Rory Girl

Oh man. It's December. And according to this blog of mine, the last time I posted was July. I had big plans for this blog, my writing and life in general for 2015. And then I found out I was, er, unexpectedly pregnant in February and 2015 started to look a whole different than I had planned. Truth be told this pregnancy took it's toll on me and 2015 has been lost in exhaustion, baby growing, baby delivering and keeping baby alive. It seemed to take every ounce of my energy and creativity to do that, and there was nothing left over. Then there's the deeper truth that who I am at my core, my faith and much of what feels like my foundation has been out of sorts since I lost my dad two years ago. And hence, December has arrived and I've written very few words this year.

BUT I have high hopes for 2016 and this little corner of the internet of mine. I've got lots of thoughts swirling in my head, and am feeling ready to start sorting through my out of sorts-ness on the blank page. So hopefully I'll be able to pick back up in the new year and give this blog some new life (just in time for the "end of blogging" of course. I suppose I'd be better off closing the blog and starting a podcast like every blogger I know and love.)

In the meantime I thought I'd share the main reason it's been so quiet around here...

On October 9th at 11:50pm we welcomed this little one into our home.

Rory Powell.

Our Rory girl has been a surprise in every sense of the word. A lovely, beautiful, perfect surprise.

She is darling and sweet and adored by her sisters and brother. We are all adjusting to life with a little less sleep and attention than we'd prefer :) Some of us are handling it better than others.

I have big thoughts on what I've learned now that I have four kids (what the what- I. have. four. kids.), how I feel about raising three girls (our home is now covered in a layer of glitter) and how I'm feeling about being a stay-at-home mom full time now. I hope to dive into it all here soon.

But for the rest of the month I'm committed to snuggling these guys,

creating space to anticipate the coming of Christmas and all that it means,

and keeping the newborn alive. It's chaos, but I love it.

Ways in Which my Fourth Pregnancy has Turned Me into a Toddler

I’m pregnant.  Again.  31 weeks pregnant to be exact.  This one was not exactly “planned,” so to speak.  I ran into an old high school classmate last week, one who was about as pregnant as I am with a toddler about as old as Red.  And as she so succinctly put it, “so this one was a surprise too, huh?  ‘Cause you’d have to be crazy to plan on having kids this close together, right?”  Which is pretty much how I felt when I put two and two together last February and took a pregnancy test.  Crazy.

Anyway, I’ve now had time to (for the most part) get used to the idea that I will have four kids in five years.   I’m even finding some positives in the whole barrel of insanity that will be my life.  I can see the fun to be had with so many kids this close in age.  At this point what’s one more, right?

But pregnancy.  Ugh.  I’ve never been a super pleasant pregnant person.  I’m not one to marvel over the amazing things my body can do in pregnancy.  I’m more likely to crab over the million annoying side effects (number one on my list: the weird way my sinuses get completely blocked during the nine months my womb is occupied.  I’ve cornered the market on BreathRight strips.  I’m thisclose to wearing those things during daylight hours.)  The novelty of pregnancy wears off with each successive pregnancy and this fourth one is for sure the absolute worst.  And then, because I have a three year old and a one year old, I realized that this pregnancy has turned me into a freakin’ toddler.  Let me explain:

Exhibit A.) The Hangry Toddler Meltdown.

Red is pretty known for the “Hangry Meltdown.” When she gets hungry, it comes with a side of anger.  And now, in my third trimester, I can relate sister.  On more than one occasion I’ve found my hunger growing as I prepare meals for the kids.   By the time I’ve doled out three cheese sandwiches with fruit and yogurt I’m not only starving but also irritated that these small people get to eat before me.  The longer it takes for food to make its way into my mouth, the more the rage grows.  Heaven help the kid that asks for more milk just as I’m sitting down with my own lunch.  I’m not proud of it, but irrational, over the top tirades about how “mommy just wants to eat her lunch with out getting up to refill milk fifteen times” have been delivered to dumbfounded and slightly terrified children.  I’ve wanted, on more than one occasion, to throw myself down on the ground like Red and just cry.  The only thing that stops me is the fact that my giant belly makes getting up difficult.

