But seriously, you guys, these facial expressions are so dang tricky.
But when I finally nail ’em, I’m all …
I have been meaning to write this post for weeks now … 6 weeks to be exact. Remember that time I agonized over a career change, and then decided to make it and cried and rolled around in the drama of it all for days? Well, after all of that was a wrap, Hank and I packed up the posse and spent a week with our popup, Emma, and my folks decompressing in Port Clinton, OH. And it was such a lovely little vacation.
We stayed in East Harbor State Park, which was clean and shaded and pleasant. The bathhouses were what you’d expect, with a laundry room in the front portion of the building. I know there was a laundry room only because, about 20 minutes after we got settled, the tornado sirens screamed through the black sky as we crowded into the 10×10 room to sweat profusely with 20 of our RV neighbor folk. I prayed the drill and the mayflies weren’t a sign of the week to come.
Let’s talk about the mayflies for a second because they were something worth discussing. There were thousands of these prehistoric-looking winged insects covering every surface of every stationary object. They disintegrated into mush when you brushed them aside, which always made me feel guilty considering their average lifespan is a brief 24 hours as it is. They exist, essentially, to feed fish, reproduce and die. So strange, isn’t it? We were told they were hanging around later than usual.
On our first full day in Port Clinton, we took in a roadside produce stand and the Cheese Haven, which had, you guessed it, a lot of dairy. There was a cheddar blueberry wedge there I think of often and regret not grabbing to this day. We had a short hike along an inlet of Lake Erie that led around the campground, went back, packed a picnic and ate on the beach. The distance from the campsite to the beach is perfect for a quick jog or bike ride, and there’s a roped off section for swimming that only goes about 3 feet and has a smooth sandy bottom. The girls thought that was pretty sweet. Even Sloppy Joan got in on the action.
The following day was my favorite. We took the ferry out to Put-in-Bay (Am I the only one who thought it was Puddin’ Bay?). To my surprise, the chicks acted like the boat ride was something we do on the daily; JoJo even fell asleep on her Papa at one point. It was a clear, breezy day on the island, so we rented a family-size golf cart and putzed around. I totally get how it’s a softer Vegas. I can see the appeal of bar hopping in your cart, getting loaded and going for ice cream. We had lunch on the water, soft serve down the street and basically made our way around in a sloth-like fashion that suited all parties involved. (Fascinating sidenote: Our waitress at lunch was a Put-in-Bay resident. For away games, her basketball team took a puddle jumper to the mainland and her graduating class had like 5 people. #themoreyouknow)
Our last stop was the Butterfly House at Perry’s Cave. Spikey loves butterflies, particularly those which land on her, so we knew this joint would be a crowdpleaser. Admission was a little salty but the look on the older ones’ faces when we walked in and saw all of the flashy, flapping wings was worth it. A gorgeous flutterbug first found a resting place on Hank’s arm. Then JoJo. But Spike, she waited … and waited … and waited. She would get so close to them with her little face; whispering sweet salutations and wishing out loud for them to come over, but nothing. Until right at the end, a very special little butterfly with very special little wings landed on her tummy and made that little girl’s day.
The last full day is when things got really. freaking. interesting. My parents took off around 11 am, and we planned to take in the beach, until it started raining. At first, it was an adventure. We placed the E-Z Up over the picnic table and put out the lunch spread. A game of Liar! (think Bullshit, with kids), and we figured we’d be good. Around 2:30 pm, I looked across the trailer and told Hank it was time to make a plan B. The tension and energy needed to shift. So, we improvised with a 40-minute trek to Fremont, OH, for an early evening screening of Inside Out; a cute movie that also prompted JoJo to hysterically cry over the fact that Sloppy Joan was going to grow up. (??) I, of course, cried, too. I mean, Bing Bong … you gotta be kidding me with that.
The next morning gave us girls just enough time to walk up to the camp store while daddy packed up Emma, and plenty of time to have the kindest/strangest thing happen. We were ambling about, analyzing Snapple options and agonizing over which one treat would make the trip home easier to take … a cheap cappuccino for Mom, a powder/sucker baby bottle thing for Spikey … And this gentleman – about my age I’d guess – was also browsing the Snapple case, looking slightly agitated. I smiled. Spike ran in front of him.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “The circus is in town.” He just shook his head.
