Smitten.

Smitten.  I am smitten with this girl. 

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Kate

Nine years ago, I held you in my arms for the first time. 

I heard your tiny voice. 

I looked into your eyes.

I smelled your skin and held you to my heart.  

And I understood, profoundly, that my life would never, ever, be the same. 

It is ever so much better with you in it, Kate. 

Happy birthday baby girl.  I love you.

Cute

Kate is a cheerleader.  Can I just say it?  I.Love.Cheerleading.  The entire thing is just.stinkin.cute.  Seriously.

Cute little poms…

 

Cute little shoes…

 

Cute little crates with cute little cusions for their cute little buns to rest upon…

 

Cute little smiles…

Just.

Plain.

Cute.

Monday

Well, it was a weekend full of yuck.  I felt miserable.  Luckily The Man came home early on Friday to help me make his birthday dinner.  I started on the dessert and realized that there was no way it was going to be ready to eat with our supper–it had to chill for 4 hours after cooling to room temp (which took three hours).  So we had brownie sundaes instead, and told ourselves we would eat the pumpkin cheesecake with gingersnap crust for breakfast on Saturday.  Which we did.

Then Ella threw up because I gave her a bite of shrimp and I forgot that I think she’s allergic to shrimp because she always throws up when she eats it.  Brilliant deduction, right?  So we were both up half the night with vomit and vomity laundry. 

Saturday morning the weather was gorgeous.  I went to Henry’s t-ball game (picture to follow), and felt gross.  It actually took my mind off of being sick for an hour though, watching Henry instruct each of his teammates to throw the ball to him if they got it, so that he could get an out.  He’s nothing if not confident.  Good for him.

I came home, ate some lunch and put Ella down for a nap.  Then I watched the Hokies online because the game wasn’t televised.  They won.  It wasn’t the best performance.  But they won. 

Then I took Kate to a party where they did her hair all cute and funky with twists and braids and sparkles.  And there was some blue eyeshadow involved.  A little thick, imho, but it was cute for a little girl playing dress-up.  I was exhausted.  While the party was going on, I did a little shopping.  And I coughed a lot.

Sunday morning I felt gross.  Or gross-er if that is possible.  I did some laundry, made a grocery list, hung a fall wreath and took a nap.  (It wasn’t really a nap.  It was more like rest.  And it wasn’t even very rest-y.  Because I couldn’t breathe.)

Then I went grocery shopping.  That was un-fun.  I have to do it, though, because I’m a freak about the food we buy, and I get annoyed when The Man shops because he gets the wrong stuff.  I make life so easy for myself, don’t I?

Then I came home and did more laundry and read books with Ella while The Man made supper.  We ate, showered the kids, read more books and tucked them in bed. 

I searched for about an hour on this computer for a folder of pictures that is apparently gone.  (Did I mention that I have a new computer?  Yeah.  I have a new computer.  The other one croaked.)  I read blogs and went to sleep.  

Today, I woke up with a headache.  I’m tired.  I don’t feel well.  And I have a full week of stuff to do, not the least of which is restoring a bunch of accounting programs.  Which I have been putting off because I dread it.

Before school, William argued with me about wearing a coat.  It is 52 degrees.  I said wear a sweatshirt or a light jacket.  He couldn’t find his sweatshirt.  So he had to wear a jacket.  (I guess that is another instance of how I ruin all the fun around here for him).  This was like a repeat performance of Friday morning.  Only this time I kept it together and hugged him and told him I loved him and completely ignored his anger.

Then I got home from the bus stop, and the first thing I notice is Kate’s homework folder that she was supposed to bring to school.  And I think very briefly about bringing it up to the school for her.  But then I decide that she has to take responsibility for her work.  And it makes me almost cry because she is typically so responsible.  And I think she left it out for me to sign so it’s half my fault.  But she should have completed it before this morning, 5 minutes before we’re supposed to leave. 

Now I’m sitting here, and the reality of it being laundry day creeps in and I know I have a lot of laundry to do.  The washing, the drying, the folding.  The piles of laundry everywhere.  I am swimming in the every-day mundane tasks of motherhood.  Normally, I feel joy in the mundane.  But today, it just feels overwhelming. 

Ella is beside me.  I watch her squeeze her bagel and make a complete mess of the cream cheese and think she is just the most precious thing in the entire world.  And my.heart.leaps.  Wow.  I am lucky to be her mother. 

And then Henry asks me if I want to see his muscles.  How glad I am that I am a mother of boys. 

That was what I needed.  A God-sighting.  Right there.

Tickled

Kate, after her first day of school.  Just tickled to be back. 

And yes, I realize I’m 15 days late here.  Whatever.

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Sunshine, Sandcastles, Ice Cream, Laughter

It was a ten hour drive to the beach.   A Ten.Hour.Drive. 

That was sucky. 

And as we entered the Outer Banks, mother nature blessed us with a downpour.  Wind.  Torrential rains.  

