Adaptation

When I last left you, I was:

-Selling a house
-Moving out of a house
-Moving into an apartment
-Buying a house
-Having Christmas
and
-Taking a vacation

All in the same seven-day period.

I would not recommend it.

At one point a few weeks ago, I sat down to have lunch with some friends.  One of them very sweetly looked me in the eye and said, "So, how are you?"

I immediately burst into tears and realized that I was NOT doing as well as I thought I was.  It was an epiphany for me because I am great at pretending life is perfect when it's not.

Later, on the phone with the ever-traveling Husband, I shared this epiphany with him and he hit the nail right on the tip of its pointy, stupid head.

What he said in much-nicer words than this was essentially that I am like a three-year-old thrown out of my routine.  And I really, really like my routine.  I need my routine.

I've felt a bit lost.  Like the ground underneath me is unsteady, with sharp, craggy rocks under my bare feet.  I've had to readjust everything.  How I lived.  How I cooked.  How I grocery shopped.  I was not sure what my new day-to-day schedule would be.  How I would manage a household with two-thirds less of a house to live in.  How I would get my kids to and from school, especially given the fact that two of the three had massive anxiety about riding a new bus.  Where would I, quite honestly, put all of the stuff I deemed necessity, even though it doesn't fit anywhere here in the apartment?  I tossed and turned with worry at night, and blinked back tears during the day.  

And slowly, oh, so very slowly, the hours have ticked by and I've found my tentative footing.  I've made trip after trip to the Container Store, finding ways to organize our life here that is manageable for me.  I've rearranged kitchen cupboards and made peace with the appliances that will sit on the counter for a few months.  I've worked out the school logistics, and helped my kids manage their stress.  I've even been able to fall asleep at night.

I feel safely sure that when someone asks me now how I am doing, the answer will not end in tears.

And that, my friends, is a pretty great place to be in.

12.21.12. Otherwise known as: The end of our world as we know it

My heart is full, my limbs exhausted, and my gratitude overflows into salty tears.

This morning, we said goodbye, officially, and on paper, to our home for the last five-and-a-half years.

The Husband's company had approached him in early November and asked if he wanted to open another office for them.  While this would be a HUGE opportunity for him professionally, they were unsure at the time of asking as to where they wanted this office opened.  We knew it would be either Dallas or Nashville, and we said yes to either one.

We spoke with a realtor, who advised us to hurry and get the house ready to sell, as there were buyers out there and not a whole lot to choose from.  Thinking our house would not sell before Christmas anyway, and that we'd have another chance to put it on the market in the spring, we gave it a try.

Three days later, we had an offer in hand, and still no word on where we would be moving.

THAT was an anxious few weeks.  One filled with diet cokes and self-medication (read:  lots and lots of chocolate).

Finally, the word came down from the higher ups that Dallas was to be our destiny, and we began to get excited.

What was not exciting, however, was going to be closing, moving, and having Christmas all in the same week.

Also not exciting was saying goodbye the brand-new, beautifully remodeled basement we finished this summer.

[Why?  Why do things like this happen JUST when you get your house how you want it?  Is it because God has a great sense or humor?   Or because the universe hates me?

Probably both.]

In any event, I bring you a plethora of photos from the basement now being enjoyed by someone else.

Beautiful, no?  Did you notice the wonderfully organized nooks and crannies in my office shelves?  How perfectly everything lines up and fits in its spot?  I have LOVED that office.  LOVED.

Like almost more than anyone else in the family, LOVED.

(Calm down, Hannah.  I still love you more.)

I think I'd probably die of misery were it not for the excitement of the new home we have decided to build in Dallas.  We JUST got word from the builder that they have accepted our offer and we are slated to have it completed in April.  We will finish school here, and move down there at the end of May.

So, today, on this apocalyptic end-of-the-world Mayan calendar day of doom, life has worked out pretty even-steven for us.  Sell a house, buy a house.  All on the same day.

Which should tell you all that, indeed, the world WILL be ending tonight.

Eh.  At least we'll go out with a smile on our face.

