Happy birthday sweet Owen

You’ve gotta make it to 6 A.M. Just make it to 6.

This was the mantra I kept up all night after Roy and I turned our lights off for bed. Contractions had definitely started that evening and were escalating. I knew this wasn’t going to be a 77 hour labor like I experienced with James. (For which I was, and am, eternally grateful!)

If you know anything about James’ birth you know that it was three and a half really long days of contractions 5 minutes apart the entire time. We were turned away from the hospital twice before finally being admitted the third day and given Pitocin to help get things moving. Roy had performed the entire weekend with the symphony and was exhausted. I was exhausted for other obvious reasons. He fell asleep in the chair next to me and we didn’t know where he was when it was time for James to make his entrance into the world. (I honestly have no idea how he slept through the first part of pushing—there were like 8 people in the room and he was sleeping ten feet away from my bed.)

So my greatest wish for this baby’s birth was to have a father who was present and alert. And I knew that meant that he needed to sleep. So I labored on my own in bed, next to the bed, and in the shower. Roy slept like a dead man. (I feel like if our roles were reversed I wouldn’t have slept as well, but maybe that’s just me.)

My contractions were never super consistent. I’d have a couple 7 minutes apart and then 3 that were two minutes apart. And then another one eight minutes later. But they were strong, and I knew they were doing their job. By the time 4:30, 4:45, 5 rolled around I was pretty much focused on two things: breathing, and 6 A.M.

6 A.M. on the dot I roused Roy and informed him that it was TIME to go to the hospital. Forget the 1 hour-5 minute-60 second thing. Then I threw up. This got his attention. He quickly called the on-call doctor to let him know we were ready to go. There was no answer. We waited for a while. By 7 I wasn’t waiting around anymore. We got into the car and headed towards Strong Hospital.

This is where things got interesting. I was doubled over in the car and Roy was driving to the hospital from a different direction (remember, we had just moved four days earlier). I watched out our window as we came into view of those comforting blue H signs with the arrows. I knew we were close…so close. Two H signs passed, with straight ahead arrows. Then a third, which pointed to the right. Roy went straight. For a split second I thought about letting this pass and hoping he’d figure it out, but when you’re having a baby you kind of don’t want to be in the car for any more time than absolutely necessary, so I “casually” brought it up.

“Hon, that hospital sign said turn right.”

“The hospital is this way. I think.”

“But it said turn right.”

No response.

“Hon, I’m just telling you what the sign said!”

<note of urgency in my voice at this point>

Roy turned right. Now, in hindsight, if he really knew where he was going he should have ignored his delirious, dilating wife. But he listened to me and followed those blue H signs all the way to the WRONG HOSPITAL.

There was a smidge of finger pointing at this juncture.

That was a low point.

I scrunched back down in my seat and tried to focus on not throwing up again. Roy got us turned around and drove to the correct hospital. I kept my mouth shut (at least when it came to GPS assistance).

I think Roy knew things were gettin’ real when he asked if I wanted to park and walk in with him or be dropped off. I answered, without hesitation, “Drop me off.” And if that didn’t convince him, when the nice greeter people looked at me and asked if I wanted to be wheeled up to maternity I immediately agreed. Things were dire people. I knew how many hallways there were before the elevators.

Roy ran and basically caught up to us by the time we got off the elevators. The nice check-in people took me back to triage right away. I hate triage. I’d been there three times with James and only once did they take pity on me and let me through. This time I knew there was no WAY they were sending me home, so why do we need to go through the formality? A nurse and on-call midwife asked all the lovely questions and measured me. 7 centimeters.

Boo yah.

The nurse asked if I was planning on an epidural. Yes. Yesyesyesyes. Alloftheyesses. Yes, I was. The midwife looked at me, oh so sweetly, and said, “Well, you know. You might just be too far along at this point for an epidural.”

Aaaaaaannnnd that was the lowest point.

I simultaneously wanted to burst into tears and wring her neck. I remember feeling absolutely terrified. I knew things were going to get a lot worse before they improved and I didn’t know if I could do it. I really didn’t. From my perspective, things were quickly spiraling out of control. The nurse stepped in and told me she would try to get an anesthesiologist in ASAP. Karen. Sweet Karen. We knew we were having a boy but if it had been a girl she could have had a namesake right then and there.

Karen delivered the anesthesiologist and by 9 A.M. he was able to successfully administer the most blessed relief a human can feel. Seriously. As the contractions faded away into a blissful, warm, numbing sensation, giddiness took over. I grabbed my phone and sent the “sweet epidural text” (as my friends call it) to those who would share in my rejoicing. It had been a long, lonely night, and I couldn’t have been happier to lay comfortably on my side, with my alert husband next to me.

Thus began a wonderful few hours. Roy and I essentially had a mini-date. He was rested, I was comfortable. We chatted about anything and everything. There was no paperwork, no jobs, no toddler-minding, no rehearsals. It was just us. Our first date in weeks. Once he saw that I was good he grabbed some coffee and we savored the peace and quiet. Karen sensed that we were in a good place and only made the bare minimum of visits.

Around 11:40 I started to sense that there might be a baby coming. I wanted to wait until I was super sure, so I held out a few more minutes. We paged Karen and she brought in the doctor to measure me. She took a peek and her eyes got big. “Yep honey—about two pushes and this baby will be here!”

