February Fourteen

I guess it’s pretty clear that Ezra has been the star of the show here for the last 16 months. This is for two reasons, one of them being that it’s really sort of tricky to navigate what you should share about your kids once they get older and the second is TIME, as in, I don’t have any to write more than one substantial post a month. To remedy this, I’m going to try to do a quick family update each month when I post my photo sets so I can write down some of the cool/annoying/awesome stuff the rest of us are up to and at least give the illusion that our world doesn’t revolve around a despot toddler king {which it 100% does}. Ezra will still have his own post for the time being because he is my babaaaay and I’m not ready to let that go just yet.

So Let’s start with me. As it turns out I’ve become a bit obsessive and have absolutely loved documenting our every day family life over on Instagram for the My 365 Project. It has been a HUGE push to better my photography skills which are now somewhere between Does Not Suck and Can Sometimes be Okay When I’m Not Screwing It All Up. I take out my big camera pretty much every day and I love reading articles and watching video tutorials when I can squeeze them in. Recently I watched one about Newborn Photography which blew my mind… too bad there were so damn many precious, tiny babies in those videos, distracting me from actually retaining any of the information.

Here are my favorite shots from February 14, {the whole set is here}:

Other than being a chauffeur, homework overlord and packer of backpacks for the older two, I’m enjoying the calm before the {dance} storm. Competition fees have been turned in and we’re hoping one of the costumes will be handed out for decorating this week sometime. UPDATE!!: I now have a fringey pile of orange and pink and approximately 800 stones to affix to it! {Also: Sweet baby Jesus in heaven, please bless our room mom for not including those teeny/tiny/miniscule devil sequins, I am forever in her debt, AMEN.}   So: YAY! Let’s get this done! And: Oh God. I’m going to die from E-6000.

Here Lies Christy, who at 2am after 14 straight hours of gluing varying sizes of irritatingly small, iridescent stones, mistook her wine for the E-6000, gluing her throat shut. It was a good death. RIP.

Moving on to Bill… You remember him right? That guy I married? I wouldn’t really know since he’s done nothing but workworkwork for the last few months. Thankfully, he’s able to do part of this in the evenings on our couch but still, it’s been a really busy time for him both with work, personal projects and the side stuff. We divide and conquer from the hours of 4:30-8pm and then it’s back to his laptop until 11ish. Since he likes to watch stuff while he works, we pick a series to binge-watch so at least we have the pretense of together time. Against my better judgement, I let Bill choose the show this go-round and he picked Breaking Bad. We tried this show once a couple of years ago and after the third episode I told Bill if he wanted to keep watching it that was fine but I just couldn’t spend my relaxing time watching something so painful that I wanted to throw myself off a bridge after each episode. And yeah, I know, Best TV Show Of All Time, Is One of The Greats, yada-yada-accolade-cakes. I get that, I really do. My opinion though {which was right on the money after those first 3 episodes {re:THE PAINFULNESS} and unchanged when we watched it all the way through}, is that the first 2 seasons were pretty meh, save a couple of episodes, then in the third season they turned the characters into 100% unlikable, reprehensible shells of humans. There was no fading into gray for me, really. They went from conflicted, desperate and confused to The Most Terrible People and by the last third of the 4th season things blew up.

I’m not going to turn this family update into a BB recap but since it has dominated my time with my husband for the last 2 months I will say this. The writing and acting in the last 2 seasons was truly smart and really just downright phenomenal. But. And this is a big, huge, hairy but. I can’t handle watching shows where everyone is awful. There is no one to root for on this show, save maybe one, and even this guy has done so many despicable things and suffered such terrible losses, there’s no way he’ll ever come out functional. This makes each episode something you have to suffer through. Maybe other people could root for Walter White {but you’re probably a closet sociopath, FYI}. Not me though, not even at the end and I think it’s sort of troublesome if you actively want your protagonist to bite it. I get the whole idea of the “anti-hero” but man, I just found the whole thing to be so reprehensible, and even though I appreciate the art of it, {TL;DR!} you could not pay me to watch that shit again.

Okay, stay tuned for next month’s Bill update when I talk about True Detective, Scandal or House of Cards, because that is what our marriage has turned into at this point.

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Rowan: My first born has been a busy little bee with school and dance. She officially turned 8 and a half which is still just so weird to say. My kid is like, old and stuff. School has been going really well. So well, I feel like anything I write here will just sound like obnoxious bragging. I can take pretty much zero credit for this anyway, it just turns out I am raising the non-magical Hermione Granger, complete with tears when school is cancelled for the 6th snow day of 2014. She’s tested out of the curriculum reading assessments through third grade. She gets herself up early so she can read for fun and while math isn’t her favorite and she has to work hard, she gets great marks. She has an excellent memory so history tests are super fun for her and she aces them. Most weeks I forget to go over her spelling words with her {super mom, I know} and she has brought home a 15/15 every week, save one, the entire year. Do you see what I mean about the bragging? I sound like a total asshole right now but I don’t care. She works hard. She’s so independent. And I’m so proud of her.

Here is Hermione/Rowan reading a math book before bed. For FUN. Listen, guys. I know I was there and all when she was born and I’m fairly certain they placed her directly into my arms but there is just no possible way she can be my kid. Like ZERO percent chance. Back me up, everyone who knows me…

Conversely, dance has been rough for her this year. I touched on this a few months ago, about the challenges of the flexibility amidst the other choreography and how it’s been tough for her. Rowan isn’t a Career Dancer. She doesn’t have the natural flexibility. She doesn’t have a family member that was or still is a dancer that can help her at home {for free} with the intricacies. She doesn’t have room in her house that she can practice without hitting the couch or a coffee table or another human. She also doesn’t have parents who have a huge disposable income for $50 worth of private lessons a week. Though this has always been the case for her, it was made really apparent this year as so many of the girls at the studio are doing this extra stuff. Rowan has always been very happy to just be a part of the group and work her hardest but based on all the extras the other kids are doing she’s starting to fall behind and feel what she’s contributing isn’t good enough for her team.

