This. Is. 40. Installment 11

Well, here it is. March 17. I am 40.

No one could handle the idea of me turning 40, so everyone is quarantined. The world is so, so strange right now. I lost my birthday party and the concert I was going to go to, thanks to the corona virus, but I'm trying to appreciate and count my blessings. They are many, especially compared to what some people are going through right now.

As far as turning 40, I think it's fair to say that I've done pretty much everything I've wanted to do by this age. I do wish I had traveled more, I wish that I had a deck...also I thought at this age that I'd have a better drainage system in my backyard, but other than those three things, my life is pretty perfect.

Three healthy, happy kids. One healthy husband who I still love. A house I love. I job that is meh, but pays the bills. I love my bike, especially my bike basket. I love my town. I have curtains I'm quite fond of. My arts and crafts collection is strong. My baseball team won the world series and I went to two of the games. I'm friends with my siblings. I love my parents. I have two cute, established rose bushes in front of my house. I have a stash of two-ply toilet paper that some people would kill for.

But the biggest and most recent checkbox checked is that I finished my book. All the way. I had two rounds of friends read the book, comment, and after that I made more edits. Yesterday I finished my last edits and sent query letters to six agents to start the process of finding an agent to represent me. That was my goal-- by my 40th birthday.

But even if nothing comes of this book, the journey here has been so rewarding. I've become a better writer and this book has given me not only an outlet for my creativity, my love, and my frustrations, but it also gave me a purpose. For ten years. I now need a new purpose. And I have a great idea for a new book.

This.
Is.
40.

Yay for friends who give great gifts!

This Is 40, Installment 8

It hit me like a dump truck full of bricks tonight. There's this thing I do and I'm pretty sure it's not what people under 40 do. Certainly not people under 30. It's about my text life.

When I'm texting I go light on the emojis and heavy on...wait for it... the adverbs. I use adverbs in my texts. I think that's uncool. A quick glance through my phone and you will see that my texts have more adverbs than necessary. One of my favorite quotes about writing is from Steven King: "The road to hell is paved with adverbs." And I agree. Generally. (See what I did there?) It's the whole showing vs. telling, and using too many adverbs is grounds for writer divorce.

This whole idea made me look through my texts for adverbs, and that morphed into finding words that a 20 or 30 something year old would probably not use. I also used the words tacos and cheese an excessive amount of times over such a short period of time. (But, I mean, can you blame me? Are there better things than tacos and cheese?)

At least I didn't come across any of the text with  ranDOMly CapITALIZED letters that make me feel like I'm BEING YELLED AT.

Here are some uncool words/old person words and adverbs from my last few weeks of texts:

Uncool/Old Person Words        Adverbs
colloquialism                             accidentally
obligations                                 totally
prearranged                                totally
proctor                                       possibly
hardcore                                     totally
Pinterest                                     completely
chemicals                                   enthusiastically
incorporate                                 totally
plumber                                      exuberantly
manuscript                                  loudly
database                                      selfishly
cornbread                                    objectively
referral                                        hopefully
attendance                                   finally
symptoms                                   definitely
grammar                                     totally
negative                                      originally
shitburgers                                  totally
confirm                                       really
vulnerable
kale
confirmation
disregard


This is 40.

Nostalgically going through pics lately... BFFs from college. All turning 40 this year!

This is 40, Installment 6

My countdown to turning 40 has been inspirational. Ten years ago, when I first started staying home with my twins, I started writing a novel. TEN. YEARS. While it is not polished and I'm sure will still undergo many edits, it is FINISHED. I finished the ending last weekend. Maybe I cried. When you know characters and their dirty secrets and conflicts and what makes them laugh and love, and what they want in life, for ten years, you get emotionally attached.

Since September this year, I have been working feverishly on finishing the story, with my 40th birthday looming like a sweaty mountain ahead of me. I had to finish writing a book by the time I turn 40. Had to. And I did. I have never been so focused on one thing... maybe forever. It's the closest I've come to feeling like an Olympic athlete. It was almost all I thought about. Sorry, if I was absent from our conversation last time I saw you. Totally living in my book. Major shout out to my husband here... he has been amazing at supporting my writing, well always, but especially the past few months. He basically does everything.

However, my next goal is to send out query letters to literary agents by my birthday (March 17). So last night I sent copies of the manuscript (I feel so naked about this) to a bunch of wonderful humans who have agreed to be my beta readers* and give me feedback ASAP, so I can make edits before I send those letters out to agents. Now I have to write what most writers hate-- my synopsis. So, I'll work on writing that, while sweating profusely about what my beta readers will say, and await my birthday.

To think that I started this entry out thinking I would write about the gradual acceptance and incorporation of Mom jeans... this is better.

And this is 40.

*If you'd like to be a beta reader also...contact me. :)

My unattended kids have stolen my phones and filled it with pics like this. 

