As of late I have been constantly writing blog posts in my head, with the idea that sooner or later (sooner rather than later) I would actually put these thoughts on the screen. Funny enough, once I accomplish my "head blog", I feel fulfilled enough from my train of thought to forget about actually posting. Today I want to actually get my thoughts down so they can become officially known to the internet and my posterity (if they ever bother with it).
The last six months of my life have been changing ones for me. I started out with many expectations of what my immediate future would hold, and then I pretty much demanded the universe to grant my requests. An attitude like that rarely gets you far, and this is where the Lord stepped in to teach me a long awaited lesson. The thought of "being taught a lesson" is usually not very appealing, but I have found to the contrary that the lessons, the knowledge, the understanding, and the enlightenment are incredible gifts I hope I will never be without.
Have the things I expected finally been granted me? No--but in return I have been given far more than I asked. I feel as though I'm swimming in blessings and happiness that I never knew before how to touch. My burden is lighter, my heart is bigger, my capacity to love is stronger. I am learning to listen and learn and enjoy life as it is presented to me. I have motivation to do and be things I never thought I would find the will for.
Yes, I still yearn and hope and pray for the experiences and the blessings I am without, but in the meantime my life is full and complete. I am playing with my children, reading stories, going on walks, cooking meals, organizing and decorating, teaching, having deep conversations, pondering and praying, gardening, making goals, learning, listening to beautiful music, smelling (the actual) flowers, and laughing because it feels good. In short, I am happy.
So yes, I'm back. At least for today. It's been about five weeks since I blogged last and my mind is about to explode with random thoughts for the unknown public to read. Here are a few for your perusal:
I swear estrogen is dripping off the walls of this house. Buttercup cries at the drop of a hat as if she's menstruating, and both little princesses insist on changing their outfits (along with shoes, scarves, purses, jewelery, and other accessories) at least five times a day.
Why do the good people of North Dakota continually drive five miles under the speed limit? I never would have called myself a Utah driver--but when a lady in a Taurus with two babies in the back goes whizzing by all the traffic on the freeway, there is no other explanation.
I LOVE my husband. Bless his soul if I could do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing. Not only does the man still give me flutters when he walks through the door everyday, he loves me and takes care of me like I'm THE queen. I'm so thrilled with this whole physical therapist thing because shoot, Charming is smokin' in a pair of dockers and a button-up collared shirt (with the sleeves rolled up all temptingly like he's really just a rustic mountain man underneath). Oh, and he made me a fabulous chocolate cake (his own recipe mind you) for mother's day. This man knows what love is.
"Little House on the Prairie" (the tv series), has turned into a very unsatisfying soap opera for me as of late. I was bestowed with all 9 seasons for Christmas, and now what can I say? Will Laura and Almanzo ever stop bickering and just get to the romancing already? I mean I understand it's a family show and all, but good golly, if they can address issues like rape, murder, and death, I think we could deal with a little sweet-talking and a soulful kiss or two. (Yes, I know, I'm a loser. Moving on.)
I have committed a domestic sin and bought (for a few weeks in a row now) ready-made meals for my family. It was yummy.
I have gone from obsessing about household cleanliness--such as sweeping the floors three times a day and scrubbing toilets for fun--to beginning to comb through summer clothes put in storage for my girls, and dropping the whole project winding up with sundresses strewn all over the house by my precious little angels. Odd. Maybe I'm bipolar. I won't look into that though--I'll probably just end up taking another non-helpful expensive test/procedure.
Better Homes and Gardens magazine is my new bible. I've actually begun tearing out pages of my favorite things and consequently had to make a "Home Decor" file in my cabinet.
I actually spent more than half of my birthday money on "home decor". Crazy sauce. And does my house look any cuter? Not for me to judge...
Buttercup has officially banned the word "cute". Apparently anything "cute" is a little girl thing and she is now in the "big girl" category. Why was I never informed that adolescence began at four years old? They should have trained us for this in all those prenatal classes I had to attend (you know, in between the "How to latch on" and "Go to your happy place when it hurts like the devil" chats).
No really, I was serious. Please stop hitting on Livvy. (Plus is makes Jayni feel bad.)
I went running the other day. I should have had a photo shoot for a special scrapbook page because I don't think that's ever going to happen again.
Last night Charming helped me concoct an avocado hair mask (thank you BHG magazine!) at 10:30 at night. He then applied it to my entire head and actually seemed to be enjoying himself. I just wanted some chips for dipping with.
I AM going to color my hair. If I keep chanting this maybe it will happen. Don't worry, I will still be a formerblonde.
