The "getting real" post

It happens, every so often, that I read a flurry of articles and blog posts imploring mommy bloggers and fashion bloggers and farming bloggers and faith bloggers to just get real. (Political bloggers need not fuss with this stricture as there is no getting around the real ugly.)

In case you missed the memo(s): Others' Facebook happiness makes us depressed, Pinterest as a whole makes us dissatisfied with our mere human crafting/cooking/skydiving abilities, and the rosy lives pictured in weblogs are akin to Photoshopped models in fashion ads, creating a rarified air that none of us can really breathe. Focusing on the positive can smother a person, apparently.

Pshaw.

 If y'all want ugly there's always mainstream media. And the cupboard to the left of the sink. And screen-time-limit meltdowns and arriving a month early (or a month late!) to the orthodontist-whose-bill-comes-anyway, or an aching shoulder and a little bit of arthritis in that hand that makes you inadvertently drop a pot full of stewed tomatoes. Talk about a hot mess. The satellite internet limit that is exceeded by streaming school classes two weeks into the month. And the neighbor who left cookies in your mailbox and then got upset when the mail lady thanked you for them when they were so obviously for your kids from the neighbor (Follow? Me neither!). Someone from your church facing divorce, someone in your family facing cancer.

I kinda got on a roll there just thinking about the "real" of this week. It's only Tuesday.

You know, these are the everyday and bigger uglinesses that just don't bear talking about.

 Let's encourage each other with thankfulness and prettiness and focus on that. Won't you? I am aware that on your blogs and facebook pages, most of you edit out the schmutz. And I'm good with that. Not because I don't want you to be real! I do! I am so achingly glad you a real human being on this journey with me, and I want to walk with you through whatever you want to share.

One of the ways I survive the ugly is to post the pretty.

Y'all know it's bad if you can't look around and find some beauty. 

There's my one-time farmhouse. It is so very pretty in each season. Finally sale pending and approaching closure, not that I want to jinx anything, after seven escrows. Seven. I haven't blogged adequately about the heart-wrenching decision to move to this new farm two years ago. I haven't shared in any small part how I feel about the quality of light at that house, about how I left behind community and struck out for something new and found myself not just alone in the wilderness but lonely here. It took more than a year to understand that the light filtering through forest is its own kind of golden green. There's a glow from the barn when the stars are the only other light, and when you drive past the spaces between the barn boards look twinkly. My garden is amazing -- and overwhelming! -- and friendships once easily maintained by a stroll down the lane and a cup of coffee remain, and that spending time with those loved ones on the once-dreaded phone and internet is a new kind of beauty.

My new farmhouse takes more careful framing to find the photo-worthy. So I focus carefully because otherwise I'd live in a puddle on the floor. Truly. I thank you for your positive, for your gratitude, for your rose-colored glasses where the world wide web is concerned. Because I think the more we zoom in on beauty, the more we find.

Yesterday I realized my husband's dog Jake died five years ago. And my dog Bonnie Belle died nearly three years ago. So we got Murphy and Molly two years ago and now Molly is gone. Guess what? I never blogged adequately about the vomit and the accidents and the geriatric care that each of those pets required in their final days. Do you know how I got on this subject? I happened upon an old photo of sweet Bonnie Belle on the forbidden couch, and then laughed as I scrolled through that album to see all of the dogs fully owning the couch at one time or another. I remembered that Jake's last trip around the property was in pursuit of sitting by Laura in the stroller, down by the barn where I was watching the big girls ride ponies. I remembered that Bonnie Belle would ever so genteelly accept treats at the coffee drive-through even though she would never, ever ingest them because she was above the crunchy bone-shaped weirdness and she knew enough to wait for homemade peanut-butter-filled jerky treats at home. Molly? Molly loved the children so much that she let them dress her in hats and scarves. She would paw around in the dress-up bin for a favorite wool (dog slobbery) beret. Which is more true? The embarrassing bodily functions of aging pets or the photographed and internet-shared memories that cast them in best light?