A team was assembled. With James there was meconium in the amniotic fluid, so there was essentially a SWAT team at his birth. He was whisked away from me and carefully monitored to make sure he didn’t aspirate any dangerous fluids. I ended up hemorrhaging and just have this blur of a memory of wanting to know he was OK while doctors were barking various directions at me to try to get the bleeding under control.

It couldn’t have been more different this time. The room was brighter, smaller, and much quieter. There were many students present at James’ birth—this time just a couple of nurses and the doctor. The epidural was doing a better job than with James at this point too. A few full-strength pushes and then it was little ones here and there to ease our little guy into the world.

Then, at 12:06 P.M., he was here! He cried and we cried. They placed him immediately on my chest and I was able to be the first one to hold him and make eye contact. He was so beautiful!

“Hiiiii Owen! Hi there! It’s so nice to meet you Baby!”

We had chosen the name Owen a year or so earlier, but had four or five different candidates for middle names. I told Roy that I liked them all and he could choose one. He chose to wait until Owen was born, so it was a surprise to all of us when he said in a choked voice, “Owen Nicholas.”

Good. That was my favorite one.

It’s been a whole year and I still savor his name every time I think of or utter it aloud. Owen. Owen Nicholas Smith. Owen weighed in at 7 lbs 6 oz (a whole pound heavier than he had been guesstimated at three days earlier) and was 20.5 inches long. He proved to be a natural at eating and was very chill in the hospital. I was less reserved about letting the nursery take him for some of his overnight shifts that first night and he wasn’t fussy at all. In fact, I paged for him after a five hour stretch to make sure he got fed! (In hindsight, he was probably just super happy to be around lots of other babies.) Roy and I soaked in the 27 hours we had with Owen in the hospital before leaving (on Halloween—we really didn’t want to be in the hospital on Halloween night) a day early. James wasn’t allowed to visit his little brother in the hospital due to wide-spread stomach bugs going around, and we were extra eager to leave to complete our family of four.

And complete us he does. Owen is extroverted, curious, bright, and oh-so-happy. He already has the gift of making others feel good about themselves, with his generous smiles and waving hands. (I swear he has won over every cashier and old man in Wegmans.) He delights in his big brother, Mommy and Daddy, pushing things around on the floor, and trying to eat the toilet cap in the powder room. (He is a boy, after all.) I could go on and on, but I’ll wrap up for now and just say that my heart overflows every time I look at him and see how richly blessed we are.

Happy happy happy!

He wasted no time.

Owen owned the cupcake.

Today’s 1%: The difference between child #1 and child #2. Child #1 gets homemade cupcakes lovingly researched and crafted by Mommy. He ends up coming down with a bad cold at his party and shows no interest in Mommy’s hard work. Child #2 was going to get homemade cupcakes, but Mommy ran out of butter. And if she was going to go to the store to get butter, she might as well just buy cupcakes while she was there and save herself a lot of time. Child #2 devoured store-bought cupcake. And you know what? Mommy doesn’t feel like she short-changed him at all.

Last year

The date: Wednesday, October 29, 2014

The place: 4…. Harwick Road

The time: 2:30 P.M.

I eased onto the hideously ugly, remarkably comfortable brown couch in our newly carpeted back room. The age of the couch was magnified resting on such clean, light carpet, but I didn’t really care. I was just pumped to lay down for a bit. The past two and a half months had been a whirlwind of paperwork, penny-pinching, packing, toddler-minding, house-scrubbing, more paperwork, ten different jobs vying for our attention, and, ultimately, a new house. We had just moved our stuff in four days earlier. Additionally, I was seven-eight-nine months pregnant. Ho hum.

I hadn’t taken as many breaks as I probably should have, and with James sleeping upstairs and Roy leaving for an orchestra rehearsal, a golden opportunity to make my doctor happy presented itself. My phone was nowhere near. Nothing was vying for my time. I snuggled under a heavy blue blanket and kissed Roy goodbye as he headed downtown. It was time for a short snooze before resuming the unpacking, prepping dinner, and directing my own rehearsal that evening.

I thought about the little guy sharing naptime with me. His checkups were going great, although the doctor recommended an ultrasound two days earlier just to make sure everything was OK with my fluid levels. It checked out, and I got to see his sweet little face and was informed that he measured 6 lbs 6 oz. A good size for 38.5 weeks. James was born at 41.5 weeks so, while I didn’t anticipate meeting his little brother anytime soon, I simultaneously hoped he didn’t get TOO much bigger.

I closed my eyes, very aware that there was no weight on my feet for the first time during a daytime in too long. I don’t remember how long I relaxed, but not much time had passed before I felt something. It was like…a painless twinge. A pinch. Like somebody plucked a cello string inside my body. I half-consciously wondered for a few seconds, then realized that I, along with the canciferous couch, was getting very wet.

Shoot.

I leaped (as much as one can being 38 weeks pregnant) up and dashed for the powder room across the room. The bathroom was no more than ten feet away, but our house was so new that I still hadn’t physiologically memorized the angles. My left foot smashed into the door jam and my speed propelled me head-first into the room, where I landed awkwardly on my hands. I had zero time to think about what had just happened. I jumped onto my intended destination and surveyed the damage. Hands, which took the brunt of the fall, OK. Baby, unscathed. Feet…yeah…I had definitely broken a toe. But I couldn't even think about that for more than a few seconds.

