emsiepilove

Meg In Progress

2012-02-07T07:31:00.000-08:00

My writing and I have a new home.

Come on over. The water's nice. I promise.

Come and see me! Just click the link below!

www.meginprogress.com

Things to do

2012-01-11T11:34:00.000-08:00

See you soon!

As I write this, Viola squirms in my left arm and Margaret is brushing my hair. OH MOMMY! IT IS BEAUTIFUL! (It isn't.) There are dishes to be done, laundry needs folding and I think one of my girls needs her diaper changed. Umm. Scratch that. I know one of my girls needs her diaper changed. Riley won't be home until nearly nine tonight. I miss him.

And.

Life is good. We will do our chores to music. Dancing and dish doing. I will change that diaper and probably ten more. The laundry. Well, let's be honest. That may not be getting done. Isn't wrinkle-chic a thing yet? Can we make it one?

This is also the last time I will be posting on this blog for about two weeks. I have decided to take this whole writing thing a little bit more seriously. We are designing a new blog, brand new name, fresh look, same me. So. My next few weeks will be spent writing content, finalizing design and missing emsiepilove.

And you.

Not going to lie. I hope all of you lovelies follow me to my new adventure. It won't be the same without you.

In the meantime, blessings to your home. I hope the next two weeks (and all the ones after) are filled with living room dance parties, red lipstick kisses and a few long drives all by your lonesome (we all need 20 minute adventures once in a while.)

See you around January 30th.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a diaper to change.

The One with the Lights

2012-01-03T14:55:00.000-08:00

I had a hard time bidding last year a tear free adieu. And by hard time, I mean I blubbered like a baby. Let's face it. Little Miss 2011 was overwhelmingly good to me. My Zuzu girl turned a bright eyed, suddenly her opinion matters, two years old. We met Miss Viola Honey. And after some trial and oh so much error, the four of us have figured out how to live rather prettily together. I am a little* (*overwhelming, to the point that it is no longer cute, quirky or desirable in any setting or circumstance) superstitious. It is hard to imagine that 365 days of so much light and warmth and general fuzziwuzziness can be followed by more of the same. Surely, this year will be, has to be, comprised of all the rain clouds that didn't darken last years bright sky. (The Clouds versus Sun cliche? You should read the descriptions that didn't make the cut...)

Last night we were on our way home from my parents house and I was thoughtful. Full of a little girl that is almost not two, with the things that we hoped this time last year, the ones we made happen, the ones I let slip. I could hear my little Viola breathing her no longer newborn breaths. Riley and I a little older. And I knew that the year, while abundant and lovely, had taken nearly as much as it had given. Riley must have sensed the mood. (Me, crying while staring out the window may have been the first clue.) He got off the freeway at our exit and turned right back around.

Where are you going?

To the house. The one with the lights.

There is a house off the freeway that just sings magic at Christmas. The trees around it are absolutely frosted with lights. Every year I see it from the freeway and every year we are going to go see it. And then we just...don't. Always driving home too late, or too early. Or the kids are crying. Or the next night just seems like a better time. And the lights stay on all season and we never get closer than a glance while going 65 on the freeway.

We pulled up next to it and heavens, it was nearly as magical as I thought it would be. (High praise from this girl.) Margaret's breath caught and she shouted OH MOMMY, DADDY! LOOK! OH IT'S BEAUTIFUL. OH MY GOODNESS! OH MY GOODNESS!

Oh my goodness. It was beautiful.

Riley drove by oh so slowly and then pulled away. Margaret started to cry.

CAN WE GET OUT? I WANT TO TOUCH IT. LET'S GO INSIDE THE LIGHTS. PLEASE MOMMY? PLEASE? I SAID PLEASE. I WANT TO GET OUT.

I wanted to tell her I understood. It would be lovely to stand under those lights. It would be perfect to stop and touch and hold close everything pretty and shining and bright. Only going down the road again, if and when, we wanted to. I wanted to tell her about every moment with her and Viola and her daddy that I have loved. That there are some I wish I could hold in my hand, carry in my pocket. That they float away as quickly as you can catch them.

Instead, I reached over and squeezed her leg.

I know, honey. They were beautiful. We will see them again next year.

I promise.

Just a moment

2011-12-26T18:26:00.000-08:00

It is the end of the holiday weekend. The Christmas presents are put away. Bacon is frying for the BLT's. (We are always frying bacon for something.) Margaret dances around my feet, first to Mary Poppins and then to Sleeping Beauty and then to COWGIRL MUSIC, MOMMY! Her twirls are all long and slow and her eyes are always closed. I dance with her. Viola is swinging and cooing and reminding me that love is an ever expanding, star shined, sort of thing. Riley goes back to work tomorrow.

We will miss him.

For just a moment they are all here and all mine.

Years from now when the babies are gone and life is more complicated, I hope they think of this. Of our little kitchen and our big love. Of princess dressed dances and a Daddy that would rather be here than anywhere else. I hope they know that I was born to love them and that it was enough for me. I hope the smell of frying bacon always brings them home.

Even if it is just for a moment.

We Do Exist!

2011-12-21T08:48:00.000-08:00

Riley and I aren't great parents. The evidence of this is abundant. Margaret's hair is rarely (read never) brushed. She has also started watching the music video for Grace Potter's, Paris (Oh la la) song obsessively. (Hello two year old. Want to shake it to some rock music along with girls in fishnets? Be.My.Guest.) Sometimes we take Viola outside without socks on. Ice cream for breakfast is a regular occurence.

The worst offence by far, however, the one that will land all of our kids in therapy, is that we never, ever, EVER take pictures. Our lives are lovely. There are smiles and tears and dancing in the kitchen. And absolutely no physical evidence that any of it ever happens.

Enter Justin Hackworth. A photographer that weilds his lens the way Monet rocked a paintbrush. High praise. Yeah. Deserved? ~~Hell~~ Heck, yeah.

Justin came to our house. Made Margaret fall in love with him. (I LOVE JUSTIN! CAN I HUG HIM??) Took our pictures. And left Riley and I feeling like the best parents in the world. Did you see all those photograph's we just had taken of our family? We are parents. Hear us roar.

Yesterday we met with Mr. Hackworth to go over the moments he had captured in our purple walled home. It was all just perfect. I bawled like a big, snotty baby. After the presentation, we sat down to look over prices. (Side note: All of Justin's prices are beyond reasonable. It just so happens that Riley and I are in a point of our life where a visit to the dollar menu can wipe out our bank account. Oh, McNuggets, how I miss thee.) I sat there, looking at the numbers, trying to figure out how we could afford two 8 x 10's. (You know how it goes...Maybe if we eat only eggs for the next three weeks. And I only eat two meals a day. And I sell my hair.) When Riley looks at me, looks at Justin and says, We'll take that one. That one. The package I didn't even look at because it was several, several, SEVERAL weeks worth of dollar menu purchases. The one that allowed us to have every precious instant that Justin captured. The one that we would get someday, when we were richer, skinnier, healthier, and reading only russian literature.

I started crying again.

As we walked to our car, Riley held my hand.

Are you sure?

Yeah, Meggi. I am sure. Those are the kinds of things we should spend money on.

I married a smart guy.

( I will skip the part of the story where we canceled, reconsidered, canceled, and finally decided to still do it. It was like the worst game of telephone, ever. Justin was very patient.)

Much better than chicken nuggets.

It Will Have to Do

2011-12-12T15:55:00.000-08:00

Oh. Tannenbaum.

Margaret is asleep. Little Miss Viola Honey is cooing next to me and the house is clean. Well. All the clutter is shoved in closets and under beds. So. The house is basically clean. Our little Christmas tree glows against our purple walls and I think about my girls. They have come to a crazy little woman. I never finish anything. My personality tends to the flighty. I mean everything I promise. And get around to about thirty percent of it. My tastes are well, eclectic. The last time I was really proud of an outfit my mom said I looked like,

"a homeless woman. But, you know, one that had happened upon a bin of really expensive mismatched clothes."

Thank you?

I want to give these two darlings the whole world, but around here a successful morning is one where I have been able to find a pair of socks for each of us. (Much harder than you would think.)

Christmas, while joyful and colorful and magical, is also brimming with feelings of inadequacy. I so want to be that family. You know the one. From November 1st to December 31st their house would make the North Pole envious. Their homemade caramel never burns and the kids aren't crying in their Christmas card picture. The family with carol singing and traditions the children still love when they are eighty and their children's children are having babies. My house is usually too filled with diapers to stir up any feeling, except maybe a desire for a bigger trash can. I can't make rice without burning it black, so attempting homemade caramel might border on the insane. And Margaret cries everytime someone points a camera at her. We do sing carols. And I am inordinately proud of that. As for traditions? I want to give my children traditions. Little bits of stability and safety they can retreat to when they are adults and the world is a little less friendly. There have been attempts. Most of which involve me losing, breaking or forgetting the most important part. Head in my hands, I know. The woman who cannot keep her children in socks is unlikely to be a woman that keeps traditions.

Yesterday, my lovely husband reminded me of a couple of verses in Matthew,

Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.

This is the first and great commandment.

Sweet relief. The first and great commandment from our Heavenly Father, the creator of the universe, of stars and space and light and me, is about love. And honey, I know how to love. That is something I can give these little souls He sent my way. And give in abundance. The caramel making they will have to learn from someone else.

Traditions? Maybe next year. This Christmas, love and a viewing of It's a Wonderful Life will just have to be enough.

I think it is.

Postscript. I burned two grilled cheese sandwiches while writing this post. Typical.

Fly

2011-12-07T21:06:00.001-08:00

Riley and Margaret play this game. He sits on the floor of our bedroom. She stands in the middle of our bed. Jumping. Jumping. Jumping. Running leap and YEAH, DADDY CAUGHT ME!

It is a great game, rarely ends in tears and tires her out beautifully for bed. Last night I went in and sat with them while she flew through the air. Viola was cuddled in my arms, smiling like she knew she should. Margaret loved it. OH, MOMMY, LOOK AT HER. SHE LOVES IT! SHE LOVES ME! SHE LOVES YOU!

Jumping. Jumping. Jumping. Running leap and....I noticed something. When Margaret jumps into the air, she never looks down. The darling girl looks at me, at herself in the mirror or up at the ceiling. But she never once looked at Riley, at the floor, at the places she could fall.

Riley and I have been discussing some big things. It is one of the reasons I married him. There are some dreams so big it takes two people to dream them. Cheesy? Sure. True and lovely? Absolutely. Also...a little scary.

I think I will learn from Margaret. Time to leap without looking down. Time to forget about the places I can fall.

Jumping. Jumping. Jumping. Running leap and....

Stay Awake...or don't.

2011-12-06T11:14:00.001-08:00

Viola slept through the night. For the third night out of the last four. Darling, remind me of this when you are sixteen and I will buy you a car. Any.Car.You.Want.

Really.

Margaret is sick. For the tenth day out of the last fourteen. She was up all night last night. Crying, not breathing, crying some more. At some point she started pointing at her face while yelling...MY EYES! MY EYES! I am not going to lie, it was a a little creepy. The little girl fell asleep around 4:30am. And woke up at 5:41am. Honey, I would suggest that you never remind me of this. Even then...you still may not be getting a car. Sleep tonight and perhaps we can figure something out.

Margaret's favorite sleepy song is Stay Awake from Mary Poppins. It has been playing on loop for the past two hours and the girl is still wide eyed. She might be taking it a little literally.

Me? I am ready for a nap.

Just in case you need a little soothing yourself

Just a tear or two (or three or four or....)

2011-12-05T07:34:00.001-08:00

Weekends can be hectic. Poor Riley. I often try to squeeze a weeks worth of activities into two days. Some sort of grand tour off all the things he missed while he was at work during the week. It can seem like a punishment. Naps are skipped. Tears. Snacks forgotten. Tears. Primetime football games missed. Tears. (I will leave it up to the reader to decide which tears belong to little Margaret and which belong to Riley.)

Saturday we went to a church Christmas breakfast, a friends birthday party, and the Utah Festival of Trees. The Christmas breakfast was a good excuse to eat my years' quota of hashbrowns and cheese. The birthday party was a six year olds dream, pizza making and balloon popping. (Margaret was devastated during the balloon popping portion...MOMMY! BALLOONS ARE BEAUTIFUL! WHY? WHY? Viola just seemed mildly annoyed.) We stopped for a bit at the grandparents house where Margaret napped and then had a psychotic break due to low blood sugar. Epic, record breaking crying. Riley thought perhaps that should signal the end of our day...I knew better. On to the next adventure! The Festival of Trees is a lovely, heart breaking, necessary kind of thing. Each year hundreds of people from across the state decorate trees that are auctioned off to benefit Primary Children's Hospital. Most of the trees are done as a memorial to people who have died, many of them children. Dozens of Thomas the Train, ballerina, and princess trees, each one next to a picture of the child they remembered. Margaret couldn't figure out why the GORGEOUS (her new word) christmas trees made mommy sad. There were just too many of them. We will go every year.

Yesterday was church and a family gathering. BLT's and deviled eggs and butternut squash cream soup spiked with green chile. (My Dad the chef...no two bit burgers for him.) Lot's of kids. Some tears. More laughter. Both from Margaret. We got home just in time to see the last ten minutes of Natalie Cole and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir perform on PBS. Pajama's. Margaret and I on the couch. Viola cuddled up with Riley on the rocking chair. Ms. Cole sang with her eyes closed, the choir's voices soared and Riley looked at me.

I love you.

I love you, too.

This time the tears were mine.

You are what you...

2011-11-30T20:10:00.001-08:00

Classy.

Someone once said that you know who you are by the things that you want.

Okay. I just made that up. It just seems like something somebody would say, a phrase heard in a freshman survey course. Corny, but probably true. As I have changed, so have the things I want. When I was seven, I needed to be Nancy Drew (Okay, that one never went away). By twelve, I wanted clear skin and even bigger bangs. Charlie's Angels came out my freshman year of high school and Ray Ban celebrated with Angels branded sunglasses. They were blue and covered in crystals. I could not live without them. By college, my wants had expanded with my horizons. They included a graduate degree in Russian fairy tales, the contents of every Anthropologie catalogue, and a blue eyed man in a house with a wrap around porch. I have gotten many of the things my little heart desired. My bangs reached epic proportions with the help of a round brush and steel determination. I wore those Charlie's Angels sunglasses faithfully...until I broke them. And that blue eyed man? He is sitting next to me holding our blue eyed little girl.

Today was a long day. Margaret has a chest rattling cough. Viola's acid reflux is an unwanted visitor. Riley came home from work just long enough to eat dinner and then left to do volunteer work at church. Days like today I put the kids to bed, turn on the computer and disappear in a few minutes of wishful thinking. In the past I have planned fantasy vacations, compiled Vogue worthy wardrobes, and researched the most expensive first editions of works by my favorite authors.

Today. Today, I looked at every food oriented gift basket on Costco.com. Cheeses, cured meats, chocolate covered macadamia nuts, the occasional dried fruit, all of it encased in the finest leather covered wood crates a warehouse store can offer. I took a half hour and scrolled through six pages of faux gourmet foods in tins. Each one more coveted than the next.

Someone once said that you know who you are by the things that you want. And I want a basket full of cheese, sausage and cookies.

Yeah.

Last Week

2011-11-28T12:17:00.001-08:00

Last week.

Monday I was retching from the flu for ten straight hours.

Tuesday I felt much better and went shopping with two kids for Thanksgiving dinner...for 32 people. (Mom and Dad paid.) I was especially excited about the ingredients for the root vegetable soup I was making. Margaret only hit me once. Then she said sorry...after my mom bought her candy.

Wednesday my sisters and I baked pies from dawn until dusk. Riley made the pecan and pumpkin filling. He looks good with a whisk. I also roasted the vegetables for my root vegetable soup.

Thursday the sisters and I started cooking at 7 am and kept at it until 5 pm when dinner was served, starting of course with my root vegetable soup. My Dad said it tasted, "healthy. You know...like something you would eat if you needed help with your digestion." The rest of the meal was much better....and easily digested after all that root vegetable soup. Riley tried to take pictures of my very first Thanksgiving, but I left the camera in the diaper bag and it took a bath in baby formula. The camera he just got me. The one I just figured out how to use. The one we couldn't afford in the first place. I.felt.awful. Still do. I always ruin nice things. He gave me a hug and we went home.

Friday my brother, sister and nephew got the flu.

Saturday the family went Christmas shopping and got home just in time for my other sister to get the flu.

Yesterday my brother in law woke up with flu hours before his drive home. We went to church and came home to a messy house and The Next Iron Chef reruns.

This week.

I am going to clean the house. Decorate. Take family photographs with this guy. Bake. Introduce Margaret to Santa. Bake. Cuddle with my Violababy. Bake. Figure out how to pay for my camera to be fixed. Make out with Riley like it's cold outside. Bake.

.....

And not get the flu.

Motivation

2011-11-21T09:00:00.000-08:00

It is Monday morning and we are emerging from QUITE the weekend. Margaret is recovering from the flu. I am recovering from Margaret having the flu. Our lovely little house is just under 900 square feet. At one point or another every inch of it was covered in vomit. Apparently throwing up in a bowl or toilet is just a little too bourgeois for the little girl. My bed? Perfect. The kitchen table? Sure. The green chair from Pottery Barn...the one worth almost as much as her little life? It became the canvas of choice for her postmodern puke masterpiece.

It was a long 24 hours.

