Things

... I am reading: 
I just finished The Truth of All Things by Kieran Shields. Like many of the books I've read this year, it was just meh. My hopes were too high, I think. It's a Victorian era mystery with ties to the Salem witch trials. It's very Sherlock Holmes. Next on my list is The Book of Jonas by Stephen Dau. My hopes are low. Let's hope I'm pleasantly surprised.

... I'm listening to: 
Fiona Apple and Rhett Miller are the only things playing in the car for me these days. Fiona's new album is very much in the vein of Extraordinary Machine, with cheerful, chirpy melodies over darker drums. There's almost a tribal feel to some of the songs, which is weird, sometimes funs and sometimes, according to the husband, "disturbing." Mike actually bought me the album as a present, so for once we have the packaging, which I have to say is pretty cool. It's made to look like a composition book and the lyrics are "written" in it, along with doodles and drawings presumably by Fiona herself. (My 14-year-old self swoons.) (My 31-year-old self kinda does, too.) The Boy thinks it's amazing. He's been carrying it around everywhere. He also likes a few of the more tribal-y songs -- it's the drums, I think. Pretty sure the husband is a bit troubled by this development.

As for Rhett Miller, well, let me just say, he's on my List, so I'm a bit biased. But I really love this new solo album, The Dreamer. It's very country, twangy, and he's got some great female voices -- Rachael Yamagata and Roseanne Cash -- accompanying him. I love his lyrics because they tell a story AND they're catchy and clever, a combination that doesn't always happen. The whole album is good, but in particular this one track, Picture This, keeps getting me all choked up. It's the part where he sings about kids crawling up legs as we kiss. I just ... that's us, my family, right now.

Anyway.

... I'm writing: 
I'm freelancing again for SparkPeople, which shares content with Yahoo! Shine. Some of the topics I've covered lately include sunscreen tips for kids, keeping kids moving on rainy days and getting kiddos to bed when it's still light out.

At my day job, the newspaper, I write a weekly column. Usually, it's very local so there's absolutely no need to talk about it here, but I wrote a Father's Day column about my dad I'm pretty proud of ... though I have to admit, I almost didn't publish it. I expect you all to read my self-absorbed musings. I wasn't sure if any of our readers would care about my dad and me. Surprisingly, I got lots of compliments and conversation about this one though.

... I'm watching: 
We've started both Game of Thrones and Friday Night Lights thanks to Twitter. It's too soon to tell what I think of either, though I will say the husband and I, who have read the Game of Throne books, are a bit disappointed in a few of the casting choices. (Why does Jaime Lannister look like a '90s-era soap opera star!?)

Forget everything I ever said about my children behaving in restaurants

I should have known better than to take the boys to a restaurant, alone, when The Lad greeted me at daycare pick-up bawling his little eyes out. But, I didn't want to cook and I was bummed the husband had to work late and my beastly little Lad assured me he was crying only because another child had head-butted him. ("What'd you do to him?" "I SHUSH him because he was talking too loud.")

So, we went to the restaurant. This is a trendy little restaurant/bar that opened up not that long ago in town. They serve homey comfort food and good beer and their claim to fame is that they offer s'mores as a dessert. While I hoped to blow the boys' mind with the canned flame for roasting, I had the presence of mind not to mention it to them, just in case poor behavior would make dessert a no-go. This quickly proved to be the case.

The Boy was perfectly behaved, sitting on his bottom, ordering his food in a clear, loud voice, and remembering to say please and thank you. But The Lad lived up to his nickname. He was The Beast. Some of it was just 2-year-old wriggling and squirming and inability to modulate his voice. However, I think we all can agree that screaming "NO, NO NO!" in your mother's face because she has the audacity to put your macaroni and cheese on a plate to cool is unacceptable behavior at any age past say, oh, a year. (And even then, it would be corrected.) That incident caused me to whisk Beastie off to the bathroom for a hissing lecture on what proper restaurant behavior is and, upon our return to the table, ask the waitress for the check in case another screaming fit necessitated a hasty departure.

Luckily, Beastie quieted down a bit then and we were able to finish with limited hissing on my part and hollering on his. It still wasn't pretty, though. When the waitress brought over our to-go box, Beastie was backward in his chair, trying to climb the ladder back.

"Did you save room for s'mores?" she asked. I could have smacked her.

The Boy, who really had been just as good as he could be, looked at me with the most pathetic set of puppy dog eyes you ever saw. He practically whimpered.

"S'mores?"

