.

//  That's a coffee table. Or maybe a ranch. There is a lot of imagination going on in this house. More imagination than cleaning these days.

//  I do laundry once a week and then spend the rest of the week struggling to dig through the mounds of clean clothes to find something to wear! Dishes...forget it...Momma's tired after supper time! 

//  I'm right there with you! I use the crib containment pretty frequently to try to get to use the bathroom by myself. And I removed all of the winter clothes from W's drawer this weekend (in frustration over him constantly wanting to wear sweatshirts when it's 80 degrees outside) and they are sitting in a basket waiting to be put away. C. still has 3 month clothes and winter clothes in his dresser and desperately needs 12-18 month stuff moved into it but I haven't gotten that far yet. And this is the current state of my basement floor, I call this clean enough for company these days

//  I just vacuumed and mopped the floor yesterday. I love my family and dog, but sometimes I 
want to shave the dog bald and confine my family in the garage.

//  This is the state of our entire home. Unpacking is a beast.

please, everyone, do not miss the BABY IN THE LAUNDRY BASKET! my favorite. 

//  Giving myself a pat on the back. We're doing awesome! Below picture is unpacked boxes in our spare room. Yep, we'll get those one day. Close the door for now.

//  From your post: "This random assortment of bills and coupons and hair clips and other paraphernalia is happening..." 
Yes. "Is happening..." As in, "it's not done yet...it's still progressing..." As in, "it is actively getting worse by the second..." As in, MY ENTIRE HOUSE.

 // Last week, [my husband] was gone and we did no cleaning the week before he left. Then I did no cleaning the week he was gone. I ate only macaroni and cheese and ice cream and cookies. Then I cleaned for five hours before he came home, even though he said he didn't care. But I cared and sometimes I just need something to happen out of the routine for anything to get done. 

//  Gathering for a yard sale here for the upcoming weekend...and trucking all the stuff to my mother's in [another town]! Our piles may beat your piles...on the other hand, our closets look awesome, you can now walk into the storage garage and what doesn't sell is going to Goodwill! My laundry piles are on the bathroom floor and you should see the top of my coffee table. 

//  My kid is mad because I put clothes on him. His fort is crushed and the house is a disaster. My pile of laundry would give you nightmares.

And if reading through those is not the absolute best way to go into your weekend, I give you this: 

I messed up taco night last night when the shells got overlooked in the toaster oven while I attended to Blythe. This was actually terrifying, but Brent to the rescue!! He threw the entire thing outside and saved the house. Sheesh. Taco shells!?! Of all things. I'm going back to peanut butter and jelly. 

And send me your ideas for a hastag that will not link us to nightmares. And then let's keep this conversation going, please? 

chicken skin

When I was in Junior High something lovely happened to me-- not only did I grow my bangs out awkwardly and get a retainer, I also developed atopic dermatitis, i.e. eczema. It was contained mainly to my legs. For those of you that are unfamiliar with this, basically eczema is very dry skin, and when scratched it becomes inflamed and irritated. At its worst there are tiny bumps that look kind of like blisters or goosebumps, and sometimes ooze. [Ooze is never a verb you want to use when you're describing yourself, just saying. Especially not in Junior High.]

I remember one very specific outburst on my shins that itched so badly I took a hairbrush to my legs and scratched until I bled...and kept scratching. That's how badly they would itch. I went to a dermatologist, he confirmed what we assumed, "It's atopic dermatitis," and told me what to stay away from: really hot water, scented anything, and scratching. As a Junior High girl I thought he should have added shorts and skirts to the list, but he didn't scratch that on the prescription pad. He said I had a good chance of outgrowing it in my late teens or twenties.

