LOST A SOCK

Family Outing

Since forever, my sister Sant has been a very close member of my little family.  She and I are three years apart in age, and growing up we played and argued like normal sisters.  We shared a small, yellow, bunkbedded bedroom until I was twelve and then suddenly I needed my (sigh here, loudly and dramatically) space, even though at the time as the oldest child in a family of six, the only space I could find was in our hot, unfinished attic where I slept two nights with pillows and blankets spead out on large plastic-wrapped packages of fiberglass insulation.  (All I can say is that I was so twelve, and move along.) 

Of course, I took Sant to the attic with me.  Do you really think I was going to sleep up there alone?

My parents guessed correctly that with all the drama that is a twelve year old girl, possibly I did need my own room, and they allowed me to paint the basement storage room gloomy grey (which met me half way since I was unbelievably twelve and deeply desired to paint it black) and move down there.

Where a good percentage of the time, I invited my sister down with me to sleep throughout all of high school on an old black leather couch handed down from my grandparents, which she will someday blame for back problems.

In 1996 we moved from Chicago to Northwest Indiana, and four days later I went away to college. 

Upon returning home from college, the summer before my wedding, Sant was again formally invited to join me in slumber on my new bed, purchased for my new house.  And there we spent summer evenings watching episode after episode of Who Wants to be a Millionare, as well as chick flick movies to infinity, with my window air conditioner cranked to high, under mounds of blankets.  Also we used our family's trampoline to work on our tans that summer, and ate lots of cheese and mushroom pizza.  (Which subsequently helped neither my sister nor I fit into a wedding gown and maid-of-honor dress.)

Finally I moved out of my parents house permanantly, just as I began my first teaching job and Kevin and I purchased our first house.  It would be two months until Kevin moved in, though, and if you've noticed a trend by now you can probably guess that I invited Sant to come stay with me at my new house.  And she did.

In 2001 Sant went away to college and I called her and emailed her and bugged her to death.  In 2002 KJ was born and Sant was the obvious choice for his godmother. 

She stayed with us again, on random weekends from time to time, in order to play with the baby and save my first-time post-partum ass.  Kevin, Sant and I passed that non-sleeping constantly-vomiting baby from person to person, day and night, and always wondered how that tiny precious boy could turn upside down the lives of three grown adults with sleep deprivation.  (Heh, we were quite unskilled back then, for sure.)

Then three years later when I was pregnant with Jack, on bed rest for several months to his birth, Sant came to stay with us for a few months to help.  She had just graduated from college and had yet to find a job, so she, KJ and I watched Elmo dvd's and cranked the air conditioning all summer, and snuggled up in blankets. 

She stayed with us for the next several years for most of each week, heading to my parents house on weekends in order to give everyone the proper amount of space.  We avoided the pizza this time, deciding that we should lose weight together, and collectively lost nearly two-hundred pounds.

Late one night during that two years of great weight loss and taking better control of our lives, Sant revealed to me that she was gay.  She didn't just think maybe she was gay, or simply hadn't dated enough guys (whom she always thought would make good friends, but alas, no spark,) she was sure and had been for a while.  She said that for the sake of avoiding the whole "outing" herself to everyone we know, and for fear of being shunned or rejected, she really thought for a while that she could hide it forever, and maybe even marry a nice guy and try to conform.

It wouldn't have worked, though, because we were well into realizing that a person gets one shot at life, so it might as well be good.  It was the bravest thing she would have to do, I think, when she one-by-one told friends and family over months' time, having no idea how anyone would take it, fearing that she could even lose important relationships.  But thankfully, it didn't change anything for anyone.

 

I was so excited for her to be exactly who she is.

And we celebrated at Chicago's Pride Parade that summer with jello shots.

And then a little while later she met Leslie online. 

And a little while after that, about a year ago, Leslie moved here from the west coast, and we all got a Leslie.  (Who happens to be one of Marin's best pals.)

They've stayed with us a couple days each week for the last year, and KJ, Jack and Marin have had the chance to bond with Leslie, too.  It is always the hope that your "person" fits in with all of your other people, and I say with much honesty that Leslie is not only the perfect person for Sant, but also a perfect fit in our family. 

