Mission Accomplished

There's that moment. You know, the one where you've been driving bravely for an hour in ice and snow, white-knuckling the steering wheel, warding off the lurking fear down deep that you will get in a wreck, slide into the ditch, or worse, that the crazy cars around you will somehow cause a fatality accident and you won't get to kiss your babies again...Then you pull into your driveway. Or the parking lot at work. 

The moment.  

Your shoulders relax. You made it. You take a deep breath and say a prayer of thankfulness for arriving at your destination mostly unscathed.

My life has been filled with these moments lately. 

I hate to admit it, but I have been particularly frustrated by not having...more. I am desperate for beautiful wood floors, perfect decor dotting picturesque painted walls, and, most of all...a new car. 

My silver CRV is old. The paint is faded and the rubber seals are cracked. The gas gauge doesn't work, and it clicks and squeaks at random times. When I walk out to the parking lot and see my little boxy SUV amidst a sea of shiny, shapely vehicles from this decade, I frown a little inside at embarrassment.  

And then I remind myself that it is paid for. And that my high mileage Honda will run for a good year more at least.  And I need to be thankful for what I have.  And...I still don't care. (Just being honest!) I want a new car.

Or I did. 

Until one of those moments. 

After days of winter weather, I came to a renewed appreciation for my trusty CRV. This car is a beast. Stays on the road. Handles the ice and snow expertly.  And I've made it to work and home every day like a pro, enjoying that deep sigh of relief each time, as my shoulders relax. Mission accomplished.  

More than two and a half years ago, operation TWINS commenced.  Our mission: Get twins here safely and somehow pay for them, take care of them and continue on living and loving life. Our whole world changed. My sister April moved in with us as a tenant in an effort to help alleviate some financial burden as well as provide extra hands for the unimaginably busy twinfancy stage. Many moons have passed since that summer moving day, and in one week, our renter will leave her frigid abode downstairs and pursue new career ventures in St. Louis. 

Inviting someone to be a part of your inner circle, in your home, every day, for two years...it's a big decision. There have been good days and bad days during our time together.  Together in our home we've seen babies born, a grandparent pass, a debilitating chronic illness, some grueling brother-sister banter, a few birthday celebrations, and most recently a fluffy new puppy spreading her cheer. But the memories of April's time here that I will treasure most are the ones that don't make the life changing moments list. I'm talking about the every day. April is truly a part of our home. She knows our routines. She knows our life. She knows our kids.  And they adore her. Truly. Adore her. Toby & Gabe don't even know life without Aunt April, puppy Mela and Sadie (that is April's car in case you didn't know...hahaha).

April and I are opposites. For all the ways I am encouraging and positive, she is cynical and skeptical. I see the best. She sees the worst. It is the paradox of our relationship, with me constantly trying to help her glimpse the good, and April bearing with my eternal optimism for as long as she can stomach.  

Don't be confused. April is a kind-hearted and caring person, my best friend. We enjoy shopping and chick flicks and can sit for hours chatting happily.  She would do anything for the people she loves, and I (and my family) have been the recipient(s) of that devotion more times than I can count.  Reflecting back at the past two years, I literally cannot fathom what we would have done if she hadn't moved in. Seriously.

But there have been many times I wonder if living with us has helped her at all?  If she will leave with anything other than an appreciation for a reduced rent for a few years and some good times with my babies?  

Apes and I were talking on the way home from work one day this week. I was uncharacteristically negative about a situation at Sam's school and explaining my concern. April laughed, paused, and then with a smile in her voice said, "Now you won't believe I'm about to say something positive, but..." She proceeded to give me heartfelt encouragement, mentioning all the positives that could come out of the issue we face. We laughed comfortably with each other on the phone, and I pointed out that it had only taken me two years to infect her with my positivity. 

"Mission Accomplished," I said. And I meant it.  

Next weekend my family of 5 will stand at the window and wave as "Ant Apel" pulls out of the driveway in a moving truck and heads on her way.  The depth of our appreciation for what she has done for us cannot be communicated in words.