Yep.  This.  I get it Red. 

Exhibit B.) I keep toddler sleep hours.

In the first few months, when my normal first trimester exhaustion was enhanced by the fact that I was still nursing Red, I slept when she slept.  Meaning I put a show on for Toots at nine and passed out while Red took her morning nap.  Then I slept again at one when both girls napped.  And then I went to bed at seven with all three kids.  And I was still exhausted all the time.

All I want to do is sleep.

 Now, in the third trimester I’ve graduated to a sleep schedule more like Toots.  A nap around 1:30 or 2:00 is probably a good idea for me, especially if we’ve had a busy morning.  Like Toots, I can push through and skip that nap but it makes for an ugly evening.  If Toots and I have gone hard all day without a siesta we’re a mess by 5pm and need to be put to bed by 6:30, usually crying.  It’s been a bonding experience for the two of us.

And finally, the icing on the freakin’ cake:

Exhibit C.) My bathroom habits are identical to a potty training toddler

You guys.  I can’t even.  I didn’t think it could get any worse than when I was in the final weeks of my third pregnancy with Red.  My poor bladder was like the guy who should have probably retired five years ago.  Still working, but not super effective   Toots was potty training at that time and there was definitely an afternoon when we both peed our pants a little at Target.  At the time I thought that was as low as it could get, pregnancy humiliation wise.  This time around my bladder didn’t even try to pretend like it was still up for the challenge.  As soon as that pregnancy test revealed a plus sign my bladder put the “Gone Fishing” sign on the window and booked a first class flight seat to Vegas.  Where it’s apparently remained for the duration of my pregnancy. 

I pee all. the. time.  Everything makes me have to pee.  The sound of the shower makes me have to pee.  Hearing someone else peeing makes me have to pee (which is fantastic when I am constantly taking small children to the bathroom all day).  If I take a sip of water, thirty minutes later I’m running to the bathroom.  And I’m absolutely running because for some reason, with this fourth pregnancy, by the time my brain registers the need to pee, it’s five minutes too late.  When Toots was potty training she would get to the bathroom and say, “I just peed a little bit on my underwear.  But that’s ok.  It’s just a little bit.”  Yep.  I get it.  I’ve lost the ability to hold it. 

Also, that thing with toddlers where you make them pee before you leave the house and then, no matter what, thirty minutes into your tour through Mariano’s, with a cart full of groceries, you’re rushing down the aisles to find a bathroom?  Welcome to my life.  I have to plan my outings around the every 45-minute bathroom stops I will need to make. 

Maybe I should just succumb to it, wear batman underwear and no pants, 50 necklaces and not leave the house again until the baby comes.  This is how Toots rocked potty training.

You guys, please someone who has survived four pregnancies please tell me this will get better?  I’m not going to be stuck like this forever right?   Someday when I sneeze I won’t also pee a little too?

Red is One!

Well friends we survived.  Last month my littlest little turned one.  Red made it through her first year of life.  Which is always the most perilous for as all.  As my kids get older I realize more and more how little we really know them at one.  Parts of their personalities are emerging, but there is so much more there waiting to be revealed.  It gets harder to pin down who exactly Red is, because I’ve realized that after twelve months what I know is just the tip of the iceberg.  But I’ll try anyway.

She is funny and feisty.  She thinks fart noises are hysterical and watch out when she’s mad.  That temper doesn’t appear to be going anywhere.  But then she smiles and the whole world melts.

Until recently Daddy was pretty much only a second thought.  But in February and March I found myself traveling quite a lot, which gave her quite a lot of time with Tommy.  Once she realized he also provided food, and the stuff he gave her was pretty tasty (and usually forbidden) she jumped right on that train.  Now she shakes her whole body with excitement when he comes home and scrambles to be the first in his arms.  They’ve become quite the duo, those two.