I'd rather watch for the prettiness on the internet and hold your hand in person when we're having a crisis, big or small. I want to be "real" with you, but not so much on the internet. I'm just sayin'.

Look! It's autumn. Or: Still peaceful, happily surprised

Madeleine took this picture at the dedication of a local park (engineering done by Mr. Suite!). And then we rode in the balloon. A Very Good Day.

Over the summer we took approximately forty-nine trips to the river, "rednecking it" with our lawn tractor trailer full of toddlers and inner tubes and a cooler full of pb&j sandwiches, iced tea in Mason jars.

For the first two weeks of October we left the flotation devices and life jackets and whatnot accessible. "One more swim" was still possible. Beach books still resided in go bags. Sun tea was even an option because we still had, you know, sunshine.

Salvador has discovered his pockets. So boy.

Now that the rain is here and our stove is crackling with flames that fog up the viewing glass I am almost instantly ready where I wasn't before. I didn't see this coming, and the surprise is a little burst of joy over and over. Fall. How is it possible to be taken unaware by a season one has loved for 40 years? I think it's a bonus, a little-known side effect of that cliched but wonderful practice of "living in the moment."

Come to find out I like the NEXT moment a lot better when I enjoy the one I'm IN well.

The tractor races at Farm Suite's front room always draw a big crowd. Scalewise anyway.

When Madeleine, our nearly 14-year-old, was a tiny baby, we were unfortunately anxious. (Royal we again.) When is the next feeding? How long will she sleep? Should she sleep that long? Can we grocery shop between naps or let her sleep in the car? We missed a lot of joyful moments, I fear, in the practice of scheduling and looking for what was next.

Our schedules today, as I go on and on about here, are ever-so-Seussian muchly much much more busier than that. (The house it often looks like it was visited by the Cat in the Hat.) On a daily basis our calendar is so full as to give me hiccups if I look toward what is next, or worse, how many/few minutes we have to prepare for "what's next." Algebra, chemistry, literature, ballet, tap, jazz, modern dance, flute lessons, community theatre rehearsals... they all go better with a cup of tea and my full attention. The next will come around in its own time.

And just in case you ever struggle, as I have for years, with how to do that, how to be fully present and still be ready when the agenda switches up, I want to share the logistical, completely non-spiritual tool that has helped me achieve a little bit of peace in apparent chaos.

It's a calendar. In my purse I keep an old-fashioned appointment calendar. I also have it hand "synched" to my phone and kitchen wall and computer calendars. Even though I resisted this system for years, preferring in my fantasies to think I was better unencumbered by such mundane tools, I actually feel much more FREE having it all written down, keyed in, cross-referenced.

My little purse calendar saves the double-booking disasters and saves my life. (We also have a newer launch pad system of dance bags, snack bags and whatnot that I think you can probably imagine better than I, and this is instrumental in the new peace system as well. I might write about that later but I'm not very predictable in the posting. Maybe I should put blogging in my calendar. A-hem.)

Does jazz start at 3:00 or 3:15 on Mondays? Would we be able to pick up an extra child in the carpool next Tuesday? Can we move flute to Friday at 4:00? In five seconds I can answer and I don't have the anxiety that comes with the not knowing, the must-remember-to-check.

When I get an email tweaking rehearsal schedules I transfer the new information to my calendar(s). When the girls get invitations to parties I write the time and contact info in my calendar. When I make my weekly menus I write them in my calendar.

The calendar saves us from the fast-food drive-through, which my kids and wallet dislike strongly, on nights when there's no time to go home for dinner between dance and theatre. I can plan ahead for portable meals for my actors and snacks for the rest of us. I can reasonably tell my dear, patient, already organized since birth engineer husband what time we will be home.

Don't get me wrong: I still struggle with busy-ness. But it seems somewhat manageable this way and I can even feel free to be happily surprised by something as small as a "divine appointment" with a friend at a coffee shop or something as huge as the change of seasons.