And though I cannot yet post pictures of all of the fun projects my mom and I concocted for the day, tomorrow we will host a shower for Sant and Leslie, who will close on their first house this week.  Their first house, seven minutes from my doorstep.  Let the new chapter begin, where I my three children my three children and I on seperate occasions venture over to their house for sleepovers with icy cold air conditioning, cozy blankets and relaxing movies.

Where I will happily sleep on the couch.

With the deja vu and all

Tomorrow is Kevin's 33rd birthday, and late last night I found myself wasting a fantastic amount of time clicking through all of the pictures I've taken in summers past. 

I stumbled onto this one, out of a set from Kevin's birthday two years ago. 

 

My oh my, what a sweet little midget Jackson was, perched on my hip in his stripey summer onesie.  I could eat him with a spoon, right out of the picture.  Right after I polish off that french silk pie.

Then I realized that, already, we are almost to this baby age with Marin.

Then I realized that this was a mere six months before I would learn of my pregnancy with Marin, just after we moved out of the little house we were standing in, during the process of not selling it, just as I was trying to lose my final ten pounds in order to declare myself thin forever.  

Boy what I would write to this girl in a letter.  

Time really does move amazingly fast the older you get, doesn't it?  I wonder where we will be in two more years from now.  I wonder if today will feel like just yesterday, then?

Happy Birthday, Kev. 

(Green jello cake as requested this year.  Nineteen pounds heavier, good gift, next house, different baby eating from my fork.)

Wherein Jillian Michaels drives me to try crazy things

Hi friends.

I know my blogging has been spotty lately, and don't you worry, I surely have hang-ups about it.  But I think we all need to walk away from the finger pointing for now, and hop back to it.  It is time to discuss evil.  Or, the Diet Coke of evil.  (Just one calorie.)

(Doctor Evil, Austin Powers, yes?)

(No-no Mini Me, we don't gnaw on our kitty.)

Onward.

So! I am still shredding.  

Level Two, Day Thirteen.

Okay, if you do the math that's like six days missing in there or something from my very first shred.  One time I was passed out on the couch when Kevin finally made it home from work to join me, therefore being forced to decide between Evil Sergeant Ponytail Kicking My Ass, or Sleeeeep.  (Duh.)  Several days later I pulled a muscle in my lower leg and gave it time to heal, on Saturday I walked a 5K and I took a pass on double duty exercise, and tonight I write. 

Wait, did I say a 5K?

These are the things that yuppie hippie somebody-or-others do with their Saturday mornings, and Kevin once, three years ago, but not me.  (Ok and Breain.)

Not me, that is, until we signed up for the race the walk to raise money for Make A Wish Foundation, which happened to wind through our favorite zoo in the world. 

Apparently even my lacksidasical commitment to the Shred is beginning to pay off, with a dive down into a lesser size of khaki shorts (thankyouverymuch) and the return for my willingness to try new things once again.  Apparantly I need nine full months to gestate and nine full months to embrace recovery from all the gestating.  Who knew?

 

So we woke our kids at six a.m. on Saturday morning and whisked them off to the zoo.  We figured KJ would never make the entire race walk without whining, crying, dragging, falling, hating and certain death, especially on an eighty-eight degree day, so he happily took the stroller option when we offered.  (No shame, that boy.)

We missed the official start by a few seconds as we spent too much time pilfering free peanut bars from the radio station table, and that sort of set the standard for our personal time.

Following the path of orange cones, we passed a volunteer every now and again who would cheer for us and holler something about a great job stopping to visit with the animals every twelve feet.  I never got over feeling goofy about that, all of the forced cheering while we hauled our offspring around the course, daring them to eat the peanut bars and just chill for a while.

We knew to stay to the left so that the real runners (who actually jog with their jogging strollers and not just occupy too-large boys) could pass as needed, and after a while of our brisk walking, then stopping, and more walking, we began to wonder how it was that all of these sweaty runners and their jogging strollers were coming from behind us.  Because, people, for sure we cleared off the peanut bar table so what could be left to delay their start times? 

Oh right, the panting fools were the supahstahs on their second lap. 

(Yeah, well wait until you're finished.  And starving.  Because my kids have eaten all the protein so now look where your sweat and speed has gotten you.  Hungry, that's where.)

