Eleven

Dear Hannah,​

Exactly 21 days ago, you turned 11.  ​

And exactly 21 days ago, you asked me with pleading eyes if I would please please PLEASE! write a blog post for your birthday.​

I am so sorry it has taken me this long.  I know you understand that our lives are insanely busy and full right now, what with the move happening in seven days, but I cannot let another day pass by without fulfilling your birthday wish.​  One that warmed my heart and made me so glad I have not yet given up on this blog.

It is THAT reason, and that reason alone, that will keep me writing here for a long time.​

Right now, you are standing in the doorway between two worlds.  You are on the cusp of entering that big, vast teenage place, yet still teetering on the little girl side of the fence.  At times, I marvel at your wisdom and maturity.  At other times, I laugh and say a prayer of gratitude for your child-like innocence.

I would love to freeze time, just for a bit, to savor the amazing joy this phase of life brings to me.  I want you to grow and taste all the good that life has to offer, but I also want to keep you all to myself.  I don't want to share you just yet.  

I know the world will eventually draw your eye and lead you to amazing things, but I cherish our time together. ​ 

I love that you still want to sleep with me when Daddy is out of town.  I love that your small hands run through my hair as you absentmindedly tell me about your day.  I love the freckles multiplying on your cheeks as we speak.​  I love your happy banter with the boys, and the bear hugs you give every night before bed.

Hannah, you are truly the most organized and neat person I have ever met.  I love that you set out your clothes and your accessories EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT.  I love that you decide on a hairstyle the night before.  Do you know why I love this?  It's not because I seldom have to clean up after you.  Or trip over your shoes, airsoft guns, backpacks, and [INSERT EVERY POSSESSION OF YOUR BROTHERS HERE].    It's because it tells me that you have a plan.  That you are thinking ahead and making the most of your life.  You are taking what choices you have at this point in your life and doing as much as you can with them.

I can see you years from now -- organizing your work space or sprucing up your kids' bedrooms -- and I feel so secure in knowing that you will always be in charge of your own destiny.  ​ You will not live in chaos.

And that gives me immense joy for you because mine is a brain that also requires order and direction.​  You are my people.  I get you.  And I know that you get me, too.

You are now, and always have been, a very social creature.  You have been fortunate enough to have made friends with some of the most amazing girls I have ever known.  I quite honestly don't know how we're going to leave them behind, and I worry for you when the reality of that happens.    This move is going to be a tough one.

But I also know that it will be so good for you.  You will learn to use muscles you didn't know you had.  You will find the courage to not be shy and introduce yourself on the first day of school.  You will learn a new school, a new neighborhood, and find new friends.  You will forever be changed, and always watch out for the new girl, because you will remember exactly what it felt like to be her.  ​

While my heart aches for the lonely feeling inside, I know that the strengths you will gain from that loneliness will serve you for your entire life.​

Hannah, I am so proud to be your mom.  You are an amazing girl.  You are a ball of laughter, creativity, and joy.  You brought so much happiness to our family when you came to us.  We had no idea what was missing.  We had two pretty great little boys and all of a sudden, in a whirlwind of pink ruffles, our lives were turned upside down.  And we've never been the same since. 

You are kind, thoughtful, and generous with your affection.  You love others around you with a fierce loyalty.  You are always happy (except for that teensy bit first thing in the morning some days).  But hey.  I am the same, so I feel you, sister.​

You make our lives richer with your sunshine and joy.  You make being a parent easy and oh, so much fun.​  You are beautiful.  Inside and out.

I love you.​

Love, ​

Mama

A show of solidarity, hair style

Every year, I look forward to May for so many reasons.  May brings such happy milestones with her.  School is almost out, the weather is (usually) nice, and summer is just around the corner.   You can almost taste the crisp, sweet watermelon; feel the cold chlorine pools; and smell the musky bar-b-que smoke.  May is the reward for surviving the Winter cold and the April rains.

It's glorious.​

May also means that it is time for The Mowhawks.  And, yes, a tradition that has lived on for seven years in our family deserves its own capitalization.  (For previous years comparisons, see here, here, here, here, and here.) 

Oh, but this day has brought such bittersweet feelings in my heart this year.  It means that our time in St. Louis is fast approaching its end.  And I'm not at all emotionally prepared to face that reality.

