Heaven ward temple day

Heaven ward temple day

I really enjoyed the spirit in the temple. Felt like I was going about doing an important work.

Endowed for Nevada Bell Dill.

Ran youth baptisms. Impressed by righteous, good youth. Strong kids.

At end of the day, I felt anticipation for the day when my kids can come to the temple. I hope they will feel as engaged in temple work as the youth tonight. I hope my children will feel and see that they can contribute to this great work. I hope they will Want to contribute.

I'm so thankful to have been in the temple today.

Journal 9.20.13

I wrote this on my phone while I was waiting in the triage room (for about six hours now) at Missouri Baptist Hospital.  Little did I know that things would change -- drastically -- just hours later.

Journal 9.20.13

Came to the hospital today around 10:00 am. Been having cramping/contractions since about last Friday. I did NOT want to come to the hospital just to be overly cautious. But after visiting the doctor's office on Wednesday, and already putting off the hospital for another 24 hours, I figured I should come.

Of course, within the first hour of them checking me out, I have one teeny tiny contraction. Cervix not dilated. So they assume they'll want me for another hour or two and I'll be on my way. Dave leaves to get lunch and get some work done. Sure enough, right after he leaves, the contractions come back. Stronger. And stronger. They give me a muscle relaxer shot. Makes me jittery and my heart race. I thought I was going to die if I couldn't get my bra undone! Over time the side effects wear off. Dave gets back. But the contractions are still there. Inconsistent. But not stopping or really letting up.

Concern is that I've had two previous c-sections. Scar tissue not strong. Don't want to risk rupture. Eek!

Here I am almost eight hours later. Dave went to get dinner with the kids. I'm nervous. Confused. Scared, quite honestly. I have no idea what this all means. What's our course of action?

Thankfully, baby boy is still doing acrobats in my tummy. He's been a little rascal and moves EVERYwhere except where the monitor can track his heartbeat.

I'm just nervous. Trying to remember that Heavenly Father knows what's going on. He is in control; I  need to trust that. Faith, not fear.

Early Christmas with MaMom and Poppy

Though we wouldn't be with them Christmas Day, MaMom and Poppy celebrated Christmas with us and the kids while we were in Utah.  Sunday morning the kids opened gifts and presented their own to my parents.  It was so fun to see their eyes light up -- both my kids' and my parents'.

{Superhero stickers}

{Baby doll}

{Buzz!}

{Trains, trains and more trains}

Lizzy rolled off the chair the other day.
Shame on me for propping her up there!
I just had to vacuum underneath her.
And then vacuum the whole rest of the kitchen....while I was on a roll.
Shame on me!
When I finally did turn off the vacuum to check on her, she wasn't there.
That's when my heart stopped.
It's a sickening feeling.
The sight of her wedged between the ottoman and chair.
Her head inches, no, centimeters away from the brick fireplace.
I snatched her up.  So fast.
Seeing her breathing.
No blood.
Not even tears.
Just a little scared (thinking, what in the world just happened to me?!  where is that lady?!).
The first words to come out:  Thank you!
Thank you for keeping her safe.
Thank you!
Thank you for protecting her.
Thank you!
It made me a little choked up.
I am grateful.

I don't think there's such a thing as single parenthood.
Thankfully.

You've had a baby? Laugh it off

You know when an athlete falls, gets hit, or somehow injures herself and the coach instructs her to "walk it off?"

Well, it's nearly three o'clock in the afternoon and I just got out of the shower.  I had the best of intentions of going to the library today, running some errands and preparing a decent meal for dinner.  Those intentions lasted about 10 seconds, which was the amount of time between Lizzy opening her eyes for the day and W screaming from his room.

This is the life I live nowadays.  And...it's good.  It's a fleeting time, they tell me, these days when I sometimes feel like all I do is wipe bottoms, wash yellow fecal matter from clothing (mine and hers...clothing, that is), empty the potty into the big potty over and over again, pick up toys, read the same books.  Eat, nap, change, rinse and repeat.  They tell me I'll look back on these days fondly and wish I could relive them.

Sometimes I wonder who "they" are.

Sometimes I wonder if "they" ever had children.

Or do "they" just sit back and laugh at the awkwardness and hilarity of teaching small people the facts of life?

I mean, you've got to laugh when you hear, "Don't touch your bottom.  Do you need to poop?  Well stop touching your bottom!" repeated 7,000 times a day.  Or watch a lady walk around the house all day with spit up on her shoulder and a half-naked boy following her.  Thank goodness she didn't leave the house.

It is funny, isn't it?  I have to laugh at it all sometimes.  After the second blowout (on me), the dog failing to make it outside, and the boy on a seek-and-destroy-everything-I-touch mission, I just have to laugh it off.  

Or I just might cry.

Ten Years

I went home to Utah about a month ago.  More than just to see the family and introduce most of them to Lizzy, I also went home to throw a bridal shower for my little sister (Liz), as well as attend my 10-year high school reunion.

