Ribbons of happiness

So my newest toy is this bad boy:

I didn't take that picture, but the noodles are honest-to-goodness that handsome.

I’ve never been into kitchen gadgetry, but I was seeing so many amazing recipes that called for spiralized veggies I became intrigued. The colors! The versatility! Owen refuses purees but will eat tons of textured veggies. James is an odd three year old who won’t touch pasta but consumes most vegetables like they’re going out of style. Squash are in season and we are always looking for healthy new recipes to try. And, most importantly, it looked like FUN. So I thought…hmmmmm. Roy surprised me with a really nice one. Thanks Amazon Prime for your almighty Wishlist—enabling a spouse to order exactly what the other wants with free shipping.

James has decided that the spiralizer is the best toy ever. He is my noodle-making-helper and taste-tester. I hooked him on it with lightly sautéed sweet potatoes noodles with cinnamon and brown sugar. At 9 in the morning. BOOM.

Last night I had planned a nice dinner for Roy and I after the kids were in bed. But I wanted to make sure the boys had some veggies with their dinner too. Out came a yellow squash. Out came the Paderno. Five minutes later it was on their plate and tray. And they devoured it. Voile--the fun of noodles without the taste of pasta (weird children…)!

 

He's happy, I promise.

And then, a few hours later, we ate this:

Thanks pinchofyum.com for the yummy recipe!

It was a happy anniversary.

Today’s 1%: A curved shower rod in your tiny bathroom completely changes your bathing experience. Even though the actual tub is zero percent bigger it absolutely convinces you of its spacious cavern of relaxation. Here’s to helping the cold of winter go down a little easier. 

8 years!

Happy anniversary to my better half. Last night during Amish date night (don’t ask…) we spent a sweet hour remembering and savoring each moment of how we came to know each other. We also marveled at how there could ever have been a time when we didn’t know each other. There is no one I can relax around faster, no one who makes me laugh harder, no one more creative in how he loves than my husband. He is the FUNNEST dad and it’s a privilege to see familiar flashes of him in his sons May they grow up to be every bit as wise, fun-loving, and selfless as their daddy.

Today’s 1%: Spent some really concentrated Mommy-James time together for the first time in a while last night and this morning. Sometimes I think he would rather do his own thing, but he quickly warmed up and delighted in doing a new puzzle together (the 50 states!) and hearing about each state’s unique contributions.

1% infinity

It’s been almost two years since I’ve publicly posted on this blog. I’ve thought about it from time to time, but life happens, you know? Also, my husband got super into his own blog, which kind of minimized my desire to try to keep up. He was sharing a lot of the same family stories and anecdotes I would have, and doing it far more eloquently, so inspiration waned.

We’re about to start a new school year—he’ll be off performing with the orchestras and our family and friends are returning to schools and normal routines again. I don’t exactly feel as if I’m joining them—the first day of school, complain as I did about it, was one of the best days of the year. New notebooks and pencils, a fresh plan book, new textbooks to crack open and explore, and the promise of “normalcy.” For somebody who loves knowing what’s coming down the pike, there are few things better than the hearkening of a new school year.

But now I have no school to attend. My little ones (yes, there are two now) are too small to attend, and too small for me to have many other ventures besides caring for their basic needs. It’s a season, of course, and a most precious one at that, but I’m fighting a little bit of cabinfeverphobia (#hashtaginthemaking). It’s August 24 but I’m already fearing the onset of the cold and being stuck inside and few grownups to connect with about things other than our preschoolers.

I’m also realizing that I need to find new things to explore and with which to create. I can’t practice piano and flute the same way I used to. I don’t have time and it’s usually too loud for sleeping babies. I still play when I can, and am an active musician, but I don’t have the luxury of really enjoying practicing anymore. It used to be a way to commit my physical, emotional, and spiritual being into one very focused activity, and it was immensely satisfying. So what now?