Another Morning

We are a quiet trickle
marching gently
There is bacon in my teeth
We flow from side streets
falling into line
bunched in twos and threes

Familiar good mornings to
the dad with the always-bundled baby
the mom with the screen in her stroller-boy's face
the tall woman clutching her NPR travel mug,
awkward next to the young man in kitchen pants
leaning on the bus stop sign
The 552 is late

It's kisses, it's there's egg on your lip, it's clip your gloves together, it's mommy did you take your medicine

Airplanes weave patterns in the wide blue
Holly bushes shine silver dollars of sunshine
back to me
The bacon is gone from my teeth

That old New Jersey jeep hiccups,
warming
White puffs disappear behind it
The steering wheel shakes
like always

Garbage trucks beep and clang and
slow motion drop this week's scraps inside

carpet installers
hoist a tight roll on their shoulders
aiming at an open door
nodding good morning

I smile into my vest, thinking of mornings
and family and cities and
open the door
to my full coffee pot

My Lake Muse: The Idaho in Me

I used to write poetry. Some of it was marginally good. Some dear souls have told me it was better than marginally good, but I have my doubts. I haven't written much poetry the past few years. I've written some to the boys on their birthdays that I will share with them one day, and I used to write a poem each year on my birthday, but that's about it. I miss it. (I did write and share this poem about not writing poetry a couple years ago.)

Today we returned from our Independence Day week at Smith Mountain Lake. There's just something about a lake that brings out whatever is left of the poet in me. One morning I woke before my loud, vacationing monsters and had my coffee in solitary silence as the lake woke up. I was thinking about Idaho, because most of my childhood Fourths of July were spent on Coeur d'Alene Lake at my grandparents' house. The smells and sounds and sights of the two most influential-to-me Idaho places came back to me there on the front porch overlooking the lake. And I managed to not only write them down, but to revise them, and keep the folded-up piece of paper safely stowed in my suitcase until we got home.

The Idaho in Me

When I’m dead and

gone

I want someone who loved me

to read this and

feel

the thick chill of spring mornings

on West Hatter Creek

as the day crept

silently across the gravel,

the packed dirt.

As sunshine summoned mist,

that army of tiny, connected apparitions,

up and up

from their night on the rocks,

on the patchy grass,

the weeds.

From the stately purple Irises

guarding the

wet black

mailbox.

I want someone I love to

hear

the similar but different

hum of summer mornings

on Bloomsburg Bay

as sun polished the

glass of the

uninterrupted lake.

As beach waves

nibbled

impatiently

at the pebbly sand.

As motor boats drew

small, disheveled sleepers like me

back to yesterday’s games

of tag and make-believe

under secrets of the

cherry tree leaves.

These are my quiet

mornings of the

Idaho

in me

and I want

you

to know them too.

My boating boys this weekend

On Second Thought...

Brian and I have plans for the future. There's a good chance that all won't go quite as planned, but one of our plans is that I will return to teaching when Teddy goes to school in a few years. I'd like to say our future plans also include things like early retirement in a downtown luxury loft with season tickets to the Nats and lots of exotically-named margaritas on white sand by a glassy-green ocean, but who's to say.

I have four and a half years of experience teaching English in middle and high schools, but not a master's degree. A few months ago I researched a graduate program at the closest university in something that I have recently become interested in learning more about-- reading and literacy. I loved teaching the boys to read over the past few years, even though I didn't really know what I was doing. It was challenging and super rewarding and big to see the wheels turn and everything click into place as they slowly read their first word and then first sentence and then first book. All of the sudden they were finishing their summer reading programs at the library and becoming some of the best readers in their kindergarten class.

I don't know much about teaching reading, (Though this is the book I used and highly recommend.) and am curious to know more and to help other little kids learn to read. I also know that I'll get paid more if I have my master's when I go back to teaching. Starting the program seemed like the right thing to do for my family-- like the responsible thing to do. Make more money. To help a little more in finally being able to buy a bigger place to live without giving up all our conveniences that are so important to our lifestyle.

So I applied. I got accepted. I enrolled in my first class. I activated my student accounts. And then I went to orientation.

The program is more credits than I realized. It lasts longer than I realized. It includes five education classes. FIVE. All the literacy classes sound super interesting and challenging and fun but reading the descriptions of the education classes made me cringe. That's when I remembered: I HATE EDUCATION CLASSES. I mean, for the most part.

We found out anecdotally things I should have researched before applying to the program-- things like what a reading specialist's job is actually like (more paperwork, less time with kids, we were told) and the pay scale they are on in our county (same as teachers). We added up the credits and costs and the inevitable stress that I would have which would not only make me more prone to seizures, but most likely make me less of an involved mom, and more of a bitchy, stressy, yelling mom. It would also prevent me from working on the writing project that I've been working on and caressing and yelling at and crying about for nearly five years.

I want to write a book. I've always wanted to. And I'm at least halfway there. One problem is that I haven't integrated time for writing into my daily schedule over the past few years. Another problem is that I think what I have might be total crap. But I still want to finish it, minimize the crap, and make it something I'm proud of and see what editors and publishers think of it. I'm thankful for a husband who is so supportive and encouraging of my writing endeavors, but specifically this one.

I had been excited about the literacy program. I'd been excited about going to school again for something that interested me. But after I finally made the decision to withdraw, I felt an immense peace. It is peace I didn't expect I would feel and one that has been pushing me to write and write and write on my book lately. I even made a big map of my story on the wall of our bedroom-- chapter by chapter. This matters to me and makes me so much more happy than being elbows-deep in education classes and spending more time away from my boys and husband. So, on second thought, I'm out.