The shower went smoothly.  It turned out so, so cute.  Our mission was to make Lizzy (my sister, not baby) feel special, and I think we did just that.

Baby Lizzy was a champ the whole trip.  Because of the shower, she got to meet a good portion of the family, and she didn't disappoint.  She is such a good baby.

And last but not least, (insert pregnant pause) the reunion.  (insert prolonged, awkward silence)

Unlike more than one person I talked to about this whole reunion thing, I was set on going.  Was I excitedly awaiting that Saturday night?  Not really.  More like anxiously awaiting it.  Though initially on the fence, I really thought I should go.  True story, I included it as one of my goals for the year.  Had I not "committed" to going in January, I may not have gone at all.  Regardless, I bought my ticket -- and plane ticket -- and went.

Some history:  After high school, I spent the summer being unproductive, then headed off to good ol' Utah Valley to BYU, never to return home to stay longer than a few weeks at a time.  I finished college, got married, and moved to the Midwest.  And here I am.  Perhaps going back for my reunion was to smooth the abrupt ending that punctuated my school-age years.

Over the years, I have stayed in touch with a handful of people; probably only about a dozen people and more like half a dozen good friends.  Yet, attending my reunion wasn't to resuscitate dead friendships.  Nor was it to show off what I've done and where I've been the last ten years.  Or stick it to the people who made my life miserable.  No.  I actually had a pretty good high school experience.  Full of drama, let downs, disappointments, embarrassments and angst.  And equally full of fun memories, hilarious experiences, good friends, victories, character building, along with a side of education.  I don't believe any one person made my high school years or any year miserable for me, nor do I think I did that for any one person, either.   Saying all this, I now realize my high school experience was waaaay different than many others.  Even for many with whom I attended the same school over the same years.  I understand many of us had many different experiences, outcomes, friendships and overall feelings about that school on Laker Way.  I think I sort of understood this then, but I definitely better appreciate and can respect/sympathize/understand this better now.

One of my greatest anxieties about going to this reunion was forgetting peoples' names.  Petty.  Yeah, I cringe at admitting that.  And yet I know there were more than a few who were facing greater demons than that.  Classmates who couldn't stand the thought of being in the same room with individuals who made their teenage years hell.  Those who were ashamed of who they were then and how they would be perceived now.  Classmates who couldn't care less about even dipping their toes back into tumultuous waters that were known as high school.  Those who felt their  present lives had fallen short of where they could've/should've/would've been.   And those who quite honestly had nothing to show for the last ten years of their lives.

I suppose there comes a time for everyone, a wake-up call, where we have to stop and take stock of ourselves.  It may come in the form of facing danger/death, witnessing a miracle, getting married, getting divorced, having a child, breaking addiction...or facing the people who knew you ten years previous.  Kind of makes my stomach turn to think of it.  But also makes me feel good about who I am, what I've been doing, as well as who I was.

That Saturday night, the conversation was easy with most.  Sometimes the catching-up checklist.  Sometimes more personal.  Sometimes really remarkable.

Thankfully only one really weird/awkward conversation where I felt like the three on the other end had laser beam eyes and rather than roll them at me, they aimed and fired.  Like, "Ok, well, I really don't care about you or this lame-a** reunion so please just shut up and leave."  That was the honest vibe.  Weird, but whatever.

And of course the head-turner.  The one who everyone was surprised by and talking about (think pink hair, corset, boots and boobs).  But the one who ends up being one of the most dynamic person of the night, who you've now "Friended", appreciate their not-so-traditional and completely out-of-the-box self (costume-making?!), and who you now are totally rooting for.

Overall, it was surprising to see how visually apparent the satisfaction/settledness/sadness with one's life was.  It seems we wear these feelings more openly when they aren't crowded by cliques, jackets, stereotypes or extracurricular stuff.  It was almost shocking to see with my own eyes how faces reflected the status of one's life, for better or not so much.  I hope this doesn't come off as holier-than-thou, critical or condescending.  Yet my greatest excitement of the night was to see those who were happy, truly happy, doing good things, having overcome challenges and progressing in life.  Regardless of who they "were,"  it made me happy to see who they are.  In a way, even proud.  Proud of them.  Proud that they have moved on and moved up.  Proud of who they are and who they were.

By the end of the night, I felt like I had to catch my breath.  Kind of like I'd been running for the previous two hours and just couldn't get into a rhythm.  I just sort of felt out of it.  Out of place?  I don't know about that.  Just odd.  I needed to digest, regroup and recap.  And now that a month has passed, I think I've regrouped enough to realize that this night I had nervously awaited actually taught me a thing or two.  