Threat of joy killing flu aside, this week should be a marked improvement on the last two days. Family, Thanksgiving, Christmas shopping, Riley home for a five day weekend. Bliss.

Bliss, especially when accompanied by a Thanksgiving dinner for twenty-five, can be a lot of work. And this morning I am just feeling a little less than motivated. There are many cures for this condition. Some women go running, others listen to cheesy girl power music, even more still sit down with a bowl of ice cream and simply wait the feeling out (Chocolate Peanut Butter Haagan-Dazs is especially effective). Lately, Riley and I have found another way to get pumped for the things that fill our days.

The Drew Brees Pre-Game Chant.

We shout this back and forth to each other while making breakfast, changing diapers, and driving to work. Margaret is so embarrassed of us.

Watch the video. Feel the power.

Let me break it down for you....

ONE, TWO! WIN! FOR YOU!

THREE, FOUR! WIN! SOME MORE!

FIVE, SIX! WIN! FOR KICKS!

SEVEN, EIGHT! WIN! IT'S GREAT!

NINE, TEN! WIN! AGAIN! WIN! AGAIN! WIN! AGAIN!

Ridiculous. Elementary. Derivative.

I don't care. It totally makes me feel like I can take on the world.

Bring on the holidays. I smell greatness.

Worth it

2011-11-17T07:02:00.000-08:00

These girls.

So cute I can almost forget every sleepless night, Wonderpets marathon and ruined silk dress.

Almost.

You Better Watch Out...

2011-11-15T20:40:00.001-08:00

Christmas is just around the corner and Riley and I have already spent several months worth of grocery money on presents. It is excessive. Unnecessary. Potentially damaging. And I totally know it.

Megan! Don't you see the error of your ways? No? Here, let me list them for you...

My children will probably never know the worth of a hard earned dollar.
Too many toys result in over stimulation
Mass produced products have no soul. Now, a set of brown, Swedish inspired blocks...there is soul! There is a world of imagination!
America's consumer culture creates mall zombies and buying two dolls instead of one contributes to the creation of more zombies

Here is the thing. I think about our little Christmas tree sparkling and lovely and almost hidden by all the wrapped gifts that surround it...and then I think about all the reasons that we should practice frugality, reason, restraint and....I just can't get myself to care. Besides I have always wondered whether I had the resources to survive a zombie attack. Only one way to find out.

Cookies and wrapping and candy canes the size of my head aside, this Christmas is going to be lovely because it is the first time that Margaret has been interested in understanding Santa Claus and the birth of our Savior. Sure, Santa Claus is a fleeting bit of childhood magic. He is unimportant when compared to the soul sustaining truth of the birth of Jesus Christ. Still, Riley and I have had so much fun teaching the little smidget about both of them. I thought we had done a pretty good job, too.

The Parents (that's us): Margaret! What happens at Christmas?

Margaret: SANTA CLAUS IS COMING!

The Parents: Margaret! Why do we have Christmas?

Margaret: IT'S JESUS' BIRTHDAY!

What do you do when you teach your kid something new? Make them perform in front of strangers, of course. A couple of days ago the check out lady at the grocery store asked me if Margaret was excited about Christmas. Oh, you bet! Here, listen to this...

Me: Margaret! Tell the nice lady what happens at Christmas!

Margaret, in her loudest, most assured voice: JESUS IS COMING!!!

Yeah. She might as well have had on a tiny little sandwich board that read, "The end is near." The lady handed me my change with a nervous smile and we headed out the door. I am sure she spent the rest of the day worried about the curly headed two year old that must live on a compound somewhere with her crazy parents.

No big deal. We have six more weeks to help her distinguish the differences between the myths and truths of the holiday season. Also ... six more weeks to buy gifts.

We better get a bigger tree.

One Bite at a Time

2011-11-14T14:41:00.000-08:00

My daughter, the one that walks and talks, is afraid of everything. It is quite a process, becoming afraid of everything. At first it was just the neighbors' chickens and large dogs. Then dragons and the wind and anybody who tries to hug her when she is tired, hungry or already scared of something else. The list of terrors is long and varied. She lives in a world in which anything is possible. There are fairies and princesses that live happily ever after. There are also goblins and wicked stepmothers and poison apples.

I try to be compassionate but there are times when the ridiculousness of her phobias is only matched by the extremity of her reactions. Take last week. I had been in the house for 48 consecutive hours. Viola couldn't stop crying. Margaret had memorized all of Rapunzel's lines from Tangled. It was time to get out. Time to go to Target. Halfway there I realized I hadn't brushed Margaret's teeth. Or her hair. Or mine. Viola's crying got just this much louder. And I was flipped off on State Street because I was only driving 20 miles per hour. (You try opening a granola bar for a hungry two year old while driving with a screaming infant, Mr. Honda Accord. IT.IS.HARD.) We pulled into the Target parking lot and I began to relax. I was about to imprison my kids in a shopping cart, distract my toddler with junk food and window shop for things I can almost afford. Not too bad. The relaxation was short lived. The minute I got Margaret out of the car she began to scream. Piercing, there is a rabid dog biting my leg and he won't let go screaming.

Me: Zuzu, Margaret! Honey what is wrong?

Margaret, pointing to a flock of seagulls a few cars away: Birds! Birds, Mommy! They are going to get me! THEY ARE EVERYWHERE!

Birds. Are. Everywhere. Truer words may never have been spoken. It took a bag of popcorn, two cups of chocolate milk and a new sparkle bracelet to help her overcome that one.

That night after baths and story time and prayers, I thought about my little scared girl in her little princess bed. Sat outside her door and laughed for her simple fears. I didn't laugh long. It struck me that baby girl and I are not so different. I am laced with apprehension. Afraid of so many things, nearly all of them taken seriously and nearly all of them as harmless as a bunch of seagulls.

A few irrational things that scare me, intimidate me or generally make me nervous:

Stick shifts

French cooking (Julia Child wants me to do WHAT to which part of the RAW, dead chicken?)

Sewing (Maybe this doesn't intimidate me so much as bore me to death...either way, very scary.)

Wearing a bathing suit without a cover up

Losing my hair (Because I swear more and more comes out in the shower every week)

Being just a Mom

Forgetting that there is nothing I would rather be than a Mom

Purple hued lipstick (I don't care what Drew Barrymore says...it just doesn't look right.)

Disappointing Riley

Women my own age ( Because they must be judging me, or leaving me out, or just inviting me to do things because they feel bad for me, or....)

Death by: Plane crash, car wreck, earthquake, premature burial, drowning, snake bite, spider bite, shark bite...basically any kind of bite.

I went back into Zuzu's room and smoothed the curls away from her face. My little girl wakes up smiling every morning and eats a big bowl of grape nuts. Eats that cereal like she doesn't have a care in her little head. Like there isn't a world full of goblins and wind and BIRDS just outside our door. One huge bite at a time. That takes a pretty brave soul.

I don't know that our fears ever become more reasoned or mature. Maybe I will always be afraid. Always have to push past insecurity and trepidation. Maybe.

I do know that I will wake up smiling. And I will eat a big bowl of grape nuts like there isn't a shadow that could darken my day.

One huge bite at a time.

The things we carry

2011-11-10T19:52:00.001-08:00

I remember the globe that sat on my teacher's desk in the second grade. A light blue ball, smudged with the dirt from a hundred grubby hands. Crossed with lines the teacher called "Longitude" and "Latitude", it was an exotic addition to our brown walled classroom. I loved running my fingers over the primary colored continents, lingering on the raised surfaces of mountain ranges. When the teacher wasn't looking, I would spin the earth on its metal axis until the colors and continents blurred and for just a moment the world, the whole wide world, didn't seem all that big.

Things change. It takes a little more than a public school issued globe to catch my fancy now. Latitude and longitude became pedestrian "are you smarter than a 5th grader" concepts. And the world, that whole wide world, feels very, very big.

I have been reading a book that returns a little bit of the beauty to that old globe. Quick history lesson. Emphasis on quick. For most of the human story, man has set out across the dark deep ocean in search of land, riches and opportunity. Our myths are full of seagoers lost and seagoers found, although reality tended more to the lost part of the equation. Some were drowned in storms, others killed in battle, but most of those men, those husbands, sons and fathers, most of them never returned home simply because they could not find their way. They were lost because longitude, the lines running from the top to the bottom of my second grade world, could not be measured at sea. Without those measurements captains could only guess at where they were, only conjecture about where they were going. Shipfuls of men left the harbors of their homelands dependent on fickle luck. The question of longitude was the problem of the age.

Great men looked to the stars for answers. They searched superstition for truth. Each attempt was met with failure. Some catastrophic, some mildly embarrassing. It wasn't until the eighteenth century that a clockmaker of humble origins discovered the solution. John Harrison knew that longitude could be measured using a clock that kept precise, constant time. He knew that no such device had ever worked successfully on land, let alone in the changing environment of the ocean. He also knew he could make one. And he did. Before the end of his life, this carpenter and clockmaker had invented the marine chronometer. Sailors carried his lifes' work, a mechanism with a diameter of just inches, to sea and for the first time in history were able to determine where in this whole wide world they were.

I have been thinking quite a lot about the things I carry with me. I am not so different from those sailors that set out not knowing which way to go. This life holds uncertainty and storms. There are star filled nights and the joy of great discovery. I don't want to drift, don't want to miss where I was supposed to be by mere degrees. So what should I carry with me? The love of my family and the love I have for them. Hunger for knowledge. Desire to understand and do the things I am called to do. A sureness of who I am, a daughter of God. An ever increasing love for God and His word. Happiness and forgiveness and, above all, charity. Equipped with such things I know I can feel confident on this journey. That through them I will be given direction to joys and adventures and accomplishments I could not have had without their constancy. And after all the exploration and discovery and fulfillment, I know that they will lead me safely to harbor even more surely than John Harrison's chronometer.

I imagine it will be quite the homecoming.

Get a Melissa & Doug 25% Off Coupon When You Take the North "Poll"

2011-11-09T16:46:00.000-08:00

Melissa & Doug want you to tell them which of their educational toys you think is the best! Just click on the image below to place your vote in the North "Poll!" You'll Get a Melissa & Doug 25% Off Coupon** to use at MelissaAndDoug.com just for voting!

Just a personal note....I think Melissa & Doug produce toys that would make the workers in Santa's workshop proud. Go Christmas!

A Red Kind of Day

2011-11-09T11:57:00.000-08:00

look! It works for them!

This morning I woke up early. Did my hair, put on a dress and applied lipstick. Red lipstick.

Hello World...I will conquer you.

By eleven, my hair was falling out of its clips. I had been spit up on three times. I may or may not have stress spent an extra forty dollars at the grocery store. (And all of it on different kinds of crackers. Yeah. Your guess is as good as mine.) And that world conquering lipstick? Apparently, it was smeared up to my nose the entire time I was out running errands.

Blooming red makeup. Up.My.Nose. Classy.

I could call it a day. Naptime is just around the corner. There would be no shame in throwing on a pair of sweats and watching Jane Eyre for the 123rd time. ( But seriously, Mr. Fassbender...You can trick me into bigamy anytime. Any.Time.) I have done it before. Heaven knows, I will do it again.

But today. Today, I think I will put that scarlet lipstick right back on. Who knows...It might be the beginning of something absolutely lovely.

The Letter of the Law

2011-11-08T14:51:00.000-08:00

Returning from a week of illness and visiting family...I will let you decide whether there is a correlation between the two.

The kids are asleep. Ellen isn't on for another hour. And I just spent the last fifteen minutes sitting, wondering what I should do with this BRIEF time out. I once read that when you don't know what to do, you should do the work that is in front of you. Currently that is dusting, laundry and mopping. And making my bed. And cleaning the oven.

Yeah. Blogging sounds good.

It is interesting having two children in such different stages of childhood. Viola is a little piece of cake. A piece of cake that cries. But still, cake. She cuddles and coos. When she is hungry she eats. When she is tired she sleeps. There is not much hint of her personality yet, so while mildly boring, she is also incredibly easy. (Viola, yes I did just call you boring on a website accessible to everyone. This and many other things I do and say may put you into therapy someday. I will pay for the sessions myself. You're welcome.)

Margaret will be three in February. How to put this? She does not suffer from an absence of personality. She is funny and sweet and incredibly intelligent. Her memory borders on the photographic, she can recite most of the books we read together. She can also throw herself down on the floor and scream until she is hoarse. It is statistically proven that 20% of childless people that hear that scream decide to remain permanently without progeny. It just happened today at Kohl's. I know that some of the women in that store saw her and decided a life of sleepful nights, shopping and perky breasts trumped motherhood by a mile. I don't know whether to apologize or expect thank you notes.

Margaret has discovered the fine art of coloring. Coloring on the wall. On her kitchen. On her hands. If I were a better mother I would say she was an artist at heart. Look at my daughter the artist! The world is her canvas! I, however, have never claimed to be a good mother. And her scribbles are ugly. So the coloring on the wall business is a problem. Last week Riley had a long talk with her. We draw on paper, We draw in our coloring books. We don't color on the play kitchen and we don't color on our hands. She dutifully repeated after him, " We don't color on the kitchen and we don't color on our hands." OK Margaret? OK, Daddy!

He came away from the whole thing feeling pretty proud of himself.

Fast forward to yesterday. Margaret had 45 minutes of much needed quiet time in her room while I got some things done around the house. (And by got some things done around the house I mean I watched Bones. While eating peanut butter out of the jar. With my finger.)

I went to go get her when ~~the episode~~ quiet time was over. She was standing in the middle of her room. Shirtless. With so much ink on her arms that even Kat Von D would blush over the excess. I have never seen her look so proud.

Me: Margaret! What have you done? You drew all over your arms!

Margaret, calmly, matter of factly: Mommy. I didn't color on the kitchen. I didn't color on my hands.

Think about the premeditation. She looked at the pen. She looked at the kitchen. She looked at the pen. She looked at her hands. She looked at the pen. She looked at....Light bulb! Off comes the shirt, because Mama never said anything about coloring on arms.

The implications this has for her teenagedom are a little frightening. She does, however, seem to have a promising future as a lawyer.

Maybe then she can pay for my therapy sessions.

Ooh la la.

2011-10-27T09:26:00.000-07:00

So it has been just over six weeks since I had the babypi. And Riley is taking me to Ruth's Chris tonight. On a date. Without the kids.

Have I mentioned it has been six weeks since I had the baby? Ahem.

This is the song I will be listening to all day to get ready for our night on the town.

Ooh la la.

At 4 a.m.

2011-10-26T06:41:00.000-07:00

Dear Viola,

You are six weeks old. A darling 9 pound little girl with a cotton candy tongue. Dark brown hair and eyes as blue as your lovin' daddys'. You have begun to smile and you know our voices. Sleeping, at night at least, seems to hold little appeal. You and I have a standing appointment at 4am every morning. We meet over a warm bottle and a rocking chair. Holding you in the dark of the morning is not something I am quite ready to give up. There is something special about just you and me and the stars. As I listen to your little baby sighs, I wonder who you are. What dreams were you born with and what dreams will I help you find? How will you decide to live the moments we are given on this earth? And always, how can I help you? Because little girl, I live to help you. The questions are there and the answers, the lovely, bright, happy answers will come. Until then you snuggle in closer and I bless you as only a mother can. I bless you with a family that loves you. I bless you with the life I hope for you. A life with pride of accomplishment, a man to love, a little girl to hold at 4 in the morning. I bless you with adventure and love and warmth. With hopes unhindered by fear or regret. I bless you with curiosity and desire and faith. That you will know your Heavenly Father and your divine heritage. That you won't waste the beauty I see behind those blue eyes. And I hold you and love you and in the dark it almost seems possible that I can give you all these things.

See you in a few hours.

Love,

Mama

Creative Thinking

2011-10-25T14:25:00.000-07:00

Virginia Woolf said, "A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."

Just a few spaces I would not mind calling my own.

This room of my own business may be more than a couple paychecks away. A kitchen table free of cheerios will do until then.

To do list

2011-10-24T20:57:00.000-07:00

Today I...

Drove around and ran errands for three consecutive hours

Made a pot of beans ... double the salt pork

Took Viola Honey to the Doctor, Hello Acid Reflux.

Picked up a prescription, GOODBYE Acid Reflux

Read Goodnight Moon to Margaret before her nap

Listened to Margaret cry before her nap

Caved and read Goodnight Moon to Margaret THREE more times before she finally napped

Held Viola while she cried

Held Viola while she smiled

She cried some more

Picked up Riley from work

Ate leftovers for dinner ... pizza for Margaret, corned beef and cabbage for the parents

Watched Antique Roadshow

Cried while watching Antique Roadshow...they are just so happy...How can you not cry?

Took a bath

Collapsed into a puddle of blogging, Pinterest and facebook

Tomorrow I will...

Seek my Heavenly Father first

Happiness will follow.

A good day

2011-10-18T07:00:00.000-07:00

There are days I go to to bed knowing that I am not living my life with the fullness it deserves. Photographs have gone untaken and stories have remained unwritten. A day blooms with marvelous capacities. The potential for color and creation. Sometimes I waste that. Waste it on uncertainty, indifference and Bones re-runs. (but seriously, David Boreanaz? Sure. I'll take that.) There are days when I capture the blues and pinks and yellows. The subtleties and the stories and the loveliness. Those are good days.

A few things other people have made on what must have been good days.

2012 Calendar, Sycamore Street Press

Handmade invitations, junkaholique

Presence by Cassandra Barney

To more good days for all of us.

