Let's Read Some Stories

The cries of her toddler's screams awoke her with a start.  "Eggs! Eggs! Eggs!"  A pause.  There it was again.  "Eggs! Eggs! Eggs!" Nothing about these screams should have startled the young mother, for they were a frequent cry heard in the early hours of the morning.  A silent moan welled up inside her -- that familiar tightness in her shoulders, resisting the day's monotony of splattered applesauce, smelly diapers, and the very real fear that catastrophe could, would, and should strike any moment.  The day itself began with the reminder of chaos, as Alice continued to scream from her bed, "Eggs! Eggs! Eggs!" The mother listened for her husband, perhaps in the kitchen starting his breakfast.  No, he had left for the bus.  Two cars in the driveway: one too dangerous to drive and too costly to repair, the other for her and the children.  Maybe they should get out of the house today... some place other than the grocery store.  Some place to justify her husband leaving an hour before he was due at work, compared to the 15 minutes it took to drive.

The mother turned to see her 9-month-old sleeping soundly on his tummy.  For a brief second she wondered how much more pleasant the morning would be if that baby were in the same room as the Egg Monster, no feedings through the night, just a normal morning with your body's energy a sweet reminder of the deep sleep of the night before.  That dear 9-month-old who much preferred feeding off his mother to a spoonful of anything a grown human might eat.  "Eggs! Eggs! Eggs!"  She crawled out of bed and made the one-second journey to the next room, the nursery. The morning sun always shone brighter in this room where behind, a mess of blonde bedhead, Alice greeted her with a rascally smile.  Alice's blue eyes stuck fast to her mother's. "Eggs?" she asked. 

                                                                         The End 

I often tell my husband that if he read more fiction -- or any story, for that matter -- life would make a lot more sense.  Caleb is an avid reader and a hungry learner, but he strongly prefers philosophy, theology, and the like to a book of fiction.  He's good at understanding information and there is nothing he loves more than understanding a topic backwards and forwards (is there any other way to understand something?).  While in college, I could walk into a Geography test knowing very well that there was plenty I did not understand.  This did not worry me because this was life... I studied my face off and didn't understand everything and that was that.  However, when Caleb worried about a test, it was because he "just didn't understand the concepts in the least. At all.  I know NOTHING."  As it turned out, knowing "nothing" about something simply meant he couldn't write a 1,000 page study on that topic but could, however, get a B on the test.  

Apply this way of thinking to life -- that you are an imbecile for not knowing your tire would spontaneously blow out -- and you have yourself the perfect recipe for mental insanity.  Yes, you creeton, you should have understood life enough to know that a speck of ketchup was just waiting to jump on your white dress shirt, you careless buffoon.  You know nothing.  You thought you could plan out your day, you thought you could impact the world, you thought you could finish reading that article?  Well, you didn't and it is obviously because you do not understand how life should work, and anything you don't understand is your fault, so try a little harder and learn a little more and get an A+  in life already.  Is this the voice inside your head?  Please read a story.

In books -- inside the hundreds of pages of a well-written story -- we find the timeline, in whole or in part, of a person's life.  We can read how Anne Shirley, a skinny little nobody of a red-head, is anything but a nobody.  We learn how Benjamin Bunny ignores his mother's instructions for the sake of adventure but, oh Benjamin Bunny, that is not the adventure you had in mind.  We explore the peculiar behaviors of Winnie the Pooh and all his friends, and join their grand adventures (and we might even have extensive conversations with our own Pooh stuffed animal, begging him to talk).  We can identify with the stubborn nature of Elizabeth Bennett, scoff at Lydia and Kitty's foolishness, secretly adore the meddlesome Mrs. Bennett, and nobody knows it.  We are free to assess the lives and characters of these people with no strings attached.  We can read as a fly on the wall or as Elizabeth Bennett herself.  We explore, think, and live in a way life would otherwise never allow us to explore, think, and live.  While we bury our heads in the sands of our own lives, we see the accomplishments, failures, outcomes, and consequences that the characters, whose own heads are so far buried in their own stories, cannot see.  We close the book with a higher understanding of our lives and a greater appreciation for a dreary day because that dreary day is just a speck of a thing to endure until we turn the next page into a new day where Mr. Darcy is confessing his love.  