• You don't have to be best friends or even friends with everyone, but respect is a must.
• There is a difference between friends, "friends" and real friends.  I thought I knew this years ago, but turns out I didn't.  And learning this has come with a little disappointment and gratitude.  
• High school will come back to you -- for better or worse.  The odds of working with an old classmate, living near one, or associating with more closely than you ever thought you would/could are much higher than I ever anticipated.  I'm glad I didn't do anything majorly offensive to someone because they would likely move next door to me.  
• Kindness goes a long way.  Everyone -- EVERYONE -- wants to feel accepted, important, valued.  Even the most "secure" person has insecurities.  Just being nice regardless of any preconceived stipulations does more good than I ever thought.  
• I don't care so much about the popularity, extracurricular activities, or even grades.  Rather, my hopes for my children through their growing-up year are pretty simple:  they will be kind to others, they will be liked by others, and they will have a solid set of friends who help them do good.  
• High school is part of who i am; I'm not embarrassed about it.  Though looking back, I did some really stupid/embarrassing things.  
• Never, ever, in a million years would I go back; but I did enjoy myself.  
• I was immature then.  And rightfully so.  My ideas of what was cool/important/worth my time were oftentimes shallow.  Consequently, I missed out on what could have been really great friendships.  It's a shame.  But I'm glad there is time now to continue and even start lasting friendships.   

Normalcy and a sweating problem

Putting off the coming-terms-with and avoiding the translation of my current feelings has been easy. Between finishing a playroom in the basement (yes, I helped hang drywall at 8+ mos. pregnant), renovating the master bath, keeping up with doctor's appointments and the regular everyday-ness of raising a little boy, I've managed to keep myself rather busy.  

My fleeting moments of leftover brainpower have been filled with thoughts of paint colors, furniture arrangements, crib bedding, big boy beds, and new baby must-haves.  Not so much focused on trying to decipher how I feel about everything.  Everything being...how I feel about W turning two.  How I feel about bringing another life into the world.  How I feel about lying on an operating table to welcome this new life.  How I feel about my changing body.  How I feel about my relationship with D.  How I feel about me.  And not to mention how I feel about another trip to Lowe's and/or Home Depot or the daily sweat marks I get in my shirts(!).

There's certainly been a lot of ignored feelings.  

A couple of nights ago we made a (-nother) trip to Lowe's.  On the way out, D lugged our purchase while I lugged W to the car.  And by lugged, I mean slowly carried a 28 pounder atop my hugely pregnant mid-section and audibly heaved as I lifted him into his car seat. Then the feeling hit me:  soon I won't be able to lift him in and out of the car so "easily."  This mindless, menial task will soon be different.  That brief moment I have to lift him up, give him a hug, put him in his buckles and ask for a kiss is going to change.
 
I quickly ignored this feeling, shut W's door and pulled myself together.  Up until then, I had avoided these emotions like the plague.  I had no interest in mourning the change about to happen to child #1 --or to me -- but things were starting to set in.

Cue this morning.

As expected, bathroom breaks, throwing off covers and attempting to get comfortable during the night means not the best sleep.  So this morning I took to reading some blogs.  A friend of mine with an almost two-year-old boy and a little girl on the way (sound familiar?) is a rather wise woman.  She is well-spoken, thorough, and always manages to put into words some of those jumbly feelings I have swirling in my head.  Her post this morning was no different.  Speaking of her little boy, she said:

Up until now, every change has been so exciting, there was no space in my heart for sadness at the passage of time...However, it is suddenly becoming more real to me that he won't always want to climb up into my lap for a snuggle or to read a book; he'll understand at some point that he's too big to fit there comfortably. He won't always want to give me kisses in public; he'll understand his friends are watching.  

Now cue my weepy self.

The continuous milestones W achieves make me feel so proud, like I'd done them myself.  Yet I always seemed to feel more pride and anticipation for what's next rather than sadness.  Now, our family is doing the same.  In just more than a week, we will turn a new leaf in our little book of life.  W will turn into a big brother.  We will go from three to four.  And life will go on.  However, my usual anticipation just hasn't caught up.  Although I am thrilled, elated, excited, etc., when I am truly honest with myself, I am scared half to death to see what is on this next page.  It is becoming more real to me that although W might want to do all of the things we did before, he may not be able to.  Nor will I.  I feel sad.  I feel unprepared.  I feel nostalgic.  I feel like I want to dig my heels in the ground.

Needless to say, these feelings, coupled with the lack of sleep and raging hormones (the damn same ones responsible for the sweating) caused my eyes to overflow.  I was like a little kid.  Trying to catch my breath.  Trying not to be heard.  But just trying to make sense of it all.

The normalcy I finally got used to will not be normal anymore.  Being at the mercy of a newborn's schedule seems doable, but am I really going to be able to create a new normal and those special, unique things I do with my child(ren) just because?  All the progress, trust and momentum W and I have created in the last two years is sort of going to come to a screeching halt.  Am I really going to be able to pick it up again?  And will W still even like me then?

Perhaps I am panicked.  Or maybe just irrational.  Regardless, I'm sweating again.  