Now to go deflate the inner tubes. Because, friends? It's raining outside.

Any ideas?

For the past thirteen years or so I've spent my fair share of time dreading, agonizing over, planning for, celebrating (by turns) the increasing independence of my children. Cases in point are too too numerous to sort through but I'll offer the first that comes to mind: When Madeleine (now 13) lost her first tooth she immediately turned to me and said in her most grown-up lisp, "Now, Mom, don't start crying or anything."

I can even get angsty over normal growing up of other peoples' children so you know it's a distinct burden on me that I appear to be raising five spunky, sparky individuals each with her or his own opinions and goals and, you know, votes in the family democracy. Gah.

So last week Madeleine went to her first official job. She had posted color advertisements at our local bookstores and cafes listing her resume and qualifications. Energetic, responsible, oldest of five, seeks mommy's helper position. (And here I thought she already had one? Just kidding. Sort of.)

In the past she had worked for friends and family babysitting. She watches children at church and she is incredibly good with our littles. She keeps her money like a miser and has a specific goal in mind for its eventual release from savings. So in theory this was all fine with me. Until.

This was all fine with me until another family called and wanted her to interview.

I may or may not have paid to run a background check on them. After all, just because it's a small town and their boys (2 and 4) are adorable and their front porch is covered with tasteful planters and the mom and dad are cute as 28-year-old buttons, after all, these are no reasons to trust that they understand this is my BABY they're asking to borrow.

Every Monday from 10 to 1.

You'll find me parked across the street from their house with binoculars.

High and low

Busy-ness visits us here at the Suite farm. 

It seems periodically I find myself in a mess of multiple and double-booked appointments, frantic mornings and exhausted evenings. Yes, it turns out, there can be too much of a good thing.

Ballet and tap and jazz and flute. Algebra and The Story of the World.

Chess class and Gypsy rehearsals.

And now the ceremonial planting of the peas otherwise known as the beginning of gardening season; 

then the attempt to wedge in dentist visits and my own yoga and fiber art classes; 

not to mention the dog-sitting and the farrier visits...

between the exceptional and the everyday....

 Sooner than later I'm looking. 

I'm looking high and low for some quiet time.

Sarah and I snuck away to the coast. 

Grace and I had a date at Sweet Life Patisserie.

Salvador and I have driven a million miniature miles on his Cars-themed play rug.

Laura and I planted those peas.

Madeleine and I read The Hunger Games.

I'm knitting while the girls dance.

I'm dancing while the children sleep.

I'm doing too much and I can tell I'm at that point where not just something but everything may give.

Give way.

So I'm looking high and low for that quiet.

Sometimes it's easy, like a spendy coffee on a rainy day or a new novel to read while I wait.

But other times it's more difficult.

What do you do when things are out of balance, to find your equilibrium again?

RETREAT! Retreat. Retreat.

Retreat. Now there's a word that loses its meaning quickly upon repeat.

This weekend I am blessed to be among friends and fellow fabric hoarders at a once-yearly mystery quilting bonanza. I have chosen my fourteen (so not a typo) fabrics at the store and from my vast stash. I have wiped down various coffee spills from my sewing machine cover and I have assembled my seam ripper, that most important of portable quilting paraphernalia, and other ephemera necessary for cutting little bits of cloth and re-assembling them into something near art.

I am likely visiting quietly over and under and around the hum of a dozen sewing machines. At my table are moms and grandmoms and young career women and starving artists. We all have some things in common and it is not necessarily what you might think. Our color sense and our politics vary immensely. Our ages range from 25 to 80.

Our commonality, then? We are retreating. We are purposing, if you will allow that dubious verb, to give ourselves a weekend of beauty and productivity. We are breathing in and out and it is a meditation, this endless stitching while barely remembering to sip at a cup of tea.