Stories allow us to grow, imagine, and hope.  History is positively freckled with true stories that allow us to grow, imagine, and hope in the same way.  Life never looks as grand as it is until we make it a story; until we prove to ourselves how grand it is through the words we paint.  The sunny day with a picnic at the playground is not life finally made right, but rather a gift to enjoy and hold onto because when we turn the page to the next day, it could be filled with a tragedy for which only the sunshine could have prepared us.   

The small amount of fiction I have read (even as an English graduate) is appallingly embarrassing, but I think it's safe to say that I was shaped most by the stories I grew up reading.  If you have kids, show them the gift of stories.  If you want to teach the crazy voice in your head to be a sane voice of comfort, read any good story.  Learn from Noah, Moses, Ruth, Bloody Mary and Queen Elizabeth, Lucy Pevensie, Ramona Quimby, Montresor and Fortunato, Jane Eyre, Hulga Hopewell, Harry Potter, and Frodo Baggins.  Yes, that list turned out completely strange, but you get the idea: read a story.  

Stories open our eyes to possibilities and write ambition into our bones.  Stories help us make sense of the bleak and find hope in failures.  Stories help us rejoice when we are served our favorite dessert or get a new car. Stories are how I awake to a day burdened with the mundane, but suddenly see its meaning in the sunshine behind my daughter's blue eyes.

The Backwards To Do List: Lessons In Epic Motherhood

"I feel like I never get anything done," said every mom ever.  EVER.

Today I learned a little trick and a lesson for all of us moms who feel like a cog inside of a cog that's turning a cog (figure that one out).  This is the short story of how that lesson and the Backwards To Do List came about:

This morning began as most mundane mornings do, with my toddler whining like death from her crib.  She's never actually upset, she just likes to greet the day with a dramatic display of how desperate she is to get out of her crib.  We played a bit, soon Charles woke up, and I got breakfast going.  Messes happened, there was a short "I can't eat the rest of my scrambled eggs" crisis as well as an "I'm all done" crisis, but we pulled through.  Like a robot, I worked on auto-pilot and wiped food off the table and highchairs, the floors, counters, and children. I changed diapers, nursed and put Charles down for a nap.  Alice and I entertained each other.  Between primal conversations with Alice, shushing her loud singing, and scooting her away from the bathroom toilet, I got dressed.  I was soon back in the kitchen, making grilled cheese and steaming green beans.  We ate.  Charles awoke.  Charles ate. Alice spilled some green beans.  I blended some green beans for Charles, had some extra, put it in the freezer for later.  I finally put Alice down for her nap and came out of her room, Charles on my hip, tired and sighing.  I thought my frequent thought, "I never get anything done."  I had a sink piled with dishes to hand wash (no dishwasher in these parts), Charles was cranky, and I still had clothes to fold and dinner to think about and "Uuuugh, I'm so tired."  I hate feeling bogged down/sad/depressed, and I do what I can to make those feelings right because they have a tendency to overcome me and I just flat out hate feeling that way... so I grabbed a pen and paper and started writing.

I did not write what I had to do.  I wrote down everything I had already done... even the things I would never normally put on a "to do" list (like changing a diaper), I wrote down.  If I had put my time and effort into it, it went on the list.  With this list I discovered that by 1:30 I had:

- Exercised and dressed
- Cleared the clean dishes in the kitchen
-  Kids dressed/diapers changed throughout day
- Made breakfast and lunch
- Made baby food for Charles
- Swept the kitchen/dining room
- Organized a stack of clothes in our bedroom
- Made the bed
- Tidied the living room after putting Alice down

I then wrote down what I saw around the house that was burdening me with MORE things to do:
- Tired/needy Charles
- Clothes needing to be folded
- Dirty dishes
- Messy desk
- Dinner to be made

The first list - my Backwards To Do List - was impressive!  The second list - more of a To Do List - turned out to be minimal in light of what I had already accomplished.