I know I say this often, but it's hard to believe we made it. She came. She helped. The babies aren't babies anymore, and the days are survivable. It's time.

Again, the moment.  

Shoulders relaxed. Deep breath. Many prayers of gratitude for reaching this point mostly unscathed.

The Balance

I want to be superwoman. It is an illness, really. And sadly unattainable.

How do I give 100% as a mother, 100% as a wife, 100% as a boss, 100% as an employee...?

There's simply not enough of me to go around.

Who do I choose to disappoint today? How do I keep it all together and not let someone down?

I don't have the answers.

I don't know about you, but it seems like the craziness of my days or weeks come in waves.  There's never just one kid sick. Or one issue to tackle. Never. It's one kid puking, then the other waking up in the middle of the night hit by the bug a day later just when you think you've escaped. Then the husband goes down with the pukes. And the house is scheduled to be sprayed for bugs. And you committed to bringing food to a function. And don't forget about the late work meeting and forgetting to pick up snacks for your kids soccer game. All within a few days.  (Notice I didn't mention sacrificing sleep to tackle triple the volume of laundry because you changed sheets so many times you can't count after late night vomiting parties...thought I'd spare you childless readers from the joys of mommy-dom).

And you pray. Pray hard. That you don't succumb to the illness circling the house, because when mom goes down it isn't pretty.

I love my life.

I do, really. But to be honest I don't love those weeks.  I feel like a failure. Because as much as I can try to convince myself that just surviving is worth it, I am letting someone down. I'm not spending time with my kids because I have to sleep and eat and clean the house with Clorox wipes to prevent another round of the puking and get ready for work the next day.  And I let my husband down because I tend to not be the nicest person to be around when I'm extraordinarily stressed and I can't always make it home when dinner goes on the table because I've had to stay late at work to make up for time off caring for sickies. And I let my work down because I'm distracted and exhausted and even if it is barely detectable, I know that I am slightly off my game.

In theory when my kids are healthy and our schedule is light, life is good. Life is calm. And the world is at peace.  In theory, only.

In reality I've found in my 5 years of motherhood that the craziness tends to creep in no matter what you have on the calendar. And I inevitably find myself walking that tightrope, trying to balance everything. Failing miserably on most days. Feeling guilty about everyone and everything I've let drop because I can barely keep my eyes open, much less keep on keeping on.

And so it goes.

I've been writing a book. I started the process nearly a year ago and have been struggling with the final chapter. This week I realized that I need to rethink my intent.  My original goal was to pen a practical "how to" for moms-to-be or mothers of young ones, with tips to survive the uncertainty and ways to enjoy the journey.  But the last week has changed my perspective a bit.

I think instead my contribution to the written word could be (should be?) a confession from real moms on how it really is.  How do we balance this mom thing with life?  It seems to be the elusive question moms everywhere around me have....and no one seems to be able to answer.

There are some who would tell me that there is an easier way to avoid the struggle of balancing family and work: Stay home with my kids.

Besides the fact that we do, in fact, have a family where one parent stays home (it's just not me), I really have to protest that suggestion on principle.  I have many friends who are home with their kids full time, and I'm sorry, but they have just as much craziness to juggle and just as much "work" to balance. No, they don't have to feel guilty about jumping up during an important meeting to run a child to the doctor, but on the flipside, their job never ends. Never. Ends. That's some pressure.

My sister-in-law recently shared that she had outlined her daily schedule. It added up to 23.6 hours worth of To Do's each day. I loved her text after this admission: "Deep breath, prayer, try again."  Isn't this what we feel like as moms?  Every single day: Deep breath, prayer, try again.

Most days I hit about 20% completion on my daily list. We're talking the normal things, the scheduled things and then my master list that includes dusting the blinds, cleaning out my junk drawer, organizing my receipts and touching up paint where my kids have thrown toys and chipped away my formerly immaculate walls.  These things never get crossed off.

