Change is a comin'

Yesterday was a big day.  A big, long, tiring, awesome, emotional, rejuvenating, humbling day.

I woke up at 6 after having 0 uninterrupted hours of sleep.

I showered and got dressed BEFORE 7 a.m.

I dragged my 6 year old out of bed, had a 15 minute discussion with him about why he was supposed to wear pj's to school for his Polar Express party (the same discussion we'd had the previous night when I laid the said items out for him to wear), and shuffled him to the van…half-eaten banana hanging out of his mouth.  I had the teacher's gifts in one hand, the bag of iced sugar cookies in the other, a lump the size of Texas in my throat, and tears threatening to betray me.

You see, I grabbed my school visitor's pass, walked my boy back to his classroom with his gifts and cookies, and then I went back to the office and signed his withdrawal form.

I sent my boy to his first ever Christmas party and withdrew him from kindergarten within half an hour.

One hour later, I was seated at a table with 7 other folks signing even more papers.  Lots and lots of papers.  And then, I walked to the car with Brandon, with that same lump and those darn tears still in place.  I un-curled my clammy fingers, and I took this photo.

                                             

Those keys represent so many things.  Waiting.  Tears.  Arguments.  Dissatisfaction.  Growth.  Money. Patience. Trials.  Peace.  Opportunity.  Thankfulness.

Those keys represent a process.  A journey.

They opened our minds to new, uncomfortable, unvisited ideas.  But, ultimately…tangibly, they open this.

This is our new home.  For the first time in our marriage, we don't have a lease, we have a mortgage.

I'm sure from the photo, you can see it's not in NE Jackson or Fondren.  It's not even in Hinds County.  It's in rural Canton.  It was not in the neat little area I drew on my Zillow map to filter my search.  It didn't fit in any of the checkboxes I checked on realtor.com, and the numbers didn't line up with the ones I typed in the fields on Trulia.  But, once we made the drive out there.

Experienced it.

We knew our lines had been erased, and our filters had been reset.

Don't worry, there will be many posts in the future with more photos and details about the house…I promise.  For now, I just wanted to focus on the "why?"

We love being home.  Instead of having a small, easily maintained space and spending all our time doing and going, we prefer being home with space to rest, create, have friends and family over, and to just "be".  There's room to grow.  Not necessarily, but possibly in number.  The kids won't go days without seeing their dad due to an unpredictable retail schedule clashing against a rigid school schedule.  Yes, we could have found something that "worked" in Jackson, but this was just right in our hearts.  It's old.  It's new.  There's room to romp around barefoot.  There's space to create and think…breathe.  There's space for learning.

We will hopefully move in around mid-January.  Like I said, Cade has been withdrawn from school, and we will submit our form after the break to make him an official homeschooler.  The move will mean a little more drive time for Brandon to and from work, but it will also mean he will not go several days each week without seeing Cade.  Which is big.  I mean huge.

I know most of you didn't have a clue we were even looking outside of Jackson, or even the house we're currently living in (which will go on the market very soon since we've opted not to buy it.)  It's been sooooo hard to keep this quiet, but since we were in new territory we've never navigated before, and since we've heard so many home-buying horror stories, we kept quiet.  It was hard.  So very, very hard to hold this in.  

Ya'll, I'm so excited for our family.  We've lived in 5 different homes in our 7 years of marriage to accommodate budget, childcare, and our growing family.  This is a much welcomed "breather" for us.  Yes, it means lots of work, but the things we'll be working for are so worth it.  Time with our family.  Teaching our kids the way we feel called to.  Maintaining land for us to explore, rest, create.  Cultivating a home that welcomes, warms, loves, extends grace.  All worthy.

Tender Mercies

Whirlwind.  An absolute whirlwind of appointments, obligations, emotions, and just stuff.  None bad.  Just a lot.  A whole lot of stinkin' busyness for my usually very laid back, low-key crew.  This led to tears before school because momma was so tired she slept through the alarm and forced my big boy to squeeze a 30 minute regimen into 9 measly minutes.  There were also those nights when I almost couldn't be bothered with baths...much less extra hugs and snuggles.  I mean, for the love, stay in your bed.