In my preparations for the retreat I found myself frantic. Go figure. Instructions for the baby. Meal planning and preparation for the family. Last-minute laundering, mopping, swishing and swiping in (vain?) hope of returning to somewhere to sit, somewhere to lay my sewing machine down.

I even emailed my husband to say that the getting ready phase could be crazy, because I knew I'd be relaxed at some certain point. When we leave on vacation I'm usually similarly frantic with the packing and the pressure until we are seated, mocha in one hand and novel in another. Then comes the whoosh of relaxation, of ease. Nothing to be done! It's already done! I am without duties!

Not really sure where I'm going here? ME neither. It's just that, when I was getting ready for the quilting retreat, I kept hearing that Civil War movie cry of "RETREAT" in my head. There was a general chaos and sense of near-danger in the urgency of the moment. And yet now? I'm retreated. I'm out of the battle zone (yikes... not that my home is that!) and in another kind of zone.

Hope to show you some quilt squares, maybe a finished top, when I return. And I hope your weekend is restful. I hope you experience your own retreat, without, possibly, the frantic trampling out.

May I direct your attention to Ring Number Three?

At Christmas Sarah wanted to learn how to juggle. The first sunny day she asked Madeleine to paint her face. It's all coming together for me now. I'm not a mom, I'm a Ringmaster!

And on the other side of the Big Tent, the fierce and fearless bunny takes on an intruder chicken despite its imposing beak. Why Little Red decided the grass looked greener in the bunny run is anyone's guess. Maybe it was her lifelong dream to run off and join the circus.

After a little popcorn perhaps we can watch Laura perform the high-wire act: a death-defying feat that involves SNAPPING OFF THE DAFFODIL BUDS BEFORE THEY BLOOM.

The only problem with my circus analogy is that the dog makes a lousy lion. Put your head near his fierce mouth and all you'll get is slobbered.

The greatest show on Earth. Is that trademarked? If not, I'll take a service mark on it on behalf of my menagerie.

As we get more mature

This evening my husband is working late in preparation of taking a little time off to visit family for Easter.

The dinner table degenerated into some seriously girly silliness. (Oxymorons notwithstanding.)

In the absence of Daddy, and in hopeful anticipation of a peaceful bedtime, I was in the Zone. The peace-be-with-me Zone. The you-can't-phase-Mommy Zone.

Approximately 15 toddler bathroom "emergencies" during dinner? The Zone. Dropped garlic bread? The Zone. Spaghetti slurping contest? The Zone.

Honestly.

Laura, 2, and I returned from potty training trip number 15 to hear Sarah,9, trumpeting that she would always be the faster slurper. Some deep inner calm borne of Calgon dreams and International Coffee hopes caused me to reassure Grace, 6, that she'd be a faster slurper by the time she turns 9.

Sarah, who fully owns the serenity I only sometimes borrow from overpriced products and deep-breathing techniques, countered: "Oh, no, I'll be 12 by then and even faster."

Grace, quick thinking: "But when I'm 60 I'll surely beat you!"

I'm going to need a lot of Calgon.

My (unfortunately all-too-normal) Saturday

Separate the cream. Make a little butter, a little yogurt.

Some chocolate chip cookies.

Sneak in a little time at the sewing machine in my sunny nook. Marvel at the utter quiet despite Mr. Suite's absence and the presence of four extra children for the day. (Yes, that makes a total of eight. What was I thinking with the sewing?)

Look up from sewing to see the end of a mud festival.

Where to even start with this?

And they were so proud of themselves. For the record, from the left: Fern, Sarah, Zoe and Madeleine. No one was innocent.

Luckily for me I had already cleaned up after myself in the kitchen because I was suddenly tied to the laundry room for, oh, four hours. And lest you think I'm a relaxed country mom with no fear of mud, let me disabuse you of that notion immediately. I made the girls undress on the back deck, outside, in the thin January sunshine. I made them stuff their twenty-pound mud-soaked jeans and tees into a paper bag before I carried it through my sewing nook, kitchen, and finally to its soaking place in the laundry room.

