Homeleaving

I think the process of moving, if you were to plot it on a graph, would be as spiky up and down as the heart monitor of a tachycardia patient. You have the task of looking for a new home, which is full of peaks and valleys as you search for the right place for your family, find it, fall in love with it, and then find out it's off the market or has been whisked away for some reason or another. There's a big spike up when you finally find the right place and get it. Then you ride that wave for a couple of days, a week, as you plan out all the fabulous summer barbecues, the birthday parties, the cozy winter nights by the fire. (Your "Pin it" button gets a lot of use in these times.)

But then you start the process of packing, of actually dismantling your life in the place you're leaving, and slide down into a kind of valley. Not only because packing in itself sucks major ass, brings about the desultory realization that you have accumulated SO MUCH CRAP you don't need, but because you start to realize that despite the crappy neighbor, the lack of yard, the lack of space...you are going to miss this place, the place you have lived, the place you live now.

I will never forget the day, four years ago, that James and I visited our condo for the first time with our realtor. It was a sunny day, light streaming into the windows, and I walked around the living area, imaging our furniture in it.  I closed my eyes, and placed the couch along the long wall in the back, really seeing it. It was a perfect fit. I thought, someday I'll bring my newborn baby home from the hospital and sit with her on that couch, right here in this room. 

And it happened just like I thought it would. 

There are so many memories I will have of our first home together. Soaking in the bathtub with my Federal Courts casebook propped on the edge, turning the pages with wrinkled fingertips. So many poker nights with friends, the slap and zip of cards being shuffled, laughter filling the air. Under one of the tiles on the kitchen floor, Baby Lulu's name is written in Sharpie, along with the names (and cartoon faces) of each of the cats; we wrote her name there the day we found out she was a girl and finally decided it for certain, which just happened to coincide with a frenzied, nesting-based kitchen remodel.

And then there's the first night we brought Lu home from the NICU, when J. and I lay in the bed with her, too amped and afraid to drift off to sleep. Her first Christmas, with the tree wedged in the corner. Her first birthday party, with zig-zag banners and overflow guests sitting cross-legged on our sisal rug. And all the little quiet moments in between.

My parents moved from my first home to the house I grew up in when I was four, and I remember it, vaguely, my old house, my birth house. Laying in a slant of light in the sunroom, sitting against the olive-green refrigerator in the kitchen. Lulu's too young to remember her first place. And that makes me sad. Because for all of its paint-peelingness, too-smalledness, outgrownedness...it was a good place for us. It deserves to be remembered. There's been a lot of happiness here.


We'll have to be sure to tell her all about it. So that we don't forget, ourselves.

Six More Weeks of What?

According to Punxsutawney Phil, we have six more weeks of winter.

To which I say HA! And ha again.

What winter?

The littles have been asking every day to go build a snowman.

Dudes, we don't even have a dusting of snow. It rains at least once a week. The rest of the time it is either mild and sunny or mild and cloudy or - just to keep us from getting too comfortable - it suddenly turns to bitter cold. But still no snow.

It's been a disappointment to us. We are finally living in a house with a yard, first time ever. We finally have a place where we could drag the littles around in their small sled (the last year Joy will fit into it, the way she's growing - Gracie might squeeze in another year, but not Joy), where we could build a snowman, snow fort, snow angels, have a blast.

And instead, winter is soggy.

This was last January:

At the park where, I swear, they were having more fun than it looks

And this is last month:

We had to go all the way to the mountains of Massachusetts to find even this much snow!

At this rate, spring will come before we've even noticed there was a winter.

Waltzing Matilda (or Grace)

These are the sorts of conversations that go on at our house every day. Tell me we're not alone in this?

Mamma: Gracie, please finish your food before you get down from the table.

Grace (already down): Well, I can't finish eating right now.

Mamma: Why not?

Gracie: Well, I just have to dance for a little while.

And so she danced. What, like I'm going to stifle that impulse?

Gotta Dance!

Fa la la la la

Here's what's bringing me joy today...

We made this Christmas wreath, Lulu and I. (OK, James helped--and Lulu's input was small, I must admit.) It's not perfect, but I find myself making excuses to go outside so that I can look at it and smell its spicy scent.

What's making you smile on this chilly Monday?

