The Present

They say it's all prioritization, this thing called life. How do we do it, as Moms? How do we keep them fed, and entertained, and educated, and confident? And shuttle them to preschool and playgroups, but make it home in time to nap? How we have dinner ready for everyone at the same time, but have the toys picked up off the floor so the early walker doesn't trip (or the eager-to-please Labrador pick it up to present it to us?)

How do we juggle all that.... and also dive off the bridge into Start-a-Small-Photography-Business waters far below?

Well, we have to sacrifice some things. Reading. Writing. Arithmetic. Strike that last one. Writing on one's blog, for which one was so faithful, for SO long.

I had an epiphany, in the midst of various parenting crises this week. I realized they are living their childhood--and it's RIGHT NOW. I realized my childhood was what it was, for better or worse (mostly better.. really, and I'm lucky) and that their childhood is happening right in front of me! This is the one that they'll remember for the rest of their lives, that will shape them into the people they will become. Right now! And they're happy!

Right before my eyes, little minds are being shaped, little hands are playing and having fun, little ears are listening and understanding the love that I give them. Love that I show them.

I have a Junior League newsletter to edit. Photos to go through for a client (two, actually), but a great song came on that spoke to me.

It told me to write on my blog today. Capture it all. Remember it all. The song? "Polaroids" by Shawn Colvin.

It's over now, and the kids are up.

NOte: I'm shutting down my 365 blog soon, as it served it purpose, but I'll continue to write on here as I have time. Ha.

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Roads Less Traveled

I am still here. I'm no longer standing at the 'Y'. I am too busy to blog (who isn't?) and have written this post 1,000 times. In my head.

Promise, I really have. I blog every day, as I make and eat my breakfast. Shoo the dogs away from the fallen Cheerio's. I just don't always get it down on screen.

Anyway, there's a poem by Robert Frost. You may have heard of it. It starts out,

"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."

That's it. In a nutshell, that is what I've done. What I'm doing. It's thrilling, and confusing, and frustrating, and limiting at times. But I've chosen to remain at home with my two young boys, during the formative, challenging, so-impressionably-young years, and start a portrait photography business.

Corporate America-->Small Internet Startup-->Hard Right Turn, Pause in the Y. The Y of the path (in the woods, silly.) I've been standing here for years, at the Y. And someone finally nudged me down the less-traveled path.

Let's see how it makes a difference.

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Shock and Awe

Today I want to talk to you about the "emergency key word." If you're a parent, you get it. You need no further explanation. Skip paragraph two and read on.

The Emergency Key Word is something, as protective Moms and Dads, we all cling to as insurance. It's one word, or maybe two together, that you can state (yell, scream, shout, grunt, plead or otherwise communicate) QUICKLY to your child in an urgent situation that requires attention. Their attention. On you. Keyword here is 'quickly.'

It's easy to imagine what some common Emergency Key Words likely are, for the typical parent off on a woodland stroll that falls and twists an ankle and needs his/her child to come back to him/her, while laying helplessly in pain on the ground: Look, Suzie! A SQUIRREL! (Stop and stare.)

Or you have an infant sitting on the sidewalk and a toddler wandering around.. a bee comes by and lands on your infant at the same time the toddler starts to toddler off the curb into a very busy street. Look, Johnny! An AIRPLANE! (Stop and stare.)

Or, let's say your child is old enough to swim, and standing next to a pool in their freshly changed, totally dry clothes, and a friend is urging a dry-clothes jump in the pool. Look, Billy! BROWNIES! Stop and eat.

Different motivations for different kids. Every child has his or her favorite things they are drawn to.. toys. Animals. Fancy things that fly. Tiaras. Whatever.

Now let's talk about what my Emergency Key Word has become. He's about to run through the "exit only" automatic door at the store. He's about to walk into someone. He's wandering down the sidewalk away from me. "PLUGS."

Yes, that's right. The kind that are attached to a cord, and plug in. My 3 year old is obsessed with nothing other than the one thing every grown-up he has ever met has told him to stay away from, lest he meet his death via electrocution.

(Luckily he's obsessed with the plug side, not the outlet side. For now.)

A quick mention of whether the building, store or home we're standing in has a plug. Where they are. What kinds of things would possibly need to be plugged in? Why do they need electricity, do they have a motor? Or an engine? Et cetera.

Yes, we have engineers in the family. And yes, he might certainly be headed that direction. But in terms of "normal" emergency key words, my son shocks most everyone that overhears us. (Get it?)

