Thankful

Why, hello there, little blog. Miss me?

I am just unpacking, laundering, and detoxing from four days spent off the grid with our cousins from the east in Amish Country, Ohio. While having no cell or internet service whatsoever was a wee bit inconvenient at times, this was my view first thing every morning:

We stayed once again in these charming little cottages smack dab in the middle of a working Amish farm. Our kids spent approximately 18 hours outside every single day and got so dirty it made my mama heart warm. They hiked through fields. They shot bows and arrows. They ran hard. They slept hard. We sat with our husbands around a table and laughed until our sides split.

It was a little taste of heaven.

The farm also allowed our kids to indulge their inner pet ownership fantasies, as the two farm dogs kind of adopted them. One of the dogs is missing a leg, and we respectfully dubbed him Tripod (though his real name was Tango). We suspect he lost the leg while trying to win a race with an Amish horse buggy. He tends to be a little reckless, this one.

Tripod's companion on the farm is a small four-legged dog that our kids called Little Dog (creative naming geniuses at work, clearly). Little Dog sometimes lifts that fourth leg up and runs on only three legs. We think he does it so Tripod won't feel left out. You know, with his disability and all.

Everybody needs a friend like that.

Tripod also has no clue that he is a land-dwelling mammal. He was always frantically scrambling to keep up with the kids on the paddle boats. Pretty good swimmer, too, considering he's minus a limb.

The gratuitous turkey dinner was fed to us by the locals at the one and only restaurant in town. Gabi and I thoroughly enjoyed not having to lift a finger to cook it, and took devilish delight in walking away without washing a single dish.

It makes me wonder why I ever spend the holiday cooking for days at a time.

Plus, it was sinfully delicious and sent us all into that magical tryptophan coma.

Mmmm, tryptophan coma.

On our way home, we stopped in to see some very good friends, and felt sad leaving, as there just wasn't enough time spent with them. It was like we had been together yesterday, instead of four years ago. It was so easy to pick up right where we left off. We drooled over their fabulous home, gorgeous boys, and shared a meal like old times. Remind me sometime to tell you my favorite story of our friend, Chris. He's a good man, that one. He and Emily are the best.

A lot of hours on the road later, and we are home safe and sound. There is mud in every crevice of my children's jeans, a pile of mail to go through, and a million calls and emails to return. But I find my heart is full from the love of it all - good friends, family, simplicity, and time.

I feel so blessed.

The Funeral

I huddled under the large umbrella, wishing for a lull in the endless, gray rain. Goosebumps covered my bare arms, and I found my thoughts drifting to the jacket that I knew I should have brought along. Hannah's tiny hand clasps mine, and the Husband shifts his weight from one leg to another restlessly. I watch as dirt is shoveled solemnly onto the tiny coffin. Nearby, the forlorn sound of Taps signals that the time has come for us to do what we came here to do. I reach my arms out and hold him as he cries. With each wracking sob, my heart aches for my little boy and this loss. I hate for any of my children to face mortality.

Yes. Even the mortality of pet hermit crabs.

As I stood barefoot in the rain yesterday at the funeral of Chase's hermit crab, I grumbled at the absurdity of it all. I winced as McKay played Taps on the trumpet, hitting a particularly painful high note, one that pierced my eardrums to the core. I fought the urge to snap hatefully as Hannah hung on me and whined for dinner. I glanced around shamefully, hoping none of the neighbors were watching.

And then it occurred to me: Is this really my life?

I flashed back to my 15-year-old self and remembered wistfully some of the dreams I had for myself. I wanted to travel ALL. THE. TIME. I was going to be thin and rich. I would never have bad hair and would certainly not be scrubbing my own toilets. I may or may not have thought I was going to marry Johnny Depp.

No one ever told me about these kinds of days.

The days where you feel pulled like a rubber band - stretched in so many directions that you fear the sheer pressure of it all will cause something in you to snap. Wondering just how many more seconds you can take before you lose it and scream at them all.

But then, almost all at once, it changes.

It softens somehow, my heart.

I look at the tear-stained face of my sweet son, see that his heart is breaking, and I know that I would move heaven and earth to ease his pain for just a moment. I look over and smile at the thoughtfulness of my oldest child, paying respects in the only way he knows how. Not because he loved or cared for the stupid little crab himself, but because he knows it was important to his brother.

My eyes suddenly fill with tears at the realization of just how strong the bond between them is. That for all my failings as a mother, I know that these boys love each other fiercely, and maybe, just maybe, a small part of that is because of me.