It's been weeks since I've read an entire book. Something must be wrong. Or maybe I just need to get through Little House.
How do you respond when your two-year-old is continually yelling at everyone around her "Don't SAY that!" I just end up saying "Don't SAY that!" right back at her and then we're going in circles. I hate being outwitted by a small child.
Did I mention that Charming is growing his hair out just for me? This is how I know the guy loves me--it's a weird Edward fetish. Don't mock me, just feel privileged that I let you in on the strange inner workings of my mind.
Today I was wishing I had learned to play the violin. Odd. I can't even play the piano competently.
I am really looking forward to my Jane Austen tour of England when I'm.... well when I'm older and have money. Apparently that is important when you want to sleep in a castle in the British countryside.
Hopefully you'll be hearing from me again soon. That is all.
To all males 19 years of age and older: Please take a good long look at this girl, my sister, named Mary Olivia. Alias: Livvy
Now as you wipe the drool off your face, please note that this girl is just that: a little girl. Not a woman or a "young single adult" or even a Laurel. She is but 15 years of age, and although of mature mind and body, she is too young for you.
So yes, I understand that she's the cutest girl at the party--of course she is, she's had 4 older sisters to teach her the arts of full-blown femininity and womanly wiles. I understand she looks and behaves sophisticated (although I doubt she even knows what that word means), and she's just the kind of girl who would charm you with her infectious laugh and that your mother would adore. I also understand that she is virtuous, lovely, of good report, and praiseworthy--but please don't seek after her until after her 18th birthday, which will occur January 2012.
It would be worth the wait. But until then STOP HITTING ON HER. It's getting a bit ridiculous.
I tossed and turned last night in bed, lost in one of those awful dreams where you can't accomplish your purpose. You know--like when you want to run away and you're stuck, or you need to dial 911 and you just can't seem to get the sequence right. Well last night my plight of pity was bra shopping and trying desperately to find the right size.
I remember pilfering feverishly through racks and racks of all different types of bras, finally narrowing them down to a nice white padded bra. But oh dear me I couldn't find my size! They had every size imaginable of this particular bra except for mine. I was throwing stuff off shelves when finally the sales lady came to give me a hand and asked if she could measure me. (I'm used to this sort of awesome treatment because, and here's a confession--I only bra shop at Victoria's Secret. Makes a girl feel nice, inside and out. Ah-hem. Moving on.) I lifted up my arms obediently and rolled my eyes like "Again! You'd think a girl would know her bra size." But then the most amazing thing happened. The sales clerk/braziermeasurer expert royally dubbed me a 32 D.
So. Happy.
I had officially gone from average circumference and volume to trim and well-endowed! Needless to say there were plenty of bras in that size around the store, and many on clearance--because, let's face it, not very many people are blessed with my figure. (And after nursing two babies too!)
So what does all this mean? I vote for meaningless, but I bet you could come up with something much better than that, probably a horrific background story involving my adolescence and a date gone wrong. Let me know what you come up with.
On a related note, here's a big bra for you:
Also one more thing to destroy your day: Whenever you hear the beautiful classic song Edelweiss from The Sound of Music, think of your bra. It'll put a smile to your face and ruin that special song for you forever!
Yesterday was quite the adventure for me. It was all mixed up with a lot of crazy, hilarious, and I'm-gonna-cry-if-one-more-thing-happens-to-me type stuff.
It all began in the wee hours when my body remembered how much it hates me. I spent the rest of the night moaning in the fetal position and cursing woman's curse (is that right? can you curse a curse?). The inevitable leg-aches followed accompanied by increased moaning and cursing. Normally at this point I would go for some serious Advil, but an upcoming surgery (yes, I said surgery--gives me chills, but probably not that big a deal) has prohibited me from taking all kinds of relieving medications.
Anywho, Charming eventually had to leave for some thing or other where he learns how to be a physical therapist bla-bla-bla, and the man forgot to say goodbye to me, which deprived me of my moment to remind him to drive safely. Because (as all you married women know) husbands are known to forget to drive safe unless their wives beg them to every morning. You know--to help them to think of their family while they're taking those sharp turns on icy corners and such. So in the mean time there I was huddled in bed in pain and telling myself not to have a panic attack while I imagined all kinds of horrific roadside scenes, all involving Charming (who also forgot to take the cell phone, so I could see him stranded and trying to walk for help in the middle of the North Dakota wasteland and falling into a snow drift in exhaustion and then slowly freezing to death--all because I didn't remind him to be safe).