She remains desperate to be a part of the mix with her two older siblings.  She wants to keep up, do what they do, play where they play.  I’ve long felt her whole life would improve once she started walking and I’m starting to see hints of it.  After a quick bout in the “drunken sailor” stage, (where she wove and stumbled, falling after a handful of steps) she’s now a full on walker.  The look of pride on her face is priceless.  She’s been watching this two-legged movement her whole life and finally, she’s in the club. 

In the last few months Tommy has started including her in the family wrestling matches.  He and the kids roll around on the floor like puppies, each of the kids desperately trying to “attack” Daddy.  I love watching Red in the mix.  From her thrilled expression, to her enthusiastic head bumps, to her relentlessness in the ring, this girl loves her life when she’s rolling around with the big kids.  She’s taken to trying to get me to wrestle, bumping her head against mine and pushing me when we find ourselves down on the floor together. 

If I had to predict I’d say Lou will be determined and easy going, a difficult combination.  She knows what she wants, wants it with intensity and does not give up until she gets it.  But there is a relaxed quality about her the rest of the time. 

And her smile man.  It’s the best.  She doesn’t turn on the charm like her sister, but she charms without intention.  It’s a subtle difference, but it’s there. 

All, particularly Monster, adore her.  Toots has taken to her recently too, the two of them playing more games and giggling together more often.  I love the way she fits right into our chaos and I am so curious to see who she continues to become.  She’s going to surprise us, this one. 

Happy (belated) first birthday Red!!


again, these beautiful photos are courtesy of the ever talented Mary at Where's the zoom.  She rocks.

Monster Turns Five!

Last month my little monster turned five.  I’ve written about how this age is rapidly becoming my most favorite.  Monster is proving to be the greatest kid ever.  We really love him a lot.

He requested a pirate birthday party this year and for the first time we invited friends from school.  He was so very excited to stuff his invitations into envelopes and deliver them to his friends.  The party was great, filled with pirate games and a pirate ship piñata, ice cream sundaes and running around with a gaggle of 5 year olds.  Later that night, after the party had ended we ate tacos with his grandparents and cupcakes with orange frosting, all per his request.  The kid knows how to do birthdays already.

 

At age five he remains sweet as pie.  Seriously, this kid.  He loves his baby sister and (usually) plays well with his middle one.  The very first sentence he learned to write all on his own was “I love you mom” and I am the very happy recipient of that note on a regular basis. 

showing off his tie of course 

In the last few months he has taken an extreme interest in “being handsome.”  After baths he stands in the bathroom painstakingly combing his hair as neat as he can manage, and for his birthday he asked my mom to buy him ties and bow ties so he “could be handsome” and he wears them all the time.  It’s kind of the cutest.  Earlier this week we rode our bikes.  On one of our pit stops at the library he bemoaned the fact that earlier that morning he had combed his hair “handsome” and his bike helmet had messed it all up.  Life, man.

He’s starting to read and write which is so great.   I love, love, love watching him make sense of letters and words and fall in love with books.  It takes very little persuading to let him stay up later and read just one more of his Superman primary readers.

We’re finding him extremely interested in God.  He asks us to read to him from the Jesus Story Book Bible each night and he brings it with him to church on Sunday.  He comes home from school with little notes he’s written about loving God and he tells us he has dreams about being in heaven and seeing Jesus and Granda.  In his dreams heaven has mountains and he’s excited to go there.  This little faith is emerging and I’m so protective of it, knowing I’ve done nothing to create it, but have all sorts of power to add baggage to it.

Recently he started asking if he could work out with me at the gym.  After dropping his sisters off in childcare I let him run a few laps with me on the track.  He ran with his arms at tight ninety-degree angles, hands stiff just like The Flash.  Every so often he would break out of it, turning back to look at me with sweet eyes and a mischievous grin, daring me to race him.  My heart welled more than a little as I ran with my boy.  We raced and giggled and I fell just a little more in love with this kid.  In a million years I couldn’t have dreamed him up and he is more than I ever could have hoped for in a first born.  He’s sweet and funny, charming and thoughtful. 

Happy fifth birthday, Monster.  We love you so!