My water just broke.What do I do?With James I was supposed to go straight to the hospital, but I tested negative for that test with this baby so I don’t have to.Where’s my phone?Will I go into labor immediately or will it take a while?How long is it safe to BE in labor once your water breaks?Roy has concerts…he’s going to be upset.What do I do with James?My water just broke.I haven’t packed a hospital bag.I don’t have baby clothes sorted or washed.My toe really hurts.I have rehearsal tonight.My water just broke.I have work tomorrow—and a quarterly meeting tomorrow night.This is poor timing.I would have given anything to have my water break with James, but not this time.My water just broke.AHHHH!

This was all silent, frantic speculation, of course. I come from a family whose exterior gets calmer the more in turmoil they are on the inside. So I probably looked like I was at the height of meditation or something, because I was fa-reak-ing out.

I somehow got upstairs—not easy to do since the back room has 8 windows and I wasn’t exactly wearing any bottoms anymore—also, I had a broken toe. I located my phone on the way up and resumed my perch on the upstairs commode. First things first—Roy.

(Roy corrects me at this point. I didn’t call him first. I called the doctor.)

First things first—the doctor!

I was connected to a nurse, who checked my file and told me that I was going to have a baby one way or another within 24 hours. (Cue lots more inward panicking/calmest-yet voice.) She said contractions would start shortly and to aim for the 1 hour-5 minutes apart-1 minute in length principle before coming to the hospital. If nothing started happening by morning, please give them a call.

OK. THEN I called Roy. I told him what I knew. I caught him in the parking garage. He walked into the hall, told the personnel manager he had to go, and left. (This seriously makes me so proud. Orchestra protocol is weird—you’re not allowed to be late or cancel for ANY reason whatsoever. You can lose your job and reputation if you’re late ONE time. It makes me all fuzzy inside to know that he just flat-out left. And that the personnel manager (who is a friend of ours) was completely understanding and supportive. Thanks guys.

Next, I called HSM and informed them I wouldn’t be directing a flute choir rehearsal that night. The office assistant I spoke with was rather aloof with me, as if she couldn’t understand how I could cancel a rehearsal that late in the afternoon. I didn’t tell her why initially—probably terrified to legitimize the situation by uttering the words aloud. Finally, after more prodding and insisting for a reason I responded, “Because of the imminent birth of my child!”

That worked.

“Oh my goodness! That’s so exciting! So-and-so—you won’t believe this! Congratulations! We’ll take care of everything! So-and-so—we have to call all the girls in the group! Good luck! Oh my goodness!!!!!”

Geesh.

Then I texted Jane. I don’t know why I didn’t call her, except that I never call her. Seriously—we’ve been friends for three years now and I don’t know if I’ve ever talked to her on the phone. Since we moved, beloved Jane is my closest friend geographically, and her daughter is James’ betrothed. And I knew she would be close to her phone. Jane, incidentally, had started pestering me to pack a hospital bag, which I hadn’t done because I KNEW I had at least two more weeks. (Maybe that’s why I didn’t call her. It’s easier to swallow humble pie via the shield of a text…)

Anyway, Jane yelled at me for a while via text, and then quickly packed her two kids up and drove over to get James. I had stopped leaking enough by that point to grab some clothes and toiletries for him. Roy got home right before she did and helped wake James up and get him ready for a “surprise sleepover with Alexa.” Thankfully, he was down with it. Jane later told me that I looked completely in control and super calm when she stopped by. See. I told you. Fa-REAK-ing out.

Before Jane arrived I texted/called (I can’t remember) Kylie. I think texting. Because I could text Kylie and Jane simultaneously. Maybe THIS is why I didn’t call…I can multitask whilst texting. (I didn’t realize this entry would just become one big justification for texting.)

ANYHOO. I needed help. I had no idea how long I had before I couldn’t focus on prep work, and Kylie is superwoman when it comes to cleaning. And, in addition to being my sister-in-law, she’s an amazingly loyal friend. She basically dropped everything and drove out immediately, which meant (and means) the world. She helped me get baby laundry washed, finished unpacking our bedroom, prepped a hospital bag, and brought us dinner in the span of a couple of hours. See? Superwoman.

Roy went out and bought decent food to take to the hospital—he, even in his super sleep-deprived state with James’ birth, remembered the hospital food. We enjoyed a big meal together and almost enjoyed the fact that we had just been forced to shelve all of the house/work stuff for the time. Bigger, much more important things were happening.

By the time Kylie left it was around 8 P.M. I was just starting to tell that things were indeed “happening.” It was shaping up to be a long night…

To be continued…

Today’s 1%: I ran around in circles with my family for a good chunk of the evening with all of the NFL themes blasting in the background. If that doesn’t improve your life by 1% I don’t know what will.

This is...

This is a sfogliatelle, my friends. Being the music nerd that I am I keep wanting to call it a solfegiatto, which is very, very incorrect. This is where my baking interest is taking me these days. A year ago if you stuck this glorified puff pastry with ricotta and orange zest filling at me I'd wrinkle up my nose and say, "no thanks...but please pass the plain bagel." Now I want to taste all of the amazing things people bake around the world. And, amazing it was. Roy says he wants to make these at home. I looked up the recipe...it basically screams "do not try this at home." (You need a pasta machine, among other massively expensive equipment.) So, an every now-and-then treat from your local Weggies bakery this sfogliatelle will be.