I bend down and scoop up that hungry, scrawny, seven-year-old girl, getting an eyeful of her jack o-lantern teeth on the way, and remember what it was like to be her age. I briefly wonder if I drove my own mother crazy with my nonstop chatter, and feel pretty sure that I whined and complained while having to wait for dinner myself.

And all at once, I realize something wonderful. At age seven, waiting for dinner is pretty much her biggest problem in life. I silently pray in gratitude at the sheer providence in my life because of that.

Then my eyes meet the Husband's on the way inside the house, and we share a smile of understanding, of solidarity for these little creatures that have become our life. And I think, surely, he knows just how desperately I still love him after 15 years together. I vow that I will show and tell him more often, just in case he has forgotten it.

Maybe this wasn't the life I pictured as a love-sick teenager, mooning and dreaming over what would be. But do you know what?

It's so much freaking better.

Trading in those three minutes

Do you hear that?

It's the sound of silence in the Casa de Stie. The little people who have been such good company all summer long have loaded their backpacks, donned their new clothes, and took happy steps onto the big yellow bus which steals them from me each year.

The younger two are still in elementary, but the biggest boy is making the leap to middle school this year.

Honestly? I am more terrified than he ever will be. Not because I think he will be bullied or will struggle with the course work. But because these little lives of theirs seem to keep marching by at an ever-increasing pace. I mean, wasn't he just born? Wasn't that like, um, 47 minutes ago?

How is he in middle school now?

It makes me angry a little bit, how fast it all goes. I feel gypped. I want some time back, to make sure I memorized her baby smell or the sound of his toddling voice cheering with glee as he knocked over YET ANOTHER tower of blocks. I want to pinch those chubby cheeks in the highchair and run my fingers through her hair after the first big-girl haircut. I want to play with that excited three- and one-year-old in the park again, only this time, I'll not sit exhausted on the bench. I'll get up and chase them. I'll hug them tight through their laughter, and tickle those round bellies with kisses when I catch them.

I'll forgo the Disney babysitter just this once and cuddle them to my chest, breathing in their sweaty sweetness, and make up story after story about princesses, dinosaurs, and firetrucks. I'll not make such a fuss when their little muddy hand prints appear on the wall. I'll bend down and look at more ladybugs in the dewey grass.

I'll hold them tight. And never let go.

Because you know what? They really don't stay like that for more than a minute. I never would have believed you if you had told me that when I was counting the minutes until they were out of diapers or putting them to bed early so I could have JUST THREE MINUTES TO MYSELF ALREADY.

Well, I've got those three minutes now. And then some.

And I think I'd happily trade them if I could.

Take care of my babies today, please.

Meltdowns, love machines, and things to look forward to

Last week, I had the mother of all meltdowns. I was overwhelmed by all that I had to get done, and was finding myself choked with panic at the lack of time to do it all in. I was exhausted and beat up. I found myself in tears on the phone with the Husband, and later that day with his mother. I had reached my breaking point and knew something had to give.

So, what did I do to deal with the crises?

I threw my hands into the air and took the week off.

I know. How very adult of me.

But I have no regrets, you see, for I played with my babies in the sunshine, soaking up the last few hot days of summer. I laid on the couch and held my (big and jointy) little girl in my arms. I watched movies. I finished a book that was started far too long ago (and LOVED it so much that I am planning to re-read it). I actually cooked dinner a few times, and did not have laundry blocking the mudroom walkway every night.

And, I won't lie to you, it felt damn good.

But I would be remiss if I didn't share with you a couple snapshots from the previous week when we got some time with these delicious people:

Sam, the undeniable Love Machine

Luke, the self-proclaimed Hurt Machine

Emme, the long-lost sister Hannah's been waiting her whole life for

Jake, the Nerf-wielding, wrestling, boxing, sword fighting pal that fit right in around here

We felt so lucky to get a few days with our cousins from the east. The girls took to each other like long-lost sisters and we only saw them emerge occasionally from Hannah's bedroom to grab snacks before they were off to swap clothes and write plays together.

The big boys bonded instantly over our vast arsenal of Nerf guns, prompting Gabi's oldest to immediately rush to Target and spend his savings on a whale-sized Nerf gun of his own. Chase and Jake spent their waking hours traipsing through the woods hunting squirrels and jumping endlessly on the trampoline. It amazed me that they never seemed to get tired.

The little twinks, well, they had each other and big cousin McKay for entertainment. I will forever think of them as the Love & Hurt Machines, and will always regret not snapping that photo of Sam and his hilarious naked typing. (there's one for the wacky google searches, eh?)