I do get things done.  Moms out there: you do get things done.  The problem is that these things happen everyday: life feels like a toddler treadmill because life IS a toddler treadmill.  What is a toddler treadmill?  It's that thing where you are walking ahead of your toddler, cleaning all of their messes and toys and spilled food, and they are right behind you, creating a new mess that you continue to clean that they continue to mess up and so on.  You - we - are constantly doing and re-doing and it gets really, really old.  It makes your weary self look back on the day and say, "How special! I maintained the status quo!"  And then you wade through your messy house and wonder if you'll ever get anything done.

When this happens, sit down and write a Backwards To Do List.  You will very likely see that maintaining the status quo is a very difficult task, full of hard work that you should be proud of.

What's that you say?  It's hard to be proud of changing a diaper, drawing a fish 567 times, staying in your pajamas until 11, and your most intellectual conversation of the day being about the color blue?  I'll give you that.  It does feel stupid to be proud of that.  It would feel a lot more worthwhile to be proud of something you accomplished that challenged you, used your brain, pushed you, and gave you immediate results, maybe including a gold star and pat on the back.

But I will leave you with my conclusion to the lesson behind this madness: if diaper-changing, fish-drawing, pajama-staying, and blue-talking are not a challenge to our adult selves, why is it so hard to get through a day that is full of such things?  Because they are challenging, but perhaps not in the way we would like.

As mothers, we have been given the task of rising to the occasion when poop happens.  Doesn't that sound meaningful?

As mothers, we have been given the task of responding to our child's screams of "I DON'T WANT THESE PERFECT-LOOKING ORGANIC APPLES THAT YOU SLICED AND PEELED SO CAREFULLY FOR ME," when all we can think about is the now freezing bowl of soup we have been waiting an hour to eat.  That sounds positively stupid.

As mothers, we have have been given the task of hugging, comforting, and loving when our child cries.  That sounds a little more meaningful.

As mothers, we have been given the task of showing these little humans -- who have seen so little of life and whose hearts are so fresh that they don't know how to say "no" to themselves, how to hide their emotions, or how to think of you before they think of themselves -- how to function, live, and love.  That is deeply meaningful.

When you kiss their chubby cheeks at 12:00 in the afternoon, still in your pajamas because they haven't allowed you to think of yourself, you are teaching them selflessness.  When you correct their screams with a calm voice, you are teaching them self-control. When you direct their hands away from the toilet, you are teaching them common sense.  When you talk about the color blue, you are teaching them the art of conversation.  Do all of these things without loathing, and you teach them love.

You would think being a part of such large accomplishments in a little human's life would make every day feel epic.  I wish.

Pray for patience, be tender-hearted, and strive to see the wonder behind a house covered in crayons, dollhouse people, squished peas, and smelly diapers.  When you can't see the wonder and would rather give up and die, play the Lord of the Rings Sound track, write a Backwards To Do List, and bask in how epic motherhood can be.

Charlie and the Dome Home

        There was once a little mouse named Charlie.  He lived on what he thought must be a farm, and a kind old man, called Master, took care of Charlie and his many mouse friends.  Charlie loved playing games with his mouse friends, eating cheese and crusty bread from Master, and sleeping in his snuggly pile of cotton and feathers. 

It was a bright, sunny day, and Charlie was playing hide-n-seek with his friends.  He was very tired and perhaps a little dizzy, but he figured this must be to his advantage in being patient enough to stay in his hiding spot for a very long time.  Just as he began to doze off, he startled awake -- why, he was floating in the air!  Master was picking him up and, before he knew it, Charlie was placed in a tiny, clear dome.  Master gave Charlie a crumb of cheese and closed the door.  Charlie was terrified.  Why would Master do this?  “Come back!” he cried.  “I want to play with my friends! Let me out!”  Charlie scurried round and round the dome, pounding his pink mousey paws against the clear plastic, but his new little home wouldn’t budge.

Day after day Charlie squeaked and squealed, screamed and fussed, pounded and pounded.  This morning, like every morning, Master dropped a crumb of cheese through the little door of his dome.  Charlie scurried over and devoured the cheese.  He almost swallowed it whole, he was so hungry from his screaming and running.  Charlie looked out the dome toward his master and scowled the fiercest scowl he could muster.  “It’s not enough!” he yelled.  “It’s not enough and you know it!  I’m so hungry, please give me more.  Please!”  Master did not give him more.  Another day of being hungry, and Charlie was furious.  He began his regular routine of running and pounding, but with more ferocity than ever.
     