Did I mention Fern and Zoe didn't have extra clothes? And they are both much, much taller than Madeleine or Sarah. Sigh.

I called my mother and she mentioned something about getting repaid for my wild youth. I have no idea to what she could be referring.

How was your weekend?

When frugal goes too far

So yesterday I saw the bottom of the coffee tin. The ten-pound bag of beans ground, scooped, brewed, tossed on the compost pile, leaving just a rattle of broken beans at the bottom and no trip to TJs or Costco on the horizon.

No problem, says I to myself.

I called my husband at work after brewing a half-pot with the last of the beans. I asked him not to pick up coffee beans but to bring home a few scoops of coffee from the office. Just to get me through until I go to town.

Fantastic! Three pots' worth of grounds came home in a zipper lock bag. (Did my husband re-use this bag? I never would have thought so, but....)

This morning I scooped out enough for a delicious pot of coffee. Filter. Water. On button. Pour my cream and sugar in the cup and anticipate the morning. (Read: tap foot impatiently for first cup to brew.) It's taking too long. Open the lid to check on progress. I do this every morning it seems. Compulsive much?

The grounds were satisfyingly steamy and damp, the coffee dripping into the pot with an aroma I like to think I detected early was... different. Not that I'm a coffee snob (snork). So I opened the lid again for further inspection. And what did I spy? First I thought that offending little lump to be an unground coffee bean.

However. It proved to be a piece of dog kibble. Unmistakable.

Coffee snob signing out, people. Whilst drinking tea and making my grocery list.

No Cocoa At Bedtime -- Today

You know how they say children thrive on routine? Consistent, predictable routine?

Yeah, not so much with us.

Today we fed the animals and had school in the morning. Quick! Who can finish their math first?

Then Laura and Grace went to stay at the neighbor's house while Sarah and Madeleine joined me in a drive to town.

Sarah had a clay class and Madeleine has been doing a writing group. Gee, I like their lives.

I had to fight with a dinosaur bookkeeping program in a somewhat lame attempt to be helpful at the EGE's work. It's sort of like wearing flip-flops to a softball game. You know, so no one asks you to fill out the team roster. What I'm trying to say is... I am uniquely ill-equipped to perform bookkeeping tasks. This is how I know God has a sense of humor.

Then I ran errands while the girls played on the computers at the office. Bank, post office, bagel shop. I excel at errands.

CRUD! In the middle of lifting a 50-pound dog food sack into my cart I remembered: VOLLEYBALL.

I called my husband, the Eng-Gen-Eer, also known as The World's Most Organized Person, and asked him to please push the girls out the office door as the Suburban careened past.

Twenty-five minutes of driving like a maniac, or mom-on-a-mission, and we then threw Madeleine out at the gym. In a great arcing move I also picked up Grace and Laura, heated up leftover pork fried rice and wrapped it in tortillas (multicultural too), called the EGE to remind him that he needed to drive home in a hurry, loaded everyone back in the Suburban fully fed, picked up Madeleine, allowed the EGE to enter the Suburban while we slowed down for a split second, and

then

arrived

at

friends'

house

for. social. visit.

I'm not sure I breathed today. I do know that Sarah asked me whether she could have cocoa at bedtime, and I answered that the sugar wasn't a good idea right before sleep.

It's entirely unclear where that parenting moment came from.

Daily Freak-Out

I'm going to start a new blog. It'll be called "Freakworthy" and everything on it will come directly from my life. Except when I'm too busy with a freak-out session to sit down at the computer. In those instances I'll have guest writers, but only when they can top my personal freak-outs. They'll have to pitch me their posts and then I'll judge them thusly:

"You're FREAKING ME OUT, MAN."

Or,

"What the heck are you freaking out about?"

Guess which writers will get to guest post? If you'd like to apply, send me an email. My email box is just full of garbage from other Realtors (yes, I'm selling houses again, dang it all anyway) and pesky reminders from the FlyLady (I do love her, but I'm a little overwhelmed by the volume) and the occasional doctor appointment tickler.