The past year has found me experimenting in the kitchen more and more. I’m loving trying new things, and am growing increasingly dissatisfied with eating the same old tastes. (Except pizza. I’m always down for pizza.) And the challenge and science of baking is fascinating to me. So I’m reading food blogs while I nurse Owen, I’m dreaming up excuses to try a new recipe, and I’m on the lookout for new ingredients I’ve never used before.

I’m trying very hard to become a runner, like my esteemed husband. He is blessed with some kind of Idon’tgetit ability to just drop everything and run 4 miles. And ENJOY it. I have to have a literal carrot Frisbee dangling in front of me to run without being keenly aware of it. But I know that I’m a different animal after I exercise. I’m a nicer person. I’m nicer to others and I’m nicer to myself. And what’s cheaper than running? So I’m trying again. And my ankles hurt. And my hips hurt. But I can run between 2-3 miles without dying, which is cool I guess. I’m experimenting with different strategies to not think about how awful it can be. Podcasts and going with the boys in a jogging stroller help. And when I’m done I feel awesome.

I fear failure and I fear not being able to succeed at something immediately. (Which I equate with failure…) So, my adopted principal for the rest of the calendar year is that of “one percent infinity.” I might not be able to make Beef Wellington tonight at the drop of a hat, or run a 10K, or practice an instrument for more than twenty minutes at a time, but I can improve something, each day, by 1%. And those 1%s add up to a lot of %s.

So, here’s my secret return to blogging world. I have no idea if this will be a single post or the start of something new, but I’m not going to sweat it. (She said to herself with a laugh.)

*Today’s 1%: I made pancakes this morning and had more success doing a quick, controlled flip of each pancake. This is a technique that I’m embarrassingly bad at. Thankfully they taste OK, but it’d be nice if they were pretty pancakes too. The secret for today’s improvement was to commit and do it fast.

Happy birthday sweetest James!

James turns two tomorrow.  He is angelic.  He willingly and eagerly eats vegetables, wants to help clean the house, is adoringly gentle and reverent of babies younger than him, and loves saying his prayers and singing Holy Holy Holy.  I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop since he was 4 weeks and sleeping through the night.  Occasionally I drag my feet over introducing him to new situations because heaven help me if I’m the one to break the spell.

So we haven’t talked much about the dreaded P word.  As long as those diapers fit and he’s not overfilling them I haven’t felt the rush.  But others might.  James got some “big boy pants” as an early birthday present from his surrogate grandmother the other day.  She is a smart woman.  Not only are they big boy pants, incentive enough, but they have basketballs on them.  In James’ world that’s almost as magical a combination as the episode of Curious George where he rides a train.  I mean…wow.

James thought the briefs were cool.  But there were other more important things about, so I tucked them away on top of his dresser and forgot about them.  Until tonight, when I was visiting the room that contains the P word.  The door handle bobbed up and down, pushed in, and my angelic toddler entered.  (I’ve got to remember to lock the doors in this apartment.)  He quickly sized up the situation and motioned for me to hurry.  I completed my task and James told me (mostly through hand motions) that he wanted to take a turn on the P word. 

This is new.  He hasn’t shown an interest, I haven’t pushed, and the world has been fine.  But, we do have a little P word stowed away in a closet, awaiting its turn in the limelight.  So I asked James if he would really like to try the P word.  “Yaaahhhh!!”  I asked him why and he ran into his bedroom, stretched on his tiptoes, and pulled the package of big boy pants off the top, pointing eagerly at the basketballs.  Grandma Joy is VERY smart.  (And so is he.)

So we unpacked the P word and I plopped James upon it.  He sat there in awe, a look of wonder and determination on his face.  I totally expected that it would be a 30 second visit and then it would be over.  But no.  He insisted on staying put.  He couldn’t say it in English, but I am quite positive he was going to stay there until he “contributed.”  He had me read books, sing the ABC song 20 times in a row, and keep him company, periodically peeking between his legs to see if anything had happened.

