The Daily Grapefruit

The End.

2011-10-16T17:40:00.002-07:00

I thought by now I'd be back to normal. Normal. What is normal? I hardly remember what that means. Was there a time when I wasn't having seizures? It's now my daily life.

But it's not my entire life.

I desperately wanted to go on this vacation. But I felt timid. What if I have a seizure at the hotel? What if my legs give out at the beach? What if my seizures suck up an entire day of vacation?

There were a million what-ifs. But I didn't care. Life is full of 'em. And I didn't want those darned what- if's to keep me from my life...let alone, the beach.

Some days I handle the seizures better than others. I feel strong. I am strong. I take care of my family. I cook. I read to my kids. I go for walks with Jane. And play piano with Megan. And color with Paige. And make cookies with Mitchell. And it all makes me feel incredibly lucky.

But sometimes, as I lay in bed recovering, I lack hope. My body lie still, heavy, on the bed. I can't speak. I want to cry. I search within for something to grasp on to. But in my heart, I feel empty. I listen as Matt puts a child to bed and I feel sad that it's not me. I want to be there. It used to always be me. I feel weak. I yearn for strength. And answers. But they don't always come. So I just have to wake up in the morning. And start again. And again. Every day delivers another chance to create new memories. And stronger bonds. And more love.

For me, the beach is magical. I feel like a child with the sand stuck between my toes. Jumping in the waves exhilarates me. I want to run, free, forever, under the enormous sun, my skin glowing with pink. There is so much to create, to explore, to discover, to feel.

But this time, it wasn't the beach that held all that rejuvenating power. It was found in memorable moments with my kids. When Mitchell would laugh, his mouth stuffed full of food around the table with his sisters, his head thrown back with joy.

It was that moment when I taught Jane to swim. When I said, "You can do it! You can! You can do it Jane!" And she did. She did it. She swam. And swam. And swam. She jumped off the edge, her cheeks puffed with air, her eyes shut tight, her mouth curled up into a smile and her arms extended for the safety of my arms. And every time, as she arrived at the finish line, she jumped on her feet, her arms tossed toward the sky and shouted, "I did it! I did it!"

It was that first night when Paige snatched the notepad from the drawer and sat down to scribble her thoughts. My mom and dad are really nice. My little sister Jane is really funny. My sister Megan is the best sister ever. My brother Mitchell is really good with imaginations. And of course, me! How could I forget myself? Well, I am EVERYTHING and I am sure of that. That is the truth. The end.

It was when Matt and I strolled along the water's edge, leading the kids toward the tide pools. I turned my head to peek at the two beautiful girls behind me, two sisters. They walked hand in hand. Megan was whispering in Paige's ear. Paige cracked up. They stopped and dug something from the sand, then continued on. Unaware of my attention, they basked in their friendship. It was extraordinary to watch. How lucky those two are.

It was when we sat down to watch a movie. Everyone fought over mom. I want to sit by mom! I want to sit by mom! I want to sit by mom. Everyone, except Mitchell. "I want to sit by Daddy," he said, matter-of-factly, as he curled onto his father's lap.

It was watching Jane at the beach. Jane loved the beach. Not the waves. But the beach. She and I searched for shells. And seaweed. And feathers. And leaves. And anything else that might be undiscovered treasure. We built a castle. Jane decorated it. On a large piece of drift wood she'd thrust in the sand, she hung long strands of sea grass like tinsel. She wrapped bulbs of seaweed around the castle's edge and carefully placed purple shells like jewels on each wall. She lost herself in this task the entire morning. It was truly inspiring to see the beauty she so clearly sees before her.

It was watching Megan so eager for a chance to catch Jane in the pool. It was eating beignets dusted with powdered sugar for breakfast on the beach. It was chasing waves with the kids' hands locked in mine. It was laughing at their faces as the water chased their feet. It was continually stopping for Jane, who simply cannot pass a single bush without picking a flower and bringing it home to enjoy. Even the pink one that smelled like a skunk.

It was cracking up as Megan bolted through the tunnel faster than she'd moved her entire life. (She hates tunnels. And spider webs, which were in particular abundance this time of year.) It was overhearing Jane comfort her fallen stuffed sea lion and cradling him in her arms. Oh, you poor little sweetie.

It was Megan and Paige losing a tooth on the very same day. Paige giggled bubbly after her tooth came out in her pizza. And Megan, scared, but ready, allowed her dad to yank out her aching tooth. They went to bed happy to be sharing such a thrilling event.

It was falling asleep tucked between Mitchell and Jane, each of their hands steady on my heart. It was watching Paige unload her dolls, and her paintbrushes, her special pens, journals, blankets, jewelry, and every other item she can't live without. It was taking Jane on her first ferris wheel and watching her soak it up. It was playing skee-ball at the arcade. And reading the Worst Witch. And sharing a chocolate-banana milkshake with Megan. And watching my kids interact with each other like they wouldn't rather be with anyone else in the entire world.

It was Balboa. Oh Balboa, how I love you so. I loved you as a child. And I love you even still. It was filling up bags of salt water taffy and other treats at the colorful candy shop. It was the little book store. Or getting our hands scrubbed at the fancy soap store. Or Megan stopping at every knick-knack store on the street, admiring each and every treasured trincket. Or Paige spending her hard earned three dollars on a beaded ring boasting an enormous plastic flower on top. It was Mitchell anticipating his Balboa Bar. And Jane drippily devouring hers. (Along with the pigeons at her feet.) And it was the sugared donuts and the arcade tickets and the salty clam chowder and the shell shops and the boats.

And it was driving home in the dark at the end of the fun, when my husband looked at me and said, "that was a fun trip."

It was.

This trip filled those recent crevices in my heart. The ones that sometimes carve a path for emptiness that can, at times, overwhelm me. I feel so thankful for the few days we spent together at the beach. And for every day that I'm with them, regardless of where we are.

This will be my last post on this beloved blog. I've decided to move on from The Daily Grapefruit. Oh, how I have loved writing on this blog. I cherish every post. Every picture. Every thought. I have been given so much strength from your comments, your friendship, your faith in me. Thank you for reading. And sharing.

I will always be a blogger. I always have been! I will just go back to doing it in my own, private journal. Life is intense right now. And foreign. And strange. And wonderful. And sacred. It just feels as though I need to step into these new experiences on my own.

Thank you, to each and every one of you, who has taken the time to write me, to pray for my family, to mail a package, to send a card. It has truly meant the world to me, and my family. We will be forever grateful.

The End.

The Patch.

2011-10-09T15:00:00.001-07:00

The Little Girl With The Big Hat.

2011-10-07T09:45:00.008-07:00

Once there was a little girl who loved to go for walks.

She always wore a hat.

A big, rimmed hat.

She always wore fancy shoes.

Purple, sequined heels.

And she sang to herself as she went...clip, clop, clip, clop...down the sunny road.

"Look!" she squealed, spotting some napping ducks.

"Quack!" she cried, trying to say hello.

She watched them for a long time, the little girl with the big hat.

And the purple shoes.

But the ducks just floated lazily on the water.

So she quacked goodbye and trotted away.

Clip, clop, clip, clop, clip, clop.

The End.

Welcome Halloween.

2011-10-03T08:59:00.003-07:00

"Tonight is going to be a spooky night," Jane sang as she twirled with orange streamers around the house. It was only 8:30 a.m., but preparations for our Welcome Halloween dinner were in full swing.

Once the table was set, the lights were hung and the spiderwebs spread, I led Jane into her room for her crowning moment. I reached up, high into her closet, and pulled down her newly acquired Belle gown, the one she's been begging for for months.

Her eyes popped. Her mouth gaped. She looked at me with all the hope she could muster. "I get to wear that?" she asked. She slipped off her swimsuit (her usual morning attire) and transformed into a golden princess.

Several hours later, Mitchell returned from school. "Jane gets to wear that?" he asked, admiring her golden shimmer. Flattered, Jane smiled shyly and spun in the sun, spreading shards of light on the ground. Mitchell saw the decorated table and sighed. "How much longer until dinner?" he asked. Seven hours. Only seven hours.

For the next seven hours, Mitchell asked me the same question. Over. And over. And over. "How much longer until dinner?" he droned, on and on and on. Finally, with five hours to go, he set the kitchen timer. Five hours and counting.

The menu included herbed chicken in puff pastry, butternut squash and brussel sprouts cooked in apple cider and cream, Finnish poulla, apple bubbly and chocolate hazelnut cake with chocolate praline crunch. Um, yum.

Another year, another success. Favorite moments included dancing to the Monster Mash, the toast, Mother Gothel and Rapunzel, Mitchell cracking up at Casper and Jane sitting in her tupperware throne.

Welcome Halloween!

Love Letter.

2011-09-29T09:30:00.000-07:00

Dear Jane,

Yesterday we searched for butterflies together.
You really love butterflies.
You also love popsicles.

You looked so pretty in your pink shirt, your face glowing angelically
beneath the sun, your hair high atop your head.

I just sat there, watching you, feeling content.
The way you talk.
The way you dance.
The way you smile.

It makes me happy.

This morning you ran into my arms
and scrunched up your face for a kiss.

Waking up to you is a gift I can't wait to open, every single day.

Will you please stay three forever?
And read books on my lap?
And wear tutus to the store?
And draw pictures of little girls with enormous smiles?
And whisper in my ear that you want chocolate cake for dinner?
And collect sticks, flowers and leaves?
And clomp around in mismatched high heels?

I love you my Jane.
My sweet, sweet Jane.

Moving Up.

2011-09-25T18:00:00.003-07:00

Yesterday was karate graduation.

We are so proud of Mitchell.

"I can't believe you broke a board with your foot!" I exclaimed.

Then Matt chimed in.

"Ya," he said, "soon you'll be breaking all kinds of things."

He paused.

"Like, necks."

Um, okay.

Congratulations Mitchell.

Apparently you'll be Jason Bourne before you know it!