My face broke out.  I ate way to many cream pumpkins out of the fall candy corn assortment.  And I became hard towards my children.  Literally, just two weeks of extra "stuff" going on in my life, and I just about couldn't even be bothered with my children.  The ones I stay home with.  The ones I left my paid job for.  The ones I've birthed and pretty much given up all hope of bladder control for.  

It was time for a slow down.  Actually, more like a hard brake.  

I prayed.  I cried a big ugly, snotty cry, and I begged God to soften my heart towards my family, particularly my kids.  I pleaded for wisdom and guidance to bring me out of my self-centered funk.  And, I picked up my camera.

I once read that the best way to ease frustration and hardness towards your kids is to bring them closer to you, which is kinda what I do, except I use a lens.  When I photograph my kids, I fall in love with them all over again.  I can see it all...freckles, gold flecks in their eyes, uncertainty, tenacity, need, dirt.  I don't clean their faces, coordinate their outfits, or give them orders to smile or look at me.  I just snap while they're living, and it rejuvenates my soul.  

So, I'm going to let the photos I've taken over the last week speak.  They're loud and quiet all at the same time.  Intimate.  Tender.  Sure, I'll clue you in to what was going on every now and then, but for the most part, I think you can see the testimony of a gracious God giving sweet, sweet gifts to a hard, thirsty soul.

coffee. backyard sittin' & a fire.

This man is wrapped.  And he's pretty much got me wrapped, too.

My firstborn turned 6.  He's a quiet, sweet soul who isn't big on a whole lotta birthday hoopla.  So, we opted for a 15 minute cookie snack time with his class and we ate at Cock of the Walk.  The boy loves some fried food.  The next day, he got to tell me exactly what kind of cake he wanted me to make him, and he loved every minute of watching momma make his cake from scratch.  No surprises.  No groups of family watching him open gifts.  No planning or clean up.  Just us, pajamas, and lots of cocoa, sugar, and butter.  It was the cool, calming salve we needed for our burned out little family.

I love this kid.

This is the one my heart cried the most over.  He's been a challenge from the get-go.  It's easy to drown in regret.  I've felt overcome since the first day I met him.  How could someone I love so much drive me to near lunacy?  I watched him in his mismatched clothes...clothes I made him that he brought to me to put on him for the day.  He climbed that climbing wall on the swing set, with the afternoon sun lazily hanging out behind him.  He glowed.  And in that moment, I chose to learn instead of regret how much of his short life I've wished away.  I admired his tiny fingers and toes as they curled around the grips. He's fierce, and I am going to have to learn how to hold my hands out to guide and lead him instead of throw them up in defeat and frustration.   

Wild, I tell ya'.

My girl sat at the sewing machine for nearly an hour.  I loved watching this little face as she created.

This one also sewed, but most of his evening was spent tending and sitting by the fire.  On a school night.  Homework waited, supper was simple, and his heart was full.  So was mine.

Later on, I found this.  Trek was taking a while to settle down and sleep, so I put Cade in my bed for a bit.  When I went to move him, I found him enveloped in one of my sweaters.  It wasn't cold, but he just needed this piece of momma.  This brought me to my knees and put mascara stains on my freshly dry cleaned quilt.  What a picture of fragility, comfort, peace, and safety.  Even though I'd felt my mood lightening, my shoulders loosening, and my mind clearing over the last few days after my pleas to God, this was the visual I needed to make my heart mush.  This wrecked me in the best possible way. God gave me this memory of grace and redemption.  He reminded me of why I'm some crazy, college educated momma of three in her twenties who stays home with no paycheck and gets emptied daily...sometimes multiple times.   

This is my calling.  My family.  For His purpose.