This is James modeling his new baking duds. He's recently taken an interest in baking, which I really don't think has anything to do with me. He probably read something about George at a bakery or saw an episode about it along the way. And, if George does it, then it must be of the utmost importance. He's spent the past several days "baking" for us in his room, bringing us all sorts of delicious imaginary treats. So when I saw kids cooking tools at the store today, I couldn't resist. We usually don't buy toys on a whim (our weakness is books) but his birthday is very close to Christmas and it's been a long year without new things to play with. We tied the apron on immediately upon our return home and he refused to take it off, even for nap. We finally put our foot down and insisted that he hang it up at bedtime (those long strings aren't exactly the safest...kind of like sleeping in a mini blind). He also now has a little timer, which pairs perfectly with his fascination with routine and clock-watching , and measuring spoons. He quickly insisted that he bake with Mommy, and our freezer was graced with several new bags of cookies. James also assisted me in making soup tonight for supper. He really did help too, using his measuring spoons, putting chopped veggies into containers, and adding ingredients into the stockpot. I was proud of his diligence, and prouder when he actually ate what he had made. I'd be delighted to have his company in the kitchen any day.

And this is a photo I saw on the internet today about some little boy who really wanted an American Girl/Boy doll so his mom fashioned him one for his sixth birthday. But REALLY it's a photo of what Owen will look like in five years. 

Today's 1%: Any day that I can spend quality time with James is a one percent plus kind of day. He isn't quick to try new activities, and often prefers to be alone. But we had a ton of it today, and that made it a great day. :)

Happy home!

We celebrated our first anniversary of the Harwick Road house yesterday. Actually, we didn’t, because we forgot yesterday was the actual anniversary until this morning. But we are celebrating today, with a day at home just the four of us. Few days have passed in the past 366 when I haven’t taken a moment to pause and look at the richness in which we dwell. Roy and I lived in apartments for the first seven years of our marriage and it seems inconceivable that we could own property, with twice the living space we were accustomed to, and nobody but ourselves to worry about when practicing noisy instruments…

Our first place was on Orchard Street, across from Pearce Church. We called it our tree house, and our little second floor apartment was cozy and safe and perfect for just starting out. Our neighbors were our college friends, and we could walk to concerts and church. There were holes in the floor that led to us blessing our downstairs neighbors when they sneezed, which sounds horrifying, but was funny at the time. We left our first couch in that apartment. It took us two hours to move it in and after that amount of time passed trying to extricate it we left it behind.

Then we moved to North Carolina, where we lived in a much cleaner, more modern first floor apartment in a complex. We, for the only time in our lives, were the minority race. I’m not sure I ever saw another white person in the complex the two years we lived there. That apartment was our haven—we knew nobody in Greensboro, and it was the place where our marriage deepened and we leaned on each other for companionship as much as anything else. We chafed at being so far away from family and friends, but we look back on those two years and can hardly believe we had that much free time to do whatever we wished together.

Between May of 2010 and May of 2011 I graduated from UNCG, we moved in with Mom and Dad Smith for a few months as we looked for jobs in Rochester, we lived at St. Vivian’s on Springbrook Drive, and ultimately made our way to our duplex on Washington Street. It was a whirlwind!

The Albion months were a time of transition. We lived out of boxes that summer and slept on a futon upstairs in what’s now the nursery. I read a lot of books, we went for many long bike rides, and furiously searched for jobs. It was the opposite of Greensboro in every way. We were surrounded by family at all times, ate amazing food (I definitely gained weight that summer) that I didn’t prepare, and spent a lot of time snuggling baby Hayden. Martha and Lucas raided our DVDs. Dad Smith insisted that I never shower in the main bathroom downstairs, but to use theirs. I spent many early mornings driving into Roberts with Mom, listening to sermons on her iPod. Roy was ready to start thinking about a baby, but, happy as I was to be with his family, I couldn’t imagine starting my own under somebody else’s roof.

We moved into a rental house in North Chili in October of that year. St. Vivian’s (named for the patron saint/owner) was a beautifully maintained home within walking distance of Roberts. Our dear friend Janette shared the space, and rent, with us, and we were granted back a degree of our privacy. We hosted a Bible study, bought a Wii, enjoyed Friday night pizza, and began to know the joys of a glass of wine at the end of the day. I remember Janette’s parents visiting, and eating chocolate lava cake that was her mom’s special recipe. I remember the master bedroom, with two enormous closets and our own attached bathroom with a HEATER. (That room was a haven.) I remember rushing home on a lunch break from Roberts, taking a pregnancy test, and barely being able to get back to work that afternoon after seeing two little lines…

St. Vivian returned from Florida, and we migrated to Spencerport. Our duplex on Washington Street became our home for the next two and a half years. Our halvsies, Bob (we still usually forget and call him Dave) and Lori, were quiet and delightful and didn’t seem to mind the trumpet so much. Roy started his new routine of many part-time jobs. I received an awful phone call from Janette, who had just heard that her mom had been killed in a car accident. We bought a Clavinova, and I finally had a piano to practice on. We decorated a nursery and welcomed baby James home from the hospital. We delighted in all of his tiny, monumental accomplishments. We delighted in being a family. He took his first steps and conducted Firebird in the living room. We were entertained by an enormous spider that lived outside our front window for months and walked up to Springdale Farms numerous times to exercise and look at the animals. The steps were squeaky and there was almost no storage space. But there was a backyard, and an enormous kitchen that, to this day, is the biggest I’ve ever had the pleasure of using.