But that is a post for another (sob-filled) day.​

Making this year's Mohawks that much more awesome is the fact that my boys conned two of their friends into getting them, as well.​  If you're going to be brave and crazy, you might as well have some company.

Without further adieu, here is a plethora of photos documenting the fabulous process that is The Mowhawks.​

May the tradition live on, long after we have left this place.​

The heart of a giant

Several weeks ago, Chase came home to tell me about a field trip his grade at school was taking.  He explained that there were three possible field trips ​and each hall was assigned a different one.  He was pretty excited at the chance to escape classwork and tests for a day of play.  

Field trip option number one was the City Museum.  ​For those of you not fortunate enough to live in St. Louis, the City Museum is a paradise for kids (and adults if you're anyone other than me).  It's a 600,000 square-foot building that is essentially an urban recycled playground.  There are old airplanes and buses strapped to the roof that kids can climb in and play with.  There is a three-story indoor slide.  There are tunnels to explore and large structures to scale.  Everything is made from salvaged urban materials.  It's visually incredible, and physically exhausting.  There is not a child alive who would be sad to visit this place.

​Field trip option number two was an indoor recreation facility.  The kids would spend the day swimming, playing basketball, racquetball, and tennis.  The full facility would be at the students' disposal, including the indoor skating rink.  It would have been a blast for sure.

The last, and final, field trip option was a trip to the local nuclear waste dump.

Yes.  AND HOLY JUDAS, YES.​

​I have no idea how they pulled that one out of the hat, when the other two options are so clearly fun and, you know, not a day spent looking at garbage.  

Well.  As Murphy's Law would have it, Chase's hall drew the short end of the toxic nuclear stick.  They were assigned the field trip NO ONE would ever want to go on.​  Ever.   

I offered to let him stay home and, better yet, go visit the City Museum on our own.  But my sweet, lanky, broad-shouldered boy just shrugged and smiled.  He laughed and said that he didn't mind going on it, and that he might learn something new.  ​

And as he cheerfully walked out the door to study trash instead of to play, I marveled at the heart inside my boy.  He has a better attitude than most adults I know (definitely this one).  He truly sees the glass as half-full, and doesn't feel a sense of entitlement for anything in his life.​  He is grateful for what he has, and makes the most of every day he is given.

Even if that day includes a field trip to look at garbage.​

I love him something fierce.​

In which I disgust even myself

A week or two ago, I was driving with Hannah to the grocery store.  We were chatting it up, mama/daughter style.  She was telling me about all the weird boys at school, and I was listening, while also silently praying she would never fall in love with any of the weird boys at school, decide to marry them, and live a life of misery and regret.​

​Because, of course, you can totally tell in fifth grade what boys are going to turn out to be like.

We were stopped at a stoplight, and I smugly thought to myself how lucky I was, and how I was doing such a great job raising my kids, and ​how the universe had blessed me with such an amazing life.

Well.​  

Just at that moment, I felt an itch on my left elbow and reached down to scratch it.​

Let me tell you.  There are itches better left unscratched.​  There are things better left unknown.

It was as though the powers of the universe heard my contented sigh of peace and decided to mock me and make sure that pedestal I was standing on got crumbled into dust beneath my feet.  When I looked down at the source of the itch at my elbow, I was instantly repulsed and disgusted.  For there at my innocent (albeit slightly dry) elbow was growing a vile, sinister hair.  Probably the longest, nastiest black hair in the history of mankind.

There are witches who have had warts with shorter hairs growing out of them.

It was bizarre.  The natural color of the hair on top of my head is a chalky brown at best.  But this hair?  It was as black as Satan's dark soul.  And LONG.  Long enough that this hair could have its own Pinterest board with braids, styles, and prom up-dos galore.

I was horrified, embarrassed, and more than a little bit melodramatic about it.​

What the frick happens to these bodies of ours?  Why do the molecules of my stupid elbow cells decide to sprout long random hairs in places that hair has no business growing?  I'm not even 40 yet!  Is this what I'm doomed to suffer through until the grave provides me with some relief?  ​Is it going to be on my face next?  WHY??!!  Why does god hate me?  I have no reason to live!  Look away!  I'm hideous!

Okay.  So maybe I exaggerate.  Sometimes.​

Luckily, my daughter is a bit more practical than her mama.  For when we pulled up to the grocery store, and I stopped hyperventilating long enough to grab my grocery list, she remarked, with all the seriousness of an honest, sincere, and glorious fifth grader, "Make sure you add some hair clippers to your list, Mom.  I think you're going to need them."