Many years ago, before boyfriends and college and husbands and babies, I did a simple Bible study with a group of friends about Proverbs 31. The picture in this passage is of a woman who possesses true beauty and success in God's eyes. I have the book we went through still in my collection and although I've only read it once, the principles have stuck with me since before I could have dreamed of the life I now have. I read Proverbs 31 last night and was encouraged once again. Some people read these verses with resentment and frustration. Not me. What I see in this is reassurance. This gal is the ultimate woman. She is resourceful and lives with integrity. She is a manufacturer, importer, manager, realtor, farmer, seamstress, upholsterer and merchant. Her kids are well behaved and she is buff.  She works dang hard. She is beautiful both inside and out.

Could it be that God has designed us to be superwoman?

My very favorite part of this entire portrait is verse 25: "She is clothed with strength and dignity and can laugh at the days to come."

Who doesn't need that word of truth and encouragement today?  I'm pretty sure this means that we aren't meant to be so stressed and overwhelmed by balancing everything that we can't enjoy this life we've been blessed with.  As moms, we've got to just cut ourselves some slack!  We will not always be the rock star employee. We will not always win mom of the year.  But our kids still love us and somehow our jobs are forgiving (and amazingly flexible, thank you OCH). And our husbands appreciate when we stop being so stressed and give them some positive attention once in a while...(yes, I really did just say that).

In the midst of my crippling failure to keep all the balls in the air, I need to remember that I was designed with purpose. I love my job and my kids. I love my husband and all the crazy extracurricular activities we find ourselves involved in as a family despite our efforts to "cut back" on overextending.  Life is good. God is good.

And I learn somehow to give 100% where it's needed.  And I learn to leave my list sitting on the counter and take a walk with my family on a nice fall evening after a difficult week.

No, I'm not ever going to be the perfect picture of the Proverbs 31 woman. But I can work hard. And I can have strength and dignity, with a twinkle in my eye and a smile in my heart.

The Change

I am not normal. 

Not sure if you saw that coming!  But let's just be honest, here...who was surprised by that?  

Back to the point. Me. Not normal. Why, you ask? 

I like change. 

Most everyone else in my life hates it or at the very least avoids it.  But not me. When it comes to major life decisions or changes, I'm pretty rational. I deal. Good or bad, I take life as it comes and try to remain positive. (Thank you daddy, for practical reasoning skills and a uncommon ability to not react emotionally).

So imagine my surprise recently when I learned that others don't quite perceive me as flexible. 

A few weeks ago I arose before the sun and headed into work to prepare for a super early work breakfast. After the event concluded and the room cleared, I mindlessly picked up glasses and stacked plates. As I came to the coffee station, I closed the lid on the caramel macchiato creamer and thought for a fleeting second, "I wonder if that is good?"

You see, I'm not a coffee drinker.  I kind of think it is gross. Stinky.  And tastes like cardboard.  Ugh.  

Yes, that means this "Carrie" energy and positivity is entirely decaf. No coffee buzz to get me through the day or amp me up.  Not a single cup of joe was downed as I survived the agonizingly exhausting twinfancy. Give me my trusty water mug, and I'm set. 31 years and coffee free.

Until that day.

I poured a teeny tiny cup of coffee and then added some sugary caramel creamer.  Scratch that. I poured an entire mug of delish creamer and added a few drops of coffee. And then I sat at the table and took a sip. And another.  Stashed the creamer in my office mini fridge after clean up was done and pushed it from my thoughts. The next morning I sauntered into the cafeteria and grabbed the small styrofoam cup. Glanced sideways at my coworkers feeling like I was cheating on someone (myself?) and poured a cup. Added some (a lot) of the caramel creamer and downed the coffee in barely 5 minutes.  

And the habit continued.  

That week was particularly long and left my household running in opposite directions. As I sat in my office a few days later savoring the sweet aroma of fresh coffee swirled with caramel goodness, I texted my husband and said something generic like, "Oh, hey - I forgot to tell you I started drinking coffee this week." 

The response I got was nothing short of an interrogation. When? Why? WHAT??? Actually I'm pretty sure his actual text was, "Are you serious. Who are you?"  Ha.