(The "doctor appointment tickler." Now THAT could be a good children's book. Or maybe a horror novel. OR a hip chick lit novella where the heroine falls for a gynecologist and places all her friends in full freak-out mode.)

(You knew I was coming back around to the freak-out, didn't you?)

Some folks you know just seem to thrive on drama. I might know some of them too. But me... I like my life uncomplicated. I like to wake up in the morning to a hot cup of really, really good French Roast freshly ground organic coffee with half-n-half. If it's bad coffee I won't drink it. But I don't freak out about it. I just have some tea.

Similarly, I like to sit in the corner and read. This was the main impetus behind my decade-long career in editing. Ah, the sitting. Ah, the reading. (There may have been the occasional conversation, but it was mostly the sitting and reading, red pencil in hand, power and glory.) If I have something good to read, I'll wait until I have at least a metaphorical quiet corner in which to read it. If I am so unfortunate as to be required to read among noise, I am equally fortunate to have been given a very good (you might say freakishly good) ability to tune everything else out. So... no corner, no quiet, no freak-out.

(I often ponder the irony of a girl who craves quiet like fresh air and chocolate... deciding to have a lot of children. I think it's a whole Alanis Morrisette song already.)

There is a pattern here. I don't think I'm being vain when I say I don't freak out easily. AND YET. My life is so full of the freakworthy. The unexpected traffic stop over a burned-out headlight can give me a full-on panic attack. Oh, yes, it can.

Last week I was stopped in just such a manner by a young gun, I mean cop, I mean OFFICER, who openly laughed at my freak-out. First he noticed my quaking hands as I searched out my license. Then he commented on my quivering voice as I nonstoptalkedgibberish. The nice young man told me it was all going to be okay and backed away slowly from the car as though he might have to call in backup to perform CPR.

I think I actually told him I'd have my husband "Fonzie" the headlight. What. On. Earth.

The panic attack wouldn't stop for the rest of the evening. I couldn't calm down to salvage a much-needed night out. So what's up with that? The palpitations, the sweating, the eyes rolling back in the head (okay, not really that last part)... it becomes clear to me that while I rarely exhibit drama-queen tendencies under truly stressful life situations, the mundane unexpected can make me a little whirling dervish of freakiness.

Daughter with two broken arms is burned by novice doctor? I'm cool as a cucumber. Husband working triple-time? All clear here. Three real estate deals threaten a domino effect that'll lose four people's dreams and a half year of income for me? Never let them see you sweat. However, walk down Pier 39 with your skirt caught in your underwear (oh, yes, I did)... obsess about it for days. Make your husband tell you your undies were cute that day. Make your friends tell you your cellulite isn't too noticeable in the San Fransisco fog. Make your daughters triple-check your hem for months. In short, FREAK OUT.

Are you tired of the word "freak" yet?

So...
Until I get around to starting this hot new blog, which is sure to grab the attention of all late-night cable show producers, leave me some freak-out comments.

Come on, impress me with your freak-worthy stories!

Again With The Sunshine

I am going to break out into song any moment.

You wish you were here, because it's been as beautiful as any "Sound of Music" set in our neck of the woods. It may or may not be due to Grace and her self-fulfilling prophecies slash weather reports, but we're still basking in the autumn sunshine every blessed day.

Do I sound cranky about it?

Last year I was melancholy throughout late September and early October... I know this because my blog does not lie. If you asked me I'd say, nah, everything was great last year around this time. But the blog tells a different tale.

Sigh.

What kind of girl wishes for rain when she's got this kind of October:

A girl who loves to curl up by the fire with a good book and a cup of tea, that's who. Do we have any other takers?