       Charlie was tired.  My, he was as tired as a mouse could be.  His tummy rumbled and groaned.  He licked at some of the dew on the grass beneath him.  He did not feel so well, but he knew that with more food, everything would be better.  That’s all he needed.  “Why would Master treat me this way?” he asked himself.  “I thought he was kind.”  Charlie looked longingly out of his dome.  He could see his mouse friends playing and eating -- oh, how they were eating!  They seemed to have more food than Charlie ever had when he lived outside of his dome.  Charlie began to cry.

Charlie cried and cried.  When he opened his eyes, it was morning.  The master had already left him his cheese.  Tired Charlie crawled over and began to nibble.  It tasted nutty and it felt good in his empty belly.  It felt so good that Charlie went back to sleep.  When he awoke, it was already the next day.  Charlie looked over and, just as he expected, saw a piece of cheese.  He took it and ate it. He felt better.  He looked out of his dome and a small grin came on his face.  How happy his friends looked.  Charlie was not so tired today.
  
As the days went by, Charlie began to feel happy and not so tired.  And Charlie learned that if he ate his cheese, and did not spend all of his time pounding on his dome, complaining and wailing, the crumb of cheese was just enough to fill his tummy.

It was the afternoon, and Charlie was gazing out of his dome as he often did, when he heard a familiar noise.  It was the door to his dome opening.  “More cheese?” he thought excitedly.  Charlie felt a hand scoop him up, out of his dome, and onto the grass outside.

      Charlie gasped.  The new grass against his paws, Charlie scampered over to his friends.  “Charlie!” they cried.  “We missed you! Do you feel better?”  Charlie was confused, “What do you mean?” he asked with furrowed mouse-brows.  “The dome!” piped up one of his friends.  “Master put you in the dome because you were very sick.  He didn’t want us to get sick either, so he put you in the little dome where you could watch us and get better.”  Charlie couldn’t believe it -- he had been sick, and Master was just taking care of him.  How kind Master was!  Charlie smiled and ran off with his friends to play hide-n-seek.  This time, he wasn’t tired at all.

Circumstances, you don't own me.

If you know me, you probably know that -- due to circumstances outside of our control -- we do not have a second car.  Some woman, driving 100mph through our neighborhood with a blindfold on, destroyed the back half of my husband's car.  His car needed a new battery and the air conditioning felt like a hair dryer, but it worked.  Now it doesn't.  Not at all.  The woman never responded to the insurance company's calls, so we're out a car.  That's how life works.

Some people ask, why don't you get it fixed?  Others ask, why don't you just get a cheap car to temporarily replace it -- ya know, like $1,000?  If I'm going to be polite I say, "We can't afford that right now."  If I'm going to be honest, I wring their necks and say, "WHY DO YOU THINK THE AVERAGE AMERICAN HAS $1,000 JUST SITTING IN THEIR BANK ACCOUNT??  WHO DO YOU THINK WE ARE??"  I haven't had the nerve to be honest yet.

Let's cut to the chase.  I have always been a home body.  Recently, this has changed.  I have found myself stressed upon waking up in the morning, just because I know I couldn't leave our little house if I wanted to.  I've found myself blaming problems like, "Man, I wish I could eat all the Ben and Jerry's ice cream I want," on not having a car.  Blast you, lack of car, you've kept me from an endless supply of ice cream.  This is obviously a very reasonable reaction, however, I've decided that it's time for a change in attitude.  It is time for me to wake up in the morning and say, "You're trapped, kid.  Enjoy it.  Find something awesome to do." It is time for me to not be ashamed to Instagram yet another event that is happening inside our home.  And by "event," I mean eating lunch or staring at Alice play.  (For the record, I don't just stare at her while she plays.  I'm usually gritting my teeth, trying to bear her cuteness, while also singing children's songs or babbling like an 11-month-old)

Now let's really cut to the chase.  I am going to blog about being at home.  It's for real, people.  My life is a life that lives inside of a 900sq.ft. home, and we're just going to embrace it.  I will tell you when I'm going crazy (I'm going crazy) and I will also tell you when I'm working on any kind of project... even if it's folding clothes.  Prepare to be blown away by the mundane.