So to recap:  trapped in car for ten hours;  rain. 

Then we arrived at the house.  We let the kids run around for an hour and then tucked them snuggly in their beds.  Luckily, we brought the pack-n-play for Ella, because the crib that was supplied was not assembled.  Isn’t that useful?  So I layed Ella in the pack-n-play, and closed the door.  Fifteen seconds later I could hear her screaming at the door.  Because she just climbed right on out of that pack-n-play.  The pack-n-play was also, clearly, very useful.   

So she slept in the bed with me that night.  And to be honest, I’m rather thankful for that crib being disassembled that night.  Sleeping with that little redheaded cherub by my side was not really restful.  But lying there watching her sleep and feeling her curled up next to me was nothing short of wonderful.   

I awoke to the sound of that little girl, two inches from my face, saying “Mommy.  Hi.”  She makes my heart come all undone…      

Then The Man put the crib together. 

And it rained some more.  And was cloudy.

But on the third day, the clouds parted and the sun fell on our faces and warmed the sand.  We did very little but play all day.  And eat ice cream.  All week. 

(Look at his round belly…he’s just all sorts of cute…)

This week was sun-bleached hair, freckles, pink shoulders and pink cheeks. 

And sandy little feet.     

And building sandcastles. (Which William takes very.very.seriously.  Don’t mess with his castles). 

We collected shells.  We chased sandpipers.

 

We played in the surf.

 

We laughed. 

(There may have been a couple tiny little tantrums.  Or something.  But whatever.)

Four little children, drawn to the swirls of foamy surf.  Squealing with delight and fear and anticipation of the sea, crashing on their little feet.    

This past week at the shore reminded me what childhood should consist of…sunshine, sandcastles, ice cream, laughter.  

It was lovely.

____________________________________________________

My Kate

I don’t have any words for this picture. 

Just — I love her so much.

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Her Hero

I spend most days happily going about my work, whether it be laundry, or cleaning or cooking or whatever.  I am generally happy.  I do not like cleaning the bathrooms, though.  And I’m not a big fan of the dusting.  Nor do I like to clean the floors.  Actually, I pretty much don’t like doing any cleaning-ish type of stuff.  But that said, I do it, and I’m generally happy when I do.  I look around and smile when something sparkles.  And that tends to be enough for me. 

But sprinkled in among those happy days is an “other” type of day, in which I feel like the only person in this house that appreciates all that cooking and laundry and cleaning-ish type of stuff.  And the cleaning feels pointless.  Because as soon as it sparkles, someone comes over with sticky fingers and smears it all up.  Which is rather annoying, frankly.  I think to myself that I should just stop cleaning, and see how long it takes them to notice how disgusting it would get.  And then I wonder if they would even notice at all.  (Which could mean that I may need to step up the cleaning a notch, if they can’t notice the difference.  Or that my family is gross.) 

Anyhoo.  A couple of months ago, Kate told me she wrote about her hero in her daily journal.  And her hero was me.  Hallelujah, someone has finally seen the light!  I couldn’t wait to see what she had written about me.  And here is what she wrote…

My mom’s a hero!  She takes care of me.  She loves me.  I love her back.  My mom takes me to the bus stop.  She makes me dinner.  My mom makes cookies and hot chocolate for snack.  She puts me to bed too.  She puts my sheets on my bed.  My mom is a hero because she does nice things to me.  I picked her because she’s the best!    When I get mad, she’s still my hero.  Sometimes my dad is a hero too.  But my mom is even better!  She is the best hero ever!

Oh, I sat there all smug and puffy on my pedestal.  I even re-read it a time or two–I liked the part about the sheets.  And then I pretty much wilted as a smattering of memories of all the times I’ve let her down nipped in.  The times I could have been a better mom, but wasn’t for one reason or another.  Like telling her we needed to paint our toenails red for the fourth of July (and really intending to do so), but not finding the two hours it would take to enjoy that with her.  Really?  I really couldn’t find just two hours within a five day span to do that?   My life with her is peppered with instances like this.  Peppered with guilt for the times I should have done more, should have been better.  Sometimes I feel like such a disappointment. 

And still, I am her hero. 

I am her hero even though I sometimes have one of those “other” types of days where I go about my business not happily, but grumbling the entire time about how nobody appreciates me, and how I could drop off the face of the earth and no one would notice until they figured out that their clothes didn’t magically wash themselves and the dinner didn’t just appear out of thin air, fully-cooked in a pot on the stove, and no one was there to kiss the booboos or wipe the noses.

(I’m pretty sure the world would continue turning even without me, but it’s fun to pretend that it might just spin off it’s axle if I ceased to exist.)

And then after telling them exactly how much they would miss me, I flip that on it’s head and grumble about how much happier they might be without me because no one would gripe at them to put their dirty socks in the hamper, and they could be with the other “fun” parent all day long. 

(And also none of their clothes would match because the “fun” parent thinks that because they’re both pink, they must go together.  Which is annoying.)