“Man, I tell ya, my heart is just racing. This little boy just ran out in front of my car,” he shared.
“Oh my gosh,” I offered, as the proper reaction.
“I know. He ran right out in front of me, and the mom, of course, threw her hands up at me, like it was my fault. I’m shaking.”
“I’m so sorry. I know you must be shaken up.” I said.
“You know what … let me get all your stuff. Please, put everything up on the counter, my treat.”
First thought? Creeper. But then … no. He totally wasn’t. He paid for our sugary petty treats, told me to have a good day and buzzed out the door. How sad is it that pure kindness never comes without speculation? Maybe the truth was he just needed someone to tell him he wasn’t an asshole, and that it was all going to be alright and the little boy was OK. I mean, let’s be real, it was a camp store and the total bill was like $14, including his stuff, but still. A kind gesture I’m sure to pay forward.
Hank insisted we stop by the beach on our way out of town because the chicks just loved it so much. I will say this, it was breezy. Too cold for this mama and sweet Sloppy Joan, but it made for killer waves. I smiled from ear to ear watching those clowns body surf in Lake Erie. It was so cute … until I had to dress and put those sandy mugs in the car. Have you ever pulled tiny Tangled undies over a cold sand-covered bottom? It’s a joke. But we packed ’em in and made the journey home.
I would 100 percent go back, but next time, I’d take bikes for sure and a plan B for what rain may fall.
Tune in today to see if she can … be that together mom on the first day of kindergarten.
The thing about children that nobody tells you, is that more often than anyone would like, we discover that these little people are petite vessels sent to open, detonate and unintentionally impose utter and complete emotional devastation upon those who love them most. One look, and they can level you. The right phrase, and you’re shattered into 8 trillion tiny pieces. Almost every happy occasion comes gift wrapped in nostalgia and topped with a bittersweet bow. It’s incredibly humbling and unnerving all at the same time.
JoJo started kindergarten on Wednesday and, as she lifted that construction paper sign announcing her foray into elementary school for the world (or just Instagram and Facebook) to see, something terrible happened. I started sobbing. Big, dreadful, embarrassing, ugly tears. It was like they were all holding hands. Once they started falling, there was no reprieve from the infinity pool of self pity.
But when we got to the sitter’s to drop off the younger two, I said I was fine. I was fine with her looking like a 12 year old who picked out the most mature outfit in her closet. I was fine with her telling her sissies goodbye. “Wait until she goes to college,” the sitter said. And again, I cried.
But when I got back into the car to drive her to school, I said I was fine. I was fine with her sitting, crossed-legged, mouthing all the words to an Ed Sheeran song while looking longingly out the window. You know … like teenagers do. “Are you coming in with me?” JoJo asked. And again, I cried.
But as we walked hand in hand, side by side, into the school, I said I was fine. I was fine with how, as I looked down at the pavement, I noticed her shadow was catching up to mine. I was fine with how her tiny hand felt not-as-tiny nestled in mine, and how I could feel her anxious excitement on the other end. “Here we go,” I said. And I tried so hard not to cry.
As I watched her sit up so straight in her little chair, only looking back to meet eyes with me a few times, when she thought no one was looking. As I watched her walk to her cubby. As I watched her line up and march with a tentative confidence down a hallway alongside the big kids. As I watched her eyes light up at talk of reading and adventures and friends, I told myself I was fine. Everything was fine.
But as we set her on the little round seat in the lunchroom, situated with her compartmentalized tray and carton of apple juice, I didn’t feel fine. “Are you guys leaving now?” JoJo asked. I leaned down, kissed her little baby-skinned cheek, pulled down my sunglasses and didn’t try not to cry. In fact, I let it rain. I let those tears fall for the milestone and for my mourning of the past and the fact that it will always be the past, and in the past, she was tiny and snuggly and so close to me always.
“Find joy in the journey.” my friend Lindsay posted.
“This is what we do. We raise them to give them wings and let them go.” Kel offered.
“It’s a testament to you as a mom that she felt OK to go in there with confidence. It’s OK to be upset. Part of being a mom is loving them so much and worrying and crying.” a sweet coworker said (as I snotted and sobbed over her desk).