Pictures are courtesy of my friend Mary, who is, obviously, so so talented!

Bad Heart.

Today would have been my dad's 68th birthday.  I thought about my dad even more than usual and drank a bit of Guinness with dinner to mark this day.  And here I wanted to share a few thoughts about the man that raised me.

In his favorite place: Ireland

My dad had a weak heart.   He was born with a heart condition, the name of which I can never remember, causing me to call my mom from my midwife’s office every time I am newly pregnant so she can remind me what it is that runs through my genes and could lead to trouble for the babe inside of me.  Hearts have plumbing systems and electrical systems, so to speak, and his condition had to do with his electrical system.  There was a hole, or something, and apparently it was a big deal.  My aunt said that when received word that her father, my grandfather, had passed away at first she assumed the call was about her nineteen year old brother, my dad, that the heart condition had finally taken him.  His weak heart wasn’t expected to last very long, I guess.  But you’d never know this from looking at him.

Part of why the details of my dad’s weak heart are so hazy is because I can only remember two times in my whole life when his condition ever came up.  Once he explained that he wasn’t allowed to do sports as a kid, on account of the weak heart, so that’s why he ended up participating in debate team and student council and the school plays.   Which was so like my dad, to turn lemons in to lemonade.  There wasn’t a hint of bitterness or longing when he recalled his inability to do what every other boy on the block was doing.  Just happiness over the opportunity that one closed door afforded.  The other time the weak heart came up was when he and my mom flew to Texas to see a doctor who specialized in my dad’s condition so he could fix the problem.  And he did.

My dad had a weak heart.

cheering on our team

My dad had a strong heart.  He lost his dad when he was a young man in college.  I thought about this a lot when I was in college, how much I still needed my dad at that time.  How did my dad finish learning to become a man while mourning the loss of the one who was supposed to teach him?  If it had been me I think I would have floundered for a few years in self-pity.  But not my dad.  He took his strong heart and started his career.  At age 20 he started working for the company he would retire with many years later.  And then his strong heart took care of his mom.  He played bridge with her friends and took her on trips with him. 

My dad had a strong heart.  He made strong-hearted decisions.  He followed a moral compass that led him to what was true and good.  His values and priorities lined up and his commitment to them caused him to live a life that made the lives of those around him better, not worse. 

My dad had a strong heart.

My dad had a bad heart.  When I was thirteen, awkward and gangly and in need of braces, my dad suffered his first heart attack at age forty-eight.  While his heart condition had to do with the electrical system of the heart, the heart attack was all plumbing and had nothing to do with his condition.  His arteries were clogged from too much smoking, too little exercise and a few too many trips through the drive through at his go-to lunch spot, Wendy’s.  He wasn’t extraordinarily obese and he’d certainly cut back his once two packs a day habit over the years, but it didn’t matter.  That bad heart got him. 

And I’ll never forget the sight of him in the hospital bed, so pale and weak, hooked up to machines that beeped and hummed.  Seeing us see him in this state was one of two times in my life I’d see him cry.  (The other, for the record, was when he dropped me off at University of Illinois for my freshmen year of college.)  It was the first time I think I realized my dad could die.  That this bad heart could get him in the end.  .

We all changed our lives for my dad’s bad heart.  Skim milk replaced 2%, bagels on Sunday morning instead of donuts (which was met with much weeping and gnashing of teeth).  We ate turkey burgers and oven roasted fries.  My dad joined a gym and went faithfully every morning.   But my dad had a bad heart and even though he made changes I don’t think he could every fully accept this fact.  He looked around and saw people drinking and smoking more, eating worse and working out less whose hearts could handle the abuse.  He didn’t want to accept that his bad heart couldn’t sustain it.  And so, less than twenty years after that first heart attack, his bad heart finally gave out.  Another heart attack took his life.

My dad had a bad heart.