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I'm Back, With Foamy Gratitude

My blogging strike is over! At last! You may have noticed that I have not been blogging for about a month. (Or, maybe you haven't.)

I have been striking against the inequity and injustice in the blogging world. The glaring reality that Mom-bloggers are now growing at a faster pace than any other type, and yet, Mom-bloggers have the least amount of time to spend on it. Unfair.

(Yes, that was a blog joke.)

With that, I want to tell you about my hair cut this morning. It's a small, locally owned salon. Hyper-locally owned, meaning that the salon is named after the owner, who has owned it since it opened, and he (the owner, and namesake) actually cut my hair. I know, pretty kuel.

But first, the hair-washer person (we'll call her "Mona") took me back to the sinks to wash my hair. Pretty typical.

And anything but. I leaned my head backwards, at that awkward angle that salon sinks necessitate during the washing part. I wasn't sure if I should cross my legs or not; I picked something in between. I thought about my book that I'd bothered to bring, and the Book Club members that I had begged for more time from, since I don't have any, to finish the book. I thought about my 3-year old in preschool close by, the other 3-yr old that we had carpooled with, and my cherubic 10-mo old that was back at the carpoolee's Mother's house, happily napping.

I was by myself, during the day, for the first time in a long time.

Then, Mona started scrubbing. Washing my hair. She got her perfectly-sized nails in between the follicles and scratched all about my head, rubbed my temples, got the shampoo to a thick lather, just like they tell you on the back of the bottle. It was heaven.

When she paused, I took the moment to communicate to her how much she was making my day more relaxing.

Then, as if her life purpose had been fulfilled because someone thanked her for doing something she did 40 times a day, every day, Mona really scrubbed. She really took her time, allowing me to actually process the fact that I was becoming more relaxed. At one point, she even pressed the ends of her fingers into the back of my neck. You know, where you might rub if you were sitting at a desk all day, straining to see your computer. Or where you might rub if your neck and back ached all day from changing potty-training 3-yr olds and picking up toys all. Day. Long.

The scrubbing probably only lasted all of 6 minutes. But sitting there, legs half crossed and half not, thinking of nothing else besides gratitude for this person, this salon, this carpool, and this beautiful Fall day, I decided to hold onto the moment.

And, of course. Blog about it.

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Vacating Success

Measurement is a funny thing.

For example, how do you measure waiting? Not time, but waiting. And love? And how in the world would you measure vacation success?

I'll tell you how. An easy way to tell if a vacation is a huge smashing success, is by how much time is spent in Emergency Medical care. The more time spent, the more successful the vacation.

We had just landed in Denver. Land of the Rockies, sunshine, exciting hikes, open air. 24 hours pass, the sun shining, picnics had and playgrounds visited, mountains viewed and smiles turned somber. My toddler started getting sluggish, lethargic, didn't want to walk.. then didn't want to talk, eat. Or drink. Or do anything. (You understand if you know him. If you don't, this is NOT NORMAL.)

Altitude sickness, we immediately think, seeing as we haven't spent a single hour in medical school or done an internship in pediatric care. We bribe him to try liquids. It blows up in our face (just use your imagination with that one. I don't want to discuss vomiting.)

Something is terribly wrong with our otherwise perfectly healthy angel, so we decide he needs care. Off to Urgent Care we go, to see a PA who has--allegedly, as much time in medical school as we have. (But he was a Dad. So, there's that.)

Then, 24 hrs later, my sweet, chubby faced infant, with the dark eyes and lashes that draw you in and hold you there for as long as he cares to gaze, got hot. He started to cry.

An adorable baby is still that when he's crying. But when he's wailing, whimpering, wallowing in the midst of sleep, grunting with discomfort, and looking at you with tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes, it literally makes you want to reach down and lift up a Rocky mountain to make him feel better. So, we did.

Off to the pediatric Emergency Room we went, just me n' my miserable cherub. I rocked him in triage. He cried. I rocked him in the ER waiting room. He cried. I rocked him after the triage nurse told me to lay him down on the exam bed. He cried. Pink cheeks, scared eyes, in only a diaper, he cried and I rocked.

Upon check out, the girl was nice enough. We had to stay a long while after we were done, since they got us right in, cared for, and discharged. And then .. the paperwork. She entered information in her computer as fast as the very fastest paint can dry, but we didn't mind waiting. My cherub and I. She collected what she needed and said I was all set. "Have a good night!" She said brightly. She was nice enough, but I couldn't resist:
"I really can't imagine anything else I'd rather be doing on vacation then checking out of the pediatric ER." I was joking, lamely. I should have resisted.