Maybe in a few years it will be time for me to go back to school for a master's. Or maybe never. But now it is time to finish the project I started five years ago.

Just for fun, here is a lovely read for any aspiring writers to give to their parents.

And here is a bonus Teddy picture from yesterday.

Doing

Introduction: I wrote this entry ("Doing") after a long day of mothering. After I published it and read it through again I realized it sounds pretty bitter. I was definitely venting, but I do love being a mom. I was trying to entertain my readers a bit by finding the humor in it all through a little hyperbole. I hope that this went without saying for most people who know me, but I wasn't sure. 

*****************************************************************


This is a lot.

I have no idea how mothers of more than three children at home manage their lives. From dawn until way after dusk and into the wee hours of the morning, I am doing. I am doing everything. And I don't mean I'm doing everything to take care of our household, I'm certainly not, but I'm doing constantly, and what I'm doing doesn't involve much sitting and sometimes not even much thinking, but it is constant.

Turns out these little turds have to eat three times a day, Teddy even more often, and preferably healthy food that makes up a balanced diet, which is a lot of work just on its own and involves grocery lists and recipes-- two things I'm not very fond of-- as well as heaps of dishes every day.

But. There are a million other things these boys need as well. Like a cup of milk please and for me to take their hair out of the other one's hands NOW, and their Batman shirts out of the laundry before the villains strike, and for me to watch the AMAZING slide into home in slow motion and for their toothpaste to be extracted from their noses and for me to observe their ant farm through their magnifying glass and show them how to make their beds and get down Candy Land from their shelf and to open their applesauce lids and to take the teething ring off the baseball bat and look at the cool car they made out of gears and take Teddy out of the bedroom so he doesn't knock over their Lego restaurant and tape the box to the balcony rail so they can shoot their basketball into it and to clean the finger paint out of their ears and the Play-doh off the chairs and read their new books and set the chicken out to thaw for dinner and label the body parts of an ant and look at the pretty drawing they made and play their memory game with them and get their damn hockey gear on them before their hockey class and floss the corn out of their teeth and give them all baths that aren't too cold or too hot or too long or too short that actually remove the baseball field dirt from all crevices of their bodies. No biggie.

On top of these odds and ends that keep me hopping all day, I am to keep the house on the better side of the filthy and cluttered vs. almost filthy and fairly cluttered line, and hopefully provide some semblance of education and exercise to the boys' lives. How do parents do it and retain sanity? I like to think I am sane, but I'm actually not so sure. Right now I am drinking a Mason jar of wine and talking to a measuring cup full of chocolate chips, so you tell me.

These menial tasks and goals are what make up each and every day of my life and are why I haven't been blogging much. We also just moved Teddy into Cal and Clark's room, which has proved challenging to say the least. We have tee-ball, which has been a blast, but also consumes time and I've been maintaining a spot in my book club, which requires some late-night reading stints. One daunting thought is knowing that it will only get more hectic from here. The twins will develop different interests and not be doing every activity together, which will involve more time spent figuring out transportation for each of them, more weeknight and weekend activities, and inevitably more freaking laundry. Teddy will begin to be involved in more activities, and meanwhile I will not be working out, but remaining a lumpy blob of a mom who eats leftover hot dog scraps and secretly makes and eats piles of nachos and dips anything and everything into her homemade ranch dressing.

So, I'm kind of a mess.

But as all the well-edited articles about this stage of motherhood that I get a quarter of the way through but never have time to finish tell me, I should enjoy this time because it will pass so quickly and soon I will be missing the days that I find superhero capes in my pillow case and raisins in my hair. I will miss washing out bib pockets and stepping on tiny dinosaurs. Right now that doesn't seem possible, but in order to keep myself on the good side of sanity, I choose to believe that the articles on motherhood that I partially read are correct.

I also remind myself that I have only a little over two months before my little baby twins will be off to kindergarten and I might have time to actually vacuum the carpet and chop an entire onion up at once. But I know I will also miss them and their LOUD presence throughout my day.

I'm actually not even sure what the point of this entry is. I guess just to write something, because it is therapeutic and fun and it's a weekend night so I'll have Brian's help in the morning. And now Teddy is awake and I have to put him back to sleep without waking up Cal and Clark.

I know I will not miss this part.

These rings around the tub and dirt at the bottom sum up
the conclusion of my days quite well.

No

I've convinced myself that you want to read about my two resolutions for 2014. So, here they are:

1. Finish what I start

2. Say no

Notice that by simply by completing this list I have adhered to my first goal, which means I'm off to a fabulous start.

Explanations:

1. I have a horrible habit of starting a million things and either putting them off because I'm interrupted until I forget about them or until I am embarrassingly reminded of their incompleteness (think toilet brush in the dirty toilet when guests come over, etc.) or until their doing is moot. (Why finish putting away the laundry when another two loads are fresh out of the dryer and will add to the pile? Why vacuum the dining room when it will immediately be littered with food chunks, big and small?)

I'm scatterbrained by nature, but motherhood with its constant interruptions makes it worse, and on top of that, my seizure medicine does the same thing. I'm quite a nightmare when it comes to finishing projects. Another, large project I need to finish is my novel. We'll see how that goes.