But oh, my dad had such a good heart.  He loved so well.  Never once did I question the simple truth that my dad loved and accepted me.  He was decent and kind-hearted.  He welcomed and invited everyone who crossed his path.  People felt comfortable and accepted in his presence.  You couldn’t help but feel good about yourself with my dad.  He did that.  He made you feel like enough.

helping, always

My dad had a good heart.  He lived the life of a helper.  Letters of encouragement to friends in college, serving the community or those he worked with, my dad never seemed to turn down a chance to help someone.  I had to check with my mom first before asking him to help with the kids because he would tell me he could, even if he had work of his own to do.  He loved nothing more than to serve others (and of course spend time with his beloved grand children).

selfies with Monster

My dad had a good heart.  In the end his most defining feature was his kindness.  His big, good heart.  He loved us with that good, kind heart.  He loved my mom and my siblings and Tommy and my kids and I with everything in him.   We were the fortunate ones, the beneficiaries of his good heart. 

My dad had a weak heart, a bad heart.  My dad had a strong heart, a good heart.  I wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world.

Toots turns three!

We're working on holding up three fingers...

My girl is three today!  How can this be??  This exact time three years ago Toots had only been in the world for all of twenty minutes.  Now, I can't even imagine what we did without her.

What do I say about Toots at age three?  She is absolutely, positively a "personality."  A personality that continues to grow each year.  She is tiny body and big hair.  Little voice with big words.  Easy and complicated all in one.

She is funny.  Hilarious even.  Her facial expressions and comedic timing are spot on, reinforcing my belief that these things tend to come more naturally than not.  I certainly didn't teach her any of it.  She uses grown up phases and expressions, complete with very grown up mannerisms.  She is watching and repeating everything, something I need to remember when I speak.

We're big on purses these days.  And heels of course.

We are currently in a "beautiful" phase.  Every day she asks to wear a "twirly dress."  Her criteria for what constitutes as a twirly dress is strict.  Unless it flairs when she spins it will not be worn.  My sister, thankfully got her five more twirly dresses for her birthday so we have some new options.  Then she puts on her "beautiful shoes" (pink sparkly shoes with bows, of course).  Because of her desire to wear her beautiful shoes every waking minute we had to make the rule that beautiful shoes could only be worn indoors, like slippers, so that she could wear them, but not track mud all through our house.  But don't worry. She now carries them with her in her hot pink purse whenever we go out.  All she requested for her birthday was another pink phone and a pink tutu.  My mom had purple tulle on hand to make the tutu and we tried to convince her that she really wanted purple instead of pink.  But she would. not. be. swayed.  And of course, her beloved Noni obliged.

A girl, her tutu, some music and a microphone.  All she needs in life.

This girl is a natural performer.  Every day she asks to play "Let It Go" and then performs the whole song, singing every word and even including the part where Elsa pulls down her hair and lets loose.  Toots makes sure to put her hair in a pony tail or headband before she begins her song so she can whip it off in dramatic fashion.  For her birthday she received a CD player, some Disney CD's and the piece d'resistance, a Frozen microphone.  In the 15 hours she's owned these items we've watched approximately one thousand performances of "Let It Go" and "Part of Your World", while wearing her pink tutu, of course.

She continues to be unafraid of herself, a prayer I've had for her since she grew in my womb.  She may be sassy and quick to putting on an extreme attitude, but she is just as quickly able to swing to silly, and happy and sweet.  She loves her siblings and knows how to push their buttons- as only a middle child can.  She is utterly charming and knows how to work a room.

I love her more fiercely and completely than I rationally understand.  She is like me in so many ways.  In this I understand her more clearly and also clash with her more strongly.  In an instant I can go from infuriated to completely melted with love.  She fascinates me and softens me.  She is just so stinkin' great.

Our family works with her.  Every day I feel more and more honored to be her mom.  I can't wait to see what she does with this big, brutiful life.

Happy third birthday Toots!  We love you so much.

Five is going to be my most favorite...

We are a few weeks away from Powell family birthday month.  My kids were all born between April 29^th and May 20^th (I know, terrible planning on my part- though due to some late arrivals it wasn't exactly planned that way), so for three weeks straight we are in full on birthday mode.  Toots turns three, Monster, five, and Red has survived one whole year with these crazies!