So, first ER visit? Check. A baby hospital band for the baby book? Check. Vacation? Check. Sleep, relaxation, rest, exploring new places, basking in the glow of nothing to do but relax? All banked for next time.

**Note: the most important element of our vacation was that we stayed with and had incredible support from two very understanding and very good friends, for whom we are very thankful!! Thanks TKB!!!

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Constant Gardening

Remember that fish (Nory?) from "Finding Nemo"? The one that couldn't remember anything?

"Just keep swimming, just keep swimming... Just keep swimming, just keep swimming..." This is my theme music this week.

When I was out in the neighborhood for a run this weekend, in between dashes to the shady part of the street and wiping of sweat out of my eyes, I found myself noting something important.

Some of my neighbors keep incredible gardens.

Some are in front of the house, right next to the sidewalk, so all passers-by can enjoy the color. Some of them are side yards, or a carefully tended patch of flowers by the front porch or walk. Name it, and I saw it. And these gardeners, mind you, range from original owner (from the 1950s) to the young couple who moved in last week, still trying to conceive their first child and kiss Previous Listless Life goodbye.

There is one particular flower garden of spectacular hue, with a half dozen rose bushes bursting with light, color, delicate petal tips, and thorns, just next to the sidewalk on a fairly well-traveled road, for all to enjoy. I've marveled at it many times on family walks. My husband and I have commented how amazing the roses are. My toddler has pushed thorny branches out of the way of the stroller's path. Never knowing the danger of a tiny pinpoint prick on his little finger.

To my surprise, along my run this weekend, I saw the toil. The tired shoulders. The sagging sunhat. The work. I ran past the set of multi-colored rosebushes as the owner of the house was out among the bushes, tending weeds. Plucking unwanted visitors. Examining leaf health. Trimming back unwieldy branches. Tending, tending, and tending. I smiled at him, knowingly. He nodded in agreement. I ran on.

As I ran, I realized the significance of what I'd viewed, what I'd seen on this blinding hot day.

Tending a garden is much like raising children. Time. Attention. An amazing end result, blinding in its beauty.

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Life. In A Painful Nutshell.

I really don't have time to post now. Naps are being gentled tugged away from my little guys... I should be doing prep work for the cookout I'm hosting. But I just really need to write this post. And I think I'll be glad later.

In the College of Arts and Sciences, we were treated to a whole neat selection of electives like "Asian Religions" by incredible professors. My Asian Religions class had a profound effect on me.. especially the section on Buddhism. Imagine, life being All Pain? Really? Like.. ALL life is suffering. Just have to get through the suffering; without it there would be no joy.

When I was gazing at my adorable cherubic infant who is currently experiencing sharp little razor blades coming through his bottom gum, I thought.. this is fitting. Isn't it?

Here is this little guy, just barely here. Barely six months old. He looks around, he sees a brand new world. Everything is great. Everything is fantastic! Everyone is so nice. Everyone is so accommodating. Everything I need, I am given!! Such joy, in this place called The World.

And then.. the pain.

It starts, probably, as a faint little ache in the gums. (Right? How the hell would we know?) Then it probably moves up to the jaw a little, a constant, dull aching.

Cutting teeth. Ouch! How painful is that? Imagine for a minute how that must feel. Didja ever get your wisdom teeth out? Yeah.

You just barely arrive here, happy as a baby, and then the pain begins. (And then, later, it really begins, when someone steals your toy and won't give it back, or you fall off the playground, or nobody wants to be your friend, or you get your heart broken. Or you forget you left the emergency break on when you start to go and smell an awful burning rubber smell.)

But look. We get through the pain. The constant-ness of it. Never ending, never a break until that tooth pokes through and one kid goes off to school (or college.)

The pain... then the joy... we like all of it.

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Timing is Everything

As the moon waxes and wanes, so goes my impulse to write. I feel sudden urges, much like my toddler who is learning how it feels when he has to "go". And I do believe this is a learned behavior, a skill, he is developing.

Take yesterday. On a generous whim, I decided to let him make the decision whether he walked through the grocery store (as opposed to riding in the cart. A much safer enterprise. Less bolting. And broken ketchup bottles. Et cetera.) We piled up the stroller basket with items, my infant eagerly watching how this was to unfold. All was going great. We had probably, oh, 20 or 25 or 50 items in the basket including all the baby food jars.

Time to check out. I was nervous. With my attention focused on loading all the grocery items onto the little conveyor belt, my toddler could seize upon the opportunity to bolt back into the store ("I'M FREE!!! I'm FREEEEEEEEEE!")