The beauty of vulnerability...in Kroger

It's 5 o'clock on a Friday.  Out of desperation, an irrational fear of starvation (which basically equates to eating a hodge podge dinner of items that don't really mesh well), or just plain stupidity, I find myself here.  I just spent the last 45 minutes pushing, weaving, and threatening.  I'm pretty sure at this point the back of my shirt is sweat soaked, and I'm about one second away from either snapping at the two kids who are elbowing each other unmercifully because they've decided to both squeeze into the car part of the buggy or losing it on the baby who keeps pulling candy off the shelves in the check out line.  Plus, I really didn't appreciate the stank eye the cashier just gave me when I handed her my stack of reusable bags and had to dig out my Kroger card before she started scanning instead of her just waiting till I've gotten to the bottom of the buggy to the diaper bag, which is where my keys are.  Honey, just chill.

This is what 99% of my Kroger trips looked like.  Ugly.  We've likely all been there or will be one day.  It's inevitable.  It's human.

But is it an ok norm?

Nope.  Not for me, at least.

Every time I'd pull up to the grocery store, or any public place for that matter...sometimes even church, I'd stop and engage my invisible supermom suit.  You know, when you take a quick breath, you tell yourself "I can do this.  In and out, get what I need, and it all must happen in my totally unrealistic/rushed time frame."  My preparation, focus, and pure will-power were my armor.  Nothing was going to stop me.  No one was going to slow me down.  I was on a mission.  Hear me roar.

Ok, maybe no roaring was involved, but still.  I thought I was a force to be reckoned with.  I would even enjoy it when people would look at me like I was crazy or call me brave for trying to do it all with 3 preschoolers in tow.

We all know what this is a setup for, right?  A big, fat, humiliating, debilitating fall.  Or, in my case, a "snap".  I've already given the rundown of my ankle injury, so I'll spare details.  But, essentially, I had to change a lot.  Expectations, routines, abilities...all either completely nixed or had to change to the point of being nearly unrecognizable.  I had to make lists for and depend on others. Gasp.  

Know what else disappeared?  My big ol' bubble.  The one that held the idea of "supermom".  It popped, and I realized just how imaginary she was.  I feel like I'm breaking the news to a kid for the first time about Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy, but here goes...

Ladies, supermom isn't real.

In fact, she just flat out sucks.

She isn't genuine and no one feels like they can "touch" her.  Like Santa, she's this idea that stresses many of us to no end.  We spend way too much time, effort, and money to maintain it.  And it's all for what?  For me, it was all for absolutely nothing.  So I've been trying out something "new"; something I've allowed in very few relationships in my life.   

Vulnerability.

It's a scary, scary word.  I know.  But, this is coming from the girl who is a master task juggler and creator and wearer of masks, and it's seriously worth a shot.

Since this is relatively unfamiliar and fairly uncomfortable territory for me, I thought I'd start out in a small, controlled environment; a place I frequent often, even in my current gimpy state, and know like the back of my hand.

Kroger.

After scooting around on my roll-a-bout for a while in the store, I saw all the sympathetic eyes and heard all the "you poor thing"'s.  While I understood they meant well, I realized they were likely taking interest in me mostly because I looked totally miserable.  I've never been much of a smiler.  My two top front teeth have spots left from braces, and my already prominent chin looks even stronger when I smile.  To me, it's just not pretty.  Along with "sit up straight", "stop frowning" were often words I heard growing up.  I've argued up an down that I'm not frowning....I just look that way when I'm not smiling.  However, the fact still remained.  I looked less approachable when I wasn't smiling.  Even though lots of people don't smile and get away with it, I finally had to suck it up and realize my nearly 6 foot tall frame and grey eyes don't exactly say "Come on over and talk to me...I'm a super nice approachable girl who would love to swap recipes and talk a spell."

Smiling makes a BIG difference, y'all.

By simply smiling in Kroger, I've opened myself up to numerous conversations and encounters while out and about.  For example...

"Guuuhrul. Where'd you get dem pants? Dem things is hot as heeeyell. I needs dem in errr color"...After I let her know I made them, I was then invited to back my car up into her driveway and sell my goods from her house bc all the "ghetto guhz on da other side of the innastate gone lose dey heads ovah this *^%#."

