Endings and Beginnings

This corner of the internet has been my home for the last five years. It's been a good five years here at chambanachik. But because of a foolish mistake on my part, every single picture from those years, from those 940 posts that I've written?

Poof. Gone.

There were many tears, including a few as I typed this. There was some frustration with myself. And I briefly wondered if it was a sign that I should quit blogging altogether. But as I mentioned on a new post, I'm not a photographer. I'm a writer.

This blog has been my home. It's been a good one. And it's with both sadness for what I'm leaving, and excitement for what's ahead, that I want everyone to know that this will be my last post at this space.

If you want to keep reading- and goodness, I would love it if you did- then head over to my new blog, The Midwest Press. It's the same me. Same themes, same heart. Just a new space- a big, empty room ready to be filled with words. There is a new post there, waiting for you.

I dearly hope to see you there.

For those of you who'd like my new links:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/themidwestpressblog

Instagram: http://instagram.com/themidwestpress
Bloglovin': http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/12718857

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/themidwestpress/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/themidwestpress

Email: themidwestpress(at)gmail(dot)com -or- chambanachik(at)gmail(dot)com

New blog: http://themidwestpress.blogspot.com/

The Middle

 "It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end." 

— Ernest Hemingway

School starts soon. In just a few weeks, I will be back in college for what seems like the hundredth time. Three classes this semester, three the next, and I'll earn my associate- if, and it is a very big if- I can pass all my classes, which are mostly math. Still, it's so close that I'm beginning to get excited. I've put a lot of time and energy into chasing it, and now, the end is almost in sight.

And I think that's what I like about it. The beginning, the (long) middle, and the end. Wrapped up with a bow. Or a cap and gown. A handshake, a diploma, and a closed door on the work it took to get there.

**

Millie has been a challenge for me lately. I was tempted to write "a handful", but that is what you say in smalltalk to strangers, not friends. It's not the excess energy of a three year old that makes me laugh and shake my head at the end of the day. It's work. It's tears. It's frustration. It's things that neither of us understand. And it is so hard.

I run out of patience just about every day. And after another early bedtime, I tear up and ask myself why. Why am I not getting the hang of this mother thing yet, after nearly four years of practice? Why is everything I try failing? Why can't I figure this out? Why can't I do better?

And I'm beginning to realize that there will never be a leap across a finish line into the arms of cheering onlookers. This isn't a college degree with a notebook closed and a walk across the stage. It's not a recipe, adjusting spices by a half teaspoon until that first bite tastes perfect. Motherhood doesn't have an ending point. It's a day by day by sometimes grueling day. Some of those days will be heaven sent. Some of them will be a test of how many times I can take a breath and count to ten before I speak.

Maybe labor fooled me into thinking that the hard work would come, but it would be followed by an immediate reward. Instead, it's a million, tiny bits of happiness, interspersed by a million more prayers for help and guidance. I would give anything to earn the badge of "finally got this down", but I know it's unattainable. Because even when they are fifty, I won't be done being their mama. And thank goodness.

I like when I can be done, when something is complete, nice and tidy, and I can dust off my hands. But this is the middle, and it always will be.

Maybe motherhood will be like a good book, one that we go back to re-read certain paragraphs because they are magic. One that we begin to mourn when we've made it to the next chapter, to the final pages. One that collects wet tears on the last few sentences, because we want it to go on and on.

 I've got a lifetime of practice ahead of me, but thankfully, I still have some great paragraphs to re-read.

The Cherry Pie

 "It is good to love many things, for therein lies the true strength, 

and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, 

and what is done in love is well done." 

— Vincent van Gogh

There was a list of things- some written, and some only remembered- of all I wished to accomplish before I turned 30. Lofty goals and hopeful suggestions of the girl- the woman, I suppose- I would become when the calendar reads September 18th and my twenties fade out like the porch light at dawn. I don't think I have reached any of them.

But today, I baked a pie.

I'm still six classes away from earning a degree.

But I measured, tapped, and swirled the flour, salt, and baking powder together, a cloud of white dust in a white bowl.

I'm hopeless when it comes to reading music well or learning aperture and shutter speeds, and I'm still very far from the trip to England I've dreamed of since I was little.

But I cut in the chilled shortening and dribbled the ice water into the crumbs, just how my mama advised.

Sky and I have such a long way to go before happiness.

But I looped the apron over my neck and tied it around my waist. I sprinkled the soft flour over the table, then smoothed it around the wooden rolling pin. I slowly poured the cherries tumbling into a patchwork crust, covered them with the other crust, and made a wavy zig-zag around the edge with my thumb and finger. I used a fork to make tiny holes like I was perforating a dark sky with shining, scattered stars. I closed the hot oven door, and opened it fifty minutes later to a yellowed, crumbly, sweet-smelling pie.

I can't cut hair, change a flat tire on the side of the road, start a lawnmower or weed eater without thinking bad words, pick out a pair of glasses I like longer than a week, fold fitted sheets, make an efficient grocery store trip without running through the aisles for something forgotten, or learn how to let go of past hurts.