So what stands out in my mind after reading Kate’s journal entry is that those moods of mine are just dumb.  And also, I need to stop the grumbling.  Because when my children grow up, I want them to remember their mom the way I always dreamed I would be, and that is not grumbling.  I always dreamed I’d be happily busy, and I always dreamed I would look pretty (that ship has pretty much sailed…).  I always dreamed that I would have a spotless home, and a refrigerator full of the most wonderful food that I prepared all by myself.  Mostly, I dreamed that I would be their soft place to fall.  I never dreamed that I would be a grump, not even now and then.  I never dreamed I would be so hell-bent on being appreciated, and making sure everyone knew exactly how hard I work. 

They do notice the things that I do.  But even if they don’t notice everything, who really cares?  I am her hero.  And that is pretty much all I need to remember. 

I am her hero.

For Your Reading Pleasure

1.  Last week,  I found shoes under my pillow.  If you’ll remember, The Man and I have a little game going on.  I did not find the shoes to be hilarious.  It’s way funnier when I do it. 

 

2.  I must preface #2 by asking you to recall William’s rules.  Pay particularly close attention to rule #1.  The one that says ”Don’t look at me when I’m getting dressed.”  Right.  So yesterday I got a note from The Man while I was out which stated the following: 

No more Wii for William today.  When I sent the boys upstairs to change, William did a naked dance in front of Henry.

Which totally made me laugh.  I know, I shouldn’t laugh.  Anyway, just to clarify the rules, you are not allowed to look at William while he gets dressed.  Even if he does a naked dance.  

 

3.  I got this super nice award from Daniele at Life As A Mom…thank you Daniele!  The award states:  This award is bestowed on blogs that are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers. Deliver this award to how ever many bloggers you choose and include this cleverly-written text into the body of their award.

 

I actually had to look up ”self-aggrandizement” to make sure I knew what it meant.  I had a vague sense.  I also had a vague sense of how exceedingly charming I am.    Anyway, what a nice award to receive.   

 

4.  Yesterday the kids found this…

 

 

And The Man wanted to keep it.  I don’t know why.  Because he’s a man I guess.  It’s dead.  It’s in a baggie.  In my house.      

So I took a picture of it.  Because that’s what I do.  Anyway, look how it is preserved for all eternity…in striking position.  You can even see it’s creepy little viper tongue.  In case you were wondering, it is a milk snake (which is not a viper.  But “viper tongue” sounds very snakey).  It’s harmless.  Still gross.  And the deadness doesn’t do anything to lessen the “gross.”  I’m going to put it in Mr. Pink’s mailbox.  Just for fun. 

 

5.  Speaking of whom, Mr. Pink made a nasty comment about my daffodils looking unkempt.  So I spent several hours the other day tying them up into nice neat little bundles.  Now they look very kempt.  You would not believe how long that takes, really.  And I only did about half of them.  When Mr. Pink saw my handi-work, he said it was definitely a pink job.  Mm-hm.  That topic shall never die. 

 

6.  Superfudge.  Remember that book…Judy Blume?  Mm-hmm.  I bought it for Kate.  I was so impressed with myself for choosing this book for Kate, which she devoured in about 2 days.  And then I read this passage:

When I got home that afternoon, I cornered my mother.  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to let him go on believing in Santa.” 

bla bla bla…

“I do agree that sooner or later he’ll have to learn that Santa is just an idea.”  She sighed.  “But for now, he’s so enthusiastic and the idea of Santa is so lovely that Daddy and I have decided it can’t possibly hurt.  So please go along with us for a while Peter.”

bla bla bla…

“Well I think it’s a mistake!”  I said.  I turned and walked away.  I couldn’t remember ever having believed in Santa.  When I was three I caught my parents stacking presents under the tree.  And by the time I was five, I knew exactly where to look for the presents my parents thought they had carefully hidden from me.”

 

Well if that isn’t just fantastic.  Now Christmas — nay, her entire childhood — is ruined.  The magic is all over.  I know — it was only a matter of time – I know.  Actually, this was probably a pretty easy way to “find out.”  Unless she actually already knew.  Which is certainly possible.  But still.  Crap. 

The problem with finding books for Kate is that she needs something  a little advanced…like for a 11-12 year old level reader.  But she is only 8.  So I need books that are appropriate topic and material for an eight year old.  Any suggestions?  I tried The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo, and pre-read that to make sure it was appropriate.  I found the selling of a little girl by her father (who never looked back, not even once) to a man that clouts her on the ear so much that her ears begin to look like cauliflower, and the mouse blood and bones and smell of death to be a little much thankyouverymuch.  So she’ll be waiting a little while to read that one.  Sheesh.  So please, your suggestions are very, very welcome.

And that’s pretty much it for this house for this week.  Night-night! 

Butterflies

 

“But these are flowers that fly and all but sing…” 

–Robert Frost

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