"No, kiddo. I'm sorry. It comes with an open flame and, well, LOOK at your brother." Beastie now was hanging upside-down to pick up a fork he'd thrown on the floor. "He'd burn down the restaurant!"

The Boy giggled. "Yeah, he would."

"I FIRE RESTAURANT! I FIRE IT DOWN!"

I tried to hustle the boys out quietly through the bar where a hipster listening to an iPod and probably writing beat poetry sat. He had been casting annoyed glances in our direction the whole meal. We got to the door -- and not one of us could get the damn thing open. We pushed. The boys threw themselves at it. We jiggled the handle. Finally, as both boys shouted, "WE CAN'T GET OUT!", Mr. Hipster sighed and came over to help. He barely touched the knob and the door flew open. I wanted to crawl under a rock.

Beastie, determined to be the Worst Child Ever that night, defied another directive as the boys climbed into the car. I don't even know what it was, but I was ANGRY and was speaking with the Wrath of Mom as I sat him down on the curb. I scolded him and asked him the two questions that always come with discipline in our family.

"WHAT TIME DO WE LISTEN?"

"First time," he sing-songed, not looking at me.

"WHO IS THE BOSS?"

"MEEEEEEEEE!"

For the record: 1. That is not the correct answer. 2. The Lad went directly to bed when we got home. 3. I hate beat poetry.

Epilogue: The Boy and I had a date that weekend and went back to get him s'mores. They were delicious.

Can we talk about placenta?

As a journalist, I've encountered all kinds of things that people don't want to talk about. Things people don't want to think about. Journalists, in general, are pretty hard to freak out. We've seen a lot, written about a lot, gotten details on things the public just doesn't want to know about.

So imagine my surprise when the word "placenta" stopped a group of journalists dead in their tracks. Placenta. 

We've been looking at the area hospitals' policies on giving the placenta to the mother because of the hospitals had a recent change. Here's the story, which we ran over the weekend.

While explaining to this group about why a mother might want her placenta - i.e. placenta encapsulation - I realized I was the only mother in the group. I also realized that being a "mom blogger" and being on twitter might have skewed my perception about how much people can handle on the subject. It was a good lesson in "knowing your audience."

I did not do placenta encapsulation. It just wasn't something I was interested in but I understand why others might want to. 

The unrest over the word placenta reminded me of my days nursing and pumping. Carrying the bag around and disappearing twice a day and trying to find a way to explain to people who asked what I was doing. It didn't bother me to tell people that I was a nursing mother but I know it made others uncomfortable. When asked, I would simply say that I was nursing. It would take them a minute to process and you could always see the recognition of what exactly that entailed come across their faces.

This is not an indictment of my coworkers, who are lovely people. I'm just really interested in why talk of placentas and nursing can freak adults out. Women's reproductive issues shouldn't be "embarrassing" for anyone.

Do you find certain groups of people in your life find all of this to be TMI?

Angst and thankfulness

I'm feeling all angsty and like I might be on the verge of a mid-life crisis (although Hillary tells me I'm too young for that.) No, I don't plan on leaving my husband for a younger version or buying a convertible.
I'm just taking a hard look at my career and wonder if this is what I want to do for the next 30 years. I've wanted to be a journalist since I was 15. Wrapping my mind around possibly doing something else is pretty hard. I'm not much of a risk taker. I tend to stay on a path. And I'm on a good path. It's a fine path. But I'm not sure it is the right one for me. The problem is I have no idea what the right path is for me and maybe this is the right path and I'm just in a funk. (Could I WRITE path one more time? Path. Apparently I can.)
I hate feeling unsure and in limbo and I feel like I've been living my life in a state of unrest for awhile now. I've done a lot of navel gazing lately but I won't bore you with my inner thoughts. Even I'm bored with myself right now.
So instead of making you read all about my angst and my navel, I'm going to try to focus on the happy things. This is what I do when I'm in a funk to try to remind myself that there are some amazing things in my life and I need to stop focusing on the things that aren't so amazing:

• Gizmo's language exploded in the past week. She started repeating words when we asked her something that normally would cause her to look at me like, "I'm not your trained circus monkey, woman." She says Sissy (what she calls Peanut, who refuses to let us teach Gizmo her actual name. She just wants to be called Sissy.) She started saying Ma'am and Pa, my parents' names. She can tell us what a lion, dog, cat and elephant says (when we ask her what a bird says, she points to the sky.) All of this is a huge relief to me. Peanut was much further along in her language development at this point so I've been slightly concerned about Gizmo even though her receptive language is great.