Mild and unscented soap helped. So did not shaving, so in the winter if I kept enough lotion on and only shaved when I had a basketball game, I could keep it mild.  By late high school I wasn't  as self-concious about it because it was a little more contained, as were my insecurities. On a mission trip to Colorado my Junior year I was sitting next to a boy--a cute boy-- who I happened to be madly crushing, and he and our friend joked about it and called me "chicken skin." Thanks to high school requirements they even knew how to say it in Spanish, piel de pollo. I laughed with them because the boy was so cute and I had to act cool about my freaky skin. 

In college it was pretty tame, unless I shaved too often or used the wrong products. And that cute boy wised up and asked me out and stopped calling me chicken skin. But my legs tanned funny and were never going to be smooth like other girls. I had to come to that realization. After I married the boy who called me piel de pollo, we moved to Kentucky and I think our water was really great or something, and my legs looked better than I could ever remember them looking. Maybe that dermatologist was right, maybe I was going to outgrow this?

Then we moved back and I had babies and, fun fact, pregnancy can cause eczema to flare back up. And it did. And so I'm back to square one in a lot of ways-- minus awkward bangs and a retainer.

Just two nights ago I had to get up out of bed and go get my "special" lotion and put it all over my legs because they itched so badly, the little bumps were back, and all I wanted to do was scratch the dickens out of them. I know people notice. My softball girls even asked me last year, "What's wrong with your legs?" because I had major patches of untanned parts that were slightly bumpy where I had had a flare up last summer. But I don't think people notice as much as I think they notice.

Why am I telling you all of this? I'm not sure, really. But I think I just wanted to share all of this with you to say: we all have our chicken skin. Yours may not be a physical trait, or maybe it is. Maybe some cute boy called you something in Spanish, but he didn't follow it up with a marriage proposal so his words sting to this day. I see girls in the summer rubbing Bath & Body Works on their super smooth legs and I have to suppress the envy. I do.

But I've come a long way since I was in Junior High. Sure, given the opportunity I would choose flawless skin. BUT I've learned I am learning to accept it. I'm learning to love my Cetaphil and Lubriderm. I'm learning there are far, far more important things than my chicken skin. Swimsuit season is coming up. Can we all just embrace whatever flaws we have and get in the water? And if my legs look particularly bad this summer, can we all just agree not to call me chicken skin...in any language?

#dirtypics

About a year ago some friends from small group were joking about how we needed to start posting "dirty pictures" on our social media. Before you all disown me, of course we only were referring to realistic pictures of our lives that are not glitzy, not Pinterest worthy, and not something an Instagram filter could clean up. Reality. The raw, the messy, the every day. The parts of us we don't post on instagram. One of the guys said we should post those pictures and hashtag dirtypics. Unfortunately our idea of #dirtypics and others' ideas of #dirtypics are different, so that idea was put to rest quickly, but not before he posted a picture of his wife cleaning out her pantry at 1 a.m. #dirtypics.

I like this idea, and it was one that I was struck by again when I was recently listening to a sermon about this very topic. Women in particular struggle with the comparison game anyway, so why do we subject ourselves to "the scroll"? You know what I mean by the scroll-- flipping through Facebook or Instagram, seeing the well-balanced meal your friend  coworker-from-8-years-ago-that-you-haven't-talked-to-since-you-moved-7-years-ago-posted and feeling bad about the frozen pizza you just stuck in the oven for your family...again.

I don't intentionally post pictures with the thought "oh, this will make me look really good and make it look like I have it all together." BUT, I also rarely post pictures of meltdowns and dirty diapers and piles of laundry, so by the lack of their appearance I am often just painting one portion of the picture. Which presents a falsity. Which is where the struggle begins because we all do that. And when you take that times the 500 people we are scrolling through, well, our dirty dishes and tantrum-ing toddler can seem not good enough. And where did I go wrong? 

You didn't go wrong. You're doing awesome. We're just not posting our own dirty pictures.