But I can sew up tears in treasured stuffed animals, and pull the weight of a red wagon and two babies behind me. I can make imperfect birthday cakes, kiss sore knees, and exclaim bright praises of finger paint pictures. I can brush hair into curly pigtails, read library books twenty times over, and find pacifiers that were tossed behind cribs. I can buy a tablecloth and candles for his party and only cry a few tears, and I can assure her that it's her turn next and she'll have presents, too. I can weigh the dreams I have with what is truly important, and let a few of them flutter away, while holding on to the ones I value and will remember when I am eighty five and reliving these precious days.

And I can bake a pie.

Coffee With You : 2

"Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee affords." 

— Richard Brautigan

It's been a while since we've had coffee together- virtual coffee, that is. In fact, the last time I wrote a true update on our family was in November, and I've had coffee every morning since then. So I'm linking up with A Mama Collective, and summing up what has been happening since we've had our last heart to heart.

Sky-
He was gone for over two months this year- his AT (annual training), usually 2 weeks long, was 3, and then at an ASQ (additional skills qualifier) for another month. I'm starting to think the Army just randomly selects initials, throws a time table on them, and makes me explain to Millie why Daddy is gone for "289SOIHERTIJLKAERH". He got back a couple weeks ago, and as far as we know, he won't have to leave for an extended period of time until next year. So he's back to his civilian job now. They give him a generous amount of vacation time (both in the summer and from Thanksgiving to Christmas), and I am daydreaming of being able to take the kids somewhere close by, like St. Louis or Chicago, for a weekend vacation. However, we're saving up every penny we can for a new car next year (ours are 20 years old), so I'm not sure if we can afford to do that. Every sweet thought of taking Millie to a zoo is interrupted by another sweet thought of being able to buy a car without getting a loan. We'll have to see how the summer goes.

Millie-
She learned how to write her name. She can write 'Millie' completely by herself, and can write a few other words with spelling help. I bought a Razor scooter when they were on sale for about half price, and thought about giving it to her for her birthday, but that's at the end of summer and I wanted her to enjoy it this year. We decided that if she could write her full name, she could earn a surprise. She looked at the big box from Target sitting in our bedroom, got extremely excited, and worked so hard for several days until she could do it. It was the first time she's really worked towards something like that, and it was fun to see. She was wild with glee when she opened that box! She ended her first ballet class, and loved it, so we signed her up for a few weeks here and there during the summer. We can choose which weeks we attend, so we left room in the schedule for other fun summer things like garage sales and the farmer's market. She cannot wait to turn 4 in July, adores Mr. Rogers, and sings more than she talks.

Walter-
This little pudding is cruising on furniture, as well as walking with a push toy and with Millie. He babbles often- lots of 'b' sounds, mostly- and is on the verge of so many things. I will miss him being this small and baby-ish, because it is fading more and more every second. I haven't talked about this on the blog before, but he is in physical therapy for torticollis. He was diagnosed with both torticollis (a tilted neck) and plagiocephaly (flattened head) when he was four months old (although he's had the torticollis since birth). His head shape looks perfect now because we had to hold him or carry him constantly until he could sit on his own. He goes to therapy every other week to strengthen it, and is making some progress, but still has a way to go. If you look though all his photos on Instagram, you'd probably be able to tell how his head always tilts to the right. We'll have to see what his doctor says at his check up next month. And speaking of next month- he will be one! This year went even faster than Millie's first year.

Me-
I've been thinking about school again, nearly every day. Maybe it's because a significant portion of Champaign Urbana is renting cap and gown sets this month and moving away. I think I'm only 5 classes away from my associate now. The problems are 1- I have three math classes still to take, which is akin to climbing Mt. Everest for me, and 2- I'd have to take it in person instead of online (which I dread, because I adore online classes), so I'd have to have a babysitter three nights a week for at least four months. I'm going in to the college to speak to an advisor in a couple weeks, and will get it all figured out.

I've been reading a lot more. It started with a book I won. I didn't even love the book, but I got such a reading high. I haven't read a book through, other than school books, since Millie was little. After that, I bought a Kindle when it was on sale for $75 off. I thought I wouldn't enjoy it much, but I have had a ball with it already. Borrowing library books on the Kindle is easy, and more importantly, free, so that's how I have been reading so far. (It's terribly hard for me to pay $10 for an ebook when I could buy a used physical copy for 50 cents!) So in the last three months, I've read Notes from a Blue Bike by Tsh Oxenreider, Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand, and today, I just finished One Summer: America, 1927 by Bill Bryson. It feels so, so, so good to read again.

I'm also starting to think a lot about turning 30, which happens this September. I realize, while probably sounding incredibly cliche, that I'm starting to figure myself out a bit more. It's made me think about priorities, life goals, and where I'm at right now. I'll have to write a post about it.