But when I got home from work, and I listened to her describe their bear hunt, and the playground, and her new friends … I knew, deep down, everything was just fine. But I still cried today, just a little.
Until next time …
As a parent in my early 30s, there is no greater dilemma in childrearing than the one I face when Regulate comes on the radio and the kids are in the car.
You’ve been there, you know you have. It might be a different song, but those first few beats come across the factory speakers in your third-row-seat-havin’ SUV or, better yet, sensible mini, and, even if only in your head, you say, “Ohhhhhhhh, shit!” and start pumpin those shoulders and swayin like it’s the early 2000s on penny pitchers night. I certainly don’t know all the words. It doesn’t really matter, does it? I still feel like a badass. Is it the best parenting move … debatable. Is it necessary for my spirit … oh, 100 percent.
It’s a crossroads we all face at some point: To Mount Up! with Warren G. and Nate Dogg, or switch it to Taylor Freaking Swift and trade in a piece of your soul so your four year old can mumble through Blank Space for the 75th time that day. I think you know what I do. We don’t have to say it. Parenting is full of tough choices.
What’s your song? C’mon now … let that freak flag fly!
When a dear friend of mine came to meet Sloppy Joan for the first time, she first smothered her in snuggles and auntie adoration, but as soon as she set her down, she grabbed her phone and started searching. “So … you have to see this,” she said. “This” was an SNL skit about infant toupees, which begs the question, who wears their hair with more confidence?
Nelson’s squad …
… or sweet, sweet Sloppy Joan:
On my run last night, which took 47:51, I got to thinking about time; Specifically, where I spend it and who I spend it with. Dissecting an average work day, I see my chicks from 5pm – 9pm. If you count the glimpse I steal of them sleeping in the morning on my way downstairs and the brief encounter I sometimes get with Spike, you can add three extra minutes to that. So, that’s it. A lousy 4 hours and 3 minutes in a 24-hour day. But it gets worse.
More often than not, that’s a high estimate. If it’s a jogging night, we’re talking at least 45 minutes deducted from the already slim pot. A class at the gym? That’s 60 minutes. Girls night out? I’m lucky to get 40 minutes of face time with them. Then I start tallying the cooking, cleaning and shopping, and my soul shatters. How freaking sad is that to think about? And, if I want to further butcher those sweet seconds, I could go crazy analyzing which minutes are actually considered quality time. Time where I am doing my job as a mom rather than assuming the role of the moron multitasking bystander as their childhood playfully roars by without me.
An unfortunate series of events has granted Hank a little extra time at home during the past 7 months. As much as we joke about his temporary turn as a “househusband,” the time has truly been a gift to me. Sharing the daily chores and tasks it takes to keep this place running has given me so many more opportunities to get down and wrestle with our girls. I can chew on Sloppy Joan’s neck and listen to giggles hiss out of her four-toothed mouth, because the laundry was already started. I can do airplane until my legs give out with JoJo, because dinner’s in the works. And I can sit in awe and listen to another imaginative Spike story, because the floors got swept this morning. I’m not saying it’s fun being on the other end of the broomstick, but it has been a huge blessing for the lady of the house.
But it’s ending. In a blink we’ll be back to two full-time working parents, with a child in kindergarten and, again, the hourglass is going to drain like a bottle of Moscato at a Mary Kay party.
I don’t know that there’s an answer or a solve for fleeting time. I’ve long yearned for the chance to go back in history, find the fool who implemented the 5-day work week, and beat him until he cries crocodile tears of regret and begs for my forgiveness, but alas, the gentleman (you know it was a man) eludes me. I’m also quite certain that the grass is greener concept is at play here. If I stayed home with my girls, truth be told, I’d probably end up hunkered down in my closet with an iPad full of Sex and the City seasons, a tapped Bota Box and a can of Reddi-wip, crying while the children beat each other into submission and the basic laws of human decency toppled one by one outside by bunker. I once asked my mother what she liked most about staying home with us kids and she said, “You know, I didn’t. Some people are meant to stay home and some people aren’t. And I wasn’t.” I respect her honesty and, while I think my kids are the most awesome specimens ever grown, I think I might not be one of those people either. Sometimes, you just can’t win.