In most cases it’s not a matter of dance mom one-up-man-ship, but that all these kids really love dance, want to do their very best and they have very supportive parents that are making that happen for them. And while I personally feel some of it is getting a little out of hand, if it works for the individual family then that’s thier choice to make . Unfortunately, it doesn’t work for us which will be a tricky road to navigate if Rowan wants to keep dancing competitively. In the meantime we’ve done what we can to help her through. We share private lessons with others so they’re not so spendy. We go to open gym so she can work on flexibility instead of paying $30 an hour to work one-on-one with a gymnastics coach. She shows up every day ready to work her butt off and she really does. We practice at home, couches, coffee tables and other humans be damned. I feel guilty, like I’m not doing enough to support her sometimes, but the reality is, dance isn’t our family’s only reality and I just have to make peace with that and hope Rowan understands when the other girls are progressing in a way that she isn’t.

I will say that the coolest thing to witness was a few weeks ago when parents were invited in to watch and the instructor was working on turns with them, which need some work all around. Some of the girls have been doing these turns for well over a year or two in various solos and small groups but a little over half have just started them in earnest since January and Rowan was having trouble finding the rhythm of them. She struggled the Tuesday before big time and when her teacher asked her to do it in front of everyone I held my breath, fighting the urge to throw my hands over my eyes but… she did okay, and compared to where she was the week before, okay was AWESOME. And when she was done her teacher gave her an approving smile and the other girls clapped for her and it was so, so sweet. She really is in with a great group of very kind kids, which is important to us because she spends so much time there.

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After a completely activity-free fall, Keaton has been enjoying swimming lessons, a basketball clinic and joining the boys/partners dance at the studio. Swimming has been going well for him I think, but it’s stressful because Bill has to handle the two boys while I take Rowan to ballet. Ezra goes to baby swim from 6-6:30pm and Keaton does level 3 from 6:30-7pm. I haven’t seen Ezra at all and have only been able to watch Keaton 1.5 times which makes me feel shitty but just the way things worked out this time around.

Basketball was… sort of hilarious. Keaton definitely has an aptitude for sports; he has a good eye and great coordination. Since he’s never had trouble picking these sorts of things up, I thought this would transfer to basketball but it totally did not. The six sessions he had, he made a total of 8 baskets. He is not tall, on the contrary, he is a peanut compared to the other boys and while his fancy footwork was awesome while playing defense, you could totally tell they were the feet of a dancer, not a ball player. Still, the whole point was to get him out of the house for a couple of hours on Saturdays and to have fun, and both of these things were accomplished so I’ll call it a win while recognizing that we are NOT raising a hoops star.

In January we were asked if Keaton was interested in doing the big boys’ number at the studio. At first he didn’t want to do it and I practically had to drag him there but after a few practices he fell back in love with the booty-shaking and I’ll admit, it’s been pretty fun to watch him again. It was most definitely the right decision for him and our family sanity to pull him from the line numbers but I’m glad he’s still able to dance in some capacity~ plus it will give him something to do one of the days we’re in Florida for Nationals this June.

School has been going really well for him. He loves his teacher, his classmates and has gotten a green light every day so far. His reading skills have really taken off in the last month. He can now read Frog and Toad style books all by himself and while getting him to stop jumping around the living room like a maniac can be hard after a long day at school, once he gets settled in he really gets into the story. I’m so proud of how great he’s doing although I will say, he has been having some attitude and listening problems at home that are driving both his father and I nuts. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that he is the child that requires the least amount of our time and energy. He’s so laid back and easy-going so we tend to just let him do his own thing which sometimes results in him feeling left out, and then he acts out, not terribly, but just enough to push our buttons. I hate that it’s come to this so we’re trying to make an extra effort to spend one-on-one time with him in hopes that the attitude and listening issues will work themselves out.

Okay! Wow! I’m… gonna stop now. That was really, really long. I had a lot to catch up on but the good news is, that shouldn’t be an issue if I keep this up month to month. Of course this is me we’re talking about so no guarantees. Hope everyone made it though February alive and here’s looking to somewhat of a thaw by the end of March.

 

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Ugly Fish

Today is my dad’s birthday. He would have been seventy and surely would finally be blissfully earning the moniker we gave him much too young, “The Old Man”. My dad would’ve been a good old man, the best really. He already excelled at it by his late forties and that sort of thing only gets better with practice.

For his 70th, I’d like to share a story from my 15th.

Once upon a time, there was a horribly selfish 14 and 364/365 year old, who was incredibly PUT OUT by the fact that her dad was going to miss yet another of her birthdays. You see, my dad {yes, I will be playing the role of The Selfish Brat for this story} was the secretary for something called the International Claim Association, or ICA. {Which, totally unrelated but worth mentioning~ when I was a young thing I was a little hazy about all of this so I used to tell people my dad was a lawyer for the CIA. Untrue! But probably impressed a lot of very confused people.} In fact, my dad was an attorney for a life Insurance company so he was deeply familiar with the claim department of his company which led to his involvement in this organization.

Let me just break here to say, none of this matters. Except that it did because the committee meetings for this particular organization were often held the second week of September which also happens to hold an extremely paramount moment in history: the date of my birth. And because these meetings were often held at warm, sandy-beach locations, my mother naturally wished to accompany my dad and where did that leave me? A neglected orphan cruelly left to suffer yet another birthday alone {or, you know, in the company of very loving, capable grandparents and older siblings who more than made an effort to give me a special day, WHATEVER.} {I should also note that while my dad did very well for himself and his family, 5 kids in parochial school and all the various other expenses so many grunions incur, of which there were numerous and plenty, is not easy on the checkbook so taking us kids along was just not a viable option.}

By the time my 15th birthday hit, I was OVER it. Had it been a year later, I probably would not have cared, being at an age where spending the day with my friends would be much more important than hanging with my family but at 15 I was not quite there yet and the memory of my 12th, and golden, birthday still stung. On that occasion, not only was I was missing my dad but out of the goodness of my mother’s heart {she stayed home this time}, she agreed to baby-sit my severely ADHD cousin who had been served sugar and Mountain Dew at a Boy Scout function and who subsequently had to be locked out on the porch for fear he would destroy our house. It was an unpleasant experience and I told my dad he wasn’t allowed to miss anymore of my birthdays until I was over 18. I’m sure he didn’t actually agree to this, but somewhere in my head he did, so when I found out he would again be attending the ICA meeting over my birthday I was… displeased.