Apple Fest '11.

2011-09-14T17:06:00.021-07:00

I had one good week. Then the seizures returned. The last week has been rough again. But there have still been moments I want to remember, today being one of them. With a rare early-out from school, we celebrated Fall (despite the boiling hot weather) with our annual Apple Fest. Lots of painting, eating, gluing, eating, reading, eating, baking, eating and eating and eating.

It was just what I needed.

I really cling to good moments like this. Or like last night, when I was having a seizure on the couch. I was crying. And shaking. And my husband was kneeling beside me. I didn't want the kids to come up and see me.

But Mitchell walked in.

I buried my head in my arms, trying to stop my frantic body. It was impossible. Gingerly, he approached. He rested his hand on mine. With one hand, he stroked my hair, my back, my forehead. With the other, he held my trembling hand. He stayed till the end. The very end.

I was so afraid. I was so scared he'd be scared. Or disgusted. Or, I don't know. I was just afraid. But his eager love and tenderness shifted my fear to hope. And gratitude. And understanding.

It felt so good to have him there.

I'm learning a lot. I'm learning about being human, about being real, about being open, and about acceptance.

Right now I'm just so grateful. Grateful my home is filled with so many loving hearts.

Here's hoping you are enjoying fall leaves and pea coats and scarves in my honor, wherever you are! (Unless you're here, by me, and in that case, here's hoping your A/C is still running strong.)

The Best Day Yet.

2011-09-04T21:00:00.003-07:00

These pictures have absolutely nothing to do with what I want to say. But they do make you smile, don't they? At least, they make me smile. And happy is how I feel today.

Today marks one week since I've had a seizure. Kind of a big deal as that is the longest I've gone since late July. Last week I learned that I don't even have epilepsy. Hip. Hip. Hooray! I was beyond relieved to hear that. That was such a shock to my system when I received that diagnosis. It never sat right with me. (That doctor never sat right with me.) How does one just suddenly have epilepsy at my age, with no history of a single incident? I am pleased to say I don't have it. I have seizures. But they aren't the epileptic kind. And they are, hopefully, treatable, which is the best news of all.

My life is forever changed because of the past two months. Actually, let's just say because of the past eight months. This has been one doozy of a year. I'm hoping for more calm in the remaining four months. I will never be the same. I'm not the same mother. I'm not the same sister. Or daughter. Or wife. Or, self. I have sunk pretty low in the last two months. I've suffered serious depression. And a sense of loss. And hopelessness. It's been scary. Even the past week had some rough patches. But today I feel more like myself, both old and new, than I have since this whole nightmare started.

That is a good sign.

The reason I sat down to write is this: I never expected the response you gave when I posted about this trial. In fact, when I started my blog, I figured my mom and my two sisters would read it. And maybe my husband, if I was lucky. But three years later I have such wonderful readers that have helped me through some really, seriously, truly, hard (hard!) times, especially this year. It's always been near impossible for me to open up. It's always a risk letting people in. Yet, every time I've written about something difficult, you all have left me such encouraging comments, such thoughtful phone calls and such loving emails, I am continually amazed by the goodness around me. I am always surprised to learn how much people care. Just knowing someone was thinking about me, praying for me, lifted me in ways I will never be able to express.

Thank you to every friend, both near and far, both those I know and those I've never met, who have given me hope in the past few weeks. I have truly treasured every comment. I have re-read several emails. I have listened to every message. (Even if I was too overwhelmed with my situation to call back.) And I have been humbled by your big hearts and your willingness to share. It has helped me regain strength in the past week and helped me feel like I might just reach the top of this mountain after all.

Love to all,

Grapefruit.

Curly Cue.

2011-08-31T08:58:00.015-07:00

After seeing Paige walk out with curls this morning, Jane begged for curls of her own.
She sat, motionless, on the counter while I twisted her hair.
Staring at her reflection, her eyes grew with wonder at her ever changing hair.

Her dad said she looked like a princess.

That made Jane smile.

Whirlwind.

2011-08-23T09:41:00.004-07:00

I wasn't sure I would ever post again. Maybe this will be my last. Maybe it won't. I'm just taking one day at a time right now. And right now, writing on this blog is where I want to be.

I miss writing.

I don't miss that hospital gown.

Or the sock on my head.

Actually, to be honest, I feel like I'm back from the dead. I'm not quite sure how to describe the past four weeks of my life. For me, it's hard to process. Which is why I'm sitting down to write. That always seems to help.

Exactly one month ago today, I took my kids to their music lessons. As I sat in Mitchell's lesson, watching him squirm restlessly on the bench, I felt as if my attention was fading. I was hit, massively, with fatigue. My brain grew dizzy. And my legs. There was something strange about my legs.

We left. It worsened. Half way home, I pulled over and waited for my husband to come meet us and follow us home. Just in case.

By the time we arrived home, my legs were completely useless. I couldn't stand. Or walk. And holding my eyes open felt like a mission impossible. I slid into my bed to chase sleep, but my body started jerking. Hard.

Three days later I awoke to that same feeling. The jerking. The legs. The fuzzy brain. Only this time it progressed to a full-blown seizure. I'd never experienced anything like this. Ever. Never. In my entire life. With my husband at my bedside, we stared at each other, baffled by what had just happened. He left for work. I lay crippled in my bed, unable to walk or attend to my kids the entire day.

The next day was Saturday. It would be the last normal day I'd have for the next three weeks.

Sunday I woke up to a seizure. A bad one. The worst I'd ever had. It lasted nearly 45 minutes, my body twisting, writhing, shaking and sweating. Several hours later, the beast returned. And then an hour later, again. Four seizures later, my sister was on a plane to come take care of the kids.

Matt wheeled me into the emergency room. My legs felt sick. Again. The seizure hit. Everyone stared. Two teenage girls and their mother watched me in horror. I felt scared. The tears gushed out as my body shook, violently, in this room filled with strangers. Two nurses stood above me. And Matt was there.

Matt has always been there.

From then on, I started to seize hourly. The doctors stood with crossed arms, talking amongst themselves, watching me as if I were an uninteresting television show. It was awful. I wanted to die. My body had never felt more exhausted. Then, just when I felt I couldn't lift my finger to scratch my face, another seizure would strike.

We were released the next night with more questions than when we arrived. I came home to find my sister and my children. It is one of the few things I can actually remember from that week. Seeing them.

The next week was spent in bed, fighting seizures, sometimes twelve a day, with no answers. No leads. No hope. I didn't get to interact with my kids. Other people were taking care of my life for me. I couldn't walk. Or sleep. Or talk. Or eat. I just lay in bed, barely alive, watching my life pass before me. I was worried. Worried about my head that ached from all the shaking. Worried that the seizures would never stop. Worried that this would be my new life. Worried that my husband was missing so much work. Worried about his face that looked so tired, and stressed. Worried that my kids wouldn't love me anymore now that I was incapable of providing that "Daily Grapefruit" life they expect.

I missed them. I missed my life.

The next week was better. Not much, but a little. I still rode around in a wheelchair. I still spent all my time in bed. I still cried out for help during several seizures that were too much to bear.

Last week was the best week yet. Seizures still hit, but were shorter and less severe. I still couldn't walk much, but I could sit on the couch. And at the dinner table. And go to the bus stop. And read to my kids. And eat (a little). And even laugh.

And now I am here today, my best day so far. I woke up feeling normal. My legs are normal. My head feels normal. And it's the first day I've been home, alone, with Jane, while the kids are at school. I have big hopes for today.

I won't lie. It's been rough. I feel like I'm returning from war. Or waking from a coma. Certain memories still haunt me at night. There are feelings I don't know how to express and questions I'm not even sure how to ask. I feel a bit lost. Life is different now. I'm different now. My family is different now.

But there has been so much good. It's outweighed the bad. My family was here for me from the beginning. For two weeks, four of my sisters took turns coming here and taking care of my family. (And me.) My mother-in-law spent the last week doing the same. I was so nervous to expose my life to them, to have them witness me in such an atrocious state. But it bonded us in a way I can't express and won't soon forget. One sister sang to me. Another sister sat gently at my side, whispering that it would be okay. Another sister held ice cold washcloths to my face in the middle of the night to calm my troubled body. Another sister lay next to me, holding my hand, quietly reassuring me of her love. My mother-in-law baked bread and drove my kids to karate and hugged me during seizures and stroked my hair. My parents, one recovering from pneumonia and the other stuck with a broken arm, called daily to send their love. My father sent beautiful flowers to fill my room with sunshine. Jane drew me pictures. Mitchell gave me kisses and told me not to be sad. Paige laid in bed and talked my ear off. Megan played her violin to me in bed and ate chocolates with me before dinner.

I feel so emotional about my kids. They were really there for me. They still are. I've truly cherished every minute I've spent with them over the past three weeks in my bed, reading, talking, laughing, snuggling, and just being together. It counted. It was enough. It taught me a lot. They taught me, a lot.

But what I will remember most is my devoted husband. He's carried me through this past month. (Sometimes literally.) He was there. At my bedside. Kneeling close. Holding my head when it shook too hard. Un-cramping my locked fingers with his gentle strokes. Rubbing the soreness from my legs, from my back. He's called every doctor. Made every appointment. Researched every option. These past three weeks have been scary. Hard. Frightening. Tiring. Hopeless. Hopeful. Exhausting. Tense. And sacred. Sacred because despite all the ugliness, there has been an unspoken love between the two of us that's made everything more beautiful. We're stronger than before. Closer than before. More grateful than before. And, though I didn't think it was possible, more in-love.

Every new day feels like a gift to me. I feel myself coming back. I know I'm a fighter. I'll get there. I will.

Thank you to all. For everything.

Matt. I love you.

The End.

Epilepsy Or Not, It AIN'T Fun.

2011-08-05T17:49:00.005-07:00

Dearest Grapefruit Readers,

As much as I'd like to post about the wonderfuly fun things my kids and I are busy doing, I can't. I can't because we aren't doing them because I'm stuck in bed with some not so fun health issues. Until those are cleared, I won't be found here.

