claire

A New Reason To Celebrate

The kid that made me a mom for the first time.

One year ago today, I was pregnant with Avery. Only twelve weeks, and already miserable enough to know I had to be carrying another girl. I didn’t blog about that pregnancy, I didn’t put anything in Facebook updates, and I didn’t post any pictures. Generally speaking, I lived every single day of those 39 weeks counting down the seconds until my next nap.

One year ago today.

I know the date because it was Eliott’s 7th birthday. Standard Dadderday, John was taking all the kids to the gym for the morning. He bought tickets to take Eliott and Carter to their first ever movie in a theater (Frozen) which would allow me to take a nap with Isaiah that afternoon. Then we were all going out to eat for Eliott’s birthday dinner. Her choice: Golden Corral (damn you, Saturday morning cartoons and your chocolate fountain commercials).

I got up and dressed early (unusual for a Saturday) because I needed to go to Walmart and wanted to beat the Hanes Mall Boulevard silliness. I don’t actually remember what I needed to go to Walmart for, because I never made it inside. The minute I stepped out of the car at ten o’clock that morning, I felt a rush, and looked down to see a puddle of blood at my feet.

A puddle.

For the next several minutes I existed in clear jello. My head pounding, my eyes hyper-focused, my sweat icy, my thoughts blasts from a panic-gun with a silencer. No. No. NO. This isn’t happening. I need John. I need to find something to protect the seats. My favorite jeans! This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening. Omigod-omigod-omigod-omigod.

And then, I haven’t been this sick for the last three months to have this end now. NOT OKAY GOD. And, Alright, I’m sorry, I won’t even be angry when she turns out to be a girl, as long as she’s okay.

I was driving John’s car, thankful for the first time that he never quite got around to taking those bags to Goodwill. I stacked some old t-shirts to sit on and called him from the car. I probably sped the entire way home, knowing I had a valid excuse and a free attorney, should it come to it.

When I got home I showered, changed my clothes, and laid down on the couch with my feet up. John made exactly three phone calls. First, to my parents. Though they are five hours away his rationale made sense: “No matter how this turns out, I want them here. You need your mom. Plus, she’s the only person who will be able to get that stain out of your pants.”

Second, to David and Tonya, family friends who have a son Eliott’s age. If anyone was going to salvage the birthday plans, it was David and Tonya, who officially made Eliott’s birthday so great, she later declared, “I wish David and Tonya were my parents.” Finally, to Josh and V, friends willing to cancel all Saturday plans and stay with Isaiah indefinitely if necessary.

I sent a frantic text message to about ten women, simply asking them to pray.

And then I mostly cried, off and on, for the next several hours. Of course I thought I was having a miscarriage. And while I know several women who have had this experience, some multiple times, and survived, it didn’t make it any easier knowing that everything would eventually be okay. I now have a renewed sense of empathy for anyone who has ever lost a child, even one who has not yet developed fingernails and lungs.

We are not a family who does a very good job keeping secrets from our kids, and I’ve never been very good at hiding my emotions from my face. So even in the midst of all this personal fear, John and I tried to explain to Eliott and Carter what might be happening.

Because we already know the end of the story, I feel the need to resort to a list:

Anyone who goes to the emergency room because they have a fever and are throwing up deserves to die.
The prioritizing of someone with a stomach bug over a pregnant woman actively bleeding in the emergency room is just another notch in the idiot belt of America’s healthcare system.
If you live in the Winston-Salem area and have an actual medical emergency, the still-new ER in Clemmons is fully staffed, mostly empty, sparkling clean, and absolutely worth the 20 minute drive it takes from the Forsyth ER. I advise you to make this decision earlier, rather than later.
The fetus was fine.
What I was experiencing is called a “subchorionic hemorrhage” and it is strangely common but rarely spoken about. For me, the bleeding tapered and eventually stopped completely after about five days. The rest of my pregnancy resumed a normal level of miserable.
No matter how many times I type the word hemorrhage, I have to use spell check.
A perfect birthday in the eyes of a seven-year-old now includes not just a movie in a theater, but a popcorn/candy/drink combo, playing video games after the show, winning not once, but twice, the stuffed animal claw-game, Chuck E. Cheese for dinner instead of Golden Corral, and your mom not having a miscarriage on your birthday.

It is impossible to explain the kind of comfort that exists in knowing more than a dozen people who are not directly related to me, are ready to envelope us in the kind of drop-what-you-are-doing-and-go support that is typically only reserved for family.