I’m excited for Red to turn one and move out of baby stage.  Unfortunately, if the past few weeks of crazy behavior are any indication, three may be worse than two for my Toots girl.  But Monster turning five is going to be pretty life changing I think.

I’ve already noticed a shift in him recently that makes me think five may just be my most favorite age.  He’s reasonable, quickly snapping out of bad moods with rational conversation.  He gets stuff in a deeper way.  His little faith has started to blossom as he asks us big questions about God and then tells us he’s going to his room to pray.  And he can do stuff.  Yesterday he rode his bike all the way to the library and back, a little over a mile each way.  This morning he prepared his breakfast all by himself.

It’s the sweetness that’s killing me though.  All of a sudden it’s like he’s taken love potion.  He comes and gives me hugs unprompted constantly.  He’s full of compliments and kind words for me.  And somehow, somewhere he learned to be really grateful for all sorts of everyday things I do.

I mean, come on.  So sweet. 

I suspect he learned that gratitude from school.  This past week has been “week of the young child” which seems to really be “week we teach young children not to be ungrateful a-holes.”  Either way I’m all for it.  Every day he’s come home with notes for Tommy and me. 

new favorite song.

And he learned the “thank you parents song” which I now request him to sing on the regular.

I’m telling you this age, combined with a school that’s teaching him the really important things in life, is making my week.  I want to bottle his sweetness up and save it for when he’s 16 and pissed that I won’t let him borrow the car. 

And for those of you in the throws of the terrible twos and threes- it gets so much better.  I promise.  Five is going to be awesome-sauce.

On Owning It. Or The Fart Backstage.

We were in the wings of the middle school auditorium.  I’m fairly certain this was during a rehearsal and not an actual show because I don’t remember wearing costumes.  I do remember who I was with back there.  Two of the popular middle school girls.  In middle school I was cool girl adjacent, on the peripheral of the group not an included member.  Of course now, looking back, I realize that my refusal to just make actual, real, non-cool girl friends rather than hang on to a group of people who didn’t really like me says a lot more about me than them.  But it was middle school and I just desperately wanted to be accepted by the accepted.

So I hung on.

Around that time these two popular girls had started the trend of “owning their farts.”  It was genius, really.  These two girls knew how to take the most embarrassing of situations (a fart in middle school) and turn it into an opportunity to be awesome.  If one of them made the social faux pas of all faux pas, they would shrug and say, “I farted” with a who cares, I did this thing and I’m too cool to be embarrassed by it attitude.  Or they would say it loudly and proudly, laughing as though their gas was the funniest thing ever.  And that made them cooler.  If you were secure enough to own your fart, no one could get to you.   I was obsessed with this who gives a crap mentality.  Because I so couldn’t do it.  If I farted in school I’d keep my mouth shut and hope everyone pinned it on the smelly kid.

Any way I’m backstage with the Heathers and I fart.  And in a single moment I decide go with their tactic.  I think I thought if I tried on this attitude, like one of the school play costumes, I would become more like them, which is to say cooler and less insecure.  Whatever the reason, I found myself saying, “I farted.  That one was me.”

The girls burst out laughing and I knew I’d done it wrong.  I didn’t say it with the same “I’m so secure about this” tone.  Something about it was cute, like when a little kid repeats words she’s only heard the grown ups say.  And I was still mortified.  I went through the act of owning my fart without really owning it. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about this “owning your fart” mentality.  One of the truest lessons I’ve learned in the last decade is that the act of speaking your shame aloud always diminishes its power.  I’ve found freedom in this truth with some of my deepest shames. 

But today I’m thinking of some smaller shames.  You know the truths about yourself that aren’t a big deal, but you still hope you’ll outgrow before anyone figures them out.  The things about yourself that you fear make you shallow, or silly or dumb.  The farts backstage.  These are the things that make me human in the easiest possible way and also the things I don’t really want anyone to realize.