So, lest I ever leave you with some false ideas of my reality, here are some of my truths:

/ the girls woke up early today. Early to them is not early early, but still I stay up too late reading and so any amount of early makes me grumpy and can't-get-out-of-bed-y. So I let Becks cry for about 15 minutes, and I went in Blythe's room and told her she could get out of bed but had to stay in her room and promptly shut the door. I texted Brent, who was finishing his workout in the mudroom, to come get Becks and I crawled back in bed. #lazy

/I hate meal time. It's the worst. I never know what to make the girls and regardless of what I make all they want is bread and crackers anyway, so nine times out of ten they get peanut butter sandwiches. They don't eat enough fruit. They don't like enough vegetables. #healthy

/ Becks is in a screaming stage. I think she wants to talk but can't but knows what she wants but can't communicate it...thus screaming. Real pleasant. #thevolumeisinsane

/ I had a friend over for coffee this morning and no sooner had she walked in the door than Blythe threw herself on the floor in a fit because her doll wouldn't fit properly in the blanket. Legs flailing. Welcome to our home. #hospitality

/ Yesterday we rushed home from church, threw the girls in their beds for nap, and were scrounging in the fridge for lunch. Brent was getting some stuff out, so I stuck my head in the fridge and was handing him the other ingredients he needed, but he didn't take them from me immediately and I got impatient. He sensed my impatience, grabbed them from me rather not-nicely, and we ate the first 5 minutes of our lunch in silence. #tilldeath

/  I'm trying to sort through all my closets and drawers and corners and crevices and am getting ready for a big, huge garage sale [June 5 & 6 if you're in the area!], and so there are literally piles everywhere. Today, as I write this post, this is my bathroom:

/ Also, I snapped a picture of my kitchen floor for you:

/ Also, this random assortment of bills and coupons and hair clips and other paraphernalia is happening:

/ When I say I "planted a garden" don't be fooled: I stuck three pepper plants in the corner of my backyard. And when I say "I stuck three pepper plants" don't be fooled: my dad came over and stuck three pepper plants in the corner of my backyard. #greenthumb

/ Sometimes I put the girls in the crib together so I can go to the bathroom by myself. #containthem

/ If we have clothes on before 8:30, Blythe immediately asks where we are going. #wedontgetoutmuch

/ I do laundry on Tuesdays. It usually takes me a solid two weeks before I fold and put away. However, there is still a laundry basket in Becks' room that has [folded!] clothes from approximately 3 weeks ago. #procrastination

/ This weekend I finally sorted through the girls' clothes in their closets and drawers and pulled out the next size and season. I kind of skipped this last year with Blythe's stuff because I had a baby and because Kali was bringing me hand me downs in small doses and it just was a mess. Blythe still had some 18-24 MONTH stuff in her drawers. #organizationskillz

So there you have it. I could go on, and on, but just wanted to make sure to keep it real for ya. I've always felt like I can be vulnerable with others and I tend to trust easily, but social media is its own beast in so many ways and I apologize if I've ever come across as anything other than someone taking a day at a time, sifting through the mess, and enjoying whatever most of what happens.

What would your #dirtypics be?

the smell in the garage

source

The other evening Brent came in and smelled like the outside. You know, that smell of sweat mingled with sunshine and wind and leaves? He opened the door to the garage and what came tumbling in with him was like a scrapbook of summer memories.

He had just pulled the mower in, and the scent of gasoline and grass clippings was nearly overpowering. Earthy. Strong.

And I thought of the countless rides on the fancy riding mower I spent in my Grandpa's lap. He would let me steer all over his yard, not caring that I was burning fuel. I drove down the hill where I would later get married, and through the back yard where I would cut the cake as a new bride. And then we would pull into the little shed,  he would help me navigate it's small opening, and then turn off the key. And that is when the magic happened. We would sit for what felt like forever, waiting with growing nerves and anticipation. In the quiet, dark shed we sat on the old mower and waited for it to POP! And when it did I would squeal with laughter and surprise and, every time, Grandpa would laugh as if it were the first time.