Inevitably the small children woke up, and finding me still in bed (no, I was not lazy, just in pain), they saw their freedom for what it was and the house became a free-for-all. Lou Lou climbed all over me and I hardly even noticed, I was too busy hugging the heating pad. Finally the girls started saying things like "Mama, I'm hungry." or "Thirsty Mama!" No mother in the world can resist this kind of supplication for long, so I was soon up and nourishing the children. As I put Lou Lou into her seat, I noticed that she had scribbled with a pen all over her cute, although non-chubby thighs. I pointed it out to her and she nodded enthusiastically, while Buttercup noted out loud that Lou Lou's body was no longer a temple because she had scribbled on it. (I love those little moments that prove FHE is sinking in.) I sighed and trudged off to do the dishes, when I looked down, and noticed that Lou Lou had not only defiled her own temple, she had pretty much done a spray-paint job on mine. She had colored all up and down my arm and I hadn't even noticed.
I was still trying not to panic about the whole Charming-on-the-side-of-the-road-thing, when the phone rang and it was Charming himself saying to keep an eye on the news since the Missouri River was flooding and people all over the city were sandbagging and evacuating. Although relieved to find that Charming had survived his jaunt down the road, this turn of events was not good for my psyche. I figured we were fine, but kept checking the tv periodically. I thought if we had to evacuate in a hurry, what would I do? What would I save? What should I do at this very moment? The answer was simple: do the dishes. There was no way I was going to leave my house dirty--I just couldn't handle the thought.
As the morning progressed I began receiving worried phone calls from friends asking if I was all right. Finally someone called to say that reports were that we were to leave the area and go to higher ground. That was enough for me. Pretty much this was the sound I heard in my head for the next several minutes:
BWAAAAAAAAAAA!!!
I was a cross of an insane, panicky woman thinking of the how-to-survive book I read last month and Mrs. Beaver from The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, wondering if I ought to bring the jam, or in my case--the bread, because heck, I made it, and I didn't want it to rot! Outwardly I was fine--just running up and down the stairs, moving things I really didn't want to get wet and throwing stuff in suitcases. While doing all this I was on the phone trying to get a hold of Charming, who was in a hospital basement somewhere blissfully helping some poor soul with their physical therapy needs. The man didn't have a cell phone so I just called the hospital and made them page him while I continued running around.
The girls in the mean time were excited to leave and go play somewhere else. Soon enough Charming made it home (much more calm than me--of course), and we high-tailed it to a friend's house safely located "on higher ground". We stayed there for a peaceful afternoon watching barbie movies and relaxing until we received word that all was probably well. So we went on home again, still on the alert that we should "be ready to evacuate at a moment's notice". So yeah, pretty much we were fine but I was still a tad tense.
Life must have been back to normal because I was already worrying about what to make for dinner. But then I decided on chocolate chip cookies; so yeah, it wasn't normal yet. This decision created much celebration in the children department and for once Buttercup ate all her dinner. I asked her if she wanted some spaghetti for a treat as a reward, and she became very upset. Children are so ungrateful these days...
The evening wound down with the girlies going to bed and Charming and I cuddling on the couch watching American Idol and just enjoying being together. We went to bed at 10:30--super early for us. As I slipped in between the sheets and snuggled into my pillow, my sigh of content turned into a sneer.
Lou Lou had also scribbled on my pillow. My beautiful ivory 500-thread-count pillow case.
Oh well, Charming laughed and we both went to sleep. Not so bad of a day. I survived it and I got cookies.
So this morning at breakfast, Buttercup looked deep in thought. I gave her a smile to encourage her to speak. She sighed, looked at me with furrowed brows, and said:
"Mama, can you tell me all about... the devil?"
(Insert creepy panic music here).
Yes, my precious little princess was spending her solitude pondering the workings of Satan. I shuddered and glanced around the room nervously, then asked her what she meant. She continued, "Why does he want to make little girls and boys be naughty?"
Something akin to a Sunday School lesson followed, ending with the two of us singing "I Lived in Heaven". I was relieved to note that Buttercup seemed to be leaning toward Jesus's team.
Just close your eyes and listen to the distinct sound......
of a young piglet squealing and grunting relentlessly.
This is the sound I have been dealing with the last three or four days. Lou Lou has officially abandoned all reason, and also apparently her vocabulary, for piglet-like squeals to communicate all her emotions, desires, and needs.
Now as you wipe the drool off your face, please note that this girl is just that: a little girl. Not a woman or a "young single adult" or even a Laurel. She is but 15 years of age, and although of mature mind and body, she is too young for you.