She then forearm bumped me and let her friend who just walked up know that I was her "girl."

And...

An elderly couple approached me in the produce section to help them pick out mangos for a gathering at their home where one of the attendees they were unfamiliar with reportedly loved the fruit.  They'd never eaten one before, so they were clueless.  I had three kids with me, was in a hard cast on a scooter, and was surrounded by tons of other seemingly knowledgeable produce choosers.  Why in the world did they think I had the time for this?  Because I made eye contact with them and smiled a little.  That's all it took for them to feel invited into my space.  They had just walked up, and my mangos were semi-hidden under other produce in my cart.  They were seeking out...hopeful for someone who could help them with what seemed to me a simple, unimportant task, but for them it was a pretty important and intimidating.

Just so y'all know, I'm not flashing be cheesy, creepy grins at everyone. I'm simple making a conscious effort to make the corners of my mouth curl up instead of droop down.  

Another thing I've learned to do is speak up and accept help every now and then...big time gasp.  I've never, ever been one to address someone by the name on their name tag in a store.  What if they ignored my attempt at a conversation?  What if they were rude and short with me?  What if they ended up wanting to talk my ears off while my hungry toddler is trying to pants me in the parking lot?  After seeing my husband, a techie introvert who would rather spend his time at home chillin' rather than out with the guys, take interest in and speak to cashiers and service staff without spontaneously combusting, I figured I could maybe try to open myself up, as well.  

I'm not even going to pretend like the first time I initiated a conversation with the 6'1 female cashier whose feathers I'd never want to ruffle for fear she'd wring my neck was a glorious experience where the words came out of my mouth with confidence and clarity.  I feared I would mispronounce her name, and that she would shank me. Right there at the register.  As it turns out, I did mispronounce her name, but obviously she was shiv free that day because I'm here to tell the tale.  I simply asked her how she was doing and how much longer her shift was.  She talked....and talked.  Luckily, there was no one behind me.  Although, I'm not sure it would have mattered with her.  She talked to my kids; asked their names, ages, and such.  We talked about reusable bags vs plastic.  She asked how long we'd been living in Jackson and why in the world we'd chosen to move here.  If I'm ever inn her line, she always pulls a young bag boy over to walk out with me, even at rush hour.

I don't know if you've picked up on this or not, but I spend a lot of time in Kroger.  I think roughly 1/3 of my Facebook statuses involve the store in some way.  Grocery shopping is a necessity, and I was definitely treating it as a chore.  But since I've started opening my mouth, taking interest, accepting help, and enjoying this experience...this gift of being surrounded by really cool, diverse people while being blessed to fill my cart with healthy foods for my family which has yet to miss a meal, I've looked forward to my weekly trips.  I love talking to Lt. Linda, a stubborn older lady who refused to let me push my cart out of the store on my scooter while all the "young punk kids just stood around lookin' a fool."  I haven't forgotten the manager who moved me to a regular register to check me out at 10:30 one night when I had a full buggy, a throbbing, super painful ankle, and eyes full of tears and desperation.  I was barely two weeks post op, not even in a hard cast, and the regular registers shut down an hour early due to under staffing.  I had no clue how I was going to manage to scan and bag all of my groceries.  She stepped in.  And after I called Donald by his name as he was bagging my groceries the other day, he asked my input on how I'd like them bagged, gave my kids high fives, and walked me out.  He grinned ear to ear when I called his name and didn't stop till we parted ways.  

People matter.  They need to be called by their names and to make eye contact.  And even when we don't think they've done anything above and beyond to deserve it, they need us to put ourselves out there and show true, honest appreciation.  Most people want to do a good job and are eager to offer assistance when they know you'll actually accept it.  Young folks need to know you're ok with hearing about their messy, broken lives, and that you want to know the sex and name of their unborn baby. Being vulnerable, caring, intentional...it's all messy, messy stuff.