Finally we made it around the first time, and then we started in for part two just as our boys were sooooo hottttttt and our baby was ready for a nap and a bottle.  Jackson made sure twelve times that we would be stopping at the playground this time around, and KJ vehemently hated the sun, the heat, the bumps, the path that failed miserably at passing through the reptile house and the entire idea of lap two. 

We, too, had worked up quite a sweat pushing strollers, though enjoying our morning exercise for a great cause. 

More thirsty now, smelly and definitely hot, I sort of lost my parental shit reached a breaking point a little ways into the final lap.  We were off to the side of the road again, mixing up a bottle for our fussy, overtired baby and trying to convince Jack that he needed not visit every bathroom that day, when KJ began objecting to seeing The Same Animals Againnnnnnnnnnnn, as if this were the new worst thing in the world just next to whole wheat bread and crust, when one's blackened hearted parents drag children from their early morning slumbers to have fun! exercise! charitable family time! glean vitamin D from the sunshine! 

Awful indeed, and all at once I became every mother that ever lived because I was TURNING THESE DAMN STROLLERS AROUND, totally finished with the grumbling, complaining and child misery.  Not until, however, I snapped at my husband right in front of three zoo staffers whizzing by in a golf cart, because couldn't he at least offer to help?!  Help me shake up this bottle that I've done ten thousand times?!  Couldn't he hold my hand or offer some sort of support or something?  Are you the one causing this boy to complain?  Your offspring?  Surely you have fault here, man! 

How pretty of me. 

Kevin convinced our crew to calm down and carry forward until we finally reached the playground, where we would then dump our children from their respective chariots to just run it off already as we cooled down.  Then we called it a day on the 5K 4K and quietly wished for the deodarant left back at the car.  We made peace with each other, and visited the reptile house. 

As we headed towards the gate my eye caught a family of five, just like ours, with two boys the ages of our boys, and a baby girl.  I smiled immediately because I so love seeing families like mine, and I always wonder what their daily lives are like and how they handle the highs and the lows.  And just as I turned to alert Kevin to our selves in another life, I clearly overheard the father say to his oldest son, "You know, why don't you think of something FUN about this day instead of constantly complaining?!"  

And in that moment I wanted to run up and shake that man's hand.  Or kiss him, even, if not for being so smelly and tired and married and whatnot.  (Oh how misery does love company.)

Our next walk, which surely we will attempt again, shall involve a babysitter.  And a crisp fall afternoon.  And ear buds.

***

Miracle of miracles, I caught up on uploading recent pictures today.  They live here.

Your Mom

It's Mother's Day, and I bet you'll be glad to know with my recent propensity for blogging only once or twice weekly?  That as long as you return to this website each day until I write a new post, it is still Mother's Day for all you moms. 

Monday?  Why, I have nothing to blog about.  And Mother's Day it is.

Tuesday?  Okay I do have something to say but the baby's diaper is leaking, my six year old has a little league game in an hour and the twelve baskets of laundry lining my bedroom floor won't be putting themselves away.

Wednesday?  Continue celebrating.  You're a real mother, I tell you.

And you get the idea.  Thank me later.

While switching loads of laundry this morning I thought about all of the Mother's Days we celebrated when I was growing up and I wondered if this Mother's Day thing, and motherhood in general, is what I thought it would be 100 years ago before I had kids.  I don't remember whether my mom washed my clothes on Mother's Day, and I don't know what she quietly thought about, or if she was happy with the way things were going on that particular day or in general for our family. 

My kids won't remember today either.  They made me presents and a card and told me that they loved me, and as a kid I thought that to be the most important part- to give mom something good.  But now I know as a mom, that the best part of all on this day and every day, as insanely cliche as it sounds, is just to have these kids.  They don't need to do anything or say anything or make anything.  Just being who they are without giving it so much as a thought, and being mine, is indescribably Good, even when it isn't.  Turns out the day isn't about celebrating my role in this family at all, but simply celebrating this family. 

Later this afternoon in five minutes we will have both sides of our families over for a feast, and to give them the gifts that we've been working on this week.

Last Sunday afternoon the five of us took a long walk together and played at the park.