None of this is monumental or even incredibly significant outside our little family, but a couple friends have asked me for details of these things, so here they are.

And now, it's time to close the laptop, and open a new library book while the kids are still napping!

Writing Processes

"The great gift writing can give you is to make you a person who pays attention, 

a person who is HERE, present & accounted for; taking notes"

-Anne Lamott via Twitter

Ceiling fans are spinning in every room of my house tonight. The windows were flung open early in the day, and now the evening air is fighting its way into my living room. I'm too warm, but I switched on my oven for some late night totchos (because most of what I eat lately consists of Mexican food, Italian food, tater tots, or a combination thereof). I have a cold, but I'm bored with just sitting on the couch. And I'm tired, as I usually am at the end of any given day, but I want to write.

A couple of weeks ago, Jessica Lynn, a kind friend in blogland, tagged me on her blog to write a post about the way I write. One of my favorite pastimes is reading about how other writers write, and what they have to say about it. Because of this, and because I think Jessica is a peach, I'm giving my answers to the questions below. I can't promise it will be very inspirational. After all, I devoted much of the first paragraph to totchos.

What am I working on?

This makes it sound like I should give a professional answer, but the truth is very obvious; I'm not a professional. I'm what every blog sidebar in America describes: a twenty-something girl who writes and likes coffee and loves fall. I don't have a writing project, although I dream about things like that. I used to write quite a bit of poetry, but that's rare now. Most of my writing is done nightly, in the tiny spaces of Millie and Walter's one line a day memory books. And some, as you know, is done here.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I'm not sure what genre I'm in anymore. I write about the military, but not enough to feel like a mil-blog. I adore my children, and loathe the term "mommy blogger". I suppose how I hope to differ is in the way I tell you a story that anyone could tell you. What I say is not particularly revolutionary, but I hope to say it in a way that makes you feel as if I wrote it just for you, as if we were talking over lattes, and use language that is descriptive enough to paint the steam rising from our cups.

Why do I write what I do?

The lack of transparency I often see in blogs makes me determined to be honest. There are a very few things that I may never be able to share, because those stories belong to other people, but as much as is possible, I want to show you around every corner of my heart. Whether it's a beautiful day at a park with our family, a night that I'm struggling with motherhood, a personal victory, or a heartache of marriage, I write those things because they are all a part of me. There are plenty of blogs for recipes, and crafts, and fashion ideas, and I think all of those are wonderful (and I read them!). But that was never the mission of this blog. Like I've said in the past, this place is like a diary. Years from now, I hope to marvel at how far I've come.

How does my writing process work?

Writing and editing should not be combined- I learned that after reading this. That only makes me feel slightly better about what I'm going to tell you.

My process is barely a process at all. Most of my blog posts are written on post-it notes and scrap paper, and in places like the car. Sometimes an idea hits me in the shower, and I repeat the concept or phrase in my mind until I've slipped into pajamas. Occasionally, they come to me at night, and I type hurried notes on my phone and email them to myself before I fall asleep. There are moments of mad dashes to the laptop, and there are other moments of tears that spill onto the keys without any thought at all. When I feel compelled to write- when the motivation in overwhelming and the words are unrelenting- then I write. When I have nothing to say, I am quiet. I begin most posts with a single sentence that won't leave my mind, and expand on it later.

This is the main problem with my dream of publishing a book someday. I would be atrocious at handling a deadline. Writing on a whim, on pure inspiration and feeling, is what suits me. Writing 20 pages a day would be a challenge. I am fairly sure I would be an editor's nightmare, and I can't say I would blame them.

So there you have it. My writing. I'll probably describe it a little more in one of my next posts (which is actually about reading).

I would love to know your answers to these questions!

Nightly Prayers

"Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when, 

whatever be the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees." 

— Victor Hugo

In this house, we pray.

We pray before meals- usually Millie asks a quick blessing, spoon in hand. We pray at bedtime, when we draw the covers to her chin and make sure she has her stuffed monkey. And we pray when someone we love is sick, or when Walter tumbles and bumps his head. Last week, Millie asked to pray after hearing the sirens outside from a train/tractor collision. It's done without ceremony, and with confidence.

At night, when soft white stars appear across a navy blue sky, I close my eyes and whisper a few words of my own before my breath slows into sleep. Usually, it's for Millie and Walter. Sometimes, it's for my marriage. And nearly always, it's for me to be a better mother tomorrow than the mother I was today.

Tonight, my prayers are sips of lemon ginger tea with extra honey. They are a sore head and achy bones. They are something metal pinging in the dryer. They are pages of the new book I've started and lost myself in. They are lips that are empty, with no more energy to carry words. They are pillows flattened against my spine. They are the reasons I go on when I cannot go a second more. They are the hope for better things ahead.

I am sure He created this heart. I know He hears the heartbeats.

Daily Bread

 

 "The best things are nearest: breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of God just before you. Then do not grasp at the stars, but do life's plain common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things of life." 

