It's August?!

So, summer is getting away from me, from us. It's August! Gah! How did we get here so quickly? I feel like we should have done more. It's not that we've sat on our duffs all summer, because we haven't. (Warning: Shameless Mommy Photo Catch-Up to follow.)

We've just been super busy. School starts in less than three weeks, for them and for me (teacher this go 'round--lot of interesting tales to follow I'm sure). I've bought paint boxes, Crayons, glue sticks, and uniforms. Gigi has a new backpack and lunch bag.

But I'm not ready! I'm just not. I like sleeping late(r), and I heart mornings where it doesn't matter if the kids eat or not.

I want a few more weeks like this:

Time for reading. 

So many books we haven't read. 

I need more six-year old basketball games in my life (though I'm pretty sure Gigi could stand a bit less brotherly love). 

I want more days of day camp and mother's day out. Gigi graduated from her mother's day out class this summer. I may or may not have shed a tear or two. 

I need another night at the downtown fountain. 

Wishes from Poppy are the best. 

I want more nights to dance by sunset light. 

And to practice casting my spells. 

And bask in the goodness that is summertime. 

I want more time to explore my great state. 

Even though my great state can just be miserably hot. 

I need another trip to Wentz pool.  

He needs more time on a diving board. Seriously. Where did all the diving boards go?

They need more time in the palace on the North Mountain. 

I want more bubble daze, before he outgrows it entirely. 

I want to dance like no one is watching. 

And go for a drive in a convertible. 

Man, I miss my little convertible. 

Sigh. 

I need a few more days to cool off the fun way. 

I need at least one more backyard campout (three cheers for a $10 garage sale tent!).

Quality meals by candlelight. 

And the self proclaimed potato chip stealer. 

Backyard campouts are the best because the potty is just an emergency shuffle away. 

And marshmallows taste best when toasted city-kid style. 

I need a few more mornings watching this guy grow up. 

And this one idolize her big brother. 

I'm simply not ready to recognize this new month of August. It's too soon. Vacations await. There's a syllabus to draft, and I still haven't had a sno-cone. I'd love to play catch-up for a little while longer, but quite frankly, the computer isn't so appealing these days. My patio is calling, and I hear there are margaritas in the refrigerator. 

On Turning 37

Just a while ago, I was 16, celebrating my birthday at Sun 'n Fun and anxiously awaiting the day when my sweet ride would get her racing stripes. I blinked, and I turned 37, celebrating my birthday at home anxiously awaiting the day when I would have time to scrub the chocolate milk from the rear seats in my mini-van.

Thirty-seven is so old. I have a mortgage and health insurance. I've had a job that I loved and one that I hated (surprisingly being a lawyer was not the job I hated; ask me about technical writing sometime). My knees crackle on the stairs, and I drive a mini-van. 

Just a short while ago, I couldn't run a mile. I couldn't run a block. A lot of Mondays, I woke with an aching back and instantly dreaded the days ahead. I would shuffle from office to copier to kitchen. Sometimes, I would undock my computer and work flat on my back from my office floor. In short, I hurt.

Just a short while ago, I couldn't swim 200 yards. When I was 16, I could swim 3,000 yards, per day, 5 days a week. When I was 36, I couldn't stay afloat for 200.

At 36, my back hurt. I couldn't chase my son across the yard much less down the block. Sleep was the holy grail. I lived on a diet of processed cereal appetizingly served from plastic baggies while I checked email or fought traffic. My pop (soda for some of you) intake overshadowed my water intake tenfold. My skin was rough, and my hair was falling out.

None of these things were obvious. I carried my extra inches well, coaxed some volume into my hair most days, and medicated with drugs intended for senior arthritis.

At 36, I was a mess--a mess that I had made, for the most part.

I decided to clean up.

I made some changes. The biggest change, of course, was leaving my firm. I'd like to say leaving was the one magical thing that changed my world. But realistically, that's just not true. The truth? I spent the last year making internal changes that affect what I project and produce in the external world. Those internal changes have made all (well, most of) the difference.

