Home is...

A new (dormant but revived) obsession has reared its ugly head and I am starting to feel a bit out of control: buying and selling. Property Brothers, stop making this look so damned exhilarating!

In trying to talk myself down from the Ikea bookshelf, into my caffeinated head pops a very wise woman. I have this old friend I could best describe as a free-faller, a willing nomad, a happening-maker, true-believer in fate and faith and in-the-moment-ness.

An Earth-loving, magical, grounded mama, she is everything I am NOT. I am strung-high, prone to let things drive me batty, type-A all the way. Just as the people who allow me to live with them.

On the outside (she wears her insides on the outside) Old Friend is never stressed. Even when she is experiencing stress in her life, she does not appear to break a sweat. Well, she is one of those that only perspires while running marathons. She is one of those easy-going, passionate, full of life, let's-watch-what-happens-next and if-that's-what-it-is-that's-what's-meant-to-be chicks.

OH, how I wish I could think, process and plan like her. I'm just not made up that way, and all the inspiring Real Simple and Oprah articles I scour cannot change that about moi. It's ok. She tells me that. It's ok that I am like this. It was meant to be, me.

She is one of those friends that I don't SEE in person often enough but I think about her and her yogi ways often. What would that calming soul, Old Friend, think of these silly home selling and buying challenges I am mulling over?

She'd tell me that it doesn't matter where you live or where you fold the clothes... they are always going to be there, in unruly piles, beckoning your name. It's not the lane/circle/street that is attached to your house number. Or if your hardwood floors are gleaming or paint-splattered and scuffed by Matchbox cars and dog nails. Can the kiddos play outside and can you go for a peaceful bike ride or run and plant flowers and do you have a window to see the sunrise/sunset and chair to sip coffee or a cocktail? She'd say that my worries about Big Kid and a new school will all work out, they always do... maybe not without challenges, but as G says over on Momastery, we can do hard things. And then in the midst of writing this post, I happened upon this little nugget of wisdom over on A Mom's View of ADHD. And I felt ok again... about the school stuff anyway.

Old Friend would ask are you healthy and laughing and breathing and living? No? Change it.

Such a simple way of framing (in a rustic white-washed wooden mirror framed-type of way) things. Hmmm. Therefore, I am fighting off stress-induced complex migraines pretending to meditate at my desk during lunch. Don't try to call me, people! And also channeling my inner ninja warrior by running as much as possible. Take that muffin top from gorging brownies while scouring Howard Hanna.com, take that T.J. Maxx and Homegoods and Target with your gorgeous baubles and trinkets that must fill my soon-to-be-staged house and my-soon-to-be-someday-new-house.

'WHATEVER!' says my brain and this vision enters:


You need this for your dining room, Jennifer, says my inner Jeff Lewis conscious.

The jogs work as a distraction half of the time. Too bad that I'm constantly running past all of the For Sale and Sale Pending and Sold and (my favorite) It's a Beauty signs... fueling my crazy.

For reals... this real estate has me all in a tizzy. Finally, it's booming, and inventory is short. Panicked, I find myself in the middle of this phrase to the husband: 'We need to catch this hot trend before we're left in the dust...' I fear that I am officially turning into a mad woman. Husband is prying the remote out of my sweaty little hand when House Hunters comes on. I'm stalking David Bromstad's blog for ideas.

The anxiety only stems from the fact that we need to replace the roof and fix old plaster and someone who shall remain nameless needs to organize his work/tool/wood shop junk area in the basement and garage (love you, honey!); That's really only a snippet from the beloved old house that is a never-ending producer of projects. And I told someone who shall remain nameless that it might just be kind of a decent idea to do the projects over time and not all at once because the deadline is looming and... I am not that kind of spouse who would bring that up at a time like this. Ahem.

Here's a start, anyway. New dining room. Those of you that had the opportunity to revel in the tea cozy that was our previous circa 1982 floral covering? Ta-da, no more! I think I scraped off at least four layers of wallpaper. Soothing slate blue makes for a much less dizzying dining experience.