— Robert Louis Stevenson

The laundry is tumbling in the dryer- his just-washed uniform, her little pink nightgown with the teddy bear print, and baby pajamas that still have breakfast stains down the front. The scent of cooling cherry bars on the stovetop circles around our apartment, mingling with the chilly breeze blowing through the screen door. The little ones are asleep. He is at drill.

And about five hundred times in the moments between waking and closing my eyes again, I look around at this house. At the Legos covering every inch of our living room floor. At the dishes I need to wash by hand. At the grocery list that needs to be written, and the beds that need to be made, too. At the bits of cereal still stuck to his tiny cheek, or the hair clip that threatens to fall from her hair. So much to do every day. All of it undone.

Five hundred times, I look at it all, and want to forget about it for a little while. Five hundred sighs.

And five hundred times more, I whisper a 'thank you' underneath my breath, raising my hands in thankfulness that these tasks were meant for me.

The Silence Between

"The music is not in the notes,

but in the silence between." 

— Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Open Blogger. Watch the line blink at me. Type out of order notes on posts I'll get to later. Close Blogger.

This is all I've accomplished with blogging for two weeks now. It's an eternity in blog land (because heaven forbid we mess up virtual stats in some far away virtual world). Some readers probably wondered if I was still alive. Or if I was about to write the ominous post that announced I was quitting blogging forever.

I have things I want to say. But lately, I don't have the words to say them. There are stories in my heart that I want to tell you, and yet, I can't seem to gather them together and put them on this page. And to be truthful, I have been thinking a lot about giving blogging up for good. Some people- many people- blog long after the words have run dry, and I don't want to be that girl.

But I know myself this much: that I will need a moment to be still. To live life without any thought of blogging it later. To step back and choose my words intentionally and deliberately. To savor the way that they taste in my mouth, the way they feel in my hand, the way they appear in tiny black lines and curves. Give me this time- this night, or these few days, or another week.

And then, I will need to write again. Because to announce that I will not write is to announce that I will not breathe anymore. I started with pink journals, the kind with the tiny locks on them to hold in all the secrets, when I was nine years old. I wrote in them for years, and then began writing poetry. And I've blogged before it was ever socially acceptable to admit that I had a blog. Writing is a compulsion, not a hobby.

Until then, as Will Rogers said- "Never miss a good chance to shut up."

Come Soon

Soil, ready for tiny seedlings and sprouts, for tall green stocks and fluttering leaves.
Skies, hopeful for clouds to fill with rain and then to shatter, for rays of sun that gingerly reach for the ground.
Me, longing to be enveloped in the buzz of brand new. Ready to be surrounded in warmth and blue robin eggs tucked away in nests, fitted in high branches of a flowering tree.

Come soon, spring. Come soon.

Pink Carnations

"Be of good cheer. 

Do not think of today's failures, but of the success that may come tomorrow. 

You have set yourselves a difficult task, but you will succeed if you persevere; 

and you will find a joy in overcoming obstacles. 

Remember, no effort that we make to attain something beautiful is ever lost." 

— Helen Keller

On Thursday, I bought pink carnations.

As Millie and I passed the display of four dollar bouquets at the grocery store, I suddenly found myself reaching towards the rows of flowers. Normally, I would feel guilty spending money on something unnecessary, but on a Thursday morning before a snowstorm, they felt necessary. I pulled out two choices- creamy, white daisies with bright yellow centers, or the carnations, and Millie's heart was set on pink. She carried them carefully in her small hands. We found a blue Mason jar for the kitchen table, and a tiny vase for her room, and filled them both with the bright buds. I explained to Millie that it would take a few days for some of them to open. Then, I leaned back against the wall, feeling like I had accomplished something just by snipping the green stems and dipping them into the water.

I am trying to consciously, intentionally make an effort to be more focused on joy. Both giving it and receiving it. Creating it and resting in it. I want to make good things a priority. I want to celebrate beauty and minimize the negative.

Until recently, joy has always felt frivolous to me. I can't quite pinpoint why, to tell you the truth. But it's been a long winter. I've found myself wanting color, pining for good things. Green, growing things. Newness and life and hope, instead of snow covered and forgotten. I want to place more value on the condition of my heart and the well being of my spirit. I want to make the place I'm in a better one, for myself and for those who are a part of my life, even in small ways. It should matter. It does matter.

And I bought pink carnations.

And life was beautiful.

And this was supposed to be the end of the blog post. Neat and tidy, wrapped up and simple.

But then, I lost my temper with Millie. More than once and over things I didn't know how to fix. Walter was clingy, which is normally quite nice, but not convenient when I'm also battling a three year old. I dropped things. I hadn't been able to reach Sky when I had hoped. I didn't feel like cooking, and after I did, Millie had a wild melt down in the middle of her grilled cheese sandwich, even though it's her favorite.