And THEN it was on to the east side. I remember finding our apartment off of Clover Street, driving to the Pittsford Wegmans for lunch, and feeling incredulous that we were going to be in walking distance of such riches. (I bought the September issue of Vogue there on a total whim and thoroughly enjoyed it.) James made friends with all the complex’s cats, and collected a lot of rocks and sticks. Lawn mowing day was the best day of the week, and we would sit outside and watch Angel and his crew do all the yardwork. The best part of that apartment were the closets. We had enormous closets, everywhere, with a huge pantry as well. It was that apartment when I finally started caring about wall décor and color schemes. I loved the decal and sconces over the Clavinova in the living room…

And now we’re here! In our first house, unshared. Roy bought new cologne yesterday and my comment to him upon smelling its complexity was, “You know—I don’t think you could have pulled that off ten years ago. That’s a fragrance that clearly says, ‘I have a mortgage.’” It all seems too good to be true—the space, the privacy, the possibilities. Even the trials (plumbingplumbingplumbingplumbing…) pale in comparison to the incredible-ness.

The boys love it here. James’ room is over the garage and he calls it his apartment. He can entertain himself up there for hours with his stuffed animals, books, and building toys. Sometimes I secretly wish that his room was ours, because I love the slanted ceiling and that you get to step down into the room. But our master bedroom is enormous—we’ve talked about portioning off part of it for a reading area, or perhaps an electric fireplace someday. (One can dream…)

Owen has ample room to crawl, and we have extra doors to remember to shut and block off, but that’s a welcome problem. Roy has a library of his own and I have a sweet kitchen. There’s our very own garage (another first) that blocks out the snow and ice of cold winter mornings, and a relatively quiet neighborhood with miles of safe roads to run in any direction. It’s an abundance I dare not grow too accustomed to.

I cherish each place we’ve lived, and, being a complete sucker for nostalgia, loved looking back over our homes and remembering the good in each one. But I am oh, so thankful for this house. I didn’t know if we would ever own a house, and it has provided us with a beautiful location and space to raise our sweet boys. Praise God from whom all blessings flow!

Today’s 1%: Well, I remembered that yesterday was the one year anniversary of moving into the house… On a different note though, we went running this morning and I never really got tired at any point. I think I’m getting better at my pacing, and hopefully getting stronger too to be able to run for longer distances. I still HATE getting out the door, but once I get going, especially if Roy and I can chat while we do it, it’s pretty enjoyable. And you can’t beat the endorphins.

I, Ai, Aye, Eye, etc

Turning thirty didn’t phase me. I don’t feel any older and I don’t think I look terribly old. (I remember thinking my mom must be old when she turned thirty…the utter nonsense of children.) I doubt that it’s the turning thirty part that has me all confused about life lately, but they do seem to fit together somehow.

This is one of those blogs that I may never press “publish.” It’s cathartic to just write and try to summarize a zillion thoughts that have been zooming around my head lately. I’ve had some help sorting through them from a few people, but writing is another strategy. So here goes…

I’m a people pleaser. I don’t know how much of this had to do with a strong emphasis on respecting authority and obedience from my family situation and how much of it is just who I am wired to be, but I’ve always put stock in keeping everybody happy. And if somebody happens to be unhappy at me, I’ve equated that with some type of failure on my part. Clearly there are unhealthy things about this, but I’ve gotta be honest and say that pleasing people gets you places. Getting good grades (to please professors) leads to scholarships. Practicing four hours a day (to please teachers) made me a great musician and brought numerous job opportunities my way. Thinking about what would make my friends and family happy has created joyful memories and lots of laughter. And most of the time it makes me happy to make others happy.

But it has also always made me feel weak. Like I never had a true opinion of my own. That I could never hold my own in some kind of debate. I avoid political discourse like the plague, and only know enough about the controversial discussions on Facebook to see that most people lack a lot of wisdom and knowledge before spouting off in a public arena. I could say that I don’t ever write on those long wall posts because those people are wasting their time (which is largely true), but I also secretly feel like I don’t really know what I’m talking about, ever, so it’s better to just steer clear. People-pleasing also increasingly makes me feel exhausted and guilty. Because no matter how hard I try, I can't please enough people simultaneously in 24 hours.

Lately, in the past couple of years, I’ve started to think less of how people view me. Don’t get me wrong…it still almost always matters, and I still want to crawl in a hole and die when somebody is upset with me, but it’s not quite the crushing stranglehold it once was. My church job has put me in weekly meetings with some very wise people, and they have validated my contributions consistently. Maybe the timid things I share (only when asked!) aren’t entire nonsense and/or obvious to all already? My husband, who is brilliant and logical, listens to me and wants to know my opinion before anyone else. And he usually agrees with me! (Really? Honestly?)

I want to think that this is healthy. That maybe being a little more assertive and confident in myself is a good thing. That I don’t have to live in fear of upsetting people and that not always agreeing doesn’t mean that anybody is wrong or in a state of disunity.

But how do I balance that with a spirit of humility? A spirit of selflessness? A spirit of always wanting the best for others? I frighten myself when I DO have an opinion that I feel strongly enough to share. It’s almost always a burning, passionate opinion that leaves me breathless and exhilarated. It’s freeing. It’s terrifying. It probably doesn’t change anybody else’s mind. But is that why I’m sharing it in the first place? I think the explosion has a lot more to do with thirty years of pent-up-ness of never saying what I actually think.

I think I need more practice.

I think I'm still growing up.

Darn.

Anybody have any thoughts about this? (So much for not publishing…)

And I completely realize I’ve used the word “I” more times in one post than should ever be allowed…

Today’s 1%: Shopped and packed boxes for Operation Christmas Child. James helped me sort through items and get them ready to send around the world. Love this ministry—it’s a lot more tangible to shop with your three year old for actual gifts than explain that you send money to support a child (which we do as well).