Accepting the Frump - Sometimes

"No pictures of me," I told Carl sternly as I handed the camera over to him. Normally the camera is mine, but Gracie was snuggling in my arms, and I would rather cuddle my baby then try to capture the moments of Joy's third birthday celebration in as many weeks. "I haven't showered today," I reminded him.

He grinned cheekily, and started snapping.

I considered deleting the pictures. After all, we had plenty more of Joy opening presents. And these are B-A-D of me - not only do you get the greasy hair, you get the stress breakout, a nice clear side shot of the receding chin, my rounded shoulders - pretty much highlighting everything I hate most about my appearance.

But then I decided to keep them. And not only to keep them, but to put them up on the public blog. Why?

Because sometimes, fighting the frump doesn't mean looking our best. Sometimes it means living in the moment, and looking part the imperfections to the fact that these are pictures of me lovin' on and snugglin' with my babies. These are the moments of mommyhood I really want to capture, not the moments when I actually have washed hair and makeup on, and I am conscious of my posture.

Well, ok, I wouldn't mind if I was conscious of my posture all the time. I really should be. 

But still. 

Sometimes fighting the frump means raising our chin (hey, it elongates our neck!) and stepping out bravely into the world, or in front of the camera, even knowing we are covered in baby spit, wearing yoga pants, with two-day unwashed hair scraped back into a ponytail, etc. Because that's all part of being mommy, and we shouldn't be ashamed of it. We ought to be able to celebrate every moment of mommyhood, even the unglamourous ones.

So I'm keeping the pictures, and I'm not even going to flinch when I look at them.

But I will double-check to see if my shoulders are back and my neck straight.

Sounds of Fall

Carl and the littles are outside raking leaves and jumping in them. Normally I'd be out with them and the camera, but my battery died while I was at my parents', plus I discovered some mousie presents upon our return home this afternoon, and I can't justify playing while that is contaminating my kitchen counter. But I don't really want to clean it, either (NOT my idea of a fun way to spend my first few hours home), so instead I'm here at the computer, listening to fun outside and trying to work up the nerve to tackle the nastiness. This is what I get for leaving my kitchen a mess when I leave. This is what I get for leaving unexpectedly! I guess I should try to practice more the old habit of always having a clean house so that nothing takes you by surprise.

HA HA.

I do love listening to the crunch and crackle of leaves as the girls leap into them and Carl rakes them, and the giggles from all three. My sister and I used to play in leaves at my grandparents' house; our uncle would pile them up by the picnic table and we would leap off it into them, giggling just as madly as my two are. Then we would come inside and Grandma would brush us off and feed us snacks and send us back out to play again.

Having just come back from her memorial service, where sadness mingled with happiness, and memories flowed freely with the food at the luncheon afterward, where we spent time catching up with Dad's cousins and aunts and uncles who haven't seen us in years, where Dad and two of his brothers and one of his sisters gathered back at our house afterward for more food (and coffee) and more stories, both the good ones from when her mind was still hers, and the sad ones from when Alzheimer's started to steal her away ...

I quite enjoy listening to the next generation of small ones laughing and shrieking in the leaves.

And, thinking of Grandma, I really ought to get off my rear end and clean the kitchen, so that I can welcome them back inside with food and smiles.

Because, more than pictures, that's what memories are made of.

Although I freely admit I hope my camera battery will be working the next time these three go out with the rake.

One of last year's leaf extravaganzas. Whee!

Bad parenting, now in HD

Dear Child Protective Services,

I am writing because I fear that by now you might have heard the rumor that I let my seven(!)-month-old child watch television. And I wanted to say a few things in my defense.

First of all, I want to say that mostly Lulu just listens to TV. She is addicted to the stupid Toddler Tunes music channel and will not do tummy time without it blaring in the background. Though I tried my hardest to encourage a preference for the classical and world music channels, my child wants RAFFI, which means that I have "The More We Get Together" running through my head 21 hours a day (English AND FRENCH. Le plus nous nous blow our brains out, ensemble, ensemble...)

