It's raining...

We've been getting some nice rain out here, which is a welcome relief to the parched yards and dying flowers. (Parched yards and dying flowers are no strangers to our family in the Midwest, either.) Last Sunday we got a really nice rainstorm right after Jackson got up from his nap - which is the reason for the lack of pants. But he sure was excited to watch it rain! And he sure wanted one of us to take him out to play in it.

Before and after

When we moved into our new house last fall, there were a number of things we loved. But there were lots of things that we didn't.

First there was the retaining wall that was falling over on itself.

And the dilapidated shed.

And the bricks falling off the front steps.

And - ugh - the seafoam green shutters. I don't like seafoam green.

And, and, and...But we're making progress.

Here's the house we bought. We liked it, but it wasn't perfect. Nothing is. (Note there are no photos of the backyard.)

This winter, we replaced the retaining wall. And put in a new fence.

New wall, old fence. And really old shed. Oh, and a weird little garden next to it that wouldn't grow things.

Chad took this down in a matter of hours. (Note new fence.)

Then Nick built us a shed (covered with a tarp).

We roofed it. And painted it. We still need to organize it.

Our front steps were another story.

They were patchy and holey, and my high heels loved to get stuck in them. We're lucky we never fell down these with Jackson.

So we got our steps fixed.

And then we spruced up the shutters, the door and all the trim. I spent a long, long time at the paint store. This just makes me happy.

You may think I'm done, and we are - for now. But wait til I get started with the landscaping.

Lessons from the old guys on the field

More than ten years ago when Chad started his DC softball career, he was on the very best teams around. Over a dozen 20-year-old guys. Young. Nimble. In peak physical condition. Took the game seriously.

But they could never get to the championship because of all the old dudes. Old people ruin everything.

I remember back then, when I used to play in the occasional co-ed Saturday game, getting so frustrated when we'd consistently lose to the same group of old folks. They were sloppy. Out of shape. They showed up five minutes before game time and it was clear their bag hadn't been opened since the previous week's game ended. It wasn't out of the question for one of them to pull a hamstring, or need to sit down because they got too hot. They were a disaster! But they were unbeatable.

It's funny how things come full circle. Last night Chad's very-old team (by DC standards) won the Arlington men's softball championship with a two-run homer in extra innings.(That's Chad in the red hat - not wearing his knee braces, I see.)

Much like all those "old" teams in the past, they shouldn't have won. They've got 15 years on some of those players. Half of them have families. Most of them don't go to the gym every day. And all of their lives are consumed by something other than Tuesday night softball.

But they've been playing together a long, long time. They know the quirks of their own team and how to work around them. They know in advance how to compensate for the guy who tends to throw too short over to first base, and how to cajole their pitcher to lift his spirits if he's having a rough game. And they see the opportunities: how to place a hit right in the middle of a hole in the outfield, or when to stretch a double into a triple because that right fielder hasn't proven to be accurate and they don't think he would be again.

Maybe this season's champions weren't the most athletic. But you can be sure they were the smartest. So they eked out a win over those 20-somethings, proof that maybe there is something to be said for this aging thing.

Funny what age, and softball, and the importance of really knowing your team can teach us sometimes.

Dance, Dance, Dance

There are some days my spirited child just exhausts the hell out of me. There are many other days that this energy and enthusiasm gives me a boost that I need to bring a smile to my face when I get frustrated or makes me push the gas pedal a little harder when I'm heading to daycare in the afternoons.

When we were back in Illinois over July 4, Jackson demonstrated his love for the King by busting a move every time my mom would turn on her Elvis tunes. (Further proof that this child is a Shragal through and through - that side of the family has had Elvis jokes going back 25 years.)

And ever since then, Jackson will walk up to a radio or an iPhone, proclaim "DANCE!" and put his hands into fists then wait for the music. Sometimes when there is no music, he'll just sway side to side singing, "Dance, Dance, Dance..." in the hopes that he can carry himself through with the thoughts in his head.

Let me preface, I have no idea where these moves come from - the spinning, the gestures, the rhythm...no idea. But, oh man, this little dude makes me laugh. As one of my good friends said, "Save that one for the wedding video."

Choose Life

I know I haven't blogged for almost two months despite promises to the contrary. But sometimes life happens and you find yourself faced with things you'd really rather not deal with, with people who would rather not talk about them. So even though my mind has been overflowing with things I need to write about, I haven't really said a word.

I am lucky enough to have all four of my grandparents still living. Lucky seems like a meager word choice given that I'm 33 years old and they're all at or nearing 90, but suffice it to say I realize I am blessed beyond measure to have both incredible, wonderful memories of my grandparents growing up and the thrill of having them all in my life today. Jackson actually has seven of eight great-grandparents still living, and Chad and I were hardly spring chickens when he arrived, so that's notable.

I have a hard time imagining my life without my grandparents. And I think it's because, no matter what was happening that was important to me, they were always there. Every school play, choir concert, graduation, wedding, Christmas...seriously, they haven't missed one.

No question about it, this situation is rare. I knew this as early as junior high, when many of my friends started attending their grandparents' funerals. And even as a teenager, I often thought to myself, "I wonder if this is the last Christmas/New Year's/fall/fill-in-the-blank I would be able to spend with all my grandparents."

Two decades later, I'm still thinking about those things. What can I say? I'm a planner.

As several of my grandparents went through health issues - colon cancer and heart stints and gallbladder surgery and broken bones and a whole host of other things I don't remember that I probably couldn't legally disclose anyway - one grandparent of mine seemed completely immune: Grandpa Howard.