Thank you, Becca, for your words of wisdom:

Onward and upward, I say! Each tiny progression is wondrous and exciting--and I need to let myself be caught up in the moment...as often as I can manage it.

Each tiny progression is wondrous and exciting.  Genius!

Oddly, I know I can do this.  I will do it.  On on hand, I kind of have to; but I want to, as well.  And this is what life is about -- progression -- right?  Despite my nervousness, I hope to be pleasantly surprised at my own development as I step from one page to the next.  Sweaty and all, I want to be caught up in the moment and take the new "normal" as it comes.  Kissing W every time I can put him in his car seat.  And baby girl, too.

Still Lovely

{tumbler via marta}

It's snowing outside!  Beautiful, white, peaceful snow.  The house is quiet.  Baby's still sleeping.  Ahhhh.  Perfection.  Until the day (read:  chaos) really starts, these few quiet moments are priceless.

It certainly isn't always like this.

The last couple of days have been exhausting.  Aside from cleaning a few closets and such, I really haven't done much of anything.  I've been wearing the same sweats three of the last four days.  Nope, make that four for four; I'm wearing them now.  I've only made dinner once.  I haven't ventured beyond a one mile radius of my home by myself.  And I'm not even depressed or anything.  I'm just so tired!

I suppose my nighttime sleep is getting less and less productive with this ever-growing bowling ball of an abdomen.  When the clock reads about 11:45 (yes, that's  a.m.), I am so wiped out I can barely keep my eyes open, let alone feed, entertain, play with and seem functional to Winst.  I feel like a drunk on the verge of consciousness, just begging for 1:00 to near so I can feel justified in putting W down for a nap.  But based on what I could find in my house (or that one-mile radius) I'm only drunk off this baby growing inside me (read:  that's sucking the life out of me).    

But redemption!  When Dave came home last night the first thing he said was, "The house looks clean."  I asked him if he was serious because I was shocked.  And he was.  Completely sincere.  This pretty well made my day, especially after having cleaned up the same books and toys 35,000 times.  Kind of pathetic.  But accurate.    

I read an article earlier this week I haven't stopped thinking about.  In a nutshell, the author discusses her fascination/obsession/anxiety for authenticity of the "Mormon housewife blogs."  No doubt, the Internet is flooded with loads of them -- some Mormon and some not -- which paint the picket-fence-picture-perfect-life we all want to punch through the computer screen or guilt ourselves to shame over said blog jealousy.  But to me, the author put it perfectly:

"...the basic messages expressed in these blogs -- family is wonderful, life is meant to be enjoyed, celebrate the small things -- are still lovely. And if they help women like me envision a life in which marriage and motherhood could potentially be something other than a miserable, soul-destroying trap, I say, 'Right on.'" 

In my heart of hearts, I can honestly say I've put forth a good effort to portray a realistic picture of my life on this little speck of mine in the world of blog land.  I can only hope I have expressed a message like she stated, of the little things still being lovely.  And I really appreciate when I can relate to another's honesty (like this), even if my relationship with this other person is only through my Google Reader.

Marriage and motherhood are awesome...and challenging and frustrating and rewarding and on and on and on.  My little blog is my outlet to journal my life, think out loud, see and share pretty and not-so-pretty things.  But overall, I want it to be a place where I feel comfortable being me, which is a mom and a wife and...Katie.  Clean and simple...sometimes.

Life is far from perfect.  I think most people can agree with that.  But we can all choose whether to be fulfilled or fed up with it.  So I suppose that means we can all choose to paint the picture we want because we can choose what we get out of the every day.  

I'm just trying to make my every day chaos something lovely.

To each her own.

Quoted: Gumption

I'm always a fan of new beginnings, new plans, new hopes, new ambitions, new ideas.  Yet January 1 has snuck up on me, the calendar page has now turned, and my usual course of crafting a thoughtful plan of goals for the upcoming year has fallen behind my goal of extracting the last of those pine needles from the carpet.  

It will happen.  Just a bit of a delay, I suppose.

However, in reading others' goals and reviews of the last year, I came across this thought.  An inspiration.  Perhaps the springboard to my outlook on 2011.  I really like the ideas of willingness, not complaining, and finding a way.  

I'm excited for all that this year has in store.  

Enjoy!

{my sparkle via BLOOM}

Random: Black Eye

• So I was blog hopping.
• That was my first mistake.  
• Saw a picture of a friend of a friend.  Who is prego.  
• Like, super pregnant.  
• She showed her obligatory baby body/profile shot.  
• All cute and TINY.  
• t. i. n. y. 
• This girl's got weeks on me and I look (and feel) like my baby tum could barrel over her entire body.  
• I felt like I'd been punched.  
• Then I wanted to punch her.  
• By the looks of things, this little lady of mine is plenty healthy.   