Someone will soon enjoy a family meal in this room as we have made so many memories... birthday cake icing smeard on the chair spindle, fish crackers crushed into the rug, chocolate milk volcanoes into the crack of the table and, hmmm, how exactly am I getting that out?

The danged house might sell for what we think it's worth, or not. Quickly or not until the last second.  I really just need to child lock the vortex that is channel 656 from my viewing options. I am sucked in with every episode of Love it or List It! Damn, you, Canadian HGTV!

Will we find something in our desired area? Where is that, exactly??? Can we agree? The jury is out.

Big Kid says, 'well, you better have another yard sale because we can't take all that old stuff in the basement with us.' Thanks for observation, buddy. But BTW, that's all daddy's crap!

Beetle says of the basement/storage/too-many-toys situation, 'no, no, no - you've messed up my plan. You've got it all wrong, mom.' Well put.

In the meantime, I am doubling my used treasures donation to Goodwill. I am avoiding home improvement and decor shows as much as humanly possible. I am concentrating on being grateful. I am trying to allow the process to happen (managed by me and my spreadsheets and sticky notes and lists) and enjoy the little bits that I can. Because apparently, we are where we are supposed to be.

Here's to you, Old Friend, my northern star. Spreader of fairy dust. You know who you are. So help me, I am trying.

To be continued...

These Are the Days - A Recap

What a wonderful, whimsical week with old pals at the ocean. There is nothing like it, really. Long- ago stories weaved into updated ones, creating new memories, watching - giddy - as our kids play with each other, thinking back to when we were all just kids.

We study in awe as little ones (presto-chango-overnight) have turned into tweens and teens, thinking, I fed you a bottle, I held you when you were tiny and now you have your own Instagram; you're playing softball and acting in plays... Then there are the oohs and ahs over new bouncy, dimple-elbowed babies, thinking - oh. my. gosh. - in comparison, my kids are so BIG, so grown-up.

Meal time is a big, loud, chaotic gathering, each family feeding the crowd for a night. Hot dogs, nuggets and mac and cheese for the kiddos that don't dig the menu. 12 children simultaneously yelling for seconds of something from their mom. Dad's sneaking off during this lagging end of supper that calls for drinks and cigars on the deck.

By the end of the week, parents' patience are shot, kids are tired from sun, sugar and meltdowns and moms start packing a day early. Just when we think that we cannot lug another toddler on our back, shake sand out of something, find the last pair of swim trunks or towel... we think, that's OK. Why? Well, it was exciting and relaxing, fun and comical, breezy and quiet, wild and wet, sandy and soggy and we can't wait to do it again because:



Creating these precious memories is just too good to pass up.

 

Thanks for a reminder of why I love you all so much, friends.

These are the days and I am savoring them.

Cheers and here's to next time!

Rhythm - First Five-Minute Friday

Go.

How do you slow your roll, your timing, your pace?

As self-proclaimed type-A's, raising boys, (add the ADHD)... it's hard to lower it to simmer. We run, run, run all day long. Run to work. Run to lunch. To the Store. Run to get the kids. Run home.

Speed through cooking dinner. Dishes. Mow the lawn. Watch the big kid on his bike. Please don't go past the stop sign and don't stand on the seat.

Chase the little kid on his 'motorcycle' and scooter. Carry both back over your shoulder when he has a melt-down on the next street over. Speed walk, smiling, past the giggling neighbors (older, wiser and been there).

Run through the week, the meetings, the calls, the plans, the laundry, the crunchy floor, the laundry as my good pal puts it, that requires you to load it into not one but two receptacles manually with each and every tedious load. Fold, gets dumped, refold, leave for three days before putting away. Rifle through, can't find socks, underwear, anything.

Ahhh, the weekend. Now the rhythm can be restored. Slow down, savor a glass of wine, a toddler snuggling on your lap, a big kid, maybe, too if he'll agree... but he's too big now, says he.

Sleep in, run a few miles, restore what's yours.

Stop.