Checking in

I feel as if a long blog post must happen in the near future. I've been up and down the east coast, tunneled through several dozen bridal gowns, eaten a vegan and gluten-free diet for five days, flown over the Statue of Liberty twice, conducted a performance at a swanky rich-people-only club, and resurrected a white noise machine all by myself. It's been quite a unique week and it deserves more detail, but there simply hasn't been time. Perhaps tomorrow...

Today's 1%: I successfully navigated inner city driving and parking to and from a location I was unable to see from the street. At night. This type of task terrifies me, to be frank, and I was glad to not hit anything or anybody. (I only had to walk down one creepy alleyway.) 😳

Being Owen: 11 Months

Swinging at Aunt Kerry's pumpkin patch.

Eating leaves in Albion.

Always happy to oblige for a photo op.

Tigger 'n Tigger.

After an unsuccessful attempt to remove his hood.

Up too late and ready for games at Hilltop Nova. Somewhere there is an identical pose of me at that age with my dad.

More swinging. Pucker up.

Reaching for Daddy's breakables is a favorite pastime.

Happy to share the steering responsibilities at last.

This is Owen in a thirty second nutshell. He is the happiest kid on the planet.

Today's 1%: There is so much to catch up on from the past week or two, but the 1% from just today would be feeling like I struck an appropriate balance between productivity and lots of quality time with my little boys. This probably means that I had a lucky day more than made some kind of marked, measurable improvement, but I loved every second of it.

Brief check-in

This week has flown by! I've attempted to cram in a lot of extra work and prep before leaving tomorrow for a four day weekend in Charlotte with my best friend. I'm so excited to help her plan her wedding, but I'm definitely stressed about leaving the boys, particularly Owen, who is still nursing. I pray we both do OK and that we don't prematurely end what has been a very good arrangement.

Today's 1%: I made coffee this morning that tasted as good as Roy's first daily pot. He left before I got a cup, so I measured extra-carefully (I learned only recently that I had been overzealous with my bean-water ratio). It was mellow and warm and did exactly what it was supposed to do caffeine-wise. I think I'm ready for another cup...

Dear...

Dear male employee at Barnes and Noble,

Please don’t publicly reprimand me for riding your store’s escalator with my two small boys. I have a teeny tiny stroller that fits easily and I promise I won’t sue your store if something should go wrong. We COME to your store so we can ride the escalator, and when you yell at us my three year old feels shamed and his morning is spoiled. Also, people in the south can get away with calling somebody ma’am, but up here, especially when you bark it, it sounds rude.

Dear professional women in Starbucks,

I’m sorry I am wider than a normal human being when I am hand-holding a three year old and hip-hoisting an eleven month old. Please bear with me as I attempt to juggle them, two snacks, a handbag, and a small, hot coffee to the nearest available table. I clearly see that I am inconveniencing you and your journeys onward to important professional womanly things, but my boys are behaving beautifully and I will be out of your way as quickly as I can. And don’t look down at me like I’m a lesser human being. Just because I’m wearing jeans doesn’t mean I don’t have a masters degree and work hard at a great job on TOP of being a stay-at-home mom.

Dear professional man in Starbucks parking lot,

Please don’t honk and glare at me for nearly hitting your car. Au contraire—you almost hit ME as you came flying down the other side of the lot. I didn’t have a stop or yield sign and the intersection was closer to my vehicle. I noticed how you didn’t stop before pulling out into the crazy traffic and I hope you had a genuine emergency to be making such poor choices.

Dear to-do list,

                Why must you stare up at me, begging me to pay you attention? There are few things I’d rather do, but babies are tumbling all over and crawling up my legs and preschoolers are demanding books read and snacks and my 100% attention at all times. How DOES one get laundry downstairs when you have a baby gate to maneuver through that’s being blocked by said baby? How DOES one plan any kind of church service when said baby thinks the computer power cord is a Twizzler and the keypad is a drum set? How DOES one plan supper when you want something light and vegetarian, your three year old wants a sandwich, your baby wants canned green beans, and your husband probably expects a big meal after being gone all day?

Dear husband,

                It’s been too nice of a fall apparently, because now that you have been gone for two whole workdays in a row my rhythm and world is completely thrown off. Come hoooommmmmme. I need helllllllllp! This whole providing for your family thing…totally overrated. ;)

As a wise woman once said, “the days are long and the years are short.”

Today’s 1%: I’ve read Berenstain Bears' Too Much Junk Food at least five times to James this morning. He asked for “nourishing, crunchy carrot sticks” with his sandwich for lunch.

Life at the car wash

"I took James down to the car wash at the bottom of the hill today. He sat for a long time watching the cars go inside. I think he really liked it!" said Roy one afternoon in the fall of 2013.

Soon we sat at the exit of the wash, to see the clean cars exit. We can do this for an hour at a time, multiple times a day. Mommy and Daddy get a lot of reading done.

Ultimately we just made ourselves at home and propped up against the windows to see the interior in action. You can clearly gauge the complete captivation as George is strewn haphazardly in the middle of the alley.

As the months passed we journeyed to the car wash countless times. Visitors and special guests joined when permitted.

Then one day Mommy and Daddy said we were moving away from the car wash to a new house. They said we needed more space. Daddy took me to the car wash the night before we moved. I was so sad. There were so many changes.

But guess what? The car wash isn't TOO far away from our new house, and sometimes we can come and visit. Daddy brought me and Owen this week and I got to show him around. It was a lot of fun, so I 'm not sure why Mommy cried when she saw this picture.