It is impossible to explain the kind of physical and emotional euphoria I felt when I heard that heartbeat.

It is further impossible to explain how even a near-death experience as a fetus did not exempt this child from future mother-style-momentary-death-wishes despite all promises made one year ago today. (Not now, with her continued periodic 3am wake-up calls, and probably not when she’s 16 and hormonal either.)

And so today I celebrate the alpha and the omega of my current motherhood chapter. Two girls who are vying for the “Most Difficult Baby” award, winning me the “What doesn’t Kill you Makes you Stronger” medal, and probably eventually earning the, “If I had to do it all over again I wouldn’t change a thing,” sentiment.

Happy Birthday, Eliott.

Happy You’re Still Alive Today, Avery.

Confessions

For the Love of Muffins

It feels weird to admit to being really good at something that I don’t love to do. Changing diapers, for example. Not that anyone is competing and not that there’d be an easy way to measure it, but I like to think that when it comes to changing diapers, I am excellent.

Or, laundry. It isn’t so much in the perfect cleanliness of each item after it is removed from a full wash/dry cycle, but I like to think that my laundry habit is nearly excellent. For almost an entire year now, I’ve managed to wash, dry, fold, and put away all of my children’s clothes every Monday, and to wash, dry, and replace all our sheets and towels every other Thursday. (Don’t ask me about my own laundry. There’s a reason I own, no lie, 37 pairs of underwear if you count thongs, which I only do for the sake of laundry avoidance).

I’m probably not an excellent cook. I don’t love to cook or bake, but I do love to eat, and even when I go through my post-baby seasons of not eating enough, ever, I still have five other mouths to feed, one to three times daily, so it seems like a reasonable goal to excel at this chore, even though it isn’t something I do because it brings me joy.

I cook dinner for my family at least five out of seven nights a week, and mostly from scratch, though I’m not above the Pillsbury Ready-Made Pie Crust or reheating leftovers two nights in a row.

So a couple years ago I got really into making pancakes in huge batches and serving them all week for breakfast. This year, I’ve been doing the same thing with muffins. I like to play around with the ratio of healthy to tasty, and I like to add weird things like spinach remnants sometimes to see if my kids notice.

But more than anything, I like to have a big huge batch of these babies sitting in my fridge because for some reason, when there’s muffins, things are good. Just knowing they’re there, ready to go. Compact. Portable. Filling. Mostly easy to clean up. Covering more than one food group. The after-school chaos of homework plus hunger plus baby plus hunger plus the mess and the boy and the narrowing time frame before dinner plus imminent and overwhelming hunger…

Muffins.

I realize I appear to be one of those moms who preps and packs lunches the night before, so that my kitchen resembles a Betty Crocker centerfold at 7:17am. The real truth is we don’t even use the auto-start timer on our ~~crack~~ coffee pot. Breakfast plus lunches plus morning snacks plus backpacks and coats and homework and did-you-feed-the-kitty plus she-called-me-stupid plus it-isn’t-summer-please-go-put-on-pants…

Muffins.

It isn’t rare to find me in my kitchen at 9:30 at night, baking.

“Honey,” John says, “Sit down. Take a break. Be done. The kids don’t need muffins.”

And he’s right. The kids don’t need muffins.

I need muffins.

