Playing Favorites

Paul had to work late on my birthday, so, as I always do when he works late, I piled the kids into the car and took them out for dinner. We had barely got on the road when Nicholas piped up from the back seat.

"I love all my sisters, but I have to say that Evelyn is my favorite."

Chloe took exception to this statement. "What?!?!?!" she shrieked, probably louder than necessary. "What do you mean Evelyn is your favorite?"

"She's my favorite sister because she's really loud, but in a good way, and she laughs a lot, and she poops a lot!"

I couldn't help but instigate: "You think she poops more than Chloe does?"

"What?!?!?!?!" Chloe shrieked again from 18 inches away.

"She poops a ton! I really do love all of my sisters, but Evelyn is my favorite."

Nicholas is winning at big brotherhood.

Young and Wild and Free

Each year has a day like last Saturday--that first really beautiful day of spring that fills me with energy and plans for our outdoor space. Although I should admit that last year had no such day. I was too shell-shocked by the tiny, squalling creature that had just launched herself out of my body and into my life. I could barely brush my hair, much less plant flowers.

This year that squalling creature was big enough to toddle around the patio, chasing basketballs and licking rocks while I cleared out the winter stash of weeds and dead leaves from my little flower bed, and Paul mowed what has become less of a wild acre and more of an actual lawn. Paul finished mowing and moved on to some other yard-related task, and I stopped keeping an eye out for Evelyn as she toddled around after her dad.

After a while, I noticed Paul standing near by...but not Evelyn.

"Where's the baby?" I asked.

"Off in the field, following the dogs."

"By herself??" Duh...

"Where is she going to go?" Paul replied.

I swallowed a brief flash of panic and acknowledged that yes, the fence would keep her in. But it wouldn't keep rocks and bugs and dog poo out of her mouth. It wouldn't keep her from falling down the slope and stabbing her eye out with a stick.

But I let it go. I've always known that it will be a struggle for me to let Evelyn be as independent as I know she will be. I want to protect her from every harm and hurt, but at the same time I want her to have the confidence to roam free and be herself. I can't project my fear onto my fearless little girl.

Evelyn spent most of the weekend outside, eating dirt and falling in the grass, and helping her dad build a really cool sand box. On Sunday I even let her roam around barefoot for a bit, just like I did as a kid (ok, as an adult too...).

Paul mentioned not so long ago that in one of the first pictures he saw of me I was standing on one foot in the tulip fields, the other foot caked in thick, brown mud and lifted high for the camera to see. I wouldn't mind being that girl again. And I would love to let Evelyn be that girl, too. Dirty, and a little wild and free.

 







Forward facing in the big truck for a trip to the Man Store.
She was so excited to see EVERYTHING.

Supervising Dad's handiwork.

A bench just her size.

This sand box is the coolest thing ever. Thanks Dad!

 

Thirty-Three

It's not that I feel old, despite the ever-lengthening crow's feet that crease the corners of my eyes, creep down my cheeks and invade my smile lines. I'm too young to feel old, right? My grey hairs are still somewhat hidden (I think), and my butt is where it has always been. No, I don't feel old.

For some reason, turning 33 has given me pause. Jesus was 33 when he died. The second pastor of the church I grew up in was 33 when he took over lead pastorship from his father. Strange comparisons for me, I know, but it makes me think that I should have accomplished something big by now, if I ever mean to accomplish anything. Right now my biggest accomplishment is getting out the door with mascara on, and Evelyn fed and in a matching outfit.

I guess I feel like a big ball of wasted potential. The possibility was there, but the motivation was lacking. I didn't finish school; I didn't seek out a career path or specialized training. I let life happen as it came to me. And now I look at the people who work around me, who are so knowledgeable and confident in their positions, and I feel very small. On the one hand, it's ok to sit where I am at the bottom of my ladder, forwarding e-mails and entering data. Work is not my life and I don't want it to be. On the other hand, as I have said, I could have done something big.

Who knows...I'm only 33. There is still time for education and career path changes. For now I have children to raise and a mortgage to pay. Now to find a way to be okay with that...

Thirty-Three...Not so bad

I Hate That Last Post...

I cringe every time I read it, and I hate knowing its the last thing I left. Almost a year ago. A reminder that this blog has died a death that I never wanted to see. 

I'm mourning the loss of my writing. So instead, here's a picture of my guts. 

Judge Me Not By My Child's Clothing Choices

The 'Back to School' honeymoon period is over, I think. Three days-that might be a record.