Thank you for all who are sending your love.

I feel it.

Love,
Grapefruit

My Favorite Place.

2011-07-26T14:51:00.005-07:00

I don't know what it is about Rock Canyon, but I've never been able to get over my crush. I fell in love (hard!) with this canyon back before I became a Mrs., when I actually exercised. (My heart actually just stopped at the mere mention of that word.) The thing is, I hate to exercise. But hiking up Rock Canyon isn't exercise. It's like a spiritual journey toward heaven. Honestly. It's that beautiful.

It's quiet. And serene. And romantic. And mysterious. And completely majestic. I used to climb up it's face just to find peace. And to rediscover the world around me. Or the heaven above. And even though I've been up there at least a hundred times, I always discover something new.

I've rock climbed. And repelled. And listened to cheesy poetry while drinking warm bubbly. I've gotten lost. And been scared. And triumphed. And figured out life. And held hands with my one, true, love.

No wonder I love this place.

This time I took some kids. Nine, to be exact. Four belonged to me. The other five, my sisters. It's become somewhat of a tradition to go hiking with Aunt B. (Me.) The boys wanted to be macho, so they ripped off their shirts and skipped rocks. The girls wanted to be tough, yet, pretty, so they wore ribbons in their hair and carried water in fancy purses. Jane marched with determination in a swimsuit and rainbow shoes, her outfit of choice. She made it. To the end. Till she tripped. And fell. And scraped up both knees three feet before the car.

And I, once again, marveled at my favorite canyon, listening to its hushed whispers of life while falling into its familiar embrace. It always seems to feel as though it belongs only to me. Like I'm the only girl in the world who's placed her heart in its hands.

But this day, surrounded by young, eager hearts, I was happy to share.

Québec.

2011-07-25T16:00:00.005-07:00

Today we traveled back to my Québec, where I lived as a young missionary. Where I fattened up on poutine and meat pies and maple everything. Where I thought I knew French, but felt lost with Québecois. Where I felt colder than I'd ever felt. Where I saw fall colors I'd never known. Where I loved the people more than I dreamed I could. Where I wrote my story to a certain person I called "Chef." Where I axed ice off my car. And my hair. And my lips. And my eyelashes. Where I saw lives change. Including my own.

I. Heart. Quebec.

And I think my kids did too.

Duck. Browned Butter. A Matching Mannequin. And A Rejeuvenated Grapefruit.

2011-07-23T11:41:00.010-07:00

It wasn't breakfast. But I still went with the waffles. Pecan waffles. Topped with rosemary butter and fried duck confit. Oh, and a side of agave nectar.

I know what you are thinking. But trust me, it was amazing.

Amazing is not the right word. Too ordinary and overused. It was ethereal. Godly. Rapturous. Sublime.

I grabbed the waiter and gushed over the flavors in my mouth. "Oh.My.Gosh.," I cried, as my body melted off the chair and into a puddle on the ground, "this is incredible. Amazing. I want to jump into a bed of duck confit and waffles."

Did I just say I wanted to jump into a bed with my food? He smiled. He understood. I love waiters that also happen to be foodies. (Of the non-snobbish variety.)

Next came the Dungeness crab enchiladas, resting in a lake of pink cream, topped with chunky avocado salsa. My taste buds screamed. My heart pulsed for the first time in weeks. This was too good to be true. Was it real? Was I dreaming? I yanked back the waiter. "Um," I choked, wiping tomato-ey/cream drool from my gaping mouth, "this is also, amazing. Not quite up to the duck waffles, but, amazing."

My husband looked at me with an even mix of pride and embarrassment. It's nothing new. He's used to me cheating on him with my food. But, at times, I think it still surprises him. At least he gets his money's worth when he takes me out to eat.

Next. Lamb.

I know, right? Duck? Crab? And lamb? In the same meal? Brother. Yes. It's exactly what this epileptic needs! Meat! Lots of it. I looked at the waiter, my eyes full of reckless desire, and asked, "Any more animals I can tack on my order?"

The lamb was perfect. Pink in the center. Drowning in rich juices. Long stems of broccolini draped across it. But the potatoes. Oh, wow. I need a moment to re-live those potatoes. They were bathed in rosemary creme fraiche and butter. It was then that I actually considered leaving my husband for a sack of potatoes. Again, the waiter approached for my now, highly anticipated, reaction. I couldn't bear to empty my mouth of this precious flavor long enough to comment politely. I spoke with my mouth full, creamy juice oozing from the corners of my mouth. "These potatoes. I need them. I mean, I need them at home. In my life."

Then came dessert. Browned butter ice cream with banana/chocolate chip/walnut cookies. I hate walnuts. Didn't matter. I would have eaten walnuts for a straight year if it meant I'd end up with a shot of this ice cream. My first bite sent me into near seizure. Matt looked at me like he might have to call for help. Again, my good friend, Mr. Waiter, stood at my side. I looked at him, helpless. "I don't even know what to say to you anymore. I need to meet the chef. And give him a hug."

My stomach ached. It begged me to stop. I ignored it. In the name of browned-butter ice cream, I ignored it! It bulged. And cramped. And I felt I might give birth. But It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except that remaining scoop softening in the bowl before me.

And that is how I came back to life after a month-long coma of stress. All because of a duck. A waffle. Some crab. A lamb. A slab of creme fraiche. And some browned butter.

Feels good to back.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

P.S. Also saw "Midnight In Paris" last night with my date. If you love Paris, you need to go see this movie. And if you love yourself, you need to eat duck confit with waffles. (Just sayin'...)

P.P.S. With a few minutes to kill before the show, we browsed through Macy's. What a delight to walk in and find my husband matched, perfectly, the mannequin. Nearly fell over laughing. Then texted my sister and laughed even harder at her response. Seeing this was almost as good as the duck confit with waffles!

Frazzled.

2011-07-20T14:49:00.003-07:00

I'm having a bit of trouble expressing myself this week. That's why I'm turning to Jane. Her wrinkled forehead and sideways tongue seem to perfectly illustrate my feelings.

I'm tired. And frustrated. And confused. Have I been on a roller coaster since January? Feels like it. I could go for a nice, long, week at the beach.

Oh, wait, I just did that.

I guess I could go for a nice, long, week at the beach without any worries or stress from home.

As I stood in line to ride California Screamin' (at Disneyland) with Megan last week, my cell phone rang. "Hello?" I yelled, to hear above the crowd. It was my neurologist. She'd reviewed my tests and wanted me to come in A.S.A.P. Like, could I come in the next day kind of A.S.A.P.

A pit sank in my stomach. The music, the sun, the noise blared around me, but my head grew quiet. I looked at Megan, and my husband's family next to her. They stood there, chatting, laughing, teasing, and unaware. The woman on the phone hadn't explained a thing. Were my test results normal? Abnormal? Was this just a follow-up to let me know things were fine? Were they not fine? Why hadn't I asked? Where was my courage?

I was slightly distracted for the rest of the trip, unable to truly focus on anything, including my camera (hence the lack of photos). This, on top of the news that my step-father was in the hospital with pneumonia, seemed to consume my every thought.

A few days later, I pulled up to the neurologist's office. I sat in the car, alone, wondering why I felt nervous.

But I did. I felt nervous.

I sat in her office. She walked in and hardly looked me in the eye. She opened my file, glanced over it and said, matter of factly, "It's epilepsy."

Epilepsy? Epilepsy!?!

I didn't know anything about epilepsy.

"I don't know anything about epilepsy," I choked, my throat tight with shock.

"Go home and read about it on the internet," she replied, her eyes still focused on the paperwork in her lap. She handed me a prescription, which felt like a bomb, and rattled off a few do's and don'ts (don't drive, do take these meds for the rest of your life, don't have any more kids, do come back in a month) and walked out the door.

And that's where I am. Frazzled. Confused. Scared. In shock. Unconvinced. Nervous. Distracted. And a little tired.

I hardly feel like blogging. Or taking pictures. Or doing anything else from my normal life. I'll get there. I just need a chance to breathe.

Lots more doctor appointments to come. And maybe it won't end up being epilepsy after all. But, maybe, it will.

I am grateful it's nothing life-threatening. Just life-changing. The good news is...I now have a "get-out-of-scuba-diving-for-life" card.

So.

Looks like Paris over Tahiti, right H?

Irresistible.

2011-07-16T16:13:00.011-07:00

Just got back from the beach.

It was so relaxing, I didn't even feel like getting out my camera.

I just wanted to veg.

"No pictures," I said.

But, Paige?

In blue?

And cherries?

On the beach?

Irrisistable.

Cousin Love.

2011-07-07T23:00:00.004-07:00

"This is my very best day!" my niece, Anna, squealed, as she and Mitchell walked, hand in hand, home from the park. Her long, stringy hair swung from side to side as her tiny legs skipped next to Mitchell. She talked his ear off. He talked right back. They laughed and giggled and flowed from one pretend game to another. They were in serious cousin-love.

There's just something about cousins. They're different than friends. They're permanent. And unchanging. And easy. And my kids never get enough of them. Never. That is why, despite the craziness of life that we left to come, we came. The fourth of July is our annual gig, where we fill up on enough cousin-love to get us through the next year. And I wouldn't miss it for the world.

(Neither would my kids.)

This past week has blurred by. We've gone swimming. And conquered water slides. And stayed up late talking. And reading. And playing badminton. We grilled shrimp. And steak. And ate way too much See's candy. We watched fireworks. And a parade. And hot air balloons. We hiked. And climbed rocks. And tried to catch butterflies on our fingers. We had sleep-overs. And a tea party. And painted each other's toes. We watched movies. Tried ice-blocking. Played baseball. Swung on the porch. And jumped on the trampoline.

All the kids are holding hands. And setting up tents. And sleeping close. And sharing blankets. And swapping clothes. And making future plans. Together.