I’m sure he would have sat there until the victory was won, but Uncle Lucas stopped by for a visit and he got the stage fright. 

I am STILL waiting for the other shoe to drop, because it can’t be that easy.  It won’t be.  But…with James.  You never know. 

Ten years

I began asking to get my ears pierced when I was three.  My mom had such pretty earrings that beautifully complemented her outfits.  I used to hold her jewelry up to my own ears, marveling at how improved I looked.  Earrings to me were the essence of beauty.  I asked over and over again if I could get my own earrings, and was always given the same old predictable, disappointing response, “When you turn thirteen.  We want you to be old enough to be responsible for them yourself.”

Those ten years took an eternity.  I think my parents would agree that I was mature for my age, and probably would have done just fine with earrings at an earlier age than thirteen.  But by then it was law, and consistency in parenting is very important.  (This we are discovering.)  Still, I ticked each birthday off and always thought, “X many years left until I can get my ears pierced!” 

Ten years is a very long time.

Ten years ago this weekend I moved into my freshman dorm on the campus of Roberts Wesleyan College.  That terrifyingly wonderful day tasted like an odd mixture of the first day of summer camp and going to jail.  This great fear of the unknown, which looked from all angles to be a pretty wonderful unknown, was entirely unexplored.  For somebody who had been homeschooled K-12 and never sat in a real classroom, college posed a greater mystery to me than most of my fellow freshmen.

I knew my roommate already, having met her at an honors weekend the campus had hosted a few months earlier.  We didn’t know each other at all, but hit it off during the weekend and decided that we should be roommates to avoid the risk of being paired up with psychopaths.  As potential honors students, this turned out to be a very good strategy.  Meg was bubbly, excited, self-assured, and smart.  We didn’t hold many of the same interests, but we coexisted nicely as roommates who didn’t need to be BFFs.

Still, other than a couple of professors and upperclassmen, I didn’t know a single soul in this new place.  My parents worked diligently over the day to help me unpack my belongings and set up my room in a way that looked homey.  My dad, ever the craftsman, went to Lowes at least twice to purchase materials to create extra shelving.  My mom made my bed with tears in her eyes, placing on top of my favorite comforter a new stuffed dog to keep me company in the ensuing weeks.

During one trip of unloading the minivan, she whispered in my ear, “You know. I think you should get to know that girl.  She just looks like she would be a good friend.”  “That girl,” Megan, ended up being an instant kindred spirit, and a friendship that has continued to this day.  My mom has a great eye.  She also pointed out the gal living next door as a potential friend.  Adrienne turned out to be a fellow flutist and music major, which linked us inextricably to the other.

I remember other things about that day.  I remember one pair of olive green pants hanging in my closet.  They just disappeared later that year for no good reason (the psychopathic roommates perhaps), but I specifically can picture them in my dorm room that day.  I remember praying with my parents in the parking lot before they drove away, the three of us blinking back tears.  (Well, not so much Dad.  After all, he had conquered the shelving problem.)  I remember walking over to dinner in the cafeteria, still unsure of where to sit or what to do.  I plunked myself down next to another intimidated-looking girl and faked confidence, introducing myself and initiating conversation.  She looked as shy on the outside as I felt on the inside.  Years later, she would remind me of this exchange and what an impact it had on her.  I remember bumping into Mrs. Shewan in the cafeteria, one of a handful of people I actually knew.  She gave me a hug (I later learned that these hugs are rather rare) and bubbled about how excited her family was that I was moved in.

I remember longing for deep conversation and getting beyond the small talk.  I hate small talk.  What a waste of time.  There was an awful lot of it in those first days and weeks, but it did paid off.  So many friendships.  So many lasting memories.  Such an impact in my life.  It wasn’t but a week later that I had met my future husband and my best friend.  The cry of my heart before leaving was that Roberts would provide me with friends.  True friends.  The kind that last a lifetime.  The Lord answered those prayers abundantly.  And it all seems like it happened yesterday.

Ten years is a very short time.