He left a day or so before the 12th of September. I can’t remember the conversation we had or the hug I’m sure he gave me, despite the fact that I had not stopped giving him The Filch Eye since I found out he was leaving. On my birthday, from Wherever, USA {I can’t even recall which warm, sandy location he was visiting this time} he called and I told him, after careful consideration, I would forgive him for ditching me if he brought me home something really, really special. Something to make up for not only missing this birthday but the handful of others over the years. He just chuckled in his way and told me to “be good”. I took that as a confirmation that he was going to bring me home something awesome. Something truly spectacular. And really? I should not have been this naive. I can say with almost 100 percent certainty that my father didn’t pick out any of our gifts growing up. I’m positive that task was delegated to my mother and she did a fabulous job at it so I don’t know what I was thinking. By the end of my dads trip I had myself pretty well convinced that he was bringing me the 1995 equivalent of a time traveling, golden unicorn that shit money. {Spoiler alert! That did not happen. Disappointing, I know.}

Anyway I had built this whole thing up in my head, so sure, sososososo sure, that my dad wouldn’t want to disappoint me and would have been sufficiently guilted into picking me out something fabulous. And sure enough, when he got home, he intimated to me that he did pick me out something special. All my teenage angst and rage dissipated, I was immediately filled with love! admiration! and awe for this wonderful man. This beautiful father who brought his newly minted 15 year old daughter a special gift. He passed me a smallish green box. Oh! Jewelry! I hadn’t even thought about that! Diamonds? Sapphires? Oooooo definitely sapphires, they’re my favorite and also my birthstone which makes them awesome AND meaningful. I was so in love with the contents of that box for roughly 20 seconds and then…

I opened it.

And it was a fish.

A fish made out of shells.

It wasn’t even a pretty fish.

It was a dumb fish.

It was the goddamn dumbest, ugliest fish I had ever seen in my entire life.

I hated it.

I hated that fish more than anything I had ever hated before and I was an angsty teenager so I hated A LOT of things.

Here is where I’d like to tell you that I pushed that hate deep down. Deep, deep down. And graciously smiled and hugged my dad for picking something out just for me. I did not do that. “What the hell is this?” may have been uttered. Also “A fish? You thought of me and bought… a stupid fish? Really?” I was not happy and after making sure this wasn’t a gag and my REAL gift wasn’t waiting for me outside, I left the little green box on the counter and stormed off to my room.

Such a brat. A complete, utter, ungrateful brat. To my mom’s credit, she was patient and understood why I was upset. Later that night, through the crack in their bedroom door, I heard her explaining to my dad that no 15 year old girl wants a fish made out of sea shells for her birthday. “They want CDs. They want pagers. They want Abercrombie shopping sprees. They really don’t want decorative fish.” And in true, unperturbed Garry form, he said quietly, “I thought it was nice.”

I did not forgive him easily. I did not take that dumb fish out of its box for weeks on principle. Eventually it made its way to my room, I’m sure my mom brought it there, and at some point I took it out. Inside was a little stand so it could be displayed and well, time is a funny thing, that ugly fish made it into that stand and was placed on a shelf in my room. I still hated it. It reminded me not only of being disappointed in my dad but of my own shitty behavior when I had received it… but there it stayed. Mostly forgotten, occasionally despised, for the rest of my years at home.

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After he died I found myself in my old room. For the few months following the unexpected, I had abandoned my cozy loft apartment that still had my cats and my fiance, to give support to my mom in the wake of a loss that seemed as long and wide as all eternity. There, on my dresser was that dumb, ugly fish. And I picked it up, and ran my fingers over its cool, smooth surface, its sharp angled fins, and I cried. And I clung to it. I imagined my dad wandering off into the hotel’s gift shop. I saw him walking slowly along the shelves, scanning the various kitschy objects. Picking trinkets up, putting them down. I saw him pick up the ugly fish. I saw him smile at it. I felt him run his fingers along its surface. I heard him say, “I’ll take this one. For my daughter, she turns fifteen today!” And then they put that atrocious thing in that small green box and now here it was, 8 years later, a gift from my dad. A part of him here, waiting for me to love, and to appreciate the love it always had for me.

Ugly Fish {that’s its name… after all, a spade’s a spade} has spent every night since, these 10 long years of missing him, on my nightstand. It is a reminder to be gracious. A reminder that I was loved. A reminder of my dad. And I love him so much. And the dumb fish too.

Happy birthday, dad.

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14 Months

I distinctly remember the moment Rowan turned on me. My sweet, happy child, the baby who people always asked, as she smiled toothlessly at them, “Does she EVER cry? She’s so easy-going!” Just after she turned 14 months, I was walking through the mall when she arched her back in my arms, the toddler signal that she wanted to be released to try out her new-found ability to walk on her own two feet, a little trick she had only learned a few weeks before. I didn’t want to set her down but she was persistent so I plopped her at my feet and reached for her hand. In the past she had willingly grasped it without argument but as I bent down to enfold the tiny bit of pudgy knuckles in my grip, she was… not there. In a 10 second time frame she had made her way 20 feet ahead of me and holy crap, when did she learn how to run? Arms flailing, pigtails flying in the wind, she was FREE.

I spent the next, oh, 4-5 years of my life painstakingly trying to contain that girl’s independent spirit. Trying to find the balance of not squashing it all-together, but getting her to just please put her shoes on without a 20 minute argument/meltdown. Keaton was such a miserable little guy for his first 14 months but miraculously, somewhere just before 15 months he transformed into this happy-go-lucky, easy-going little fellow that, sure, pulled a few typical assy toddler moves {in contrast to his sister he was super clingy}, but he didn’t have the attention span nor the motivation to have tantrums and also was not driven to destroy us like his sister was during the toddler years.

So now here we are with Ezra, at this pivotal moment of toddler development and I am maybe a little frightened of what the coming weeks/months/years have in store for us. If there was a spectrum, with Keaton at one end and Rowan at the other, Ezra would most likely fall two-thirds of the way to the Rowan end. He was a happy baby, but not quite as easy-going and smiley as she was. He is independent in many ways, but much more reliant on me. They are both very, very stubborn. The main difference though is that he is way, way, way less verbal at this age than she was and he is very, very physically strong. This is maybe causing me not an insignificant amount of fear for what it will be like to actually have to take him out in public, something I’ve not attempted on too grand a scale since he became mobile. I guess what I’m saying is, uh, if you have any calming, soothing vibes lying around, I would greatly appreciate if you’d throw them at my toddler every chance you can get.