The Sunday afternoon before that Kevin and I had front row tickets to this crazy wild rock show (where the drummer wasn't even wearing pants!)

Though the xylophone player kept making her way too far into the middle of the action for the drummer's liking.

The Sunday afternoon before, I don't know, but I really think most of them have been Mother's Days, and that's what I hope my kids remember.  And for when they someday read this, today I think we're doing okay, and even better than okay, and I love whatever it is we do when we're all together.  I didn't mind washing your clothes on Mother's Day (though we'll talk differently when you're 17, 14 and 12) and I quietly thought, this morning as I picked up the family room, about how and when we can finally add a giant table to that room and let the homeschooling begin.  I loved your pot holder and your picture frame this morning, but most of all I love you.

(Also, Marin, way to go on conquering the word Mama this week.  I may be second to Baba, but I get it.  Ha!)

Oh I could write a sonnet about your Easter bonnet...

(It may not be published until mid-next month, but hey, I do what I can.) 

One of my favorite Easter things to do with the kids is the egg dye.  KJ was barely a year old when I plopped him in his high chair and taught him to mix colors, and we've been having a great time with it every year since.  The most fun so far, I must say, is taking on this task with toddlers because, well, they're a freaking blast when it comes to semi-permanant dye and mess making. 

This year was good, with the green hands and the multitude of Optimus Prime-inspired eggs, but nothing ridiculously entertaining with ages six and three.  (This is why I keep having babies.  Next year?  Mwahahaha!  Another toddalah!)

 

Which, I fear the toddalah thing is going to happen sooner than I can wrap my brain around, because look at this one just sitting there with her basket and her brothers like she wasn't just fresh out of the womb yesssssssterday.  (She was, I swear.) 

Also, she is fully prepared to eat the damn Gerber cookie, wrapper and all, if I can't put down the camera and remove the cellophane already.

 

Eastaaaaaah.  (Two outta three non-goofballs aint bad, no?)

 

Strawberry Shortcake and baby sandals, oh my!

 

And she was as excited as I was about them!  Squee!

Then it was off to visit family far and wide, where we infected my sister Sant and her girlfriend Leslie with the stomach flu, and also my brother Jake, and then my mom, and then my dad (you know, as a thank you gift for spending the entire day before Easter helping Kevin construct our new swing set), and last but certainly not least we gave the stomach bug to my mother-in-law who is hospitalized with it as we speak. 

I bet they all can't wait to have us over again next year.

Take one down, pass it around

I grew up the oldest sibling of four, and very clearly remember whenever one of us would come home with any virus or the dreaded stomach flu, the sinking feeling I'd have in my gut, knowing for sure it was only a matter of time before I too would fall victim.  I was a sitting duck, bright red target on my back reading, Haven't been here yet, virus! Come and get me!

Little did I know my mother probably felt like the most obvious target of us all, with four little sets of hands picking up germs from four school classrooms and four surfaces of grocery store aisles, all ready to gift her with our next disease...just after she'd finished taking care of all nasty substances which had finally finished evacuating our bodies, now harboring hopeful safety to rise again from laundry baskets, bedding and carpeting alike.  My mom used to joke with the nurses at our pediatrician's office that they needed to put in a revolving door for us because we visited so frequently. 

(I hated that joke, I did.  I could see it coming from a mile away even as young as eight or nine.  Uh-oh, here comes the revolving door line, just after the co-pay!)

(So it should come as no surprise to you now that I am thirty years old, grey black hair with three children of my own, that at our pediatrician appointment this morning, the third multi-kid appointment in as many weeks, as our doctor walked through the office door to greet me with sick, half-naked oozing leaking spewing baby girl in my arms, boys seated quietly in chairs flopping noisily off their chairs, scrubbing the germ-infested floor with their bodies, the words - The Joke - shot right out of my mouth before I could stop it.  I didn't even wait for the co-pay, the nurses, the diagnosis.  I blurted out the bit about the revolving door AS IF I had always been this in-the-trenches mother of many, just like my mom was (right?) and not just yesterday a fun perky college kid still asleep at this ungodly hour.  And the doctor laughed just like she probably does with every mother-in-trenches, because we with The Revolving Door Joke and the co-pays are her Business.  Or possibly, she could have been laughing because clearly in the ruckus that was feeding and dressing everyone, packing the diaper bag, re-dressing the last of the vomiters, and racing out the door for the early appointment, I forgot to brush my teeth and spent the entire forty-minute drive doing the finger brush and glancing in the mirror while sucking down the only thing that could save my up-all-night ass, a monster Diet Coke as we hit the expressway.  At least my children were all wearing the proper sized clothes.  And shoes.)