I looked at the flowers as if they were to blame, frustrated thoughts running through my mind. "I don't even know why I bother. Flowers are stupid. This day is stupid. And it's a good thing I'm only thinking this stuff, because Millie would grab a hold of the word 'stupid' and I'd never hear an end to it and that's the last thing I need right now." I was reduced to blaming flowers. Blaming everything.

Beauty doesn't happen overnight. The blossoms happened on my table as soon as I gathered them into that glass, but before that, they were grown. And it happened over time.

I can't turn on a switch and make my life a dreamy, sunlit landscape with no problems. But I can buy a bouquet of pink carnations. I can pause before I speak. I can find joy in small things. I can mail a surprise to a friend. I can write when I need to and be silent when I don't. I can light a candle in the evening and use a favorite mug in the morning. I can make spaghetti for dinner and use extra Parmesan. I can take a breath after I stop two babies from crying and be thankful, even then, that they are healthy and they are (usually) sweet and they are mine.

That is beauty. That is joy. A process. A quest. Carnations bloom slowly, and so do most good things. The time, in fact, is part of what makes it so beautiful. That it took a while. That it wasn't a snap of the fingers. That it required many things, and patience most of all.

Flowers are never necessary. Except maybe they are. Especially pink carnations. So I will take the joy they give, and the joy I will work to create, and slowly, daily, it will grow.

Navigating

The realization came to me this morning, before the coffee had even finished brewing in the kitchen.

I always clean first.

He tossed his bags into one side of the car, with Walter peeking out of his seat from the other side. When we reached the airport, he waited in line at the ticket counter, the only one in line wearing camouflage and boots. He leaned down to tell Walter goodbye one more time, and then told me, and then he was gone- away for more courses and training. I drove home with a tightness in my chest, biting my lip and wondering exactly what I was feeling.

And then, I shut the door and started to clean. It's become a habit, a tradition that surfaces every time he leaves. He has been gone so many times now, there are traditions in his absence.

I wiped the counters with a dishcloth, and cleared off the kitchen table. I vacuumed and hand washed the dishes in the sink, leftover from the chicken I made us before he left. There was a pair of his sunglasses here, some of his papers there, and I scooped up everything and put it away. Twenty four hours ago, the house was covered in various things in various shades of Army green. Now, it's like it never was.

I'm trying to figure out how this works. What it looks like to be apart with the state lines drawn between us. What it feels like to have that physical distance while we steer through so many emotions. All the articles talk about the long nights pining away and the sweet homecomings with new dresses. They never mention the fight.

While he's away, navigating new places with his new compass, I am here. And there are no maps. The compass is a worn Bible. The shelter is this clean house, with his toothbrush gone and his towel tumbling in the dryer. I'm looking around at what's left.

The bed is made up on his side. I should be sleeping.

Currently.

 Currently...

Thinking about: Marriage. We've been going to counseling for a few weeks now, and it's gone past introductions and the "tell me about your childhood" type of stuff, and into the stuff that makes the five minute ride home feel like five hundred minutes. I need it to help. I need everything to be fixed. But every part of me dreads these appointments. Sky will be leaving for a couple months soon, and we won't be able to do phone or internet counseling sessions, so there will be a break from it. And really, I don't even know what I think about that. It's uncomfortable to keep writing about this, to tell you truthfully, but writing is what I do when things hurt. 

Also? Thinking about winter. I'm ready to fold it up and put it away. Time for weather chilly enough for a Snuggie, but warm enough that my breath doesn't freeze instantly and hit me in the face.

Reading: "I'm Taking a Trip on My Train". It's a book Millie got from the library, and she can't get enough of it. I don't read for myself these days, other than a few blogs. I miss it- miss it terribly some days- but I've decided if I only have limited time, I need to spend it catching up with the bloggers I care about and writing for myself, because those things do my heart a lot of good. Soon enough, Millie and Walter will grow, and there will be time for more than a poem here or there, or a frenzied spree through Goodreads quotes. That's what I should buy right now, come to think of it- poetry. Commence Amazon browsing.

Listening to: A train rumble by our house. And before that, a message on my phone from a friend cheering me up. And before that, Millie reading that danged book. But overall, I've been listening to some Regina Spektor on my own, and lots of oldies when the kids are up. I have noticed that keeping music on for part of the day greatly improves all of our moods, and oldies are good because A- they generally have decent lyrics, and B- most songs are familiar to me and easy to learn for Millie. Today, I sang while she drummed with Tinker Toys. Walter seemed to appreciate the atmosphere, as he usually does.

Watching: Downton Abbey. Other than that, I couldn't name five other shows on TV right now. It's not that I don't love getting lost in a good movie plot or TV script; it's that there are so few I've even liked lately, let alone loved. It has been ages since I've been to the theater and felt like it was worth paying $9 to see a show. I'm sure that sounds incredibly old, but I'm turning 30 in September. Youngsters and their shows these days.