A salt grinder and my Martha Stewart calendar/organizer/amazing thing.  The salt grinder belongs in the kitchen, and has been bugging me that it has gotten away with staying on the table all morning and afternoon. The Martha Stewart calendar often seems pointless because, what exactly am I planning out?  But when I do have something to plan... watch out, world.

Tornadoes Suck

Oklahoma: May 3, 1999 

Yeah, I said it.  And even though I refrain from using the word "suck" due to its super lameness, I'm using it here because it's the truth.

So, raise your hand if you're one of those weird Oklahomans who LIKES tornadoes!!  Because there are plenty of you guys and, let me tell you something, I don't know why.  Even people who are supposed to be afraid of things -- like English majors -- like them.  There are people here who grow up "watchin' tornadoes on the porch 'til it gets close, then we run inside."  I don't get it.  I never will.  Tornadoes suck HOUSES into the sky, okay?  Houses.  And people.  Why are they, in any way, shape, or form, cool to watch??

I am terrified of tornadoes and it just so happens that we have warnings of TWO nights of tornadoes coming our way.  In the night... in the dark... when you can't see them.  And after we brave one night -- assuming we live through it -- we have one more night ahead.  It's swell, really.

Allow me to say one more time how much I hate tornadoes.  I hate them more than wasps and math.  I would say that they are the scariest natural disaster, but recently Oklahoma experienced a few very mild earthquakes and they scared the pants off of me.  Nobody can warn you of an earthquake and you most certainly can't run from them... but tornadoes take a very strong second in the order of natural disaster fears.

In fact, the largest tornado on record occurred on my eleventh birthday, May 3.  I spent that evening just staring at a TV screen in tears.  I wouldn't put it past me to react the same way, at age 23.  I am the biggest baby when it comes to tornadoes.  The biggest.

So, if I survive the night, I'll see you people later.  Have a great weekend and, if you don't live in Texas or Oklahoma, have a great weekend, completely lacking in tornadoes.

If you'll excuse me, I have a runaway bag to pack before the skies are scheduled to send down their spinning demons.

Oh, Auntie Em.

When your little baby hugs you back

After taking Caleb to work in our one [working] car, Alice and I head back home.  Her 7-month checkup is this morning, so we'll need the car.  And "we" (meaning "Alice") will need a nap ASAP.  She's been ready for her morning nap for the past half hour, and finally fell asleep in her car seat.  But it's time to go inside -- as I lift the car seat out, she begins to stir and opens her eyes.  I put the car seat back in, unbuckle her, and as I lift her out,  I smell what can only be a poopy diaper.  Not only is it poopy, it's all over her onesie.  We get inside.  She's a little fussy, but still patient as I get her out of her clothes and start to change her diaper.  I'm talking her through it, cheering her along, and telling her how great she's handling it all, when she pees all over the changing pad.  "Oookay," is all you can say in such a situation... so I whip a diaper on her, lay her in the crib, put a new cover on the pad, get out new clothes, change her clothes, and we're ready to nurse.  She's distracted while nursing but between the pauses to gaze at the fan or to smile and chat, she finally eats her fill and I lay her down for her long awaited nap.  After I leave the room, she won't stop whining.  The whining turns to crying, so I go in and hold her upright, thinking she must have a burp that needs to come out.  But instead of arching her back, growling, or looking like an uncomfortable trapped burp makes a baby look, she just looks around the room.  I take her to the rocker and hold her like a newborn, all swaddled in her yellow blanky.

She's completely calm -- no fussing, just looking at me with a slight smile as I hold her.  We rock and I hum some of her favorite lullabies.  As I stare back at her while we rock, I realize that she wasn't crying in her crib because she was needy.  She didn't need a fresh diaper, dry clothes, or several pats on the back to prompt a burp.  I continue humming and watch her sweet eyelids begin to close over her blue eyes.  It's easy to get into a blind mode of helping the needy baby, responding to the needs, and doing the mundane (like peeling a poopy onesie off a little human's back).  Though my baby might be oblivious to the many things I do to help her, she does know that she's being taken care of and she knows how to want the person who gives that to her.  As I continued rocking and watched her breathing change to that sweet, slow and deep rhythm, I just wanted to cover her in kisses.  My little baby cried in her crib simply because she wanted more care and the comfort of that care. She wanted mommy.  It might seem super subtle and silly, but after the months of caring for a very sweet but very needy bundle, the calm baby who just wants her mommy is a neon sign that says, "I love you, too," and it couldn't make me happier.