It's just as it should be.

Here is what I will remember from this week. Jane falling in love with a hot dog named Annie. Eliza and Paige cutting out billions of shoes for their personalized paper dolls. Megan and Lindsay running from the pool, to the slide, to the pool, to the slide, to the pool, to the slide. Mitchell, Hayden and Peter, shirtless, hiking down the canyon, feeling like studs but looking like scrawny (and white!) little boys. Massaging lots of tiny hands and feet at the day spa. Five pounds of See's candy. My sisters. Playing badminton just as the evening shade sets in, the canyon glowing behind. Megan, so happy, so content. The kids climbing that tower at dusk, the wind blowing, the fireworks popping, all of us spread out on blankets from my youth. Buckets of rain pouring outside while we ate mexican food after swimming. Jane, hiking in flip-flops. Sarah, playing piano while we cook. Nate in his glasses. A last-minute dollar movie with my sisters. Waking up at 5:00 for balloons. Paige in her cherry swimsuit. Doug, in his greenhouse. How pretty my mom looked when I walked in the door. And watching all of that glorious cousin-love.

Already, can't wait till next year...

A Black And White Fourth.

2011-07-05T06:30:00.015-07:00

Our Luggage Says It All.

2011-07-03T13:41:00.009-07:00

(And this was AFTER I cut out about ten bags...)

A Boy And His Mama.

2011-06-28T23:10:00.006-07:00

Today I sat in a chair that was draped in a clean sheet. The room was sterile. And white. And all four of my kids sat behind me, each armed with a book and a bag of goldfish.

I sat there, praying that things would go smoothly and the kids would behave when, suddenly, that familiar feeling returned. First, the nausea, growing worse by the minute. Then, the light-headedness. I looked at the nurse. "I'm going to pass-out," I said.

And I did.

Several minutes later I was awakened by the crippling stench of smelling salts burning through my nose. My head whipped back and I gasped. There were now two nurses and a doctor fussing over me and my low heart rate. The nausea was unbearable. My body was drenched with sweat. Blinding pain rang in my head. I couldn't speak. Or move. Or even open my eyes. Exhaustion smothered me.

I'd had another seizure. The second one in two months. And this time I started to feel scared. I wanted Matt, but he wasn't there. Soon, the shakes kicked in, as they always do. My body trembled for almost an hour. I wanted somebody to hold my hand. I hate the shakes. But no one was there. Just the nurse. And my oblivious kids behind me.

As it turns out, one of them wasn't so oblivious. The girls were lost in their books. Jane was busy filling and emptying and filling and emptying her cup of water in the fountain. But, as usual, Mitchell had noticed. He kept sneaking over with kisses and concern.

Almost four hours later I came home and crawled (literally) to my bedroom. All I wanted to do was sleep. But, for two reasons, I couldn't. The first being that I had to stay awake for another test to be performed the next day on only 4 hours of sleep. The second, Mitchell.

He wouldn't leave my side.

He brought me water. And more water. And lots of water. He snuggled with me. And talked my ear off. And read to me. And walked on stilts for me. And scratched my back. And cleared my dishes. And professed his undying love and devotion to me. All afternoon.

I felt bad that he felt he needed to be couped up with me. I kept urging him to go play, but he wouldn't.

He just wouldn't.

When I was pregnant with Mitchell, everyone warned me. "Little boys love their mamas," they'd say. I never understood.

But now, so often, I do.

How I thank heaven for dimple-faced, five-year-old boys.

Especially mine.

Diving In.

2011-06-27T20:56:00.026-07:00

Tonight, dinner started promptly, or rather, extremely tardily, at 7:43 pm. It had been one crazy day. After waking up at 3:00, I basically didn't stop until I plopped down to eat, sixteen hours later, with four lively children and one absent husband.

"Wow," I sighed, reaching for a taco, "what a day."

Without looking up, and with a mouth stuffed full of shredded beef, Paige said, "And wow, what a wonderful summer school!"

"Really?" I asked, pleased with her expression.

"Oh yes," she replied, listing off everything she loved about the day. Instantly, the other three chimed in agreement.

Some days I wonder if all this work is worth it. I wonder if the kids would be just as happy running around doing whatever kids do with two months off from school. (I also wonder what it would be like to not scrape paint off the table for an hour each night!) Would they care? Or notice? Or prefer it?

I don't really have to answer that question. Their faces do it for me. So I keep on keepin' on. For them. And, for me.

I've decided motherhood is just like swimming. Sometimes the water is cold. And uninviting. And you're not sure you're up to leaving the warmth of the sun just to have your bones attacked by cold with each slow, hesitant, step into the water. Inch. By inch. I'll just warm up to it, you say. But you know it doesn't work. You know what you need to do. You take a step back, and you run, and you jump. Right in. With all the gusto you've got. And the water feels like silk sheets on freshly shaven legs. And it's refreshing. And rejuvenating. And you never, ever, want to get back out.

Paige was right. Today was a wonderful summer school. And I am so looking forward to the next one. And the one after that. And the many more to come.

I love America. I love July 4th. I love stilts made from tin cans. I love soft tacos. And warm summer nights when the kids are up late reading books on Egypt (Megan) and practicing stilt-walking outside (Mitchell and Paige) and sneaking more cake (Jane). And I love the way that diving into motherhood always refreshes me and feels better than I even think it will.

Always.

Under The Sea.

2011-06-26T15:10:00.000-07:00

What My Neighbor Meant By "Water Pouring Out Of Your Wall."

2011-06-24T15:36:00.010-07:00

Well. I should have expected something like this to happen. Bad luck likes to follow me no matter where I go. The good news is my neighbor happened to take a walk at 6:00 this morning and see water pouring from my home and flooding the patio. The better news is she still had my cell phone number. The even better news is she turned off our water to postpone any further damage. The best news of all is that good neighbors still exist out there, even in such a world as this.

Remember that movie "The Money Pit" with Tom Hanks? I always thought that movie was funny. Now I'm kind of living it and it's not so funny.

$80,000 worth of damage. Choke. All the carpet in the house was soaked. The bathroom upstairs was ruined. And the kitchen, well, it needed a complete overhaul anyway.

Yes. We have insurance. And that would seem to be the best news of this whole day. (Well, that, and I finally got to rip off the heart monitors...!!! No more robot!)

Disgruntled.

2011-06-24T09:31:00.002-07:00

Finally, it's Friday.
Just spent $50 on tickets to take my kids to the aquarium.
Every one jumped with joy at the announcement.
They raced to get dressed, brush teeth and get shoes on.
Then my cell phone rang.
It was my neighbor from our previous 'hood.
Our old house is flooding.

Guess we're not going to the aquarium after all.

And to make matters worse, I've been walking around with seven heart monitors attached to my chest for the past 24 hours and my child is afraid to sit by me because I "look like a robot."

I need a weekend already!

Happy Friday!

Somewhere Else.

2011-06-21T18:12:00.007-07:00

Sometimes I simply must photograph my dinner. (Or lunch. Or breakfast.) It's just too pretty not to. Who could ignore a simple, yet divine, spread like this?

Not me.

I didn't feel much like cooking tonight. It's 109 outside, and the last place I felt like slaving was over a stove. But I had a baguette. And I had fresh basil. And parsley. And tomatoes. And Parmigiano Reggiano. And, eggs.

(And, of course, a cast iron pan.)

Et, voila. Dinner.

It took maybe ten minutes. And oh, was it worth it. One bite and I was somewhere else. Europe, I think. Italy, to be more specific. Looking out a small window with brightly colored shutters onto the Mediterranean sea. Lemon trees are everywhere. The air is relaxed. I'm wearing a sundress and leather sandals. No, barefoot. I'm sitting at an old wooden table in a tiny kitchen and Matt is with me, of course, because it wouldn't be a complete daydream if he weren't there. I'm slopping up the drippy yolk with my garlic-rubbed toast and the birds chirp from the trees. My bicycle is parked, slanted, against this old villa, waiting for me to finish so I can ride to the market and shop for lunch.

But maybe I won't make it to the market, because Matt keeps staring at me from across the table. All this coastal air makes his eyes even greener and his skin is lightly tanned and...

Like I said...so worth the ten minutes.

Just think where I'd be if I'd actually cooked a real dinner.

And while we're on the subject, Matt, wanna make this daydream a reality? Oh, right, right...mortgage, children, ER bills, orthodontist bills, dental bills, bills, bills, bills...

I think I need another helping of eggs.

________________________________________________________________________________

Dreamy Italian Coast Eggs For Those Who Can Only Visit Italy In Their Dreams.

Serves 5-6

Butter
Olive Oil
Kosher Salt
Pepper
Eggs
Tomato
Cheese
Fresh Herbs
Parmesan

Fresh Garlic
Baguette

Preheat broiler. Heat cast iron pan to medium-high. Toss in 2-3 tablespoons of butter with a splash of olive oil. Crack eggs over sizzling fat. (Use as many eggs as will cover your pan.) Slice tomato and place on top. Season with salt and fresh cracked pepper. Sprinkle whatever cheese you have on hand on top of the whole thing. Place in a broiler until cheese bubbles and begins to brown. Add fresh herbs, season more if needed, and serve.

(For garlic toast, just brush slices of bread with olive oil and toast under broiler. When toasted, rub raw garlic on each piece. Easy, right?)

MELT.

2011-06-20T17:50:00.006-07:00

I thought Mitchell was cute in his Tball outfit.

But this?

C'mon.

I'm seriously melting...

Summer Ramblings.

2011-06-15T20:27:00.004-07:00

Oh, how I love the good old summer time. Living is so much easier, isn't it? Everything feels heightened. Food tastes better. Sleep comes deeper. Daylight burns longer. And life flows smoother.

I even fell asleep in the middle of the day today, curled up with my book on the couch while the kids cut out paper dolls. Sleep? Mid-day? What a dream. The sun was streaming angelically through the window onto my face, patting my cheeks and stroking my hair. I caved. Without even realizing. I'd been hypnotized by the noon-day sun and the quiet of a summer afternoon.