• Office Crush. You read Office Crush, no? NO?! What?! Shalini writes it. Hillary introduced it to me on vacation and it was like a void was filled in my life. This is so in my wheelhouse - a romantic comedy in blog form. So fuuuuuuuuun. Thank you, Shalini, for making my day brighter.


• Peanut now regularly says "snitches get stitches" thanks to her father who has watched 'The Sopranos" one too many times. We've hit the tattling phase in life so in order to curb it, this was the husband's brilliant idea. Not only did he teach her this, but she repeated it to my mother during a recent visit. My dad thought this was so funny that he kept repeating it, only reinforcing the very inappropriate saying. I may have a future mob enforcer on my hands.


• During a family get together this weekend, Peanut and my nephew were wrestling around when she accidentally hit him where no little boy wants to be hit. My niece ran to my sister and yelled, "Peanut hit Bubby in the PEANUTS!" My mom, sister and I couldn't talk for a good 90 seconds we were laughing so hard. Then the kids began singing a song that involved repeating "penis" over and over again.


• My husband returned from Boston on Sunday after being gone since Thursday. He was away at a work conference. He does so much around the house so when he's gone, it makes me appreciate him so much more. Lone wolfing is not easy, yo. Also, (if I may brag on myself a bit) I planned an overnight trip with friends to see the Yankees vs. Indians in Cleveland later this summer for his Father's Day gift. The husband always plans our getaway trips. We haven't been to a Cleveland game together since it snowed in 2007 during the season opener.


• Hillary. She listens or reads all my excessive navel gazing and tries to help me through it. I truly could not ask for a better friend. Vacation only confirmed that for me.


• And finally, if you have a smartphone and haven't employed the turnaround function of the camera where you can see yourself on the screen, you are missing out. This is best entertainment for kids and adults alike. Gizmo LOVES it and will open and close her mouth repeatedly and then yell at her own image. It looks something like this:

What's helping you get through the day?

Preschool Sex Ed

One of the teachers at the boys' daycare is pregnant. She's youngish and very tiny; prior to getting pregnant, she looked like she could have been a student at the Baptist school, which only goes up to eighth grade. She's one of our favorite teachers and a sometime babysitter for us, too. For whatever reason, I thought of her tonight at dinner and asked The Boy if she was still at school. (She's in the baby rooms, so I don't see her every day.)

He told me yes, and I said I was just wondering if she'd had her baby yet.

"You know she's going to have a baby, right? She's having a little boy."

"Yeah. But now she's got a watermelon in there."

Miss L does, indeed, look like she's swallowed a watermelon.

"It certainly looks like that. But it's really a baby. She's going to have a baby soon."

"And a watermelon. ... She swallowed a watermelon seed and now it's growing in her belly. That's what she told us."

I lost it, giggling at the table. The husband laughed, too.

"WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING? She's got a watermelon in there."

I'd like to say we patiently told him the age-appropriate version of the truth until he believed us. But there was no dissuading him from the fact that Miss L is growing a watermelon in her belly. Nothing. The thing should be out in time for summer picnics. Smart girl.

10 years ago

Ten years ago, I graduated college. I was at my parents' house, packing for an internship in Washington, D.C. with no idea what I was going to do when it was over at the end of the summer.

I was excited because Hillary and I would be working together along with her now husband. I was scared out of my mind because I had never spent so much time so far away from home in such a big city. (Plus it was the summer after 9-11 and my mother hand wringing re: terrorist attacks and her baaaaabeeeee.)

I made poor dating choices while my friends were happily coupled. I thought that I might never get married - this coming from a girl who believed in fairy tales and Prince Charming for most of her life.

Ten years ago, I thought I was becoming an adult. I thought I knew what I needed to know. I thought I was big time.

I started thinking about all of this over the weekend. A friend posted on Facebook that it had officially been a decade since we all sat in our black caps and gowns, giggling and laughing together through the graduation ceremony. Because we were screwing around outside while our class lined up, we were the last in line, meaning the venue was almost empty but for out families by the time we walked the stage.

Hillary and I sat on the beach in awe of the fact that it had been 10 years. So much has happened in the past 10 years but I don't feel much different than the girl who had no idea what she was going to do after graduation.

I met my husband within 18 months. We were engaged about two years later and married within nine months. Less than two years after that we bought our first house and I was pregnant with Peanut. Then along came Gizmo.

In that time, the husband and I have had multiple jobs and positions. We've been promoted, moved and he's changed companies. We've done well in a time that many people have suffered economically. We've been lucky and blessed.