Thankful for: Coffee. Friends who exchange emails, texts, and Vox messages with me. The easy days with Millie. Pizza and Mexican food. A quiet house at the end of the day. Jesus. The feeling that comes from a random act of kindness. Pineapple upside down cake that my dad baked. Finding new favorite recipes. Every single expression Walter makes. My mom letting me cry on the phone sometimes. Bud Light. Comfy-skinny-baggy sweatpants. The very rare days it isn't snowing/ -20 degrees here. The promise of spring. Starbucks, which saves many a day. A Snuggie, which is my new favorite thing (only about 5 or 10 years behind trends!). Getting photos taken this week, which is a combination of Walter's extremely late 6 month photos, catching up with Millie's photos, and maybe a couple of all of together. (We're getting them done with the same lady who did my maternity pictures and Walter's hospital pictures, and I can't say enough great things about her.)

{Linking up with A Mama Collective today. Do check out the blog- they've been so sweet in featuring some of my posts, and I've loved what the girls have written, as well as the posts from other blogs they often share.}

11 O'Clock Thoughts

Maybe I have nothing better to do.

Maybe it's the cold, trapping me indoors and trapping my thoughts, too.

Maybe I'm tired of listening to myself talk.

Maybe it's my age.

Maybe I'm hibernating.

Maybe I'm sad about things, happy about others, and neither of the two feels worthy of writing.

But I've been introspective lately.

I want to minimize my life: the material things, the distractions, the need to keep up. I want to stop reading 500 blog posts from strangers, and instead read 10 from good friends.  I want to be in the here and now of whatever my life consists of; and right now, it consists of mothering, and making macaroni and cheese, and running my hands over a beautiful mug at Target, and taking five minutes to write in this space when the streetlamps blink on and the house is silent.

I want to write the way Carl Sandburg wrote about the city up the road; I want to know something that deeply and love it that poetically. I want to feel something good that much. I want to connect to something like that. I want to be passionate in a way that bubbles up when someone presses me, instead of shouting what I love and what I hate to whoever will listen. I want to rid my sight of shallow things. I want to be focused. I want to hold on to some mystery.

I want to quit being angry. I want to break the anger and mistrust that the past four years has woven through me. I want to be at peace- with myself, with others, and with what the world hands me. I want to stop being jealous of people who are happy. I want to be happy for them. I want to love them how I would want to be loved. I want to be the kind of mother that these two can remember as joyful. I want to exhale more. I want to give myself room for quiet, and learn how to appreciate the chaos and noise in our home.

I want to stop settling for things I like, and go after what I love. I want to eat something with more calories if it tastes better. I want to buy the nicer pair of shoes. I want to hold on to old things that are better than new ones. I want to stop looking at people with beautiful lives and make my own life beautiful. I want to ignore what's in style. I want to stop imitating. I want to cultivate my own good taste and make my own way.

I want to learn something. I want to make a paper crane from the origami book I bought ten years ago and never took down from the bookshelf. I want to do something with my hands, something that I can show Walter and Millie someday, something that is useful and makes our house more beautiful or blesses someone else or tastes better or keeps some lost art from being completely lost altogether. I want to take pleasure in something small. I want to remember what my handwriting looks like. I want to use more stamps and envelopes.

I want to remember my roots. That my father was a fireman and my mother was a nurse. That I was named for my mother's twin brother. That I grew up between these squares of soybeans and corn, and that they look like a patchwork quilt from an airplane window. That I'm a nearly thirty year old woman without a degree in a town full of perpetual caps and gowns, and that it's okay. That I'm not like everyone else just because I like Starbucks and scarves and drinks in Mason jars. That I have a good heart, and need to demonstrate it more often. That I love how I feel when I write, even if it's not published in a small newspaper or glossy magazine. That I had 25 years of hopes and mistakes and fears and loves before Amelia and Walter.

I don't really know what I want.

But I think it's something like this.

Chicago Pizza and Other Important Things

Some bloggers feel that they should keep posting through those inevitable moments of writer's block or lack of inspiration. I'm of the opinion that I should put my pen down when the words aren't there. Because of this, and because life sometimes gets in the way of writing, it's been a whole week since my last post. 

But Fran recently tagged me in one of her posts, and had a few questions for me. It's a quiet afternoon of laundry tossing around in the dryer and sipping (mostly) decaf coffee. Walter is sleeping, and Millie is playing at her Grandpa's house. I think it is the perfect time to stretch my legs across the ottoman, slouch into the middle of the couch, and let the world know my pizza preference, among other things.

Fran's questions:
1. If you had to move to a city you've never been to, which one would you choose?
I'd like to live in Chicago for a while, and I adored Seattle, but I've been to both of them before, of course. Maybe London, or a little English village? I've never been to England, and it's safe to say that I could be quite content in any part of it.

2. What’s your favorite thing to order from Starbucks?
Child, I could order about 20 different things and be happy. I suppose I'm usually a mocha in the winter, frappuccino in the summer kind of girl. Mocha cookie crumble frappuccinos were the best until they got rid of them (and now I settle for java chip). I don't understand why Starbucks stops making drinks. (shakes fists) I also recently tried their almond croissant, and I am undecided on how I feel about it.