2. Saying no will be hard. I have a (bad?) habit of always trying to make everyone happy, no matter what it does to my sanity. Of trying to do everything for everyone, as they say. But so many things sound so fun...and so good. I want to be the person who does the fun and the good, right? The person who says YES! Let's do it!

It's just too much sometimes though, and I get tired and burned out and it makes me want to curl up in a hole, safe and warm and alone. Alone sounds beautiful. Silence sounds beautiful. I'm going to try saying no to something soon and evaluate how I feel about it. I have a hunch it will feel wonderful and cozy hole-like.

One thing I've started doing to help me keep track of the things I'm working on, and thus make it easier to finish them, is to keep a to-do list on the whiteboard in our dining room. It's because I lose my lists. I write lists on the backs of napkins, on my hand, on ripped envelopes, boys' artwork, whatever is handy. And then I lose them and forget what they said. I hate lists on the computer because I forget about them and frankly am still not sure where to find them after I write them. This way I only have to look at the board, which will not move under things or be ripped by passing children. (Though, nothing is impossible with boys) I love it.

I was going to say no to taking a picture of the whiteboard list, but it was too hard. I did finish what I started by retrieving the picture from my camera and uploading it here. Woot.

Hermitess out.

Things I Found Under the Couch This Morning: An Image of My Life in Words

Things I Found Under the Couch This Morning

a ball
a mini hockey stick
embroidery floss
a ball
a winter glove
a Buzz Lightyear squirt gun
seven baby board books
a ball
two baby cloth books
an overdue library book
two flip flops
one slipper
a foam sword
two rattles
a ball
a hanger
a burp cloth
a Halloween coloring sheet
a ball
three magazines, one ripped up
a painted mini pumpkin (a real one)
three unmatching socks
a ball
a piece of foam board from a game I made
a ball
a onesie

We do have a big couch, but still. And it's been only about a month since my last comprehensive under-the-couch purge. And now all this stuff is in the living room, because who has time to put it all away? No me. I'm busy writing this in order to psychologically deal with the chaos.

How I'm Not a Pioneer- and Other Observations

I haven’t studied life as a pioneer— early American or any other sort— but I grew up reading Laura Ingles Wilder and early American Girl book collections with the best of ‘em. That was back when there were only three American Girls and they involved passably well-written books with cute pictures- no American Girl salons where you went to get all salon-ified with your doll that cost your parents a small fortune to buy, let alone to clothe. I just found out there’s even a doll hospital with an admission form for when your doll is “sick.” Okay, I have to admit the form is a pretty stinkin’ cute idea for how to get your doll repaired. And if I had a girl I’d probably be first in line to get one of the dolls, or more likely, to buy the Up and Up brand knock-off doll from Target. (I don’t think that’s a thing.) I’ve also completed some American History and American English courses in my day. I’ve toured preserved pioneer towns in states like Minnesota and North Dakota. My point is, I have a vague idea of what pioneer life was like in early America.

I have now been a stay at home mom for nearly four years in a fairly updated condo with not only modern plumbing but electricity and stainless steel appliances. I live in a town that is in most places a squeaky-clean suburb, boasting things like wine and fine arts festivals and an organic cupcakery, in a comparatively wealthy county that has some of the best schools in the country, in a state that flat-out rocks, (slogan: Virginia is for Lovers)(peanuts and ham, are you kidding me? Awesome.) in a country that, though a little politically rocky now and then, still is the best democratic experiment ever experimented and in which we have freedoms that many don’t. Long sentence’s interpretation: I do not live the rustic life of a pioneer woman, even though at the end of the day I feel like I have been rubbing my face on a metal washboard in the sun all day.

What I want to know is how in God’s good name did they do it? They had to do things, at least in my mind, like hunt and eat jackrabbits and walk through blizzards in skirts with no gloves. They gave birth with no meds to twelve children and still could fit into their petticoats and bloomers afterwards (probably within hours). They rode on animals, milked animals, slaughtered animals, and preserved and prepared them for their families for dinner. They must have had to do things like scrub outhouses and sew underwear for the menfolk that had to withstand various forms of farming. They probably also helped pull the beams up for new houses. They rocked the once-a-week warm water bath heated by fire. They did all this without power, running water, appliances of any kind, wine festivals, or an edgy state slogan. I suppose some of their extreme industriousness was due to the fact that they also did without Pinterest, HULU Plus, Facebook, Costco, extracurricular after-school robotics clubs, and kids’ weekend basketball tournaments in Ontario.

As I am slaving away in the kitchen, deftly wrestling some frozen chicken breasts into the crockpot whilst still in my pajamas because they’re easier to nurse in, I wonder how they did it. I feel a little embarrassed that I have an ice maker in my freezer and a rice cooker. But then I realize that we have these conveniences due in part to the kick-assery of these women and men. Maybe they are looking down at us smiling because of the advances of modernity. I hope they aren’t cursing at us.