(You love awful motherhood stories, don't you?  Wait.  I have more.)

So last week it was sinus infections, ear infections, low grade fevers, and upper respiratory crap.  Antibiotics, decongestants, nebulizer treatments, cooooooo-pays for all.

Dear young family,

We do love you so.  Thank you for keeping us in business.

Love,

Walgreens

***

Dear Walgreens,

Thank you for bleeding me.  See you next week.

Love,

A young family

And five days into us passing that around?  KJ began the stomach flu. 

I didn't even know that could happen!  The snotty stuff, the coughs, the ears - and then the vomit train right in the middle of it!?

Sitting.  Duck.

First KJ, then Jack.  (Jack who only hit "the bucket" once out of twenty-two lurches, and that once purely by accident.)  Then myself and Marin on the same day, thankfully saved by my mother who not only happened to have that no good awful day off work, but was willing to enter our nightmare so I could sleep it off in between sprints to the bathroom (gosh I should put in a revolving door for that woman.)  Marin is still hanging on to this stomach bug for dear life, gleefully passing it on to her father (who is at work with it as I type) and vomiting for now three days straight. 

As our doctor listened to her belly gurgle this morning she proclaimed that there is massive diarrhea on its way (Oh really?  Because the three days of up-the-back shit-splosions was the pre-show?  Fabulous!) and that if the vomiting continues through Friday she will need to be catheterized for a urinalysis, seeing as how sometimes urinary tract infections, our old friends, show up with vomiting.  Who knew?

Thankfully I was smart enough to cram in KJ and Marin's ear re-checks at the same time, instead of dragging the crew back on Monday for more vein bleeding co-pays.

I am so stinking glad these children got flu shots (followed by the flu, and then the flu, and then the other flu) last fall.  That was most definitely putting our dollars to good use.

 

We have no idea of which Trenches this woman speaks.

Brush With Death meets Full House. Full circle, yo.

I can totally see how you're already making a connection between this and this. 

Yes.

So when I last left you twenty-seven years ago I was basking in the glow of mountainous glory and classy dining: Kevin and I were having a California vacation without kids.

And after spending a couple days not getting enough of nature all around, we decided to head up to Muir Woods, which had been spoken so highly of. 

It was raining as we crossed a little known bridge in San Fransisco that morning, but certainly nothing that could keep us inside during our California adventure.  And as we got lost in Sausalito (who gets lost with a GPS, I ask you?) we noticed that the farther north we traveled and the higher into the mountains we climbed, wowee, the clouds around us became thicker.

Onward, just the same.

A bit into our journey we noticed a modest wood sign pointing off the winding mountain road a bit to a Buddhist retreat center.  We followed our curiosities and the road, which wound us down forever into a hidden valley, past some of the tallest trees I've ever seen in my life. 

Walking a narrow dirt path far into the valley we came upon a quiet, fairly dilapidated but remarkably peaceful place.  There were robed monks moving silently from place to place, graciously welcoming us in spite of the fact that we clearly did not fit the bill, generously inviting us to explore their gardens and the beach nearby. 

And after spending a fantastic morning there, taking pictures and nosing around, we continued on to whatever our next encounter should be. 

And it was an equally peaceful, damn, just so pleasant lunch in a tiny town of only a few businesses on one short stretch of road.  Then time for exploring the nearby bookstore (tiny place, creaky floors, rustic shelves, crazy charming) and trinket store. 

What a day.  What a day!  If it wasn't enough that we were simply moving along and stopping as we pleased, we were now running into the most charming places along the way.  It was the most peaceful, enjoyable time.  Just next to that other enjoyable day in the mountains, and enjoyable in the city, and...you get the point.

Onward.