A little baby shares a lot.

Good Friday to you!  The post today is brought to you by none other than Alice Clementine.  Being six months old, she has a lot to share with you all.  I leave the rest to you, Alice.

Hi, guys.  Because I'm so grown up, my mom took some pictures of me today.

I had a super good time getting my pictures taken, as I always do. I really don't get upset a whole lot but some things that I don't like are:

Being somewhere new for too long.  Being sleepy.  Mom cleaning under my neck/chins.  Loud noises.  My teeth hurting (when my teeth hurt, I get to suck on a little homeopathic pellet, and that is pretty tasty).  And lately I just think it's pretty bad when mom and dad are standing there, but someone else is holding me -- what is up with that??

I love scratching things and putting things in my mouth.  Mom lets me scratch almost everything, except her face and my tummy. When I scratch my tummy, it makes these red lines -- it's really cool.  But mom thinks it's better without the red lines.

I also LOVE it when daddy comes home.  I don't know where he goes all day, but it must be pretty great, because he always comes home smiling when he sees me.  Mom is always around and we hang out a lot.  We do the same thing most of the time.

A lot of times, people that I don't know come up and smile at me and say that I'm adorable.  Isn't that so nice, you guys?  It makes me happy and sometimes it makes me squeal.  Squealing is so much fun!  But sometimes I forget about squealing because I get so busy looking around and thinking.  There's so much to think about.

Ya know what else I love?  I love it so much.  I love it when mommy sings.  If I'm in my jumper, it makes me jump up and down when she sings.  If I'm lying down, I kick my legs and smile really big so that she knows I like it.  My favorite is "The Wizard and I" from Wicked... for real.  Someday we'll sing songs together, but I'm just a baby right now.

Other things I love: 

The duck song.

Tickles.

Funny kisses.

My Sophie giraffe toy.

My pacifier.

Kicking.

Books.

Jumping in my jumper.

Milkies.

Don't even get me started on milkies... they are my favorite food.  Sometimes mom tries to give me other stuff, but I really don't know why, because milkies are clearly my favorite.  Some people call it "milk," but I'm a baby, so I obviously add "ee" to everything.  Cut me some slack, guys.

Thank you so much for letting me share with you all of my favorite things and some of the things that are not fun!  I'm already learning that the world revolves around me, so getting the opportunity to star in a post bolsters that even more!  Yay!

Thank you!

Fresh routines, scowling at life, and how to use a rotten apple.

"Hi, my life is perfect -- and I'm skinny."

Sometimes it feels like everyone's life looks like the woman's pictured above: perfect and put together.  Everyone's except ours, of course.

When I first married Caleb, I had just graduated college and was working full time.  "Home" was the place you retreated to after work and relaxed in on the weekends.  "Housework" meant picking up your things and maybe wiping down the tiny bathroom, vacuuming every other week, and lugging a load of laundry to the laundromat once a week (every other week when you're extra poor).  Cleaning wasn't a big deal and, really, cooking wasn't much of a big deal either.  Caleb or I usually came home from work and would throw something healthy/relatively healthy together and often eat it on the couch with our feet kicked up.  It was dreamy!  For some reason, I didn't think that when I switched to full-time, stay-at-home wife-mom, it would be much of an adjustment.  That was silly.  Since my role as wife has taken a turn and my days have become almost, if not completely, home-obsessed, it has been too easy for me to get so caught up in my so-called important routine, that it blinds me from what wife life looks like when lived to the fullest.