Thankful: A choice

Today a friend of mine mentioned a conversation she had with a woman from our church.  The woman from church felt conflicted about some feedback she had received about the fact that she was a working mom.  She has one elementary-aged child at home and another one on the way.  Apparently some women had given her a hard time about why in the world she would work outside of her home when she has young kids.  The comments they shared were laced with criticism and came from uninformed points-of view.  Rightfully so, it was feedback this woman really didn't appreciate.  You see, this particular woman is from a foreign country where woman have just recently been given the opportunity to work.  The equal-rights movement has just come full circle in her country to include professional woman.  To her, it is an honor and duty for her to be able to work, for now, she finally has a choice.

Wow!  Talk about a different perspective.

Some people might roll their eyes and think, "Of course those women from that church are judgmental and blah blah blah."  But I think this is an issue all woman are faced with and very likely have their own opinions about.  When it comes to a woman's family, her sense of self and her ability to choose, it's a sensitive topic.

Regardless of what you or I or anyone else might say, I am thankful that I have a choice.  It was a choice I made a long time ago.  Long before I had children, was married, or even knew my husband.  I made the choice that I wanted to put my professional life on hold while I stayed home to raise my children.  It is my choice, and a choice I still feel good about.  I am thankful I have the ability to make this choice.  Not just the freedom to do so, but that D supports me in this choice and is able to support our family through his professional work.  I realize this is not a choice all women have, for whatever reason.  I admire the women who support their families financially and still find time to come home, fix dinner, run a household, AND teach, love, finish school assignments and spend quality time with their kids.  It's a ton of work!

Whatever a woman chooses, I am not one to judge.  I support a woman's right to share her abilities, talents and skills in the capacities she so chooses.  I am thankful I have that choice.  I am thankful I have support in that choice.  I am thankful that I feel fulfillment and growth in this choice I've made.  Sure, there are days where I'd really love to don something different than jeans and a T, go to a meeting, make big decisions and, at the end of the day, get a paycheck.  But I have made a choice.  My meetings are different.  My decisions are for a smaller audience.  And my paycheck?  Well, I'm taking stock options in my "company."

Thankful: And showing it

Five years ago my mom started a personal project called "Laps for Learning."  For two weeks straight, she heads to the pool and swims and swims and swims.  Talk about water logged.  She usually swims about two miles a day.  Two miles!  It is physically taxing on her, but just as rejuvenating, as well.

The purpose of her swims was to raise money for a particular charitable organization she was closely involved with.  The funds she has raised through Laps for Learning have directly helped children in Zambia (education), Kenya (education) and Nepal (clean water).

This year (and last) my mom is swimming for an organization called Haitian Roots.  I've mentioned it before.  This year she swam almost 30 miles to raise funds to help Haitian Roots put kids through school.  Thirty miles, people!

My mom isn't shy about asking for help.  She sends out hundreds of letters and makes personal calls to invite people to support her in supporting Haitian Roots.  She is passionate about Haitian Roots and the good work it does for children in Haiti.  Moreover, she is passionate about her ability to make change, contribute and serve.  Her mantra is, "I swim, you donate, children learn."

If you want to help children receive an education in Haiti, support my mom in her Laps for Learning project.  ALL of the money (every penny, 100%) goes to Haitian Roots which will provide educational support for so many kids.  Currently, it costs about $240 for one child to go through a year of schooling.  My mom is hoping to raise $5,000 this year.  That will send 20 kids to school!

Check out the Haitian Roots website here.  Or you can send a check to my mom who will send it along to Haitian Roots.

I am of the opinion that it's easy to be thankful for all of the great things in life.  But it is sharing all of these blessings that is the true measure of gratitude.  I certainly have a lot to be thankful for.  I suppose I better get on with the sharing part.

Sisters (and brothers)

Life has ups and downs.  That's part of the excitement and what keeps things interesting.  Sure, some of the lows are low, but the highs are high.  And I'm learning that things always having a way of working out; seems I'm gaining more trust in my belief that there's a plan out there for me guided by someone who sees a much bigger picture.  But, for those times when I'm in the shower camouflaging tears with what's coming out the shower head, for me, it's time to evaluate and write out what I'm feeling.

This post has been a long time coming.  Years, I'd say.  Sort of got lost in the old paper journal and now finally making it to the electronic one.  This post is personal, yet obviously public.  Nonetheless, it will be presented for journaling purposes.

So, here I go (feel free to hit your "read" button, if you'd like to pass)

My sister introduced me to a song the other day.  Hello tear jerker!  More like, cry fest.  It was one of those.  You can listen here.

I listened to the song over and over again.  It's beautifully simple, sweet, and heartfelt.  I felt drawn in immediately at the whispered name of "sister."  

Oh my sisters.  My sweet sisters.  Just saying/writing/hearing that word puts a lump in my throat.  

