Buoyed Up . . .

I know this isn't a traditional post, but rather than trying to respond to the wonderful comments you have all offered in support of me and my crazy life, I just thought it would be easier to thank you here . . . I find myself "thriving and surviving" off of many of your kind words—and when the days are especially long, the tears come a little too quickly, and life seems a little more difficult than I'd like, you all buoy me up and keep me afloat. . .
Here's to you, and sailing on high seas!

Lessons Learned from Winnie-the-Poo

All of the recent sick days with Caleb have caused us to look for "tools" to keep our very active, but very sick little guy in a state of semi-rest. This can be quite the trick as Caleb is rarely still, even when running a temp of 102. . . and so we have called upon our close friends, Diego, Blue's Clues, and Winnie-the-Poo to aid us in this endeavor.

I, for one, have been quite reticent to use TV or movies as tools, and in fact, prided myself in the past on never doing so. I have since caved, and Caleb's new little portable DVD player is a dear friend of mine. (I use this handy little tool on my "bad mommy" days when I am simply too tired from being up all night with Ella to come up with stimulating and creative activities to entertain my toddler, much less the energy to assist him with them).

That confessed, I have found quite a bit of merit in Caleb's programming. Blue's Clues is so sweet and educational, Go Diego Go, while being overly-enthusiastic and a bit irritating at times, has taught Caleb several words in Spanish (he greeted Daddy with an "Hola Daddy! as he came home from work the other day), and Winnie-the-Poo is, well, Winnie-the-Poo, and has a special place in my own childhood memories and thus a permanent place in my heart.

And so this morning, with Christopher Robin and the gang singing happily in the background, and Caleb resting and working on a glass or orange juice, I am inclined to allow my mood to a improve a bit while falling in love with Poo all over again, for a few of the following reasons:

1) Poo is the sort of bear that doesn't allow a little extra girth around his middle taint his perspective on life, nor detour him from the things he loves best—namely honey.

2) Poo doesn't think twice about asking his friends for help.

3) Poo is quite creative and persistent, and even if ninety-nine of his ideas fail, he will still attempt a hundredth.

4) Poo never allows life to get the best of him, nor does he raise his fist to the sky. A simple "oh bother," generally does the trick and he is able to move on to more positive things without dwelling on past failures.

This is hardly an extensive list, and I would welcome other insight . . .

There is something remarkably comforting in the knowledge that a bear "of very little brain" can weather the winds of life with a smile. It just goes to show you there are very few problems that a pot of honey can not solve.

Daddy's Pictures

There is something utterly delightful about being married to a photographer. I am continually forced to examine my children outside the light of ordinary circumstances—from the perspective of an artist. And when life can be so very crazy and overwhelming, it is so healthy for me to be allowed a step back and a glimpse of my children as my husband is allowed to see them—terribly alive, and fresh, and beautiful in all of their humanity.

My Beautiful Children . . .

Working

There was a time, not so long ago, when my work required my utmost and undivided attention. As a writer, processing story and setting it in a readable and entertaining format, is the best part of the process—the research and multiple drafts that prelude a finished piece of work are necessary, but not quite as much fun. . . regardless, all parts of the process have required quite a bit of focused attention from me in the past. No background music or excess noise, clean and orderly working conditions, etc. (I'm a bit compulsive in this area . . . or I used to be). In fact, many, if not most writers will speak on some level to the necessity of a focused place, space, and time to work . . . it's just part of the nature of the whole process.

Today I opened up a document that I have not looked at, much less worked on, in over a year. In the course of that time, my life has shifted slightly, as has my ability to maintain the quiet and the order of my working conditions . . .

So, to my surprise and delight, today I find myself actually working a bit—something I've not given myself the permission to do in a very long time. But this time, my working conditions are considerably different. Gone is the quite and the order.

In the background, Go Diego Go! is exuberantly entertaining my son, who is fighting the stomach flu (so throw a bit of vomit in there for good measure); a load of laundry is running downstairs; my "work space" (otherwise known as my dining room table) is littered with bills-just-paid, tax paperwork and files, a half-filled bottle of breast milk, a quickly-cooling cup of coffee, a bottle of children's Tylenol, and a box of Kleenex. In the crook of my left arm my three-week old daughter is hiccuping violently, and I think she just soiled her pants . . . yet, in spite of all the distractions, I am actually enjoying a bit of accomplishment in the writing department! Something I never could have imagined just a few long months ago.

So, to all of the multi-taskers out there, I raise my cup of now-cold coffee in a toast. We are stronger than we think.

Now, back to work.