Confessions

A Disjointed List of Noteworthy Thoughts

Whenever someone types “LOL” in a text, I actually imagine them in some quiet waiting room or in line at the grocery store giving a hearty belly laugh at some inane comment -hardly worthy of a belly laugh- I just made. Not ironically, some of the biggest proponents for typing LOL, I’m quite certain, have never actually laughed, out loud, in front of me, ever. Once, I sat down and actually attempted to laugh out loud at every single Facebook status that prompted me to do so with this friendly little three letter reminder. It was difficult and awkward at first, but once I got going, I admit, it became pretty amusing.
All this said, how, I ask you, has LOL survived so long? Instead, I propose creating Internet shorthand for any of the following and more realistic than laughing out loud responses: smirking; half-smile; slight snort with a half-smile; small-gasp in through my nose (extended sniff?); smile without teeth; smile with teeth.
Anyone? Just me?
Though I don’t watch a lot of daytime TV, I do try to catch a little of CBS This Morning a few days a week. Therefore, I see more than my share of local legal commercials. And as a good work-from-home partner of one such local attorney, I find myself interested in those who are big enough to afford a dozen television commercials in a two-hour period. Anyone seen the daytime commercial for Candice Apple and Associates (the self-titled Social Security Disability Experts)? Thought she was an attorney, as does everyone who sees the commercial, I imagine. Turns out she’s not. She formerly worked for the Social Security Administration and was once a paralegal, and now she sells herself as providing social security disability “representation.” No formal legal education, degree, nothing. Amazing.
Red Delicious Apples: best marketing ploy ever. I have a feeling the guy who first grew these so named them because he knew there was really no other way to make people eat them.
The old ladies who gather in the lobby of the YMCA are mostly having teenage-girl-conversations with each other, despite their age, wisdom, collective-life-experience. I can’t decide whether I’m encouraged or discouraged by this. Maybe a little bit of both.
At 3:08pm every day on the way to carline, I hear this commercial: “Support for NPR comes from Novo Nordisk, who notes that two-thirds of people living with diabetes live in cities. Novo Nordisk is committed to changing this statistic.” Every time I hear it I picture an a mass diabetic exodus from high rises in some place like New York City to a farm in Minnesota. I’m not sure what it is about the country life that is so healthy for diabetics, but thank God Novo Nordisk is committed to getting them there.
There is a woman on a local Facebook garage-sale page who has been trying, unsuccessfully, for the last two years, to re-sell something like seventeen pairs of used socks. She “bumps” the picture and the post about once every three weeks, meaning, she comments on it to move it to the top of the page. Does she know about an impending sock puppet craze making a huge comeback?

Confessions

New Year’s Resolution Idea #1

Ahh, New Year’s Resolutions.

Sorry. I like them. And while I know many people make the same resolutions year after year, and fail year after year, I’m one of those people who makes just one resolution and usually keeps it. Perhaps I’m setting my sights too low. Perhaps I know exactly what I can accomplish.

Whatever. My resolutions are not typically enormous habit changes. They are usually a one-and-done type of goal. Real examples:

2007: lose the weight I gained with first pregnancy (who knew that one wouldn’t be an issue for me?) and run another marathon. (check)
2010: reduce my grocery budget by 10% (did closer to 30%, overachiever check)
2011: find a dentist and make appointments for me and the girls (check)
2012: get pregnant in time to have another baby before January (check)

Certainly not momentous nor life-altering, but there is a certain level of accomplishment that I still feel whenever I make and keep that one resolution each year.

And then, some years, I skip it altogether. More than once I’ve written about my “word of the year” thing. I mean let’s be honest, New Year’s Resolutions and New-Borns (or pregnancy, for that matter) don’t exactly peacefully co-exist.

So though I’m not necessarily labeling it a resolution, my biggest focus this year is to live in some Beth-Moore-style freedom from the guilt that I might not actually be enjoying every single minute of these oh-so-short baby years, and to embrace my more comfortable perspective that it is okay to admit that things are difficult.

Things are difficult but not impossible. Things are sometimes miserable, but my life, overall, is not miserable. I’m happy with the way my clothes fit, but it is okay to admit that I’m not in love with my post-baby back pain, outty belly button, hair cut, and general lack of the physical and mental strength to actually work out at the gym. It is okay that I’ve given in and hired a housekeeper, and it is also okay that there is no maintenance of the floors and bathrooms in between her every 5th week cleaning. (Dark carpet. Blammo.)

So I’m spending the year accepting that what I once would have labeled “mediocre” is currently my excellent.

And if you see me in the grocery store looking like I have it somewhat together and ask, “Four kids?! How do you do it?” I plan to answer you the same way I answer everyone else: “Well, you know, prayer and alcohol, not necessarily in equal parts.”

And truthfully, that’s okay with me right now too.

Confessions, Parenting

Perfect Pancakes

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The Perfect Pancake Recipe

If last winter was the season for hearty muffins, I’ve declared this winter to be the season of the hearty pancake. As a mother of four (and one a baby who I am still breastfeeding), mornings are no time to mess around with low blood sugar–theirs or mine.

The thing I love about pancakes is that you can make a huge batch all at once, store them in the fridge or freezer, then pop them in the toaster for a quick and delicious breakfast. It helps that my husband, who grew up on a farm, still has a functioning sugar house back at home. My in-laws keep us stocked year round with homemade 100% pure Michigan maple syrup.