That night he was stunned and asked more questions. I looked at him kind of like he was nuts and wondered aloud why it was such a big deal.  And his answer really did shock me.  I got a lecture on how in the 13 years he has known me and the 10 years of our marriage, I just don't change what I do. I am worse than a creature of habit. I am fiercely stubborn and set in my ways. I do things that I want, when I want, without excuse or apology. I make decisions and stick by them without fail.  I am who I am.  But I am...who I have been.  And will be, apparently.  

I couldn't believe Ben's reaction, honestly. I relayed the story to my coworkers the next day (who by the way had been laughing at my excitement and telling me that soon I'd graduate to the bigger cup...) and was surprised to find that they, too, saw my new-found coffee discovery as a symptom of something. Stress, perhaps?  I got some looks of genuine concern and surprise. My boss actually suggested I take a vacation when she found out I had joined the millions who started their day with coffee.

Turns out I see myself as a whole heck of a lot more adaptable to change than I really am.

Funny how self discovery tends to open your eyes to more self awareness.

My boys need a haircut. And I refuse to do it.  They have had curly mullets for way too long, but when I toil away at the office for too many hours, the one thing that gets me through is knowing that when I walk in the door, those sweet babies will run with glee to smack my lips with kisses and bury their soft curls into my neck as they squeeze and shriek, "Mama!"  My heart literally cannot handle chopping off the locks. Who is it hurting, really?  No one.  Except for today.  When the Walmart check out lady started calling Toby a "she." 

Oh. No. You. Didn't. 

I even said, "Stop kicking each other, boys!" several times while I tried to pay for my groceries, but still I got a "Well she needs to learn to defend herself" laugh from the peanut gallery. Ugh. Okay, I get it. I need to cut their hair so they don't have some gender crisis (not really, people, I'm just ranting here). Okay. I will embrace the change and cut the shaggy out of control bedhead.  But give me some coping time.

Who am I?

The weeks have passed and my coffee gets tastier by the day.

And another change looms ahead.  

My parents are selling their house.  For real.  This is the home where I learned to play basketball and spent summers riding bikes around the lake. The home with the big living room, big windows, big closets and big bedrooms. The home where we had birthday parties and graduation parties and wedding showers and baby showers. The home where I painstakingly wrapped garland and lights around the extra long banister every Christmas.  The home that bursts with jazz music booming from every room. The home where I fought with my sister and played barbies for hours.  The kitchen where my mom baked more pans of brownies than I can possibly remember, entertaining classmates, friends and boyfriends. The driveway where I had my first kiss.  The street where we walked to the bus stop every day for years.  The neighborhood with friends on nearly every corner.  The quiet dock down the street where the love of my life asked for my hand in marriage. The community with beautiful waterways and endless opportunities for outdoor fun.  The home I grew up in.

As my parents have shared their plans to move into a detached villa in a town not far from their current home, there are several things I know to be true.  

• #1 - My dad will be calm, cool and collected during the change. He will approach this logically and may have sentimental glassy eyes on moving day, but he has made the decision happily and is looking forward to the change. 
• #2 - My mom will bubble with excitement and will launch into future decor planning. She has wanted this for several years and is so happy to be making the change. But I am betting there are tears in our future as she packs up the life she has made in that three story abode built with loving hands.
• #3 - My sister may surprise me, but I expect her to take this the hardest.  (Her exact words to my parents in the early stages of this decision a few weeks ago were: "That's fine. You guys can pack and move. I'm going to chain myself to my room"). 

And what about me?  Before today, before the past few weeks, I would have said without hesitation that I will be fine.  In fact I said those exact words to my giddy mother this morning.  I am Carrie. Bring on the change. I am Carrie. See me roar.  

Will I really be fine?  I mean really, fine. I want to say yes. I like change, remember? Bring it on.

But then I pour that cup of coffee. That change took 31 years. 

By the beginning of September, my parents will have their house on the market and will have signed on their next dream home. It has plenty of space for all of us to stay (including you, April, and we will NOT make you sleep on the couch).  My kids will know this next place as "grandma & papa's house."  We will make another lifetime of memories.