As we contemplated the past 10 years on the last day of our vacation, Hillary and I tried to wrap our minds around where we will be in 10 years. That's when we realized that The Boy and Peanut will both be teens and Beastie and Gizmo will be in that wonderfully awkward pre-teen range.

Mind. Blown.

Where were you 10 years ago? Where do you think you will be in 10 years?

Bliss

So, my version of our joint family vacation to the Outer Banks is pretty much the same as Michelle's. In short: It was fabulous. There's a Dr. Seuss book the kids have, Happy Birthday to You!, that runs through all the glorious things that happen on birthdays in Katroo. At the end of the book, after getting fabulous presents and having a gigantic party thrown for you, the Birthday Bird flies you home on a very soft platter and "you're much happier, richer and fatter." 

That sums up this vacation for me. 

Michelle and I were so giddy the first night, we took these silly photos of us taking pictures of each other. At least we're aware we're ridiculous.

Peanut, much like her momma, is a hugger as The Boy quickly discovered. 

We spent the mornings on the beach, which tired out the kids so much we got hours of napping. HOURS. I napped once. Mostly, we did this. And just like in college, Michelle was a bad influence -- who makes a delightful bloody mary. 

Even on vacation, The Boy found a way to play baseball. I think this chilly, overcast day might have been his favorite. He even roped Michelle's girls into playing. 

This is the picture that Michelle loves best from the trip. It's the Wright Brothers memorial in Kitty Hawk and yes, Peanut and The Boy are voluntarily holding hands to run up that hill. If the betrothal goes through (where are the goats, Michelle?!), we'll use this for a wedding slideshow or invitation. 

My boys repeatedly asked to be buried in the sand. We let them out, I swear. 

Here's another picture taken while the kids were napping. I was on the upper deck and we all were talking about nothing. It was wonderful. 

As I said: Happier, richer and fatter. 

Self-indulgent wedding post

I've got a few things to say about our vacation and a couple pictures to share, but we have to take a quick break from the Outer Banks recap to talk about my wedding anniversary.

Six years ago, Mike and I were dancing under a full moon in my parents' backyard with everyone we loved best from every era of our lives making merry around us.

Our wedding was DIY before the days of Pinterest. (And let's all say a little prayer of thanks for that. I would have gone crazy.) Neither of us wanted a big wedding or a church wedding or an expensive wedding, so we created our wedding.

We got married in my parents' backyard. I suggested it, joking, on the phone one night to my mom and she scoffed, "Oh, what? You're gonna walk out the backdoor with your dad, the thing slamming shut behind you?" And just like that, it was the ONLY place I wanted to get married. You can't see the slammer in this picture below --- the sun has washed it out; it's the white rectangle in front of my sister, the maid of honor. This is Dad walking me down the "aisle," which was just the walkway to the gazebo (all built by Dad, though not especially for the occasion). The guy with his back to us is a friend of Mike's from high school who got ordained specifically for us and then sat through lengthy theological conversations with Mike's mom to make her comfortable with our choice. (We don't go to church, so we wanted someone who knew us, loved us and would continue to be a part of our lives to marry us.) I'm looking at Mike in this picture, though you can't see him from this perspective.)

 

We sat the parents and grandparents on the gazebo and everyone else just sort of stood around us under the maples trees I grew up playing under. The bouquets were done professionally, but the other flowers were just daisies I bought in bulk and clustered in globe vases or mason jars. We didn't write our own vows, but just said the simple words that have been used for centuries. Mike's mom gave us a blessing.

My sister did my hair and my dress was a vintage party gown I found for $135. My childhood babysitter did some minor alterations for me. My high school art teacher did the photos (which are not these. I can't find the official disc. These are from Mike's mom). Mike and I created a playlist and a friend volunteered to play DJ. A cousin did side dishes and my dad's buddy who does hog roasts grilled pork tenderloin and chicken breasts for us -- for a case of beer.



We rented a tent, in case it rained, decorated it with twinkle lights and some big paper globes, and set all the tables in there. All the beer came from Mike's friend, our DJ, who works at Budweiser. We bought a few bottles of liquor with specific guests in mind and wine for the toasts. The cake was done professionally, but the only topper was a C I found at Target and some extra daisies. My nephew swiped a handful of frosting off the back of it before the wedding.




This picture below pretty much sums up our wedding: The cake cutting with a beer can on the table. I'm wearing a sweater that thankfully matches my dress because the weather, though clear, ended up cold for June.