If you are like me though, a breakfast of Bisquick pancakes topped in liquid sugar (and maybe a strawberry or two) only leaves you feeling headachy, hungry, and foggy, less than two hours into your morning.

That is why I have been on the search to create the perfect pancake. One that is actually hearty, healthy, and still delicious.

There are hundreds of recipes available for hearty pancakes, but this is one I created by simply playing with different ingredients. I needed something heavier than an all-white flour base, included a little bit of protein, but still sweet enough to trick my children into loving it.

I think I have finally created the perfect pancake.

[su_box title=”Ingredients” style=”default” box_color=”#333333″ title_color=”#FFFFFF” radius=”3″ class=””]

1c. flour, white or whole wheat
1c. non-wheat flour (almond, oatmeal, amaranth)
1/2 – 1c. rolled oats
1t. baking powder
1t. baking soda
up to 1/2c. sugar (white or brown), optional
2c. milk (reg, soy, almond, etc), (more or less for desired consistency)
2T. oil (veg, canola, olive, coconut, whatever)
1 egg
1t. vanilla extract, optional
dash salt, optional[/su_box]

Instructions

In a large bowl, combine dry ingredients. Mix well. In a separate bowl (or a large glass measuring cup, if you are like me) combine wet ingredients. Mix well.
Gently stir wet and dry ingredients together. Do not over-stir. Scoop or pour batter onto a 400 degree non-stick or well oiled griddle. Brown on both sides.
Serve immediately, or let cool on a flat surface before storing in the refrigerator or freezer for a quick breakfast on a busy morning.

Help, My Toddler is a Picky Eater!

How many of us have dealt with a baby who suddenly refuses life giving breastmilk or formula, but then refuses to eat anything but Cheerios? Just me?

So here’s my secret. This pancake base is perfect for mixing basically anything else into. The result is quick, ready-made, handheld, toddler food. I’ve basically blended leftover everything and put it into pancakes and called it a meal for my 1 year old. Mashed bananas? Check. Cooked squash, carrots, corn, even broccoli? Check. Spaghetti and meat sauce? Check.

Note: we tried leftover salmon just once. It has, so far, been the only one that was rejected.

You might have to adjust the liquid to figure out the perfect consistency, but in all, these pancakes still come out hearty, yummy, fluffy, and delicious. It helps here that I have a good blender, but as your child can chew more, you can leave some things chunkier and it still works great.

Boost Your Pancakes with Super Foods

Whether these pancakes are for you or for your kids, the beauty of this recipe is that it is a great base for a great batter, but it is completely versatile. You can play with extra ingredients (pre-cooking) and see what you like. I’ve added random healthy ingredients to these and though the result is always a little different, it has always continued to be yummy.

You may have to vary cooking times or heat (or liquid or flour amounts) in order to end with normal pancake consistency. I’ve found this is a great way to get my kids to eat more veggies, add a little vitamins and energy, and use up leftovers or abundant garden bounty in the summer. Each of the following additions (not all at once) has had an equally favorable result:

[su_box title=”Optional Add Ins” style=”default” box_color=”#333333″ title_color=”#FFFFFF” radius=”3″ class=””]

ground flax seed (1/2c.)
wheat germ (1/2c.)
1-4T. brewer’s yeast (if you are breastfeeding)
chopped nuts
dark chocolate chips
blueberries
Craisins, raisins, or other dried fruit
1-2 bananas, overripe and blended with the milk
1 medium zucchini squash: blended or finely chopped
1/2c. – 1c. pre-cooked acorn or butternut squash
1/2c. pumpkin puree (this is one that makes the batter VERY moist and requires more baking powder and a little extra flour)
cinnamon, pumpkin pie spice, vanilla (mix your spices to compliment your add-ins)[/su_box]

Brewer’s Yeast comes in a canister and is usually found in the vitamin section of a place like Whole Foods, or can be ordered off the Internet. It is a secret and very powerful ingredient, that adds tons of vitamins and minerals, and, for the breastfeeding mom, aids in milk production. It is a powder and has a nutty flavor. I store mine in the refrigerator.
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Flax seeds can be found whole or pre-ground. I buy mine whole (they come in a bag) and grind them in a coffee grinder. Flax seeds are an excellent source of fiber and omega 3 fatty acids. I don’t actually notice a major flavor difference with or without the flax seeds but some people complain they taste fishy. I store mine, again, in the fridge, if that helps.