Birthin' that baby

2011-10-17T07:00:00.000-07:00

When I had Margaret I was fairly uneducated about the whole birthing process. I had heard there were women that had their babies at home while a shaman chanted and the husband, children, household pets, in-laws and gardener watched. All of it followed by a hearty meal of placenta and self-righteousness. I had also heard of women that scheduled c-sections around pedicures and work meetings. Hey Doc, could you hurry it up? I think I just broke a nail. In my infinite wisdom, (hear that sarcasm?) I decided both groups of women were overthinking the whole thing. Let's face it. Placenta tacos sound a bit exotic for me, my nails are always a mess, and I have never been able to stick to a schedule in my life. Women have been birthing babies since Eve went east of eden. Couldn't I just show up and push the thing out?

Which is exactly what I did. I went into labor while Riley was at school...in a basement...out of cell service. So, with my contractions 5 minutes apart, I drove myself to the hospital. Please picture how pathetic I must have looked crawling alone into hospital admitting. Now multiply that by ten. Yep. You got it. A worried Riley got to the delivery room as I was being given the epidural. Just an hour later I had a nearly nine pound baby. The birth had been quick, chaotic and damaging. My family came in and cried over the little girl's loveliness and I stared at the ceiling wanting to be anywhere but there. I kept staring at ceilings for another three months. I won't argue that the labor made my postpartum worse, but it was certainly a difficult beginning.The next time things would be different.

And they were.

I chose my doctors carefully. Told them what I wanted and needed. I took the hospital tour and packed my overnight bag three weeks before the baby was due. Preparation, hello, my name is Megan. Nice to meet you. On September 10th, I went to my nephew's first birthday party. The food was good, the company was nice and my back hurt. By eleven pm my back still hurt and I had had two, count them two, contractions. Not exactly the stuff rushing to the hospital is made of. My mom was positive I was in the throes of labor. I was positive she was in the throes of crazy. For not the first time, Riley took my mom's advice over mine. So we left Margaret at Gamy and Papa's and went to the hospital. This time I got to walk into admitting with my best friend.

The next bit was quick, painful and lovely. Dilated to a six. Broken water. Contractions. Waiting for the epidural. Contractions. Waiting for the epidural. Contractions. Where the $#%& is the epidural? Oh. There it is. Much. Better. We had been in the hospital for two hours and it was time. The doctor and nurses bustled around the room setting up. Riley held my hand and we laughed. Laughed because life is consistently scary and new and bright and hopeful and inconsi stent. Laughed because we are still just kids. Laughed because there was no turning back. And because we didn't want to. Laughed because everything is just so damn much better when he is holding my hand.

And then she was here. Didn't push once. Just laughed that little Viola Honey right out.

Perfect.

She was tiny and black haired and quiet. I held her and I knew that this is one thing women can't overthink. The women with the shaman and the women with the schedule had understood something that I had not. Perhaps they approach birth in an extreme way because it is an extreme thing. It is the future and the past. It is blood and spirit. For just a moment heaven meets earth and we get to be there. What a profound blessing.

By 6am Riley was asleep and Viola breathed steadily on my chest. I was tired and sore and just a little scared. And happy. I was happy.

Harmony

2011-10-11T08:50:00.000-07:00

Sang this song with Riley all morning while we got ready. I do the lyrics, he rocks the vocal guitar. Nerdy. Fabulous. Lucky me.

As Ms. Krauss says, I've got all this and heaven above.

Have a happy day.

Oh Atlanta, by Alison Krauss and Union Station

It doesn't take much

2011-10-10T15:42:00.000-07:00

So...post partum depression. What a b-word, am I right?

There I will be. Having a perfectly lovely day, nothing but reasons to be happy and then suddenly the floor falls out and I can't breathe.

Take Saturday.

The weather was a cold excuse for indoor activites. We straightened up, played with the babies and read books. There was even talk of Chick-Fil-A for dinner. A day of clouds topped with fried chicken sandwiches. Yes. Please. Thank you.

However, by four o'clock, the babies, the reading, the promise of deep fried goodness on the horizon...it just wasn't enough. Riley could sense my anxiety. I can't imagine how. It may have had something to do with the fact that I was pacing back and forth and mumbling under my breath. He suggested that I might want to get out the house. Or maybe it was more like he needed my crazy self to leave for a little while. Either way.

I wrote a shopping list, grabbed the car keys and headed east to...Harmon's. A locally owned grocery store that carries everything from poor mans potato chips to a selection of middle class hipsters french cheese. I know there are much more exclusive markets in other parts of the country. I understand that Harmon's is no Dean & Deluca. But it is what this Provo girl has, and heaven knows I will take it.

I spent an hour wandering the aisles. Picking out the food we needed and looking at the food we can't afford. (Have you ever really immersed yourself in the world of high end pickled goods? Oh. Delicious. The decadence of a ten dollar jar of pickles is one I hope to experience in this lifetime.) The anxiety began to ease by the time I had passed the locally made sausages. The sadness got lost somewhere near the in-house bakery. By the time I reached the produce section my cart was nearly full and I felt almost human. I dawdled around the exotic fruits, pondered the purchase of kale (we really should start eating better), and finally put iceberg lettuce and a couple of apples in my basket.

And then a treat. A nice lady with a nice smile was handing out samples of a root vegetable soup. Would I like some? Oh, yes. Yes I would. She ladled the burnt orange goodness into a cup, topped it off with a goat cheese crostini and handed it to me with a, "there you go, hon." It looked like something Martha Stewart would make on a camp out. In other words, beautiful. Seriously. That plastic crostini topped cup was the fanciest thing that I had held in months. Which is embarrassing. But not nearly as embarrassing as what happened next. Root soup in hand I looked up at the woman who had given it to me, eyes welled up with tears and said, "Oh my goodness. Thank you so much. This is really just too nice." She looked terrified. I can't really blame her.

I savored that soup one mini spoon bite at a time.

I think I need to get out more often.

The Royal Treatment

2011-10-07T14:11:00.000-07:00

Today has been a simple day. Pot pie and Sleeping Beauty for Margaret. Bottles and rocking for Viola. Both kids asleep and Friday Night Lights for me. It is cold outside. Riley is at work. I am grateful. We have, as Margaret would say, "MORE THAN ENOUGH!"

More than enough warmth in our little house. More than enough food in our yellow cabinets. More than enough opportunity in the still hazy future.

And more than enough $%#& diapers.

They are everywhere. Spilling out of the trash can, hiding under the couch, I found one behind my pillow last night. Surprise.

Viola's diapers are tiny, inoffensive things. If the waste of a human being could be cute, let me tell you...hers' is. Margaret, on the other hand. Oh.My.Goodness. At two and a half the little darling is still not interested in potty training. She has the system pretty well figured out. I can see it in her eyes every time I extol the fun, beauty, fantasticness! of using the toilet...

Sure, Mom. Like we are going to change anything. You read me all my favorite books, serve Chef Boyardee at least twice weekly and literally wipe my butt. What, pray tell, needs to be altered about this situation.

Yesterday, I brought out the big guns. A princess themed training potty. Pink, bedecked with Disney and sparkles, it even has a magical wand that chimes when you "flush." If this couldn't get Margaret to stop messing in her own pants, I honestly don't what could.

We presented the potty with the royal fanfare such a throne deserves. And.She.Loved.It. The girl was positively hysterical about the beauty of the thing. She shouted "PRINCESS POTTY!" over and over again as we set it up in the bathroom. Then she and I had a talk,

(Side note: I hate talking about bathroom related issues. I have avoided the p word, poop, for most of Margaret's life. Euphemisms have included mess, muddy and my favorite, absolute silence on the subject. I won't have any problem sitting down and talking to my kids about sex. But a candid discussion about waste? Absolutely horrifying for me.)

"Margaret, this princess potty is just for you! You are a big sister now. Do you know what big sisters do? They go poopy and peepee in the potty!"

"OH! OK, MOMMY! POOPY IN THE PRINCESS POTTY! OK!"

"Yes. So you just tell mommy when you need to go poopy or peepee and I will help you go in the potty. OK?"

"OK!"

She then proceeded to carry the potty around the house telling both the real and imaginary occupants of our home all about her beautiful new potty. After the grand tour she returned it to bathroom and sat by it...stroking it...for 15 solid minutes. By the end of the evening she had filled the inside of it with all of her treasures. It is bursting with doll shoes, puzzle pieces and play food. Let me tell you, cookies coming out of the top of a toilet, even one as glamorous as this one? Seriously disturbing.

The one thing I am certain Margaret will never allow inside her beautiful new potty?

Anything that comes out of her butt.

Maybe it is just time to invest in a bigger trash can.

How it's done

2011-10-05T12:56:00.000-07:00

My baby is three weeks old and I am two days past being absolutely bonkers. Some mothers are slowly driven crazy by their children. Mine make me mental from birth. It is not entirely the darling dears' fault. My chemical make up is particularly prone to post-partum depression. Combine that tendency with sleepless nights, diaper blow outs and HOW-MUCH-WEIGHT-DO-I- STILL-NEED-TO-LOSE? and you have one notsohotso mess. Nearly a month into this two child experiment and I am finally waking up. I can smile in the mornings and haven't fallen asleep crying on the floor for DAYS! Yes. This is big and beautiful news.

Sunday was one of my last actively psycho days. By mid morning, I had pushed past the panic and sadness. The question sounding since Viola was born, HOW ARE WE GOING TO DO THIS?, had become a bit quieter. In celebration, I made a fancy breakfast. And by "fancy" I mean that hash browns were involved. The table was set and I had only broken one egg yolk. Time to eat. Of course, Viola decided she was scream-till-I-just-can't-scream-anymore hungry at the very moment I had dressed my beloved potatoes. (three shakes of salt, two from the pepper and a generous ketchup-ing.) By the time I was done feeding the baby, my egg had congealed and Margaret had been taking bites of my bacon. The hash browns, however, still looked just perfect. Yes. My baby was fed, my family had enjoyed a meal made by my hand. Who needs eggs? Who needs bacon sans two year old slobber? I have everything. Everything with a side of fried potato strings. Content, I lifted a forkful of the hash browns to my mouth and...

they were cold. Freezing. Glacial.

I got up. Threw the plate in the sink and locked myself in the bathroom for an angry cry.

How are we going to do this? How are we going to do this. How am I going to do this?

Twenty minutes and one make up application later, I emerged. Margaret was in her room, Viola was asleep and the kitchen had been cleaned. Riley was waiting for me in the front room. The poor man looked very confused. He sat next to me, pulled me into his arms and asked what was wrong. I started crying. The ugly kind - with hiccups and a runny nose.

"Don't you see?" I said, "With two kids I am really just a mom and I will be eating cold potatoes for the rest of my life." This followed by more tears. Hiccups. Snot.

Lovely.

The good - patient! - man laughed, pulled me in closer and said the most romantic thing this crazy girl has ever heard,

"Meggi, don't forget. I am here. We will take turns eating cold potatoes."

And there it was. My answer. That is how we are going to do this. We will all laugh and love. The girls, Riley and I will color the world with sidewalk chalk and read about the places we can't reach. I will remember the man I married and follow him to the bright lights he has always seen. He will remember the girl he married and give me time to write and space to dream. We will touch and make out and ahem, you know, so that for just a little while it feels like we are the only ones in the world.

And we will take turns eating the cold potatoes.

Sometimes It Swings Back

2011-09-07T07:44:00.000-07:00

My two year old still drinks bottles. No, wait. Let me be honest. My nearly two AND A HALF year old still drinks bottles. She loves them. Little whole milk filled vessels best served "COLDIE!" and often. The little darling likes juice out of cups, chocolate milk out of cartons and water out of anything. But for my Margaret, nothing, not anything, comes close to a Dr. Brown full of the white stuff.

As any pediatrician, (or "helpful" mother), will tell you, a two year old is far too old to be enjoying the infantile excess of bottle sucking. It.Is.Simply.Not.Done. Up until recently, I have not cared about the opinions of the learned. And by not care, I mean I have lied.

Last doctors visit with Margaret:

Doctor: And I assume that she is completely off the bottle, right? And has been for some time?

Me: Oh! The bottle? Been off it so long she can't remember what one looks like.

Cue my eyes following his. Which are looking into my open diaper bag. At a bottle. Brimming with milk. Ummm. Maybe he thought it was mine?

Baby Viola will be here by next Tuesday. Margaret will be a big sister. It occured to me that maybe big sisters shouldn't be so, ahm, nipple dependent. Time for some growing up. Last Friday was the day. The day Margaret would become too big for the bottle. I had all her favorite drinks on hand. Kept her busy through her normal morning bottle and seemed to be moving beautifully past the nap milk fix. Really. It was amazing. Margaret was amazing. I, let's face it, was amazing.

And then she asked for the bottle. You know, five hundred times. And then the tears. I was, at this point, still amazing. So I pulled her into my arms and explained that she was such a big girl. And big girls don't need bottles. And I knew that change is hard. And I was so proud of her for being so brave. Come on, this was really classic, parenting-by-numbers goodness.

Her big blue eyes were just liquid with the betrayal of it all. And then, a light! OH MOMMY! I WILL FIND IT! YOU STAY! I'LL FIND BOTTLE! The next fifteen minutes the house rang with her little voice, BOTTLE! BOTTLE! WHERE ARE YOU? ARE YOU IN HERE? BOTTLE, I'LL FIND YOU!

I had a milk filled Dr. Brown in the fridge. A just in case of emergency fix. She must have seen the Vitamin D weakness in my eyes.

OH MOMMY! I KNOW. THE FRIDGE!

She triumphantly threw the fridge door thrown open, it swung wide as she squealed, I FOUND IT! GOOD GIRL! I FOUND IT!

And then. THWACK. That old door just kept right on swinging back to where it belonged, pinning my two foot addict and her fix right against the wall. The crying was pathetic.
It was a hard lesson. Sometimes what we want is out of reach. Sometimes people tell us no. So we persevere and think creatively and don't give up. And then finally, finally we get what we always wanted. Only to be squished up against the wall.

I peeled my little girl and her found treasure out from the between the beadboard and the pickles. Turned on Wonderpets and set up her up with her hard earned prize.

So my two and a half year old still drinks bottles. And my paint-by-numbers parenting is not really all that awesome. Not that the latter comes much as a surprise.

We spend our whole lives growing up. It is lovely and painful and full of doors that swing right back.

I suppose one more week of bottles can't hurt.

Present

2011-08-31T20:10:00.000-07:00

I remember dreaming about my future when I was ten years old. I would be beautiful with hair that never got frizzy. Books would be published, literary history made. Lovely me in the lovely future would be married to a handsome man and have a family full of creative, curly headed wunderkinds. You know...typical pre pubescent princess speak. Ten year old me never imagined nine months of pregnancy, three of which would be spent waddling. Could not have envisioned a world in which my stomach was bigger than the sum of all my parts. And poor frizzy headed Meggi certainly never expected the weekly humiliation of the OB-GYN's office the last month of pregnancy.

I had my second to last appointment today and I can hear ten year old me crying all the way from 1995.

Good news first. Viola Honey seems to be doing just fine. Good heart beat. Big head. Basically everything I expect from the product of my womb.

Not as excellent. I am 37 weeks and the little munchkin is still breech, breech, breech. Trying to avoid a c section, so I am off to the hospital on Tuesday to see if we can get the Honeypi turned around. Viola's vitals will be monitored while the doctor's practice a technique called inversion and try to coax her head from under my ribs to right above my, ahem, you know. (Why a human's head has to be in either of these places only God can tell...) With all the breech talk I failed to ask my OB what exactly an inversion entails. So I made a few calls to the more educated members of my family and was given answers ranging from, "I think they use magnets" to the graphic description of how vets deal with breech horses. ( Breech horses: The words "butt" and "digging" were used more than once, as was the phrase "up to the elbow". Magnets, however, do not seem to be involved.)

Disturbing.

The wrong angle baby talk was followed by a cervical exam. I have never seen a cervical exam, but I have FELT them. Absolutely barbaric, in my opinion. We can put a man on the moon, science has unraveled DNA, somehow The View has reached 15 seasons. And still. Still! The accepted method for measuring a dilated cervix is to shove two fingers followed by an arm into a woman's, you know, and scramble around? Really?

Is *that* the best we can do?

The doctor spent, what I felt to be, an inordinately large amount of time up there. Finally, he emerged. Apparently he had to measure three times to make sure that what he was feeling was what he was feeling. (I could have told him that it was. Now, please remove your person from inside my person. Thanks.) He was so amazed that he told the nurses all about it while we were scheduling the inversion in the hall...

" A four! Dilated to a four at just 37 weeks. Just great! I mean, I wasn't sure. I had to measure a couple times." At which point, he thrust his arm into the air, two fingers extended and pantomimed the measuring of my, until then, very private cervix. "I just hope that we can get that baby turned around and take advantage of that cervix! Don't want to miss out on that opportunity!"

What could I do but agree? A fully ripened cervix is a horrible thing to waste. (Can we get that stitched on a pillow somewhere?)

I would argue that one does not know humiliation until one witnesses the dramatic re-enactment of an exam done on one's vagina.

Just one of many things in the present that ten year old me could never have imagined in the past. It's alright. Surprisingly, all the things everyone tells you are worth it are actually worth it. Sure, the future held laundry, forgotten bills and publicly pantomimed cervical exams. There have been tantrums and vomit and all nighters (and that was just from Riley). But the future also had a good man, and a sweet home and a good little girl with my frizzy hair and her daddy's eyes. Oh happiness that we get to add another little human being to our happy mess. Just two weeks.