TGIM - Best Day Ever

Thank goodness it's me. It's me that is permitted to have this crazy kind of whacked-out morning month with two patient, wide-blue-eyed boys in the back-seat, trying to remember what they did to get stuck with such a bat-shit crazy mom. Thank goodness I am so lucky to get to be their mom.

Last Friday horrifically started to look a little something like this. No joke. Don't ask. I know.

The poor pup had an accident in the kennel Thursday night - yay! It was drying and she had to be gated in the mudroom - boo! She barked for an hour while makeup melted off of my face, trying to straighten fast-frizzing hair. I kept offering favorite chew toys. Don't bribe me, said her thought bubble. Her snugly bed was in there. She didn't care. She was a little mad at me, because well, she is my first-born and still has a little of that puppy separation anxiety. I've always said I should have taken a maternity leave with the sweet girl. Thank goodness we've been able to have her in our family for so long.

Lickety split, it was time to go. I had gotten up early, let the boys sleep late. It was 'donut' Friday. Or as Beetle Bug (he doesn't like that nick-name and sternly corrects me with his full title, all three names) calls it, Dundins DOHnuz. They get 2 chocolate munchkins each (wild and special treat for Big Kid, because this is not on his uschz all-natural menu) and sometimes I say screw it and get a donut too, trust me, last Friday, I could have had a dozen.

Sidebar: Hey - new guy at the drive-thru, please learn the difference between a chocolate cake iced and a chocolate glazed sour cream. Dozens of bug-eyed, wild-haired soccer moms are rolling up in your lane, counting on you, "Preston," or whatever your popular YouTube generation name is, to get the danged order right. Ahem. Thank goodness this place is not closer, because I'd #1 be getting donuts every morning and #2 I'd soon be asked not to return because of my attitude.

Back to the mudroom. Lieutenant Mommy started giving orders to the little soldiers. 'Dudes, look. Sophie is sad that she is not in her kennel and has to stay in the mudroom today. Hello, is everyone listening? PLEASE DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR, because she will run. Got it?  What did mommy say?'

"I dot it, mommy!" says Beetle Bug.

'OK, great. Wait for me...' 

Not, great and not OK at all, really.

Stepping forward, I held the dog back with my left leg. I reached my right hand out to open the door, held it with my right knee, in hopes of ushering the kids out quickly, while keeping the dog in. But to the boys, my 'OK' meant it was OK for them to open the door. The OK in my head meant that I was announcing the start of this process. We had a little miscommunication. Sophie took off like a bullet. Thank goodness it wasn't storming.

Mommy was thinking about peeling tires out of the summer day camp drive after drop-off and heading to the bar. Thank goodness they are not open yet.

Beetle Bug kept asking, 'Mommy, are you happy?' This kid's timing is impeccable. He was pacing from window to window looking for Sophie and saying, eek... 'G-Dang it.' I suggested that he say, 'fiddlesticks.'

"How about 'chicken feathers' like Pete on Mickey Mouse Club House?" I said. "Oh-tay, but I'm mad about it, mom." Thank goodness he didn't swear. Yet.

I grabbed the leash and did the quick sweep down the street and up again in full work clothes. Nothing. I guess she was serious about the mudroom.

All righty, then. To the car, everyone. Big Kid, a.k.a., 'big bwutha', asks if he can bring a mug of chocolate milk in the car. I advised him that I was leery, having had chocolate milk spilled, splashed and slowly dripped onto the back seat of my car so many times, but after making him triple-promise that he would-not-spill-it-no-way, I caved. 'Here's how to use the lid. See, click, click. Open-close. Got it?' "I'M NOT GOING TO SPILL IT, MOM, JEEZ!!!" 

Onward ho, we jogged to the car. I was perspiring (you're really letting me down, Dove), fuming about Sophie's timing. Not impeccable. She really needs to work on that. Big Kid jumps in the car. The lid was not clicked. Especially not click-clicked. Chocolate TruMoo hit everything in the backseat. Blue blankey had collateral damage, (Beetle Bug was not pleased, in fact, I think he may have sworn, but whatever he said, he used the deep, serious voice and pinched his lips together, talking through his teeth - cutest ever) as did the hoodie to be worn by Big Kid to the field trip... tasty, daily dose of calcium and perfect aim. It does a body good. A backseat? Not so much.