I love these pancakes topped with seasonal fruit, like peaches and blueberries, but they are also great smeared with just about any nut butter and topped with cut up bananas. In the heat of summer, they make an excellent alternative to baking muffins in a hot oven.

Draw shapes with this pancake dispenser, if you’re into that sort of thing.

Confessions

2015 New Year’s Resolutions?

Let’s be honest. New Year’s Day, for all intents and purposes, is a recovery day from that New Year’s Eve party with the carmel flavored vodka shots. And this year, because it fell on a Thursday, meant that Friday was that weird day that basically nothing got done at work.

For me, when the company left, the refrigerator was sparse, the laundry pile was high, and the bathrooms were starting to itch. Saturday and Sunday were spent catching up on all the chores I ignored over the long holiday, and finally de-Christmasing the house.

That is why I’m declaring, here and now, that my actual New Year starts today.

I love technology. I love using the computer to organize, categorize, and simplify my life. Obviously. I write a blog. I share a Google calendar with my husband so we can synchronize the lives of our six-person family. I have a ridiculously detailed Excel spreadsheet to calculate my weekly grocery budget and keep track of my spending and my savings. I review and catalogue all the books I’ve read using Goodreads. I no longer resent being reminded by Facebook of birthdays. And if I’m being completely honest, I admit that I am both physically and emotionally calmed through an hour of browsing organization ideas on Pinterest.

That said, there are simply some things that I’ll never be able to fully give up on the good old fashioned pen and paper for. I have always been a goal setter, a list-maker, and a journaler. I get excited by an empty steno pad and a brand new pack of fine point sharpies. This is why, every January, I look forward to starting a new weekly planner. Though I no longer need to make note of school-project deadlines, I still cling to the physical sense of accomplishment gained from striking through one more item on my things-to-do list.

Blame it on a whole new manifestation of my selective Type A obsessive compulsion, but for some reason, this year, I convinced myself that the six dollar pre-made planners available at CVS no longer meet my needs. Combine this notion with my love of technology, and you better believe I spent the better part of Christmas weekend searching through a myriad of free printables to create my own planner at home.

And guess what I found?

Nothing.

Not a single template that looked any better than what I could buy at the store. And worse? Nothing to download and simply tweak here and there to fit my specifications. So I did what any insane mother of four would do. I endeavored to create my own template.

The work was stupidly painstaking; it required a hand-drawn model, several printing trial and errors, and more than a couple SHIT!s before I got it right. Even then, once fully printed, I decided I wasn’t completely happy with it so I put my trusty paper-cutter to work and whittled it down to a more pleasing size and shape.

You better believe that in my desire for something so personal, I was completely happy to spend the better part of six nap times hunched over a computer until I got it right. But then I decided it would be stupid to have spent all that time making something that I alone would benefit from. And lucky for you, I am turning over a new leaf for 2015.

Click here to get my FREE DOWNLOAD and step-by-step instructions for creating your own customizable, personalized, completely awesome, fits-in-your-purse, less than five dollar 2015 weekly planner.

I’m not really making resolutions this year. I have some goals. And I’ve categorized my goals into some focuses. And I fully intend to, if nothing else, start each month with a clean slate, no matter what I did or did not accomplish the month before. So that’s what my 2015 planner looks like. What does yours look like?

Confessions

The Undertoad

I started this blog more than three years ago, when we first moved to our quaint little suburb of Winston-Salem. I had recently been through an abrupt job change from full time (and mostly respected on an intellectual level) professional to full time home-maker.

I used to sort of hate all those titles: stay at home mom, home-maker, housewife, etc.

“Housewife” to me, now, sounds very much like “house cat,” which conjures a picture of a clean white robe, slippered feet, and someone filling my food-bowl twice a day, while I have little more to do than to move from one piece of furniture to another striving for optimal napping conditions. Maybe I’ll lick a paw. Maybe I’ll claw at my scratching post. But mostly I’ll lounge until my owners come home, and then resent the fact that I have to share my space with them.

If only.

Last summer we endeavored to check off at least three of the top six most stressful circumstances in a human’s life. Number one: moving. Numbers two and three: pregnancy and birth of a child. Number three and a half: seeking new employment.

For John, every day is a battle to find a new niche in his current profession, whether that be working for someone other than himself, or expanding his own personal horizons to include better business. Because even at it’s best, self employment is like another wife. (The uglier, fatter, louder, and more naggy version of me.)