We can't wait to make her part of our present.

Sometimes I come back.

2011-08-29T21:50:00.000-07:00

We are in the thunder and lightening days of summer. It has been nearly three months since I wrote a thing other than a grocery list. There are many excuses. Aren't there always? Some things that were hard. Some things I made harder. A blank page was just one more thing I met with uncertainty. And avoidance. Poor, much loved, much helped, little girl. Honestly, it all seems a little bourgeois to me now.

Time to wake up, and get to work.

Briefly, before I begin again,

the summer...

There were kebabs and dance parties and fresh tomatoes. Garden planted and neglected. Lovely husband. Organized simplicity. Growing baby and belly. Depression (not mine). Visits from family. 2nd trimester sex (worth getting pregnant for). Dollar menu burgers. Margaret's unholy love for dinosaurs and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Even lovelier husband. Garden still neglected. Bigger baby, bigger belly. Riley working 60 hour weeks. Disorganized complexity. Friday Night Lights. The natural history museum (Margaret, look at the zebras! OH I LOVE IT THE ZEBRAS, MOMMY!). Third trimester sex (not.worth.it). Wonderful friends. A garden so wild it might eat the house. Depression (mine). Singing with the Zuzu. Fifth anniversary. Cornbread. Baby bigger, belly darn near obscene. That Riley, even lovelier still.

I think Fall is just the thing I need. Can't wait to see you there.

Sometimes I come back.

2011-08-29T21:29:00.000-07:00

Time to wake up, and get to work.

Briefly, before I begin again,

the summer...

I think Fall is just the thing I need. Can't wait to see you there.

It's Her World

2011-06-09T11:21:00.000-07:00

"She is given to fits of semi-precious metaphors." - Juniper Pearl

Benny and Joon. Cinematic perfection. Chocolate cake. On a day with thunder. While Margaret sleeps. My cup runneth over.

Yesterday, Margaret officially established herself as the smartest third of our family equation. She and I had been playing house for several hours. Putting baby to bed. Dropping baby. Picking up baby and making her feel better. Cleaning. Dancing. You know, the usual.

In the middle of it all she turns to me,

"Time Out, Mommy?"

"No, sugar pi, we are playing! Don't worry about time out."

"Time Out, please?"

"Zuzu, you are crazy. No time out."

Brief moment of two year old concentration. Bright smile. Followed by a hard slap across my leg.

"I HIT MOMMY! TIME OUT!"

At which point she triumphantly crossed the room and placed herself in the corner.

Just 30 seconds and the two foot tall evil genius neutralized the one weapon in my mommy arsenal.

I guess it was just a matter of time.

Let's Go Flying

2011-06-07T19:42:00.000-07:00

Photo by my amazing, talented friend Heather

Margaret could swing all day long.

The other day after her 105th ascent into the sky, she sighed and said,

"Mommy. I am happy."

Yeah. Me too, baby girl.

How Sweet It Is

2011-06-06T14:14:00.000-07:00

Riley and I planted a garden on Saturday. For many couples, a collaboration of this nature is not difficult...little thought, even less discussion. A garden is a garden is a garden. The kind of project that comes oh-so-easily to two thinking, rational adults. Riley - my love, my light, the should-be-leader in this two step - is one of those thinking, rational adults. I am...not.

If the husband were to plan and plant a garden (without my interference), it would be a green machine of efficiency. The kind of eco development that would make even Al Gore proud...were he to ever leave his private jet long enough to see it. A garden left solely in Riley's hands, much like a life left in Riley's hands, would be productive and yield much fruit.

And then there was she. This girl left to her own devices? I would plan for that lovely garden. Planning is delightful. I would dream agricultural dreams and collect recipes for all the produce still unplanted. There would be sketches of garden designs, garden swings, garden paths. I would probably buy a few gnomes. All that is lovely and nice and airy. This process would go on for years. And then, finally, at 92 years old, I would die. That crazy lady down the street with the unkempt lawn and enough garden gnomes to stage a yard ornament uprising. Not great.

Thankfully, I do not live in a world in which my uncertainty and love for tacky yard art will destroy me. I live in a world with Riley. So Saturday we gardened. And he tilled and measured and made right. And I planted and prettied and made colorful. It is not a work of perfection. I bought too many leeks and there have been concerns over the lack of ready to pickle items. And I might have already killed the sweet potatoes. However. There was a moment when he and I were working side by side, and it was hot and dirty and lovely. And for just that moment that silly garden was the life we live and that life just isn't really all that silly. Riley nurtures my dreams and coaxes them into the sun. He has saved me from a lifetime of too-scared-to's, what-if's and never-been's. Our lives will bear fruit and my-oh-my won't it taste sweet.

I don't know what I give that man in return, I just know that it is not enough.

Happy girl.

3:30 am

2011-05-26T02:48:00.000-07:00

I have woken up at 3:30 every morning for the past two weeks. Sometimes it was because Margaret was crying. Other times it was due to the fact that my pregnant body cannot go two hours without a visit to the restroom. Most of the time there was no reason at all. Apparently, in my world 3:30 am is the new 7 am. Party.

Shockingly, there is very little to do in the hours before sunrise. Vacuuming and dishwashing tend to wake the husband and the Zuzu. We don't have cable, so tv viewing options are, ummm, limited. Even internet celebrity gossip has let me down. I mean, really? All these beautiful people with limited educations and unlimited salaries and the juiciest story right now is the steady disappearance of Kim Kardashian's cellulite? Where is my drama, intrigue, front page headline? I am looking at you, Bradley Cooper. Shame on you for being out-weasled by someone as boring as the Governator. Honestly, what is a girl to do?

Writers across the world preach the gospel of early morning inspiration. Apparently, the muses are more active when reasonable people are asleep. Perhaps I will try to channel one of those Greek ladies and write that book I have been talking about since the second grade. Something lovely and important and new. Tangible work that my children can hold when I am gone. A paperbound world that will earn me accolades, royalties and a guest spot on any number of morning tv shows.

Or maybe I will just watch season two of Psych. Again.

Of sausage, baby lips and belonging

2011-05-24T19:17:00.000-07:00

I have been holding the front of my jeans together with a rubber band since I hit week twelve of this whole thing. A lovely little pregnancy trick that reinforces the feeling that I am not so slowly turning into an overly stuffed sausage. Not some light and delicious apple and chicken wurst , either. No. This feeling is definitely of the overstuffed headcheese variety. Unsettling. Today, that rubberband, having been put through more in its lifetime than is strictly fair, had reached it breaking point. Literally. Just popped right off. Disappeared in the abyss of Costco's concrete floor. It was one of the classiest moments of my life. I am officially giving myself permission to spend some serious money on maternity clothing.

Margaret has no idea that she is going to be a big sister in a few months. Every time I tell her there is a baby in my tummy, she just looks mildly horrified. Like pizza didn't really sound great for lunch so I just went ahead and ate a whole baby. And now it is in my stomach. And I want her to know about it. (Come to think of it, I am now concerned that she only looks mildly horrified.) I was hoping that the confusion would be cleared up today when we went to our ultrasound appointment. It wasn't. She spent the entire time playing with toys. She also offered to give me her blankie so I could "SLEEP GOOD ON THE BIG BED!" I still don't know what she thought the ultrasound technician was doing to my stomach the whole time I was "SLEEPING ON THE BIG BED." Children are very accepting.

It was just a little magical getting another glimpse of our Viola on that tv screen today. Her brain and heart and spine all look just right. She has a button nose, wiggly toes and a pouty set of baby fish lips. I can't wait for her to meet Margaret. They will be lovely little friends. I can't wait for her to meet Riley. He is the best man I know. I can't wait for her to meet me. Burned dinners, messy hair and love.

It will be nice to belong to one more person.

The King and The Badger

2011-05-18T18:57:00.000-07:00

Riley, Zuzu and I live in a simple little house full of simple little things. Bright colors and happy corners. Photographs of places we have been and paintings of places we would like to go. Books with broken bindings and mismatched plates. The trees outside our windows look lovely against a thunderstorm sky. Lovely. We are blessed with a little more than enough and we are happy.

Sometimes, just sometimes, those blessed with a little more than enough (ahem, us) find themselves wishing to be blessed with just a little more than a little more than enough. Case in point. Our garbage disposal broke last month. The dear thing just cracked nearly in half. It leaked generously when we used the disposal, started the dishwasher or turned on the water. It also seemed to leak anytime anyone walked through the house, spoke or took a breath. Inconvenient. We spent a couple of weeks saving for the replacement. I switched out bowls from under the offending appliance while Riley performed the most extensive garbage disposal consumer research ever undertaken by a single man. Seriously. It was exhausting.

And then it happened. The husbands' research and an ad on KSL joined together in one serendipitous moment. And what a moment it was. Yes. It was true. The king of all garbage disposals, The WasteKing 12000 was being offered NEW at the obscenely low price of $50. The WasteKing is not just some plastic toy pretending at manliness. A little thing just for chopping up the discards from your sissy lunch. No. The WasteKing is the Hercules of sink related accoutrement. It is a sound insulated beast equipped with more horsepower than your car. A silver coated knight just waiting to do battle against anything you put in its path. The WasteKing is much, much, more than enough. And after a drive to Salt Lake, it was ours.

Riley spent four hours trying to tame the King. We called in reinforcements. Our dear friends, Brooke and Jesse, came over. Brooke and I entertained the kids, while the men went to battle. Three hours and a taco dinner later, the truth could no longer be avoided. The WasteKing 12000 was a pretender. A defective, silver plated loser that couldn't lift a lance if you paid it to.

The next day, Riley went to Home Depot and bought the cheapest garbage disposal in the warehouse. The Badger 5. It can chop lettuce and only shudders briefly when faced with day old bread.

Just a little more than enough.

We are still happy.

A few things. Re-posted.

2011-05-13T11:13:00.001-07:00

My husband says that I have not been writing enough. And the blessed man is right. I am just not sure that I want to read what I have to write. I would like to blame this on my current condition. To be fair, pregnancy does do some lovely things for me. Relatively early into the whole thing, my normally modest bosom blossoms into something that would make Salma Hayek proud. Nesting also kicks in pretty quickly. By the end of the day, my house is fairly clean and dinner is on the table. Unprecedented in non pregnant life. There are setbacks. My skin is a bit thinner. The voice that asks for help a bit quieter. My ability to hurt for others hurts multiplied. The need to heal things that can't be healed more intense. In short (too late for that), pregnancy makes hard things harder. Lately, there have been some hard things.

There have also been good things. Margaret drinking chocolate milk for the first time. Pedicure. Riley doing the laundry every day this week. Sunshine. Mopped floors. New sandals. Sister Lindsay Pi Stewart flying to Utah as I type. Viola kicking inside of me. Coral lipstick. Slumber parties with the husband. Modern Family. Pride and Prejudice read for oh....the 582nd time. Margaret naming the car on my shirt, "the boobie train". Light against darkness. A God who will bring us all home. Staying away from that home just a little bit longer. Cornbread and honey.

Yes, those are some very good things. And for now they will do.

A few things.

2011-05-12T12:38:00.000-07:00

Rainy Season

2011-05-05T20:46:00.000-07:00

The last month has been dotted with rainshowers. They have been of both the literal and metaphorical variety. Perhaps if I were a better writer, certainly a better person, I would say that rain precedes the flowers. I think sometimes it just churns up mud.

There has been brightness. My dad says that Margaret is portable sunshine and I just can't disagree. I did not know that a person could contain so much delight. Her nature certainly speaks for the capacity of a single soul.

The girl jabbers away all day long. Most of what she says is even intelligible. Don't tell me she is not genius. There are a few words that her little pink mouth just can't quite form. Notable among these is the word, "truck". In the language my daughter speaks, the word "truck" is emphatically pronounced, "CRROTCH". This has led to some awkward situations. My dad drives a truck. Margaret loves my dad and his mode of transportation. Loves them both so much that she frequently announces to friend and stranger alike, "I LOVE IT THE POPPA'S CRROTCH!" It is only a matter of time before the social workers show up on my doorstep. We have tried to remedy the situation:

"Margaret, the word is TRUCK. TRRRUUUUCCKKK. Can you say it? I love Poppa's TRUCK!"

"OK! CROTCH! CRRRRROOOOOTTTTTCCCCHHH! I LOVE IT THE POPPA'S CCCCRRRROOOTTCHHHHH!"

Disturbing.

I think there will be less rain this month. I could be wrong. Good thing I have Margaret.

Ice Cream in the Morning

2011-04-21T07:18:00.000-07:00

Blanket Fort Zuzu

Yesterday, Margaret and I ate ice cream for breakfast in a blanket fort in the kitchen. Please read that sentence back to her when she is fifteen and angry at me. Haagan Dazs breakfast in a fort makes me the coolest mom ever. Today. Tomorrow. Always. And you cannot get mad at the coolest mom ever. Impossible. Riley graduates today. There will be family, pictures and ice cream cake. I love ice cream cake.

A Life Lived: The Guidebook

2011-04-20T08:09:00.001-07:00

I love the stars over New Mexico.
Can't wait to show them to Zuzu and Miss Honey pi.

Admission. I am by nature just a little fatalistic. It is an unfortunate attribute that accompanied me to this lovely thing called mortality. When I was just five, I stopped spending the night at my grandparents house as I was positive my parents would be killed in accident while I was gone. I didn't think my presence would keep the accident from occurring...I just wanted to be able to say goodbye when it did. By ten, I had gotten in the habit of staying up as late as I could. Maybe if I never slept I would be able to ward off death, that personage that was so ready to take me away at my ripe old age of a decade. I actually remember praying that to God that if he would just let me reach sixteen and get my first kiss, then I would go gently into that good night. (Ten year old me thought sixteen year old me would be hotter...I didn't get that first kiss till I was almost nineteen). This certainty of an imminent end of all goodness continued ad nauseam through high school. Yeah. I am sure raising THAT was just peachy. Thanks for sticking it out, Mom and Dad.

I have done what I can to rid myself of this irrationality. For the most part, I have been successful. The world is now more light than shadow. I will admit to the occasional relapse. You should have seen Riley's face the first time I woke him up and said, "I really don't want to die." I always feel bad for men when they realize that they married a whole mess of crazy. Sorry, Baby.
Having a child has helped. I want her to see the world as it can be. Should be. There is no room in the existence I want for the fear that kept ten year old me up at night. Life is so full. Brimming with tastes and sights and experiences that I suspect are unique to our mortality. Try as I might, I am not sure that I can picture butter drenched scallops in heaven. So. A project that appeals to both my acquired optimism and my natural fatalism.

I love guidebooks. Little hand held excursions into the distance. An afternoon in Borders surrounded by books touching on Asia, Europe and the Middle East is happiness captured. I may never eat dim sum in Hong Kong or explore the catacombs in Paris. Little me in my little purple house will still be happy. I will also have lived my life, however long it may be. A collection of experiences, sights and tastes (probably, too many tastes...FOOD!) that are just as sweet and important as anything found across any sea.

The project. Over the next year I am going to write, A Life Lived: The Guidebook, in installments on this blog. It will be full of things I want my children to feel, taste, touch and hear. Bits and pieces of life that I could not bear for them to live without. In my optimism, it is a resource we will walk through together. In my fatalism, it is something to give them when I have left them to walk alone. Either way, I know it is going to be fun.

Singing in the Rain

2011-04-18T11:55:00.000-07:00

Spring Outside my Window

Got up this morning to the sound of rain. I love my house in a down pour. The closeness of the walls, the colors a little dimmed. On days like this Margaret and I leave the house just so that we can have the joy of returning to it. Running for the front door dripping wet. Trading jackets and shoes for blankets and a book. Water from the sky is a wonder, our warm 900 square feet are a gift and for just a minute she and I are the same age. Happy.

Found Grace Potter and the Nocturnals today. I know, I know. How 2007 of me. Listen, I am a mom. I am proud of myself when I hear anything other than the Sleeping Beauty soundtrack. About the only thing Miss Beauty and Miss Potter have in common is the color of their hair. I might want to be Grace Potter when I grow up. She is swaggering, soulful and unapologetic. She can probably hold her drink and her man. Yeah, I can get behind that.

My favorite song so far? Big White Gate. Holy cow, this four minutes of notes and lyrics hit me. Margaret and I have been singing our southern rock hearts out to it all day. You can talk to me about choice and circumstance. I understand the arguments and can see some of the logic. However, when all is said and done, every single one of us leaves this life stained and in need of redemption. Maybe all we have to do is ask for it.

Happy rainy day.

One in the Morning

2011-04-15T08:00:00.000-07:00

This one. A little sick. A lot loved.

It is 2:10 in the morning.

Margaret woke up with an elephant size cough at 12:45 am. I realized we were out of cough medicine at 12:52 am. By 1:15am, I was stumbling through the grocery store attired in sweats and medusa hair. Cough medicine in hand, I drove back home. About a block from my house I realized I had forgotten to put on a bra.

It's okay.

The little bug is worth it. My medusa hair and I would go much further than the grocery store for anything she needed. Even at one in the morning. Without a bra.

The Fall of the Queen

2011-04-14T07:48:00.000-07:00

Honey, Let's get rich and replace the broken platters with these.