Believe me, I know all this is hard to see from behind the supermom mask when on a mission to fit a 10 minute grocery errand into a  5 minute time frame.  

That Kroger checkout experience at the top of this post?  Hasn't repeated itself since.  When my kids are with me in the checkout line, they're talking to the cashier or bagger because they've seen momma take interest in them and they know it's ok...encouraged, even.  My focus isn't solely on them anymore, and that makes them curious and more apt to tune into the world around them, as well.  I still make a detailed shopping list for my trip, but I'm not longer so focused on my mission that I miss the world of beautiful wrinkles, skin tones, and questions surrounding me.  

I hope my upturned lips and wide-open eyes say "ask me".
I pray my slower pace down the aisles and willingness to be inconvenienced by slower or just plain rude shoppers says "you matter to me".
Most of all, I hope my words of gratitude for service instead of grumbling about a price discrepancy say "there is hope...joy".

Because, you know what?  When there are folks who cuss your eyes out because their ice cream is soft from being in line 5 minutes more than they'd expected, a little hope and joy goes a loong, looooong way.  

Finding the joy

Here lately, I've felt a stirring in my heart, in my gut. The same question kept running through my mind.  It troubled me, burdened me, but finally inspired me.

"Where is the joy?"

In the day-to-day things?  In the big stuff?  In the small stuff?  Where did it go?  Why did it leave? Who can tell it's not here anymore?

So, I started to examine myself.  Habits.  Attitudes.  Motivations.

I quickly decided to claim grace and not even let my old friend guilt creep in.  He's just not welcome anymore.  He's taken up enough space in my head for long enough.  After I decided to approach things as opportunities for change, for renewal, God began to open my eyes, and I slowly felt the cogs in my brain start to turn.  It felt good.  Since I've been called home with the kiddos, I often feel like I just don't "think" as much as I used to.  It's truly a struggle to read through a book these days...no matter how amazing it is.  I've been an extremely part-time photographer over the years to try and keep my skills sharp, taken up sewing so I can play with color/pattern/design without having to keep out tempting and toxic art supplies, and tried lots of random things to help with the inevitable void lots of moms feel when they step away from a career for a bit.  These things have made me happy and have been great outlets, but there was just something...you know...

It was the "why?" 

Why was I doing these things?  It's awesome to examine things.  To examine them to their very core...to their origination.

One "why?" I was confronted with was "Why am I putting so much time and effort into my kids' clothes?"  Don't get me wrong.  I enjoy dressing them.  I mean, I'm an artist.  However, I'd gotten more into the "art" of buying and selling clothes than recognizing them for what they are.  Ultimately, they are coverings for our bodies; pieces of fabric that are susceptible to stains, holes, and being outgrown in the blink of an eye.  I'd gotten into the habit of going to thrift stores, not out of need, but just to scour them for brands they were practically giving away.  It didn't even matter if they were two sizes too big.  Next year, Eve would be wearing Persnickety under my watchful eye and only in controlled situations to avoid excessive wear and stainage,  which I could then resell or consign.  Now, before you get offended, it wasn't just about the brand.  I like nice, colorful, original clothes, and these tend to cost a little more.  This was about the habit of spending time and money on clothes just to do it.  I would spend days washing, sorting, sizing, tagging, hanging, and dropping off clothes for consignment sales.  It was so stinkin' stressful sometimes.  My attitude and motivations were jacked up.

I had to break the cycle.  I wasn't trusting God to provide.  I wasn't ok with wearing whatever was provided...whatever was affordable whenever the need arose.  I  needed to have clothes put away to sell.  I mean, we would be naked otherwise.  Duh.

There was no joy.  I was always setting things aside to sell, just so I could get what I wanted.  And when I came to the realization that this was my motivation, I knew it was time for a change.

This is around the time I'd finished reading "7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess".  I found an idea in the clothing chapter of the book especially intriguing.  There was a big clothing exchange which was held annually, and there was no money or tagging involved.  So, I just threw the idea out there to some gals on Facebook, and it took.  Nearly a dozen ladies purged some of the excess from their closets, walked away with a few things they could use, and sent a whopping van-load of super nice clothes to a local ministry for women starting over from scratch after incarceration.