We live in a time when our challenges are different, I tell myself. I have to do things like walk all three children around on sidewalks without letting them get hit by traffic. I have to remember to pack snacks for when the bus or train is late or swim class makes them hungry. I need to monitor what the kids watch on TV and arrange playdates with upstanding toddlers. I remember who is gluten-free, lactose-intolerant, and has food allergies. I plan seasonal kids’ crafts and study the YMCA and community center children’s classes. I have to attempt to take back library books before they accrue fines. I navigate Craig’s List for stroller frames and gliders with the greatest of ease. I have to memorize the local bus schedule and figure out how to remember my medicine so I don’t have seizures. I have to package and freeze my pumped-out extra breast milk. I plan and cook most meals. (Thank goodness I don’t have to also do the grocery shopping.) I have to remember where all the public restrooms are located at parks, museums, and at any given moment on a walk. I have to remember my keys, which for me is a constant challenge that makes Brian want to sign divorce papers and be done with it all. Moms and dads all over do these same things and many more. These aren’t as physically demanding and the actual lives of our children don’t depend on them. But the quality of life does depend on them. We could depend on the television and Papa John’s to raise the kids. Of course both of those things have their places, but I mean solely TV and pizza.

I still don’t understand how those pioneer moms did so much. Maybe they had secrets we can’t imagine today. Maybe venison, jackrabbit stew, and giant fresh carrots provided extra boosts of energy for them. I sit here eating my granola and listening to the hammering of the construction site next door. I hear the hiss of the bus stopping across the street, and see the red taillights of morning traffic. I watch my little life wake up and I like it.

*It should be noted that the three children have not yet risen, allowing me delicious silence to watch and listen to the world around me. And also that I began this blog entry over a month ago, added to it three weeks ago, and then forgot about it. And I’m actually not sure I haven’t already published it on the blog, though I couldn’t find it, so hopefully not.

How my boys work in the field

It's a rough life: had to hike to an outdoor summer concert

Poetry Anymore

I don’t write poetry anymore

I wonder why and
without thinking know that it’s because

my life is the opposite
of poetry

I don’t have time to
ponder to
wonder to
see the world in resounding metaphors
and clever imagery
that makes people
calmly smile into their tea
or tap their fingers gently on their chins

Most of my pens are 

out of 

ink
or in that cupboard with the oatmeal and rice
because they fell out the back of the
crammed-full junk drawer

My pencils have robots and aliens on them so I can't
take them seriously 

plus the lead is dull

And when I type it’s
grocery lists and obscure queries:
“What does a pinworm look like?”
“How long does it take to thaw a turkey?”

The most poetic thing I’ve heard in days is
our balcony wind chime singing now
in the silent, sleeping evening
when my thoughts are palpable and come in
complete sentences with periods and everything

not interrupted by
burning chicken nuggets,
splattering paint,
poop explosions in

diapers
pants
toilets
floors
floors by toilets

These delicious evenings when I’m
too tired

to
write poems so I
read I
watch baseball I
do dishes
and neglect my True Love—

Writing

No wonder I don’t write poetry anymore
I never notice it

Small Family Living- An Inspiring Guest Post

Today I'm sharing a guest post written by a friend. I first met Lindsay about five years ago when she married a friend of mine from college. We've only actually seen each other a few times- once floating the Boise River together pre-children, once here in Virginia during newborn-phase, and then last summer in Boise in hardcore toddler/preschooler mode. Lindsay and I have several important things in common: she and her husband also have two boys, they also live in a small condo, and they are also from Idaho. 

As you know, we are forever trying to use our condo space more efficiently, and Lindsay and David's space is even smaller than ours. They are an inspiration! They make it look easy. 

Lindsay recently started her own blog, My Wild Idaho, chronicling her family's tales. I'm a fan. And I love the name. Read her post below, then read her blog, and then like her Facebook page!

She's also publishing one of my posts to her blog today so check it out here. Enjoy!

..................................................................................................

My husband and I are raising two young boys in 714 sqft. of space (plus a 12x8 storage unit). We love it and it’s challenging!

The background to this: When we got married we fell in love with a certain area in Boise, so we found a 450 sqft. basement apartment to rent. Neither of us owned much when we met, but moving into our tiny apartment required further downsizing. We loved our place but finally grew tired of living underground and “throwing our money away” on rent. We found a beautiful condo to buy in the area.  

            In the meantime, the economy tanked and we stumbled across a Dave Ramsey book. While we were already frugal, we started incorporating more of his financial advice into our lives. Living in our condo started out as a short-term plan but has become a longer-term plan. We changed our 30-year mortgage to a 15-year and have been making it work ever since.  Side note: condo living is not typical for most Idahoans. Idaho isn’t exactly short on space. Don’t tell anyone though. =)

How we make it work:

·         We are realistic about what we actually use and value.

·         We don’t frequent yard sales, thrift stores, store sales, or even Craigslist without a list.

·         Instead of storing unneeded items we sell them, donate them, or find a family that needs them more than we do.

·         We stay organized, using our space wisely.

·         We don’t own seasonal decorations other than Christmas ones, and we don’t own China dishes (or other lesser used items).

·         We get our light beige carpets professionally cleaned every year (very important to our sanity).

·         I do laundry often instead of buying lots of clothes.

·         We recently sold our TV (for many reasons) and made room for a play kitchen for the boys (the boys are playing with it/using it as a jungle gym right now.)

·         We have a queen blow-up mattress and complete bedding set stored under our bed. We can still accommodate those brave guests. =)

·         We even shop at Costco (an ever-increasing list)! (We just stagger the bigger purchases.)

·         We purge toys before Christmas/birthdays and keep only the boy’s favorites.

·         We purchase less and purchase smarter (quality over quantity).