But, I come from a strict "Don't Fire Until Fired Upon" Philosophy, so I held the whistle and waited patiently while the chatty, well-meaning grocery clerk checked out the person in front of me. Very. Very. Slowly.

The Chatty, Well-Meaning grocery clerk finally looked up and started checking me out.
Beep! Beep! She starts scanning the items, bagging them, chatting all the way. Beep! My toddler looks up at me, and starts crossing and criss-crossing his legs.

Uh oh.

"Mommy, does this store have a bathroom, do you think?"
Hoo-boy. "Yes, sweetheart, they definitely do. Do you need to... ?"
"Yes, I need to go potty." Legs criss-crossed again. I glance at the conveyor belt. Only 49 items to go.
He shifts his weight and looks up again. "Mommy, I need to make a 'whoa'." That is his word for #2.

We are trapped in the grocery store checkout line with 3 people behind us. And my toddler has to go make a whoa. Right then.

I rattle off the situation to the grocery clerk. With lightning fast reflexes, she speeds up to 100X her previous speed. I run my card through the thing, pick up my toddler, push my infant in the stroller to the back of the store; way, way back. Where he does go. And wow, did he have to go.

Then, (and I'm sweating now) I race back to the front of the store to find out what happened. Do other people do this? I wonder as I run past shelves of cereal boxes I forgot to buy. Am I the first? I think to myself, knowing I am not.

Finally, we make it. Back to the line. Back to back of the line. The Chatty, Well-meaning grocery clerk recognizes me and smiles.

"Did we make it?" She winks.

We made it.

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Unbending the Straw

Life is so unfair sometimes. No, really, it's the clock that's unfair. I do not have time to post, yet it's all I want to do at times, write. Lunch is unfinished. Naps are over. I still have applesauce on my shoulder.

So the question really becomes, for me: Does not blogging kill brain cells?

I say yes. All day long, I have to maintain the highest energy level possible, explain every nuance of life from why strangers smile at you when they walk by, to why a cement truck turns the big thing on its back, to what constitutes a picnic.

None of these tasks are difficult to explain to an almost-3 year old. But sometimes I find myself diving a little deeper into the concept, like when I was trying to emphasize why the washcloth sank after it got wet. Or how hot food cools off, the principle behind this. Or why heavy things fall faster than light things. Or why Mommy doesn't want to prop the door open at Starbucks longer than one or two full minutes while my toddler casually saunters through, carrying his milk cup all by himself.

I do feel cliche, at times, especially when I'm rushing around. To fight feeling cliche, I find myself doing things that could only be categorized as uncliche. Or... another word might be... crazy. Wanting to avoid a nearly unavoidable toddler tantrum, I didn't let us sit down in Starbucks recently, instead telling my toddler that we could have a car picnic with our drinks! A picnic in the car! Allll we had to do was get back to the car. Ya with me, parents?

I loaded us in, infant in infant seat. Toddler in car seat. Stroller away. Library books away. Phew. Then, a little voice called me out on my own innovation:

"Can we have a picnic with our drinks.. in the car?"

Of course we can. I got everyone out. I popped the trunk. We spread a blanket in the bed of my (mini)SUV's trunk. Had our drinks (and our pound cake.) A picnic. I answered many questions that came up.. like the foretold cement truck.

Maybe it's cliche to attempt the uncliche. Yet, I feel it's my greatest endeavor to educate my young mind(s) at every opportunity.

And keep educating my own.

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Catcher in the Wry

I figured it was time for a fun story. Well, it's a story. And .. I'll make it fun.

And a word of warning. I just finished Catcher in the Rye for the first time in my life. It's my new lifelong favorite and he is my new hero, Holden. I'll try to limit the references, but can't be held responsible for what comes out of my fingers. If you want to know the truth.

Where was I? Oh yes. Being funny.

We try to mix it up around here, in terms of playtime. I took my toddler out to a little kid's play place for drop-in play, and he played and had fun. Didn't want to leave. I finally got him to leave by suggesting we go out for a boys-n-Mom date to a little local pastry shop that happens to serve sandwiches. All you have to do is mention "pastry" to my eldest. He gets it.

We made our way down to said pastry shop (that happens to serve sandwiches.) I have my toddler, who has promised me he'll stay with me. I have my infant, too heavy to lift in the car carrier, but loaded in the car carrier. I'm not Super Mom, you know. I need carrying vessels for the ol' out-and-about.