Remember when I wrote that post about walking to Walden? Yes, well I am still on my way. The journey is a bit longer than expected. I suppose I thought it was more of a stroll than a trek. It is like I set out for an afternoon walk equipped with nothing but a little snack and pair of ballet flats. A couple weeks later, I realize that I should have brought hiking boots, changes of clothing and a chuckwagon of preserved foods. In other words, this could take a while.

I am sure a therapist would have a heyday with this sudden need for deliberate simplicity. Something about how I am looking for more than a well run house. That I am seeking the control that can be lost in marriage and motherhood. Maybe that it is an attempt to avoid being lost in the chaos of mortality. A reaction against my raising, or a way to return to my childhood. The explanation would be deep and almost worth the 500 dollars I had spent to get it.

I do not have a therapist to explain away this urge, so I have decided to indulge it. The first wave of Operation:Simplify took place in the kitchen. There was almost a casualty. Pregnancy robs me of some very basic human attributes; these include my sense of smell, the ability to be rational and the very little sense of balance in my possesion. It is the latter that almost led to my downfall (no pun intended). There I was standing on a chair removing large platters from the top of our cabinets. Only five minutes into this whole project and I could already feel it...Triumph. I surveyed my kingdom from the height of my chair. Welcome, commoners. You are in the presence of the Queen of all things Deliberate. It was perfect.

As always seems to be the case, hubris merely proceeds the fall. And fall I did. Right onto our freshly mopped kitchen floor. The platters broke and spread themselves out around my prostrate body. If you ever need an image to illustrate a cautionary tale about the dangers of domesticity, there you have it.

The wind was knocked out of me so I could not get up. Margaret stood at door of the kitchen screaming, "MOMMY FELL!! MOMMY FELL!!" and Riley rushed in ready to say his goodbyes. It was like something out of one of those dark comedies that Showtime is always producing. Basically, hilarious. Eventually, my breath returned, Margaret stopped screaming and Riley was assured of my continued life. By the end of the day, I had a bruise on my head the size of a salad plate (I have a very big head). I also had a kitchen that would make a Spartan mama proud.

Riley says that I am the only person he knows that could incur a concussion while cleaning the kitchen. I say the whole thing went much more smoothly than I could have expected.

Next week: The living room closet.

The Escape

2011-04-13T12:22:00.000-07:00

Today I felt a little overwhelmed. The air seemed a bit thinner and myself a bit heavier. Just a mild attack of anxiety. There was no good reason for all this thin air, leaden body business. The house was clean (almost), dinner already in the oven and I am currently wearing jeans that almost-barely-just-one-more-centimeter zip up. As far as 18 weeks pregnant me goes, it is a banner day. And yet the nervousness was here, illogical, unmoving. Annoying.

Some people sleep through their anxiety, others walk it away, heavens knows there are times when I ice-cream-eat-it to oblivion. However, I was not tired, it looked like rain so a walk seemed ill-advised and there was not one, NOT ONE, sweet in this entire house. What is a girl to do?

This girl plans vacations.

Beautiful, exotic, butter filled confections of vacations. Itineraries that stretch for days and have morsels of culture, cuisine and, well, more cuisine. I can tell you exactly where I would eat on an April night in Paris. Precisely what hotel demonstrates elegance and locality just perfectly in Cairo. The most beautiful horse properties in Kentucky and the best places to shop in Tokyo. I know what streets I want to wander in China and how to find the loveliest sunset in Hawaii. (A fair number of trips. Nervous, much?) Star encrusted journeys that only exist in my head and saved tripadvisor links.

Today, while Margaret napped, I planned a trip to Sante Fe. I know, I know. A little touristy, a smidge new agey, so many smiling white people wearing birkenstocks. This girl does not care. Someday she will stay here and eat here. I think I can blame my fixation with Sante Fe on the movie, Newsies. If it moves Christian Bale to song, then it must be good.

The trip was researched and arranged and put away. The air was no better to breathe and I didn't feel any lighter. Margaret had started to gibber away in her room. She was sitting up, "reading" to herself. I watched until she got to the last page with a hearty, "THE END!" She saw me standing at the door, held out her book and shouted, "READ IT, READ IT, MOMMY!"

And so I did. We read about bunnies with golden shoes, fairies, dinosaurs and little boys. We read about meadows and mountains and a house underground. And the letters became the words and the words became their meaning. Writing was a kind of magic and I cast the spells. She and I traveled to places that don't exist, or maybe places that we just haven't seen yet. We left her room, right out the window and went where ever the story took us. At the end of each adventure we slammed the book, "THE END" and moved onto the next. A lovely escape.

I can breathe again.

Her Name is...

2011-04-12T08:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was lovely. I finished organizing Margaret's room. I can open her closet without fear of death by stuffed animal avalanche. Miracle. We played at the park. I read while she napped. And then, we got our first sneak peek of the new baby. I have to say that hearing that heartbeat and seeing those fingers wiggle was just a little piece of starbursting magic. Please say hello to the one, the only....

Viola Honey Bingham

Did I mention...IT'S A GIRL!!!

PS. Riley made me promise that I would never abandon the blog for two weeks ever ever ever again.

I promise.

Walking to Walden

2011-03-24T07:28:00.001-07:00

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

Oh, Thoreau.

Brief disclaimer. I have never read Walden. I began to acquaint myself with notable quotations from Henry David's masterwork because it made getting through my English major (or at least the half of it that I did get through) a little easier. My knowledge of a few lines here and there may have also served me well (impressive!) in a few dating situations with a few unsuspecting young men. Unsuspecting and unread young men.

I am not proud.

A year or two into my marriage (and adulthood) it occured to me that Thoreau's words might be more useful than the pseudo deep prelude to a make out session (always regretted) with those unread young men. Maybe he was actually saying something.

"...I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach..."

The beauty of an existence lived according to my voice and desires. To choose the essence of LIFE over the distractions of the world. To have breathed deeply, tasted discerningly, walked with wonder. That is a life I want to live. It is the life I need my children to live. Riley and I have spoken extensively about living our lives deliberately. We talk about a little house on a little land. Used cars and new garden tools. Books, song and homemade sauerkraut.

There are plans and hope and intent.

There is also the untenable state of my reality. I drive more than I walk, the maintenance of our house overwhelms, and I have never planted that cabbage for that homemade sauerkraut. I don't know how to change. I need a little help. And while Walden Pond and it's poet inspire, I could use assistance from a slightly more practical source.

Enter the lovely, the inspiring, the accessible! book by Tsh Oxenreider, Organized Simplicity. Mrs. Oxenreider is an advocate for intentional (hello, deliberate) living. She loves her children, her husband and her God. And, my goodness, she loves life. This little tome covers everything from writing and implementing a family purpose statement to the best way to fold a fitted sheet. She advocates a tolerant and individualized approach to a simpler and more meaningful way of life. A framework for creation and play and laughter and happiness. I know what I want, and this lovely stranger has given me the tools I need to attain it. Excessive praise? Not in the opinion of this wannabe Walden child.

So an experiment. Thursday posts will be dedicated the triumphs and sure to be funny failures in the process of deliberate living. Steps I have taken, book held in hand and others I have taken on my own. Little. Simple. Happy. Who knows, I might even find the time to read that one book Thoreau wrote.

Let the living begin.

Oh Curtain, my Curtain!

2011-03-23T07:37:00.000-07:00

This one is for Heather, my first reader to ask a question! Hello MILESTONE, how are you doing?

It is one of those mornings. Nearly 9am and I am still in my grinch pajamas. (Yes, I own a pair of those, and yes, they are worse than you imagine.)

There was a time, not so long ago, when everyone on our block was privy to our undressed inactivity on mornings like this. The Bingham house is a little gem from the 1920's with eight, yes, eight windows in the cozy (read small) front room. A charming fish bowl. Budget constraints led to a year and a half of curtainless living. At first it didn't seem like a deal. I mean, so maybe the neighbors saw me in my towel every morning. And maybe Riley and I made out on the couch a little too often. And maybe any passerby could see I was still in my grinch pajamas at 11 am. And maybe....maybe it was time for some window therapy.

Enter the lovely, the whimsical, the ever colorful, brand Karma Living. I found them at a trade show I attended in my last job and fell IN.LOVE. I happened to have a great boss at the time (my mom), who happened to suggest I order them wholesale. How could I not just happen to do so?

Those little panels of delight are the most commented on aspect of my house. My neighbors love them. I choose to attribute their love to the gauzy otherwordliness of the window dressings. Not to the fact that the curtains protect their innocent eyes from me and my morning hair.

Okay, time to go de-grinch myself.

It was one of those mornings...but it will not be one of those days.

I think.

I am woman, hear me...

2011-03-18T14:28:00.000-07:00

I should be writing about something spiritual or uplifting. Some act of kindness I witnessed or an insight gained. I should take this time, on this fabulous Monday, to better the world.

I really should.

Instead I am going to write about my haircut. Is there anything more magical, more relieving, more woman making than 45 minutes in a salon chair? (ok, probably. But let's pretend the answer is no...just for the sake of my happy post haircut mood.) I always wait too long in between cuts. By my appointment, drastic measures had been taken. Bobby pins, headbands, clips....all stuck together, the last defense against the beast my hair had become. Every woman needs a dress with good twirl, red lipstick and a hairstylist/confidant. I have the dress, the lipstick and Danine. (find her here!) She is a miracle worker, a slayer of ugly, the best, the brightest, the perfect.

I L.O.V.E. love her.

It may seem frivolous. This haircut bliss in a world that aches. Spending (grocery!) money on something that I could have lived without. Women are well acquainted with that peculiar ache that can accompany life on earth. We bear and raise babies, sometimes losing them along the way. We see what life could be and are too hard on themselves when reality just isn't quite what was envisioned. We cry, pray and act for those that are hurt, alone, in need. Women create homes for our men and children, dream their dreams and hurt their hurts. We change the course of history one dinner at a time, even when that dinner is burnt chicken...again. Once in a while, in the midst of all that world changing, we get tired. We are mother, wife, confidant and friend. Sometimes, we need a little boost, a little reminder that we are also, women! Feminine, lovely, soft and hella sexy.

The visit with the magical Danine was just the reminder this (faux) red head needed. I am a woman! Oh my goodness. That means there is nothing that I cannot do.

This pixie/bob cut fusion and I are ready to conquer the world, one dinner, one diaper change, one scraped knee at a time.

I tried to take a few pictures that showed, you know, my face. They were, ummmm, less than excellent. No biggie. I look pretty good from the back, too. Wink.

A Day like Today

2011-03-16T07:54:00.000-07:00

This morning, Margaret woke up crying and I woke up happy to help her. Is there anything more pathetic (or adorable) than a two year old crying for her "mommy, mommy? MOMMY??." And then the snuggling afterwards. Oh, my cup OVERFLOWETH.

My goals for today aren't what one would call grand. There will be a shower, there may be lipstick. We will walk to the grocery store and get some fixin's for dinner. Margaret will ask to watch Hercules for the hundredth time and I will let her. Tomorrow, I will conquer the world. For the next 24 hours, I think I will just float in it. Funny. Six years ago I would have held a day like today in contempt. Where is the goodness, the adventure, the gobbling up of life?

I know better now. I love today.

A few pictures my friend, Heather Mildenstein, took while we had a playdate at her oh so lovely house. And yes that is her son, Cole and yes, he and Margaret are betrothed.

A Night Well Spent

2011-03-14T13:11:00.000-07:00

What? This isn't how it works?

So Mr. Husband left last Wednesday on a business trip to California and did not return until late last night. He claims he worked very hard. I am sure he did. He claims business trips aren't all fun and games. Even ones that take place in Orange County. In theory this may be true. However, certain words that have the connotation of "good times" kept popping up in his conversations with me. Words like, "Bravo Burger", "Newport", "just went to see a guy movie, you wouldn't have liked it", "Jalapenos", and (this one hurt the worst) "Akbar". (Hmmm, almost that whole list is food oriented...I am a total glutton.)

When Riley left to not enjoy himself at all those fabulous places, he gave me a handsome little stack of bills. More than enough to cover the entertainment/food needs of the girl and I through the rest of the week plus a little in case of emergency. I also had my bank card to use in an emergency's emergency. We were set.

So Margaret and I were on our own for five days. And I was a little weepy (this we can definitely blame on the pregnancy). When the weepies hit there are some things that are very helpful. Carl's Jr. New lipstick. Girl Scout cookies. Vintage glassware. None of which is exactly, umm, free.

The handsome man came home last and I was, well let's just say, very ready for him. That new lipstick and a couple of other purchases were put to good use. Ahem.

This morning I get a call from Riley,

"So...it looks like you spent all of that cash...including the emergency money."

"Oh really? Hmm. Yeah...I must have."

"Ok. It also looks like you spent a good amount on the bank card."

"Oh yeah, I really did. Man. That got a little out of hand, didn't it?"

And then do you know what that lovely, tie wearing hunk of a man did? He laughed. I could give his fantastic character all of the credit for his equanimous reaction. Or I could give credit to last night.

I am going with last night.

What I Want Today and Donation Information

2011-03-11T08:35:00.000-08:00

*info on donating to The Clouse Fire Relief Fund at bottom of page.

My favorite children's book is called, Heckedy Peg. It is a fairy tale of the Grimm variety and, at 5 years old, I thought it was positively adult. A poor hard working mother is raising her seven children on the outskirts of the local village. The children are named Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. On this particular day, the mother, so impressed with her hardworking babies, tells them that she will bring home anything they want from her daily trip to the market.

The children were overjoyed and knew exactly what they wanted. Monday asked for a tub of butter. Tuesday asked for a pocket knife. Wednesday asked for a china pitcher. Thursday asked for a pot of honey. Friday asked for a tin of salt. Saturday asked for crackers. And Sunday asked for a bowl of egg pudding.

The mother leaves for the market with one admonition,

" Now be careful, and remember - don't let a stranger in and don't touch fire." (I suppose all mother's worry about the same things, fairy tale or reality.)

As happens in these stories, a stranger does come along. An old woman, named Heckedy Peg. She tells the children she will give them a sack full of gold if they let her in and light her pipe. Surely, mother would not be angry at the children for disobeying her for a sack of gold! And so they do. Heckedy Peg, walks into the opened door, throws her pipe down and shouts,

"Now I've got you!"

And with that the witch turned the children into food. Monday became bread. Tuesday became pie. Wednesday became milk. Thursday became porridge. Friday became fish. Saturday became cheese. And Sunday became roast rib.

Heckedy Peg takes her moveable feast deep into the woods to her lair. Poor mother returns to an empty home. With the help of a talkative black bird, she makes her way to where the witch lives, still clutching the basket of gifts she purchased for her children. Heckedy Peg refuses to give up her beautiful spread without a fight.

The witch pointed to the table.

"Here are your children," she said. "If you can't guess them right the first time, I'll eat them for my supper."

The mother despaired. How would she ever know which food was which child? She looked into her basket,

Here are the things my children wanted, she thought, and now they will never have them...Suddenly the mother knew what to do. Taking the things from her basket, she said, "I know my children by what they want."

"Bread wants butter. That's Monday."

"Pie wants knife. That's Tuesday."

"Milk wants pitcher. That's Wednesday."

"Porridge wants honey. That's Thursday."

"Fish wants salt. Thats Friday."

"Cheese wants crackers. That's Saturday."

"And roast rib wants egg pudding. That's Sunday."

The children turn back into themselves and the mother goes on to chase Heckedy Peg to her demise. Off a bridge. Of course.

I have read this book to Zuzu a dozen times over the past few days. (She really likes my witch voice.) There is one line that gets me every time. "I know my children by what they want." How true is this? In so many ways we are what we want. Some days (bad, little days) I want smaller thighs, thicker hair and new jeans. Other days (better days), I want a little working garden and a pie baking in the oven. Then there are days (the best days), when I want exactly the life I have, the very moment I am in.

Today, I want to live in a world where tsunami's can't tear apart countries and families and hearts. A place where fires don't rage in quiet little homes. A world where we are all safe and happy.

We can be known by what we want, but we can also be known by what we do. Please help this family in the best way you can. Today, in a world struck by so much tragedy, it would be nice to know exactly who we are.

Donations can be sent to:

The Clouse Fire Relief Fund

Care of Bank of Landisburg

PO Box 179

Landisburg, PA, 17040

Just a little help.

2011-03-09T09:43:00.000-08:00

This morning I woke up ready to blog about a lovely little children's book and a lovely little girl.

It will have to wait.

Rather, I will take just a few lines to ask for your help. Late last night, a family in rural Pennsylvania was finishing a long day. The children were inside settling down for the evening, while the mother and father finished chores out on the land. Smoke began to fill the home and the three year old ran to the barn to get her mother. By the time they got back to the house it was already lit bright with flames. The firefighters came and were too late. Seven children were still in the building. They didn't get to come out.

I don't know this family, but I can't breathe again until I have done something to help them. Tragedy is constant and I have had to learn that I can't help everyone. There are things that we have to let go. I know that. However, I just can't let this one go. Seven caskets. How can any mother survive that?

I called the Pennsylvania State Police and spoke with Colonel Woodcock. He told me that a fund is going to be set up for the family in the next 24 hours. I will post all of the donation information as soon as I get it. This family is going to have to bury their children and rebuild their home, their lives, their hearts. I know that things are a little tough right now. None of us have much to give. However, this man and woman are a brother and sister we just haven't met yet. Their burden has become too much. We can help. Giving just the little you would have spent on Diet Coke's this week can make a big difference.

Let's lift them up, the best we can, together.