Insomniac

So I'm in bed once again tonight, unable to fall asleep. The past weeks have been fraught with change. Decisions, information, questions. And I can't figure it all out, although I'm sure trying awfully hard to, particularly when I should be sleeping. So I pulled out my tablet and decided to tap out my frustrations, and with it my suspicion that these circumstances are revealing a weak part of my character.

I hate change. I hate it at all levels and I always have.  My poor mother couldn't get rid of me in the womb, probably because I was clawing to anything I could grab to avoid eviction from my first home.  I hate little changes.  I hate when the layout on Facebook changes and I can't figure out where anything is. I hate when my evening plans are altered at the last minute. I hate when the grocery store stops carrying my favorite kind of popcorn. These things shake me. And they're small.

Big changes are immobilizing. I'm the type of person who's pretty good at everything I try.  There's a reason for that. Before I try anything I sit back and watch good and long and figure out as much as I can about how it works before I dare try my hand at it. I research, think, reason, and then, maybe, I'll give it a go.  Usually all that anticipating pays off and people say I'm "a natural." I'm not. I'm just a decent observer.

So if you ask me to leave my job to do something completely new, or move to a new city, or think about something challenging in the Bible (sell everything...really?!?) I will fight it with every fiber of my being. I don't know if I'll survive. And I might not be good at it, which would clearly be the end of the world.

VWH and I are facing some change this year. Change that doesn't even mean leaving the state! But it does necesscitate leaving our house. And moving to the other side of the city, which means being father away from some of our dearest family and friends. Twenty minutes shouldn't really make too much of a difference, but it's CHANGE. So I'm squirming and fighting and not sleeping.

I think back to the biggest changes of my life. There have been a few. Leaving for college was a biggie, especially a college that was six hours away from my homeschooled life. I knew I wanted to go, but I cried and dreaded and mourned. Deciding to marry my husband was a pretty big one, no? I knew in my head that I wanted this incredible guy, but the swirl of change surrounding it was terrifying. Having our first child...how are we going to afford, will we have room, will our marriage suffer, what about work, etc, etc.  Commence dragging feet. Change=Scary.

I know scary doesn't necessarily mean failure. Or disappointment. Or even maintaining status quo. College, VWH, and James made, and continue to make, me THRIVE. I had to be talked into each of those things a bit, but I haven't regretted any of them for a moment. 

So why can't I trust people who tell me that it will be OK and that new changes can be a good thing? I mean, I have already survived big changes and seen how amazing they can be! But I still don't feel any different about new ones. I don't trust others enough. I probably don't trust God enough. And then I don't trust myself either, because I suspect that I'm not thinking clearly about the situation. It's a fragile and lonely dwelling place.

Lord, I ask you to fill me with truth. I ask for your eyes, and the eyes of others. Free me of the chokehold I put around those fleeting things I deem 'safe and secure.'  I ask for courage to let go of the petty things I hold too close. Help me to recognize wisdom, and receive it in humility. In gratitude I praise you for your blessings and abounding love.

Humor me

It’s time for me to once again put on my hat of sports commentator.  I just love this hat.  Bear in mind that I’m not a professional athlete, nor did I play sports in college, nor can I currently run more than like a mile at one time.  But that never kept me from speaking my mind about professional sports and pretending like I know at least as much as the doofuses (doofi?) on TV.  I know the most about professional football (boys are impressed), figure skating (can rank the jumps in order of difficulty, plus recognize them before takeoff), and gymnastics (my truest love, and the one I actually have dipped a toe into experiencing first-hand).  So naturally, when these sports are on television I make it a priority to clear my schedule and watch, ideally in solitude.  This eliminates unnecessary small talk about uniform color schemes, what kind of snacks are in the kitchen, and whether or not nude stockings look better over skates or not.  Honestly.