On the first day of school, Chloe and Nicholas were up a half hour before I intended to wake them. They both eagerly and efficiently dressed in the new finery they had each laid out the night before, brushed their teeth and hair and did their morning chore. They were looking cute and ready to go in plenty of time.

Yesterday I poked my head in both of the kids' rooms at 6:30 and cheerfully but gently woke them up. They each popped out of bed fairly quickly and went about their morning business with little need for reminders.

This morning...oh, this morning. This morning my cheerful "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!" was met with groans, moans and whining from the general area of Nicholas' head, buried under his quilt.

"I'm tiiiiiiiiiiiired! I don't want to get up! Why can't I sleeeeeeeeeep? I hate school!"

"We're running a bit late this morning," I prodded. "So please get up and get going."

Fifteen minutes later, with hair and makeup done, I ventured out into the living room where Nicholas sat on the couch, petting a dog and watching the news with his dad.

Wait--I should clarify. Somebody's ragamuffin kid sat on the couch, looking like he found his wardrobe choice at the bottom of a Goodwill bag. Last year's shorts, now faded and ending two inches or so above his boney knees were topped with a dingy white t-shirt featuring a hand-painted peace sign and the remnants of countless summer afternoon snacks.

"Oh HECK no! I did not buy you all those new clothes for you to wear ratty play shirts to school! Get back in your room and change!" I may have lost it a tiny bit. Five minutes later I heard Paul's voice, raised in frustration and decorated with colorful, Army-inspired adverbs, echoing from Nicholas' bedroom. Apparently he was losing it, too.

Nicholas, crying pitifully and still dressed in white trash couture, sprawled across his bed. "I don't have any shirts! I don't know what to wear!"

I stomped to his closet, grabbed a brand new t-shirt from the hanger, ripped the tag off and threw it at him. He woefully changed into the shirt he had loved when I pointed it out to him on Wednesday, and complained that the shirt was too long, it didn't match his shorts, etc. etc.! Such a little diva!

I recounted the episode to my mom this morning on Facebook chat, and we mused over the question of letting your kids make their own choices vs. having your kids look fairly clean and cared for (that is to say, not having your parenting skills judged by how ratty your kids look).

As we wrapped up the discussion, my mom posed a question. "What are you wearing today?"

"Um...faded work jeans with paint on them, one of Paul's old band t-shirt (featuring a new found hole in the front), and an old pair of tennis shoes."

What? It's Friday...

Calm Yourself, It's Probably A Fluke

In two days it will have been exactly one year since my last post. I suppose I could wait for two days to write, but that would be just so darn expected. And why would ANYONE do what is expected if they could flip the situation and do the...wait for it...unexpected. So Bam, Flip! A post.

Last weekend Paul came home with a horseshoe set. What? Horseshoes. We are, apparently, a family who horseshoes. He jammed two pieces of rebar (it looks like rebar.I keep having visions of one of the kids taking a nosedive and impaling themselves on our lawn game. Always the fatalist, me) into the ground, and before long he and the kids were flinging U-shaped hunks of metal across the patchy brown weeds that serve as our lawn. After three or so poorly-aimed throws, Paul decided that maybe he should move his car out of the line of fire and ensconce the dogs safely in the house. And...that's the end of my story.

Except that last night I tried the horseshoes. And I failed. Badly. And this made me angry. (I don't like not being good at things. You know, the first try, without practice, all that.) And the angrier I got the worse I threw the damn shoes. At one point I even attempted an overhand fling at the rebar, and only succeeded in ripping out a chunk of weeds. Meanwhile, Paul stoically made points on each perfectly aimed toss. Ok, he didn't. In reality, he wasn't throwing much better than I was, but that didn't keep me from losing it a little bit more each time I missed.

It is not fun, apparently, to play games with me. Turns out I'm a bit of a sore loser. I guess I'm known to occasionally have a little temper tantrum when things don't go as I think they should. Maybe I should add that to my mile long list of things about myself that need to be fixed.

In the end, I apologized to Paul for being a big, giant, candyass crybaby (that line, by the way, was stolen from a fight between two co-workers that I had the pleasure of overhearing today), and I promised that I would try to ...you know, grow up. And then he made fun of me.

But it occurred to me that I could use this event, this realization in a creative way. So I've decided that it's time to embrace my ridiculous.

Why I've Been Missing

See the Number 1 item on this list...that about sums it up. I don't want to be that person.

http://www.cracked.com/blog/the-8-worst-types-blog-internet/

Also, I know that by posting this I'm making myself guilty of item Number 5. Totally worth it.