Weekends

The old adage, "having a baby changes everything . . ." has not only become a bit over-used and over-heard in our lives, but it is more than anything, an understatement. Personally, I would get a little more specific and say, "having a baby changes everything; having two changes everything, and you no longer have weekends."

With Caleb, we could still kind of manage a semblance of relaxation, though even the small bit that occurred had to be carefully planned. For example, a Saturday afternoon coffee break corresponded with nap time, and a Sunday afternoon nap corresponded with, well . . . lots of prayer??? Anyway, even the above is no longer the case now that there are two wee ones. (For those of you with more than two, I bow in homage).

Before we had kids Aaron and I often looked in amazement and with sympathy on our friends who did. "How do they do it?" We asked ourselves. "They must be utterly exhausted!" They were. We are. And now Aaron and I look back on those days with an odd mixture of longing and regret—longing to return to them and regret that we did not truly appreciate what we had—not, however, that we would trade our children for a free weekend. . . although . . .

This weekend was/is pretty typical, and for those of you reading this with children gathered around your knees, then you can laugh along with me as I relate (with a bit of sarcastic humor) the events, thus far, in our weekend. It is currently 7:45pm Saturday evening. For those of you still without children, take a deep breath and read this with a grain of salt knowing that the author is running on (and writing on) less than five hours of sleep in the last twenty-four, and thus her perspective might be a bit off. (Nevertheless, enjoy your child-free weekends while you have them!)

1:30am Up to feed Ella.
5:00am Up to feed Ella.
5:15am Drink a gallon of coffee.
5:30am Back to sleep for a bit as Aaron gets up with Caleb.
7:00am Up to feed Ella and drink more coffee.
8:00am Join Caleb and Daddy for an episode of Blue's Clues.
9:30am Feed Ella.
10:00am Help daddy get Caleb dressed and ready for breakfast at McDonald's.
10:15am Help daddy clean up the car, the car seat, and son, after Caleb projectile vomits.
11:00am Feed Ella.
11:30am Send daddy and recovered Caleb (maybe it was a fluke?) off to McDonald's and local Trade Show.
12:00pm Feed Ella.
12:30pm Welcome home Daddy and Caleb (who appears fine).
1:00pm Clean up living room, couch, and son after another round of vomit. (Please God, not the flu again).
1:30pm Lay sick son down for a nap.
1:35pm Feed Ella and breathe a sigh.
3:00pm Get sick son up from nap.
3:10pm Feed Ella.
4:00pm Take a walk to clear head.
4:30pm Return home and clean up more vomit. We are cursed.
5:00pm Run to grocery store for Gatorade to help with dehydration.
5:30pm Feed Ella.
6:00pm Send tired Daddy off to a photography event for the evening.
6:10pm Feed Ella and bathe Caleb.
6:30pm Get sick boy into bed for the night and sigh again.
7:00pm Rock sick boy, change bedding, and clean up more vomit.
7:30pm Feed Ella.
7:40pm Blog.

As for the rest of my evening, I think I will take a bath, say some prayers for health, maybe burn some incense or light some candles to help clear the smell of bleach from the air, and get ready for the round of nighttime feedings! I know, I know, you all wish you could join in the fun . . .
Just wait . . . we still have tomorrow!

Angel of Mercy

I had a hard day yesterday.

While I am enjoying the reality of two vs one, the change of going from the singular to the plural in children continues to cause me a bit of emotional setback—especially on the days when the routine that I so love to maintain is thrown to the wind and I attempt to simply survive . . . Yesterday was a perfect example of this. By 3pm I had made two pots of coffee—both of which simmered and burned before I enjoyed even a single cup. Down the drain I poured them. Such is the new chaos that rules in my home. While I tried to keep a stiff upper lip, I confess to failure in this regard and as Ella finally napped in her car seat on top of the kitchen table and Caleb absorbed himself in"Blue's Clues," I allowed myself a little wallow in tears of self-pity.

But I am heard, and I am not alone. This Truth, God reminded me of today. Up to my knees in laundry that, while clean, had grown to a monstrous pile of unfolded chaos; and jumping from said pile to fussy daughter in an attempt to both sooth her and actually accomplish something; a knock sounded at my door. I sighed, brushed my hair out of my face, and hoping that whoever it was forgave my appearance, I ran to answer. . .

Opening the door, I found an Angel. Truly. She came in the form of a friend of mine (who's name I'll leave unsaid as I have not asked her permission to relate this story), and in her hand she carried a venti cup of coffee from Starbucks. "To make up for the burned pots yesterday," she said with a smile. Hugging me tightly, she whirled, and was gone. And I was left standing on my doorstep, coffee in hand, and tears streaming down my face—given the gift of a renewed, refreshed faith.