So as things sometimes go, our day sort of turned a corner as we did.  We turned off the main road onto something that had actually made it onto a state map, though the map gave absolutely no indication of how winding, mountainous or straight freaking uphilly it was. 

And boy, rainy.  And winding, and long, too.

Winding, long, foggy and rainy and slow.

And, um, creepy?

As we climbed higher and higher into the heavily wooded mountains, slowly as ever on this tightrope of a road on the side of a mountain (or could have been middle of the mountain, hell I couldn't see anything but STRAIGHT DOWN) both Kevin and myself admitted to a sinking feeling.  We seriously could not see, and something seemed out of place, or just plain wrong here.  And we knew we needed to get off of this dark climb and back to something that was not the Blair Witch Project.

No. Shit.

Intensifying the feeling of sure doom, as we headed around one curve we noticed a white car parked up ahead.  Oh finally, people! was our at-first.  

And then, Oh crap, parked!

In essential darkness wooded middle of nowhere surely doing something illegal.  

Oh shit, illegal driver just looked straight at us.  

(Gulp.)

And then, as we got closer?  She sheilded her face with her hands!  BECAUSE NO DOUBT FOR SURE SHE AND HER PAL ONE SEAT OVER ARE BURYING A BODY UP HERE AND EHHHHHHHHHHHH WE! JUST! WITNESSED! IT!

(Gasp.  Gasp.  Gasp.)

We couldn't even speak the words to each other, but we both realized things in our minds or in reality, I am not sure, were getting out of control.  Kevin drove faster (12 mph) as each of us continually checked our car mirrors to be sure we weren't being chased up and down a dark mountain by murderers with bloody daggers.  Who know we saw.  (Nothing.)  

Hey look!  We've lost our GPS signal! 

And cell phones too!

We were racing - our hearts and our car.

I was panicking, going back to the map over and over to see when we'd finally hit another road - a way out of our outdoor entrapment, forget Muir Woods, all while venting my terror by yelling at my husband to GET OVER OH MY HELL WE ALMOST SLID OFF THE DAMN MOUNTAIN JUST THERE.  MOOOOOVE OVER, SLOW DOWN, SPEED UP WHITE CAR AAAAAAAHHHHHHH DAMN YOU VACATION!

Hours later we made it to our happy town that was just so happy...and happy! at lunchtime.  Only now it was creepy.  And our bookstore and our cafe were closed. 

So we stopped at the only place that was open, the teeny tiny grocery store, and bought caffinated beverages.  And I grabbed free matches, in case we needed to build a fire. 

 

And a bagel with an entire block of cream cheese in the middle.

Hours more later, we reached civilization and God shown sunlight down upon us for a moment.  And we did not die. 

We instead had In-N-Out Burgers, found a hotel and collapsed. 

(Now just take a second to digest and breathe.  Holy crap, no?)

Lucky for us, the morning that followed brought the exact opposite of sheer terror.  It brought my happy childhood back to me where I lived in my mind part time as DJ Tanner (and my sister Sant, sister Stephanie). 

 

Everywhere you look, indeed.

The day brought, oh sweet sigh relief, fantastic San Fransisco views,

sloping, sunshine-kissed streets far and wide,

and Mexican food on St. Patrick's Day.

We were not only fully adjusted to the two hour time difference that is the west coast to us, but our brains had been scrambled by the Blair Witch Sight-Seeing Tour that was the day previous and it was bean burritos for all. 

And home again, home again, jiggity jig.

We now begin our descent

We're home!

Annnnd I shot exactly 1,518 pictures on this our only child-free vacation in more than eight years.  Grab a drink, and maybe one of those squishy neck pillows.  I plan on posting every last one of those pictures.

Right as we began our California vacation, we set some ground rules for ourselves:  We made exactly no hotel reservations in the effort to sleep wherever we landed on any particular night, spend money on only what was really important to us (i.e. middle-of-the-road rental car, relatively inexpensive (but cleeean) hotels, saving plenty of cash for fancy schmancy kid-free dining and chooooocolate.)  Priorities, right?

Also, we decided that we should do what we cannot so easily do when we travel with the kids.  For me that meant driving twelve hours some days just to see everything we wanted to.  And browsing quiet shops that sell glass things.  For Kevin that meant climbing large rocks worrying only about his own demise.