I do love the outdoors. It's a good thing, too, because there's quite a bit of outdoor work to be done when you own a little "hobby farm." Whether it's for money (and trust me, it's not for the money) or for a "hobby," packing 50-pound sacks of grain, wrestling wily chickens, and scooping horse manure are not in the same hobby league as, say, building a model train yard.

Every time we step out the door, or look out the window, for that matter, there's a lot of work looking back at us. Raking, mucking, painting, plowing kind of work. Gasping for air kind of work. It's the antithesis of a peaceful retreat to the country, really.


Sarah heard my cry for coziness and a change of seasons:

She drew a city scene on the chalkboard (note super-cute chalkboard that I MADE) and then did a little performance art thing with banging the eraser on the rain "dots" of chalk, which caused chalk dust to billow out like snow over the rooftops of the chalk houses.

Okay, so then we all had asthma attacks. But it was funny.

Why am I so eager for a change of season? It's not just the draught-caused trickling well water, and it's not any sense of existential dissatisfaction with today. I love the summer, and I love the end-of-summer, beginning-of-fall activities we've been buzzing about. Canning applesauce (darn if Grace doesn't prefer the store-bought!), drying pears, making jam, planting bulbs, starting an orchard, picking winter squash and reading up on root cellars while we study traditional homesteading. I love that stuff.

I think what I'm really yearning for is not fall at all. It's not rain, or even chalk-snow; it's the peaceful easiness that comes over me when there's nothing to be done except sit with a good book and a cup of tea. I want to twiddle my thumbs for a minute and dig out the sewing machine because I can't very well dig in the soggy earth or walk up the hill in a monsoon. I want that decision to slow down made for me.

In reality, the stormy weather doesn't bring any more simplicity than I create.





And speaking of creations:

I had this brilliant (shush) idea to paint silhouettes of a rooster and chickens on the side of my chicken chalet.

But my rooster kind of looks like a squirrel.

To make up for it I swished around the foam craft brush into the vague shape of a roosting hen and then lettered the side with the words "Fresh Eggs."

It sounded really cute at the time.

I did finish the lettering, but it doesn't look any cuter. In fact, from the road, it looks a little like it says "Fish Eggs." I'm expecting some anglers to stop looking for bait any day now.

Do you see why I need something to read? Note to all of my blogging buddies: For the love of the chicken coop, could you post a little more often?

My ten-day spending hiatus is fast approaching (nearly as quickly as I'm losing my resolve), I'm all burned out on the food preservation effort, my kids have plenty of clothes so I don't need to sew... I don't know how to knit... we gave up television because we're cracked... and I don't have anything to read in the house (aside from literally thousands of books, but you know...).

So a little blog reading by the fire, with a cup of tea. That's what I'm looking for. I'll even settle on doing this slow-down with the sun shining outside. It doesn't have to rain in order for me to stop and smell the teabags.

And if you can't blog, would you at least email me?

Or comment?

(I may be going a little stir crazy in the country.)

Good To Go

Welcome! Thanks for joining me for my Monday Morning Freak-Out.



I'm a little late for a true morning kerfuffle, but tardiness is integral to my freakiness. So no worries. Or lots of them, depending on your monitor size and blog-reading time allotment.


I had plenty to ruffle my feathers this morning, not the least of which was the departure of family. In the days leading up to the horror that was this morning, we enjoyed a lovely weekend of late nights and haircuts (Locks of Love post to follow) and bonfires and ice cream. Thanks for asking. How was your weekend?


Anyway this morning the EGE's mom, grandma, sister and baby nephew had to leave for home. It was a tearful goodbye... Maddy and Sarah and Grace are so sad to live a whole state away from Nana and Grandma. The way we usually deal with the letdown of their leaving is outright bribery and distraction. The girls and I have a longstanding tradition of buying art supplies and helium balloons after Grandma and Nana go home. I honestly can't remember how we started this, but it still takes the sting out of the lonely Monday.