Ten minutes into it Jane's finger started tapping. And tapping. And tapping. Like a woodpecker. I tried to breathe deeper, close my eyes tighter, trying to lure back the sleep that was slipping from my grasp with every tap of her determined finger. It failed. My eyes opened to precocious Jane, grinning broadly. "Mitchell," she whispered, staring straight into my eyes, "she's awake now."

And then she went about her business.

Summertime always tightens the rope. The kids are closer. They have more fun. They start a game in the morning and it carries on for three days straight. They laugh more. And play more. And share more secrets. And I'm lucky enough to be included in all the fun. I really treasure this time with them. I can feel August lurking, ever anxiously, around the corner. It always steals them away too soon. Then it's over. They'll wake up early. And come home tired. And have no time for that three-day stretch of pirates, or astronauts, or whatever the flavor of summer might bring. And they'll rip off their sand-filled socks and stinky shoes and stomp through the door begging for food. And then it's sit-at-the-table-and-do-your-homework and finish-your-practicing-before-dinner and eat-all-your-veggies and hurry-and-go-to-bed-because-you-have-to-wake-up-early-for-school-and-nonsense-and-nonesuch!

Tonight all the kids were in bed. Except for one. She was scared. And crying. And her eyes were begging for something.

Turned out it was cereal.

We shared a bowl while the house fell silent with the close of day. She munched. I munched. The sky out the window turned cobalt blue. There we were, together, alone. I made her laugh. She made me smile. Over a simple bowl of late night cereal my heart felt sure. Sure I am supposed to be this child's mother. Sure I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Sure that moments like this one will one day, matter.

They already do.

Ah, I love summer. I love cobalt skies. I love naps in the sun. I love the freedom of summer. I love popsicles. I love waking up and seeing my son, fully dressed in his swimsuit, staring out my window with anticipation for the new day.

And I love cold cereal with my daughter at my side.

Another day, over.

Looking out my window to see what tomorrow will bring.

For My Blueberry Girl.

2011-06-15T00:00:00.001-07:00

Weekly Ration.

2011-06-11T10:15:00.005-07:00

My sister texted me this week and said, "Reaching you this week is like breaking into the White House...no blog...no email..." I'm not sure how she knows about the state of security in D.C., but, I definitely feel out of touch without a computer.

A few more days and hopefully I'll be back up. (I've only taken 400 photos this week!)

For now, I'm like a prisoner awaiting his weekly ration of stale bread, sitting by the bars, staring longingly at that steel door, drool sliding down my mouth, praying for Saturday when my husband brings home his laptop and I can get my writing fix.

I woke up feeling motivated this morning. So did Mitchell. "Want to help me pull some weeds?" I asked. Chin raised, he replied, "I'll go get my light saber!" Five minutes later he was whacking weeds with his sword while I yanked them up with all of my mid-life strength.

Turns out weeding isn't that fun. Especially when it's hot. And the roots won't budge. And my excema laced fingers start to crack and bleed.

Mitchell soon ditched his light saber, and me. So there I was. All alone. Just me and the sun. I felt like I was a teenager all over again, out there on a Saturday morning, pulling weeds with my mother. She seemed to love it. I loathed it.

I think I still do. Only problem is that now I actually care about how the yard looks. I hate how maturity tricks you like that, sneaking emotion, ownership and perspective into chores just to get you to do them.

I think my mid-life strength is dwindling, right along with my early morning motivation. I'm not old. But somedays, I feel old. The days are long, my nights too short. I keep telling myself that tomorrow I'm going to start practicing yoga. Everyone who does yoga looks so invigorated. Like they just spritzed their faces with fresh Evian.

Maybe I should just get a sprizter.

Mitchell is wearing gym shorts with his dress belt. It's his latest accessory. Holds his swords and his guns. He never leaves home without it. Jane, on the other hand, has changed her outfit four times already, and it's only 10:51 a.m. Currently, it's a velour leotard with soccer socks. (Why not?!) Those two were up at the crack of dawn this morning chasing each other like wildcats through the house. Where do they get so much energy? Are they doing yoga behind my back?

I just heard my husband ask the kids where I am. He must have noticed that unfinished pile of pulled weeds. I guess my weekly ration is up. Time to go finish my chores.

Sigh.

I need some Evian.

Saturday, I Love You.

2011-06-04T19:49:00.025-07:00

In Mourning.

2011-05-30T20:10:00.012-07:00

Since we've moved in almost two weeks ago, our computer has been iffy. (Hence my absence on the blog.) My loyal handyman has been working every night trying to solve the issues, but last night, crawled in bed at 11:15 and offered this confession.

"Well, all of your pictures from the past year are gone," he choked.

I heard him. But I didn't, couldn't, understand.

"What?" I asked, the sleep slipping from my veins.

He repeated, verbatim, his announcement.

He swore he backed them up. He checked, double checked, triple checked, just to make sure. But after re-installing some software, they were no where to be found. Gone. All those birthdays, recitals, picnics, vacations, summer schools, Christmas, first days of school, last days of school, the old house, the new house, Paige's baptism, all of it, gone.

I felt panicky. Then, sick.

A whole year, since last July, just gone.

I felt grateful, at least, that I had my blog. And so now, in the ten minutes that my internet is actually working, I want to blog. I need to blog. There is so much I've wanted to write about, even in the past week.

Summer is here, and I couldn't be happier. It's my favorite time of the year. I love having the kids home. I love no schedule. It's so quiet. And relaxing. And kids are happy. And we take morning trips to the library and do summer school in the afternoon. And we don't have to rush out the door. Or eat peanut butter sandwiches every day for lunch. And the kids make up these games that last all day long. And Paige creates pirate ships outside under the trees. And Megan curls up with her books. And Mitchell suits up in all of his armor. And Jane takes her turn with each one of us. And everyone wears flip flops. And eats popsicles. And goes to bed just a little bit later.

Last week we had our annual summer kick off. Game night. In the tent. With the Christmas lights. And the feast. I gave the kids their new summer books at the end, just like always, and they snuggled up with them under the twinkling lights, just like always.

I went to bed a happy mother that night.

"Mom, is today summer school?" This is what Mitchell (usually dressed as Darth Vader) wakes me up with each morning. He's loving it. So are the girls. And so is our newest student, Jane. It's her first year in the club. So far, so good.

I seriously heart summer school.

At the end of each day, I stand at the counter to start dinner, usually in my red apron. The music is on and the kids are finishing school projects at the table next door. I feel so satisfied. So content. So eager for the next day to come so I can do it all over again. I love, love, love having these kiddos with me full time.

So even though I'm in mourning over the loss of the past year, here's to another beloved summer filled with lots of good eats, good reads, good sun and good love.

Just My Luck.

2011-05-29T21:30:00.002-07:00

There were three reasons I wanted to buy this house. The first was the bookshelves upstairs. The second was the reading nooks next to the bookshelves. And the third was the yard. Which happened to include trees. Grapefruit trees.

There's a reason my blog is called The Daily Grapefruit folks. I love grapefruit.

Friday morning I walked outside in my white, cotton skirt. It was warm. But breezy. I slipped on my flip-flops and headed toward the trees, a plastic bag snapping in my hands.The vastness of blue from the sky above embraced me as I trod, slowly, through the long grass.

Other than the whistling of early birds, it was a quiet morning.

I climbed the first ladder and started picking. Grapefruit. After grapefruit. There were so many, dozens (!), to be picked. My heart was bursting with joy. Was I actually picking endless grapefruits at my very own house? Four bags later, my heart content with faux-farming pride, I returned to my kitchen with one goal in mind: grapefruit granita.

It's summer here. Full on. And I knew I could trick my non-grapefruit-eaters into liking grapefruit with a fresh granita for tonight's post-supper delight.

I was right.

It totally worked.

The granita was cold. And light. And flaked on your tonuge for just a second before vanishing on the spot, leaving you desperate for more. And more. And more!

It felt so organic, the whole experience. The picking. The blue sky. The breezy leaves. The sticky juice on my hands. The kids sipping along the way. My entire family slurping it up. The official kick-off to summer.

And then I got the stomach flu.

I mean, bad.

Like, I didn't leave my bedroom for the next 36 hours.

The gorgeous granita was the last thing I'd eaten.

And now.

I can't bear the sight, the smell, the look or even the mere thought, of a grapefruit.

Good thing I've got eight billion of them waiting for me outside.

What am I supposed to do now? Change my blog to The Daily Grape Nuts? The Daily Bagel? The Daily Bag Of Chips? The Daily Glass Of Orange Juice? The Daily Turkey And Cheese?

I swear. This is kind of the story of my life.

(Back me up F.G.)

But in case you still like grapefruit, this recipe is definitely worth sharing for all of you who could use a summer dessert for tomorrow's festivities, all your bbqs at the lake and what not's.

Just bring some pepto. I mean, just in case...

(Seriously. I got the flu from my son. Not from this dessert. And even though I will never eat it again, you definitely should. It was kind of amazing, in a perfect, summer-on-the-island, kind of way.)

Grapefruit Granita

Recipe of Dave Lieberman
Recipe found here.

Ingredients

2 1/2 cups fresh pink or ruby grapefruit juice, at room temperature
1 cup boiling water
1/3 cup superfine sugar
Mint sprigs, for garnish

Directions

Combine juice, water and sugar in bowl and whisk until the sugar has dissolved. Pour liquid into a 13 by 9-inch baking pan. Freeze until hard, about 3 to 4 hours.*

To serve, scrape with a fork and spoon the scrapings into small chilled martini glasses or small glass bowls. Garnish with small sprigs of fresh mint.

*Based off an article on granitas from Bon Appetit, which suggests you do the first scrape after exactly one hour, I did just that. I scraped and smashed with a fork after the first, then returned it back to the freezer. Then I did the official scraping after the remaining time. Turned out perfectly!