(Black hair and all.)

Neither of us had ever been to the Pacific Ocean, though we have been through massvie mountains many times.  And the marrying of those two beauties?  Top priority.  On our very first day, in fact, we set the destination on our GPS for a tiny town hundreds of miles south that we figured we'd never reach, and we headed out on California 1, a road that winds through mountains, mountains, mountains right beside water, water, water. 

We stopped to walk through the grounds where Wayne Dyer filmed his recent movie,

and then to photograph every natural wonder we saw along our way.

And ohhhhh were there wonders.

I sort of knew as we pulled the car over on each available mountainside turnout that the pictures just wouldn't do it justice.  It was absolutely breath-taking - the ear-piercing silence and the smell of the ocean water and towering trees, all while standing on the edge of the earth in the middle of nowhere.  There was no one there, just us and God and water. 

And standing in the middle of it that whole day, over and over, made me feel grateful to be living on the planet- even if only for those very hours. 

We drove all day long, from morning to night, on the winding, ever-climbing mountain roads beside the ocean.  We lost cell phone reception, internet capabilities and even our GPS signal from time to time (though really, it wasn't like we could get lost.  There was one road in the middle of nowhere for miles and miles and all we had to do was not fall off the cliffs.)  It was the best day.

Watching the sun set in this way was exactly as I'd imagined it, only infinitely better.  It was nothing short of perfect.

Perfect, of course, until we realized that dark out there?  Was reeeally dark.  And my pictures turned to this.

And this.

Hmm.  Wouldn't it be great if someone thought to build a restaurant out here?  Or a gas station?  Or...anything?

We drove for a very long time until we finally stumbled upon another road with a little town, where we feasted on brie cheese, pine nuts, fruit and just-past-the-oven bread, followed by the freshest meats and organic herb-roasted vegetables.  That's what California is good for, that place.

We drove again for quite a while, finishing out our trip through Big Sur and well beyond, finally stumbling on another tiny town with a set of six cabins. 

And then we got up early the next morning, walked fifteen feet past our room and watched the sun rise right back up over that big blue basin.

This could not have gone any better if it had been planned, I tell you.

Later that day we undersood why California has such damn happy cows,

found the charm that is San Fransisco,

ran through the raindrops as we shopped souvenirs to our hearts content without so much as a complaint or a potty stop for anyone under six, dined on fresh crab - again with the candles, again with the quiet, only this time as we overlooked the San Fransisco Bay, listening to the sea lions bark.

We also wished to be Big,

and toured the city by twinkling lights.

Okay so we couldn't help one quick photo-op.  You know, for the kids.

Of course you do realize that no trip can be pulled off perfectly, or without heart palpitations for one reason or another...

3-2-1 Blastoff

Oh right, I'm going to California.  Not the moon.

And why I'm blogging right now rather than packing my last minute items is beyond me.  Possibly I believe that chasing an airplane down the tarmac can't be all that difficult?

I woke up this morning a little nervous, and a little sad.  Up until today I thought it a wonderful idea to leave my three young children for some relaxation on the west coast, and its probably best I made oodles of reservations a month ago or this trip?  May not be happening.  They're going to be in good hands (multiple hands of family members across the board, in fact) and with the little presents and home made cards I left for them, new play-doh, contraband double stuff oreo cookies and pizza cash, it is likely that they won't even realize I am missing. 

 

Except this one, I am pretty sure, is going to hit some sort of major milestone while I am away.  A tooth, sitting, crawlingrunningjumping, something.  She's been cooking it all up for a while.  Just yesterday, in fact, I caught her sitting up straight in her infant swing...as it rocked on high speed.  Thankfully my gasp scared the daylights out of her, setting her off balance enough to lay back with a thump instead of hitting the floor with a thud.  (My family will love the part in the Child Instructions Novel where I remind them to listen for the baby to wake in her swing...or a thud.  See insurance card and Permission to Initiate Medical Treatment letter, have a fantastic weekend.)  (Did I mention we left oreos?)