Punch! or The Night I Went Hungry

2011-03-07T15:25:00.000-08:00

Saturday night I had tickets to the Punch Brothers concert in Ogden. Two precious slips of paper I kept track of for months. There were times when I was not sure where my wedding ring or my daughter was, but I always knew where those tickets were. Let's just say I was excited.

It was quite a night on the town. My skirt was a little short and my lipstick a little red. Riley looked, I will just say it, delicious. My Mr. Husband in his levi's just tight enough and tie just smart enough. The show was at the Peery Egyptian Theater, a gem from the 1920's wedged between empty buildings. It's exterior is all color, art deco, and heiroglyphs. We got to the theater hungry, an hour and a half before showtime. There were ten people in line. Riley seemed to think that meant we had time to get dinner. Cute. I knew it meant we were ten people later to the line than I hoped to be. I may have said, "Riley, we can ALWAYS eat. We can't always be 11th in line." Annoying, right? But the sweetie jumped right into line. Happily.

I pretended I couldn't hear both of our stomachs rumbling while we waited.

The inside of the theater is almost as fabulous as the outside. Gilded kitsch. The Peery Theater is one of only a handful of deco era theaters that still maintain an atmospheric ceiling. Their promotion of this is enthusiastic and extensive. And I quote, "with the flick of a switch, a daytime sky magically turns to nighttime, replete with twinkling stars." Sounds like the dining room in Harry Potter. The lights dimmed and the stars did twinkle. All four of them. I am sure it was very impressive in 1924.

The Punch Brothers took the stage and my heart. It is a group of five string instrument rock stars, representing the best of the fiddle, guitar, bass, banjo and one sleek little mandolin. Nattily dressed purveyors of a bluegrass/jazz/classical fusion that makes you want to dance, sing and create. Create anything! A story, a sonnet, a moment. The music worked its way into me until I felt that maybe I was made of the notes, maybe life is a symphony and maybe I am a composer. Riley and I kept turning to one another, smiling in amazement. What a lovely thing, a world in which noise can be bent and held and controlled until a song, rich and lasting, emerges. What a lucky thing that we get to be a part of it...together.

The show ended and we left happy and starving. Apparently, one can't "ALWAYS eat", as I so naively proclaimed. At least not in Utah. There is no such thing as a restaurant opened after ten between Ogden and Provo. Not even Chick-Fil-A.

The night that inspired also left me with a rumbling, hungry question. The same world that produced Chris Thile and his Bach playing mandolin cannot produce a local late night burger or carnitas taco. How is this blasphemy possible and how long can it stand?

Knock, knock.

2011-03-04T15:35:00.000-08:00

Lately, we have been teaching Margaret to knock on doors. I suppose this seems an odd thing to focus on with a two year old. Especially a two year old that is still ignorant of many other two year old matters...like that we don't lick our friends on the cheek. I can pinpoint my passion for teaching the art of the door knock to a couple of Saturday's ago. Mommy and Daddy thought Margaret was busy watching a movie, so we went in our room for just a minute to get a little, ahem, busy ourselves. I am still laughing about the face Riley made when she threw our door open.

As with everything I deliberately set out to teach the girl (which is not much) she has learned with a seriousness that is far above her age. Heaven help the poor soul that opens a door without knocking first in Margaret's presence. The acceptable sequence is simple and unchanging.

Me: knocking on the door three times
Margaret:COME IN!
Door thrown open
Margaret: I SEE YOU!

I see you, too, baby girl.

A few days ago Margaret and I were having a jump party on my bed, she stopped and looked at the photographs and art hanging just above it. They are colorful and lovely, moments captured by my Dad in Hong Kong, bits and pieces collected from consignment stores and yard sales. The girl studied them for a bit and then began to knock on each one. Three times. Pause. Then move onto the next one. She was waiting for one of the world's inside the frames to shout "COME IN!" It was a lovely lesson. I could just see it in her eyes, "Mom, don't you know all you have to do is knock?"

The jump party continued and I couldn't stop smiling. I am going to throw open every door for that girl that I can.

Because gyms aren't embarrassing enough.

2011-03-02T21:23:00.000-08:00

So when I am pregnant I cry. And cry. And cry. Nothing is too lowly for an outpouring of some serious emotion.

Fantastic performance on American Idol? Tears.

An episode of Antique Roadshow? Sniffle. Wipe. Sniffle. (okay, but I tear up with joy for those people even when I am not pregnant...)

The most humiliating moment by far (so far) happened while I was at the gym last night. Our Gold's Gym has a big movie room equipped with stationary bikes, treadmills and ellipticals. As far as I am concerned it is the exercise worlds' equivalent of the holy of holies. It is always dark, always chilly and sometimes they show movies with Robert Downey, Jr. That's right. Up to two hours of Mr. Downey while I am sweating for a better me? I, mean, if you insist. Yesterday was not a Robert Downey, Jr. day. It wasn't even a guilty-pleasure-I-swear-I-only-watched-because-it-was-all-they-had-on day (Every Jennifer Aniston movie, I am looking at you).

Yesterday was Inception day. It seems to me that I loved this movie in theaters. Yesterday, not so much. I made it to the part where Leo can't see his kids faces in his dreams.

And then I lost it.

Could you imagine? Not seeing your babies faces...not even in your dreams! Because this could all really happen, right? It is really only a matter of time before somebody figures out the science of extraction. IF THEY HAVEN'T ALREADY. And then what? We are all just supposed to go around having dreams where we can't even see our children? The ones we had to leave behind because their mom went crazy, killed herself and framed us for the murder? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO LIVE LIKE THAT?

It was all a little too much.

I had to hiccup back the sobs as I wobbled into the locker room. I think I will call and ask about the movie selections ahead of time from now on.

The Prodigal

2011-03-02T07:45:00.000-08:00

The day is bright. Margaret is watching Enchanted and eating pretzels. I just finished a breakfast of egg-n-a-nest followed by a brownie chaser. Today won't be all movies and eating. We are going to the park, taking treats to friends and (finally) removing the last of our Christmas lights. Yeah. We are totally THOSE people. Although, I would keep Christmas lights up all year long if only Riley would let me. Oh...I am so oppressed.

I disappeared from my blog last week because I was oh-so-anxiously preparing a lesson for our stake Relief Society conference. I think it may have come together alright in the end. We discussed the concept of perfection. That to be perfect does not mean freedom from error, instead it is a matter of allowing the Lord to make you whole. That the Atonement is not the cherry on top of everything you should have done, could have done, needed to do, right. Rather the Atonement, in its incomparable grace, is everything. It is perfect, it is complete, and through it so are we.

As I prepared the lesson the parable of the prodigal son kept returning to my thoughts. I have always had a great love for this story. I suppose it because I understand that by nature of my mortality, I too, am prodigal and hoping to return home.

The parable is the story of a young man who asks his father for his share of his inheritance, receives it and then leaves home. He goes off "into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living." The far off country is struck by a "mighty famine", and the prodigal son begins to starve. He goes to work for a man of this country, and is sent into the fields to feed pigs. This tragedy of descent was immediately understandable to Christ's contemporaries. Under the mosaic law, swine were considered unclean, to be associated with them was to invite dishonor. The poor prodigal gives the swine their meal of scraps and in his hunger he wishes he could lay down and eat with them. It is at this moment that his fall is complete. The man that once had the audacity to demand his inheritance, had become the boy that could not have a pig's portion.

It is in this darkness that the prodigal son remembers his home. He says,

"How many hired servants of my father’s have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants."

With this humble hope be begins his long walk home. "But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him." And there, in all its poignancy, our Savior gave us one of the most hopeful sentences contained in any book of scripture.

"But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him..."

The prodigal son's father was watching for him. Hoping for him. Straining his eyes, looking to the horizon, waiting for the first glimpse of his returning son.

"...and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him."

The distant form of his undeserving son appears against the sky and his father is moved not by a sense of justice or anger, rather he feels compassion. What majesty! The prodigal son began his return home aware of the consequences. He had brought dishonor upon his community and he knew that for this he could be greatly, painfully punished. His father knew this too, and so he runs to his son, robes gathered up in his hands, ankles exposed, his father runs to him without thought of self or dignity. He falls upon him and kisses him. This is not merely the greeting of a grieving father. It is an act of protection. The father casts himself upon his son and makes him his own again.

We all know the end of the story. The prodigal is brought home and restored to his father's house, he is given the robe, the ring, and the fatted calf. And there is joy, so much joy, for the son that "was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found."

I know our Heavenly Father is watching for us on the horizon. I know that all we need to do is begin our walk to Him, just take one little step, and He will run to us. He will run and fall upon us and kiss our necks.

We will be protected. We will be forgiven. We will be restored.

Until Tomorrow...

2011-03-01T19:16:00.001-08:00

My lesson has been taught. My birthday has been had (26!). I am back amongst the living and blogging.

The birthday celebration thrown by Mr. Husband was lovely. There was sushi (cooked), some of the best baked goods I have ever had (check it out here), and the perfect gift...a camera (pre-ordered and to be delivered into my greedy hands the first of April.)

Happy girl.

I am going to head to bed and snuggle up the Mister. Will be back bright and early tomorrow to post some in depth happiness.

So this is what...

2011-02-24T12:38:00.000-08:00

...procrastination looks like.

This upcoming Saturday I am teaching at a stake Relief Society conference for my church. It is a gathering of a few hundred women, put together to celebrate the amazing capacities and joy that are inherent in our lovely gender.

I was asked to teach a month or two ago and have been alternately excited and terrified ever since. Today is a terrified day. (Terror has an exhilerating quality, but it has also required the consumption of two bowls of mint ice cream...so, there is that.)

Over the past month I have collected talks, insightful quotes and empowering bits of scripture. The plan was to sit at my big tanker desk, stacks of collected inspiration on hand, and create the lesson over the course of a couple weeks. Good, organized plan.

Today is Thursday. The lesson is in two days. I am surrounded by my stacks of paper, which so far have not proved inspiring, and the lesson is still...shall we say...unformed.

There is solace in the fact that the house is as spotless as it has ever been. When faced with lesson planning over the past few days, I decided to spring clean. Couches were moved, floors were scrubbed, I may have even cleaned the inside of my windows. Unprecedented.

I know what I want the women in my class to feel at the end of the lesson. Empowerment, freedom, the beauty of a life lived deliberately. That in this existence there is no room for fear or guilt. That happiness and wonder can be daily gifts and not one woman is too unworthy to receive them. That perfection is a goal of completion and not one of no errors. All the same things I try to remind myself of every day.

Good, lovely things. Perhaps I can capture them all and make them into a 50 minute lesson.

Time to try.

(Unless of course, you would like me to come and clean your house, or watch your kids, sort your spices, etc.)

The Man Comes Around

2011-02-17T10:58:00.000-08:00

Margaret is getting over a nasty bout of bronchitis. We are on our fifth day of being absolutely housebound. I would love to say that I have used this sabbatical from life wisely. Upon, reflection it seems I have not. However, I am now fully up to date with the latest Hollywood gossip and have attained a personal high score on Bejeweled.

So there is always that.

I have decided to return to the living today. The house is being scrubbed, laundry folded, daughter washed. All to the lovely sounds of the one and only Mr. Cash. I humbly posit that American IV: The Man Comes Around is the culminating work of his career. His voice has the rough understanding of a lifetime of mistakes, some made right, some not. It is the light seen through the clouds, forgiveness sought and redemption given. Perfect.

Just one tiny problem. Margaret is currently singing the chorus to I Hung my Head. A ballad about an accidental murder and justice served.

Maybe a little heavy for a two year old.

Someday...Maybe

2011-02-14T18:53:00.000-08:00

Sometimes Riley and I sit and dream things up. We dream fancy dinners, European vacations and (when Riley is at the reigns) Super Bowl trips. Lately, we have been dreaming Dream Houses.

Adobe. Big sweeping porch. Maybe in the Territorial Style. The inside would look something like this...

The land around the house is still up for grabs, but I have a few suggestions. I figure that if Riley gets to dream a Super Bowl trip then I should get to dream a woodland full of fairies and a creme brulee garden.

ps.

In honor of Valentine's day I have been listening to Lucky by Jason Mraz all day. It is the absolute cheese of all cheese. And.I.Love.It.

Good Morning

2011-02-13T17:49:00.000-08:00

Margaret and Riley are closing up Sunday with a few episodes of Wonder Pets, while I sit and write. I can think of more inspiring background sounds than the incessant singing of the Wonder Pets. Who writes these shows? Why must one of the characters always have a speech impediment? And why do I feel like they are teaching my daughter more effectively than I ever do? Humbling. The sight of Riley and Margaret cuddling on the couch is almost worth allowing the dreaded Wonder Pets into our house. Almost.

While Margaret learns about pupa's from singing turtles, I am thinking about the week to come. I have never been one to make, let alone keep, the traditional New Year's resolutions. So much pressure. I do make weekly resolutions. They are generally simple and designed for success.

Recent ones have included:

Remembering to brush Margaret's teeth every night (does 5 out of 7 count?)

Cooking more (This includes both grilled cheese and every preparation of egg)

Having dessert only on weekends (by Monday I decided that was too difficult and modified it to one scoop of ice cream on weeknights. I was able to stick to this, especially since I was scooping with a ladle.)

It seems to me that while toddler hygiene and nutritional health are important, I am perhaps aiming a little low. I mean, brushing your childrens' teeth is something most mothers do naturally, without a weekly resolution.

There are many things I want to do in this life and almost all of them are grander than limiting my sugar intake. I know where I came from and that we are all here to accomplish great things. I know that I want a life full of discovery, poetry, children, passion, gardens and color. I also know that I can attain none of this on my own. On my own is an episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians and two pot pies. On my own is.not.pretty.

So I am leaving behind my weekly resolutions and embracing a daily one. Each morning, even the tired, sick, oh-my-goodness-can-the-day-already-be-over ones, I will wake up determined to consecrate my life. The dictionary defines consecrate as, "To make or declare sacred; set apart or dedicate to the service of God." One of my favorite quotes of the past year comes from a church leader, Elder D. Todd Christofferson,

"True success in this life comes in consecrating our lives - that is, our time and choices - to Gods' purposes. In so doing we permit Him to raise up to our highest destiny."

I am a daughter of God, perhaps it is time that I begin to live like one. Make the day His, before I ask for my portion. Each morning to remember my divine heritage and actually cultivate it. To humbly ask for the light and then to be given it in abundance. Work for His children before I take for myself. It is really not such a bad trade off. Give what I can and in return be given Everything, the color, the discovery, the passion. The highest version of myself.

On the days I falter, I will go to sleep excited for the next morning, the next commitment to dedication. I am going to try and for Him I know that is enough. I don't have to do it on my own.

Can't wait for the sunrise.

One Girls' Fantasy Is Another Girls' Dinner

2011-02-10T15:46:00.001-08:00

A man must have coined the term "morning sickness". There is nothing "morning" about it. This thing I am experiencing would be more properly called, "Really &*%$ing sick, every #*$%ing minute of every $%&*ing day". Although, I guess that doesn't really have much of a ring to it.

In an interesting turn of events, I am famished along with nauseated. The body is capable of truly amazing things.

The only food item that sounds even close to palatable? Sushi. Pregnant women aren't supposed to eat sushi. Which means that I am reduced to dreaming about.

Christian Bale, sorry honey, it is over. From here on out all fantasies will feature only me, chopsticks and an order of spicy scallops.

The Day You Turned Two

2011-02-09T13:28:00.001-08:00

Dear Margaret,

Today you turned two years old. Upon waking up, your daddy and I coronated you with a Sleeping Beauty crown. It is pink and made of plastic, glitter and ribbon. Absolutely tacky and absolutely perfect. I might steal it from you.

You don't really understand birthdays, but I have tried to make today special. You want to watch wonder pets? We watch it. You want chocolate? Oh look. I happen to have m&m's just waiting for you in my purse. Pizza? At ten thirty? Sure! Five Bagel Bites coming your way. As we watched the artificial cheese melt into the radioactive-red sauce, it occurred to me that very little about today is different than any other day. Welcome to your life. You are two years old and live everyday like it is your birthday.

As you slept off all that fake dairy and chocolate, I sat down and caught up on the news. Margaret, you are a toddler in a very adult world. The day you turned two, Eqypt was burning. Unemployment had risen and soup kitchens were overwhelmed. America's terror alert was at the highest it had been since 9/11. They called it "Code Really Really Red...Like Almost Scarlet...Seriously." Somali pirates captured a Greek super-tanker. A court convened on the murder case of a Bangledeshi girl. She was 14 and had been raped by her cousin. The village elders decided this made her unclean and sentenced her to one hundred lashes. She only lived to see eighty of them. The Republicans and Democrats continued to yell, too loud to hear the voices of people that needed them. A new study announced that french fries will, if they have not already done so, give you cancer. To add insult to injury, Adam Sandler had come out with, yet another, romantic comedy. (Tragedy can be relative. Why can't he just embrace the perfection of The Wedding Singer and cease all other efforts?)

Pushed the news away, and picked up your princess crown. It looks like it is made of frosting. The day you turned two, I decided not to despair that pink princess crowns exist in a world in which some 14 year olds don't get to grow up. There is darkness, but there is also light. Someday there will be just the blazing, glorious light. Until then, we will spread it the best we can.

The day you turned two, was the day I decided to make our home just like the world I wish you could live in. There will be bagel bites and story time and flowers. We will eat and drink love, charity and understanding.

And we will do it all bedecked in glitter, ribbons and crowns.

Happy Birthday, Darling.

