Southern California Vacay

A few weeks ago we took a trip with the Rufs to Southern California. I know you must all be bored stiff with pictures of Disneyland but I couldn't resist this one . . . . .



or this one . . . . .


or this one . . . . .


or basically any of these other ones either.

House Guests

Last week, we went on vacation and when we returned, someone had moved in.

Can you see it? Sticking out the sides?


Wow, that must be a whole week's worth of work.


Sorry Mr. Bird. but we have to evict you.

The Path of Least Resistance

The other day my brother mentioned something to me about "since you stopped blogging." Wait a minute . . . did I stop blogging? Like so much in my life, sometimes decisions are made in a passive manner--where I let things take their course without my direction . . . where I keep running along on the path of least resistance. I hate that about myself. I would prefer to have these grand ideas and make a plan and carry them out.

Today I was thinking about how in adolescence I told everyone that I wanted to be a marine biologist. And, at the time, I thought my biggest problem was that I lived so far from the ocean. Now I am wise enough to know that I suck at math and that I am terrified of being more than three feet under the water. And that I have a short attention span. All these are much bigger problems than not living on the coast. But at that time I wouldn't let myself see "meaningless" obstacles because I was a dreamer and capable of anything.

Currently, my personal aspirations (if they are still in there) are buried beneath a barrage of day to day child-rearing, house keeping, and food making. I have been so caught up in trying to keep up with life that I have forgotten than maybe I could do even more.

And yet, I have to admit, I am happy. I have achieved many of my dreams. I don't regret anything I have done.

So what I am wondering is this; is it ok to just be who I am without being something spectacular? Without ever being noteworthy? Without being someone who utilizes her time on earth to really make a difference to people? To go on doing what I've always done?

For now, I choose to just keep on living and I hope that's ok.

PS I haven't stopped blogging.

At our house . . . .

. . . . you have to bring your sunglasses to breakfast.


"Mom, stop messing around with the camera and give me my pancakes."

Jackson Turns 2

The Sum of My Parts

I should be making dinner right now and I should be cleaning up the basement for Jackson's party and I should be supervising the craft time in the laundry room but you know what . . . I just don't feel like it. Instead I feel like writing, like expressing some coherent thoughts that will mean something. I wish that I had something profound to say because I feel like being profound. Unfortunately, profoundness doesn't come on command. Usually, bursts of inspiration come while I am doing something else. Which, incidentally, would require doing something.

Instead I just want to say that I am more than the sum of my parts. I am more than just a mom. I am more than a wife. I am more than a runner. I am more than a cleaner. I am more than a cook. I am more than a party planner. I am more than a chauffeur. I am more than a sounding board. I am more than a robot who can move from action to action accomplishing and completing. Actually, I am a complicated piece of matter that even I can't figure out completely: living, changing, growing, thinking. I am a jumble of thoughts, emotions, feelings, urges, desires, and un-desires. I am shy and confident at the same time. I am indecisive and decisive in the same moment. You don't believe me, do you. You should.

Also, I have a gut-full of sugar in the form of rice crispy treats. How's that for profound?

Pairs

I have a problem. It's a serious problem. It's a sock problem. Seriously. I have a problem with socks.

I hate folding the little buggers. Actually, I hate MATCHING and folding them. I just don't see the point of it. So much time for such little return. You know because I get so much more fulfillment out of the rest of the laundry. Who am I kidding.

But the socks . . . I just can't get around it. I can go months without folding a single sock. I'll just pile them up in a basket and expect family members to dig through them until they can find a pair. It probably isn't kind. It's kinda like how I expect my kids to get their own stinkin' water. But that is a different story.

One time, a pregnant friend of mine asked me how to make sure that the little newborn socks didn't get stuck in the washing machine. I replied, "buy all white." And I was serious. Finding errant pairs are just not a high priority for me.

After my last baby, my mother was helping me with the laundry. When she saw my sock pile, she gasped. Audibly gasped. I told her sometimes I just buy more instead of folding them. (I was only halfway kidding.)

But the really pathetic thing . . . the thing that really puts me above the rest . . . is that I brought my sock problem with me when I moved. I mean, even when cleaning out an entire house I couldn't bring myself to match socks and instead schlepped the entire 5 lbs of unfolded socks with me.

A couple of weeks after we moved in, I found my husband in the laundry room surrounded by an explosion of socks. He was going through them and folding the darn things. As if he didn't have enough to do.

So after he took care of the initial load of socks, I vowed to keep abreast of the socks and fold them right as they came out of the dryer. But the temptation is so great to just go ahead and throw them in the basket.

Anyway, now that I have revealed to you one of my darkest secrets, I feel so much better about myself. I mean, if unfolded socks is all I've got, then I can't be doing too bad.