Never Too Old.

2011-05-26T19:30:00.004-07:00

Five years ago we built our first fairy house. It was made from a milk carton, hot glue, and scraps of old fabric.

It was magical.

The fairies left notes. And pixie dust. And unexpected gifts. Paige was quickly charmed by their visits, and mostly, by the trinkets they'd left behind.

But, Megan. Megan was different. Her heart was instantly seduced by these magical creatures outside her bedroom window. She wrote secret letters to these fairies, expressing her deepest sorrows, her truest joys and her lifelong wishes. As soon as she got home from school, she'd race out back to check for fairies. She invited them to tea parties and summer plays. She spent hours creating new furniture from cereal boxes and popsicle sticks. She left gifts for them, hoping to entice them to allow her just a glimpse, a quick glance, at their glittering beauty. She cried, tragically, when the house eventually broke and labored, diligently, over the next one.

She loved these fairies with all of her five-year-old heart.

(And six-year-old, seven-year-old, eight-year-old and nine-year-old, heart.)

It's been a while since she's checked for fairies. I wondered if maybe age had replaced those magical hopes.

But today, she woke up with purpose.

"Mom," she called, "where is all the craft stuff?"

"Why?" I answered, surprised by this drastic change in her morning routine of sneaking away from the breakfast table to escape with a book.

"I'm making a new fairy house," she responded enthusiastically, her voice tight with excitement.

For the next several hours, Megan, Paige and Jane huddled around the counter, each armed with scissors, tape, glue and pieces of cardboard. I offered buttons, feathers, beads and a few extra bits of bling to rev up their already ignited imaginations, and they zoomed into action.

Paige doddled here. And there. Then stopped to play. Then came back. Then left again. Then came back. And so on. And so forth.

But Megan barely breathed. She focused. And concentrated. And worked her fingers to the bone to create the perfect paradise for her lifelong friends.

Paige wanted a pink roof. Megan wanted a button path. Paige sprayed fresh dew drops. Megan made a mirror from saran wrap. Paige created a lake. Megan constructed a feather bed. Paige crumbled up cookies in a bowl. Megan wrote a note. They worked. And worked. And worked.

And now, I believe, our home is complete.

I know Megan is ten. Maybe she still believes. Maybe she doesn't. She's probably too old for such fantasy. But how does a mother crush that spirit of hope, imagination, childlike love, trust and belief in the unbelievable?

I can't.

Not yet.

It's too fun to watch. It's too fun to be a part of. It's too fun to join in. And it's too fun to live in a house where anything is possible.

It's not about fairies. But it is about spending summer days creating something memorable, something pure, something fun and something special. And even though, one day, she'll look back and laugh, ridiculously, at the thought of fairy houses, she will still remember how it felt. How being a kid, felt.

Magical.

And in my book, that's what it's all about.

Couch Love.

2011-05-26T08:18:00.014-07:00

Settling In.

2011-05-24T21:50:00.001-07:00

Phew. We made it.

The past few days feel like they've blurred into one long, eternal stretch of never-ending motion. Moving is WORK. My body aches. My back is shot. And I am tired.

But so, so happy.

Am I in a dream? I feel like I am. Each night I fall asleep staring out the window. Even in the black of midnight, it's beautiful. The sky is dark. The tree tops are outlined with moonlight. The branches sway in the slight breeze, rustling the stillness of night. It's so quiet. And peaceful. I wake up several hours later to greet the same scene, only in green. Green trees. Green grass. Green leaves.

And blue sky.

My kids are in heaven. I've hardly seen them since Sunday. They've been so lost in play, they've hardly come up for air. I'm not sure why I've ever purchased a single toy for any of them as they've had more fun than ever since their belongings have been boxed up and out of reach. Just today, they visited the moon, flew in hot air balloons, ran a store, read books, played dress-ups, jumped on trampolines (stacks of boxes), danced on big stage (also made out of smashed boxes), fought off bad guys (with spatulas as swords) and played house at least a million times.

I sort of feel like I'm playing house myself. It feels surreal. Like I'm house-sitting. Or at a hotel. This can't be my yard. Or my bathtub. Or my porch. And are my kids really playing outside, in the middle of the afternoon, without a drug-dealing neighbor spying on us from his window? Do we actually have enough space to fit around the dinner table? Together? Without sucking in? Do all my books actually get to come out of storage and onto shelves? Can I actually use the blow dryer without turning off all house lights first?

(Yes, FG, I do know how to use a blow dryer.)

Everything felt frazzled until I unpacked the kitchen and set up the dining room. Once they were done, I felt settled. It didn't really matter how long the rest of the house took to unload after that. The heart of our home was ready.

And for the record, yes, Megan and Paige have their own rooms. They threaten each other's personal safety if one enters without permission. But, come 8:30, they can't bear to be apart. They've yet to sleep alone. Or even try to sleep alone. Not a single night.

Not much has changed.

I told the kids it might take a while before this place feels like home. Two hours later, Paige walked up to me and said, "Mom, it already feels like home."

She's right.

It does.

Sacred Earth.

2011-05-20T10:00:00.007-07:00

Last night Matt came home to an empty house. I'd packed everything yesterday and moved it out (by myself!) to the garage. I crashed in bed, my body heavy. He stood in our room and looked around. Blank walls. Empty closet. No tables. No lamps. No nothin'.

"Wow," he sighed, turning his head, slowly, from side to side, his face taking in the shocking space around him. "Do you even feel sad at all?"

I thought about this. No. I don't feel sad. I'm excited for the change, ready to move on. But I do feel sentimental, especially as I look around at the emptiness and remember what used to fill it's place.

Mitchell was only 5 weeks old when we moved into this house. He was tiny, yet huge. He ate non-stop. Megan was 4. And Paige was only 2 and spoke like she was from Vietnam. (No Why = Snow White. Juh Lie You = Just Like You). We were still adjusting to a new baby. A changed family. A different dynamic. Grad school was over. He'd passed the bar exam. And now we were moving on to grown-up life.

It was our first home. It was less than 1500 square feet, but it felt huge to me. My mother kept referring to it as an "apartment". And my sister often lost sleep over our lack of space. (And, at times, iffy neighborhood.) One time my dad even called it a "cage."

But I've loved it. It's been good to me, and to my family. And although the five and a half years I've spent here isn't a huge chunk of my life, somehow, it feels like the chunk that has mattered the most.

I still remember that first day. "Hi," he chirped. "Can they play?" He didn't even know our names. But he always wanted to play. His name was Anthony, and he lived three doors down. Every single morning, at 7:00 a.m. he rang our doorbell. Then again at 9:30. And 12:00. And usually again around 4:30. Then 7:00. It was cute, at first. But by week three I wanted to rip the doorbell off the wall and flush it down the toilet. He was our first friend. And even though I sometimes turned off the lights and forced the kids to hide in a closet and hold their breath at the sound of his knock, and begged Matt to build us a bomb shelter to avoid him, I appreciated his love for our family and the friendship my kids felt with him. It felt nice to be loved.

Anthony eventually moved. But we quickly made more friends. Megan started kindergarten and became friends with Stefani, a girl from Eastern Europe, whose mother resembled Barbie. It didn't matter if it was 7:15 in the morning or 2:25 in the afternoon, that woman's bleached blond hair was curled and teased, her long legs fitted in twelve inch heels, her tiny waist and bu-font-ish chest accentuated in a tight, short, strapless, dress, and her face painted for the Oscars.

Needless to say, my shorts and flip-flops always fell short.

Sadly, Stefani moved back to Europe, but Megan continued to crawl from her shell and make more friends than either of us expected.

Then Paige met her lifelong bosom friend, Lizzy. Those two loved each other like sisters...but, the kind that never fight. Lizzy yanked Paige from her quiet cocoon and embraced everything about her. She brought sunshine into every room and life into all of our hearts. And I met Becca, her mother, and quickly understood why Lizzy was such a delight. Becca was everything I'd wanted in a friend. She was funny. And loyal. And reliable. And understanding. And thoughtful. And just plain cool. And I'm pretty convinced Mitchell thought her husband, Phil, was a superhero.

The list goes on. And on. And on. We truly have made lifelong friends here. Friends I will miss chatting with at the park. Or swapping mommy stories with at the pre-shcool drop-off. Or picking lice with. (You know who you are.) Or walking through their garden and snipping fresh basil with. (You also know who you are.) I will miss Mitchell screaming Rex's name from across the park. Or the way Cohen talks my ear off. Or Ainsley's ribbons amongst a group of buzzed boys. Or how Tayler tells me all of her latest reads. Or how Jocelyn reveals what's really going on in Megan's life. Or how Ben says "Betta." Or chatting with Jacque at T-ball games under the shaded tree. Or catching up with Lynsi on the couch while our kids run wild. (Or eating her grilled cheese/avocado sandwiches, banana bread, puppy chow and roasted corn pizza. I love that Lynsi.) Or drooling over Vanessa's house. And yard. And creativity. And talents. And hilarious sense of humor.

We will miss you all.

I feel like we became a real family in this home. We stretched into a house of six and filled every corner. I transitioned from being a mother of babies, where days were spent changing diapers, singing lullabies, spooning bites of smushed squash and planning my life around everyone's naps, to entering an entirely new phase of motherhood, where children are sent off to school, where no one takes a nap, where the house is in constant motion, where I have to deal with emotional break downs, and stress, and anxiety, and confusion, and homework, and where I no longer fall asleep at night smiling, thinking about my fat babies tucked quietly into their cribs, but, instead, lie awake worrying about what I should have done better, or differently, or what I didn't have time to finish, or start, or how I will handle this problem, or that difficulty, or what I should have said, or not said, or if I really have the chops for this, or that, or, or, or...