Mama

Nine Months of Fridays

2011-02-04T11:45:00.000-08:00

Ready for the weekend

It is Friday.

In a world in which I am not pregnant, Friday is generally a throw-your-hands-up-in-the-air day. The end of the week. A little behind on laundry. Maybe I haven't made my bed yet. Basically, I have already checked out in anticipation of a Saturday sleep in. Not chaos, but not perfect.

This Friday happens to be one of many pregnant Friday's to come. How to sum it up? This morning I made some oatmeal. All the bowls were dirty. So I ate the oatmeal...out of a serving bowl we received as a wedding gift. This particular receptacle is big enough to hold an army's worth of mashed potatos. It is also made of fine bone china.

Classy.

It all sounds a little Lindsay Lohan pre-rehab. I know.

Despite its ignominious beginning, I have high hopes for this weekend. There are about three hours out of every day that I feel both well and awake. I plan to fill them. There will be a date. We will purchase food storage. Maybe I will read. Maybe I will watch How to Steal a Million ...again. (seriously, Peter O'Toole. Yes. Please. Always.)

And dancing. There will be dancing.

When you wish upon a...

2011-02-02T14:19:00.000-08:00

Constellations by Brian Kershisnik

After 5 days of visiting with Riley's lovely mama (more importantly known as Margaret's dear, dear Nana), today is a lazy day. The little girl and I had rice-a-roni for lunch, "mmmmm MOMMY! GOOD FOOD!", and M&M's for breakfast, snack and second lunch. She is sleeping and I am trying to stay awake.

Zuzu talks so much now. She is "HUNGRY!", "THE BABY IS HAPPY!", "GO ON!", "DADDY BACK!", "OH HUG. NICE!", and my personal favorite, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" (Said with a bewitching mix of desperation and toddler contempt. Really, quite fetching.) If it can be said in 7 words or less, Zuzu says it. Loudly.

Her favorite word, by far, is "STAR". Really, stars are her favorite...everything. The fascination began with the celestial bodies in the opening scene of Princess and the Frog. The star shines brightly, the heroine is introduced, hijinks and love follow. Obviously, those sparkly lights are harbingers of good things to come. Her love of all things "STAR!" quickly expanded to encompass US Bank billboards, the NFL logo, astronomy pictures on google image and the American flag.

For Margaret, there is no such thing as a simple drive across town. Every time we get in the car she taps into some primal hunter-gatherer aspect of her genetic history. The only difference between the girl and her hungry ancestors? She is not looking for berries or non-poisonous mushrooms, no, my daughter is looking for stars.

And she finds them. EVERYWHERE.

"STAR! MOMMY!"

"Yes, Margaret. Good job. There is a star on that flag."

"MOMMY! STAR!!!"

"What? Oh, I mean, yes. There is a star on that sign. Good girl."

"STAR. MOM. STAR!"

"Okay. Now you are just making things up, there is not a star....oh wait. Oh. Yes there is. The girl driving next to us. Has a star tattoo. On her neck. Um. Good job."

The thing is, Margaret sees stars everywhere, because they are, well, everywhere. It is like some vast right wing star lobby is working behind the scenes to keep us earth dwellers good and aware of our sky bound neighbors. (This seems a stretch, even for a conspiracy theorist like me. I mean, where is the profit?) Dismissing the cosmic cabal theory, one is left to assume that the rest of the world is as star centric as Margaret has become. Perhaps it is because we need to know there is something out there beyond just us, or maybe stars, are like, totally back in, because a Kardashian said it was so.

It doesn't really matter.

Margaret has felt the power of a symbol and what it represents. What a gift! Clear nights are heralded as miracles, as she points from, "STAR!" to "STAR!" to "STAR!".

A little thing. It has made my life better.

Once

2011-01-27T07:50:00.001-08:00

Happy Ever After

This morning I am determined to find joy in my happily ever after. Joy in the laundry. Joy in the Life cereal stuck to the floor. Even Joy in calling the insurance company and yelling until they admit coverage of a procedure they have been denying.

Ok. Maybe there will be more joy if I don't yell. Just stern smiley talk.

I am alive. In love. Raising a baby and making another. If there is not cloud bursting happiness in that, what else is there?

Listening to the Once soundtrack is helping me on my way.

And Baby Makes....

2011-01-25T20:44:00.001-08:00

Alright.

I am pregnant.

Barely. Just six tiny weeks.

I had this vague notion that I would keep quiet about it until I was further along. And then the joy of giving that grand announcement at 12 weeks,

"I have seen the stares. Gotten the subtle hints about skipping that third donut. Please, no more worries. There is a baby in here. It is making me eat that donut. Thanks for your concern. Now who has a brownie?"

It seems that I might not be great at keeping quiet. I am not born of a quiet tradition. My mom announced the new baby pi on facebook. I find myself telling strangers in the grocery store,

"I know my cart has nothing in it but cheddar potato chips and canned frosting. Don't worry, I am pregnant. This is totally normal."

Of course, I am in Utah, and the woman next to me in line had four children and an 18 inch waist. Sneaking suspicion she does not consider frosting dipped cheddar chips "normal".

I think the baby is a girl. Riley says boy. I told Margaret that I am making her a best friend. She thinks I am magical.

We are just eight months away from more mess, noise and love.

I cannot wait.

Cereal and Cinderella

2011-01-24T07:53:00.000-08:00

Dear Margaret,

This morning you woke up begging for cereal and Cinderella. Lately, this is your favorite pairing. You prefer Life cereal, but will also tolerate Cheerio's.There is, however, no substitute for Cinderella. I understand your love. She is pretty, there are talking mice involved and she gets to wear a big beautiful dress.

Darling, You are only 23 months old and already your whole life is about a big dress and a happy ending. I am not sure that I could have prevented this. People can make a case about the socialization of genders, about misplaced priorities, about avoiding pink, prettiness and princesses. They seem to think that what you are can be avoided by the presence of a few unisex parenting techniques. They are all wrong, of course. You were born looking for a happy ending. Cinderella is just a manifestation of a dream you already have. I want you to know that it is alright to dream of the big dress and the big day and the prince that will meet you there. I will wish and hope and dream right along with you.

Just a little favor, for me? Don't bide time until the day you wear the big dress. There is so much to do. Know who you are. You are an eternal daughter of an eternal God. This connection is literal and your lovely soul holds within it a spark of the divine. Know your Savior.Understand your unique abilities. There is no one like you, and no one that can do what YOU can do. Develop your talents, strengthen your weaknesses. You were sent here to perform a great work. You must ready yourself. Have ambition. Get an education. This world is yours to know, understand and make better. Get dirty and make a few mistakes. Find the adventure in being you. Kiss a boy. Call me crying when he wasn't the right one. I promise to cry with you. Make the Word of God an integral part of who you are. Poetry and inspiration will follow. Understand it isn't a matter of who will have you, but rather, who deserves you.

And when you are ready, you will meet someone who is worthy of you, my little Margaret pi. He will be lovely and handsome. He will open doors for you and know your favorite flower. He will understand your dreams and put them before his own. You will be happy. You will kiss and dance and sing and love. You will wear that big dress on that big day and dance with your Prince. Don't worry. It isn't the happy ending of anything. It is a joyous beginning. A new start to the adventure you were born to have.

I have loved my happy beginning, my adventure in love, purple walls and burnt dinners. How could I not? You are a part of it.

Love,
Mama

Sleep In Saturday

2011-01-22T07:18:00.000-08:00

Margaret woke up at 6:30 am this morning.

Seriously.

Someone should give her a prize. A blue ribbon for Saturday morning AWESOMENESS. I mean I am soooo proud of her. 6:30 wake up on a sleep in Saturday. What parent wouldn't be ecstatic? (I may have mumbled something like this when I was getting her out of bed because she keeps asking for a "boo ribbon?")

She will make it up to me today with extra cuddles and dance time. There is just no getting around it.

After setting the girl up with "FOOD!" and "MILK!", I stumbled into my bathroom to perform my morning ablutions. And there it was. My silly shower curtain that makes me silly happy. We bought it from Anthropologie years ago, before I realized money was really for things like groceries and the mortgage. It is the only item in the house that I air dry. (You know, I LOVE something when I launder it correctly.) Maybe it reminds me of a care free day, or the finer things in life...or maybe I just really like birds. Either way, it never fails.

Here's hoping your weekend is full of little things that you make you HAPPY!

(hmmm. I just read this and it appears that I love my shower curtain more than my child. Not true. It is just that the shower curtain never wakes me up before the sun rises.)

The lovely (albeit wrinkly) curtain.

PS. Help! My camera is broken so I have been taking pictures with my phone. Looking for a replacement. Any suggestions?

A Night Out

2011-01-21T15:38:00.001-08:00

Last night was one of those nights.

Today has been one of those days.

I am uninspired and have eaten half a pan of cornbread. Which might not sound all that self destructive, until you take into account the way in which I eat the cornbread. First gobs of butter are applied. The cornbread is then broiled. More butter. Followed by a hive's fiscal year worth of honey.

It is excessive.

Riley wants to take me out tonight. Something about showing me a fun time so that I can forget my grumps. I say, why forget the grumps when you can wallow in them? I want to stay home. In sweats. And eat more cornbread.

In truth, going out will be fun. Once we get to the "out" part. It is what precedes the "out" that makes sweats look good.

I will have to do my hair....apparently, it is socially unacceptable to leave the house with it unbrushed.

I will have to pick out an outfit....which is depressing after all the cornbread.

I will have to actually leave the house, my grumps and the afore-mentioned cornbread.

This seems like a lot to ask of a girl.

I know that Riley would stay home in sweats with me. We would put Margaret to bed, turn on Psych re-runs and eat something that can claim both sugar and chemical as equal ingredients. That is what husbands do, and heaven knows he has done it before. It really doesn't sound too bad.

It occurs to me though, that tonight my husband is asking me to be his girlfriend. Maybe that is what wives do.

Guess I better go get a brush for my hair.

Three things I like...

2011-01-19T11:40:00.001-08:00

About my room RIGHT now.

Riley wrote this to me on the door leading out of our room.
Yeah. He loves his meggi (3.14) pie.

Cards from a heated game of "idiot" last night.

I won. Twice.

Sitting. On a vanity. Topless.

Naturally.

Q & A

2011-01-18T11:29:00.000-08:00

Margaret and I went grocery shopping today. The little girl is nearly two now and questions are her favorite form of entertainment. She sat in the shopping cart as I debated between the bacon that cost $4.69 and the the bacon that cost $11.99. (Side Note: this is QUITE a quandary. Expensive vs Affordable, Thick vs Thin, Natural vs. Nitrates, Joy vs Alright That'll Do.) As I debated ($4.69 won out), she questioned.

"Mommy. what's that?"

"Sausage"

"Mommy, what's that?"

"Cheese"

"Mommy, what's that?"

"The offal of chicken, pork and beef, ground together until it is nearly liquid. It is then put in articial casing and called Bologna. It is also delicious. Let's get some."

She asked questions in every section of the grocery store and I, (more or less) answered. She wanted to know about all of it, and I, being well versed in every form of food, was able to teach her. It was simple and it was sweet. Today, she discovered raw chicken, pita bread, vitamins and eggplant. I could not match her enthusiasm for the eggplant, but to each her own.

(Mom rant: Who decided it was a good idea to have HUGE M&M figures that hold candy in every corner of the dairy and produce departments? Do you enjoy my child screaming for "Chockchit" when we pass them? Yeah. Me neither.)

After we checked out, I loaded her and all of our processed meats into the car. She asked questions the whole way home.

She and I are not really different. I have so many questions.

Lately, there have been many about being a woman. We have the power to lift our men all the way up to heaven, to teach our children about the stars and eggplants, to create and dance and sing.

And yet. And yet there is also so much pain. So many problems uniquely associated with, or more severe for, our sex. We have the power to change the whole world, but we also have the capacity to hurt for the whole world. We are crippled by depression, weight gain, insecurity, and a lack of self. We can love our neighbors, family and our God, but if our hormones aren't quite right, or mental history not so pretty, we become lost. In so many ways we are superman with the kryptonite built right into us. Why?

It will be nice to walk around Time and Space with my Lord one day. It will not be so different from a trip to the grocery store with Margaret. I will have a lot of questions to ask. He will have the answers. I am sure it will be simple and sweet.

I just hope we get to pick up some bologna along the way.

There's no place like home

2011-01-14T11:07:00.000-08:00

Margaret has insisted one wearing this pair of shoes every day this week. They have looked lovely with blue, clashed with orange and been worn at least twice over footie pajamas.

I tried to teach her to click her heels just like Dorothy. What the shoes lack in Oz sparkle, they make up for in shine. So, the clicking heels lesson commenced.

"Margaret! Say it with Mommy! There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home! Now click your heels!"

She ended up kicking herself in the ankle instead. HARD. This was followed by some crying accompanied by a somewhat justified sense of betrayal. I could see it in her eyes,"What kind of mom teaches her baby to kick herself in the leg FOR FUN?"

Ummm. This kind.

I guess some things are best left to Judy Garland. A tough lesson, but one that needs to be learned sooner rather than later.

Family Magician

2011-01-07T15:15:00.001-08:00

The chores associated with the title, “Domestic Goddess”, have come to me with much difficulty. I understand, in theory, the benefits of a consistently clean house. It is much nicer to curl up into a straightened bed at the end of the night. The kitchen floor is quite pretty when its’ had its’ daily sweep. Heaven knows, that once the living room is cleared of toys it becomes a place I actually want to be. I know that dusting, wiping, scrubbing and picking up, are all necessary for our little house to function better as a home. I guess it just never occurred to me that I would be the one doing all the dusting, wiping, scrubbing, the oh-my-word-is-that-messy-again cleaning. The comprehension of this fact was swift and harsh, a guillotine of gender role realizations.

(Side note: Riley is a huge help and to date has done more laundry than I have. Full disclosure requires me to state that I am actually forbidden from doing laundry as I tend to ruin 1 out of every 8 loads.)

I stopped working in August and it was then that I began to try to define my role as a stay at home mother. I decided part of my work at home would be a house nicely ordered and scrubbed. A place ready for good times and dinner by the time our lovely Riley returned home. It seems to me that cleaning the house, making the bed, mopping that @#$% white tile floor AGAIN, is all service. Service for my husband who works so hard for us all day. Service for my daughter as she plays in a clean room and learns by example. Maybe even service for God, as I emulate him in the organization of matter and express gratitude through care of my earthly surroundings. I believe this is true. As a woman I am uniquely made for service; I was happy to find another opportunity for it in the home. My first week home from work was chock-a-block full of good intentions and high thoughts.

And then.

And then it hit me.

It is not merely that I do not care for housekeeping. I actually have no idea how to go about doing it. Dusting for example…apparently, and I only know this by looking at my windowsills, it has to be done more than once a month. It is not enough to clean just kitchen countertops as the cabinets insist on getting dirty, too. I was reading a blog on housekeeping a few months ago that instructed me to alternate cleaning baseboards and ceiling fans. There are people out there cleaning their baseboards?

The enormity of my ignorance was all consuming.

On top of it all, my ineffective housecleaning seemed to take all day. I am not talking about that common mom complaint, “I had the house cleaned by 10 am and the kids had it torn apart by 10:30am.” No, there was never a point when I could say the whole house had been cleaned. Rather it would go something like, “I had my bed made by 10am and was thinking about tackling the kitchen by 3pm.” I was actually cleaning the house all day. This was both embarrassing and discouraging.

This morning, I came across a short story published in the 1940’s by Shirley Jackson called, “Family Magician”. In it, Dad has died and Mom is left with two children, Dottie and Jerry. Their circumstances are strained and the atmosphere in the home feels the same. One afternoon a woman named Mallie, a la Mary Poppins, drops into their kitchen and informs the family that she will be taking care of them for a while. And take care she does. She serves each member of the family, creating a home out of good dinners and good conversation. She seems to sparkle and, although the children never gather any proof, they just know she is magic. Beds are made before she has even gone into the room, enough cookies and lemonade wait on the table for a baseball team she didn’t know was coming over, “it seemed as though she could straighten a room just by standing in the doorway and looking around hard.” She is, in a very real sense, the nurturing presence I would like to be.

One day Dottie, the teenage daughter, says,

“I wish you’d teach me some of that magic, Mallie.”

Mallie was making a salad but she looked at Dottie and said, “What do you need magic for, Missy? You’re doing alright without any.”

“YOU know,” Dottie said. She sat down and Mallie just went on making the salad…, “Look at all you can do – making dresses and doing housework without lifting a finger, and all that.”

“I only do work fast so’s I’ll have more time to do other things, “ Mallie said… “I’m real busy and busy people don’t have time to for everything they want to do. So I make time.”

“That’s it,” Dottie said. “I’m real busy, too. I want to learn some magic.”

Mallie laughed. “Tell you what I’ll do, honey. I’ll teach you how to make a pie. That’s all the magic you’ll ever need.”

And golly if she didn’t teach Dottie right then and there how to make a pie; just pushed the salad off to one side and went to work…It was a pretty good pie too – apple…And after that Mallie taught Dottie a lot of other things – and she told Dottie over and over again, “that’s all the magic you’ll ever need.”