At 37, I can run 5 miles and more. I can swim 3,000 yards again. My list of medications sits at zero these days (except for the acne, because my face still thinks I'm 16). I live on a diet of whole foods (lower case), for the most part. Everything in moderation, because who doesn't love an Oreo cookie or five every now and again? I have a tea stash that would make the Queen envious, and my pop intake is far outweighed by water.

I wish I could say I had some magic pill or supplement that I could share (or sell). I wish I could tell you that the past year was super easy and passed without angst. It hasn't been easy. Some days, I want nothing more than to stay under the covers and watch "Kipper" with RJ and Gigi. Some days, I eat the whole bag of cookies and top it off with potato chips. I still hate the way my skin smells like Clorox for days after a swim, and all of these super-charged, super-happy runners left out the part about chafing.

Wheatgrass tastes like, well, grass, and I still hate broccoli. Last month, I threw out my back and nearly panicked. A year ago, I would have been down and out for weeks. Now? I took my muscle relaxers like a good girl and hobbled to yoga class simply to be reminded to breathe.

I thought I'd feel older at 37. I thought I'd be lining up for back surgery. I thought I'd spend my days bitter and exhausted. And then I thought, "I could be wrong. Let's see what a year can do."

I'm 37. It feels great to be 37! I celebrated 37 with my favorite people:

These two little persons are the reason I made some changes. Sometimes, RJ asks me, "Mommy, do you remember when you couldn't run with me?" More often, he asks, "Can I go on a run with you?" 

It feels good. 

This is my daddy. He loves me so much that he gave me his birthday, and now we get to celebrate together every year. I love him an awful lot too. (Hi Daddy! I love you!)

This is my mom. She loves me so much that when I turned 37, she baked me a cake and drove over an hour to bring it to me. I love her more than she could possibly ever know. (Hi Mom! I love you!)

This is my husband. He loves me so much that he tolerated my bad year. One day, he told me to stop calculating everything and "just run!" His advice worked, literally and figuratively, on a number of issues that I had. I love him too, but he'd get embarrassed if I shouted it publicly on the internet. (Hi Hubby! I love you!)

By the way, this is how we celebrate 37 at my house: 

Crazy soccer skills. 

And mad basketball skills. 

So, I turned 37 just a while ago. It feels better than 36. I dig this trend, and I'm anxious to see what I can do with the next year. 

Branson: The Remix

We doubled down this year with season passes to Silver Dollar City. So, with passes in hand and a $44 motel (MOtel, not HOtel) awaiting our midnight arrival, we left behind our worries, cares, quite a bit of yard work, and even more laundry. The Ozarks were waiting!

I hope this photo becomes a family tradition. I love this hokey, pokey little amusement park. 

As a family, we have the unique ability to make a 5-hour roadtrip last at least 7 hours. As a toddler, Gigi has the unique ability to assess whether a road potty has an auto-flusher before the swagger wagon has made the exit. A prepared mommy (as I am) travels with a portable outhouse, or as it's known in our household, the frog potty. Portable. Green. Adorable and functional. Seven hours later, we arrived at our humble yet clean accommodation: the Branson Garden Inn. Conveniently located just 47 minutes away from the Branson Landing in summer traffic on Highway 76, the Inn boasts soap, towels, and a room air conditioner that could freeze the ice pops in the cooler if the room refrigerator didn't. Luxurious, the room was not; functional indeed.

We spent two full days at Silver Dollar City. 

And we noticed a disturbing trend with Gigi--it seems every time she's being particularly adorable, there's a pole. It makes a mother nervous. That combined with her religious views makes me downright anxious. "I don't want Jesus to hold me. Only mommy can hold me. But I played with Jesus. He put a Bandaid on me." 

RJ's faith is a little stronger these days: "Only Jesus can cut steel. Or big cutters. Really big strong cutters." His faith in his Daddy was strong enough to brave his first roller coaster, and my little daredevil loved it. 

Gigi discovered the foam blaster along with her brother. Really, who would think that a giant vacuum system with foam balls would be so entertaining. We spent an hour in there!

