A Thousand Words

First, let me just say that Kona is still alive, and he's fine.

I kept forgetting to begin with that when telling this story, and it causes a lot of stress for people.

This is the story of our family picture.

It begins a year ago when my grandpa said that he'd like to get the whole family together for an updated family portrait. Despite having a small baby and a toddler at the time, I decided that I needed to be the one to organize an 16 person/four generation photoshoot. I researched area photographers, reviewed portfolios, sent out inquiries, coordinated schedules (or so I thought), created an inspirational Pinterest board, decided on a color/style scheme and composed an email detailing such scheme that I then followed up on with personal, harassing phone calls to various family members about their wardrobe choices.

We all showed up on a Saturday afternoon at the appointed location, primped and ready for our close-up...aaand there was no photographer. We'd had a miscommunication, and they had us scheduled for Sunday afternoon.

I was pretty devastated.

My husband sprung into action and collected cameras and organized an impromptu photoshoot using timers and a makeshift tripod. He also had to talk to the photographers when they got my 20 messages asking where they were and called me back because I was too upset.

We decided we'd try again in the spring, but apparently I needed a whole year to recover.

This month I decided that it was time, assembled the troops once again, agreed to meet at the same park, and triple checked the date.


Half of the family was running late, so we started in with pictures of the family branches that were present. After our family's little shoot, while waiting for everyone else, my husband was playing fetch with our dog. As we have done a million times.

I'm standing off to the side trying to get a hold of people to find out when they'll arrive when I hear shouting and look over to see my husband--in his carefully selected picture clothes--"wrestling" our dog on the ground.

Trying to keep my language clean for the kids, I asked what the heck he could possibly be doing.

My husband had sent a fast, low (meant to go long) throw to get Kona to run after it, but Kona intercepted the ball at close range and the ball went too far back in his mouth and lodged in his throat.

The ball was the size of a tennis ball but made of hard, thick rubber. We bought it because it floats and stands up to Kona's chewing, but it's heavier than we'd like it to be. 

When he realized Kona couldn't get the ball out of his throat, he ran over to help him, but it was absolutely stuck. The doggy Heimlich (I'm not kidding) wasn't working.

I did not have the capacity at this point to deal with the thought of my dog keeling over...I was convinced that he was going to upchuck the stupid ball any second just like he's done with athletic socks, an unfurled spool of ribbon, and various other things over the years. I've always called him a junkyard dog because I'm pretty sure he could eat or survive anything.

But as the seconds ticked by, it became clear that he was in trouble. My husband scooped him up and threw him in the back of our car, and the photographers assistant jumped in to help direct him to the nearest emergency vet.

And then the rest of my family arrived.

When they got Kona to the clinic, he was passed out and his breathing was shallow. They ran him in and his neck was shaved in preparation for a tracheotomy, but they managed to pull the ball out with some sort of clamp without having to put him under or actually traching him. And when they let my husband back in the room, Kona wagged his tail.

They kept him the rest of the day for observation and gave him a sedative to help him rest and an anti-inflammatory to keep his throat from swelling up.

My husband and the assistant came back, and we finished up the pictures.

Once that was done, my husband went back to check on Kona before going to get his own prescription for his swelling hand which he had snagged on Kona's teeth while trying to get the ball out.

Kona was back to normal by evening with a shaved throat and a bandage where they'd given him an IV as souvenirs. Also, we got the ball back (!).

And the pictures look great.

I suppose all's well that ends well, but you won't catch me organizing any large photoshoots any time soon.

Makes you wonder what kinds of stories photographers collect.

Thrifty

I have fallen truly, madly, deeply in love with "thrifting."

Or, rather, shopping at Goodwill. I'm not sure I'm hip enough to say that I "go thrifting."

It started when I found out that I was having a girl (after having a boy), and I was contemplating how to afford another entirely new wardrobe (we rarely get hand-me-downs).  My first trip was to a small store in a regular neighborhood and there wasn't a whole lot, and what was there was hard to find and I almost threw in the towel and left, but when they rang me up I was amazed to see that the total was about $30 for around 20 items. It's hard to beat that even on a great Old Navy sale day.