Wigwam Brownies: A lesson in historical accuracy

Brace yourself.

I have come up with a new Thanksgiving invention that is sure to turn the world on its politically incorrect head.

You see, when I, ever so insensitively, posted my Tee Pee Cupcakes four years ago, I did not take into account the inaccuracy of my racially-controversial table decoration.

I imagined that homemakers all over America would delight in creating something for their Thanksgiving holiday that would, not only please the eye, but taste good, too.

Oh, how foolish and wrong I was.

I was not creating a simple holiday treat.  I was promoting racism.

Did you know that the Indians First Americans who helped our clueless Pilgrim friends did not live in tee pees?  Did you?

I didn't.  And my prolonged promotion of incorrect stereotypes has probably set back the Indian First American movement at least another 600 years.

Those poor First Americans.  Stereotyped into tee pees at Thanksgiving all these years.

The horror.

Thanks to the dozens of people who have found the time in their no doubt uber-busy lives to send me lengthy emails correcting my mistake from four years ago, I have decided to correct all of you, as well.  Because it's the right thing to do.

Listen up, racists:  The First Americans that helped the Pilgrims lived in Wigwams.  Like these:

NOT tee pees, like these:

So, with my historically accurate Wigwam photo and a plan, I set out this morning to create a culturally sensitive Thanksgiving decoration for you.

I mixed up a pan of brownies according to the package directions and let them cool. Once they were cool enough to handle, I scooped a large blob of brownies out of the pan and shaped them into a dome shape like this with my hands:

It took about half the pan of brownies, as the brownies got very compressed when I squished and molded them. This means that you only get two Wigwams per box of brownies. And if you're eating at a Thanksgiving table of 28 like I am, this means you need roughly 14 boxes of brownies, three dozen eggs, and a pint of oil.

Totally worth it. We MUST get this right, people.

Once shaped and molded into the proper, accurate Wigwam shape, melt a cup of chocolate chips and pour over the Wigwam.

Crush up several oreos and sprinkle them over the melted chocolate. While the chocolate is cooling, start in on making some decorative accessories to go along with your Wigwams.

I created an entire forest of Eastern Woodland pine trees, on the assumption that these trees actually existed at the time of the First Americans. Though I did not research this facet of my Thanksgiving table thoroughly, I am sure my dear, educated readers will write and correct me if I'm wrong.

I also took some tootsie rolls and starbursts to create a fake fire. It would have been more historically accurate to have a REAL fire, but I was worried about small things like, you know, the house burning down. Or my children suffering third degree burns.

Trying to be true to history can be quite dangerous. But it is SO. WORTH. IT.  I definitely recommend real fires on your table if you can manage.

When your Wigwam chocolate has cooled, pipe some realistic looking sticks and a door onto the Wigwam. This is harder than it sounds, as the dome shape is a tricky angle to work with, and the oreos make the chocolate crumble right off.

Once everything is assembled, it is ready to be the centerpiece of your politically correct, racially-sensitive, historically-accurate, non-offensive Thanksgiving table.

And, you know what? It looks SO MUCH BETTER than my silly, inaccurate, dumb, little tee pees.

Yeah, you're welcome.

P.S.  Check out this month's Parenting magazine, page 65.  But be warned, they have inadvertently featured my inaccurate, controversial tee pee cupcakes instead of my newly accurate Wigwam brownies.

A winner...

Um, yeah.  Sorry about that.

Didn't mean to completely ignore my own contest or anything.

Been a little bit busy around here feeling overwhelmed, stressed, excited, and manic.

Life has thrown a curve ball our way and it's completely tossed everything we know upside down.

I'm not ready to talk about it yet, as things are still unsettled, but I can promise you this:

We are not getting divorced.
No one is sick.
I am definitely not pregnant.  (But I'm pretty excited about someone I know who is.)

Once things are figured out around here, a post will be forthcoming, I promise.

In the meantime, the winner of my new favorite book is:

 Sara said...
My favorite is Unbreakable...excellent read.
You had me at It's a Wonderful Life! That's my favorite movie.
October 22, 2012 4:43:00 PM CDT

Shoot me your address and the book will be on its way to your hot little hands.