Now! Here’s how Ezra spent thirteen months…

* He learned to navigate going down the stairs backwards. He mastered climbing up them about thirty seconds after he learned to crawl at 8 months but after a few failed attempts to get down them face first, he just didn’t attempt it, which was kind of nice- I never even had to gate them off. If he went up to the loft, he’d just stay up there until he got bored, then he’d whine and I’d go up to retrieve him, and he just left the stairs going down to the entryway alone. Our house is 90% baby-proofed so he can really wander around wherever he wants and we don’t have to worry too much about what he’s getting into as long as the bathroom and bedroom doors stay shut. A day or two after he turned 13 months he finally figured out that he could make it down the stairs himself and after a few slow, tentative tries, he quickly learned to position himself on the top step, get on his belly, get a shit-eating grin across his face, push off with his arms and WHOOOOOSH,  he flies down backward at break-neck speed. Every time {no really, EVERY TIME} I run because I think he has fallen to his death but, no. There he is standing at the bottom, the grin still firmly planted wide on his cheeks.

{Full disclosure, he did fall once and crack his head good on the bannister. He got a bad bump but when I called the pediatrician they told us he was most likely fine as he wasn’t wobbly, sleepy or throwing up so to just wake him up a few times in the night to be safe. The bump was already gone by the next morning and it didn’t slow him down a bit, although I watched over him pretty closely for the next few days, impeding on his fun.}

* Into everything. Here is a comprehensive but not exhaustive list of things Ezra likes to get into {it grows by the nanosecond}: cupboards, bins, drawers, nightstands, make-up, toilet and accompanying paper, diaper stacks, diaper pail, cords, outlets and power strips {don’t forget to drool all over your hands or just go ahead and lick the sockets!} his siblings’ dressers which he pulls open and just starts FLINGING neatly folded clothing out of like there is goddamn buried treasure at the bottom and ohshit here comes mommy, better start flinging faster, must fling it alllllllll…., dog food and water dishes, bookshelves, old DVDs, whatever has been carelessly left on the first two inches of any higher-up table or counter-top, any glass that has been left out must be dumped unceremoniously, Barbies thrown asunder, sword bin ravaged.

I am pleased to report that while we do occasionally have to gate the tree off in the mornings while we’re all running around and upanddown and upanddown the stairs, Ezra has mostly left it alone, or at least there hasn’t yet been any major tree related disasters. He will walk over and bat at the branches while staring at us, testing how long it takes to get the firm No! or uh-UH! but that’s about it.

* Lots of firsts this month! First carousel ride, first time decorating sugar cookies, first time eating Christmas cookies, first candy cane, first ride in a sled, first time wearing boots and snowpants. You pretty much rocked all of it, except maybe the boots which you just… did not understand. When I stood you up after putting them on you, you flopped back to the ground, unwilling to put your trust in the clunky things. Oh well, this being Minnesota, you have a whole loooooong winter to get used to them.

* What is up with the sock thing, Baby? For whatever reason you hate them and figured out that if you take them off in front of me I just put them back on you so now you not only hide to go pull them off, you then hide the socks. I’ve found them in my nightstand, inside Tupperware containers, inside the child-proofed cabinets {uh, how are you doing this?} and in several random drawers. So far this is my favorite… I … don’t think this is what they mean by hanging your stockings…

* Language. This is still a tough one. You say your own versions {that mostly only I can decipher} of cracker, cookie, stop, drop, pretzel, nosey, uh-oh, nie-nie, cheeks, sock, thank you, kiss, and some other randoms but still don’t use mama, daddy, baby, please, up, more etc. It’s so frustrating because you understand almost everything we say. You follow commands! You will materialize out of no where, pointing to your mouth, if someone says marshmallow. If I ask for a hug or a kiss you gladly give it. If I ask you to go get your milk, or cup or shoe or ball you don’t hesitate! But you just. won’t. say. the. words. yourself. Grumblecakes. You still MEOOOOOOW. Incessantly.

*Throwing food. This has BY FAR been the most frustrating thing this month. We can no longert put food on Ezra’s high-chair tray so he can feed himself because after one or two bites he picks up a piece, holds it out to the side and stares at us blankly as he drops it to the dog. It’s BEYOND infuriating. {For us, obviously Luna is decidedly OK with this arragement.} To save food I began just sitting with him and putting bites directly in his mouth but now he just removes them, full of baby slime, and throws them over anyway. He refuses all vegetables and in true toddler form, has become pickier and pickier everyday. We’ve reverted back to the pouches of over-priced baby squeezers because he can feed them to himself, doesn’t throw them until they’re empty and at least there is some freaking spinach in them. I need to do a big diet overhaul for all of us in January, a big part of which will be to break this food throwing habit. Also, his facial eczema has only gotten worse. We cut out whole milk and most cheeses but fell woefully short on removing other dairy with the craziness of the holidays. So lots of food trouble-shooting ahead, after I get the big kids back to school.

* As far as breastfeeding goes, Ezzie dropped his day feeding completely so we are now down to one nursing session in the morning. I don’t know how long we’ll keep this up, I have a feeling we’re down to our last few weeks of breastfeeding which, sunrise/sunset yadayada.

* His molars are coming in soooooo slooooooow, and have given him a perpetually runny nose that is driving us all bonkers. The top two have broken through and are making their way down, and his gums on the bottom are so damn swollen that I forgive him for being a cranky jerk most days.

* Ezra went to the church nursery for the first time this month! Admittedly, we do the church thing mostly for the kids. I’m not saying all hope is lost, but after being part of the shady-ass Catholic church for 30+ years, I’m finding it really hard to immerse myself in any religion for all the rage and anger I harbor for the terrible things that institution covered up and their disturbing stance on the civil rights issues of today. I do love the very open and accepting little Episcopal church we’ve joined and I’m so glad my kids have a group of wonderful role models to spend a couple of hours or so with each week but, well, let’s just say I wasn’t heartbroken that Bill has taken over church duty for the last six months as services and Sunday school fell right in the middle of naptime. Now that we are OFFICIALLY down to one nap between 11:30- 2ish though, we’ve started to go back as a family. Ezra went willingly to the nursery the first two times but has since decided that having mom or dad chase him up and down the halls is much preferable to a roomful of toys and doting teenagers so we’ll see how long my comeback lasts.

Oh my Ezra. My very favorite time with you this month has been just after we wave through the window to the big kids as they get on the bus. I heat up my coffee and plop down on the floor. Sometimes we listen to This American Life or Radio Lab podcasts, sometimes we don’t. And then? We snuggle, or roll the ball, or tickle, or sing, or stack cups or build blocks or play horsey. I repeat words, you stare at me quiet and stubborn. You peek-a-boo from behind the couch or from behind your own chubby fingers. We laugh and laugh. The breakfast dishes are still in the sink, the laundry loads need to be switched, no one’s bed is made but I’m teaching you how to blow kisses and wow, I’m not giving up this moment for anything.