A recent haul: Janie and Jack jeans for my son (like new) for $3.79. Also, I took a chance on some $3.50 shoes for my daughter...the size was European (I don't know why I didn't whip out my phone and figure out the size and brand--I guess I was just in a gambling mood for the price of a latte) but eyeballing them, they looked about right, and they seemed very well made. I looked them up when I got home; I didn't recognize the brand since I don't usually bother checking out $80 kids shoes. And the size was perfect. BAM.

The thrill of finding cute things that I would never pay retail for (but will gladly fork out pennies on the dollar for) probably would have been enough to keep me coming back. But wait! There's more!

Walking through the racks of clothes that have been cast off--nice clothes with tags still on, even clothes that are still current--I started to feel the weight of all of this consumption. I started to think about how so many people would prize these things we just toss away. I started to think about the people working in the factories to make these things that we want so badly and then quickly consider junk. I started to think about the money that I spend at Target--not a ton of money, obviously; it's Target (though it does add up). But I'll spend $10, $20 on something cute and here's its equivalent for $3, $5.

The clincher is the people who work there. They've clearly seen some...stuff in their lives. The day I bought a vintage globe, a Cozy Coupe, a $80 Educo dollhouse for $8, and a walker/scoot toy (while I had both kids with me), they called someone to help the looter me out to my car. The guy who helped me appeared to have done some hard drugs in the past, but he was so nice and eager to help. And I would much rather my money go toward programs that help people get legitimate work than just be another drop in the bucket for some of the big brands--many of which use some shady business practices in order to keep their stuff cheap enough for us to buy frivolously.

An added benefit (aside from my bleeding heart rationale) is that often I find stores are using lower quality fabrics and sewing to keep costs down (I'm looking at you, Target, Old Navy, Gap) and after you wash them once or twice you have seams opening up, pilling, ruffles that go wonky (mama does NOT iron play clothes), etc., and buying secondhand allows you to see how the clothes will wear.

Love it. Can't say enough good things about it.

Will probably write more about it.

You are on the edge of your seat, yes?

Of course you are.

Litany of Humility

At one point in my life, I thought that memorized, repeated prayers did not have as much meaning as a "real" (as in extemporaneous) prayer. But I've now come to love common prayer. It's a blessing to be able to sink into the carefully crafted words that have been uttered by many before me that so often express the things my heart knows even if my head wasn't ready to confess them.

A dear friend recommended the (Roman Catholic) Litany of Humility to me during a conversation about my struggles with motherhood, but really lifelong struggles that are just made more apparent as I endeavor to somehow lead by example.

I probably need to set a timer and just say it every 30 minutes. It's a good one.

O Jesus! meek and humble of heart, Hear me.

From the desire of being esteemed, Deliver me, Jesus.

From the desire of being loved, Deliver me, Jesus.

From the desire of being extolled, Deliver me, Jesus.

From the desire of being honored, Deliver me, Jesus.

From the desire of being praised, Deliver me, Jesus.

From the desire of being preferred to others, Deliver me, Jesus.

From the desire of being consulted, Deliver me, Jesus.

From the desire of being approved, Deliver me, Jesus.

From the fear of being humiliated, Deliver me, Jesus.

From the fear of being despised, Deliver me, Jesus.

From the fear of suffering rebukes, Deliver me, Jesus.

From the fear of being calumniated, Deliver me, Jesus.

From the fear of being forgotten, Deliver me, Jesus.

From the fear of being ridiculed, Deliver me, Jesus.

From the fear of being wronged, Deliver me, Jesus.

From the fear of being suspected, Deliver me, Jesus.

That others may be loved more than I, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That others may be esteemed more than I, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That, in the opinion of the world, others may increase and I may decrease, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That others may be chosen and I set aside, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That others may be praised and I unnoticed, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That others may be preferred to me in everything, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That others may become holier than I, provided that I may become as holy as I should, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

Yes, grant me the grace to desire it.

Your Exotic Life

When I was living in Melbourne, I met another American who'd spent some time in the San Francisco Bay Area. We got to chatting, and she asked if I'd lived in San Jose proper and a nearby Aussie sighed wistfully. "San Jose," she repeated dreamily. "It sounds so exotic."


Recently another Australian friend came through our area, and I can't tell you how much good it did my soul just to feed off of her youthful enthusiasm. It was her first time abroad, and she took me back to my first time traveling. I went to Italy. I was convinced the plane was going to crash because that was far more imaginable than the thought of me--ME traipsing around the Colosseum for heaven's sake!