Today though, I’m owning it.  I’m realizing the freedom and joy that’s found in living fully into who you are, quirks and embarrassments and all.  I’m tired of waiting to outgrow something, or change into the person I think I would be better off being.  I'm tired of the shame and panic that rises in me when someone starts to tease me about one of these things.  And so today, I’m confessing loud and proud a few of these smaller shames.  Imagine I’m saying it with the “who cares, this is me, and I’m too cool to be embarrassed” tone that I failed so miserably with twenty years ago.

My name is Colleen and I love celebrities.  I have always been easily star-struck.  I love People magazine, E! News, and I can tell you about every time I’ve been in proximity of someone of note.  I’m desperate to know what famous people are really like, and if I find out you know some one of some reputable fame I will grill you for hours.  I sat next to a very chatty someone who worked for the producers of Lost during what became my most favorite flight.  This girl was not afraid to spill insider secrets and for the entire trip from New York to Phoenix I got all the dirt.  What’s even worse is that my litmus test for celebrity is incredibly easy to pass.  Basically if people know about you, you are famous in my eyes.  My friend Marty once won a trip to Mexico by calling into a morning radio talk show that I love.  He charmed his way into the hearts of the hosts and was featured on the show’s broadcast from Mexico.  And now Marty has achieved celebrity status.  Because one time he was on the radio.  I’m ashamed of this quality because I fear it reveals some sort of shallow, celebrity worshiping quality in me.  Or that people will deduct my own desires for fame.  And also it taps into one of my worst qualities, gossipy-ness  (definitely a real word).  So I try, without success, to down play this quality, but today I’m claiming it.  I get star-struck about celebrities (shoulder shrug).

This second confession kind of goes along with the first, but I like pop culture way more than high-minded things.  I’d rather listen to the Entertainment Weekly radio station than NPR in the car and I’d rather read People Magazine than Time at the dentist.  I’ve got loads of really great documentaries in my Netflix queue, but all I watch is Friends and Gilmore Girls reruns.  And I’ve never read the New Yorker.  In my defense I do listen to NPR, read Time and watch documentaries, but when given the choice I will always choose the pop culture route first.  Again, I fear this makes me so, so shallow and less intelligent in the eyes of others.  But I can’t deny it.   I want to be a person that knows all about the conflict in Syria but has no clue about the conflict amongst the cast of a Shonda Rhimes show.  But I'm not.

Also, I talk to myself in my car when I’m alone.  Sometimes I play out conversations that I need to have, but am afraid of.  Or I have imaginary conversations pertaining to all sorts of imaginary things I hope to one day accomplish but probably never will. (I’m fairly certain my days starring in an academy award-winning movie are behind me.)  I’m a daydreamer and always have been.  It’s silly and weird and something I probably should have stopped doing when I was nine, but there you go. 

FIESTA! Also, don't try to discern a patters.  There isn't one.  I'm going to get ALL the colors.

Finally, I love color way more than classic neutral tones.  This isn’t one I’ve necessarily tried to hide, but I’ve always sort of hoped eventually I’d get my act together and become someone with classic whites and neutral shades all through her home.  For years I’ve coveted Fiestaware, the most colorful of all dinnerware, but never committed to buying it because I was always worried people would think it was childish.  But you know what?  My mom got me some settings for my birthday this year, and then I used the birthday money from my mother-in-law to buy more settings and now I have nine settings in nine different colors and I can’t even tell you how happy it makes me to open my cabinets.  It’s silly really that a rainbow of dishes could bring so much joy.  But I love it.    

Ok, so now I’m a little mortified at these metaphorical farts that I’ve just owned.  But next time I start gushing over some blogger that isn’t really a celebrity I’m not going to feel ashamed.  I’m just going to own it.  And really this is just the tip of the iceberg.   There is so much more I could have said, and probably one day will- if only to give you all the freedom to claim your own farts and feel no more shame.   Maybe we’ll host an “Owning It Friday” around here.   What about you?  Anything you’d like to not feel ashamed of anymore?