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A giant PHEW is now being heard all across the Internet…

Thirty days and we’re DONE. It was a long, late-night road but I managed one post a day for thirty {one!} days and yes I am drinking a celebratory beer at 5:30 whatofit?

Truth be told, I know that I’ve outgrown this space as a writer, but I love looking back and reading about what life was like with three year old Rowan and one year old Keaton so I know one day I’ll be grateful I stuck with it, even minimally so, to record Ezra’s first years on planet Earth.

It gets harder and harder to share Keaton’s stories and it’s damn near impossible for me to navigate through Rowan’s because I know these words will one day affect them. When I was making all the choices and calling all the shots from what activities/shampoo/cereal/books/clothes/etc they consumed, I felt like their story was my story, but that line is getting awfully blurry now so if this blog seems like The Ezra Show, it is not because my older two babies don’t continue to make me laugh, learn, bang my head against the wall and love to the fullest every day, it’s because they are beginning to lead their own way, to tell their own stories and I need to back off a little bit.

This blog is so so tiny. Only a handful of people outside of my family still read it and that is the way I’ve designed it because I just want to be careful about who consumes how I write my children. To be truthful, I’m really not worried about ruining their lives, they have a healthy sense of dry humor and they know how much I love them. What I want is for them to one day appreciate that their mom is a human being instead of a cranky robot who just says NO and CLEAN THAT SHIT UP all the time. And these pages will hopefully show them this and for that I’m very grateful.

I’d write more but, Internet? I am hosting over twenty people tomorrow to celebrate {TO THE MAAAAAAAAAXXXXX} Keaton’s birthday. Year five of NaBloPoMo is done. A big thanks to those who cheered me on through facebook comments and likes and to those who hid me, I solemnly promise I’ll quit incessantly linking here because even though I’m proud of my family and think it’s good for me to share my writing to keep me practiced {in curse words, if nothing else}, I don’t like bombing the newsfeed everyday just so you all can see what mess I’ve gotten myself into this time. So! I’m going to finish this beer and scrub a floor or two. Or maybe just sit on the couch and snuggle with my babies in front of the newly decorated tree. Who’s gonna look at my floors anyway? {Answer? Now everyone probably will because I just told them they’ll be really dirty. This is why I’m terrible at the Internet.}

Now here, let me leave you with a picture of a baby and a candy cane to start the Christmas season:

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Lucky 13

Before I dive into Ezra’s monthly blah blah I just want to describe to you the moment I just had… My blood started pumping so hard it filled my head, my palms became clammy and my hands started shaking. My chest went tight and I felt like I could feel every single hair on my entire body as I tried to catch my breath. Slowly I attempted to regulate my breathing as I clutched my pounding head in my hands, the only thought swirling around in there… my god. I’m going to have a highly mobile, non-verbal 13 month old and a Christmas tree in my house at the same time for 5 weeks.

AND THEN I DIED.

Which I’m actually quite thankful for because death is a far easier thing to deal with than a baby, that I just know will figure out how to scale the gate I will inevitably have to put up, whose main goal in life will be to take that tree OUT. He will maim the branches. Pull off the needles and eat them. He will get too close, poke his eye and then cry like it was the tree’s fault. Then he will get mad and try to hit the tree but when that won’t prove satisfying he will try to push it and when he realizes the branches just spring back, only to hit him in the face again, he will charge that sucker in a fit of horrifying toddler rage and knock it over. Or he might just look at it suspiciously, like what’s this giant pokey green thing doing in my house and then largely ignore it. I’m betting on option one though and wow, I am feeling all of the fear now, just ALL OF IT.

Alright, time to reanimate so I can throw some bullet points up about mini-budders month of twelve, stepping away from the inviting, warm, glowing orb of light in 3…2…1…

This month in Ezra!

* The biggest change for our guy was the room swap which I think he’s adjusting to fairly well. Unfortunately we did this at sort of a crappy time for him developmentally as he was definitely starting a sleep regression, getting ready to drop a nap and cutting his molars. It was either now or after Christmas though and I really just wanted to get the whole mess out of the way before the holidays. He’s had a few rough nights but it hasn’t seemed to impact the older two at all and most times the wake-ups can be resolved with a simple re-corking of the nuk.

*naps. Ah, naps, BANE of my existence. Since he was nine months old, Ezra has been insistent on napping right at 9:30am after a 6:15 wake up. Since he is so spotty on whether he’ll then follow that early morning nap with a late afternoon nap, I have been trying since September to push back the morning nap. This would give him a more balanced spread of awake time~ that 7 hour stretch of no nap is very rough on all of us. He would NOT have it though. If I tried to push the nap back any more than 20 minutes he would lose his ever-loving mind, and then when he would fall asleep he’d only go down for 45 minutes instead of his regular 2-2.5 hour rest and then still refuse the afternoon nap. Forty-five minutes of sleep during a 13 hour stretch for an infant is not a sustainable schedule. Of course now this week, that of the holiday in which I need him to sleep in the morning otherwise wreak havoc all over our Thanksgiving plans, is the time he chooses to skip the morning nap in favor of reaching over and banging the wood blinds against the window frame and giggling maniacally for 40 minutes until I finally give up and pull him out. He of course went down smoothly at 12:30pm, exactly the time we need to be out of the house and on our way to a day of family stuffs. GAH, this is stressing me out.

* Teeth! After getting 8 teeth between 6.5 and 9 months we had a blessed break until last weekend. He came home from his grandparents’ house with a fever of about 100 and a runny nose which sent me into a panic because of the upcoming holiday and the fact that he had just gotten over a stupid cold that lasted over two weeks. He woke up a number of times that night, needing tylenol, a cuddle and a nuk but by the morning the fever had vanished and in its place I felt the corner of a branny-new molar poking through. UGHUGHUGHUGHUGH. As you may recall, molars are my least favorite things about toddlers. It’s gonna be a fun few months.

{*This photo series brought to you by dumdums, aka: the only way to get a baby to sit still for more than three seconds.}

* Food. Everything gives him a damn rash around his lips. EVERYTHAAAAAANG. We have to put petroleum jelly around his mouth before and after every meal and even then he still gets red and irritated. Before nap and bed times he also gets either a prescription strength hydrocortisone or a combo of lotrimin, neosporin and regular hydrocortisone, which may lessen the redness and irritation briefly but it certainly hasn’t helped to heal it.