My favorite thing about traveling is how small it makes me feel. The feeling that you're just a blip in history and a speck on this globe even in your own time...it's such a healthy smack upside the head to my worrywart, self-absorbed nature. But then there's also the novelty--somebody else's everyday seems so magical. Laundry hanging off clotheslines in an alley that echoes with the sounds of Italian daytime television.

Occasionally when I lived in San Francisco I'd nearly run over a tourist as I rushed off the bus to work, and my feeling of exasperation would wash away when I'd see their upturned faces, that feeling of smallness clearly written on them. And I would look up and around and remember.

But San Jose...San Jose is not exotic. Still, as I drove my young friend around and she exclaimed over the postman, and the street signs, and the American houses, the scales fell from my eyes for a moment and I saw the beauty of my everyday.

Sometimes I just need to remind myself to look up and feel small.

How I Fired My Housecleaners and Regained My Sanity

Reposting this from the old blog because it was a favorite and because I've got a follow-up post and another tangential post in mind...

I'm totally ahead of myself on this one. Totally smug. Clearly going to all fall apart as soon as I hit publish.

But I wanted you to know that I'm feeling better about mothering and housewifery in general (though I'm sure more valleys are on the way). And it all started when my housecleaners stood me up a couple of weeks ago.

I'd been planning my pathetic life around the housecleaners. They came every other week, and I tried to avoid having people over on the weeks that they didn't come. Because while two weeks is too long to go between cleaning sessions in this house...well, I did. I mean I did the dishes and wiped counters, but nothing that I considered yucky. Or inconvenient.

I'm not one of those fabulous women (bless their hearts) who say things like "I just can't rest knowing that the kitchen is a mess."

There are many times I cannot rest...I've had insomnia since I was a kid. But things that keep me up are worries that I made a mistake at work and will be fired and eventually end up homeless. Or regrets about how I phrased something I said to someone. Or wondering whether awesomesauce/awesome sauce is one word or two. But dishes? Dishes actually make me tired.

Anyway, the day I was stood up, in a fit of fury, I cleaned the kitchen. And while I worked, I cooked up a plan (heh, see what I did there). Having our babysitter come for four hours would be $20 less than the cleaning fee, and if I could manage to keep up the house better and finish cleaning in less than four hours, I might have some time left over to just BE.

And suddenly cleaning seemed to be a means to an end. An end that I liked (because the whole clean house as an end just doesn't completely do it for me). So I set up some morning and evening routines, and THEY WORK, y'all.

It's really amazing how little time it takes me to get through my list, and yet how magically clean the house stays when I do my list. And now I'm keeping the house clean on my own, and I somehow seem to have more time. Time to do things with the kids without feeling like I'm failing in the other part of my job description. And people can drop by any time and I'm not furtively shoving a dirty pot into the oven.

And I realize most people already do these things and can't believe there are people like me who are late to this party, but there it is. I'd plugged the wrong directions into my GPS, but I think I'm on my way now and I'm hoping you have one margarita left for me.

For those of you who are wondering what all this list entails, here ya go:

Morning Routine

Song, Ladybug, Prayer

Get Dressed

Unload Dishwasher

Cook and Eat Breakfast

Clean Up Dishes, Feed Kona

Start Laundry

Make Bed

 

Evening Routine

Dinner (6:15)

Clean Up All Dishes & Toys (6:45)

Bath Time (7:00)

Bible Reading (7:30)

Kids' Bedtime Routine (7:45)

_________________________________________

Start Dishwasher

Wipe Counters & Table

Swiffer Floor

Yup, pretty basic. But when I'm feeling overwhelmed by the house after we've hosted a big group or something, I just make sure I do the checklist and after one morning and one evening, things are usually back to normal.

Also, when I'm running on little sleep and feel like I should get a break, I tell myself I MUST do the things on my list and then I can...have another cup of coffee because there are no breaks in motherhood, sucka!

There are a few more things I do during the day: I fold that load of laundry. I wipe down the bathtub as I'm setting up for bath time each evening. We're in the bathroom a lot lately since we're potty training, so at some point each day I wipe the counter in there and several times a day I wipe up the toilet or else it would look like it belongs in a frat house. And I vacuum once a week. But do you know what the great thing is about vacuuming? You can't hear the kids whining! I fire it up when Gus is asking to watch TV.