My blog, up to a certain point, served to document my foray into a new life. Well...the new life is not so new anymore and I've settled into the more mundane aspects of existence. I want to write about those things just about as much as you want to read about them. I know this because I'm bored with a million other blogs just like mine.

See ya 'round!
-Heather

The Cure

I never knew that such animosity could be followed so quickly by an equal if not greater amount of love and affection.

Meet my birthday present, Bowie.

Stupid dog.

I love him.

Did Someone Drop A Fertility Bomb?

I have been continuously asked the same two questions in the last (almost) three weeks:

1) How's married life?
Answer: Um...exactly the same, thank you. (Yeah. We've lived together for a year and a half. Was something supposed to change?)

2) When are you going to have a baby?
Answer: Ok, there is no answer to this one. Just evade, evade, evade!

How is it okay for someone to ask that?

In the meantime, there are newborn babies everywhere I look. Multiple facebook friends are either pregnant, overdue, or have recently had a baby. Every other blog I click on features photos of brand new babies. Baby clothes and baby furniture and baby stories shared by new moms who are the only ones in the world who could possibly understand what it means to be a parent.


And kids. Photos of kids who are the spitting image of their parents, wrapped in an embrace that is only comfortable when shared with those who formed you. Stories of the funny things kids say while being tucked into bed, and the messy art projects that are made with love and presented with pride.

I'd be lying if I didn't say my green monster is rearing its ugly, intrusive head. So, in the meantime, I'm thinking a garden will do. I mean, if you're not going to grow one thing, you might as well grow another, right?

It must be a spring thing...



Families--familial resemblance not required.



The Segue

All in all, the wedding turned out pretty much how I wanted it to. It was laid back, casual and fun. I had fun, anyway...I hope other people did, too. If you ask my new mother in law, it was beautiful and brilliant and just right for us. And that was the most important thing for me--that it be 'us'.

I surprised myself by not being nervous. Anxious, maybe, but not nervous. I didn't shake, I didn't sweat...I didn't even turn splotchy red! (thank goodness...). As I walked down the aisle on my dad's arm, I did feel my composure slipping away, but I looked up and saw my almost-husband, and suddenly the world was gone.

I feared that I would go into auto-mode and say my vows mechanically, but I didn't. I absorbed every word the chaplain said and I meant with all my heart every word that I said to Paul (except the whole submit thing. Whoops.). I cried as I knew I would, but delicately I think, and not the kind of tears that kill my voice and crumple my face.

The thing was done so quickly, and before I realized what had happened, we were being announced, for the first time, Paul and Heather Abundis. And you couldn't wipe the smile from my face.

Guess What We Did??

The Countdown Has Commenced

This is the beginning of my last week as a Miss. Not that I'm expecting much of a change, aside from my name and my ability to say 'my husband.'

It's a silly thing, but for almost two years I've cringed every time I've had to say 'my boyfriend' or heard Paul say 'my girlfriend.' The connotation behind the words seemed so inadequate to describe what he means to me, and hopefully what I mean to him.

And to say fiance? It seems so pretentious. I feel as if my nose turns up as I sound out the syllables. But to say my husband...it is the most natural thing in the world. The era of cringing is almost over.

I'm nervous, but not about the typical things. There are no cold feet huddling in the shoes of this bride-to-be. No, I'm nervous that I've forgotten an important detail because of my lack of list-making. Each plan is safely stored in my head and no other place, and I have no idea if I've hit each point or missed a giant glaring necessity.

I'm nervous at the thought of 80 of my closest friends and family staring at me. I didn't even think about it until I attended my own bridal shower and realized that 15 ladies were there for me. I didn't do well, and that makes me nervous about how much worse it will be for the actual wedding. My plan is to focus on Paul and pretend the rest of you aren't there. But if I'm shaking and sweating and dizzy and my chest and neck are red and splotchy, please do me the courtesy of pretending I'm not there. I've made my stomach hurt just thinking about it.

As my mom always says, at the end of the day we will be married, and that's all that matters. What it comes down to is that I want this to be a fun day for everyone. I don't want it to be about me...I want it to be for everyone--a family celebration and a cultural tradition.

I want to enjoy myself, I want to make memories, and I want it to be over.

Just a Moment, Let Me Check. Yup--I Do Have a Pulse

I wouldn't blame you if you've assumed that I've died--flattened by some runaway delivery truck or poisoned by copious amounts of milk and cucumber, or a jealous ex-lover. Although...if you're reading this you are probably related to me, and thereby know that I am neither flattened nor poisoned nor terminated by any other traumatic event. I'm just...lazy. And maybe uninspired.