Despite the constant sunshine, the end of Summer and most of the Fall was spent in an emotional fog, the kind that had John and me in our respective canoes, paddling in circles a mere three feet away from each other without knowing it. With the exception of my eight weeks of happy pills, I carried as much of his stress as he brought home, which was a lot.

But when the pills ran out, and the baby still wasn’t sleeping through the night, and after weekends full of things-to-do but nothing to show for all our effort, a come-to-Jesus moment was brewing, and by come-to-Jesus I mean one of those blubbering and crying and lots-of-cursing discussions which seems to be the only way to fully incite any clarity and change. (For me anyway. John holds himself together a little better.)

I’m a little jealous to admit that for my husband to come out of the fog, all it really took was a little bit more sleep and about twice as much working out in the week. This is why I will forever support his constant participation in various Winston-Salem adult soccer leagues. We started going to bed earlier and he started running a couple mornings a week and within ten days his sense of humor came back. Within four weeks, his patience with our children returned to normal.

Meanwhile, mine seems to be stagnant at the very best, and possibly backsliding. Working out has the opposite effect on me. Me craving time at the gym is really me craving an hour and a half away from my children, made all the more sweet if the lobby is empty of those incessant senior citizens who just want to yak my ear off about how cute my damn kids are. Seriously, with a full ninety minutes of pretending I don’t even have any children my batteries are recharged for a solid one to two days.

And actually, now that I say it, I think I’ve solved it. I haven’t really had a Dadderday since August 17th. I’m living in baby-land, where the days are long but cannot be measured in tasks accomplished. And after giving birth to the perfect child in 2012 (you know, the one who slept 20 hours a day until he was like 16 months) I suppose any baby would seem difficult. But #4 seems especially aware of her position in this family, and is making sure she never gets forgotten. She’s also determined not to sleep away this most-eventful first year of life.

Though I may not have mastered motherhood at this point, I have certainly learned that despite the long days, it is, sadly, a very short year. This is why I don’t want to spend it in resentment of yet another 45 minute nap, or a scream-filled ride in the car, or the pre-dinner meltdown that erases the good of a perfectly fine day and dumps the worst fifty-seven minutes into Daddy’s lap the instant he walks through the door.

Home-maker sounds about right. We are single moms, working moms, step-moms, and stay-at-home-dads and we all have one thing in common. Whether we’re conscious of it or not, what we are doing, we home-makers, is making something. And sometimes I have to wonder, when it comes to our kids, are we actually making everything?

If Happy Wife equals Happy Life and if Mama ain’t happy, aint’t nobody happy, then Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change (the 3pm carline and 6am wake-up calls), to change the things I can (dirty diapers, my bedtime, and maybe my attitude), and the wisdom to see the bigger picture.

Confessions, Isaiah

Things I Don’t Want To Forget

November 18, 2014

This evening Isaiah was left alone for a few minutes in the bathtub while John had a heart-to-heart with Carter and I was feeding the baby downstairs, listening to Eliott read. I heard him call my name a few times, but the sentiment seemed more like his “Mommy, what are you doing right now?” tone of voice rather than his, “I just fell and hit my head” tone of voice, so naturally I ignored him. When the baby finished eating I took her to bed.

I popped my head in the bathroom to find Isaiah perched on the edge of the tub, one foot in the water, the other dangling over the side. There in front of him, neatly lined up on the outside edge of the tub, were several turds, ranging from average and healthy sized, to peanut sized. He looked up at me, not sheepishly but with a very serious expression and continued to repeat the word, “Stink.”

I have no idea where this child came from. A few weeks shy of two years old and the kid already cleans up his own fecal messes with such a matter-of-fact attitude that I wonder if he should be the one keeping an eye on his seven year old sister and not the other way around.

Confessions

Embracing Fall

I think I’ve said this before. Summer is by far my favorite season. I like the summer minimalist wardrobe and everything that comes with it – less laundry and less time putting on shoes. I like hot weather. I like going to the pool and the long afternoon naps that follow.

Now that we live in our new neighborhood, I actually crave the relaxed schedule. There is something huge to be said for the fact that I looked forward to Fall Break this year – a full five days without school, and me with four children.

(I’m actually starting to understand why people choose to homeschool.)