I will always remember our first home. It's where Mitchell fell in love with Peter Pan. It's where Megan started kindergarten. And Paige rode off to preschool on that big, scary bus. (I cried my eyes out as she pulled away, slowly, by the wierdo bus driver and all those strange kids. I was not ready for yellow buses. I canceled the route five minutes later!) It's where Jane was born. And where she cried, and cried, and cried for the first three weeks, and would only stop when I played her that Rachmaninoff piece I'd been practicing during my pregnancy. It's where Megan started violin. And Paige hated piano. And Mitchell learned to ride his bike. And swim. And read. It's where we slept in tents made of blankets and sheets. And had parties galore. And lots of Girl's Campouts. It's where I read, for hours, and hours, and hours, and hours, to each and every child. It's where we ate dinner together at night. And where we made doughnuts at Halloween. And cobblers in the spring. And pies in the summer. It's where, during moments of intense stress, I'd escape to my bedroom and stare out at the orange tiled roofs, imagining I was in Tuscany. It always calmed me down. It felt so quiet. And still. (I also used to pretend the freeway traffic was the sound of the ocean. It's very Anne Shirley of me, I realize, but hey, it worked!) It's where Mitchell climbed his beloved tree. And Jane claimed the chair by the window as "our favorite spot." And the girls slept together every night of their lives. It's where the kids threw snowballs made of crumpled paper. And fired packaged toilet paper rolls down the stairs. And wrote and performed summer plays. It's where we had summer school. And made Russian nesting dolls. And tried sushi. And shot rockets with baking soda and vinegar. And it's where every single day, we felt like a family. We felt whole. And united. And loved.

Yesterday my mother said, "Always a spot where we've lived, slept, cried, laughed, sweated and worked is a little sacred piece of earth."

She's right.

This piece of earth is forever sacred to me.

Thank you, old house, for giving us a home. A safe spot to rest our weary heads. A childhood for my kids. A marriage for me. And volumes of memories that will forever remain in my childrens' hearts.

And although I won't miss the nightly police helicopters, the middle of the night police raids, the drug busts, the leaking pipes, the wasps or the constant meowing of stray cats, I will miss this old house. I will miss these old friends. I will miss the playground. I will miss the window in my room. I will miss hearing my children sleep across the hall. I will miss cousins crammed in every corner. I will miss walking home from school. I will miss those loud birds in the tree. I will miss that big old counter. I will miss reading in our favorite spot. And I will miss summers at the pool and winters with hot chocolate...still by the pool. :)

Now. On to irrigation. New reading nooks. Grass. Sprinklers. A bathtub. (!) More friends to add to the old ones. A better dryer. More bookshelves. And a lifetime of new memories.

Thanks 14852. It's been good.

Real good.

(My niece and Megan making lunch for all of the kids when I was in the hospital last week.
Thank you sweet niece for all of your help!!!!)

Empty.

2011-05-18T18:00:00.007-07:00

My home is almost empty.

It's so bare.

So blank.

So different.

Lots of memories between these four walls.

Technically, there are more than four walls, but you know what I mean.

Oh no...

I feel a memoir coming on...

My Own Private Ocean.

2011-05-17T21:00:00.002-07:00

Today was irrigation day. I wasn't quite sure what to expect, as I (a.) haven't ever had a yard before and (b.) haven't ever experienced irrigation. I liked the sound of it though. Kind of felt old fashioned. Or, maybe, small town-ish. Or, at least, farm-ish. Made me feel like I'd be living a slower life, out there in my rain boots (which I don't own, by the way) and my straw hat (which I also don't own), with my overalls (don't own those either) rolled up over my knees, handling all of that irrigation.

I don't know. But I've been pretty excited to see how it all works and to see what my kids thought.

It's this big mystery, you know, when you'll get your water. It changes each time. You never know until just before, when they send you a self-destructing email. And you're afraid to open it, because this might just be the week you get the 2:27-4:27 A.M time slot. But you're praying for the 5-7 P.M. slot. I think those must go to the rich folk. Not sure, but just a guess. Cuz us regular folk keep getting the random, seriously inconvenient slots.

Today wasn't too bad. Smack in the middle of the day. 1:25-3:25. Not sure what people with day jobs do. Do they call in sick on irrigation day? Do they give up their annual vacation to water their yards? Do they switch to part-time? Do they hire body doubles to do it for them?

But that's not my main concern. The biggest stress for me is the pressure to turn it on exactly, on the starting second, of your time slot. And you better be sitting there, ready to twist it off, exactly two hours later. Because if you're late, you screw up the rest of the neighborhood. Soon the whole town will be whispering behind your back, throwing eggs at your front door and tee-peeing all of your precious trees. Your kids won't have friends. And the school bus won't stop. And your garbage keeps mysteriously getting knocked over on collection day. All because you twisted off at 3:26 instead of 3:25!

Stress!

Okay. I'm not sure what really happens, but I'm deathly afraid of finding out. My heart was racing today as traffic was heavier than I expected. I looked at my watch as I was four miles away. Only ten minutes left. I smashed down the gas pedal and told the kids to hold on. I whipped around corners and slid into home base at 3:20. My heart pumping, I burst out of the car and tore through the yard. The water splashed wildly as I panicked. It was 3:23. I just might make it. Except. Where's the pump? The water's too deep! It's brown! I can't see! Where is it? What time is it? Where is it? WHERE IS THE PUMP?

I bent over and felt around. And around. And around. And around.

Finally. I found the pump. 3:24. I raced to the other side of the yard. One left. I twisted it down. The whirlpool stopped. The yard was quiet. Phew. The secret irrigation SWAT team wasn't going to whisk me off after all.

(Not today, at least.)

Just as I began to catch my breath, my hand still dripping from shutting down the pump, I see my neighbor through the chain link, bending down to turn his pump on. I'd made it. Just in time. Just bought myself another two weeks on the "right side" of the neighborhood hit list.

3:25. It was over. Now I could relax. The water was cool. It swirled around my legs. The mud oozed between my toes. I looked down to see a few rogue grapefruits floating downstream. It all just made me smile. All of it. The blue sky. The whispy clouds. The green leaves. The slight breeze. The white tree trunks. I felt so calm. And happy. And excited about a yard full of dirty water.

I called to the kids to join me. Paige, of course, was first. She ran straight to the water's edge, threw up her arms, and giggled. Mitchell was next. Then, Jane.

Megan avoided the entire hoopla and went straight upstairs to read a book.

I know she'll come around.

So we're good for another two weeks. And then we'll get an email. And we'll set the alarm for 2:27 A.M. And figure out how to get enough cash to bribe the schedulers.

I kind of liked being out there.

I think I could get used to this.

Maybe I should buy that straw hat.

A Look Back.

2011-05-17T09:57:00.006-07:00

Dear H,

Just found this picture when I was packing up the den.

I was studying for that LNG 6000 class.
(Why do I look so happy?)

Remember the good old days?

This picture was probably taken at 2:30 a.m.

That's the only quiet time we had to study.
(And watch The Practice.)

Two kids.

School.

Work.

No moola.

A kitchen the size of a closet.

Bus rides.

Kimchi in the air vents.

Maintenance men and their walky-talkies.

Hobo fliers.

The Gutkes.

Free carpet scraps from neighbors that felt like we'd won the lottery.

No.Want.Newspaper.

Pre-Sting spaghetti and meatballs.

Trick-or-treating at the law school.
(And the guy in the cat suit.)

Jennifer and her yellow umbrella.

Hershey kisses.

Dead tulips.

Napster.

Listening to our neighbors on the baby monitor.

Professor Bell.

Denim couches.

Felicity.

Rose petals.

Those were good times, weren't they?

It's been a good ride, you and me.

I love you.

H.A.O.

Always.

W

Intertwined.

2011-05-15T22:00:00.001-07:00

Last night I told Megan to stick-it-to-the-man. It was in the middle of a breakdown, on her part, over one blasted measure in her violin piece. She was frustrated. And impatient. And ready to cave. So I told her to give it her all. Just one more time. To just stick-it-to-the-man and show that measure what she's got.

"Stick-it-to-the-man!" I cried. And she nearly collapsed with laughter. She could barely breathe. Her face reddened. And she was laughing her face off.

She was still laughing about it today.

To me, this is the (unexpected) thrill of motherhood. The intensity of love. The ever tangible bond. The losses. The triumphs. The rebirths. The constant flow of change. Yet, familiarity. The continuous element of surprise. And the ability to love more. And more. And more. And more. And more.

I've been through a lot with Megan. From the moment she started to grow in my belly, I felt close to her. Connected. Like I'd already known her from before, from somewhere else, or from long ago. Although her birth felt new, it also felt like our hearts were reuniting.

I look at her and my heart aches. I love her so much. So deep. And I can see, just by looking at her, that she feels the same. That connection between us is still there, so real, so tangible, so strong. She laughs differently at my jokes than at anything else. She listens, intensely, to the stories I tell. She wants to sit by me, read with me, cook with me, and just be with me.

And I get it. Because I feel the same.

This is the discovery I wasn't expecting upon entering motherhood. I knew I would love my child. At least, I hoped I would love my child. But this love, this powerful force that beats through my blood when I look into my daughter's eyes, is beyond any expectation.

It's not always easy for the two of us. We've had more than our fair share of ups and downs in just ten, short, years. Some days are so perfect I feel as though I'm flying, that my heart is bursting through my chest. Other days are hard, so long, so heart-breaking that I feel I can't carry on.

Yet. Somehow. I do. I carry on. And so does she. And that love pounds harder on my heart than it did the day before. And mostly, I'm overcome. By her beauty. By her softness. By her capabilities. By her intensity. By her talents. By her intelligence. By her heart. I'm overcome with my newly-acquired mother heart, by its unending depths, by its ability to open again. Bigger. And wider. And deeper. On good days. And on bad. And that when a storm passes, and the calm has settled in, I'm surprised, again, at the way I feel. Like it's all brand new. Like I'm seeing her again for the first time, and I'm in utter, and complete, awe.