Dabbing with the original magic eraser, a baby wipe, I soaked up as much milk as possible. Can't wait to smell this in about a week. The guy at the detail shop is making a killing off of us and our spilled milk. Thank goodness it wasn't dog doo.

But that didn't matter much, because on the next street over, there was Soph, doing her business in someone's front yard. [Neighbor-who-lives-at-the-end-of-the-street following me -inappropriately close- as I went 15 miles per hour, sorry for stopping so quickly to make a right. Um, the dog got out again. And, well, there she was. That was me driving.] She jumped in, scratching Bug's leg in the meantime and lounging out as if on a chaise, across Big Kid. I glanced in the rear view mirror. She met my glance as if to say, 'nice, mom, where are we going now?' I had to laugh. Thank goodness she was OK.

We dropped the dog back home successfully, then picked up some chocolate donut holes. While in line, we played 'who can make the best rewind noise'? Since mommy needed to rewind the morning and apologize for yelling and being so grouchy after Sophie got out, and it was not their fault and she was not mad at them and she was so proud of how calm and collected they stayed during that moment. Thank goodness I get to tell them before dropping them off for the day.

Bug was settled at daycare. As we are exiting the car at day camp, Big Kid says to me, "And, mom, when you get to work, could you maybe clean off this seat, because it's covered in dog hair."  Hysterical. A dog hair and chocolate milk pesto, to be exact.

We ran into one of the day camp counselors on our way up the stairs and she pointed out that Big Kid did not have his camp shirt on. It was field trip day. Oh. Right. Should have guessed. I didn't.

I think she could tell from the look on my face that this was not impeccable timing. Before I could say anything, she offered to find an extra - she had a few in her office. "PERFECT!" I said. "Have a great day!" My mood had improved drastically by the time I reached the car. Thank goodness for kind people.

Thank goodness I took a few minutes to edit this post because the draft from Friday had a lot more curse words and exclamation points.

Happy Monday.

International House of Insanity (Er, Crabcakes and Pancakes)

All citizens of our town enjoying a delightful breakfast at IHOP Memorial Day morning: please let me officially apologize for the ruckus created by our table.

Restaurants proclaiming to be family-friendly: did your target audience matrix include the Toddler-Pre-Pre-Schooler? I'm sorry, but your place is not 2 or 3 year-old child-proof. Traits include lightning-quick reflexes, canine-cringing vocals, nerve-melting neediness, perspiration-causing whininess and full capacity for destroying your place of business when all the parents want is a break from making the pancakes themselves that morning (crepes, actually, I like the blueberry crepes.)

Naturally, if you stick a shiny stand displaying four different kinds of yummalicious maple syrup right on the table, it's going to get messed with. Convenient - maybe, but our 3 year old thought it was some sort of musical instrument, with it's fancy color-coded handles and tinny sounding sign (that's the noise it makes when you hit it; when yanked out of its holder, it's more like a frying pan falling to the floor.) Plus, could the surface area of the tables be any more 'efficient'? You see the crap we carrying into your eatery... with our purses and diaper bags and back-packs and sippy cooler-caddies and Thirty-One organizing totes full of crap to keep our kids quiet during coffee time??? Put a DS and a coloring book on that table and there is simply no room for re-fills of chocolate milk, OK. NO room. How are we supposed to accommodate four plates of grand, grinning griddle cakes?

We chose said eatery because of its many hints that it likes families and children. We'd surely be welcome and accepted. What with its chocolate chip and banana cream wonderments being enjoyed in the commercials by families of four like ours, smiling and laughing. What we did not realize is that number one - other people without excited, expressive children also frequent this establishment and number two - those people left the house, giddy, imagining a relaxing morning filled with delicious breakfast dreams, not a straw or half a crayon or a Skylander whizzing past their head. Sorry. I am truly sorry. When you get the sympathetic 'I get it smile' from parents with older children, you know it has happened. You officially look like you don't have your *stuff* together.