And so I will, baby girl.  Yikes.​

40 days and 40 nights...

​If you follow me on Instagram (which, hello?  Why are you not?  All kinds of awesome photos of my feet, the food I'm eating, and my darling children.  My handle is @clhalverson.  Get following, nerds!)  

Anyway.  As I was saying, if you follow me on Insta (as those of us cool kids call it), you know that we closed on our home in Dallas two days ago.​

I was so happy about this, that I forced the Husband to buy an air mattress, a few pillows, lots of diet coke, and to sleep on the floor in our new house with me.  Sadly, that night spent in an empty, unfurnished home was probably the best night's sleep I have had since mid-December.​

We built this home, which is a first for us.  Learned a lot about how crazy fun it is to pick out every nook and cranny of your new home. ​ I think the Husband wanted to die about 30 minutes into the five-hour design meeting.  Too much talk of crown moldings, lighting, and colors for his taste.  But I'm just giddy.

Nobody else's yucky hair will be clogged in our drains.  Nobody's nasty food has sat in the pantry.  There is no massive wish list of things I want to change.  It's only my yucky hair that will clog the drains!  My nasty food in the pantry!  ​

I can't wait.​

Unfortunately, I have to.  Forty days and 40 nights more in the apartment in the ghetto before I get to enjoy the loveliness of my own choosing.​

It feels symbolic to me, these 40 days.  I imagine it's much like how Noah felt on that first day aboard the ark.  He was probably really hoping his time aboard that ark would be of short duration, that he could handle the cramped quarters, and that his wife would not complain too loudly.​

These last 40 days are my ark.  Slogging it out in cramped quarters, wishing the days would go faster, and hoping and praying life will be good on the other side of this journey.  I bet Noah's animals didn't smell of Axe, B.O., and the Abercrombie store - all at once.​  And at least he got to go to the beach at the end of his forty days.  

Internets, enjoy the sneak peek at my new home.  ​Any with diet coke in hand are welcome to come visit.  (Obviously, we will be putting knobs on all the cabinet doors and we'll fill it with furniture.  But you get the general idea.)

I'm a believer

In mid-December, as the post-Halloween candy gorging had morphed into the post-Thanksgiving-I-give-up-until-New-Years eating marathon, I was feeling pretty unhappy with myself physically.​

Instead of taking the logical route of upping the exercise and downsizing the eating, I opted for a more cosmetic approach to my self-esteem.  I figured if I was going to be fat, at least I could have good eyelashes.  I made an appointment with my local dermatologist and decided to try out the Latisse.​  I spent about $160 for a 10-week supply.

I was skeptical, but hopeful.  I followed Jeanelle's instructions to the letter of the law.​  I threw away the disposable brushes that came with the Latisse.  Seriously.  Do not use them.  They soak up so much of this precious liquid that you run out twice as fast.  I bought this brush from Sephora.

Every night, I would put a drop on the Sephora brush and run it across my eyelid, right where it meets my lashes.  Then I offered a sacrifice to the god of beauty and prayed like he$$ that it worked.

​Six weeks came and went.  I started to see a little growth and got very excited.

I am now three months in, and am giddy with my new eyelashes.​

Internet, I give you the unedited, unequivocal results:

(Top photo is taken without any mascara on, the day I started the Latisse.  The bottom photo was taken about a week ago, again, no mascara on.  Clearly, there has been significant growth.)

​Seriously, right?  This stuff works like MAGIC.  Here is a photo of me with mascara on.  Crazy, awesome long eyelashes.  There has been absolutely NO side effects.  No discoloration, no eye color change, NADA.  My doctor also said that none of his patients have ever had any of those problems.  Only side effect?  Incredibly long eyelashes.  BEST. DRUG. EVER.

And the best part?  Since I am using the Sephora brush, I am still not even half way done with my original bottle.  You know, the one that was slated to only last me 10 weeks?  Yeah, I'm at week 13 or 14, and still not even half way finished.  ​

This stuff is worth it, my friends.  Get yourselves a bottle today!  ​

Also?  I accept thank yous in the form of chocolate, diet coke, or beach houses in Hawaii.​  Pretty much anything will do.