Although I've laid down my pen these past few months I've never stopped reading, and by reading I think I've come to understand what I dislike about my blog. Simply put, people's lives are boring. Especially people who think their lives are amazingly interesting. I don't want to read about it, and I really don't want to write about it, and I'm afraid that's the direction that my words were beginning to head.

So I guess the bottom line is this: I need a theme. Or at least a hobby. Or even an existential occurance. I don't know.

So, while I haven't actually written anything, you should probably know that I think about this every single day, and every single day I fail to conceive any idea that I find worthy of putting to paper.

But I won't stop trying.

January.

Things I haven't been blogging about:

• Wedding planning. It's a subject that terrifies me continually and would bore you to tears.
• The kids. They're growing and changing and presenting new challenges in my ongoing attempts at being a good stepmom.
• The complete inertia that always seems to linger around January and February.
• School. It's almost over, but not soon enough.
• Lady Looney and the Cheeseburger. Active annoyance has settled into resigned acceptance.
• Anything else? What do you want to hear me say?

In the meantime, here is a picture of my sisters' and my feet. Also Cyan's.

On Christmas, Briefly.

In remembrance of the emotional frenzy into which I whipped myself last Christmas, my only goal for this Christmas past was to keep my own stress at a minimal level and to just enjoy myself and the family. This endeavor was only tested once as I knelt before Chloe on Christmas day in Mom A's bathroom and surveyed the streaks of vomit that now decorated her white shirt, her jeans and her hair. It splattered around the toilet and slid across the sleeves of her parka, and for two seconds I fought back tears as they stung the backs of my eyelids.

They were not tears for throw up, but tears for Paul who was napping at home and safely removed from a puke-splattered seven year old; tears for his oldest daughter who hasn't quite figured it all out; tears for cranky attitudes; tears for homesickness, and tears for sleep deprivation. But, as I am learning how to do, I pulled it together, grabbed a roll of paper towels to mop up the offending detritus as thoroughly as possible, and poured another glass of wine.

Our Christmas should not be summed up in my own overwhelmed tears, but in family, in generous spirits, in good food and in celebration. It was with these attitudes that we trekked from one parent's house to the next--from Gig Harbor to Oak Harbor and back.

And although I didn't dwell on the fact, I knew in the back of my mind that this was the last Christmas to be celebrated in Oak Harbor--the last Christmas to be spent at home.

It was a good one.

A Little of Nothing

• I just made our ferry reservations to head up to the island on the day after Christmas.
• I'm excited about that just a little...
• We have less than half of our Christmas shopping done, but I'm okay with that. I'm not panicking.
• A few of you will be getting homemade gifts this year.
• But most of you will not.
• I was going to take a picture of my socks just now, but my co-worker walked in and caught me. How embarrassing.
• I think I covered well though.
• The Wall was amazing.
• The aging hippies and rednecks, not so much.
• The pot smoke...let's just say that if my sinuses hadn't been so stuffed up, I probably would have gotten a delicious contact high.
• But it made Paul furious.
• Back to the socks... one is Lauren's. It's aqua.
• The other is mine. It's grey.
• I can't find any of my socks but I'm pretty sure they're at the bottom of the 'giant laundry basket of doom' that waits so patiently for me to fold its contents.
• I always know it's time to do laundry when I've run out of clean socks, and Paul has run out of clean socks, too, because I've worn them all.
• My first dress fitting is in three weeks. Do you think I can lose 20 lbs by then?
• No, me either. But I can try...

One Thing Before I Die

I don't have a bucket list. I probably should, and of course there are many things that I would love to do, but I've never gotten around to composing a list--mostly because I can never coordinate my thoughts for long enough to remember the things I want to do. But if I did have a bucket list I know exactly what item number one would be. It's been on my mind for years.

I want to blow something up with a Molotov Cocktail. It doesn't matter what (although I have a few ideas...), as long as I have the pleasure of watching the ensuing destruction.

I let my thoughts wander every now and then (usually when I see one being thrown on TV), and I imagine myself clutching the glass bottle in my right hand, my shaking left hand holding a Bic lighter to the kerosene-soaked rag that snakes out of the bottle neck. I watch the rag ignite; I watch it burn just for a moment before I cock my arm back and hurl the explosive at my target. The bottle shatters against the object, releasing a flaming ball of kerosene and glass shards and I shiver as I watch the explosive results of my efforts.