At this point, almost as if on cue, my husband mouths to me: 'Why do we do this?' I smiled and pretended that I had not understood his attempts at miming. Promptly I received payback when out of the corner of my eye, I saw our 3 year-old reach out and touch the behind of the server taking an order at another table... the organic reaction that I produced was one those half laughs/half cries/half gasps. It was not a slap (thank gawd) but more of a slow-motion, deliberate touch, as if to place one's hand on a window or glass at the zoo or mirror in fascination. When I tried to mouth (through laughter/embarrassment/who-knows-what) Hubbie decided that he did not understand my attempts at miming. I hear that there is a mime festival coming to Cleveland this month (Jennifer imitates the action of laughing with mouth open, toothy smile; holding side and slapping leg). Maybe they could help with our apparent lack of communication.

Why are our children the only lovely little wackadoo loonies in the place? We knew we were gambling, having just taken them out late Saturday night with family and then letting them play until they fell asleep sitting up on Sunday. We were sitting at my brother-in-law's favorite restaurant at around 8 p.m. Saturday evening. Barely having napped that day and high on sugar from his birthday party, the 3 year-old was on a roll in that goofy, talking-way-above-an-appropriate-decibel-level-kind-of-way. To be more specific, 'I. DON'T. WANT. DINN-UR! says he. And repeat.

I tried to avert my eyes from the stares we were getting from unassuming guests waiting on their meals. 'Free entertainment?' I fantasized about joking to the couple sitting most near our table. Diners at this joint are only looking to do one thing and one thing only, order the house special and not be disturbed while enjoying it. Oops.

This was our local, very low-key family-owned place that had been around for decades. The kind Guy Fieri would showcase on Triple D. It had a jukebox - light-up button nirvana to a 3 year-old. I was sure that our child would be the one who broke the 1960s gem and we'd get a bill for $2000. In chair, out of chair, in chair, out of chair. Pound. Pound. Pound on the buttons. Extra snugly hugs and rapid fire thoughts recalling his birthday party to keep him still and sitting.... yeah, we all know that does not work. It really only exacerbates the situation and draws this reaction. STOP! LET! GO. OF. ME! Sweating. Unattractive.

Some very helpful teen working as a bus-boy appeared with a high-chair and a booster seat. I laughed and thanked the sweet lad because while our little guy is about a year past fitting in a high-chair, the booster is almost catapulted to the level of dangerous on the restaurant safety meeting agenda. I pictured it being kicked out from beneath us and tripping some server just as she rounded the corner with clam chowder. But, alas grandma produced something very cool from her pocketbook and we were able to divert attention for a bit.

We were only saved but for the grace of a kind older cousin who walked our little man around and let him pretend to play grab-em games for a half an hour. Schwew. And then the food came. He ate one french fry and said, 'I'm gonna be done now, mom.' Exhausting. And sweaty. The stress-induced mommy-trying-to-contain-her-child hot flashes never fail. But the crab bisque was a bit spicy.

I could really benefit from the super-human stretching ability like the mom on The Incredibles. My arms are unusually long. Might save me some back pain from twisting and wrenching around in one swift movement to heft a kid back onto a restaurant chair, chase them through Target in heels and a skirt... how ridiculous must I have looked clomping across the kids section after a much-speedier toddler?

Sidebar: I cannot help it, dear, sweet Target, that my boy is a Houdini and your semi-tractor-trailer carts that he insists on riding in don't have strong enough shoulder straps to keep him in. Oy! Those were built for the Duggars or Kate and her 8 or some family who cannot comfortably fit into a conversion van. Target: you're my BFF and I love you. You get half of my paycheck. Please listen when I say that parents will NOT be upset if you require .50 cents and a minimum child count to use these carts. Think of how much touch-up paint you'll save on from me always banging into random end racks and corners and such... just a thought.