·         We have a “give away” bag ready. When we don’t want an item it goes in the bag. Every couples of months we distribute the items where needed: thrift store, consignment, another family . . .

·         I use books to decorate. I already own them, I love them, and they have to go somewhere.

·         We practically live on our porch in the summer (Literally this summer. We plan to camp on it once in a while.)

Don’t get me wrong. We sometimes dream of an extra room, decorated in earth tones, where guests can stay, rest, drink the world’s best cup of coffee, and have great conversation (ha). We dream of a backyard where we can throw the boys the boys can play; where we can raise a puppy, build a tree house, grow a garden . . . (We do plan to grow some killer tomatoes on our porch again this summer). We dream of a big dining room where we can fill our family and friend’s bellies. A pantry. An extra freezer to participate in an organic beef share (Hello Scott Family). Maybe even a garage to park our car in (seems so extravagant!) and a desk to put our laptops (kitchen counter) and printer on (storage ottoman, not the most convenient to print something).

The benefits to small space living: It forces us to keep life simple; more family and friend time, fewer projects (all painting I did before having babies). No lawn to mow or yard to take care of. We have less space to heat, cool, clean, and decorate. It helps us value relationships and experiences more than what we do or don’t own. It also keeps us closely bonded, as we have no choice but to be in each other’s space. Our home is our haven.

~Related Posts: “Before” and “After” Photos.

Main living space

Different angle

Our bedroom

David and I share a standard size closet.

Laundry

Bathroom

Boys' room

Boys' room 

My Facebook Tantrum

So here's the deal. Awhile ago I wrote this letter to Facebook on my blog. It was bold and I was happy that I wrote it, and I really meant what I said. I thought I would be done with Facebook other than as an avenue for sharing my blog posts. Then as I was trying to manage my personal profile page (I had to keep a profile page to keep my Whispers & Shouts page up) I found out that I had to "unfriend" every. single. friend. one at a time. Talk about way too many clicks and going back and clicking and going back. Stupid Facebook and its far-reaching clutches.

So I started it off and boldly was unfriending everyone in whatever random order Facebook put them in. It actually sucked because I like you people, but I really wanted a break from Facebook and so I thought this was the way I could do it. Plus, I'd already written that letter on my blog... But of course I couldn't do much clicking and selecting and going back and all that for long without going crazy looking at the screen and swearing at Facebook for being clingy and obnoxious and trying to rule the world. So I unfriended some people and then had no patience to unfriend anyone else. But I did take a nice break from Facebook for awhile.

Then I found myself wondering about certain friends and realizing they were people I had unfriended in my Facebook cleansing phase, but I truly do care about their lives and times. So here it is: I don't love Facebook and I like to fantasize about a pre-Facebook world, but I've now reluctantly come to grips with the fact that it works extremely well and in our world of knowing a lot of people and taking a lot of pictures and our habits of not picking up the phone and talking to someone, but instead perusing their FB profile, it is effective.

Anyway, I don't love it, and I don't love that so much bad and... unnatural can happen because of it, but I do like it and recognize that it is a valuable way to stay in touch with a lot of people. I'm just trying not to let my Facebooking take the place of real relationships. And to not spend much time on it unless there's something particular that I want to find out.

AND, there's this phenomenon that has developed in my life ever since I started writing this blog. I have friends who know a lot about me and my goings on, but whom I never hear from, I rarely call, and therefore I don't know anything about their lives. It has to stop! I need to be a better friend.

P.S. I've refriended quite a few people, but please don't hesitate to refriend me if you wish.  

Just for fun- Brian and me enjoying some quality literature

First Friday Fables

This morning I was explaining the concept of main characters and conflict to the boys. We used their favorite story The Gruffalo as a model and then had them test their knowledge by telling me some stories while I wrote them down. Maybe I'll make Friday Fables a weekly event.

A Hungry Parachute
by Calvin

Once upon a time there was a girl lion named Facestamp and her husband lion named Booky. They had a baby named Pocho. They lived in a big forest. One day a parachute that looked like a balloon fell from the sky into the grass so they could see the whole thing. The parachute tried to eat the lion family so they tried to find a way out of the forest. They went down the long forest slide all the way out of the forest and they ran as fast as a motorcycle so the parachute didn't eat them. The baby lion Pocho found a little tree to eat. The parachute ate balloons. The end.

Golf Course
by Clark

Once upon a time a squirrel named Alth lived in the jungle. His family was Daddy Squirrel,  Mommy Squirrel, and Baby Bok. It was a really big jungle- gigantic as a Earth. The problem was that a lot of animals wanted to eat them. A fox, an owl, a snake, and a jungle lion all wanted to eat them. The squirrel family was scared and they screamed in their tree. Do you know what happened next? The squirrel Alth realized that a sea lion ran all over the place. A monster came and tried to eat them and the jungle. The squirrel family saw a way out of the jungle. They put on monster costumes and sneaked out of the jungle and into the feline jungle. Then a house came and roared with claws so they moved to a golf course. The end.



Do you want to know what happened next?

How I Will Kick National Novel Writing Month in the Teeth

When I write things down on my blog they seem more real to me because I get people asking me about them. This is sometimes a good thing, other times awkward, but it's the way things are. Therefore, I begin this month, National Novel Writing Month, telling you readers that I am resurrecting my half-written novel and going to work on it again, beginning this morning.