We can’t figure out one thing as the cause. He reacts to carrots, citrus and tomato, it definitely gets worse when he is teething and really really bad when he has any dairy. Do you know what toddlers live off of? Whole milk. That makes this whole “keeping the kid alive thing” a little trickier. As if one child with a dairy problem wasn’t enough, now we have a second. I just don’t get it. Bill and I ate ALL THE THINGS when we were little and neither had any food sensitivities or allergies. We exposed all our kids to a variety of foods at appropriate times to minimize the chances and Rowan, my picky child, remains completely food allergy free. The boys would eat anything but can’t and it is maddening too have to pay over seven freaking dollars for a package of dairy-free cookies or snacks. This week his mouth flared up so bad he looked like The Joker, so I finally broke down and am committing to a month of dairy free for him, let the vanilla flavored coconut milk commence. He does still breastfeed twice daily. I was able to drop the before-bed feeding with no problem for him or myself. His need for a morning and afternoon feeding is still pretty strong so I’ll just be following his cues on when he wants to wean from that.

* Ezra has gone from new drunk baby walk to stealthy, speedy drunk baby walk. He still stumbles at times but he can go FAST, and now rarely, if ever, breaks out into a crawl. {RIP cute and creepy baby franken-crawl, I will miss you.} Now that walking is fairly mastered he has started to move on to climbing. Lord help me, Internet.

* Language. Welp. Not much progress was made this month. He makes a vaguely familiar sound when he’s trying to say a word, like “guk” for his rubber duck, “sss sssk” for sock and other similar things but he still doesn’t say anything discernible. The exception being thank you which is a relatively easier to understand “tink ye” as he hands you toy after toy. No intentional ‘mama’ or ‘dada’ or ‘more’ or ‘uppy’ even though we repeat the words and use the baby signs all day long. Listen kid, I think it’s highly adorable you’re trying so hard to say the name of your ducky but maybe let’s focus on something more practical like “up” so you can stop trying to wedge your body between me and whatever I’m standing next to so that you can hang off my shirt and scream. Forming a u and a p sounds with your mouth seems so much easier than these shenanigans.

His sound effects repertoire has become very impressive though and his receptive language and ability to follow instructions continues to grow every day. He is also starting to point much more than he was last month so I’m holding out hope this doesn’t turn into a ‘thing’. {And I know there are tons of you out there with kids that didn’t make a peep until 18 months or later but when your other two kids were absolute motor-mouths at this age… well, the difference is huge and worth paying attention to.}

To sum up, at 12 months Ezra loved: Meowing, walking, dance parties with his siblings, brushing his teeth, baths, snuggling blanky, eating cake, going to the playground, raiding the cupboards, sneaking into the bathroom to inspect the wastebasket and remove anything he didn’t think should be thrown away {i.e dirty kleenex} and removing and hiding his socks. {Where are all the damn socks baby? No, seriously, you only have one and a half pairs left.}

This month has been one of your most adventurous ones yet. It’s been SO fun to watch you explore the world on two feet. One of my favorite things to do this month was to bundle you up, set you on the sidewalk and just let you go. Seeing your little body bob up and down as you carefully lifted your feet in a kind of slow-paced, very deliberate march, filled my heart up to the very top. You are so happy outside {in the wild. Yep, this is total foreshadowing of your personality isn’t it?} that I’m a little frightened of being trapped indoors with you for the next 5-6 months. We’ll get through though {if the Christmas tree doesn’t kill mommy} {again} and I can’t wait to see you racing up and down those sidewalks come spring. We love you, pal.

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somuchstupidstuffican'tcomeupwithatitleambraindeadblahhhhhhhh

This is how I spent my day internet…

That’s right. With the Monster Closet of Death. Oh God. It is just a wall of eight years’ worth of LIFE. I’m pretty sure I swore I’d never let it get this bad again but you know what happens when you create another miraculous human life? You also accumulate miraculous amounts of shi- I mean stuff. Lots of shitty stuff. Oh crap, I think I was trying to avoid cursing there. Oh well. So you know that moment when you finally clear out the closet but then all of its contents are spread out in gigantic piles all around your house and all you want to do is cry and move far far away from it all? Yeah. That’s what I was feeling here:

…Punctuated nicely by my second born, who kept creeping ever-so-quietly behind piles of junk, jumping up and shouting BOOOOOOO at the top of his very high-functioning lungs. I briefly threatened to look up orphanages in the phone book but then he said “What’s a phone book?” and I lost my will to threaten him further, for the laughing and the wonder at how much different life is for these small people. After MUCH to-do and a little help from Radio-Lab, This American Life and two Bloody Mary’s, I finished…

I know that all said and done it doesn’t look that impressive but trust me on this one. This is a closet that slopes downward under our entryway stairs. It is neither wide nor long enough but it happens to be the ONLY storage space for a family five we have in this entire house. I want you people with basements, extra rooms and/or storage closets full of shit to close your eyes and imagine putting all of that in one tiny, angled walk-in closet. It is the ultimate game of tetris, especially when you have to pull out your seasonal things every 2-3 months and if that seasonal item has migrated to the back GAME OVER CHRISTMAS IS RUINED, ALSO YOUR LIFE.

Balance in the force of the entryway was also restored and we are now semi-ready to put up Christmas decorations next Friday and host our family for Keaton’s 6th birthday..

Well, I’d write more but I need to go get really drunk* so I can effectively rid this day from my memory. I hope you understand, Internet.

*And by “get really drunk” I mean, have a glass a wine and fall asleep on the couch. This is what drunk is to old people.

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Five Randoms for the Internet on a Saturday Night

1. I just ate a giant burrito and my brain has officially turned to mush as my whole body is focused on digesting it. The mushy brain was for a good cause though since today the local Chipotle gave half the proceeds of purchases to Rowan’s dance studio {which is moving in January to a new, non-creepy-70s-strip-mall location} and needs help raising funds for dance floors, which are ridiculously spendy. Starting in January when I go in to watch her I can rest easy knowing my stomach helped the studio.