I order us some sandwiches, my toddler and me. Let me take a moment and set the stage. It's a nice pastry shop, in fact it has "European style" in the heading of the store name. It's locally owned. It's close by. And it has pastry. Did I mention that? So it's popular, but not popular with the toddler-set. Popular with the gray-haired and retired set. Not that there's anything wrong with that. They're just a bit more...demure, that we are.

We take a seat, my toddler, infant in car carrier, and me. It's not a big place. But all the tables are full. You know, with the quiet, demure, retired folks. Who are quiet.

They are quiet and my toddler is tired from the playtime. Do you see where this is going? Oh, just fasten in.

The chairs are gorgeous. They have a beautiful little design on the back, which happen to be wrought-iron, and the design includes a little circle. Our sandwiches come. I get my toddler to take a bite. I take a bite. My toddler is up on his knees, relatively safe. (Relative to, say, the elder statesmen nearby.)

My infant squeaks. I bend down to tend to him. At the same time, my toddler sticks his entire arm through the little hole in the back of the chair. He then shifts his weight back, and CRASH!--over goes the chair. But remember, his arm is stuck through it. So his little arm is pinned under the chair, which is knocked over backwards. He starts screeching. I would too, but remember the demure setting I described? Shattered. I'm that Mom.

I jump up, to right the chair as I disentangle my toddler's arm from the hole in the back of the chair. I don't care what everyone thinks. He's screaming, really in pain. I'm thinking of taking him to the emergency room. Then, several things happen.

I examine the arm, which does not appear to be broken. Several pastry shop workers rush over, one with ice, one with a towel. A towel, she explains politely, to mop up the water gushing over the table?

Wait. Water? What water?

Oh, the water that gushed out from the vase of flowers that got tipped over when I jumped up. The same water that is gushing over the edge of the table and into the car carrier, where my sweet, innocent infant is strapped in. Helplessly trapped. The nice, calm pastry shop worker mops up the table, then smiles at me and mops up infant. And his car carrier.

Back to the arm. I'm holding ice to it, and the owner steps out from the kitchen, where she single-handedly made the hurt go away by presenting four delicate little butterfly cookies. Just for him. He takes one, and stops crying because he no longer remembers he is in pain. I check the arm. It's a little red, and they'll probably question my mothering skills at preschool Monday when they see the bruise, but he's okay.

He's okay. I'm okay. My infant is okay, smiling actually, and the butterfly cookies are good.

I don't actually remember leaving. I'm pretty sure we did, though. And I'm pretty certain my toddler got whatever else he wanted that day.

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The Sands of Time

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, sometimes life is funny. There are ups and there are downs. Everyone has periods of self-pity. Self-doubt. Self-reliance. Periods where it seems like life is easy street and there can be no easier way to live, and periods where it becomes difficult to look past the end of the day. And it cycles back onto itself and repeats. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Time is at such a premium in my life right now, that I cannot think back to a time when I valued a few "free" minutes as much as I do right now. Minutes or hours, or weeks for that matter, seem to flee from me like their lives were in danger. And they are. Those minutes don't stand a chance with babies to feed. And toddlers to entertain with rice and sand soup, which is what my toddler treated me to this afternoon.

I had those free minutes last week, when we were on vacation at the beach. A few, glorious, unadulterated, breathtaking minutes. I think it was around 45, in total. I had many pairs of arms around to help with the various and sundry tasks that are usually mine alone, and I was told to "Just Go" (for a run.) But--what if he gets hungry? (Go) What time is dinner again? (Go) Where did I stick the iPod? (Go!)

And so I went. I ran with a strong tailwind behind me, pushing me, lifting me further and further from my daily obligations, my 2.5-foot high charge and my cherubic, demanding infant. Pushing me further from my origin, my home base, my known quantity. Clear thoughts pushed their way through my foggy, sleep-deprived, career-confused mind as the music grabbed hold of my feet pounding along the sand. I stole glances at the ocean, which seemed simultaneously demanding, and demure.

I thought about the past, major life choices that I made in a 30-second conversation with a co-worker. I thought about mistakes, broken promises to myself, and the New Year's resolution I was just starting by running. I thought about my heart, and what it was telling me, and the future. What was important, and what was not. I thanked God for the Present moment, the ability to recognize the moment for what it was. And I ran.

And at some point, I had to turn around. I had to return from whence I came, and ... I was tired. I headed back, only then realizing how far I had run. Turning around, I was hit by a very strong headwind.

A strong headwind called Reality.