A post! And a giveaway! This is your lucky day...

A few months ago, on one of his many, many business trips, the Husband was seated in (of course) first class next to Mitch Albom.

He recognized the award-winning writer immediately and they started up a conversation.  The Husband mentioned to Mitch (can we call him that now?  He met the Husband.  They're bound to be best friends, right?)  that he is a huge fan of his sports writing.

He then added that his wife (me) is a huge fan of Mitch's novels.

Mitch laughed, and said, "I get that a lot."

About a month ago, I was looking for something new to read.  I opted for The Time Keeper by (our new best friend) Mitch Albom.

I started it at about eight o'clock in the evening, just as the kids were settling down for the night.

I finished it by about eleven.

With tears streaming down my cheeks, I vowed to share this book with everyone I know.

And, late yesterday afternoon, I finished reading it aloud to my entire family.

It. Is. Phenomenal.

Part-fable, part-It's-a-Wonderful-Life, it is engaging and real.  It takes you on a journey that makes you evaluate how you spend your time, and how you value time.   It will make you want to make the most of every precious minute you have in this brief life.  It reminds you that there is always hope, no matter how bleak things seem.

I loved it.  My family loved it.

And in honor of that, I am going to give away one copy to a lucky reader.  Leave me a comment telling me your favorite book.  All comments will be thrown into random.org and a winner drawn on Wednesday, October 24th at 8 p.m. local time.

If you don't win, buy the book anyway.  It's worth every penny.

Hand me my slippers and housecoat. I'm going for a walk.

Most days, in my happy, independent adult world, I feel pretty smart.  Pretty on top of my game.

I can multi-task with the best of them.  I can run a household and a successful photography business.  I pay bills, handle finances, and perform minor home repairs.  I also hold down a leadership position in my church, and do a pretty dang good job of it all, thankyouverymuch.

All while catching movies, lunching with friends, keeping my house clean, and reading a good book.

Sure, sometimes we eat at the McDonalds.  And maybe the laundry sits unfolded for a day here and there.

Nobody's perfect.

But I like to think that I do a pretty good job of it all.

Until that horrible moment comes along which knocks me off my high horse with brutal humility.

Last night was one of those moments.

I was helping a child with homework, and quite honestly had no clue what to do.

I would like to say that this child was my freshman son, who is incredibly smart.

Or even my seventh grader, who is taking all challenge classes and doing so well.

But no.

It was the homework of the girl child in the fifth grade.

The four-lettered M-A-T-H homework.

I was completely dumbstruck (literally) and could not figure out how to help her.  Feeling helpless, I grabbed the laptop, ran to the bathroom, pretended to be otherwise engaged, and searched frantically for a Khan Academy video that would restore my credibility and put order once again in the universe.

Tragically, the little girl stood impatiently outside of the bathroom door and figured out pretty quickly that her mama ain't so good with the smarts.

(Lucky for me, Chase took charge of the situation and taught us both what to do.  Though, I won't lie.  I've already forgotten it and will probably be unable to help her tonight.)

It's unnerving.  For both them and for me.  The look of disillusionment in a child's eye is one that goes straight through the heart like a knife.  When they realize they're smarter than you, it's all over.  You might as well hand them the proverbial keys to your life, because they will forever more question your good judgement.  They will second guess you on the way to the grocery store with, "Are you sure this is the right way, Mom?"

You know, the store you've been driving to all your life.  Or at least the last six years.

Or they get frustrated and say, "Hand me the directions.  I'll do it." as they hastily (and correctly) begin assembling their own bike.  You suddenly become a slow-witted, delicate, old lady in their eyes who is ready for the Home.   They cannot imagine you as a functioning member of society and fully expect to find you wandering the neighborhood in your slippers and housecoat.  

And you're not even forty yet!

Am I the only one here?  Tell me you are all a bunch of dummies, too.

Or just lie.

Either way.  Pleez mayk mee feel beter about mye dum selph?!".