Sometimes I come back.

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.

It's Her World

"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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

Rainy Season

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.