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A-B-Charming

If Calculus is the study of change, then toddlers are the study of discovery.

A little while ago, my Mom introduced my toddler to a website that helps preschoolers learn their ABCs, "Starfall". He loved it and asked for it often every time he caught sight of anyone's laptop. Many times I found myself explaining that you had to "go" there, it was a "website", it wasn't always on as soon as we looked at the computer.

Many weeks have passed since he's last played it.

This morning, I was checking my email while eating breakfast (while doing four other tasks, a necessity to which any Mom can relate.)

My toddler sidled up to me and asked to play the ABCs on the computer. I managed to rebuff him for a moment.

"I want to play ABCs!"
"Not right now, sweetie, we have to get dressed."
"I want to play ABCs! Please!"
"Not right now, sweetie, I'm almost done here, it's time to clean up breakfast/get baby A up/[fill in normal task here]."
"I want to play ABCs dot com! Pleeeease!"
"Did you just say 'dot com'?"
[Smile]

He got to play. For a toddler minute.

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I Blog, Therefore I Am Sane.

Or, am I? Just a quick poem about the week from hell.

Snow Shine

Welcome winter doldrums
With open arms
Ne'er grow shall the green grass
How many times:
This too shall pass?

Unholy melancholy melts
The aftershock of leftover snow
Biting tongue at toddler crass
How many times,
This too shall pass.

Wake up and begin anew
Reminders of forgotten hues
Congratulating temper-less feuds
Too many times,
This too shall pass.

Bright sun gleams, reflects
Mirror-like on blinding snow
Easing pains relinquish teeth that gnash
It is true.
This too, shall pass.

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Happy Trails, Decade!

It turns out, it's pretty easy to get one's family to read your blog. Just blog about them!

The fallout from my last post was far-reaching.. extended family far. So, not that far. But I'm glad for the discussion; it was healthy. And it's nice to know my family will be faithful readers now. You know. Just in case.

It's New Year's Eve, and that means one thing. Many things! Another year. Another decade, gone. Vapor. I could talk about how hard that is to believe, how time starts to sprout wings and fly when kids stamp out time for you. I could talk about my resolutions, all the things I resolve to do for 2010. Lose the baby weight. Remember my coupons. Repay the kindness the friends and neighbors have showered upon us for our newborn treasure. I could talk about whether we'll say "Twenty-Ten" or "Two-thousand and ten."

But that would be boring. Let's talk about... something much more pleasant. Hopes and dreams.

In my life, in my mind's eye, I'm constantly capturing mental snapshots of little moments, big moments, the light in my toddler's twinkling eye, the colors of the sky just before the sun goes down, my husband's grin when he's made me laugh so hard I can't speak, the love I see looking back at me from my parents' eyes, our wedding guests' faces, beaming at us. To reference the last post, the way my brother stopped my self-pity in its tracks when he stood stoic on my sidewalk, telling me to stay happy in the face of whatever life throws. Pausing in the chaos that is my family, allowing me once again to be thankful from whence I came, and the family that loves me.

Mental snapshots are fine. Are important, to draw upon whenever needed. But every now and again, you want the real thing.

Now, I will have that chance. For Christmas this year, the angels (and my husband) heard my pleas and answered them.. in the form of a digital SLR (single lens reflex) camera. The kind that can capture what the eye really sees. When you see a great photograph, it was probably taken with an SLR. I've been using [real] film until now, and the 90s called. They wanted their pains in the asses back.

So, with that. Here is my boring resolution. I resolve to release those hopes and dreams from their metaphoric cages, and start shooting. Really shooting. I resolve to begin a Photo365 project, form a partnership with the network of photographerbloggers out there who inspire and critique, celebrate one anothers' work. Hopefully I'll follow a different inspiration every day, but certainly, my adorable cherubs will adorn the digital walls.

Come visit. Tell me what you think. Including you, O Facebook Friends! I'll post the url in my next post here. Maybe that will make me feel free. And official.

Click!

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RTT: Bad Drivers and Other

The cool thing about blogging is you keep doing it. No matter your mood (swings), habit-forming complaints or hormonal shifts. You get to piece together your own roller coaster before everyone's very eyes!

Tuesdays are one of my favorite days thanks to Keely at the Un-Mom. This is the way my brain functions anyway, so why not drag you all along for the ride?

I got rear-ended. Craziest thing. Pulling out of the supermarket parking lot, focusing on the traffic to the left, then to the right, then BAM! (Really loud BAM.) It took me a second to register what had just happened, then to shift into park, then check my toddler. Oh! And then check myself because I'm pregnant. The culprit came careening around to the driver's window, asking if I was okay and begging me to let him go, he had no insurance, there was no damage, please ma'am, just let me go.. I'm really sorry but I really need to go.