Back in that little newly-married apartment, I longed to be Housewife -- not working outside of the home full-time.  And when I got pregnant, we moved (that's a story for another time), and I stayed at home, I realized: wow!  There's more to do in a home than I thought!  Our little house isn't a whole lot bigger than our apartment... it wasn't the size of our home that changed things.  It was BEING home that changed things.  Suddenly, there was absolutely no reason to throw together a "quick" dinner.  There was no reason to procrastinate laundry to the weekend.  And there was no tolerance of throwing something in a closet... because you are with that closet all.day.long.  "Sticking that in there for now" is not an option when you are keeping a home.  There's an entire shift in perspective -- your home is no longer your weekend getaway.  Your home becomes everything you live and breath and love and -- sometimes -- hate.  Your home is your workplace and  your vacation spot.  Your linens to wash and your Bed & Breakfast.  Your private cottage and your party spot.  It is, by very nature, you.  And you define it for your family.

By no means am I telling the working moms/wives out there that they do not care about their homes.  But I am saying that your home looks like something completely different when it is your job.  Sometimes I tire of my job. Thankfully, most of the time I love to feel my heart grow more dedicated to the task of loving my job.  Because loving my job means loving my life.  I love how the mundane task of washing the dishes can suddenly become an inspiring, fulfilling task.  I love how making the bed every morning becomes a habit, not a chore.  I love how a life made up of multiple "chores" becomes simply living life, getting things done, and investing yourself in the things (and people) that surround you.

In all of this learning, investing, and loving, there are times when you get stuck in a rut.  Everyday becomes a rush to clean up and make your house look perfect (and sometimes unreachably, unrealistically perfect).  Occasionally, this desire to make things perfect leads to discontent -- why can't we get a new rug?  why is everything so time consuming?  why can't my husband bring me a giant bouquet of fresh flowers after work everyday and then I could put them on our table and our house could be so amazing and our life would look like the fairytale it's supposed to look like?  You get the idea.  Sometimes you throw yourself into something so completely that you literally turn the tables on yourself and then wonder why it doesn't look right.  Well, sometimes all it takes is straightening up the table and spreading out a new table cloth.

Sometimes all it takes is a special dinner that was practical in no way.  It takes putting your routine on hold to "waste your time" by crafting a little card for your friend's baby shower.  It takes sewing a colorful flower to a pillow to "unnecessarily" brighten up a room.  It takes bearing so much fruit, that you don't care if it falls off your branches and lands on the ground.  This fruit-bearing illustration is one that Rachel Jankovic creates in her book Loving the Little Years*, but I think it's an illustration that applies to all of us, not just mommies.  She makes fruit-bearing sound so simple and sweet,

"...in some ways we have let our cultural admiration for efficiency get into places that it doesn't belong.  Speaking for myself, sometimes I am working away on something and just cannot shake the question 'Why am I doing this?  Is this a ridiculous use of my time? Should I be doing something that matters[...]?  But it is very freeing to laugh at yourself -- laugh when you know that apple you were working on may very well fall to the ground, and who cares?  But the chances are good that the more fruit you make the more fruit gets used.  The more you throw yourself into heavy branches, the more inviting the fruit, the more people it is likely to feed. [...]  Be bountiful with your fruit and free with it.  The only thing that you can know for certain is that God will use it."

There are times in my home when it feels like the fruit-bearing has become a lovely habit, then are times when those habits become so stagnant that they start tasting like sour grapes -- it must be the fluctuation of the seasons.

All tired metaphors aside, there's a little reminder that will hopefully refresh your day as much as it does mine.  Housewife, mom, woman, girl, boy, man, puppy -- whoever you are -- may your apples drop like rain and either feed or fertilize.  Don't be afraid to make an apple pie because it's not in your routine or it's a waste of time.  Just make it, open the windows if it burns... and then get back to work because your life and home need to look more idyllic than your Pinterest boards.  Just kidding.


*Rachel's book
*The blog

Why Colds Can Be Cool

You know how certain smells bring back memories?  I think the lack of smell can do the same.

I'm here to tell you that having a cold makes me feel more organized and puts me in a good mood.  Maybe during the peak of a cold this isn't true, but as it starts to taper off, I find that life is quite lovely.