I always try to make it matter. I want their memories with me to be full of belly laughs, muddy knees and wild adventures. I want to listen and I want to lift them up. I want them to know my eyes, rather than the top of my head or my back. I want more time, but since I can’t have that, I want more of the times you take with you; in your heart, in your dreams, in the stories you tell. Every moment spent is a moment you can’t get back and they’re fleeting at an obnoxious pace. All I can do is breathe it all in, let it fill me up with joy and let my soul’s compass point back to that feeling, that purpose, often and always.
About a year after I had Spike, a group of coworkers decided to organize a weight loss challenge. The Ten By Ten Intense Weight Loss Challenge, I believe it was called. At that time in my life, I was in a body composition situation much like the one I find myself in now: About 85% of the way back to my pre-baby self, frustrated, lacking motivation and madly in love with sweets and sauces. The exact parameters of the competition are tied up in my memory – somewhere between the lyrics to Guess I’ll Go Eat Worms and the Flavor of the Day at Culver’s – but basically, we held these degrading weigh ins every Thursday morning and the first to hit a certain percentage of weight loss, won the majority of a somewhat sizable money pot.
These weigh ins went on for months. Interest dwindled. Contenders dropped out. I started taking off my belt and peeing right before in an effort to lock it up. Eventually, it came down to me and a bunch of dudes. And then, it happened … I beat the boys. I was the slim hot dog in a giant sausage fest and, I’m tellin ya, it felt so. damn. good. It was a tasty victory sandwich smothered in cash condiments with a sloppy, indulgent side of a semi-slender figure. I’m ashamed to admit how satisfying it really was.
Jumping to extra pounds of the present, this gal needs some fire in her flat tire. It’s time to drop these last l-bs and bring those cobwebbed goal clothes down to be worn in their glory. Remember when I used to do those “What the scale said …” updates (those two times) at the start of the month? Know why I stopped? Because there was no change. It’s depressing! But the pity and I part ways here.
Another piece of my puzzle, I am mildly obsessed with Extreme Weight Loss, and so, naturally, I stalk Chris and Heidi Powell on every social media platform they selfie on. I’ve seen them post these DietBets before, and was always intrigued. This is how it works, to the best of my knowledge:
You sign up with Paypal or a credit card (a $30 buy in). To be accepted into the bet, you must take two photographs: A full body shot and a scale shot, each containing a piece of paper with your secret DietBet word written on it. Once you’re in, you swap sweets for sweat and move around a bunch to try and shed 4% of your body weight. You do that by the time the bet is up and you win your $30 back plus your share of the total pot, which you share with the other victors. Easy, right?
The one I entered is here and is open until August 18, though, the sooner you sign up, the longer you have to lose. It’s worth a shot and kind of exciting. I just really don’t have enough deadlines in my life, so I figured I’d pay for one more. Please, join me, won’t you?
Today, I’m bringing something very special out of the vault. It’s a devilish punch that reminds me of younger, gloriously uninhibited days. Hold onto your dresses, dearies, it’s my favorite summer cocktail: The Sip and Go Naked. I had to share this recipe verbatim because my lovely college roommate (and new mommy), sweet sugar lips Sarah, emailed it to me a few months back in just this fashion.
If I could remember them clearly, oh the stories I would tell; all beginning with a cup of this lemony libation laced with a wicked whisper of Southern Comfort. I recall dancing, perhaps on tables. I remember the kitchen floor, always sticky. We would slip on our black nylon pants and fanciest shirt (possibly one shoulder strap, definitely borderline slutty and Midwest sweetheart), plug in a string of party lights and deal out a game of Kings.
I can almost feel that indestructible, false sense of adulthood we had from our first year truly living on our own. We could have a party. We could smoke cigarettes out of the living room window. We could harass the elephant parade of freshman streaming in from the dorms looking for house parties. With a Sip and Go Naked in hand, we were living the dream and 100 percent invincible. (Granted, the house we rented was crawling with black mold and we only cleaned the toilets once every 3 months when someone’s folks were coming to visit, but that’s neither here nor there.)
But mostly, the smell of a frothy serving makes me think of Sarah, and the lively, lovely ball of joy she is. Isn’t that funny … how a smell can unlock a vault of moments you’d tucked away in a cobwebbed place in your mind? I can hear her, “Mmmmm, bitch! We’re gonna Sip and Go Naked!” with some Outkast blaring from our computers in the background. She’d dump in the prescription for the potent cocktail with abandon and intention, shakin’ her ass and grinning my ear to ear. It isn’t the tastiest drink I’ve ever had, but it is the most nostalgic.