I like long days, warm nights, sleeping in a little bit, and impromptu weekend gatherings around grills and coolers. I like eating mozzarella with tomatoes and basil from my garden and the abundance of cheap fresh fruit.

It is not by mistake, therefore, that I’ve chosen to live in a state with unusually long summers.

But it seems it is finally Fall in North Carolina. I only know this because every time I sign on to Pinterest lately, I’m scrolling through pages and pages of pumpkin recipes and crock pot pictures.

I can’t deny the mild excitement of wearing boots and sweaters again, even though the official warm-to-cold wardrobe switch in North Carolina is a six week tease. I also look forward to the time change, and putting my children to bed when it is actually dark outside.

I’m trying desperately to enjoy wrapping up my babes in layers and expecting the afternoon carline to be far too hot for tights, though the morning was far too cold for flip flops, and I’m soaking in as much beauty as Fall has to offer because I know that overnight and without warning, it will just be winter.

Maybe I will come up with a really great Halloween costume this year. Maybe John ~~and I~~ will get around to composting dead tomatoes and planting ~~our~~ my winter garden. Maybe I will finally teach Eliott how to really use her knitting loom. Maybe some of my pre-pregnancy jeans fit now. Maybe my children will like butternut squash soup this year.

Or maybe not.

But I will enjoy my coffee today for its warmth both physically and emotionally. I will try not to shudder as Christmas commercially pops up on TV and in stores. I will put away my beach reads and embrace some bubble bath reads. Oh yes. And I will put my garden tub to good use.

Avery, Carter, Confessions, Eliott, Isaiah

The Wait Family Christmas Card, love John

I was just cc’ed on an email from John to an old friend – a general life update, if you will. I realized I haven’t done one of these in a while and the email is so lovely that I’m reposting it here and considering using it as the letter that accompanies the Christmas cards we never send.

photo-35 — Carter (5yo), Eliott (7yo), Isaiah(2yo), Avery (2 months old)

[Dear family and friends,] *I added this.

[Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. We sure have a lot to celebrate this year.] *I also added this because the email seemed to start in the middle of a conversation that might have otherwise seemed confusing to someone on the outside. Everything from here on out is all John.

Eliott and Carter are both playing soccer now and are clearly the best on their respective teams. I think they have both scored all the goals for their teams this season. I coach Carter’s team, the Pink Sparkly Unicorns. Carter named the team. Their uniforms are orange. I’m not sure if they really like soccer or if they just like the attention that comes with being superior. Probably the latter knowing their parents. The boy is nothing like me or Claire. He’s more like my dad and my brother, very smiley and usually happy. There’s not much brooding or darkness in him. That’s bound to change since he only has sisters though, so we’re enjoying it while we can.

Avery is an annoying, crying infant. I have no hope for her yet. Claire is the only one who likes her on any sort of regular basis. However, to be fair, she’s only been alive for 8 weeks. I’m trying to keep an open mind when I’m not walking around half asleep. When she cries, it sounds like a mangy, angry cat. Very raspy, contemptuous, and demanding. She does smile on occasion to remind us not to chuck her out a second story window or a moving car.

We still call Carter the “Tiny Monster.” She is tall, thin, and weighs only 32 pounds. Isaiah is like a cinder block at over half Carter’s height and weighing 28 pounds. He likes to wrestle, and he does so often with Carter who is closest to his weight division and age. *Me again. Just want to note that Avery is actually closer to Isaiah’s age-division but John doesn’t currently count her in the kid line up yet because he is still undecided on whether to keep her.

Eliott is a bit of a space cadet most of the time. She often gets this far away, blank stare when we tell her to do something. She uses these times to enter “LaLa-Land” where she is an only child, a princess, and has no responsibility whatsoever. LaLa-Land is aptly named after Claire’s sister, Laura, who also frequents LaLa-Land. I’m not sure if Eliott communes with her aunt there or not. I prefer not to know the details.

Eliott, Carter, and Isaiah all love books. Eliott reads chapter books whenever we are not yelling at her or making her clean up one of her siblings’ messes. Carter is learning to read this year, and so she is still mostly into picture books. Isaiah likes to have books read to him as he repeats selective words back to the reader at a very loud decibel. I think he believes that words can only be spoken by yelling, which is probably my fault.

[We hope this letter finds you warm, well-fed, and Ebola free. Here’s to a great 2015!

Love, The Waits] It seemed like it needed a better ending. Man-to-man communication is so strange and free of the expected cordiality.