I'm not gonna lie.  It felt good.  I didn't feel pride in the execution.  I felt joy from the generosity of so many women who loosened their grip on excess and were ok even if they left empty-handed.  The second exchange will be for kids' clothing, and if you're in the Jackson, MS area, you can join the group here to be a part of discussions and planning.

This was also something my kids so desperately needed to see.  Cade, my 5 year old, had come to me several times asking if he could sell something in order to buy a new toy.  I realized he needed to see me holding things loosely, without all the conditions and criteria.  He needs to see me give till it hurts, which I've found is a super hard point to come to when I have so much extra.  A few weeks later, we were at our local park, and of course he had one of his original Lego masterpieces in tow.  By the time we left, his creation had changed hands half a dozen time and many pieces were scattered and trampled in the mulch.  But instead of fretting over his losses, he expressed that next time he'd like to take a huge bucket of Legos to the park so all the other boys could play, too.  Now, I have no problem with shedding some excess in the Lego department...one block to the foot is one too many, but I knew the potential for an epic meltdown when some of his treasured pieces were inevitably lost or taken.  Therefore, I felt it was my mom duty to warn him of this and save myself from 30 minutes of tears and snot because his Woody figure was missing his head and he'll never, ever be able to build his super special, totally original Woody speedboat again.   His response, well it sure as heck humbled and challenged me, "It's really not a big deal, mom.  I have more than I need, and I know some of them don't have any.  Like, not even 16 Legos."  Ok.  Ummm, sure you can take your Legos.

Disclaimer: I am not anti-designer/boutique.  I am not anti-consignment.  I am not anti-resell.  These are simply things I was allowing to rob me of my time, money and joy.  I do not judge Persnickety buyers or wearers.  Promise.

Gosh, this entry has gone really long, but I do want to throw one more area of "stirring".

The "why" of which church we'd chosen.

About a month ago, after an extremely God-ordained, just...ugh...this sounds super cheese-fest'ish of me, almost magical moment and conversation between my husband and I, we decided it was time to move on and move closer.  We realized our motivation for going to the church we were at was all wrong.  Why were were there?  Because it is an extension of the church we were previously at, and we already knew what to expect.  It was within a "doable" distance.  When we moved to Jackson, we already knew it's where we would go.  And as a result, we both felt lonely, without purpose, and just kind of jaded.  It completely clashed with the whole reason we moved to Jackson in the first place.  We wanted diversity.  We wanted to see, touch, and as much as possible, meet real, raw needs.  We wanted our kids to see darkness so they could understand just how important it is to be light.

Here I was, kinda/sorta in a body where I would never invite a neighbor to join me.  Where I never saw anyone outside of church unless I was 20 minutes away from home.  Since, I'm home with the kiddos, with church and small group as pretty much my main/only time for meeting new people and forming relationships in this season of life, I just wasn't sharing life with anyone there.  I was so incredibly lonely.

So, we are now in the process of visiting churches closer to home.  This is not our first church move.  There's no illusion we will find a perfect place.  We desperately want to find a place to be used.  I'd love to run into someone I know at Kroger or a park that's around the corner and not miles away.  We have seats for 8 at our table, but we rarely fill them.  We want to share our lives with people here because we moved here intentionally.  Though we're leasing, and quite honestly we don't know what the next year holds for us house/location-wise, we are here right now, and that's all that matters.  Basically, we're trying really hard to go "all in" right here.  Right now.  We're seeking, accepting and embracing the joy that comes from relationships and community within our zip code.

Cade will start kindergarten in just a few weeks at a local, public school, and I am beyond excited for him and our family.  Racially, he will be the minority.  He will learn that not everyone lives with or even knows their dad.  My hope is that he will learn to give grace more than ever, continue to give thanks to God for the crazy amount of blessings he receives daily, and challenge the heck out of me as he forms relationships with the innocence of a child, without hangups and mis/preconceptions.