Tonight I'm faced with the ridiculous (and slightly embarrassing) reality that I am secretly an emotional wreck like everyone else, I miss waking up to the sounds of woodpeckers and speedboats, and I don't want to cut the twins' hair.  

Does simply saying the words, "I am fine," make it true.  

Here's the thing...for me, it does. 

Bonus of being stubborn, perhaps. Or bonus of not being normal.  

See, I am flexible. 

Home is where my family is. 

And I'll always have coffee.  The big cup, of course. 

The Survived

I survived.  Not sure exactly what it is that I survived, but nevertheless here I am. I received a late night phone call tonight from a friend.  With disbelief I listened as she explained that somehow the small town rumor mill was churning and I was the victim.  Literally.  One of Sam's pre-k classmates who is apparently in the same elementary school as Sam (but in a different kindergarten class) heard that Sam's mom had died. Seriously. So the child told his mother. Who texted or called or spoke to various other pre-k parents. Who also texted or called or spoke to others...and eventually ended up contacting a friend of mine...hence the mysterious call hoping to hear my cheery voice.

As I laughed about the ridiculousness of rumors among kindergartners and wondering what (if any) part my charming 5 year old had in this mess, I joked with my friend about her pre-phone call activities: checking facebook and my church's website making sure there was no news of my untimely demise. Unsettling.

It is the second day of school.  Seriously.

I survived the first day without crying. But not the second day without...dying. Nice, huh?

It's been a month of reflection and treasuring memories for our family.  End of summer. Learning to swim. Potting training twins...or trying. Celebrating 95 years with Ben's sweet grandma and then sadly attending her funeral. Laughing with out of towners about life and love and childhood. Praying for a serious family health need. Prepping for the first day of school. Smiling with pride at the all-grown-up kindergartner headed off to his classroom.

Sigh.  I know, I always say it. Where does the time even go?  I am planning a second birthday party for little ones, and all I can think of is bringing my olive-skinned firstborn home from the hospital and wondering how in the world we could actually be parents.

We survived.

And when Sam wakes up in the morning and prepares to head off for another fun-filled day of learning, I will innocently inquire about any conversations he may have had at recess about his mommy dearest meeting Jesus.

The Education

Kindergarten Clothes Shopping!!!

Motherhood, like many things, requires quick study.  You learn to change a diaper without getting peed on. You learn to be suspicious of silence. You learn to enjoy cold meals because the task of chopping, separating and dishing out food to various ages of children means that your plate is the last one touched. You learn the art of carrying a stroller, diaper bag, purse, water bottle and child all at once while smiling. You learn to tolerate more noise than you ever thought possible. And you learn patience.  Oh Lord, do you learn patience!

I expected some of these lessons. I embraced them as they came and commiserated with other mommies as we graduated one stage and moved on to the next fun thing to learn.  But today surprised me.  I got an education.  On boys.  (And yes, I know all you veteran moms will smile knowingly that my "education" is just beginning).  But still. 

Sam is starting kindergarten in 24 days.  I know, right?!?!  Doesn't seem possible that my long ago chubby-faced cutie is old enough to be going to SCHOOL.  For real.  But he is. 

To say that education was important to me growing up is simply an understatement.  Generations of educators fill my family tree.  My own mother served on the school board and personally handed me my high school diploma - a memory that I truly cherish.  I was taught at a very young age that no matter the subject matter or my learning style, the singular expectation for my education was that I try my best. No excuses. No misplaced blame on distracting friends or less-than-stellar teachers. Not allowed. I was supported, encouraged and assisted by loving family, but my personal drive is undoubtedly a result of the unwavering insistence upon education.

I loved school.  I struggled to find friends but seemed to eventually get along with everyone.  I worked my butt off in class.  I savored books from the greats and tried to understand math.  I missed a lot of school in my early years due to illness, and felt awkward when I got coke bottle glasses....and then later when I got boobs.  (No joke).  I was not outspoken.  Not particularly pretty or exceptionally intelligent.  But I loved to learn. 