And yes, while Lulu's eyes light up at the sound of Michael C. Hall's voice ("Dada!"), as the result of an intense Dexter marathon that spanned her first few months on the planet, I can safely say that she has never seen his face. Because I keep her carefully angled away from the television at all times. I figure that it must be the picture that warps the brain cells, right? Otherwise the internet would tell me to keep her away from the radio, too. (This is my logic). With her back to the TV, she should be quite safe, unless there is some harm from the TV rays that I don't know about. I...don't really know how a TV works and just realized that it may involve electromagnetism, which I know can be dangerous from a sci-fi book I read once. (I promise immediately remedy my lack of knowledge on this subject by reading Wikipedia and perusing copious messages posted to online web forums.)

Of course, my genius plan has gotten a lot harder now that Lulu has learned to do this:

Can't yet roll both ways; can, however, do a full back bend to see the screen.

I thought about tying her down to limit her movement, but if I recall correctly, your lot sort of frowns on that. I suppose I could limit my TV intake, or even (gasp!) stop watching it altogether. But you don't really expect me to do that. I mean, you guys are notoriously hardcore, but I know you can't be THAT unreasonable.

In any case, I apologize for this lapse in judgment and I assure you that I will do all I can to stunt my child's crafty, preternatural, Nadia-Comaneciesque flexibility. And in the meantime, I promise to only watch television that is instructive on important topics. Like Project Runway (art and design) or the Real Housewives of New York (scheming).

Thank you for your continued understanding in the face of my many flaws.

Until next time,

Cath

This messy life

I've always prided myself on my ability to keep a clean house. It's something that has always been very important to me. There are a hundred thousand neurotic reasons why. I got married at 21, and so I think having a perfect, spic-and-span abode felt like some way I could prove I was mature enough to be somebody's wife, that I was ready for it. Also, J.D. and I have always lived in small spaces, and there just isn't a lot of room for clutter. Clutter actually makes things take longer: try cooking dinner in a 30 square foot kitchen that's laden with dirty dishes. And then there's the fact that cleaning is such an easy way to feel like a success: you do the job, and then you can step back and see it's done, see what you've achieved. When I was in law school and struggling with thorny legal issues that had no real resolution day in and day out, I found it difficult to sleep unless my entire house was clean, everything put away, all the laundry folded, all the towels hanging the same way on the rack in the bathroom. Which...is probably something I should discuss with a therapist.

Having a baby changed things. For one, there was more clutter. Little toys, onesies, cloth diaper inserts, all needing a home, a place. Tiny socks needing a mate. Bottle bladders, guaranteed to reduce colic--all of these things needed to be washed, dried, matched with corresponding parts. And then, of course, there was less time to do all that.

I tried my best for a while to keep up. I followed the Fly Lady's protocol. I downloaded the Motivated Moms app for my iPhone, and received a list of tasks to perform each day. But both programs made me feel like more of a spazz, not less. Organize my crafting corner? WHAT crafting corner? Clean guest bedroom? I vacuumed the couch, looked inside the cushions, found three forks. I got sidetracked for an hour by a note directing me to scrub my upstairs bathroom--oh, what I could do with an upstairs bathroom! And an upstairs!

I started to fall further and further behind. A few dishes left in the sink when I went to bed. A jumble of shoes in the corner, instead of neatly put away in corresponding closets. And then, almost without my realizing it, this happened.

At first I felt bad about it, fought a little harder. I'd decide to tackle that front closet, pull everything out as the start of a massive decluttering project. Then the baby would wake up, and I'd have to leave everything where it was and go change her, and oh, shit, do a load of cloth diapers, and all the shady things that had been hidden away at the back of the closet slowly became permanent parts of the surrounding landscape. It was like quicksand: the more you fight, the faster you sink.

So I stopped fighting. One of the most liberating moments of my life was the day I realized that I was a better mother because I had stopped putting such a premium on a clean house. Before, Lulu spent a lot of time in her swing while I folded clothes, listened to way to much of the Toddler Tunez HD music channel. The song about walking to school, bouncing like a kanga-ranga-roo? On a trampa-lampa-line? I think that was driving both of us insane.

Now we do a lot more of this:


And this:

And yes, there is still some of this


But in the end, it's probably a lot less brain-damaging than the trampa-lampa-line.

And now, if you'll excuse me, Lulu just woke up, and I need to go hike up Mt. St. Laundry to find a burp cloth. Wish me luck! I may be some time.