2. Bill and I ditched the oldest at dance and the boys with grandma and grandpa so we could catch the 11:20am Catching Fire. Rowan has dance from 11-3:30 on Saturdays {I know. I KNOW.}. I usually sit at the studio for a good portion of that time in case we need to go in and record her dances, or just to give her a quick hug between classes but we skipped out for a day date and I felt really guilty for leaving her on her own. However I quickly recovered when I realized the theater had replaced it’s regular seats with barcalounger stadium seating. Umm… kid-free popcorn-fueled entertainment with roomy seats that recline and cushy armrests that I don’t have to share? Rowan, WHO.

3. The movie was really good. It followed the book exactly and I’m not normally one to even notice unless they are egregiously bad, but the special effects were impressive. My favorite part though, was the row of preteen girls in front of me who exclaimed to each other in the loudest whisper possible, “DO YOU SEE THAT?! THEY’RE KISSING?!”, every time J-Law made out with a co-star. It was annoyingly adorable.

4. Ezra came home from his day of being ditched with a fever and his wambulance cry in full swing wherein he actually sounds like a siren. It’s a combo of whine and cry with a cadence of EEEEEEEEoooooooEEEEEEEoooooooEEEEEEEEooooooo. It’s not loud but he drones on and on and onandonandonandon and it’s driving me B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

5. After the kids go down we will continue our current tv binge watch which happens to be Sons Of Anarchy. This show was a bad choice to follow Six Feet Under, which was basically devoid on action and all high emotional drama where nothing and everything seems to happen within each episode. And that ending… best thing I’ve ever watched as far as TV goes PERIOD. Because of this, SoA was really hard to get into, so much so, that as we were winding down on season one I told Bill I didn’t want to keep watching, but then HOLY HELL. Every episode became a trainwreck of a life or death situation and I started to care about the characters {which like SFU, are all incredibly flawed and fairly shitty human beings at times}. It has become so intense that I made Bill also download the first season of Friends to watch in tandem so I can restore balance and get a better TV equilibrium.

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I am both Dumbledore and Galadriel. That's all you really need to know.

There are a few memes going around facebook right now that are bombing my feed. One is the “share x amount of things about yourself others may not know”. I’ve really liked reading everyone’s posts but haven’t participated as a service to my facebook friends because, look, everyone that clicks on my blog already knows way more about me then they ever wanted to. And besides! I bestowed the Internet with ONE HUNDRED things a few years ago so I feel like I’ve sort of covered this already.

The other meme is one that gives you a correlating animal or fictional/non-fictional character based on your Myers Briggs test score. I have taken this test a number of times over the years and my results are a little complicated so I never know how to correctly label myself. {Also, this turned into a giant time-sucking wormhole for me today, which I felt bad about until I thought of all the hoards of you out there obsessively playing Candy Crush. I’ve never touched that game, meaning I have at least 10,000 unused time-wasting hours that most of the general public has already used up.} {Also: Now I want to download Candy Crush. Dammit.}

Anyway! Here’s my Myers Briggs Results Extravaganza!…

I or E {Introvert or Extrovert}: I am roughly 60-65% Introvert each time I take the test and I find this a fairly accurate assessment. I like talking. In general {I talk to Ezra, the cats and myself all day long} and with other people, and also feel a desperate need to keep conversation running smooth {read: silences during conversations give me facial tics} but people as a whole? Exhaust me. I much prefer to communicate by writing {god bless the almighty Text} and for me hanging out at home reading or relaxing is preferred over social interaction or recreation 90% of the time.

S or N {Sensing or Intuition}: I will score 51% one way, 49% the other way and then it flip-flops the next time I take it so I’m pretty much equal parts Sensing and Intuition when I take in information. I gather info by paying attention both to the physical world around me and by analyzing theories through my feelings and thoughts. Again, I think this is accurate which is why taking these tests is hard for me because the answer to these questions never seems clear to me and I curse the absence of a BOTH button. But! Because I know myself pretty okay {and assessing my very reaction to this conundrum} I most often identify as N, Intuition.

T or F {Thinking or Feeling}: Samesies, always within a percent or two of 50/50, using equal parts Thinking and Feeling when I make decisions. Also again, I find this very accurate. I think this trait gives me both balance once a decision is made but a healthy dose of conflict as I try to figure things out as I never know which part of me to trust. Should I go with the facts or my gut feeling? It’s a push/pull sort of thing but I tend to err on the side of Feeling.

J or P: I am not messing around here, I am always {literally} 99% Judging which means I like structure and definitive answers/decisions ALL OF THE TIME. If you are my husband you are nodding your head up and down very vigorously in agreement right now. I do NOT like wishy-washy bullshit and I seriously think my great trial in life is to accept that sometimes there is no answer. Which is stupid, THERE SHOULD ALWAYS BE AN ANSWER. Here. I’ll make one up so I can sleep tonight. I get that sometimes you just need to wait and see but gahhhhhhhhhhhhhh…. I can’t handle it. I’m 100% certain that in the end it won’t be my genetic predisposition for cancer or heart disease that takes me out, it will be not knowing the definitive answer to something vaguely important. I’ll just KEEL OVER. Cause of Death? Not knowing if the home was serving mashed peas or carrots for lunch, RIP, CHRISTY.

So! I’m one of the following based on how I’m feeling when I take this test: ISTJ, INTJ, ISFJ or an INFJ. I’ve taken it every 2-3 years since I was about 18 and I always get the same-ish results, so I’d say it’s fairly accurate for me. I have only taken the “real” test twice, once in high school and once in college.  {And fun fact! I actually scored extrovert in high school which was accurate at that time in my life since everything when I was a teenager was based on social standing and how well you interacted within peer groups, but at the heart, I am not an extreme, but a solid Introvert.} The other times I’ve taken the test it’s been one of the many free online versions floating around out there.

Now. Since I go off the label I get most often, I normally identify as a INFJ, a part of the sub-group entitled “Idealists” and given the moniker, “The Counselor”.  Swinging back around to the internet memes, this is the {fascinating!} list of what I learned about me today…

My spirit animal is: A Tiger. Which is total bullshit because we all know my spirit animal is Monkey Jane. I guess it’s still in the cat family so there’s that.

My super hero equivalent is Batman. {He is listed equally on the internet as an INFJ and a INTJ and since I can claim both I’m using him.}

My LotR character is Galadriel, which makes sense because Cate Blanchett herself is an INFJ and I’m preeeeeety sure they’re the same person. Have you noticed Cate Blanchett age? Yeah. Me Neither. I call ELF.