(For the record, when it comes to actual farts I absolutely do not own those.  I will throw my kids, husband or complete strangers under the bus if I happen to fart in public.  No way am I ‘fessing up to that if I can help it.)

Thirty-Two Things...

Oh hey there.  Remember when I was awesome in the beginning of 2015 and writing all the time?  Well February happened.  February is pretty much my least favorite month.  It's still cold and dreary and I've been over winter for about two months already at that point.  And this February was lost to sick kids and sick grown ups and I don't know what else.  All I can say is that if you look at my planner for the month of February there are a whole lot of things that were supposed to happen, but never did.  Cleaning my house was at the top of that list.  Anyway, let's just pretend February never happened and I didn't take a six-week blogging break.  Cool?  Thanks.

I had a birthday earlier this week.  This is the first birthday I’ve encountered where I’m actually starting to feel old.  I’ve joked about feeling old around past birthdays and pretended to hate the annual passing of time birthdays mark.  But this year.  This year I’m feeling it.  I Google things like “skin care regimens” and pay attention to all those before and after pictures people post on Facebook because I’m starting to look…older.  And this was the year I started forgetting my age.  I could not for the life of me remember if I was turning 32 or 33.  (For the record it was 32.) (Also for the record, until this year I could never understand how people could forget their age.  How was that possible?  32 years and 3 kids later I get it.)

This year also marked a significant shift in the age of people doing the things that I aspire to do.  There are a few secret, deep down aspirations I hold in my heart.  In the past I’ve watched other women set down paths similar to the one I’ve longed for.  And in the past those women have always been older.  I’ve always had a few years left to start achieving those dreams.  Until now.  I’m more and more aware of women younger than me starting down the paths I’ve dreamed of taking.  It’s making me feel panicked.  Like there isn’t any more room at the tables I hope to occupy and I’m getting to old for those tables anyway.  Anxiety sets in and I begin to believe that I’ve run out of time, I’ll never accomplish anything and my life has been small and uneventful and when I’m 85 I will lament all the things I didn’t do.

So today, in an effort to remind myself that I have, in fact, lived 32 good years thus far I’ve compiled a list of 32 things I DID do before I turned 32.  Kind of the anti- x, y, or z things to do before you turn x, y or z age.  I want to be someone who celebrates what I’ve done.  Who sees the glass, and life, as half-full.  So in an effort to be kinder to myself I’m focusing on this list.  I’d love to hear your own list.  Maybe it’s not 32 things, but what have YOU done in your years thus far that makes you proud?

 Thirty-Two things I did before I turned Thirty-Two:

      1.)  Backpacked through Europe

      2.)  Lived in the one place I always said I wanted to live

      3.)  Got my masters

      4.)  Taught high school English to a challenging group of kids, and loved it (and them)

      5.)  Stayed out all night dancing in Spain 

      6.)  Celebrated St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin

      7.)  Became a mom 

      8.)  Got married

      9.)  Made the kind of friends I always hoped I would

      10.)   Found myself in the back of a police car

      11.) Got a tattoo

      12.) Changed careers

      13.) Started writing publicly

      14.) Helped kids fall in love with reading

      15.) Lived alone

      16.) Lived with strangers 

      17.) Waitressed (poorly) at a diner

      18.) Ran three marathons

      19.) Learned how to cook 

      20.) Taught a different group of high school kids about God and loved it (and them)

      21.) Said no when it was hard to do

      22.) Said yes when it was hard to do

      23.) Zip lined in Costa Rica

      24.) Nurtured relationships with my girlfriends

      25.) Learned how to host a great dinner party, and opened my home to others every chance I got

      26.) Leaned into vulnerability

      27.)  Learned how to advocate for my kid when he needed it

      28.) Got tipsy with my husband on date nights

      29.) Made a commitment to God and continued to work at that commitment even during seasons I  didn’t want to

      30.) Made peace with the things I’m not and the things I don’t do

      31.) Mourned the loss of my dad

      32.) Lived thirty-two years with very few regrets in regard to the decisions I made, the ways I treated people, and the person I was

       So how about you?  What's on your list?