I read those few lines and the silliness of my situation came to me quick and bright, a shooting star of gender role realizations. The scrubbing, the picking up, the oh-my-word-what-is-that-in-the-kitchen sink cleaning, is not an end in itself. It is simply the preparation for all the goodness my day can contain. It is the broccoli you have to eat before your parents will let you have ice cream. Is this really SO bad? The broccoli is good for you and GUESS WHAT? It is followed by a big bowl of ice cream! I love Mallie. The beds in her house are made, the floors are clean, dinner is in the oven and because of that, she has the TIME to sit down with Dottie and teach her how to make a pie. Can you imagine having the time to make a pie JUST BECAUSE you wanted to?

I can’t clean a room by just, “standing in the doorway and looking around hard.” I know, because I have tried. I can, however, understand that I am cleaning with a purpose. I will work fast so that I can provide my daughter (and myself) with days full of adventure, learning and joy. I will better understand the priorities of my life. Some days the house won’t get clean. I will know it is okay to push the salad aside, so that Margaret and I can bake a pie.

I think that’s all the magic I’ll ever need.

Peace Like A River

2011-01-05T09:37:00.000-08:00

I could clean out all the closets in my house or I could write just a little here in outerspace. The organization of the closets seem to be the best choice; I opened one last night and a lawn chair fell onto my head. So...there is some work to be done there. On the other hand, writing here has it's charms. I don't think anyone really reads this, so no risk, AND I get to sit while typing...comfort while pretending at productivity.

Closets lose. Meggi wins.

It is now 2011 and the life I am living is beyond what a scoundrel like me should hope for, let alone deserve. I am possessed of a husband who loves me and a daughter that dances. The walls of my house are standing and the roof is new. Last night Riley came home from his promising new job and the table was set, the potatoes perfectly baked and I felt a grandness in our small lives. This isn't luck. Me, 25 and in love with everything around me. Luck is not that creative. This is blessing, protection, modesty, love, God, truth and faith. I know that my goodly parents and my God raised me for this life, those baked potatoes, this moment. I am a daughter of my Heavenly Father and I KNOW IT. There is light in that knowledge and it will be bright in the darkness that visits me. The potatos will sometimes burn, not all nights will be set tables and love. It is alright. I know that I am being waited for in the home of my Heavenly Father. It could have been so different. There could have been so much less.

I am grateful. I am happy. I am delivered.

I see you...

2010-12-14T18:55:00.000-08:00

Margaret.

Favorite new phrases: "Come on", "You ok?", "Daddy's back!", "More Chockchit?" (chockchit = chocolate), and "I am Margaret Zuzu".

Favorite book: Goodnight Moon

Favorite food: Beans

Favorite drink: Almond Milk

Favorite friends: Mommy, Daddy and Blanket

Favorite Outfit: Cowboy Boots, Polka Dot Tights, Tutu and Heart Hoodie

Favorite Disney Princess: Ariel

Favorite Indoor Activity: Dancing

Favorite Outdoor Activity: Dancing

Still hates baths.

Popcorn Poppin' on the...

2010-12-10T20:37:00.000-08:00

Riley flew up to Oregon yesterday. He is gone until Monday. I hate it.

Blog confessional...I was almost excited about this alone time. I don't remember what it is like to be by myself. It has occurred to me lately that I might not mind remembering. This weekend was to be the perfect walk down memory lane. (Yes, I still have a 22mo old at home with me, but Margaret sleeps nearly four hours a day and then goes to bed at 7:30 each night. That is a lot of Megan time.)

There was considerable determination to be ultra productive in Riley's absence. I was going to make serious headway on my writing, acquaint myself with a yet to be determined literary classic and maybe master some basics of the french culinary tradition. You know, nothing much.

Riley has been gone for just over 24 hours. Margaret has been napping like it is her job. The weekend of Megan is well underway. And...the writing is pedestrian, I can't focus on reading and, let's face it, french food is just a titch trendy right now.

My bed is empty. Margaret doesn't get my jokes. The "i am lonely" self pity eating has gotten out of control. I am currently consuming my body weight in popcorn...I made yesterday.

I remember now what it is like to be by myself and I cannot believe it is only Friday night.

This Guy. I like him.

Captured

2010-12-07T12:00:00.000-08:00

I think I have a lovely smile. I have seen it reflected in mirrors, windows and the odd clean spoon. I know it exists. However, there is little record to this effect. Point a camera lens at me and that smile disappears leaving something very, very different in its place. In most photographs I appear to be baring my teeth in an effort to intimidate some very menacing animal in the distance.

Unpleasant.

Enter one Heather Mildenstein. Heather is the creative force behind, The Coterie Blog, a lovely haven of whimsical delights. Mrs. Mildenstein is an expert in many fields, and I thank my lucky stars that photography is one of them. We will be sending out a Christmas card for the very first time this year and it is all thanks to her wonderful work.

Not bad, right?

Feel like documenting your family this Christmas and looking good while doing it? Contact Heather at heather@thecoterieblog.com (she is great with kids!)

Today

2010-12-06T10:08:00.000-08:00

Dear Margaret,

Last night was a hard night.

I read a story about a mom just like me that lost a daughter just like you.

Your Dad held me while I cried in our bed.

Have I mentioned how sweet our Riley is? He wanted to go wake you up so that you could cuddle me better.

It was very tempting.

I decided to let you sleep.

Today has not been hard.

We have so much fun together.
Every morning you play in your crib, chattering with people I can't see.

Finally, you call for me and I open the door to your room. You shout, "HI MOMMY!"

Hi baby girl.

Our days are filmy with fun and frolic.

You help me sweep. We dance. We read. You yell. I laugh.

You love The Little Mermaid, soup and singing.

I love you.

Tonight will be a better night.

I am going to stop worrying about tomorrow. You give me too many good todays.

From this moment on...

2010-08-10T19:35:00.000-07:00

Cowgirl Margaret

Dear Margaret,

You turned 18 months old yesterday. I am not much for the marking of milestones. I forget anniversaries and birthdays...even when they are my own. Ideally, I would have you believe that this forgetfulness is the result of my being so preoccupied with saving the world. I can just hear the conversations on the playground that this explanation would lead to...

"oh my mom forgot it was my birthday because she was curing world hunger, what did your mom do for your birthday...bake a cake?"

In reality the forgetfulness most likely stems from my distaste of change I cannot control. Every birthday takes me further from the life I am living and closer to stiff joints and chronic hemorroids. I grow attached to a moment so quickly and then find myself surprised when it trips away. It seems we are given everything, down to our very breath, just so it can eventually be lost. Your dad cannot understand how I lose so many things that matter (my first anniversary gift) and so many things that do not (those darn pizza gift cards... WHERE ARE THEY?) Maybe I lose things quickly, before they are treasured and lost anyways.

I already know that you, my darling girl, are not something that I can keep. I know that. And yet you, my little star traveler, my girl that is not really mine, I can love you wholeheartedly and without fear, even as I know you will not always be here, even as I know I will one day lose you.

In this moment these are some of the things I absolutely treasure about you, Margaret Zuzu Bingham.

Your mouth was built for the new words that spill out of it daily. As of today you say: cheek, hair, ear, toe, mouth, eye, nose, baby, foot, nana, no, uh oh, daddy, mom, papa, side (outside), water, dog, where'ditgo?, cracker, choco (chocolate), hot, cold, ouch, night night, I know, nug (nugget), gankgoo (thank you), please, thereyougo!, anel (Daniel), Mey (Jaimie), Keke (Katie), Tay, mine, on, off and gamma (grandma)

When I sing while I am cleaning, you sing "lalalalalala" and twirl

I know you are happy when you hum and shake your hips back and forth. This happens before and after every meal and each time I hand you your blankie

You call your blankie, "baby"

Today I caught you rubbing different containers, lathering up your hands and then applying the phantom product to your hair like it was gel. You must be watching your daddy get ready in the mornings.

At night now you sleep like a big girl, on your back, arms and feet stretched out, this made me a little sad...

You kiss me a hundred times a day. Always on the spot that is closest to you, generally my knees and my toes.

When you are being quiet, it is always because you are in your room "reading" to yourself out of Goodnight, Moon.

If you want my attention, there is no "mommy" or "mama", only "mom", you are my teenage toddler

Happy 18 months, Margaret. Thank you for teaching me the importance of a milestone and the moments leading up to it.

I love you.

Mama

I capture the...

2010-08-07T15:24:00.000-07:00

Riley and I sat down to watch The Dark Knight while it rained outside. I started crying about 15 minutes into the silly thing. Motherhood makes darkness, even the predictable kind found in summer blockbusters, more potent than it once was. The transformative powers of parenthood are odd. Having Margaret made me so much stronger and, at the same time, so much more vulnerable. Some sort of Superman/Kryptonite complex? (Maybe I should go outside...too many comic book references.) Riley is finishing the movie while I distract myself with our little blog. It plays on in the background and I think I could have written the storyline and dialogue myself. The creation and dispersion of ugliness requires little talent. Shadow is easy, it is the light that is hard to capture.

Us, in the light.

Slippery Fish

2010-07-27T14:02:00.000-07:00

We just spent a week with Riley's family at the beach in California. Margaret took two things away from the experience. On the one hand,we now know that she hates the ocean. When she and her sand toys were touched by the tide she cried so hard she threw up. This was followed by a five hour long healing nap. On the other (less throw up prone) hand, we now know that she loves her Nana as much as she hates the demon sea. That love is in full sparkle when Nana sings Slippery Fish,a hundred verse song performed with love and hand movements. Zuzu has been singing this song to herself in gibberish since we drove away from the beach. Here is just a little clip of her preparing for her inevitable audtion for America's Got Talent. Back up is provided by Uncle Tay.

Dreams and Dragons

2010-07-26T22:26:00.000-07:00

Pixar and Almond Milk

Dear Margaret,

The brevity of our time here on Earth has been much on my mind lately. Days are too quickly and freely spent. Night comes and I wonder if I gave you anything new, if I helped you to discover anything worthwhile that day. Too often I have not. There is wonder and awe bottled up inside your mama just waiting to be poured into you. I want you to see a world inhabited by fairies and the magic of the written word. It is the world in which I mean to raise you. Today there was no wonder and I am sorry. We spent the day inside. I was tired. You were grumpy. Monsters Inc was on loop. Totally pedestrian.

Margaret, there will be as few of these days as I can manage. Life is short and absolutely bursting with goodness. We were created by the same hands that shaped the stars. You were thought of by the same mind that controls the atom and lit the morning sky. Who am I to keep such a beautiful creation inside, idle and ignorant? Margaret, we have so much to do! There are mountains to climb and shadows to light. We have dreams and dragons to hunt.

I promise I won't forget again.

Love, Mama

Unabashedly Zuzu

2010-05-19T20:16:00.000-07:00

Uncle Tay and Zuzu in our Backyard

Zuzu has discovered that if she lays down and throws her feet in the air good times are sure to follow. What can I say? I hope she approaches play time a little differently by the time she hits her teens...

The girl who cried puddle

2010-05-03T19:47:00.000-07:00

My daughter hates water. Except for when it is dirty. A bath full of toys and bubbles? She screams like a banshee wandering the Irish hillside. Give her a puddle full of insect corpses and suddenly you have a happy girl. So there it is. My daughter loves cornbread, pork, and dirty water dancing. Margaret's emerging personality seems to have a distinct backwoods hue...

(Full Disclosure: Margaret playing in the water really was a fabulous first. We peeled all those dead ants right off of her and headed out to dinner with Grandpa Conley to mark the occasion. The fine dining took place at Chuck-a-Rama...it was a true redneck celebration.)

"What the hell did I step into? "

She was shocked that the water moved when she stomped on it. This lasted some time.

She may not be a genius but we think she is real pretty.

She VOLUNTARILY got her hands WET!

Best mommy moment this side of her quitting formula.

In the Conley-Bingham family we celebrate feats of bravery with all you can eat cake.

Tonight was no exception.

Fortress of Favorite

2010-05-02T11:43:00.000-07:00

The world is full of things I don't care for... overzealous utah cops, Nicholas Sparks movies, and people who use the word "mesh" account for just a small percentage of the unlovely things one can encounter in a day.

This onslaught of ugly has to be fought precisely and definitively on the homefront. The space within our four walls may be small but it is filled to the brim with things that help me forget that I live in a world in which Kate Gosselin has been given yet *another* tv show.

Just a few of my favorite things...

Favorite side of my mantle.

White vases stolen from Kaleidoscope, Orange and green deliciousness from successful trades with Amy Holmes, short stories plundered from the DI.

Margaret's favorite things.

John Deere indoctrination courtesy of Grandpa Conley.

Favorite frivolities include Roseville pottery, costume jewelry and Chanel No.5...throw an episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians in there and you have one happy (and unabashed) girl.

Favorite measuring cups.

Very reassuring in their pear shaped honesty. Who wants skinny baking utensils?

Favorite 25th birthday present from my Mom.

Favorite grump

Favorite corner in the kitchen

Favorite travel companion

Favorite puzzle missing the letter X

And there they are, my simple but effective defenses against a world that can sometimes be just a little too lame.

Hope your homes are as delightfully defended on this lovely Sunday!

Now and Then

2010-04-27T21:57:00.000-07:00

Woman with Infant Flying by Brian Kershisnik

Dear Margaret,

Today I sat around a table with friends talking about things that matter and things that do not. I found myself wishing that adult you were there to be a part of our discovery and discussion. It occured to me that you will never have a conversation with me when I am 25, that in many ways you will not know who I am until I have passed through much of what life has to offer me. There is a sense of loss in the fact that in this life you will follow me rather than walk beside me.

Just a few things about myself that may change before you even learn my first name. I research and outline novels that I never write. Your mama cannot make rice for the life of her, not even minute rice. It burns everytime. (On a related note, rice is one of the only things you will eat right now...so bully for me.) I spend a lot of my time reading about dictatorships, imperial design and historical calamaties. Five years from now I hope we are still in this little house with a fenced yard and a swing in the bottle tree for a certain little girl.

Just a few things about myself that will not change, not even when your last name does. I love your Dad. He is the best man I know. I will always want to be a writer when I grow up, even when I am eighty. Be Still, My Soul is my favorite hymn. I love my Heavenly Father. And I love you little Zuzu. Love you so much I would grow you up this instant just so I could know what is going on behind those blue eyes. Would grow you up this very instant if it didn't mean I had let you go even earlier than I already do. (The folly of youth? Twenty years from now I will be wishing I could shrink you down and sing you to sleep.)

At 25, I can already see that bringing you into this world was reason enough for me to be sent here at all. A pretty big revelation for someone that can't figure out how to cook rice. Imagine all the things you will teach me once you can finally talk.

Here's to our first conversation.

Love,
Mama

Yes, that is a mustard stain on her shirt...from yesterday

2010-04-26T20:13:00.000-07:00

Margaret loves computers, corn bread and her blankie. Margaret hates water, lactose and being clean.

I just love Margaret.

Lend me some sugar

2010-04-19T19:47:00.000-07:00

God created Monday to balance out the bliss of Sunday. Meg being flip? Think about it. This logic isn't unprecedented. The universe seems to function on the principle of opposition. Joy and sadness, peace and war, meals that include bacon and meals that do not. Miss Sugarpie Sunday could not exist without Maiden Drudge Monday.

This Sunday was a particularly lovely one. The sun was bright. The day was ours. I even made breakfast. Riley studied for finals and I took a two hour nap. All that napping and eating really worked up an appetite for more food and friends. Luckily we scored an invite to turkey dinner at Riley's Grandma and Grandpa's house. They sure know how to put out a spread. It was Thanksgiving in April and I have to tell you I think it might have the power to cure all manner of domestic and international ills.

The Family Bingham

Uncle Tay invents the gravy pacifier

Zuzu searches for more of that gravy gold

The pie was *that* good and the crust was *that* flaky. And I *did* take the last two scoops of vanilla ice cream (in your face Taylor).

When I think about the glorious days I am given on this earth I know I have been portioned out more than my fair share. It is my hope that the discrepancy is never noticed. I sure do love Miss Sugarpie Sundays.

Me. Happy. Usually.

The Pippy to my Longstocking

2010-04-17T20:45:00.000-07:00

This is the view I have most often of my zuzu pi. The minute she hits the ground she is headed east of our little eden. I am proud of her independence. I am happy that I get to run after her and scoop her up.

And I am really jealous of her sweet red and white leggings.

Like it is even a question.

2010-04-17T16:47:00.000-07:00

Because false modesty is overrated.

Zuzulini

2010-04-12T18:15:00.000-07:00

Margaret has become very serious. She walks around the house like a mini european dictator that just discovered the peasants haven't brought in enough cheerios. She isn't mad. Just emphatic.

Birthday Amuse Bouche

2010-02-21T19:31:00.000-08:00

On Valentine's Day we celebrated the one year anniversary of travel girl's arrival. There will be a much longer blog post replete with pictures and mommy feeling later this week. In the meantime here is a little somethin' somethin'. (Can I just say that the birthday girl ends up crying at any good birthday party? Tears mean overstimulation and sugar. Hello good time!)

PiLove Tile Style

2010-02-20T21:42:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I have a husband that loves me. Sometimes I get early birthday surprises. Sometimes the husband that loves me gives me early birthday surprises.

Exhibit A: Returned home from my business trip to find the bathroom beautifully and perfectly retiled. Can't help lovin' that man.

The Lady Walks!

2010-02-15T15:04:00.000-08:00

It has begun!

(sorry the video is sideways...anyone know how to fix that?)

Who's the best girl?

2010-02-14T08:30:00.000-08:00

Margaret is!

Today is Margaret's 1st birthday party. There will be chocolate cake, lasagna and family. We are all excited.