Tiana is my Disney Princess. Of course she is! She is the best. Some say Pocahontas, {but I say I would never make out with Mel Gibson, even if we were both cartoon characters} others say Cinderella {I do like her shoe choice so this one might work}.

Jean Valjean. SWEET. I wouldn’t have taken those candlesticks though. OR WOULD I? Maybe Myers Briggs knows me better than I know myself…

My Harry Potter character is Albus Dumbledore, Remus Lupin or Lily Evens depending on which chart you use. I chose Dumbledore cause AWESOME.

Obi-wan Kanobi from Star Wars. My street cred with Keaton is gonna go waaaaay up when I tell him this.

Lisa Simpson. Yep.

Game of Thrones: Varys. Soooo I’m super conniving… and creepy as hell… huh.

Walking Dead: Dale. Man! I’m lame. And *spoiler!!!!* super dead.

Aslan. All powerful cat suits me just fine.

Mythical creature: Wizard. I’ll take it, but would have preferred vampire or unicorn.

Jesus. He’s typed a number of ways but INFJ is always one of them and since I’m pretty sure he and Aslan are the same person this all makes perfect sense to me.

The Hunger Games: Rue. There I am, super dead again.

Fox Moulder from the x-files. I don’t know, he was kind of a sucker and sort of irrelevant since it’s 2013. {Ah crap, don’t tell Bill I said that, it might be grounds for divorce according to our imaginary prenup.}

Mr. Bates from Downton Abbey and whenever I read/say Mr. Bates I hear it in Anna’s voice and it’s creeping me out Mr. Bates Mr. Bates Mr. Bates AHhhhhh!!!!!

Dr Doofenshmirtz. Ohmygod I’m putting this one on my resume.

Other facts: INFJs are the most likely to have high IQs, be shy, to read a buttload of books and love to write. Also more likely to suffer from OCD, narcissism and depression.

Real Life INFJs…

Hitler, Osama bin Laden, Ron Paul. WHAT?! I don’t think this list is accurate.

Dostoevsky. Ghandi. Plato. Thaaaat’s more like it.

Congratulations, Internet!! You now know even more pointless shit about me! Since I’m prone to narcissism this couldn’t have been wholly unexpected but just know I’ll probably feel mild to moderately depressed about it later.

Source Source

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Mittens, a learned skill…

Ezra didn’t quite know what to make of the mittens I put over his chubby little fingers before we headed out for a short walk around the neighborhood this afternoon. After unsuccessfully trying to peel them off his hands, which went something like this: “The hell? Get this thing off of my grabbing thingy!” Goes to grab and pull the mitten off. “WHAT? There’s one on this grabbing thingy too! HOW IS A MAN SUPPOSED TO GRAB STUFF?! Huh… I can still knock shit over pretty effectively. Alright, we’re cool.”

So he gave up trying to peel them off and, confused with what to do with his hands, just sort of held them limply out in front of himself for the remainder of the walk:

I might have felt bad but this is the same child who, after I lovingly changed, read and snuggled him gently in his crib for his nap after a rough night of sleep, proceeded to meow for 45 minutes. That’s right. MEOW. As in:

Ezra: Mroooooooowwwwww… Mrrrrrroooooooooow… Meeeeeeeeooooooooowwww… MEEEOOOOOOWWWWWPPPPP

Me, sneaking into the room, laying him back down and covering him up: It’s nappy time, mister. Shhhhhh…

Ezra: Mrooowww! Meeeeooowwww!

Me: Go to sleep, Ezra.

Ezra: Meeowwwwp?

And on, and on and on. So yeah, the mittens brought about a small sense of justice because I’m a horrible human being. But we already knew that.

 

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On My Desk

One of the high points of the room swap was freeing up space in our room for my desk. My mom bought me this desk as a college graduation gift. It was a light in an otherwise pretty shitty time, considering my dad died the last week of classes, just two weeks before the graduation I would not attend due to the circumstances. We went out shopping for it together the following spring, when we had all found just a little bit of footing. I spotted it, covered in old, delicate looking doilies and china knickknacks in the back room of a cavernous antique shop in St Paul. It was {and remains} a turn of the century piece, beat to hell, covered in scratches and stains. I loved it immediately and absolutely, for no explicable reason other than it was solid and it had hope, and gave some of that hope to me. It was to be a place to gather thoughts, to form ideas, to write, to sit down at to use my degree. {Ha!} Or you know, house errant Barbie shoes and Lego heads. {Oh life, you are a funny thing.}

When I brought it home to our apartment on the second floor of a St. Paul Victorian, I placed it in my very own writing room. A room with a circular cutout alcove lined with windows, scratched wood floors and paned french doors. {This is where I ironically point out that when it was just Bill and I we had more bedrooms then we do now with three kids.} It was my office and I cannot tell you how much I loved that room. I’m sure I am romanticizing the shit out of that place but oh, it was so me and I felt more like myself in that room than I ever have before that time or since. For one year it was mine and then… well, it was time to be a grown-up, to build equity {so. much. ha.}, to raise our kids in the tree-lined suburbs, in homes free of giant shards of lead paint just hanging out in the corner of every windowsill. I knew we had to go but still, poor Bill had to drag my 5 months pregnant body kicking and screaming from that room in the city back to our hometown where we created the most wonderful little people on planet earth but man, this place has never been, nor ever will be mine. It has always been a place for my kids, a sacrifice for my family and it’s served its purpose and then some. But that room, with my desk, was home and when we move on from this place I’ll know I’ve found the right house when I feel that again, in whatever form it may take.

Due to our growing family, and shrinking usable space, the desk ended up in our open loft and Bill took it over to work at for his freelance projects for a number of years but then he got a work laptop and the desk has sat, mostly unused for months until last night. It may seem insignificant but this is the first time since shortly after having kids that I have my own space in a room with a door. A door that I can use to shut my {lovely! sweet!} loud-ass offspring out of my room with. Even though it’s nothing fancy. Even though I haven’t cleaned the last 10 years’ worth of junk out of the drawers yet. And even though I can still hear said offspring banging around on the other side, a measly four feet away, it just makes a difference, a big difference. Now I have a place to put my computer {which has been taking up a corner of the kitchen table for the last forever}, my camera {previously housed precariously on the top of a tall bookshelf in the living room}, a journal and whatever books I’m currently reading, which right now are Understanding Exposure, Click magazine, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban {with the kids before bed} and Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. It is a happy place, a hopeful place and mine. All mine.

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