So I share this purely in a spirit of sharing, and not in a "you should do this" kind of way, because what do I know of your life? I like to hear what's working for other people, but lately I've noticed a trend of bloggers who want to position themselves as experts on various things, but hold on...that's a rant for another post. Let's just say that I'm not trying to brag here; just mentioning that I feel like I've gone from bad to sort of okay. And that's a Good Thing. Only I just typoed "God Thing" which is probably more accurate.

Besos, kittens.

My Own Lane

Lately I keep coming back around to this idea of swimming in your own lane.

I know I saw it on a blog somewhere (ETA: this is the post, thanks, Jesse!), and unfortunately I can't remember which one. Sometimes I don't realize that something will stick with me until after it's stuck, and I can't Pin everything (though I do my best).

Samantha French

I have this unproductive back and forth that I do: Sometimes I look at people who have much, much more than me, and I start to take stock of the "inadequacies" in my own life. I think about what life would be like if I had more money, help, energy, creativity, intellect, whateva.

Then--and I can make this transition in a heartbeat--I think about people who have much less, and I feel guilty. And I'm not talking about healthy, thinking about others and giving back feelings, but an anxiety about why I have so much when I'm so undeserving.

So lately when I start to go there, I remind myself to swim in my own lane.

It's a great shorthand for essentially what that gratitude post was about--imagining yourself in other situations keeps you from being grateful for what you have. Oddly, even imagining myself having less keeps me from being grateful. Because all I have is grace, and if I had less, I'd still have grace. And if I had more, I'd have grace AND...SWIM IN YOUR OWN LANE!

See? It works.

Also ETA: A friend suggested carrying a whistle because sometimes you can't hear the coach yelling when you're under water. Brilliant. Do you suppose Tiffany's carries a tiny silver whistle charm? Because how cute would that be...

Frothiness

After a six-month letter writing campaign...

Dear Semblance of a Metabolism,
Please come back to me. Was it something I said?
Muchos besos grandes,
S

...I finally dropped a couple of dress sizes.

This has made getting dressed a little more fun again, and I've been looking for some inspiration. Fashion bloggers kind of crack me up because they're so cute and they can't seem to decide which cute pic of themselves to post, so they post like five full body shots of the same outfit + detail shots.Can't forget the details.

A couple of the ones I started following are:
http://www.puttingmetogether.com/
http://www.kendieveryday.com/
http://www.aintnomomjeans.com/


Any good ones I'm missing?

I promised myself when I was a slip of a girl and had time for such things that I wouldn't let myself get stuck in one decade of fashion. Unfortunately, as I stand here trying to think of an example of something that I wore in college that I would never wear now, I'm at a loss. That seems like a bad sign.

HOLP!

Talented

Most  of the time I have this self-deprecating schtick. And, yeah, that's not going away.

But while I'm usually joking (with the ever present kernel of truth), occasionally I start to fully buy in. And I think it makes others wonder if I'm really that lazy/self-conscious/awkward/depraved/slow/etc.

And I'm not really. Except for the awkwardness. I am every bit as awkward as I say I am.

Lately, though, it strikes me that it is a disservice to myself but more importantly to others if I choose to dwell in the place of the things I fail at rather than using the gifts I do have and being grateful for them. There's this one quote...Oh WAIT...I bet it's on Pinterest in pretty .jpg form...

Yup:

Source: knackstudios.com via Sarah on Pinterest

So here are some things--by the grace of God--that I'm actually pretty good at:
1. I love my kids. They get a surplus of hugs and kisses. I truly want to know who they are. I'm not perfect, but I apologize when I've wronged them.
2. My kids are cute. Genetically, of course, which I was 50% involved with. But I think they are sharp dressers. Who dresses them? Their mama. And not only that, I'm totally frugal about shopping for them. I'm like a consignment/thrift store ninja.
3. I make hot breakfast involving eggs nearly every morning for the whole fam. Yeah, like it's the effin' 1950s or something. I make healthy meals, usually from scratch, nearly every night. It takes a lot of planning and work. I exhaustively research optimal ways of eating and recipes to support my findings.
4. I have really long-term friendships that have matured and evolved over the years, and I enjoy fostering those relationships. I even think I manage to encourage others on occasion.
5. I'm a pretty decent writer. I hate even typing that, but the facts are that a.) I used to earn my living (and it was a decent one) from my writing and b.) I get compliments on my blog from people who have no reason to compliment me. It's hard for me to see beyond my need for improvement, but apparently I'm not too shabby.
6. I share our home with others on a pretty frequent basis. I work hard to make it a pretty, pleasant, neat(ish), and welcoming place.
7. Even though I would naturally be a hermit, I intentionally make time for people in my life and prioritize community.