My little scientist experimented with putting her pigtail in the fountain at the spray park. 

The conclusion? Fun!

I promise, she was really excited to ride the pink pony (and yes, she is clinging to yet another pole-anxious, I tell you). Many tears were shed as we waved farewell and promised to come again. Of course, Silver Dollar City is also home to a real pony or two, and some goats. One of the things I love the most about this hokey little amusement park is the attitude that most of the retiree park hosts have toward kids and their job. The goat herder (for lack of better description) provided us with one of our biggest vacation smiles when he plucked Marshmallow the goat from her perch, set her on the ground, and softened his reprimand, "Oh Marshmallow, you know I still love you." Many parents (myself included) could learn a lot from the goat herder's gentle reprimand. 

Why yes, he did get a killer haircut before the trip. 

Ah, the red, white, and blue. I love the Fourth of July. 

Gigi loved the little playhouse at the park. I promise she did have on a matchy-matchy cute girlie outfit--just before she piddled on her pants. We were 2 blocks or 45 minutes from our motel on Highway 76, so her striped bloomers saved the day in a pinch. We're OSU girls anyway--orange pants are awesome. 

We rode the rapids!

Toddler troubles: when you're too short to see over the rails. 

Only Silver Dollar City would set up board games and blocks for an afternoon of fun. We could do the same on our patio--but with the patio comes the house--and with the house come the laundry, the dishes, and the vacuum cleaner (and it doesn't have fun foam balls to blast around, though perhaps I should look into something like that.)

He'll tell you he's too big for mommy snuggles. He'd be fibbing. 

He'd also tell you he's too big for the merry-go-round. 

He gave the dunk tank his best shot. 

In addition to Silver Dollar City, we managed to find a grand fireworks show.

We hung out. Sang some songs. Listened to some country music and played some basketball. As always, the swagger wagon was practical and accommodating, particular for a little princess who was casting her spell and sending up pink and purple fireworks just for us. She knew the trip was special: "Are we going on coronation?!" (We live in a Disney World when American little girls know more about coronations than vacations.)

Best seat in the parking lot. He's learning the rules of parking lots these days. Upon seeing a car with a sticker parking in the handicap space, he shouted, "Look!" I braced myself. "They have the password for that parking spot!"

We played some mini-golf. 

Drove some go-karts. 

And ate a lot of Cheetos. My children are like starving badgers when it comes to Cheetos. I had to beat them off the floor scraps and remind myself that the Lord gave them good immune systems as I discovered Gigi munching Cheetos that could have come only from the trash can (a motel trashcan--gah!)

I just love the Fourth of July, family vacations, and fireworks. 

Mommy, Are You Nice?

There seems to be a new(er) movement among mommy bloggers to embrace flaws--to make light of the days when you've locked yourself in the bathroom more than once just to escape little voices and sticky fingers. We joke about how our cars resemble a crime scene with all of the spilled red Koolaid. We fist bump other moms at parties when they admit to noticing their children's allergies require Benadryl more often than not after three sleepless nights preceding. I don't disagree with this strategy for dealing with mommyhood. It's tough job and one for which my qualifications are still questionable.

I do my fair share of lightening the mood when those little mommy moments hit, and I have a lot of them. I feed my kids Lunchables. Heck, today, I sent Gigi with goldfish crackers, Gogurt, and a white flour tortilla so that just once I would get her daily report back saying that she ate "well" instead of that she ate "a little." We haven't seen RJ's real sneakers in a week; he has been wearing water shoes to school with basketball socks.

I'm not perfect. Tee-hee.

Anyone who has raised, taught, or waited in a grocery store line behind a strong-willed child can appreciate this:

The screams. The shouts. The slapping and the biting. To say she is strong willed is to say Mount Everest is a big hill. 

I could call her a little diva and try to cultivate the Attitude. But, I grew up watching Little House on the Prairie, and 15 minutes of Nellie Olsen will convince any mother to at least try to discipline away an attitude like this one. 