Today's 1%: I have kept up with the kitchen for 28 hours.

Date Night In: Fall Comfort

The downside of having your eleven month old nap for only 30 minutes all day is probably pretty obvious. But the big upside of yesterday’s nap strike was an early, happy, easy bedtime. Unlike September’s DNI, the boys were both in bed by 7:45, with no danger of interrupting us for many hours. We eased downstairs, high fived, and I headed toward the kitchen. There were a mountain of dishes from earlier in the day and I meant to wash many of them before we sat down to eat. Roy looked at them and said, “It’s a good thing I’ll be home tomorrow morning to wash all of these.” I decided to just pop the casserole in the oven.

You may remember from my previous post our menu:

Spiced Cider Toddy

Brussels Sprouts Slaw with Grapes and Feta

White Bean and Pumpkin Gratin with Crispy Shallot Crumbs

Grandma’s Apple Cake with Maple Cream

You may also remember that we had already consumed half the apple cake with Martha. The cake was OK. I didn’t not like it, but I’ve had some incredible apple pie the past two weeks and this just didn’t keep up. I was also mad at it for breaking into three pieces when I tried to take it out of the pan. With this in mind, I asked Roy if we could save the toddy for after dinner, since it would be hot and sweet and perhaps give us a better, lingering ending. He agreed.

I had prepped the slaw and gratin in the afternoon, so all I had to do was finish baking the gratin and toss the dressing with the slaw. We were eating, on the couch with warm blankets, (this is Fall Comfort after all), by 8PM. My kind of date night…

The salad was good! The bitter Brussels sprouts were tempered with sweet, cool grapes and creamy, salty sheep’s milk feta. I’m not a huge fan of normal feta, but this was much smoother and richer. Thumbs up. Ashley recommended concord grapes, but we already had normal green in the house. Visually, it could have used the pop of a darker grape, but the flavors were complex and altogether pleasant.

How did I not like Brussels sprouts as a child?

The gratin tasted like Thanksgiving. It seriously tasted like green bean casserole, but better, and without green beans.

We don't have any more green beans anyway, because this kid eats them, literally, by the can. Don't worry folks, I buy sodium-free!

We used butternut squash instead of pumpkin and I wrestled with an unroasted squash to get the small chunks called for. In the future I think I could get away with gently roasting it FIRST to make the cubing easier. I liked how it remained pretty chunky in the gratin though, so I would be careful not to over-roast. The panko crumbs on top and GRUYERE CHEESE made the dish though—we fought hard to not go back and consume the other half.

This is the gratin.

This is our dessert from last month's DNI. I can see how you'd be confused.

It was a smaller dinner than the first Date Night In, and that was OK. I dished up some more apple cake and cream before warming the cider toddy.

Stupid apple cake. Look at those little rivers of cream soaking through though. Hellllllloooo!

The toddy was the best part for me. The spices and the local cider were excellent, and the whiskey (yup…) paired so well with the fresh ginger. They stayed hot for a long time and we sipped and chatted and enjoyed the luxury of all the warmth soaking through us.

One for you and one for me. Do you taste all the whi-skey?

It wasn’t one of those starry-eyed date nights. It was a comfortable evening, when we had filling, familiar-tasting food to enjoy together and chat about anything and everything. That’s my favorite kind of date night actually, and I think we usually do it quite well.

I don’t remember exactly how I asked or what I said, but basically it was, “How do you do it”
And I meant, “By what miracle or magic powers do you maintain a growing relationship for so long, still have things to talk about, and still like and desire and want to be around each other?”

“Commitment,” he quickly replied. “It’s what gets you through the bumps.”…There is comfort in our commitment but not complacency. It’s not “I’m stuck with him”; it’s “How can we love each other better because you’re my person and I’m yours?” The commitment keeps us bound together in the times when we are tempted to quit. Because of commitment we are able to come out on the other side to experience how incredible it is when you are completely known and still loved.”

-Ashley Rodriguez, Date Night In, p. 199

So, two down, twenty three to go (that's date nights in, not number of children). And, for those of you attending Canadian Thanksgiving next week, you may end up trying one of these recipes…

Today’s 1%: I set up the baby gate in the kitchen, blocking me from the little boys after breakfast. This enabled me to clean up quickly and efficiently, and prevented Owen from tipping over the kitchen trash, opening the door to the basement and falling down the stairs, eating the crumbs under the cabinets, and/or climbing into the dishwasher. (They were both standing at the gate whining at me the whole time though.)

October Date Night In: Preparations

Date Night In! Date Night In! Time for the second Date Night In!

<repeat chant marching around kitchen, keeping time with large spoon for added emphasis>

Roy and I have chosen “Fall Comfort” for our first autumn DNI. It looks relatively simple, but is full of our favorite fall flavors. We chose this date night two weeks ago and, I must admit, we’ve enjoyed a lot of those flavors in other forms quite a bit already, but I think we can handle a little more.

The menu, which we will enjoy tomorrow evening:

Spiced Cider Toddy

Brussels Sprouts Slaw with Grapes and Feta

White Bean and Pumpkin Gratin with Crispy Shallot Crumbs

Grandma’s Apple Cake with Maple Cream

There wasn’t anything particularly gripping about any of these dishes, but as a whole they sounded aromatic and warm and comforting. So today I sat down and made a list of the ingredients we’d need especially for this DNI. Here’s my grocery list, which does include a few extra staples:

4 oz Brussels sprouts

1 leek

1 lemon

2 Granny Smith apples

2 oz sheep’s milk feta

2 oz Gruyere

Panko

Champagne vinegar

Whole cloves

…

Potatoes

Eggs

Canned green beans

Buttermilk

Bananas

I packed the boys up and we headed to Wegmans. Once arrived I fished around, multiple times, in my purse to locate the post-it pad that had my list. Nothing. I scoured my pockets. Nothing.