I don't say any of these things to make you feel bad (if you do) because I guarantee that you are rockin' your own thangs that I struggle with. Maybe you should make your own list. If you need help getting started and I know you personally, I can probably help because...oh!

8. I have a knack for telling people clearly and honestly what their strengths are.

BOOM!

And you're welcome.

On Community

I love big long tables of people...

I'm an expert on developing community, so now I'm going to give you five bolded steps on how to build it with some commentary on each step.

Just kidding!

I, clearly, know very little about how one develops a strong community that is open and honest and supportive.

But I do know one thing: You have to show up.

You have to show up when you're sad. You have to show up when you're glad. You have to show up when you're mad.

You have to show up when some jerk channels Dr. Seuss. It's a bonus when you show up with chocolate mousse.

Captain Obvious reports: You cannot get to know someone who isn't around. And knowing and being known is an essential part of community.

So, step one--show up.

Guess what?

NAILED IT!

I'm a total shower upper most of the time. Wasn't always the case, but I learn, albeit slowly.

Now. Anybody got the next step?

If You Pinterest

Do you ever start clicking around Pinterest and sort of forget where you are, or switch to a different tab, or step away from your computer and then come back and realize that you're on the BEST board ever. And then think "Wow, this person has such amazing taste; I love everything here! I need to make sure I'm following her..." and then realize it's your own board?

Carry on then.

You know you want to.

The End of Me

Oh, chickens. Today involved tears.

I am a proud little peacock (really just a chicken who wants to think of herself as a peacock), and mea culpa, etc., I was not upset for legitimate reasons, but because I want to be thought of as pretty, clever, charming, and generally AWESOME. Preferably by as many people as possible. If not everyone.

At least the Motivational Manatees love me.

But as per usual I was awkward, negative, and--well I think my hair looked okay, so there's that.

I couldn't wait to get back to my car to have a little self-indulgent cry.

So I turn the key in the ignition and as my stereo pops on I see that the song about to start is a Bible verse, and I think "Lord, please do not tell me that I'm so dense you need to play a blatantly relevant Good Word right now."

I'm that dense.

It was Psalm 115: Not to us, LORD, not to us but to your name be the glory, because of your love and faithfulness.

Mmmhmm.

Then I got home and checked Facebook (Because...I was trying to throw more fuel on the fire? Am I the only one who occasionally sees the light at the end of my Tunnel o' Putrid Self Funk but AVOIDS the light because I want to wallow in the stank for a while longer? Yes? Okay then.).

My best efforts at climbing back into my pit were foiled again, however, because a friend had posted a link to this post on a new-to-me blog, and from there I found this post: Battle Discontent with Thankfulness.

If you don't feel like clicking over, the first suggestion is to never complain.

Never complain. Even about the weather.

I'm gonna try it, folks. And it ain't going to be pretty because I think about 40 percent of my conversation in "banter" mode is low-level complaining. (You want to hang out with me, don't you?) So awkward girl is about to get more awkward.

I also had to ask myself, "Self, can you blog without complaining?" And I answered a resounding, "of course!" But I've come to know myself pretty well after these thirtysomething years together, so I followed up with "But can you do that without exclusively writing schmalpy sentimental drivel?" And the answer to that is "Erm. Hrrmm. Maybe."

Stay tuned!

Grown Up

In that way of nearly three year olds who occasionally turn into sages, my son intoned from the backseat, "Mama, someday I'm going to be a grown up."

Half a breath and one thousand thoughts in a moment.

Someday he will be an adult.  He'll remember some of the things I said. I just don't get to pick which ones.

Not my kids...but apparently they
took the same picture every year.

Someday he'll be a certain kind of man.

Someday he'll have to face hurt, rejection, disappointment.

Someday he might get married and have kids.

Someday we might be close, or we might not.

Someday he will love or reject the faith his father and I have taught him.

"Yes, honey. Someday you'll be a grown up."

"Yeah," he said confidently looking out the window. "And I'm going to drink coffee."