I thought of the times I would run out to retrieve Dad for supper, watching him walk those neat, straight lines. His socks pulled high, and his black boots pulled over them. On the hottest of days he wore a straw hat to compliment his cut off jean shorts. Speckled with bits of green grass, I would flag him down and let him know it was time to eat. Eventually he let my sister and I try our hand at mowing. But we were slow, it was laborious and we complained, and our lines were jagged and let large patches scattered throughout the yard. Quickly we were hidden, only being allowed to mow the back yard. And soon we did a poor enough job back there that the mowing was once again back in my father's more capable hands. My sister didn't do a poor job on purpose. And I'm not talking.

When I was in Junior High art, we were asked to create something that spawned from a favorite smell that held a lot of memory for us. Nearly everyone in the class chose freshly cut grass. [I chose my fifth grade English teacher's perfume, but that's another story...]. When I was a teacher, I did a sensory writing activity and brought in different smells to spawn writing memories for the kids. One smell I brought in was grass. And every student wrote feverishly on that topic.

Grass and gasoline. Summer is so near.

this day

This time :

15 years ago: I was thirteen, almost 14. I was passionate about basketball and Jesus. Not always in that order, but sometimes. I was also passionate about friends, and people in general. I loved to be surrounded by groups. I was letting my bangs grow out, thank goodness, and my mom was trying to teach me the lesson of modesty and screaming matches in the dressing room often took place. I was loving 8th grade, which should be a sin because from what I know now no one is supposed to love 8th grade.

11 years ago: There was this boy I had just started dating, and his name was Brent, and I was pretty sure I was already in love and that I would marry him. Basically, Part X of THIS story was happening.

8 years ago: I had just gotten engaged to that same boy, and started planning a wedding. My college roommate had left me for a Chicago-semester, and I was missing her like crazy. I was a Resident Assistant to some awesome ladies and had an awesome mentor in my R.D., who was also showing me the not-so-pleasant-constantly-puking-side of pregnancy.

7 years ago: I was wrapping up college, half terrified half exhilarated. I was deep in the throws of teaching Romeo and Juliet to my first real class full of Freshman as I student taught under the best teachers. I started this blog, with no intention to still be writing on it 7 years later. I was 2 and half months away from marriage. And moving.

5 years ago: All of a sudden we were moving "home." I was heartbroken to be leaving Louisville, which shocked me. And I was nervous and anxious and thrilled to be moving back to Missouri. My time teaching with the World's Best Team was dwindling which made me incredibly sad.

3 years ago: I was about a week away from my due date with my first baby girl. I felt like a ticking time bomb but was trying to relish in the last days of just me and Brent. I made the gut-wrenchingly tough decision to take a break from teaching to stay home with Blythe when she arrived. In a few days Blythe would surprise us and come a little before her due date, and do it in a very fast and furious style. We would be parents forever.

1 year ago: I was finally "in the groove" in my new gig as a stay at home mom, and was again very pregnant with baby girl number two. I was whipping up a few cupcakes for Blythe's second birthday party...which she would later throw up. My dad retired from law-enforcement and I reflected on what it meant to be the daughter of someone in a badge. I was dreaming of life with two girls.

Today: I am realizing I never made my coffee this morning [it's 2 p.m., too late], and preparing for a Nemo third birthday party. I vacuumed. Danced to Elsa. Served nutritious convenient fish sticks for lunch. Made a trip to Dollar General with Becks and Blythe, who was dressed as sleeping beauty. I am so very happy spending my days with these two ladies.

this day

First, I have to say thank you to everyone who is helping me with my shoe wearing problem. You're the best.

I was folding laundry [way, way, way too much laundry that has sat in my mudroom for WEEKS!], and sorting out papers for taxes and listening to the non-noise of my girls napping [which hasn't happened in WEEKS either! It was awesome]. As I sat amongst little socks and Frozen panties, and 1099 forms, I started thinking about life. Where was I on this day last year, or the year before? Though I don't know exactly, it was probably something like this:

Last year I was enjoying my simple days with a very talkative and fun Blythe with my second daughter growing like a weed inside of me. I wondered about what Becks would be like, if "Becks" was the right name, how my days were about to change, and getting ready to transfer Blythe to a big girl room.