My children sound like animals, but they are truly polite and kind and lovely. They just really don't do well in stores or restaurants. We do much better camping, in the water, at parks, fairs, carnivals, zoos and... oh.

I have a good friend with kidders a few years ahead of mine in age. She'd always say, 'Yeah, my kids don't do shopping...' and I was aghast. She is a genius.

Flip-flop back to flap-jacks... just when I had asked our newly-minted 3 year-old to please stop making chocolate milk raspberries at his brother and breaking Crayolas, our angel server arrived with a huge, genuine smile and what seemed like 15 plates of food, asking if we needed anything else. Turns out she has three boys herself.

Perfect. Timing.

Never again is what we said the last time. Cheers!

Lost Dog, Found Faith Through Facebook

I am a professed tongue-and-cheek, high-expectation reader, elitist user of Facebook. I don't post often (twice today was ground-breaking!). I am a habitual 'liker.' I admit it - I curse at posters that say, 'just got a Starbuck's' or 'just got back from a run.' WHAT ELSE? I am naturally curious so I want to know more. People: I friended you for a reason. Entertain me, here. What happened at the coffee shop today? Did the person in front of you have the most high-maintenance, ridiculous coffee order ever and then trip and spill it down the front of their suit? On your practice 5k tonight, did you snap a photo of the most beautiful sunset ever, meet a very friendly tomcat who tried to keep up with your jogging pace? I know, I am a needy FB user. Plus, when I noticed comments like, 'wow, that was a thoughtful synopsis, Jen'... I realized that a blog would be a better way to for me: always verbose.

The allure was too much to pass up, and the prospect of reconnecting with all of my old high school pals was exciting. But once we all caught up, exchanged information, shared kid and pet photos, the shininess wore off a bit for me. I got bored. There are a few go-to posters for me. Mostly, the like-minded smart asses. They say what I am thinking and instead of posting it to FB, I usually write about it here. I've recently connected with a few colleagues and there are some goodies. Especially the litigators. Now, if you mix a litigator with mommy hood and ureka, you've got star-quality, to-the-point storytelling in organized little bites. Just beautiful, I tell you!

Last week I was able to see the beautiful caring hearts of tons of people I knew and didn't know from Adam through (of all the places): Facebook. I should not be surprised, I am in marketing after all. I know the power of social media, it's just never worked so quickly and powerfully... so personally. I'm always flabbergasted to tears how Momastery's fundraising phenoms work - where there is a fantastic cause and followers are asked to donate no more than $25. The response is 'stop-in-your-tracks, omg, that-is-the-coolest-thing-I've-ever-experienced.' 

Our old girl, Sophia Quicksilver (family name) Shankleton decided that 5:45 a.m. last Thursday morning was a nice time for a run. To our dismay, she wasn't just out smelling around for the other neighborhood dogs, cats, rabbits and squirrels, she was in the mood for a nice 4 or 5 mile run.

You see good old Soph is 13. She's in her golden years - Sophie with her crystal blue eyes and still shiny silver-gray coat. Even though she's up their in age, her attitude has gotten snappier. Isn't that what they say about us humans? Some of us get a little anxious for adventure, sharpen up our sarcasm skills and feel the right to be a little well, cantankerous? Sophie took full advantage of this concept. She must have been reading AARP. Don't laugh, I assure you there is a pet section in that publication.

Lately, she's been testing us. Like she's a puppy all over again. Looking us straight in the eye while we're calling her and slapping our legs and whistling and making smooching sounds and getting louder and louder, while she whips her sassy ears and head around and trots in the other direction. She practiced this scenario last Thursday morning with Jason (and she has only ran from him one other time) and decided to take her sweet time coming back. Between the moment she decided to sprint (crossed two major intersections, visited an assisted living center, spent the day on a friendly stranger's couch) and when we picked her up 20 minutes from our house, the details are sketchy (she's been very tight-lipped about it all), but it went a little something like this:

5:45 a.m.
Jason: Sophie ran. I'm going to look for her.
Me: Drabbit! I'll hurry and get downstairs to watch for her.
Jason: Cannot find her; gotta get to work. I'll be back after my meeting to look again.
Me: Nothing on the way to daycare, from daycare to school and school to home.
8 year-old: 'Mom, you know when Sophie curls up into a really tight ball when she sleeps and she looks like a rock? Well, I just saw a rock in that person's yard, and it really could be Sophie!'
Neighbor: I'll also look after I drop the kids at school.
10:00 a.m.
Jason: Still nothing.
Neighbor: Still nothing.
Me: CRAP.
Jason: DOUBLE CRAP.
Me: Calling the vet, pound, etc... making a pretty flyer for our Sophie.
Jason: Calling the warden, city, etc...
Me: Posting on Stark County Humane Society Facebook Page.
FB Community: SHARE... SHARE... SHARE...SHARE...SHARE... SHARE... SHARE... SHARE...
7:30 p.m.
Friend of Stark County Humane Society FB Page: 'I private messaged you, I think someone found your dog!'
Me: OMG.
Terrifically Kind Dog-Loving Person: I have your dog!
Us: Unbelievable!!! So thankul. Thank you!!!
9:15 p.m.
Sophie is back on her favorite blanket, in front of the chair, watching us, watching prime time TV.

That would have been a lot to recap on FB in its entirety. A little wordy, right? Through the amazingly helpful hearts of pet-lovers on FB, we were able to be reunited with Sophie. Collar permanently on, even though she drives us nuts with incessant the shaking of the ears and the chewing of the tags... she's back. In the words of our almost three year-old: 'I am so gwad dat Sophie is bat. When she wuns away, she dohs many pwaces.' And we are so lucky to have our Soph-the-most back in the place she belongs - home.

Ok, so let's go back to my snarky comments at the beginning of this story. Post whatever you want about whatever you're doing, I'm over being picky about posts ridiculous need for scintillating FB ponderings. I'm just jealous that you are getting a custom-made java in the middle of the day and I am not. Lazy latte drinkers...

A New Man in my Life

I didn't think it was possible for my heart to open up any further, to feel love for yet another man in my life at this moment.

But it broke open like a Cadbury egg. Love oozed out and butterflies burst through. A rainbow appeared. All because of this little itty bitty man, right here.

More pics of baby Xavier at Meghan G Photography.

My sister, soul-mate and best friend gave birth to this miracle of a monkey, Xavier Jeffery, two weeks ago. A blessing and a breath of fresh air (mmm, baby fresh, I definitely inhaled some major new baby scent from him ala Claire on Modern Family)...

He is the reason for the high hopes, toothier smiles, renewed faith in well, faith, life, love and future. Watching my sis blossom overnight into a meant-to-be mom was nothing short of an
aha! moment for me. It just fits her and she is perfect at it. I was a mess my first time around. I was watching her tend and love and morph into her momminess almost in slow motion. It was magic. Our family needed this squiggly little distraction to lull us into pure, unadulterated, enchantment. We've had enough reality over the last 18 months.

My mom took some new photos of the baby on her phone and showed them to me over the weekend. I gasped when one was so clearly my dad's face looking back at us. It's certainly surreal but it all feels right. My dad looking back at us to say that it's going to be ok, through this tiny baby's eyes.

Seeing my boys, Xavier's cousins grin and giggle and be awe-struck at this new little being is intoxicating. No' is geeked out that he is now the oldest cousin on my side of the family. Ro' wants to share 'his very best Skylanders' with Xavier and wonders if he can talk. My sister and I are thrilled that these cousins will grow up together. Three boys with a sprinkle of my dad's spirit and many new precious memories to make.

Xavier - I will print this post for your baby book and will someday tell you in person how you came to our family at just the right time. We loved you from the moment we found out you were a tadpole in your mommy's belly and now that you are here, little frog prince, we are beyond words, over the moon, bubbling over with joy to watch you grow. Thank you for opening our hearts again.

Love,

Your Aunt Ninny