3. Pie or cake? And which kind?
I think it's mean to make someone choose, Fran. However, if it came down to it, I would pick cherry pie. Followed by chocolate cake without icing. Followed by more pie. And maybe more cake.

4. You’ve won an all-paid trip of your dreams, where would you go?
I'd professed my love of England so much. But if I could go somewhere after that, I would pick Italy. I love the sound of the language, the rich history, and the food. I judge most places based on food and accents.

5. Which book would you like to insert yourself in and why?
The first book that came to mind is To Kill a Mockingbird. I'm not sure I would really want to live in it, though. Maybe Sense and Sensibility. I've always felt a kinship with Elinor. That, and I like those dresses.

6. Name 1 historical figure or fictional character with whom you’d like to have dinner. Why him/her?
My immediate answer is usually Abraham Lincoln. I think he's fascinating. There are a lot of writers I love, but writers tend to be kind of moody and introverted as a group, and probably wouldn't make the best dinner guests. They also tend to drink a lot. Also, imagine the pressure- "Make sure you vacuum one more time; Charles Dickens will be here any minute!"

7. Which time-period would you like to live in?
Funny you should mention this. Michelle just wrote a post describing how she starting panicking about how she would deal with a situation in a book, and realized it's something that will never happen in real life. I do the same thing with going back in time. I read something by Charlotte Bronte, for example, and have very real worries about how I can live without medicine, my straightening iron, hot showers, MY COFFEE MAKER. I get a little worked up just thinking about it.

8. Chicago Style pizza or New York style pizza? You will be judged based on this answer.
I know I am safe from judgement on this because Fran (rightfully) likes Chicago pizza. I do not like Chicago style pizza because I'm from Illinois; I like it because it is correct. New York "pizza" is a floppy grease circle that you have to fold up to eat before tasting it. Chicago pizza is the way God intended pizza to be. It's a meal. It's an experience. And it's a waste of my time to eat something thinner than a phone book. (Related note: why do they still make phone books?)

9. What’s your favorite recipe?
Oh dear. That's a tough one. I most enjoy eating Italian food, which doesn't require very complicated recipes. My mom and I made a orangey/citrusy/liquor cake while I was visiting her at Christmas a few years ago, so I will say that.

10. If you could rid the world of one thing, what would it be?
There are so many things I begin to write, but every one of them made me stop. Because as trite as it sounds, even the bad things have a purpose, and there can be so much good come from them. There are things I wish people didn't struggle with or have to go through, but I think I'm not wise enough to choose something like that.

11. If you had to dye your hair a crazy, non-conventional color, what color would you choose?
My natural one. And only if I had to. It's crazy (i.e., horrid) enough.

And now, I'm craving pizza. Chicago style, of course.

We're Here

"The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer."

― Pablo Neruda

Today, Sky and I have been married for four years. Four years from that snowy, January day when we made so many promises, and went out for Italian food that night to celebrate. Four years of everyday. Four years of striving. Four years of memories, both beautiful and broken.

I am the kind of girl who craves fanfare on milestone days. Whether it's a holiday, birthday, or anniversary, I want the decorations or the food or whatever it is that comes along with the celebration. But Sky is working a lot of overtime this week and next; I mentioned that his civilian job was basically that of a drill sergeant, and the new recruits just started, so he's only been home to sleep a few hours before he goes back for another long day.

And then, of course, there is where we've been lately. A lonely, confused place. I asked him a few nights ago if we'd ever had a happy anniversary. "No," he said quietly.

A dear friend is going through marriage problems. And she talked about celebrating her anniversary in a quiet way. A way that hopes more than expects. A way that doesn't make unnecessary demands on the day, but simply says, "We've arrived at this day. We're here." In some way, maybe that's more meaningful than celebrating four years of easy happiness. It took so much of my heart- no, all of it- to make it this far. It took all my strength to be here.

Today, Sky and I will be apart. There won't be a romantic candlelit dinner, bouquet of roses, or a sentimental Hallmark card. But there will be the beginning of another year of marriage. Another year of being a family. That's still significant.

I hope our life together gets sweeter. I hope our days get happier. I hope we remember how our hands fit together again, and how it felt on that first day of promises.

For now, we're here. And for today, that's enough.

To Sum It Up

Here's the thing.

I wasn't going to write another post this year. I felt that all my 2013 words had been used already, and I've come to realize I'm not great with New Year's. I wish I could pick one word or mantra for next year's theme, or make a long list of goals, or join a gym and eat more lettuce. But I feel like change is too uncomfortable to me for it to happen suddenly. I want things to be different- Lord knows, I do- but I want them to come in their own time. Organically. If any of that makes sense. It probably doesn't, because I'm sick and generally lacking sleep.

But Jenn (aka "Korea Jenn") tagged me on her post. And I would do just about anything for for Korea Jenn, because that lady is one of only two or three bloggers that can make me shoot tea through my nose from laughing so hard.