Hm. Well, think about that the next time you forget where your brake peddle is. I checked the bumper. I checked his face for the desperation index. It was pretty high. I let him go. Drove home. (We're fine though, no damage. Yet. I'll let y'all know if my bumper falls off tomorrow.)

We put another offer on a different house! A better house. More on that later.

I taught a couple toddler classes this morning at our local Rec Center and was bushed. My toddler wanted to play with the vending machine buttons. Perfect! I put a dollar in and he chose a Gatorade for me. It was a Gatorade AM. It is called "SHINE ON". I'd like to adopt that as my new motto, as my emotional turmoil of late keeps me guessing daily.

Shine on, you crazy diamond.

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Pacing the Cage

I recently heard a song that spoke to my heart. It broke my heart, and whispered it back into repair. Every now and then, you feel as if an artist is speaking directly to your soul when their voice comes to you over the airwaves. This was one of those times.

I was on my way from somewhere, or maybe to somewhere, and it stopped me in my tracks. Not literally, since I was in the car, but the toddler knew right away something had just dawned on me. He probably sensed I didn't quite know yet myself what exactly I had stumbled upon, but the look in my eye, catching his, told him something. And, me too.

It's an artist called Bruce Cockburn, and the song was "Pacing the Cage." This is me, a lifetime leading up to this point, in three words. Pacing the cage.

I've been pretty emotional lately, which is why I've been holding off blogging about life while under the influence of pregnancy hormones. But this morning, after hitting what we'll call "really hard bottom", a trip to the gym to 1) take advantage of dirt-cheap childcare, 2) run the body ragged and 3) cleanse the mind, I had a bit of a turnaround. I believe it's an opportunity to write while I'm under this influence, because I'm at such an interesting crossroads in my life. How could I not?

So, I'll write about my days. My sleepless nights. My emotional misery and my ecstatic highs. Thing is, I do feel like I'm caged in this current "stage".. "occupation".. "job". What is this? Staying home to raise a child? Of course it's a job. It's something to occupy one's time, so, an occupation. It's brutal for an extrovert. It's heaven on the good days. It's a form of inhumane torture for an addict of human companionship on the bad.

But why can't I just .. enjoy it? Because I'm human. And I had an exciting, blurry, stress-ridden quick ride up my career ladder, a pleasant plateau, a sudden wish to dabble into the artistic side of my brain, and.. had a child. Here I am. And here you are, reading me.

My emotions are there for the taking, you can turn and smile and bring them out of me. You could take my parking spot, glare at me across the aisle, miss the potty and pee on the floor, walk out of the room before I'm ready, make an offhand comment about how perfect your life is, or become my family and break my heart into a million pieces with nary a backward glance.

It's with this emotional context that I fill my head, my heart, my days. It's why I wrestle with the "what am I doing?" question.

I want to start another blog, a local resource for stay-at-home-moms in Northern Virginia. I want to go back to working on a trading floor. I want to write a book. I want to be paid for my photography. I want to learn another language. I want to quiet these emotions. I want to destroy all emoticons. I want to be a better wife and mom. I want to put it all out there, and I want to hide it all away.

So, here I am.. pacing the cage.

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RTT: True Random Tantrums

I've never called one of those "How Am I Driving?" numbers on the back of random trucks, buses, 18-wheelers, soccer moms and cell phone drivers. But today, I came close. This auto-parts store truck had a bright yellow one on his bumper. He wasn't going fast enough to keep up with my next destination, and I couldn't get around him. I caught an air of smugness in his rear view mirror and nearly picked up my phone.

I once rode horses in my younger "free time is free" days. I knew you were never to feed a horse while he/she was still hot, lest bad things happen. I've always assumed this was true with large breed dogs as well, because of bloat. So, I make my two Labs wait until they've cooled off a bit after they come in from the heat, before having dinner. Tonight, we were running late and I sat them down to begin the dinner routine (after the toddler was done. What kind of mom do you think I am?) They were sitting in their spots, my female yellow Lab perfectly still, while my male Lab, Echo, was panting his black-furred butt off.
I swear I saw her nudge Echo:
"Dude! Shut up! She's never going to feed us if you don't shut your damn snout!"

Watching reality television usually winds up making me feel better about myself/my life. Is that bad to admit?