At least 10 times a day, I tell Gigi, "Be nice." I tell her, "Pretty is as pretty does, Nellie Olsen." I put her in timeout. I take away toys. 

Nothing helps. She is two years old, and her feelings have outgrown her tiny little frame. Unfortunately, she has a mother whose frame hasn't caught up to her own feelings. By 5 o'clock every evening, tensions are running high. Gigi is hungry, tired, and darn it, she wants to change into her lounge wear--which to a mother should be pajamas, but to a little girl, should resemble Cinderella's ball gown, spaghetti sauce be damned. We argue. We both throw fits. It's ugly, and I don't much feel like fist-bumping another mom when I talk about it. 

Most nights, I re-commit, "I will not yell at RJ and Gigi. I will be nicer and kinder. I will be the type of person I want them to be." Then, a new day has passed, and the children's hour is upon us again. 

Tonight, we went to the pool, and as is par for our course, Gigi pooped. I'll spare details, but she kinda made it, and she kinda didn't. It wasn't a big deal, but as she balanced her tiny bottom on the big potty, she looked at me and asked, "Mommy, are you nice?" 

"Are you nice?" 

My two-year old daughter asked me this to calibrate the discussion that she thought we were about to have. The worst part? I wasn't nice tonight. I was nice about the pooping incident--it really was no big deal. But then she launched into a toddler rage about something I can't even remember. And I snapped. I shouted. I carried on. I lectured. And all the while, my sweet-tempered little man listened intently, because he's too little to understand that a toddler could make Billy Graham a smidge crazy. 

I apologized to Gigi. I apologized to RJ. I want them to know that fits aren't okay, and that if you pitch one, you should apologize. Apologies are remedial, not proactive. I want to be a proactively nicer mom--one who can raise a Nellie Olsen, who in the end, turned out to be a lovely young woman. I'm not willing to embrace this little mommyhood mistake. It's not cute, and it's not something that I'll look back on with fond memories. 

Gigi is a spitfire. A hellcat. She's also my little Nellie Olsen with curls in her hair and ruffles on her bloomers and her socks: 

And so tonight, I'll re-commit, "I will be nice." "I will not shout." "I will be a kind person just as I want my children to be." Tomorrow, when Gigi asks, "Mommy, are you nice?" I will once again pause, and answer just as I did today, "I hope so." 

Our Life Aquatic

We live a life aquatic in the summer. Every day is a pool day, and if the pool is closed, there's a sprinkler running in the backyard. This summer is no exception. We spend a lot of time swimming, me more so than anyone else. About a week ago,  I left the dank indoor pool where we have swim lessons and noticed the sky. Later that night, I tried to describe it to my husband: "I don't know," I told him. "It's like the sky was bluer and bigger than I remember from summers past. I could breathe easier somehow."

It didn't really hit me until later that night. The sky wasn't bluer. It wasn't bigger. The air hadn't suddenly grown lighter. The change was simple and yet unbelievably complex: I'm happy. Really happy. Happy to the core. Every morning is a beautiful morning, and everything's going my way.

It took me a while to dig out. I needed a little help from my friends and from this guy:

He's a heck of a dad (and pretty cute too). 

You want to know what kind of father and husband this dude is? 

He's the kind of guy who spent his Father's Day morning feeding two kids so that his wife could continue in her life aquatic: 

Today, I splashed and dashed. It wasn't a long swim, but it was in open water (scary and kinda gross). It definitely wasn't a long run, but believe me, it felt that way. The first thing I saw when I surfaced? A bed-headed six-year old and a chubby-thighed toddler cheering me on from her daddy's arms on Father's Day. He wasn't home in bed. I wasn't home cooking eggs and bacon. 

Happy. Grateful. (Particularly grateful for the chocolate ice cream he just brought me as I write.).

Today was a good day. 

So was yesterday: 

We picked blackberries!

So very many blackberries. And we made jam and cobbler!

We garage sale-d and hit the biggest treasure trove of super soakers ever found. His life aquatic just got a lot more exciting. 

The sky is bluer. The air is lighter. Happy. Her smile says it. My heart feels it.