As the days blazed by and summer came to an end, I eagerly awaited one thing.  Year after year one of my very favorite memories was back to school shopping: new clothes, new shoes and a perfect backpack filled with school supplies.

So, while my fellow mommies have been crying buckets at the prospect of sending their babies to the first day of school, secretly inside I couldn't WAIT to take Sam shopping. Sure, I got teary one day watching the Walmart crew setting up back to school displays in early July.  But finally, I was going to pass along a wonderful tradition to Sam. A love for school and an excitement for the back to school shopping day. I was thrilled!

After lunch in town today, my family scattered in various directions.  Sam and I ended up at Target for what I was certain would be the start of many amazing Mommy-Sam memories to fill the proverbial scrapbook.  We held hands and skipped into the store. SO excited.

(Let me interject here that I should have known this was not going to go as planned when Sam kept asking what cool things he got to buy besides clothes...) I kept telling him how excited I was and how much fun we were going to have.  Now that I am replaying the story in my head, he did ask a LOT of times what we were buying that I was so excited about...ha!

So into the store we go.  Happy and laughing and cash ready for the sale. 

To just get to it:  I do not have girls. And a teeny tiny part of me today died inside because of that fact.  There, I said it. Truthfully, I love my boys and rarely find myself wishing for a fleeting second that one of my little ones didn't have a Y chromosome. It's not that Sam doesn't like clothes. He does, actually!  But the picture in my mind of us holding up colors and styles, trying on sizes, and smiling together as we decided on that treasured "first day of school" outfit....just didn't happen. 

I do not have girls.  I have boys.

My crazy child had a blast.  He ran through the Target aisles and ran his hands over every single shirt.  When I held up options and sizes he literally giggled hysterically and said he either #1 thought they were gross.  Or #2 wanted "that one and that one and that one and that one..."  (But not really because he wanted it, just to make fun of me because I wanted him to pick.)  And on and on it went.  For a millisecond (every other minute) I was frustrated. I kept saying, "Sam, focus. We have to pick out some clothes for you." And every time he just shrieked with laughter.  In the fitting room to nail down the big boy sizes, he pranced around in his underwear and pulled off every pair of shorts I put on him while he made faces in the many mirrors. The most treasured thing he put in the cart was a $4 clearance Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle watch that I only conceeded to because I bargained with him to cooperate if I let him get something "special" that wasn't technically clothes. Stellar parenting, eh?

And so I got an education.  Boys do not care really.  About the outfit or the choice.  Yes, I convinced him to find a few things. But he really didn't care. And I can bet money that the twins will not either. Dreams crushed, here. 

I do not have girls.  I have boys.  And I fear this is just a small part of my education ahead.

As I drove away from Target feeling less excited and more than slightly disappointed that the reality didn't really live up to my hopes, I glanced back at my fun-loving, amazing kid and saw it.  The sparkle in his eye, the toothy grin.  He was still giggling. 

It wasn't what I thought or expected.  It didn't turn out the way I planned it in my mind.  But today we made a memory my boy won't forget. 

He may not share my love for selecting the perfect first day outfit, but this kiddo loves to learn and he loves life.  And that's really what it's all about.

Preschool Graduation Picture from May



The Decade



Honeymooning in Mexico

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Ten years ago tonight I was chatting with family at a nearby hotel, painting my toenails a glittery silver and eagerly awaiting my wedding day the following morning. I had barely turned 21 and graduated college less than a week prior. April and I were bunking away from the family at the Extended Stay since I was essentially homeless after loading up my college apartment, and we shared giggles and stories that last night as single sisters. In one day, I could see my future, my dreams and my blissful reality laid out before me in a beautiful celebration of matrimony.

I was totally and completely smitten for this charming guy. He made me laugh. He loved God. He was kind and considerate.  Kids climbed in his lap, and his friends asked him for advice.  He was my best friend. Just some of the many reasons I chose that day to walk down the aisle with a smile on my face and joy in my heart.