My biggest fear in life is failure as a mother. And I used to think that struggles equaled failure. But I'm starting to understand. Because when I look into the blue eyes of my eldest child, I see, or rather, I feel, something real. Something, imperfect. Something, beautiful. And I realize that our hardships have intertwined us in a way perfection could not.

I don't want perfection. From her. Or, from me. All I really want is to continue on, forever, with her at my side, laughing. Or crying. It doesn't really matter.

What matters is that we keep going. Keep trying. Keep laughing. Keep sharing. And keep opening our hearts. Day. After day. After day.

She really is beautiful, isn't she?

Do I Still Have A Blog?

2011-05-13T09:50:00.004-07:00

Blog?

What blog?

Oh, this blog.

Right...

Life is truly upside down right now. I can hardly catch my breath, let alone keep up the blog. Moving day is fast approaching and still, there is so much to be done. My sister just informed me this morning that I'm on the brink of death.

I'm not actually on the brink of death. But life has definitely been crazy. Just non-stop. Loads of company this past weekend for Paige's baptism. At one point there were fourteen kids asleep upstairs, at one time. Fourteen.

FOURTEEN.

Is that against fire code?

Speaking of firemen, Monday morning I fainted in my own kitchen and woke up to find a bunch of firemen staring at me. Needless to say, I was out of it, could barely open my eyes. But as they wheeled me out the front door toward the ambulance, I turned my head to see my nieces and nephew, and Megan and Paige, all crying together on the couch. Jane just sat there waving goodbye.

Then I started to cry.

So Monday was the E.R.

Tuesday was in bed.

Wednesday was a little bit better.

Yesterday I felt pretty good.

And today I'm back to normal, just in time for another weekend filled with packing and one last visit from family.

That's Mitchell and Jane up there, watching, wide-eyed, as a huge truck unloaded blocks for our new fence yesterday. Those two are true friends. They spent the morning unpacking all of the toys, dress-ups and books that have been sitting in an empty room for weeks. Ah, to be re-united with long-lost toys, Cinderella dresses and fuzzy, purple hats. Feels good.

Over and out.

G.

In A Nutshell.

2011-05-05T20:30:00.001-07:00

Is it just me, or are newly crowned eight-year-olds really cute?

Having a big shin-dig for this little gal this weekend. Lots of family coming to town to celebrate with us. And seeing that we're in full blown summer around here, I decided on ice cream.

Lots of it.

Spent the better half of my day (still going, actually) making several batches of homemade ice cream. Blackberry. Rocky Road. Banana with dark chocolate. And, mint chip. It wasn't the worst way to spend an afternoon. I kind of loved it. The kids couldn't wait to help.

Let me rephrase that: the kids couldn't wait to let me do the work and just help out with the snitching.

Worked for me.

The school called me today. Megan had a headache and was seeing spots. Translation: she was fine. I picked her up. Gave her some food. A drink of water. And a free day. But by 7:30 tonight, she wasn't so fine. In tears, actually. Monday afternoon, true to her heart's only desire, she got her ears pierced. (Second time in two years.) But just like last time, they started to hurt. And swell. And ooze. Poor girl just can't handle earrings. Her ears are just too fussy.

Weird. Cuz she really isn't.

(FG? Are you laughing?)

Paige offered Megan her favorite stuffed animal, Pinky, for comfort. She walked into the bathroom where Megan stood, terrified, as I pulled out the first stud. "Megan," she asked, in a quiet, and tender, voice. "Do you want to hold Pinky while Mom takes them out?"

Aren't sisters the best?

You know what else was the best? My dinner. (Insert moan.) Grilled balsamic chicken with blue cheese, broiled new potatoes and lightly dressed greens. I actually moaned in front of my kids. More than once. "This is so good!" I cried, my eyes rolled back into my head. Jane looked at me, confused. "This is so not good!" she snapped back.

I even wore my college alum t-shirt today. I don't know what it is about t-shirts (I'm talking the retro kind with the elbow-length sleeves...not the now-a-day kind with capped sleeves that are fourteen sizes too small for anyone who's had four kids) but they always make for great days. I think they make me feel relaxed. And hidden. (No muffin top in this bright red beauty!) Plus I usually wear tennis-shoes when I wear ugly t-shirts, just to complete the look. And that combo makes me feel like I'm spending my day outside, riding a bike across the Golden Gate Bridge under a perfect blue sky with the sun on my back, the wind on my face, cool and kind.

I don't really wear tennis shoes that often. Can you tell?

My huz just called me from the road. He sounded happy. And relaxed. I can't wait for him to get home.

Especially because he actually likes me in this old shirt.

True.Love.

And that's my day in a nutshell. Ice cream. Swollen ear lobes. Blue cheese moans. T-shirt love. And butterflies in my stomach.

Was a good day.

Mother's Day Tea.

2011-05-04T21:18:00.004-07:00

I learned several things today. I learned that Megan thinks I'm over 200 years old. I learned that Jane's best friend is her older cousin, Anna. I learned that Paige's favorite food in the world might just be chocolate cupcakes with whip cream on top. And I learned, yet again, that I really, really, really love to be with my girls.

Today we had our Mother/Daughter tea party, in honor of Mother's Day. I gave the girls the invitations just before bed last night, and this morning, Jane stomped downstairs, still clutching her invite in her tired fist.

We were all very excited.

I think my favorite part of the party was during "How Well Do You Know Your Mom/Sister." There must have been a million questions in that jar, but we never grew tired of guessing what makes Jane laugh (everything!) or what time Megan would sleep till if she could (11:30am!) or what makes Paige the happiest (Mommy tickling her!) or what I would do if I had an entire day to myself (Megan guessed well: go to the beach with my kids, play with them in the sand, then clear a spot to have a picnic on the beach!).

One question read: What year was Mom born? Hmmm. Tough one. All three girls fell silent. Megan looked up, eyes perplexed, and (genuinely) asked, "Was it in the 1800's?"

I nearly spit out my lemonade.

Another read: What do you admire about Megan? We all took turns. I admire how she works hard at everything she does. Paige admires how she doesn't like to be fancy (?). And let's just skip over Jane's answer so we can get right to Megan's. I asked her, "Megan, what do you admire about yourself?" She smiled, sheepishly, and replied, "I'm gonna have to say...everything!"

Next year's theme: Humility.

Another favorite: Would Jane rather play Polly Pockets or Star Wars? Jane jumped to reply before anyone else. Serious as ever, she pouted. "I'd rather play princesses...alone."

Having daughters is special. That's sort of a kitschy word, I know. But, you know what? It's true. They are special. And beautiful. And strong. And so, so smart.

I love 'em. With all of my 200 year old heart.

Random Thoughts On Packing, Dishonesty and Baldness.

2011-05-02T10:06:00.006-07:00

Packing is so much better than unpacking, isn't it? That's what I've been up to the past week. Packing up the old house. Which also means loads of spring cleaning and billions of trips to Goodwill. (And the trash.)

I love Goodwill.

Matt hates it.

Ying. And Yang.

Works for us. (Mostly because he works during the day which means I Goodwill during the day. He never knows. He's just content to go to sleep at night thinking the attic is still chuck full of his high school paraphernalia while I smile, quietly, from my side of the bed. The truth isn't meant for everyone, you know?)

Came across this old photo this morning as I was shuffling through boxes of old files. Look at my Megan. Can you believe that's her? Woah! She's ten now! Time flies by, doesn't it?

Really looking forward to the next stage. Feels like a fresh start.

I love fresh starts.

And speaking of fresh starts...Mitchell is now bald thanks to the discovery of one louse. (Don't know what a louse is? Consider yourself LUCKY.) He was nervous at first. "I saw someone once who was bald, and I didn't like how it looked." But now he's just happy he matches his friend Samuel.

5 year old boys. They're so easy to please.

Happy Monday!

Easter.

2011-04-24T16:20:00.005-07:00

Monkey Bars, Raspberry Pies and Paper Clocks.

2011-04-23T10:59:00.009-07:00

Her laugh might just be my favorite sound on earth. It gets me. Every time. I can't help but join in. It comes straight from her gut and tickles us all.

I love it.

Yesterday Paige turned 8. Eight. Eight? Wow. She's growing up fast. She's funny. And kind. And thoughtful. And polite. Yet, she says what she thinks. And she's usually right. She tries really hard to do the right thing. And being around her makes you feel like a child all over again, the way she can play with anyone, anything, or even all alone, and have the time of her life. Her imagination is beyond this world. Her heart is bigger than her body. Her eyes are transfixing. And sometimes she's so beautiful it makes your heart stop. She's innocent. And pure. And creative. And she has this quiet goodness about her. She just goes along, doing the right thing, not needing attention or recognition, but just doing it for herself.

I love that about her.

All she wanted yesterday, besides raspberry pie, was to play at the park. (More specifically, swing on the monkey bars.) After she was monkey-ed out, she just wanted to come home and play. Play school with the little kids. She spent an hour making paper clocks, complete with moving hands, for each "student" in her class. They loved it. She loved it.

I'm telling you, she's quite the catch when it comes to big sisters.

Happy Birthday Monkey. I love you. I love your smile. And your laugh. And your skinny legs that swing back and forth as you dangle, endlessly, on those beloved monkey bars. I love to read with you. And talk with you. And listen to you sing your heart out in the shower. (You didn't think anyone could hear you!) I so admire your confidence in who you are and what you need. I love (and am so thankful for!) your gift of expression. And your ability to make everyone around you feel just a little bit better. I love dancing with you on the rug. And watching Ramona and Beezus with you. And feeling the joy of youth every time I watch you play. I love noticing the feeling of contentment that is nestled in your heart. I love how you can't wait to hug and kiss Jane when you get home from school. And I love how you love grapefruit. And raspberry pie. And pork burritos. And Finnish bread.

And I love that you make this family complete.

So.

Happy Birthday.

And chin up.

Your hair will be down to your waist before you know it...

Easter Thursday.

2011-04-21T16:37:00.012-07:00