How I love my dear sisters.  We are separated by brothers in between.  We are different and unique from one another.  But our strengths balance our weaknesses, and together, we are dynamite.  Though we haven't all lived under the same roof in 10+ years, I believe we've grown closer together over those years than in the previous ones.  I would do anything -- anything -- for my sisters.  

Last week I was reminded of a sad time a few years ago.  This sister who introduced me to that song reminded me of it.  She reminded me of how sad I was to learn some news of our brother.  I was reminded of how heartbroken and sad I was.  I literally felt that ache in my heart I'd felt so many years before.  It hurt.  She told me she never wanted me to feel that way again.

Following this sad reminder, I remembered why I had felt that way.  Not the cause of my hurt, but the feeling of intense love, closeness and desire to keep my brother safe.  It wasn't the circumstance, but the sensation of feeling the hurt that he felt; feeling sad that he was sad; feeling wounded like him.  Though I hadn't experienced his hurt, I felt a deep, deep sense of empathy.  The only reason I could justify these feelings was because of the word sister.  He is my brother; I am his sister; roles only surpassed by that of a parent.  

Like the words of the song, when my siblings laugh, I am happy; when they are sad, I feel it, too.  Regardless of the cause, the circumstance, the prognosis, I will share these feelings because I am their sister.  I don't find this to be a burden, but rather a blessing of being part of a family.  Sure, we don't all have perfect families.  I think mine would fit in that less-than-perfect status.  But for me, at the end of the day, it's loving and shouldering my family that is most important.  In all sincerity, I value this role to the Nth degree.   

I am unsure how to end this post.  I feel like it will sort of never be finished.  It isn't a breakthrough, but more like a realization of what it means for me to be a sister.

 I'll celebrate your highs.  I'll sorrow with you during the lows.  You keep me.  

With love,

your sister

Sister

by Dave Matthews

passing time with you in mind,

it's another quiet night.

feel the ground against my back;

counting stars against the black.

thinking 'bout another day,

wishing i was far away.

wherever I dreamed I was

you were there with me.

sister, i hear your laugh.

my heart feels full up.

keep me please.

sister, when you cry, 

i feel your tears running down my face.

sister, 

sister, 

keep me.

i hope you always know it's true,

'cause i would never make it through.

you can make the sun go dark just by walking away.

playing like we used to play,

like it would never go away,

i feel you beating in my chest.

i'd be dead without.

sister, i hear your laugh.

my heart feels full up

keep me please.

sister, when you cry, 

i feel your tears running down my face.

sister, 

sister, 

you keep me.

i hope you always know it's true, that i would never make it through.

you could make the heavens fall just by walking away. 

sister, i hear you laugh, 

my heart feels full up.

keep me, please.

sister, and when you cry, 

i feel your tears running down my face.

sister,

sister,

you keep me.

Quoted

You ever hear/read something that really puts you in your place?  

This did it for me.  

Black Bean Bullets

Mealtime is stressful for me.  

I find that by the time I get food on W's plate and hot food off the stove for the Mr., they're finished with their meals and looking for more before I even sit down.  If it's not that, W's launched his cup across the room and Lucy's in a frenzy trying to wrangle the wet noodle from her ear that W thoughtfully shared.    Or finally, the meal I have prepared is greeted with half-smiles, partial chewing and eventual spitting out.  

Nothing like a good self-confidence booster.

Preparing a meal for anyone can be a little nerve racking.  But to be at the mercy of a child...really stinks.  I recently read an article I found I could relate to.  Just the title was right up my alley:  "Dinner is on the Table...the Stairs...the Floor."  Hmmm, sounds familiar.

The other night W had already sent the first half of his meal into orbit and, after guests arrived, the latter half was tossed to the floor without so much as a hesitation.  Of course, he did have room for dessert. 

The author and award-winning food critic shares her frustrations of trying/attempting/slaving to nourish her children, not only for physical survival, but for the emotional, social and familial benefits of family mealtime.  

"Serving my kids a good healthy meal is only half the battle.  The bigger challenge is getting them to eat."  She goes on to say, "Eight out of every 10 meals I prepare are greeted with horror.  The dish as eaten by the tots contains nary a plant in a recognizable state, and we might as well tidy up the after-dinner kitchen with a fire hose."  

My mom was a HUGE family meal advocate and always prepared healthy, balanced, (looking back now I really see) delicious meals for us.  How did she do it?!  (And why didn't I appreciate it?!)  

Surely my siblings and I didn't complain, covertly stash food into our pockets and deposit in the toilet, or throw ourselves on to the floor at the thought of having to consume a green vegetable.  No way.

Sadly, karma...stinks.

To date, the best mealtime fiasco yet was just a few days ago.  I had prepared a hearty breakfast for W.  Eggs.  Toast.  Fruit.  Not bad for an 18-mo-old.  He ate the bananas, only smashing the last piece into his fist.  Pounded his forearm into the jammed-up side of toast, then threw his plate like a frisbee across the kitchen, eggs and all.  Hmmm, OK.  I can handle that.  But then Lucy polished off the eggs and scraps of toast, only to throw it up all up over the rug 30 seconds later.