I feel powerful. I feel destructive. I feel like a bamf.

Don't let my subdued nature fool you...I walk on the wild side!

Okay...you can stop laughing now. Really.

Wordless Wednesday--So Excited

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Topical Tuesday...Just Go With It

-I learned about throw up last weekend. There's a reason why moms are supposed to learn about throw up from babies. There are fewer chunks, and babies are cuter and therefore less gross. Step moms get to learn about it from seven year olds. Seven year olds who have little brothers who dump over the throw up bowl in the Durango. Seven year olds who had Top Ramen for lunch.

-Fortunately for all involved, the up-chucking only took place at night and in the car, so our mornings and afternoons were free for festive holiday fun! This year I decided to, for the first time, attempt Christmas candy. Since Max has cornered the market on cookies, I planned to make peppermint bark, peanut brittle, buckeyes, and the Christmas fudge that my mom used to make when I was little. The kids were more than willing to help, especially since helping included pounding the crap out of candy canes (and I might have let them eat one, too. Before lunch! I've invoked a 'no candy before lunch' rule, so this was a little exciting.)

Yes, she's still in her pajamas. Sue me...

-Candy-making, unfortunately, results in large quantities of candy in the house. I'm sure Paul doesn't mind, but I decided to share the sugar-heavy wealth with my co-workers. I even packed them up in cute little Holiday-themed take out boxes. I may turn into Martha Stewart yet!

-But the best part? All day men from the shops have been coming into my office and helping themselves to a piece of fudge. They are usually on the run, but every single one has frozen in their tracks, spun around and exclaimed something along the lines of, "That is good!" "Who made that?" "I'll be back in half an hour for more!" I'm a little flattered. Butter, marshmallow creme and chocolate chips can get you everywhere.

-The worst part? Once one of those guys sticks their grubby hands into the candy jar, the threat of germs and filth far outweighs the appeal of chocolatey goodness.

-Wait. Maybe that's the best part...

-Paul had to work late on Friday, so I took the kids out to eat at The Hat (El Sombrero for those of you who want to be literal). Paul's half-Mexican children both ate cheeseburgers and french fries.

I'm pretty sure they think ketchup is a food group

-We also embarked into the wonderful world of learning table manners and restaurant etiquette. Apparently chewing with your mouth closed is very funny when you're five....sigh...

-This post should have been a lot more random and topically wide-spread, but yeah...not a lot has been going on.

-Except we finally got Netflix, which is awesome.

Will the Real Santa Please Stand Up?

Technically, my parents never confirmed nor denied the existence of Santa Claus to Sarah and me. He remained shrouded in mystery, and to be honest I don't know what I thought on those occasions that we were invited to plop ourselves onto the lap of the Jolly Elf, himself. I was probably skeptical, but I know that a part of me wanted so desperately to believe.

On Saturday, Chloe, Nicholas and I headed north to Poulsbo for the annual Shop With A Cop event (go here for an event rundown). As usual, Grandma Max turned on her charm as Mrs. Claus and this year Bill joined her as Santa, and it occured to me that this might be confusing. Grandma and Bill were Mrs. Claus and Santa?

We got around this little discrepancy by telling the kids that Grandma would take messages for Santa, and e-mail him later. Makes sense!

Sunday found us at Camp Murray for Paul's Christmas Party. Santa was to make an appearance here as well, and I found myself by the bouncy house when he made his grand entrance into the gym, Ho Ho Ho-ing and shaking his jingle bells.

Nicholas had already flown out of the inflated castle, but the other little boy inside wasn't as quick. He poked his head out of the mesh entry, took one look at Santa and announced, "That's not Santa!"

"Of course it is," I replied.

"Nope," he retorted. "That guy's wearing Army boots. Santa wears black boots." Sharp kid...

Fortunately I was ready for him. "They flew Santa in from the North Pole on a helicopter, so he had to wear Army boots!"

The kid narrowed his eyes at me, but he seemed, for the moment, to believe me.

Funny how, in a culture inundated with caucasian Santas, not one kid noticed that this Santa was black...but they noticed that he was wearing the wrong boots!

How many Santas will the kids see this year? There's a Santa in every mall, every department store, and on the street corners. He's in parades and on tv. Shouldn't he be up at the North Pole, working his prodigious bottom off in efforts to be ready by December 25?

This thought doesn't occur to those who believe in him most; it's the child-like wonder and unquestioning spirit that makes the holidays magical. And I have to remind myself that I should enjoy the season in that same way.