I have begun writing some seriously deep, soul-seeking posts lately...then never posted them. I think I'm getting ready to ramp them up soon. So... strap in! I at least will commit to write more than 1X/week!

Go visit Keely at her place, it's much more random than here. Though, this was pretty random.

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RTT? Potty Mouth

I have something random for ya. We are deeply in the throes of potty training at our house. Rock the House.

I had such a dearth of good, interesting, funny stories on my blog last week, that I plan to more than make up for it this week. If you've never had a child, or your potty training was seamless and easy, you may want to skip this post. I just can't relate.

On Saturday morning, I heard my newly-turned two year old alternating between crying, and talking to himself. Gentle crying, then yammer yammer to (conceivably) his various animals and blankets that accompany him in his crib nightly. It was early, I still had sleep in my eyes, but I was intrigued. He doesn't normally alternate crying with jabbering.

I opened the door, and subtly contained my shock, disgust and dismay as I found my toddler, buck naked in his crib, holding on to one of his poops.

That's right. Holding on to it, as if he just wasn't ready to let that one go.. yet.

I quelled my guttural reactions (puking, acting nauseated), and whisked him to the toilet next door, explaining where it is we go poop. I then scrubbed his hands for about an hour several minutes, while my bleary-eyed husband stumbled in, still half-asleep, asking what was going on. I actually didn't have to say anything. The naked hand washing gave it away!

We started officially potty training last week, at the encouragement of our pediatrician, who told me that 1) because our toddler is interested, 2) because it's warm and summery, finally, and 3) I'm not due until November, now is the time.

We've had a few other acrimonious accidents. He peed on the ottoman. He peed on his brand new MegaBloks tractor. He pooped on his toddler chair. Okay, so they aren't that funny. But he is getting it. He understands the need to go, just can't always make it to the proper spot to do it.

Hey, that's happened to the best of drunk college students. Just.. can't.. quite.. make it to the toliet.

So, if you are easily grossed out, pass out at the sight of words referencing defecation, you might pass on my blog this week. Otherwise, all help and advice, book recommendations, and sedative prescriptions are welcomed! Let 'em rip!

C'mon.. give us your best potty training story ever. Dare ya!

And go see Keely for better random number generation. She's better at it.

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The Paradox of Parenting

As my Mother-in-Law said, "this was the longest and the shortest week ever."

I agree. From our four-day break last weekend, I gleaned peace.. I gleaned some calm.. I gleaned some precious time with best friends that I rarely get to see in the hurried waters of life.

And a funny thing happened, on the way back to the Forum. Traveling back from the wedding festivities, we were heading down a gorgeous, scenic North Carolina byway on our way back to Chapel Hill to pick up the kiddo from the loving exhausted grandparents.

As we emerged into the final stretch of the open road, surrounded, summoned, by Piedmont rolling hills, green fields, and cows with a Southern drawl, I felt the strangest emotional tug I'd ever felt.

I wanted that road to stretch out further and further in front of us, each bend rounding a little longer and keeping us away from our goal. I wanted each hill to climb a little bit higher, allowing us a generous view at the peak, dropping us gently down towards our sleeping child. I wanted to never get there.

Yet I wanted to get there so badly. I wanted to open the door to his room, peek inside the Pack 'n Play at my adorable, cherubic napping son, and be there in front of his adoring eyes when he awoke. I wanted him to jump up to his toddler feet, open his arms wide, and say, "Mama came back."

And in the tug, the emotional roller coaster that is pregnancy got the best of me. I had had a myriad emotions over the course of the wedding weekend.. oft to be expected when good friends get married. Expected when you're surrounded by good friends that are already married, with whom you've spent years.. decades getting to know individually as humans. Then, as one unit in marriage.

All of this. The generosity of time, allowing us this many memories and mental snapshots to live by. The reminder of good friends.. old friends.. friends that have known you through incredibly rich years of life. The shred of peace I obtained while being simply by myself (if not just for a few hours.) My husband and I, as one unit, no hangers-on, alone with just the open road ahead of us to share.

I wanted to hold onto these untenable things, yet I wanted to whisk them away with one wave to reunite with my one-and-only, turning-two toddler. To look into his blue eyes, watch his grin grow, then listen to him as he told me all the ways he loved, learned, played, missed, and grew. Without us there.

I think this is the paradox of parenting.

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Happy Birthday, Big (Little) Toddler!

(Pretend today is Monday, June 15th. That's just how this week is goin'.)

Happy Birthday, big C!


(Yes, I took these photos. And more about the trip to come, promise!)

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