Perfect morning.  Perfect.  

But alas, there is hope:

"I've come to think of family meals as a practice, much as one might practice yoga or meditation:  It's probably the journey, and not the destination, that matters most.  Although health experts will tell you that family mealtime is worth more than a treasure chest filled with gold and rubies, I'd still rather have rubies on the stairs than scrambled eggs.  But as I tell my kids, 'What's being served is what's being served.'  And that's OK."

I guess I'll be practicing this mealtime thing for a while.  I'm committed to it.  However, by the time I get it right my child(ren) will likely be moved away and scattered across the country.  Nonetheless, I'm a believer in spending time together over a meal, discussing the day, sharing stories and filling bellies.  I think we nourish ourselves in every way when we make time to break bread together.  I am so glad my mother put the countless hours and effort into answering the "what should we have for dinner" question day after day.  She never swayed from making sure our family sat around the table together every evening.  

I guess now I'm getting the payback I deserve.  

Kind of like a mixed drink

On our trip home in July, we made a stop by my mom's parents' house.  Jack and Coke.  Not the drink.  That's them.  They are the sweetest, funniest, quirkiest Jack and Coke I know.  

To say our trip was busy would be an understatement.  But I was so glad when we called my grandparents that Sunday night and asked if we could stop by.  My brothers and their wives came along, too.  No kids.  We all just went to see these two, get birdie kisses from Grandma and a pat on the back from Grandpa.  I thought our visit would be brief.  Instead, we all sat around the family room and talked -- just talked -- for a long time.  Longer than I can ever remember sitting in their family room uninterrupted.

My sweet Grandma told us all sorts of funny stories about how she was an only child, how she loved her bulldogs (who were her siblings) and how she managed to survive growing up.  She repeatedly expressed how lucky she felt to have gone from an only child to a family of six children, 20 grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren.  To her, it couldn't get any better than this!

My cute grandpa told stories, poked fun, laughed, rolled his eyes, and smiled the whole time.  He seemed so flattered to have us there just to see them.  No reason other than just to be there with them.

I feel so lucky to have these grandparents who get over-the-moon excited (and that isn't an exaggeration) when I call them from what they think is so far away.  You would think I'd walked a mile to a pay phone and used my last quarter to call them.  They just can't believe I would make the effort to call and see how they are doing.

{Notice the bunny ears?  A Colleen classic}

As they get older and I do too, I see more of myself in them and feel a deeper attachment to who they are and the lives they've had.  They are aged, experienced, and worn, but they are sweet, kind and wise.

As only Grandma would say, "Stick together, all kinds of weather!"

...having children these days.

Loved this sweet post in regards to NY Mag. article.
Loved her clever, witty approach to some of those dampening instances.
And in the end, she's still enchanted.

These little children need their own chance on earth.  

I know this is why we do it because otherwise we wouldn't. 

My heart is spellbound.  I am enchanted by these children.

They are truly worth every lost wink of sleep and dampened mood.

Channeling Mrs. Cleaver

A while back I saw a picture of a certain mom playing with her children whilst wearing an apron.  Perhaps she was in the throws of dinner preparation.  I don't know.  But I thought it was not only purposeful, but genius and cute.

In the last 15 months of my life, my dry-clean-only clothing has taken a backseat to its less-fuss cotton counterparts.  Let's be honest.  Food and often times child-associated bodily fluids don't look so great on the skirt you just pulled from the hanger in the plastic bag.
Perhaps an apron is in order?

Friday sealed the deal.  Between making jam, dodging quesadilla and black bean bullets, cleaning up the remains of a dog's upset stomach, and wiping enough sticky fingers to make my own raw, an apron may become my finest accessory.

Perhaps I'll throw in some June Cleaver and pair it with a string of pearls.  I think I could get away with that.

They Say It's a Virtue

{via Martha}

It started last night.  W went to bed and I treated myself to a bowl of air popped popcorn with real butter and salt.  I inherited my love of this treat from my mom.  So good.  Nothing quite like it.  I fended off Lucy long enough to eat, well, the entire bowl, which feat made me quite thirsty.  And nothing complements salty popcorn quite like the sweet burn of my drink of choice:  a fizzy, no cal., caffeinated delight.  It was after 9:00 p.m. and I second-guessed my desire for said beverage, but caved and consumed anyway.

Bad decision.

When it came time for bed, soda was just getting started.  She rocked and rolled until well after midnight...so I did too.  W has been under the weather since Friday, which means several less-than-stellar nights of sleep.  Last night was no different.  Instead of getting the rest I'd hoped for, I was up several times with the boy in the hours following the caffeinated reprieve.  At 8:00 a.m., I was kicking myself.  I admit I'm not the most pleasant person when I'm overly tired.