However. This morning there would be no stationery store trip to dry the girls' tears. On the contrary, the office receptionist called in "exhausted" ... and so the scramble began. Instead of hanging out with my daughters and pretending that life with plain ol' Mommy is just as fun as having lots of lovely other laps around... well, instead of that, they got to pack for a day at the babysitter's house.



I was not prepared for going to the office today (translation: I hadn't pumped any milk), so I hurriedly barked orders at the girls and meanwhile packed Laura's diaper bag and put her in the Suburban and then trailed the girls as they walked to the neighbor's house for babysitting (running on with my sentence to try to give you a sense of the breathlessness of it all). I let the girls walk, but it wasn't a forced march or anything like that; they preferred to walk so they could wave over their shoulders repeatedly at the family as they loaded Tia's SUV.



This was my first mistake (or maybe my second, if you count not expecting and planning for our receptionist to call in with a hangover after the holiday weekend). Allowing the girls to walk seemed like a good idea right up until the time that Madeleine didn't show up at the babysitter's house.



ACK. You read that correctly. My 9-year-old chose the split second that I popped my head in the babysitter's door to make her little self a U-turn and walk back toward home (toward her still-packing family, a half mile away). Then when I called for her, she got scared that she was in trouble, so she did what any errant child would do: she hid in the shrubs at the side of the road. So I frantically yelled her name some more, and imagined every terrible scenario as I ran and searched and in general panicked the bejeebeez out of myself.

Never fear, the morning got better from there.

You know there's a Dutch Brothers blog-famous coffee house on the way to the EGE's office? (It's not exactly on the way, but it's only nine blocks out of the way. And that hardly counts when gas is a mere sixteen dollars a gallon).

So in the spirit of making lemonade, I detoured for my much-deserved liquid courage (no, silly, I'm talking about caffeine. It was only 9 in the morning.) and braved the six-car pile-up (otherwise known as a line of caffeine-deprived drivers) to wait for my self-medication. How was that for a crash of hyphens and parentheses in one paragraph? I think I'm approaching some sort of record.

So... FRIENDS... the weird coffee guy was there. My favorite coffee guy is a boy I like to call "EGE Junior." Actually I call him by my husband's actual name, plus "Junior." Not to his face or anything. It's just that he looks like my husband did in 1988, with the wavy black mullet and the tanned 20-something jawbone and... this could go on for a while. This morning, it wasn't EGE Junior. Alas, it was the creepy guy with the googly eyes who leans too far into my window every time he's serving me.

If you have to ask why I didn't leave the line (staying in line = mistake number two?), you may not be as espresso addicted as you need to be to understand this story fully.


Everyone in the Northwest knows that your relationship with your barista is nearly as important as your relationship with your hairdresser. But, FRIENDS, this dude takes it a little too seriously. He calls me by name, which is okay. He makes my drink ahead of time, which is, again, probably okay.

But TODAY HE TOUCHED MY HAND and not in a casual, just-handed-you-a-hot-cup way.

The kid asked how my Fourth was, and I said, all distracted-like, "just great, how was yours?" And he REACHED OUT FOR MY HAND and picked it up and started COUNTING MY FINGERS. It was my left hand.

EW EW EW.

So then I said, "What the heck?" And pulled my hand away a little quickly.

And he said, "Just making sure you didn't lose any fingers lighting fireworks."

Friends and readers, I must find me a new Dutch Brothers. If you have read this far in the Monday Morning Freak-Out, I thank you and welcome your advice.

Is it slightly weird that the barista counted my left digits?

Is it weirder that my first thought was that he was gonna compliment my diamond? Ala "girlfriend, your ring is gah-geous"?

And am I making a mountain out of a molehill? I hate to drive further for my Dutch Brothers fix.


And in other news, I arrived at the office to find some accounting issues. Math is SO not my strong point, and I'm tired of hyperventilating out only to have the fact-checker know better, so I musn't elaborate here. At least I had my quadruple mocha to keep me company for the morning. It may have been worth it.

Tomorrow I promise pictures of the Locks of Love haircuts. The girls look so grown up!