Siiiiiiiiiiigh. Do I drive back and get the list and drive back? Should I just go for it? But there’s a 99% chance I won’t remember everything…

Ultimately I went for it. I sat down and recreated the list as best as I could, thinking through each dish of the menu as I went. We headed in and I found everything I could remember, except for leeks, which I’m pretty sure just weren’t there. I saw a labeled area that was devoid of leeks. I opted for scallions instead. We did the obligatories, including the free cookie, watching a few laps of the overhead train, oohing and aahing over a giant inflatable spider, and deflecting requests for a helium balloon. (“It’s the United STATES Mommy!!!”)

We got home and, I’ll admit, I headed immediately to the kitchen table to find my list. It wasn’t there. WHERE WAS THAT FLINGING FLANGING LIST?!? I looked more carefully and saw the pad of post-its on the table, which meant I had peeled the list off. With dread, I slowly inserted my hand into my pocket once more. Sure enough, nestled into a tiny corner was a tiny folded post-it note. That bugger had experienced the sights and sounds of Wegmans just as much as any of the rest of us. I unfolded it and scanned the list…

Sheep’s milk feta, apples, vinegar, lemon, … … NO. WAY. I remembered EVERYTHING!!!!

<Insert major fist pump and exclaiming of one’s accomplishment. James was unimpressed, which is ironic, as he is 50% of why it was so impressive The other 50% was already heading toward the staircase to test the baby gate.>

So we have everything. I made the apple cake already, with special permission from Roy. We are hosting Martha for dinner and I didn’t want to make two consecutive fall-ish desserts (Well, I did, but my waistline didn’t.). The cake tastes great. Want to know how I know that already? Because I let it cool for 10 minutes, PER INSTRUCTIONS, and then flipped it out of the pan onto a rack, PER INSTRUCTIONS. And it broke into three crumbly chunks. Roy immediately shouted, “Lemme get my camera for Date Night In!” And I shushed him, but I’ll probably take a picture anyway, because this isn’t about being perfect.

<repeat chant marching around kitchen, keeping time with large spoon for added emphasis>

Sigh.

I also made spiced cider for the toddy. Thank you Lucas and Melissa for leaving wonderful local cider with us yesterday—you saved me another item on my list for purchase today. The spiced cider, so far, hasn’t experienced any catastrophe, but we won’t drink it until tomorrow.

Today’s 1%: I think this whole entry was about that. I REMEMBERED. Here’s to being 30, having two boys, and still occasionally being semi-sharp.

Brief hello

Today’s 1%:

The downstairs of my house is clean on a Saturday night. This NEVER HAPPENS. Since I work on Saturday evenings and first thing Sunday mornings, usually I get home at 7PM on Saturday, get the boys to bed, grab something simple to eat, and collapse. Tonight I took a little time while Roy was out picking up date night pizza to straighten and finish the dishes. I think I’ll sleep better tonight because of it.

Except that Owen has been crying on the hour every hour…

A review

I've fallen out of like with TV, which I largely consider an excellent thing. I watched The Good Wife through a certain pivotal moment in season 5 but then found a lot of the juicy tension had evaporated. I keep saying I'm saving the past season for nights when Roy is at concerts, but that hasn't really happened. I dunno if it's going to.

We gave up Netflix a year ago to try Amazon Prime. It's more than paid for itself in shipping and handling, and we've had some new and different shows and movies to watch. But we haven't really used that part of Prime very much. I find the selection lacking, to be honest. I miss Netflix. 

So when I was poking around the reality TV section of Prime and stumbled across The Great British Baking Show I was pretty skeptical. But...Great British and Baking are powerful persuasives, so after a long hunt presenting nothing more alluring, I watched the first episode.

It's a scream.

I've enjoyed MasterChef marathons with Kylie in the past, but sometimes the dramatic music and obviously-scripted dialogue gets annoying. (That being said, the apple pie episode with Christine still makes me cry just thinking about it...) TGBBS is all of the good stuff of MasterChef--the amazing challenges, cooking tips, judging, and beautiful results--without the overdramatized sound effects and cattiness of the contestants. Maybe Brits are just nicer people--or maybe their accents cover up a lot of the classlessness? Anyway, I'm loving it. Roy even peeks now and then and said "this show is a riot." That's about as golden of a recommendation as you'll ever get from him.

So watch. "Awwwwww" over the sweet little old lady judge. Tolerate the two comedienne hosts, who are obnoxious, but only have brief screen time. (The way the one yells "ready, setBAKE!!!!" sounds exactly like a chicken.) Drool over the pies, sponges, breads, and candies. Savor the fact that it's all done in a tent outside on a beautiful piece of British countryside. And everybody is using THESE!

Today's 1%: I let Roy drag me outside in the 48 degree weather to run a few miles. I didn't want to at ALL, but I'm semi-determined (hah, that's a semi-oxymoron) to keep the endorphins flowing. I never would have made it out there on my own, but his insistence, plus the purchase of a double stroller this summer gets my butt out there on days when I'd rather eat bread and sip a chai latte under a warm blanket. Sigh. It's going to be a long winter.