I guess this is where I'll stop tonight.  If you were looking for entertainment, I'm sorry this entry was completely devoid of it, but there it is...my heart.  It's been pierced and stirred a lot lately, and for that I'm so incredibly thankful.

FYI- I published a draft earlier.  It's all about an encounter with prescription meds.  It's a whole lot lighter.

Hugs not Drugs

Things I should never do while under the influence of drugs...

• Select movies on Netflix.  Like Crazy?!?  Y'all, by the end of it I felt like I  was crazy.  I mean, how many times can these two people possibly be separated and then passionately reunited?  I lost count.  About 30 minutes in, my percocet (which I had to chase with a phenergan to combat the pukiness) started kicking in, and this absurd story had me sucked in.  Balling like a baby for these people, and I didn't even like them.  If I'm gonna cry for you in a movie, I have to like you. From now on, if I must watch something while on drugs,  it needs to be something happy and with an ending that doesn't make me feel suicidal. 
• Pay bills.  Yes, I did pay a handful of bills while intoxicated and watching the most depressing movie known to man.  I was so glad to find an inbox full of payment confirmations this morning because I sure as heck couldn't remember which ones I'd paid.  Luckily, there were no duplicates.
• Be required to move myself from one room to another.  Pain meds make me nauseous. Not mild morning sickness or a little stomach bug nauseous.  Like, "can't open my eyes or lift my head without having the intense feeling about about to lose it all" nauseous.  This doesn't pair well with a bladder that look a pretty hard hit after birthing a toddler and now seemingly has the capacity of a toddler's.  Next time, I'll just bed down in the tub.  
• Rely on medical equipment to move myself from one room to another.  Right now I'm in an air boot on my left ankle.  I'm 7 weeks post op and in enough pain to wish I'd never had the surgery.  Of course, I know that's not logical or how I really feel, but still.  I also have my roll-a-bout still hanging around since by dinner time my ankle is DONE.  So, just picture me...trying to decide if I have time to put my boot on before wetting myself or if I'd rather get motion sickness (yep) from riding on the scooter from the living room to my bathroom.  I think I sided with the boot, but to be honest, I'm not totally sure.  You'll be glad to know I remained accident free.  

*Pretty sure I still had lots of drugs in my system when I wrote this bc I totally didn't even remember writing it.  It was just hanging out in my drafts.  Ha.

The summer of the scooter

Yeah, so I'm gonna spare you from guilt tripping with me over how much I've neglected my blog and wish I prioritized it more and yada, yada, yada.  We're just jumping right on in to the here and now...you dig?

I have four days left in this stinkin' (literally) cast.  What cast?  The third one I've been in since my ankle surgery a little over five weeks ago.  So, you are feeling my joy now that I'm down to a handful of days in this thing.  Here's the rundown:

• I hurt my ankle 30 minutes post workout while pushing a loaded triple seater buggy at Target.  I felt a "pop", and suddenly I could barely bear weight.  Don't think for a minute I abandoned the mission, though.  I was NOT leaving that place without bananas and Diet Dr. Pepper.  
• After a few days of babying it, I went to see a general doc about it.  After a clear X-Ray, over-priced ankle brace (as in $100 outside of my insurance's allowable limits), and totally depressing talk with a PT about how crappy my almost new, scrimped and saved for Nikes were, I hobbled on home and went about my business.  Brandon and I even went to Cleveland, OH a couple of weeks later for his annual check up.
• A month later, even with my brace of platinum, pricey orthotics, and icing I'm barely making it.  
• Insert Dr. Burrow from MS Sports Med, a couple of weeks, and a hot date with a scalpel.  Oh, and drugs and puke.  There was plenty of that, too. 
• Bam.  My completely shredded, detached posterior tibial tendon (the one that holds your arch up)  is fixed, and I'm on the mend.  Apparently, I'm a bit of a medical mystery.  No one at the office had ever seen a 29 year old female tear that tendon before.  Folks, I'm just that good.  