We didn't bother with a dance floor. Below, you can see the big red barn, wood pile and row of coolers that was the backdrop for our evening. The gazebo is just out of the picture on the right. The person taking the picture is standing right in front of the tent and the portapotties we rented are just over to the left.

During toasts, everyone gathered in a semicircle. Our families were there. Our friends from high school and college. From DC and Virginia. From Florida. Everyone we liked best in the world was there and in good spirits, being happy and silly. Mike's friends ran a race across the neighboring field. Later, there was a dance off. My sister and I karaoked with our aunt and cousin. My dad changed into a sweatshirt and trucker cap (not ironic, he was a trucker) before our father-daughter dance. It was chilly, so we lit fires and Mike's dad, who does historic reenactment, contributed lanterns that looked like fairylights. 

I refused to throw my bouquet. I always hated that tradition and anyway, there weren't that many single women there. Instead, I gave it away to my grandma and grandpa Copsey. They live right next door to my parents and have been married more than 60 years. It gave me an opportunity to say thank you for all they have done for me. I wish this picture were better. 

Pretty much every anniversary since then has been a bit weird. I was pregnant on our first anniversary -- and Mike invited one of our best friends to come visit, forgetting the date was important. I didn't care. The friend in question was part of the group we always were with in school and remains one of the funniest, nicest people I've ever met. Our second anniversary, we went to Key West and spent an entire afternoon drinking with random people at the pool, watching the Righteously Outrageous Twirling Corps (google it) practice for their performance in the Pride Week parade. We went to New Orleans for our third anniversary, but I was pregnant with Beastie and spent most of the weekend bemoaning the stench of the city. On our fourth anniversary, Beastie was a baby and I still was nursing, so we just rented a Mustang convertible and went cruising around Palm Beach for the day. We had big plans for a stay at a fancy hotel an hour north of us to celebrate our fifth anniversary, but the lice infestation scratched those plans. (Pun intended.) And today, we spent eight hours driving home and then did chores to put the house to rights and get ready for the regular routine for school and work.

Our anniversaries -- like our life -- are not always ideal. But they are perfect because we are together. Sappy, but true and very like our wedding, which was the best party either of us have ever had.

Be cool

You guys, I had no idea how much I needed a family vacation until I was on it. This past week at the Outer Banks with my family and Hillary's was good for my soul.

Watching our kids play together. Reliving memories. Making news ones. Laughing until I cried with Hillary while our kids looked at us and asked, "What's so funny?" My husband getting to know two of my most favorite people in the world.

It all went really well, considering we wrangled four kids - 4, 3, 2, 1 - for a week in one house. We played on the beach in the morning or went sightseeing. Let the kids nap in the afternoon while the adults read, napped or chatted. Made dinner together. It was all so relaxing and low key and made me feel better about life. It also made me realize that Hillary really needs to live closer to me. No pressure, Hill. Just sayin'.

Peanut was so enamored with The Boy, insisting that they hold hands, or snuggle on the couch. The husband's head was ready to explode but words cannot describe how adorable it was.

The littles, on the other hand, were not too impressed with each other. Beastie (who the husband took to calling Baby Jim Gaffigan, because he totally is) was besieged but Gizmo's constant smacking upside the head. She annoyed him the entire week but he took it pretty well.

Every time Hill's boys called me Aunt Shell, I wanted to cry tears of joy. In fact, I'm tearing up just thinking about it now.

I could take up four posts with pictures but here are some of the best:

View from the back deck.

 Gizmo's first time on the beach.

 For some reason she kept assuming this pose during the week. Also? She purposefully ate A LOT of sand. I don't even know...

 Hugs on the first day.

 I know.

Snuggles.

All of our (not) brats.

 The only photo of me from the week. Look at that cute family moment I caught with Hillary, Mike and Beastie.

The littles actually playing together. I'm pretty sure someone got smacked during this interaction.

Gizmo is soooooo big.

Kite flying.

Out and about driving over a bridge.

Making sand angels.

By the end of the week, we started telling Peanut, "no means no" because she wouldn't leave this poor boy alone.

This is what happens after a week at the beach.

Digging a big hole with the dads a la Joey on Friends.

Baby Gaffigan.

Hillary got the best photo of the week but I will let her share it. Just let me say that I plan to use it when Peanut and The Boy get married.

One morning on the beach, Hillary and I looked over to see two older couples sans children playing bocce ball. We both watched them wistfully as our little monsters ran around, ate sand, smacked each other and needed pulled from the water. Some day, we will be like those couples, enjoying the peace and quiet of the beach. But for now, I'll enjoy the crazy that comes with raising kids.