But most memorable for me were the poolside chats with Gabi and late night pontificating about all things related to life. She is one of the wisest women I've ever met and I will forever value her thoughtfully rendered opinions. She makes me laugh like nobody else I know, and she has a knack for making you feel beautiful, smart, and put together.

Which my meltdown last week clearly proved otherwise.

But it truly was a magical few days, and we were definitely wishing for more when they pulled out of the driveway to head for home. Luckily, we've conned them into Thanksgiving at Amish Country again.

(Any bets how many times the Husband pleads to go off the grid before we even get there?)

Stay tuned for a busy upcoming week: I've got photoshoots galore to show you. The new business seems to be off and running with a bang, which makes my heart so very happy. Plus, school starts on Tuesday for my babies. (As does my new career as a lady who lunches and sees a lot of movies.)

I am sad, yet I am also secretly excited.

Last trip post, I promise

I know you are all probably so sick of this vacation that you saw the title and clicked off to hunt for free porn. Nothing like days and days of someone else's boring vacation pictures, right?

Right.

Well, too bad. At least for one more day anyway.

I end the Seattle/Hawaii Trip '09 with some stats and (of course) more pictures. To give you an idea of our endeavors over the last 13 days without writing down every detail, here is some data that is pretty representative of the fantastic experience we had:

• Total number of flights: 7
  
• Total number of bags checked on flights: Zero, thanks to my awesome packing
  
• Total number of hotels we stayed at: 5
  
• Estimated caloric intake per day by me alone: 9,678 thankyouverymuch
  
• Pounds gained while on this vacation: I am sure at least 8.
  
• Number of fish viewed while snorkeling: 756 or more
  
• Number of bloody wounds received from jagged coral while snorkeling: 2 (both mine)
  
• Bottles of sunscreen used: 4
• Number of people in our family who took hula lessons: 2 (all female, naturally)
  
• Number of people in our family who swam in a cage with sharks all around: 3 (all male, of course)
  
• Total number of days before I adjusted to the time difference: 9
  
• Number of days it will likely take me to adjust back: 14
  
• Dollars spent shopping: Much, much less than it could have been, dear Husband. Remember that in the days to come when you look at the bank statement, mmkay?
  
• Pounds of sand washed down our hotel shower drain per day: 3
  
• Number of former KSL weathermen seen at the Hawaiian Temple: 1 (bonus if you guess who it was)
  
• Number of times the natives called me 'Cousin': At least 27
  
• Minutes until I am ready to go back again: I'd say less than one. It actually hurts a little bit to think that Hawaii is still out there in this world, existing, without me in it.

And finally, because my little i-phone picture posts were so tiny (a pet peeve of mine), here are a few of my favorites so far. I have yet to barely wade through the hundreds and hundreds of shots I took, so these will have to do.

Why husbands cannot be trusted

I have resigned myself to the inevitable.

There are just certain things in my life that I have no say in, no matter how much I whine, beg, and plead.

I know it's shocking, as I am the queen of quite a lot around here. I run the schedules, bedtimes, shopping, budget, and even most of the home repairs. But sometimes, the Husband just has to step up and take control, leaving this plan-a-holic gasping for breath.

Oh, the nerve of that man.

Take, for instance, the case of my sweet, angelic boy. One could hardly look into these baby blues and find any trace of malice, misdeed, or negativity.


Now take a look at what happens to my sweet angel the MINUTE, I tell you, THE VERY MINUTE, his father gets a hold of him and takes him for a haircut:

Could it be...Satan?

Lucifer, out back practicing his sweet moves

In truth, I have simply accepted my fate. Every year, on the last week of school, my loving, sensitive middle child is going to always turn punk and sport a mohawk. (See here, and here for proof, if you don't believe me).

I tolerate it for maybe a week or two, and then the mohawk is replaced by a summer buzz cut.

Don't tell him, but secretly I love that he doesn't give a lick what people at school think or care at all if he stands out in the crowd.

His older brother, however, could not be more mortified.

So here's to embracing life fully, doing what feels good, and sporting your own kind of style. May we all find a way to do that in our own lives.

Just preferably not in the barber shop.

P.S. Courtesy of random.org, the winner of the Yanni Voices tickets is Maren! Email me if you can go and I will turn your name in at the will-call box. Thanks, local peeps, for playing along. Maybe someday the sponsors will be generous enough to fly you ALL out here for a little show and a lot of Stie.

If only, right?