So much has happened in our 10 years of marriage and yet there are some days I think about those Mexico honeymooning days and wonder where the time has gone!  Weren't we just those young, skinny kids getting black-tongue from the Mexican food hut when I failed to tip more than $.50 for a gourmet meal?  Weren't we just those overall and Hawaiian shirt-clad newlyweds who caught each others' eye across the room and couldn't look away?  Weren't we just having the conversation about where we wanted to live "when we grew up," how many kids would fit nicely into our future family (he said 5, I said 2...go figure), if we would ever get a pet (RIP Sally), and even how long we'd stay in the state, in the house, in the job...?  So many things change.

And yet...I'm elated to discover on this anniversary-eve ten long years later, that many things are exactly the same.  Ben is still the one I want to share my stories with.  He is still the one who makes me laugh.  He's the one I want to eat with, sleep with (we have 3 kids and crazy lives...I seriously mean SLEEP people...), hang with and yes, even still dream with.  

Throughout the fun times and the more difficult days, weeks, months or even years, I have consistently been determined to remember the good.  It's not that much different than the way I approach life in general, so this shouldn't be a surprise to many, but there's something very powerful about forcing yourself to think about the best qualities in someone when all you see in that moment are the worst things..which are usually just the things that drive you the most nuts!  Re-learning and reminding yourself of the qualities you love about the person is the best way to move forward and perhaps continue to learn about each other a little more.

So here we are.  Ten years away from our wedding day, and I can say with absolute delight that I love my husband more today than I even knew was possible 10 years ago.  Yes, that is sappy.  Sorry.  It's just plain true.  Our life together is far from perfect. We do not always get along. We do not always "feel" that wedded bliss. 

But tonight, I sit alone in my basement, watching TLC wedding shows and thinking of tomorrow. I didn't paint my toenails or even shave my legs.  I may not put on makeup before I take my 5-year-old to pre-k in the morning.  I won't go to a bed & breakfast with the breezy windows open or the funny flowered wallpaper.  I won't visit a historic German town, eat ice cream or visit the world's largest Christmas store.  I won't take a belated trip to the Florida coastline and walk at sunset holding hands with my beau.  I won't eat a spectacular dinner, watch an action movie, chick flick or superhero blockbuster or even toast with sparkling raspberry limeade amongst a sea of baby toys (Mandy & Isaac: I promise you guys there will be more exciting anniversaries in your future than spending the evening with me and my crazy boys like you did earlier this week!). 

Since Ben is out of the country at the moment serving the people of Nicaragua, tomorrow is just another day to get up and live this life we've created together.

There's really nothing that special about May 24.  Except that a decade ago I made a vow and sealed it with a kiss.  And that's worth celebrating.  <3

The Contact

One of the most incredible discoveries after having twins was their innate need for touch.  Since their birth, and let's just be honest long before that, they have craved human contact. 

Sometimes I notice it when they sit next to each other back to back, doing totally different activities but almost joined at the same time.  Other times I look down and see them holding hands or simply putting a hand or foot next to someone else's bare skin and making that contact.

Tonight we spent some sweet moments reading together.  They climbed quickly into my lap, pushing each other aside vying for the perfect view.  Before I could open the book they each grasped an arm of mine.  Not to get my attention.  Just a small, simple act, but they did it simultaneously.  They literally cannot be around other people without finding a way to make that connection. It is amazing to me.

Many times I consider myself quite the opposite of this. I'm not a hugg-er.  That is an understatement.  My family and friends will laugh at this admission.  I'm the one who looks for something to occupy my arms when people are saying goodbye and doling out hugs.  I'm the one who does the one arm pat and then gets called on it!  I just am NOT a touchy-feely person.

But lately it has become abundantly clear to me that we all crave contact in one way or another, just like my sweet boys.  We may run from it or avoid it, but inevitably we need it. 

Maybe the contact we look for isn't physical touch.  Maybe instead it is friendship, support or encouragement.  Maybe it is hearing something that needs to be said but you don't want to hear.  Maybe it is a smile or simply being around someone who challenges you to be better.  Someone who makes that connection with you and brings strength to your day.