Last night I spent two hours absorbing every iota of NBC’s coverage of the 2013 P&G Gymnastics Championships. (The ‘national championships’ for you laymen out there.)  I didn’t tape it like I usually do, because the year after an Olympics is typically a snooze.  Everybody peaked 12 months ago, so the field is littered with either exhausted, half-in-shape older gymnasts, or younger, inexperienced ones.  At most you may have one or two who were born in the wrong year and whose careers will peak now and wane before 2016 rolls around.  But that’s just depressing to think about.  So, anyway, I didn’t tape it.  But that didn’t keep me from taking notes and commentating.  In many ways I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of performances.  It was not a splat fest by any means.  I know you’ve all been on pins and needles waiting for this.  Here’s my report card from the 2013 National Championships…

B+ to Simone Biles, all-around winner of the national title.  An up-and-comer, Simone had a total crash and burn a month ago at the U.S. Classic (a qualifying meet for nationals).  After a pep-talk from Queen Martha she bounced back and led this competition from the get-go, increasing her lead to almost 2 points before giving almost all of it all back on her final routine of the competition.  The pressure got to her once again, but her gymnastics and talent is off the charts.  She’s built like Mary Lou Retton with the mental toughness of a pre-London Gabby Douglas.  It will be interesting to see if she can hold out for another three years to Rio.  I suspect not, but time will tell.  An immediate asset in vaulting and bars.

A- to Kyla Ross, veteran at 16, and returning member of the Fierce Five.  Kyla is the only Olympian who continued training without break and it showed.  She floats.  Her grace, extension, and consistency will win her many international favors.  I look for her to do well at the upcoming world championships in Belgium.  Glorious bars and beam—hoping for some added difficulty in the next few years.

A to McKayla Maroney, other competing member of the Olympic team.  McKayla has survived a devastating Olympic vault final, numerous leg surgeries, and one viral meme in the past year.  She only competed vault and floor at these championships, but won both events and showed a new level of determination and awareness in her performances.  I look for her mental toughness to grow and for her to transition into the real leader of the United States team.  She wants redemption for her silver medal on vault in Rio…Maroney is the new Sacramone.  We’re impressed McKayla!

These three ladies are virtual locks for the world championship team.  Honestly, with only two per event, they don’t even need a fourth member.  I see the team shaping up like this:

All-around: Biles, Ross (if both hit, both could, and probably should, medal)

Vault: Maroney, Biles (if both hit, they’ll go 1-2 in the world)

Bars: Ross, Biles (possible shot for a medal, particularly for Ross)

Beam: Ross, Biles (this one depends much more on the rest of the world, but one could sneak in)

Floor: Maroney, Biles (both have a real chance for a medal)

So who does that fourth spot go to?  That, my friends, is what that final selection camp is for on the sacred Karolyi ranch.  Martha has tons of options to consider.  She can take another all-arounder and see what, if any, impact that individual makes.  She can take a specialist, although they’d have to be through the roof just to beat their American teammates.  So perhaps her best bet is to take somebody who needs the experience.  Somebody who isn’t going to peak in 2013 or 2014, but very well could by 2016.  If that’s the case she’ll want somebody young with lots of potential.  I’m not going to make a guess at this point, but if anybody reads this and actually cares, feel free to comment.

A bonus B goes to Nastia Liukin, for her surprisingly good commentary for NBC.  Nastia’s all grown up now, and whatever commentating training she’s done is paying off.  (Maybe she sits in her living room in solitary confinement and practices too.)  Obviously, I would have been willing to step in there and hold my own, but, you know.  Five Olympic medals compared to my 2 puny years of gymnastic lessons in middle school is a hard sell to Tim Daggett.  Still, if he could have watched me commentate I’m sure you would have heard things like “unbelievable, shocking, unreal, mind-blowing, out of this world,” and, my favorite, “if you had told me four years ago that Julie Smith would come in and commentate better than Elfi or Nastia I would have said, no way, it couldn’t happen.”

Oh, did anybody see the 13 year old on floor?  And did anybody hear what Tim said about her?  Yikes.