Break out the blender, grab some cheap ingredients and Sip and Go Naked yourself. Quick … before summer’s gone!
Today, our second-born beauty turns 4. Her eyes light up when we talk about the things 4 year olds do – ride bikes with no training wheels, stay up at nap to play Skip-O, go to summer camp, learn to swim with no bathing suit (she means lifejacket) – and I feel that familiar pull to put life on pause and make the Earth turn just a tiny bit slower.
In our house, everything relates back to food, so when we decided to have The Week of Spike, it boiled down to 4 days of dinners with “Sp” worked in.
She didn’t have specific requests for gifts like her big sis who repeatedly pleaded for a family trip to Mexico but happily settled on what will forever be known as the camping trip officially sponsored by the plague. In fact one of the things I love most about our sweet Spikey is her genuine joy in life’s surprises.
There is so much to celebrate about this kid. She is a character in the most hilarious, dramatic, imaginative play I’ve ever had the privilege of watching. From the animated inflection in her voice, to the unmistakable sparkle in her big brown eyes, to the style in which she pops her little hip, puts her hand in the bend of her waist, raises her eyebrows and points right at you when she really wants you to engage in her story, this one is special.
Not a day goes by when she doesn’t make me laugh. And not like, oh let’s encourage her to embrace her individuality and fuel her spirit laughs … like legit, from the bottom of my belly laughs.
Most mornings go like this: I wake up at 5:40 and try to get ready as quietly as possible. I go downstairs to gather my goods for the day and feed the dog. As soon as the bowl drops, I hear the shuffle of too-long toenails as Mya makes her way to breakfast. My last order of business is firing up the Ninja to power blend my smoothie. It automatically shuts off and within 5 seconds I hear her. She scoots the tiny pads of her kissable feet across the tile and, before the rest of her, a bird’s nest of beautiful brunette hair breaks the vertical horizon of the kitchen wall. She is always rubbing her eyes. She is always quiet for the first minute or so. She is always my favorite sight. I get her settled with 2 yummy nilla bars (oatmeal raisin granola bars, which I realize aren’t the greatest choice but that conversation goes here) and a show before … and this is my favorite part … she commands me to give a “kiss and huggie”. As I walk to the garage smiling, she yells, at an inappropriate and unnecessary volume, “Have a good day, Mama, OK? I see you at dinner! Bye!” Boom. Day made.
We spent the day at the lake, but first, we needed a cake. Her dad whipped up a Cake Without Cake Mix for our Friday night gathering, but we needed something to feed about 25 people for this party, so we stopped into Kroger. Those folks know how to handle their flour and sugar. I grabbed the cutest assortment of cupcakes, arranged to look like an ice cream cone with a cherry on top. It was adorable. I’d post a picture except the only ones I have are from after. After I let Spike opt to do candles outside. After I turned too quickly. After the tray slid off the plastic base. After I dropped 24 cupcakes, frosting side down, onto Great Grandma Marge’s rug. After I made the cutest cupcake ice cream cone into a poop-looking pile of frosting.
But the day was not lost.
Happy birthday, dear Spike. I hope this year holds nothing but new discoveries and happy memories for you, ya little Sour Patch Kid. Keep inspiring those around you to dream out loud and never, ever fear that imagination of yours; it will take you far in this world if you embrace it and share it the right way. Thank you for the laugh wrinkles and warm snuggles, and for being a living, laughing example not to take life too seriously. As you would say, “You know … I love you so much. I really, really do.”
No matter how far I fall down the digital rabbit hole, there’s still just something about seeing your name in a byline in print. So, it was a sweet treat when kit asked me back to pen another editorial piece for their latest issue. (It’s always nice when someone calls for a second date, right?) I love the look of kit, and I’m all in for anything by women, for women.
Last time, I compiled a list of plants for the landscaping novice. But this article was all about the body. Specifically, what we put in it. The pros at Living with Intention Inc. were so great to work with and the pointers are like CliffsNotes for feeding your family food that’s perfect in its pure, clean simplicity. Dig in and start making small shifts to benefit those little faces around the dinner table.