A person I admire and respect greatly at work equates this need for contact to lurking the halls like a vampire, feeding off of others' positive energy and optimism. I love this analogy. Of course, I want to be the one with the positivity in this scenario that can provide that lifeblood for others!  But the opposite is also true. On days when I really need a boost, I would rather feed off of the positive than the alternative.  How many times in our busy days do we realize that other people are basing their mood on our responses and tone?  We are responsible for how we impact others.

Ben and I often discuss that our many differences have been used over the nearly 13 years of our friendship and 10 years of our marriage to refine and shape who we are.  Not surprising.  The people we choose to keep closest will always have the biggest opportunity to motivate and truly sharpen us. 

You use steel to sharpen steel, and one friend sharpens another.  Proverbs 27:17

The Unknown

Sam's 5th Birthday Party!

Five years ago this very night I was settling down after a long day, feeling uncomfortable and fat and tired.  I remember what I was wearing.  I remember most every detail of what we did that day.  I remember the feeling of the "impending unknown." And I vividly remember being awakened at 2:30am with regular, intense contractions that would not cease.  I washed the dishes (distraction!), took a shower, painted my toes (seriously), gathered my bags, awoke the husband (yes, he was still sound asleep despite my several hour prowl around the house doubling over in pain) and we headed to the hospital. 

Sounds simple.  But those who have walked this road before know that the drive to the hospital is quite possibly the most monumental journey you'll take.  I don't think you always realize it, as most people spend their trip calling loved ones, but it really is the drive that changes everything.

Five years ago I became Mommy.  Not "a" mommy.  But Mommy.  A new name.  A new life.  A new person, really. 

I was so tired and overwhelmed.  In so much pain from my c-section recovery and desperately struggling to make the breastfeeding thing work.  I was utterly exhausted (well at least I thought it was the most tired I would ever be in my life...if only I had known the twins were coming a few years later to teach me what real exhaustion felt like). 

My first few days and even weeks of being Mommy honestly weren't the greatest.  I cried and wondered how in the world I could ever do this.  How could I love and care for this little life in a way that would truly matter?  How would my great marriage fare in this new territory?

I made mistakes as Mommy.  About a month into this life I packed the diaper bag, loaded up the car for a quick errand run and backed out of the driveway.  Made it almost to the stop sign on our street and in sheer horror realize that I DIDN'T HAVE THE CHILD!?!  Not 30 seconds later, my heart pounding, I shoved open the door and saw the sweet baby sleeping contently in his car seat just waiting for our exciting trip. Not my proudest moment.

But my early Mommy days also came with growth.  The knowledge and confidence that I could, in fact, survive this challenge and perhaps even thrive.  Sometimes in small ways like successful naptimes or getting to pee in peace.  But often in bigger ways.  Days that I looked at my tired, but growing family and realized that I was happier with my new life. My marriage was actually better.  I laughed more.  I saw things through new eyes.

For many, the prospect of having kids (or heck, let's just be honest here, the actual reality of having the child living and breathing in your arms already) brings panic and fear.

Seems like lately it surrounds me. I listen to the all the perspectives: aversion, apprehension, contemplation...so much negativity about kids.  So much negativity about how kids are somehow stopping us from being satisfied in life.  Anger and resentment that kids make us stop living.  I'm so tired of it. 

In these conversations I have this overwhelming urge to explain what it is like to be Mommy.  I mean the good stuff!  The problem is, there are no words.  No words to adequately express how your heart feels to create a life and have it look you in the eye.  No words to sum up what mush you turn into when that life you made smiles a toothless grin or the pride you feel when your child says something witty or charming.  No words for someone who hasn't lived it.

Are there rough times?  Tons.  Are there frustrating moments....days....months, even?  Yes, I do not want to relive the horrendous three's (oh, wait, I will....).  Do kids make things hard for your marriage and friendships and just your LIFE sometimes?  Yes.

So why do it?  Really.  Why? 

I know why.  Because five years ago the impending unknown was worth it.  My marriage is better.  My life is sweeter.  My heart is happier.  No arguing with that.