Two years ago I was celebrating the fact that I was almost done nursing Blythe, yet finding it hard to believe I had an almost one year old on my hands. I was finally accepting my new role as a stay at home mom and missing my days in the classroom a little less.

Three years ago I was grading To Kill a Mockingbird tests and teaching The Great Gatsby and creative writing and preparing for ACTs and finalizing my decision to stay home with my first daughter when she arrived. I was busy making sub plans for the last month and a half of school and growing anxious about delivering a child.

Four years ago I was probably on a bus somewhere to some basketball game, as I was the assistant coach. It was month six of coaching for me and I was exhausted. I was also really enjoying my sophomores and juniors.

Five years ago Brent and I were looking at the very real possibility of moving back to Missouri and saying goodbye to all of our wonderful friends in Louisville. It didn't seem real and it was all happening  so quickly. I was cooking meals in a small one bedroom apartment, and enjoying the second year of our marriage.

How does all of that life happen in just five years? We've moved. We've had two babies. We've fallen into and out of new roles. And as I stacked up the folded t-shirts into the laundry basket to deposit in the correct bedrooms, I realized that in five years I will have an almost 8 year old and an almost 6 year old.

Sometimes looking back makes you look forward. Which makes you appreciate sitting in the midst of lots and lots of laundry that needs to be folded.

a day at the spa

This morning I laid Becks down for her morning nap, built a quick fort for Blythe and deemed it a "library", and then headed for the shower. Sometimes five minutes alone in the shower is equivalent to the joy of sitting down to eat a handful of Oreos with some whole milk. And today I was super pumped at the prospect.

I quickly warmed up the bathroom and jumped in. No sooner had I pulled the shower doors closed than a brown-eyed two year old rushed in and urgently informed me she needed to use the potty. Okay! I dripped water mercilessly all over the floor and helped her up. She went. I wiped. And off she galloped.

I began scrubbing my hair and heard the door creak open again. "This is a nice shirt Ellie give me." Yes, it is. Yes, it is. And she was off.

I was rinsing the shampoo when she poked back in to inform me her library was "really good, Mom."

I don't even think she made it ten feet away after that because she was quickly back with a troubled look on her face, informing me she needed to go poopy. I slid the door open, ready to get the floor wet once more, when the panicked face disappeared and she said, "Oh. No. There isn't poopy there," and skipped out once more.

While washing my face she brought me an animal cracker.

While washing my arms she felt the need to return and discuss human anatomy.

While standing under the hot water at the end of the shower, relishing in the brief solitude, she opened the door and mumbled something I couldn't understand before leaving again.

I turned the water off, grabbed my towel, and while drying my hair the door opened and I heard a muffled, "You're rubbing your head, Mom. That's silly." 

I realized I had taken my lotion into the living room the day before and asked her to fetch it for me.

Waiting for the lotion, I wiped up the floor. Finally she came in…and handed me a broken tea cup and insisted I fix it. I told her I would, and reminded her of her lotion mission. A few minutes later she came back with the pink Johnson and Johnson lotion from her bathroom. Which is kept high on the counter. What?! How did she get that? "I jest climbed up there." I had no idea she could do that. I gave her specifics on where the lotion was located and sent her back out. After a few more minutes I went and got it myself, since she clearly didn't understand my directions and was rummaging around in my bedroom. Valiant effort though.

All of this in around 15 minutes or less.

I'm telling myself that someday when I'm showering for 20 minutes in absolute quiet I'll long for the days those brown eyes kept appearing at the door. But it's kind of hard to fathom that right now. :)

Annnnnddddd PLEASE come back on Monday for a really fantastic giveaway opportunity! I can't wait to show of this shop and these goods. If you love vintage and words and stories and cool people, then this one is for you! Have a great weekend.