W's refusal to eat breakfast should have been the first indication of where the day was going.  He didn't even want the fruity smoothie (which did taste a big odd today), and instead threw strawberries all over the floor and fed eggs to Lucy.  Awesome.

Post breakfast, we headed out for a walk.  Walking outside was like hitting a brick wall; it's hot!  Undeterred, I strapped W in the stroller and we headed down the driveway.  The Bob seemed a bit lopsided and I discovered a tire was completely flat.  Again, undeterred, we went back up the driveway and pulled out the bike pump.  Apparently Dave's pump is more advanced than I can handle (Is that even possible?  It's a pump!).  After I wrestled the tube cover off, I couldn't get the blasted pump to pump.  Really?  Yes, really.  It just continued to hiss and hiss as I pumped in vain, at which point Lucy freaked out and proceeded to poop all over the garage floor.  Really?  Really?!?!  Cue throwing in of the towel.

My VTs came later that morning. I tried to mask my sour mood.  But you know how sometimes you just can't fake smiling?  Yeah.  One of those.  Regardless, their message was becoming more and more relevant as the day continued.

After they left, W was no longer interested in his nap, or his lunch for that matter.  Instead of sulking, we headed out to run some errands.  We perused the aisles of Target, threw in some bubbles and other stuff, then headed out to the car.  Keys.  Keys?  Where are they?  Keys?  Yes, this was really happening.  Someone please punch me.

We walked out to the car.  No keys in sight.  The heat.  Oh, the heat.  We headed back inside and THANKFULLY someone had picked up my stray key and handed it in to the customer service.  Meltdown (physically and emotionally) averted!

W fell asleep on the way home.  I sucked in all the cool air I could from the AC.  It felt good.  I needed to chill out.  It was then that I remembered my VTs lesson from this morning.  Patience.

Patience isn't learned when baby is sleeping, dog obeys commands, or hubs picks up his shoes without asking.  It is learned when baby is launching fistfulls of spaghetti squash on to the floor you just cleaned, dog is losing control of her bowels, and hub's shoes dot the house.

Patience, Kate.  Patience.

We pulled into the garage.  I quietly open and closed my door and opened W's door, trying to keep him from waking.  I quietly unbuckled him and began to pull him from the car.  But I couldn't.  I was stuck.  My hair was now stuck on the hanger hook in the car.  Had my mouth not been inches from W's face, I may have slung a line of bad words into the air.  Instead I just thought them.

I obviously haven't learned patience, just yet.

But I have learned something.  Two things.

• Patience is a virtue.  One not so easily learned.  But one well worth achieving.
• (and perhaps equally as important) Caffeinated beverages are not to be consumed after 8:00 p.m.  To do otherwise is a punishable offense.  Self-inflicted punishment.  

I'm heading outside to think about what I've done.  I'll be sweating it out.  Perhaps when I come back inside, I will have learned my lessons.

Change Is Good

Today I walked the grounds of my Alma mater --  BYU.  I visited the campus briefly two or three years ago for my brother's graduation, but I hadn't really been back since I graduated five years ago.
I really had no reason for going today other than wanting to check out my old stomping grounds; who knows when I'll be back. 
Here's how it went down: 

• We parked at the MOA (where I had previously incurred too many parking tickets), 
• then headed to the bookstore (and immediately purchased chocolate-covered gummy bears), 
• next walked through the Cougar Eat (and shuddered at the thought of drinking caffeine-free DC),
• and finally, strolled around the campus en route to the Brimhall bldg (the place where I spent way too much time way back when...but didn't know a soul there today). 

It was sort of odd being back.  On one hand, I felt like I belonged.  But then I'd look around and see people -- people who I considered as peers -- only to remember I was carrying a squirming and/or limp-noodle-bodied one-year-old.  I wasn't carrying books or a backpack.  Nor was I wearing Toms, gladiator sandals, a high-waisted skirt, or a BYU Phys. Ed. shirt (all of which seem to be the rage in UT County).  Suddenly, I felt so much older.  And out of touch.  Way out of touch.

It was like I wanted to be cool, only to realize that I'm kind of a dork. 

Regardless of my uncoolness, it was cool for me to be back on the campus where I spent four formative years of my life.  And it was cool for me to be there with the newest chapter of my life. 
The campus has changed dramatically.  It is a thriving place with a very unique spirit.  The new J.F. Smith building is incredible.  And the new Hinckley building...nothing short of gorgeously amazing.  It is like a home -- in its looks and its feel. 
By the end of my visit, perhaps my coolness didn't return, but my comfortable-ness did.
On my way out, I walked passed the window of the classroom where I used to paint.  The classroom where D surprisingly showed up one weekend (after flying half-way across the country) to see me.  So much has changed since then.  We've come a long, long way.  Progress.
And although the school seems like a different place now, I realize that I am too. And that's a good thing.  All in a good way.  Change is good.