Actually, I've already put in some time on it today. I'm not entering the NaNoWriMo contest, since my novel is already partially written, but I'm using the month to motivate me. The people who sign up attempt to write with literary abandon for thirty days and finish an entire novel. I tried it once before when I had no children and I couldn't even do it then. With it halfway written I actually might have a chance.

Just wanted to tell you. If you see me, ask me how it's coming. Email me. Comment here about it. I want to feel the peer pressure. Help me kick National Novel Writing Month in the teeth. Thank you.

The end.

A New Friend

When I started this blog it was little more than an online journal in which I could share stories of the boys with people I didn’t see often. As I started writing more and reading more about blogs, I had an idea while trying to find a brand for my blog— something to make it stand out and give it a more single purpose. I could help two very specific types of people: stay-at-home moms or dads with epilepsy, and people who have families in small spaces.

While I still do plenty of simply telling silly stories, I’m also glad to know that I’ve helped people. A couple months ago a woman called me after having found my blog in an online search for stay-at-home moms with epilepsy. She recently started having more and more seizures and she and her husband had come to the realization, just like Brian and I eventually did— that it isn’t safe for her to drive, even if she legally is cleared by the DMV. They, however, don’t live in a walkable location, and amazingly, they live only about an hour from us. So they’re in the process of relocating to a place where the quality of her life and the lives of her daughters will not be diminished by her inability to drive.

We met this Saturday and Brian and I tried to sell her and her husband on Reston. We went to a Reston playground, ate at a Reston restaurant, and treated them to a tour of a fine Reston condo, tastefully adapted for a family of four (ha!). I was happy to know that they had read about some of my suggestions and even bought the same phone that we bought, in order to prepare their daughters for a seizure emergency.

The whole experience has been so cool. I’ve only met three other people with epilepsy, and never another stay-at-home mom. Writing about my experiences and tossing my scribblings out to whomever may stumble upon them online, has helped at least one person in my shoes, and that’s a cool feeling. I'm so thankful that she contacted me. Sometimes I’m not sure anyone is listening, but this kind of response is rewarding. I hope there are even more people I've helped.

And I also got a new friend. A new Reston friend…?

 

My Calvin Date

Today Brian and I split up the twins and took them on dates. I took Calvin to the National Book Festival and Brian took Clark to a Nationals game. We've only split them up this way a few times before, but I think it's important to spend one-on-one time with each of the boys. We surprised them. They didn't know what we were doing until Brian dropped Cal and I off at the festival on the National Mall.

It's hard because we don't want to put them in boxes and always assume that Cal will like the more artsy activity and Clark the sporty one...but it's also hard because we know that's what each of them likes the most. Cal is bored after awhile at a baseball game, but Clark knows the players and how to keep score and everything.

The date was rather last minute-- I had thought I'd be going to the festival by myself and so I hadn't paid much attention to the children's authors. I could have checked out books at the library from specific authors and then arranged to hear their presentations after the boys knew the books. That's what I've done in the past for myself. Next year I'll remember.

The author I wanted to hear and meet on Sunday was Amy Krouse Rosenthal. I love her adult book, Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life. I've read only one of her children's books, and the boys and I like it a lot (Bedtime for Mommy). So we heard her speak with my friend Missy, who introduced the book to me years ago, and we got to meet AKR. (Missy wrote about our afternoon here.) She signed my book and signed Cal's festival poster. She and Cal talked about superheroes (Cal has named his superhero self "Throthen" and Clark is "Quesadilla"). I told her about Whispers & Shouts and I was even so brazen as to hand her my card when she asked what the name of it is. Maybe she'll read this...

I bought Cal a book written and illustrated by a husband and wife team. You know how Cal loves to paint; I thought he would like to see the person who painted his book as well as the person who wrote it. We watched Erin and Philip Stead read two of their books from the front row: A Sick Day for Amos McGee and Bear Has a Story to Tell. They were charming.

Then we had a traumatic experience with Cat in the Hat and Sid the Science Kid at the PBS Kids tent, a side trip through the insect zoo and bathroom at the Natural History Museum, and a fun time at the Storybook Station before we walked to Uncle A's house to meet the baseball-ers.

The weather was unusually perfect for the festival (I have horrible rain and sweat book festival stories). I also thought it seemed to be organized and managed better than in past years-- it was a smoothly-operating function. What a fun day!

Here is my Calvin date in pictures:

Mommy and Calvy date!

 

Meeting Amy Krouse Rosenthal

 

Philip and Erin Stead

He ended up being brave enough for a
quick high five from Sid.

Then Cal stood and stalked Sid.

This is a big place with books and pillows for reading!

Yep!

Drawing a ceiling fan

I don't know.

Walking back to Uncle A's house

Breaking Up

Dear Facebook,

It’s taken me awhile to work up the courage to write this. I know I should tell you this face to face, but I’ve always been better at organizing my thoughts on paper. Plus, you have so many faces.

We’re through.  

I think you’re great and I mean that. You’ve connected me with old friends and let me share important parts of my life with them for the past four years. You’ve been valuable entertainment. But you’ve also allowed me to know too much about too many people. Superfluous information that is taking up space in my head. For every person you allow me to like more, you make me like two people less. Somehow you convinced me that reading other people’s old mail is an acceptable way to get to know them, and them me. I’d like to offer them a better chance than that. And I hope to be given a better chance.