As a child, my allergies were so bad that I basically had a constant cold or sinus infection.  I had to learn to function while sick and it just became a part of life.  I vividly remember a spring night when I walked outside to get something from our barn -- I breathed in the night air, and in that moment, my nose was clear enough that I could actually smell the air.  I hopped and jumped, it was so delightful to smell.  Most of the time, though, I had to take a "blowing my nose" break and just blow and blow until I could take in a few whiffs (pitiful and gross... sorry).  But this made smells that much more delightful, and the lack of smells that much more memorable.  Congestion slows you down -- it can make you think a little slower.  And somehow I function better when my brain isn't moving 100 miles an hour.  

I'm not the sick kid I once was, and colds have, thankfully, become a rarity.  But when one comes around and I have housework to do, dinner to make, and a baby to take care of, I somehow know exactly how to order my day.  Very little is stressful, and I move at my own pace.  And, to make it even better, a host of childhood memories floods my mind as I go about my daily tasks... my older sister suddenly becoming possessed, and running into our room to throw hangers at me for no reason; filling our tin bucket with water and lugging it to our play cabin; the feel of Skulpy clay as we form cinnamon rolls for our American girl dolls; baby Ethan staying the week with us, and having the time of my life; filling up my Baby Loves to Talk's empty battery box with rocks from our gravel road (so she could feel heavy and real, you know); the feel of my sister's and my matching flannel nightgowns; my pencil against loose leaf, lined paper and staring at a terrible math book; playing the Beauty and the Beast tape on repeat so my sister's and I could perfect our performance for my parents.  Jenny was Belle.  Sally was Gaston.  I was everyone else.  

So, here's to having a cold!  I might hold off on the vitamin C a few days.  

People are real and so are labor pains.

This seems like it's coming out of nowhere, but do I care?  Nah.

1.  Giving birth to a human being opened my eyes.  I began to look at the people around me -- at the grocery store, at church, in stand-still traffic -- and I realized that the earth is swarming with people.  Each of these people were brought into the world by a mom who felt contractions, experienced the most pain a human could experience, and in the end -- by some miracle -- out came that person.

2.  Seriously.

3.  This brings me to my main point.  Not until I had a child did I realize the complete sacrifice it is.  And, yes, they certainly consume your life once their sweet selves are actually in the world, but when they're sealed inside your body, that's an entirely different story.  A life is inside of you, and you are nourishing this life, carrying it, feeling it, constantly living with it.  It effects all of you: your sleep, your eating habits, your puking habits, your body, your mind, your emotions, your wardrobe.  Then the scariest, most exciting day comes: labor.  The center of your body is tightening and releasing -- you feel it in every nerve.  The contractions start small and slowly grow and grow until you are so concentrated on what used to be the natural, thoughtless movements of your body -- you think through every breath, measuring it.  You think through the lean of your body, trying to bend to the most tolerable position.  You think through each step, each pause, every slight movement, and you feel every part of your body.  "Pain" becomes a feeling and an emotion and it's all that consumes you -- that and the thought of the sweet baby that will soon be in your arms.  It builds and builds and when you think it can't get worse, it does.  Yet somehow you pull through it until a little, crying bundle is placed in your arms and it needs you more than it needs anyone in the world.

4.  Okay, that's impressive.  Way to go, all moms across the universe.

5.  And maybe THIS is my main point.  Because of my eye-opening experience and my understanding of what it means to bodily-house and bear a child, the 2 following things just make my neck twitch a little, my lip curl a little, and my left-over baby belly bounce a little (<-- gross, funny, and only half-true):
Hearing, "Oh, my sister is pregnant.  They find out the sex of the baby in a couple months.  Pretty cool."  Pretty cool?!  Your sister is a super-hero, okay.  You should be passed out on the floor by how  impressed you are that the life inside of her is actually a boy or a girl.  You should be in awe that your sister is WITH CHILD.
And, secondly, the Facebook status.  An aunt or uncle or friend or acquaintance has every right to be excited about their friend/relative going into labor -- by all means, make a status.  But when the status is something like, "The baby will be here in a few hours!! Hooray!!"  I can't help but think, "IS THE MOTHER ALIVE?!?!"  Where are the updates about the mom?  Your sister-in-law feels like she's riding the wings of death, and all you can think about is the awesome, adorable baby that she and her husband and all those doctors are working so hard to bring into the world.  Have some respect for the almost-dead.


And I think that just about covers it.