Thankfully my dear daughter has managed to sleep through the night the last two nights, now even in her own crib in her own pretty bedroom.  Ask me how that happened, I believe it all a blur.  She has also taken to food, finally, although not at all the pureed variety that babies usually enjoy for the first several months, but instead chunks of all sorts of foods.  (Read: Third child introduced to choking hazards infinitely earlier than previous two brothers.  Great success.)  I can't get over how quickly she is growing, now having flown right past her six month birthday in the blink of an eye.

And speaking of the blinking of that eye, it is really time to go. 

Rush. 

Hurry. 

Do not leave babysitters with sink full of dishes.

See you next week! 

(Here.  Have an oreo.)

And what I propose for this time next year includes October, November, December, Januaryyyy...May.

 

Oh!

Haii.

It was almost like I took a little blog vacation there, leaving you to read about my Terribly Attractive Moustache Issues for a week solid.  Which, I suppose, is almost as bad as writing another blog entry  about how impossible it is to function after almost six damn months on no sleep.  (She is cute, I'll give her that.)

So okay, I won't do that.

And I promise I'll get all happy and fun again right after I explain to you at which unthinkable level my brains have melted to mush and my ass is permanantly imprinted in our rocking chair because I decided to keep my baby home...a lot...to recover properly from her surgery, and because it's too cold and she and her mountain of blankets are too doggone heavy to lug around in her infant seat anymore.  (Waaaah waaah waaah, yes, I know.)

So after not leaving our hospital room for four days, we came home and there we stayed for another six solid. 

So by last Saturday I was nuts I tell you, and the kids were too.  Kevin and I decided we should load everyone up and head out to the mall and the Olive Garden almost an hour away even though we have those very same places four minutes away from home for a distinct change of scenery.  And because who doesn't mind expressway driving when it's sleeting and snowing?  At night?  On a long bridge over a deep quarry with their kids in the car?  Sounded perfectly responsible to me.

Dinner was great, being out was great.  We closed the mall cause we're crazay like that and as Carson Pirie Scott is making frantic announcements for the damn family of five to just LEAVE ALREADY OR THEY'RE LOCKING US IN, I decided I better change Marin's diaper before we hit the road.   

And it was during that diaper change that I discovered that one of my daughter's previously glued incisions had popped open, and there was a deep, very not healed opening in my baby.  Fantastic. 

Of course it happened this way.  Because I'd spent ten days without a single exodus for her best interest.  Because baby incisions always pop open at 10pm on a Saturday night when there is no way to reach the surgeon, in a mall an hour from home when it's snowing.  And if you've never been through a surgery with your baby, as if that isn't awful enough, try being sure that her insides are going to come spewing out at any moment in the middle of the Juniors Department of a store who really wants you to just goooo hoooome already.

I covered the wound as best I could and dialed the pediatrician on-call as soon as we were in the car.  She was so kind, asking about the depth and the width (if you're cringing I was too) and if it was oozing or bleeding.  No blood or anything, thankfully, so she instructed me on the butterflying technique and then was even nice enough to ask how I was coping with all of this.  By the time we made it home I had almost unclenched both my fists and my teeth from fear, thinking maybe we would be fine after all.

But as I de-layered Marin's clothing once home, I began seeing blood.  I was quite panick-y and butterlflied as best I could, but after I noticed the inside corner of the damn strip poking into her wound, I gave up and re-butterflied with a larger, bright blue SpongeBob bandaid.

I went back and forth for what seemed like forever, now at midnight, wondering whether I should take her to the ER.  But, ughhhh, germs and gross live there too, so I had no idea what we might actually bring home with us.  Instead I decided I should stay up all night checking her side every four minutes to make sure the SpongeBob Dam didn't break.

It didn't, thankfully, and now almost another week later her side is looking infinitely better. 

 

And she is obviously feeling better too, even twisting and turning and re-learning her escape strategy roll.

I suppose now is a good time to say, after the rough weeks and months we've had recently, and as a We Win reward for the ungodly work hours and double house balancing act and the long winter and the general hectic that is raising three young children, Kevin and I are going on vacation in a couple weeks.  Just the two of us, for the first time since our honeymoon.  Ohhhh baby I can't wait! 

...If for no other reason than to sleep?  All the way through the night?  WAHOO!

So whaddya know about San Fransisco/Marin County, California?