But here’s the bigger problem: you’re a thief. A nice thief, but still a thief. You steal my time. It’s never a lot at once, but over the course of a day I can’t help but take peeks at you and find myself obsessing over ridiculous things like who else comments on a picture of a sidewalk chalk drawing. The number of Likes for a status update provides me with a healthy dose of self-esteem, and that’s ridiculous. As if I’m so important that everyone needs to know my every move and mood. I have this blog, and it gives me a more controlled place to share my thoughts, while developing my writing habit.

But I can’t blame you. You're just doing your job. In fact, it’s not you, it’s me. Some people are able to balance you better. To not read the updates on that creepy little ticker in the upper right hand corner or click on the little red dot every time it shows up. Sometimes I feel controlled by you, which makes me angry.

I think my life without being inundated by you will be refreshing and freeing.

Let’s still be friends. You have your place, but I need to keep you there. You’re great for promoting my writing, so I’ll keep on as a Page—nothing more. I won’t have the creepy ticker or be able to read about what other people are eating for lunch. I’ll run into you once in awhile and it will be a little awkward at first, but we’ll soon get used to living side by side in a healthier relationship. Plus, I’ll have more time for writing important letters like this. Srsly.

Fondly,

#Sortofoffthegrid

(I know it’s hypocritical, but “Like” W&S to still get links to my blog posts) à

 



 

P.S. I hope no one takes this personally. I'm keeping track of email addresses and I will stay in touch that way in addition to the blog and the phone. I do value my friendships. Just want them to be more...real.

Just Tuesday

Lately I feel like I need to plan out a long, extensive piece of writing or a long series of pictures before I post a blog entry. But tonight I just feel like writing about nothing. About life. About unremarkable today and predictable tonight.

This morning we had eggs. Scrambled with cheddar, milk, and butter. In the bath the boys asked me uncomfortable questions. “Do girls have pee-pees?” “Why not?” “Do they grow them?” “Do mans have pee-pees?” “Do girls go potty out the holes in their bottoms?” This was all honest curiosity; they weren’t being gross. They just want to know.

It took us way too long to finally make it out of the house to get to the boys’ first art class at the community center. They wanted to wear their rock star shoes. Could they take their stuffed animal friends?



Artists, ready to go to art class.

This is the only class other than a few Sunday School classes they’ve been to, and they were nervous but excited. I thought it was a class that moms stayed in, but the other moms left. I stayed, trying not to breathe over the shoulder of the teacher. Near the end I went in the hall and talked to another mom and they were fine.

The boys were polite to the teacher. They told her their names and shook her hand. They’re the only boys in a class of five kids. Clark told the teacher that his nickname was Shark because the book she read had a shark in it. Cal then told her that his nickname was Squishy but that only Dad could call him that, not her. Their book was about patterned fish and they used rock salt to create patterns on their watercolor masterpieces. Then they made patterns in play-doh.

After that we had a long visit to the community center bathroom where nothing happened other than Clark singing Cheeseburger in Paradise at the top of his lungs. (Why did another mom have to be in there?)

We had a snack, looked at the fountains and garden pinwheels, played on some of the weird, Reston-y sculptures, and headed home. Cal decided he needed to carry wood home. Yesterday the branches he collected on our walk were wings that he flapped for the last ten minutes before home, as he tweeted and talked in his loud baby bird voice. Today the branches were for firewood for Uncle Pierre’s fire. (“Oh, actually for our fireplace.”)

He dragged those branches for probably half a mile. Meanwhile Clark threw a fit. He whined when I made them get out and walk. Seriously, I’m not going to push them in the stroller the whole time. They’re heavy, but also they’re out to get exercise too. So he was slow because he was crying and threatening to sit down and not walk home. (Fine, see you later.) And Cal was slow because he was being a hunter-gatherer of firewood.

We got home and I put Clark down for a nap. He fell asleep and slept for two hours. Cal dumped the water he was playing with (Do acorns sink or float, Mom?) down between the boards in our balcony onto our neighbor’s balcony.  Great. Then he fell asleep on Brian’s lap while I went running. Running kind of sucked. It was a beautiful day, but I just didn’t quite feel right. Also, on an unrelated note, the 7/11 by our house doesn’t have a public restroom.

At dinner there were several meltdowns over the texture of the corn and the sauce for the chicken. Clearly marinara sauce with parmesan chicken is not as good as ranch dressing.

Then Brian left for flag football and the boys turned the living room into a baseball field with all the couch pillows, and then into a mountain with all the pillows, and then a pool. Somewhere in there I uncorked the wine bottle. Turned on the Nationals’ game. Cal claimed he was scared by his poop and burst into tears in the bathroom. Then they both spent time figuring out how a suction cup works. Somehow I herded them both into bed and am now sitting here, still watching the Nats, whom I love so much, drinking wine, which I also like, and thinking of what a normal day this is, how tiring this all is, but also how much I want to slow down and enjoy these days.

That's about it. Just a Tuesday.

Boys and animal friends, ready for art

Apron-smocks in place, ready to watercolor

Hunter/stick-gatherer