And then, I was going to write it, but not for a few more days. Until I realized tomorrow is the last day of this year.

So there you have it. My apologies on a last minute, hastily and reluctantly written post. Blame Jenn.

What were your highlights of 2013?

You probably were not aware of this, but on June 29 of this year, there was a little boy born. His name is Walter, and I like him. He's like the son I never had. But I did. I remember that part quite vividly.

Millie turned three, and we learned the terrible twos were actually so mild, peaceful, and sweet, and it'd be super to get those back. However, she's doing much better now, and I love her to bits. Her vocabulary continues to astound everyone she meets.

Sky was gone for 4 1/2 months for various Army things (in addition to drill days). He got a new MOS and a new civilian job.

I completed my second full time semester of school, and stopped yet again when Walter was born. I miss it, but I don't regret it. I know it'll always be there waiting for me.

I still didn't finish the same dang book I've been reading for over one year now. Motherhood has changed me in ways like selecting a swimsuit that won't startle everyone and longing to go to bed at 8pm, but for some reason, I didn't expect reading time to dwindle so much. I have to remind myself that I'll get it back in a few years, and that it's just as sweet to read Go, Dog. Go! for the 729th time.

• We moved a block down the street. I was reminding how much I hate unpacking the kitchen.
• Walter's surgery. Scariest day of my life.
• It was time to say goodbye to Facebook, and now that I'm gone, it seems even worse than MySpace because at least you had a song to explain your emotions. Facebook people just use too many exclamation points. And misspelled words.
• I spent almost exactly half of this year pregnant, taking care of Millie on my own (while Sky was gone), and going to school full time, and then the next half with a newborn and a toddler. Both were hard in different ways.
• We never grilled out this year and I mourned the lack of burnt hot dogs.

Did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
This was my post last year. I think this year will be the same. No resolutions. Just hope.

Did anyone close to you give birth?
It seems like everyone I know had a baby this year, especially my blog friends. I'd have to say that I was most excited about Walter's.

Did anyone close to you die?
No, thank goodness.

What countries did you visit?
Way to rub it in! No traveling this year. But England, I will see you someday.

What would you like to have in 2014 that you didn't have in 2013?
A rock solid marriage.

What dates from 2013 will be etched upon your memory, and why? 
Walter's birth, first and foremost. I remember every second from that day, and the day before. Other memories aren't contained to one day, but I have some lovely ones. I'm glad my mom was able to visit when he was born. I'm glad for every kiss Millie gave him. I'm glad for all the afternoons of whatever spent out with my dad. I'm glad for the friends I've gotten closer to this year.

What was your biggest achievement of this year?
I know it's getting tiring to read, "having a baby". But it ain't easy, let me tell you. So that. Because I did it, and because I got to meet him.

What was your biggest failure?
Hmm. There were probably too many to count. Probably losing my patience with Millie. Now that we've settled into a family of four, it's been much better for all of us, I think.

What's the best thing you ate?
Oh gosh. Everything my mom cooked while she was here. And after that, when my dad took me out for steak at Texas Roadhouse, because it was amazing and I don't even like steak very much. And Nutella?

What's the best thing you bought?
The first thing that came to mind was a new Kitchenaid spatula to replace a dying plastic dollar store one. And that's pretty sad, but I'm sticking with it.

What did you get really, really, really excited about? 
The spatula, apparently. Because I've already said too much about a certain baby, I'll just say the little things. 

What do you wish you'd done more of?
Laughed.

Compared to this time last year, are you: a) richer or poorer? b) happier or sadder? c) thinner or fatter?
a- I'll steal Jenn's answer and say richer in the ways that matter. 
b- yes.
c- I adore this question because I was pregnant last year, so thinner, darling!

Did you fall in love in 2013?
With a 8 lb 10 oz little nugget.

What was your favorite TV program?
Recently, it's been Modern Family, but this year goes to Arrested Development.

How did you spend Christmas?
Quietly. I made brunch.

What did you do on your birthday and how old were you?
I turned 29. Craziness. I ate leftover Chinese food and bought a pair of cute boots at a consignment shop.

How would you describe your personal fashion concept of 2013?
"Do these yoga pants come in multiple colors?"

What kept you sane?
Millie and Walter, hands down. And God, ultimately. There were a few times where I felt like that's all I had, and a few other times where I felt like that's all I needed.

Tell me a valuable life lesson you learned in 2013.
Don't lean on earthly things. Any part of it can disappear. Trust in something bigger than all those. 

********

I'm tagging a few lovely ladies, but anyone who wants to join in (last minute!) is welcome. I'd love to read more answer from you all!

- Kaylee from Max & Kaylee

- Ash from love{dot}lulu

- Fran from Free Borboleta

- Michelle from Mish Mash

- Erinn from It's the Journey

- Moira from McDancing Through Life

To sum it up: 2013, you've had some of the best and worst moments of my life.
2014, be kind.