Actually, I'll tell you the truth and mix in a bit of free advice here because this injury is far from cheap.  The doc thinks most of the damage was done in the younger years while playing sports and such, and it has just been a time bomb.  I'm leaning more towards the ridiculous (-ly cute $4 ballet flats scored at Target or rockin' 4-inch heel Nine West pumps) shoes I wore while traversing the MC campus and teaching on hard, cement floors for 3 years...two of which I was pregnant.  Dumb.  Workin' gals, suck it up and get some good, supportive, comfortable shoes.  I'm not saying ditch style, but use your brain.  I'd much rather have my maimed foot in a Birkenstock right now instead of a 10 lb, 250 degree cast.

Stepping off now.

Oh, and what's up with the title?  I've actually been scooting and not crutching during my recovery.  Whoever invented the roll-a-bout should receive the Nobel Peace Prize because I can't imagine the amount of crazy I'd have in this house if I were on crutches.  I just can't even go there.  Here I am all psyched because I can actually function pretty well; I go to stores and church, I've taken the kids to the park and children's museum, etc.  It ain't pretty, and I roll up to the door a sweaty, bug-eyed mess of a mama, but I get it done.  As I was saying, I've been pretty impressed with what I've been able to do on this thing.  Apparently, my kids, not so much.

This morning Cade told me I was ruining his summer.  I'm a summer ruiner.  A ruiner of summers.

Not that I pride myself in being the entertainment goddess or that I think for a minute that it's my job to keep these little darlings engaged and content every moment of the freakin' day, but man.  That stung.

Oh, I'm over it now.  Don't worry.

On a different, non-ankle surgery sucky note.  I actually like Trek now.  I've always loved him, but I won't lie.  It took 13 months to get to the "like" stage in our relationship.  And if you talk to any of my friends or relatives and they say "Oh, that baby hasn't been that bad.  She outta be ashamed of herself for talking about that baby like that," you just give me names.  They are dead to me.

He has screamed, cried, not slept, clung to momma for dear life, you name it since day one.  Not colic.  Not separation anxiety.  Just pure, unadulterated misery for everyone involved.  I don't for one second advocate it, but I now see how desperate, uneducated, or just plain negligent/selfish mommas and daddies slip a lil' booze into their baby's bottle.  And yes, joking about giving him/her a Benadryl or a dose of Nyquil counts as being right there with me on this... oh high and mighty (likely self-appointed) parent of the year who is scoffing at that last sentence.

Noooo, my life since my last post has not been all gloom and doom.  These rough times have just been the black olives in my life lately.  I hate black olives by themselves or in excess.  When the pizza companies started allowing the customer to remove toppings from a pizza online, I loved de-selecting the olives and watching them magically disappear from the supreme pizza. Yes, I know I could've always opted to not have them, but there was just something about seeing them removed from the pizza that made my non-olive loving heart leap.  "Now that's a perfect pizza," I told myself.  You know what, though?  It wasn't perfect.  I tried ordering supremes without them from different places, but the fact remained.  A supreme just isn't a supreme without black olives.  I mean, it's ok, and heck yeah I'll eat it.  I still would never pop a lone black olive into my mouth, but there's something about those three or four slices of olive that balance the flavor of each piece, and after much contemplation, I always default back to the standard supreme.  It's da best. (FYI-that last phrase was in my best/worst Italian accent)

And life just isn't as much fun without a few black olives here and there.  Some days my kids say and do so many random, funny, ridiculously entertaining things I can't even recall them all at the end of the day.  I need those days to remind me that I live an incredibly blessed, full life.  Some days my kids drive me within an inch of the bottle and I don't even want to be bothered with bathing them at the end of the day.  I'm just so over them.  I need those days to remind me that I live an incredibly blessed, full life with real, live human beings who mess up and need Jesus and grace.  That usually compels me to default back to Him, which I've finally accepted as not being weakness.  It's simply what's best.

I'm not gonna lie, though.  It doesn't always compel me to bathe them.