It's no wonder he's a picture of health. This is the guy who eats cucumbers for dessert. His weight hasn't vacillated five pounds in the 30 years I can remember knowing him. I've never seen him roll out of a buffet, pants unbuttoned, proclaiming in his most boisterous voice, "Now THAT was a good meal!" Grandpa Howard doesn't overdo...well, anything. If you look up "level-headed" in the dictionary, I swear you'll find his picture.

Rumor has it that last year, when Grandpa was diagnosed with bladder cancer, one of his nurses at the Mayo Clinic asked him what medicines he takes on a regular basis. "None," he replied. Ok, she said, trying to kindly jog his memory. How about prescriptions for high blood pressure, cholesterol, diabetes? Nothing. I'm not sure if he's ever even taken Advil.

So there was no question he'd bounce back from bladder cancer. Call it a momentary setback, maybe. A little discomfort, probably. But he'd be good as new in no time. It didn't even faze me. Because Grandpa Howard doesn't get sick.

But a routine check-up earlier this summer found something weird going on in his lungs. They tested again. And again. More appointments. More tests. More consultations. His bladder cancer, which we all thought was gone for good, had spread to his lungs.

Grandpa Howard couldn't be sick. Yet, he is. Very sick. Doctors said the mass in his lungs gave him a life expectancy of 6 months, maybe 12. Chemo might extend this to 18-24 months, but the prognosis just is not good. The cancer is very aggressive.

If faced with this dilemma, I would have weighed the options, given it careful thought, and likely said "sayonara" to life while spending my kids' inheritance on an around-the-world cruise. And no one would have blamed me, just as we wouldn't have blamed him for making peace with this diagnosis and using his final days to reflect on a joy-filled life.

But Grandpa Howard is taking a different path. At the age of 89, despite assurances of countless rotten side effects and no real promises, he's decided to fight this. He starts chemo next week. Maybe that gives him another Christmas, or another harvest, or another birth of a great-grandchild (hope he's not counting on me for that one right now because that ain't happening). Or maybe he just doesn't feel like his days here are done. I don't know, and I haven't asked.

Regardless of the reason behind it, I can't help but feel like there's something so admirable in choosing life when it's hardly the easy option. Even if the chemo proves too much and he needs to stop treatment, which we would all support and understand, he took a stand. He chose life. And that tells me that - clearly - our family patriarch, after decades of nobleness and dignity and a legacy that will live long after any of us are around, still has something to teach us.

Chatterbox

Does anybody out there know how to talk toddler? Because this seems very important.

Rat race

The weather this past weekend was perfect, and we were looking for things to do outside. Since it's free to get into the National Zoo, we headed over one morning to spend a few hours looking at the animals before lunch and naptime.

Jackson loved the small mammal house, and he was absolutely enthralled with the monkeys, prairie dogs, porcupines and ferrets. (It was hard to tell whether the shrieking was coming from him or from the mammals in the exhibit.) His favorite were the muskrats - one in particular who he raced back and forth with for several minutes. Though it was only 10 a.m., they both seemed to wear each other out fairly quickly. I thought to record this after about five minutes of the back-and-forth, but you should get the drift.

 

Summertime, and the livin' is easy

There are lots of things I hate about the summer. Mosquitos, for one. And humidity. And having melon served at every gathering because it's in season. I hate melon.

But there are lots and lots of things I love even more about summer. Daylight past 8 p.m. Pick-up baseball games and trips to the park and not having to bundle up when you walk outside. Those nasty hot, humid days that end when the wind picks up and a cold front ushers in a quiet, beautiful summer rain.

And porch swings. Ohhh I love porch swings.

I've got lots of summer memories from my life on the farm. In fact, thinking back, most of my childhood memories are from the summer; you wouldn't know it's only three months long. I remember the four of us being sent out in the morning and not going back in until dinnertime. We caught bugs, counted cars, dug lots of holes, built treehouses, and exhausted our imagination. Unbelievably, we seemed to manage all of this without any injuries. Ever.

These days, I don't live on a farm. Not even close to a farm. And that's not going to happen anytime soon, if not ever.

So this year, we brought the farm to me.

Several months ago on my birthday, when we had just made the decision to buy this house, Chad bought me a hammock - or the promise of a hammock - to put in the backyard I had always wanted. Problem was, I only half-wanted a hammock. I could foresee Jackson getting tangled up in it when he was playing and having to mow around it and lying there swatting bugs in it and the idea became less appealing. So I never bought it.

About a month ago, on one of those first few summer nights where Jackson had gone to bed but it was still light out, I came out to our porch. Sitting here decompressing and reading a book, I looked up to soak it all in.

Rungs.

Sure enough, someone who owned this house within its last 60 years must have loved porch swings too, because there were already rungs screwed into the studs. It was almost too easy to decide that I needed a porch swing for my birthday present. But we're talking about me...so of course it wasn't.

I looked and looked and looked - and then Chad looked - for the perfect fit. I finally picked one. And picked the stain. And ordered it. Two weeks later, this beauty was sitting on my front steps (bless you, online shopping).

This little lady is small - as Chad said, "It can only fit two Tolleys" - but, man, it's awesome.

Last Sunday night, we had some friends over for a cookout. The second Jackson went to bed, it started to rain, and we had to move the party inside. Until Chad brilliantly suggested we go out on the porch, so there the four of us sat - protected from the downpour but still enjoying the smell in the air and the cool breeze on our skin - and chatted for three more hours.

Around 11:00, our friends went home. And the rain stopped. And the days got hot again. And we went back to work after the long weekend, and life got more complicated. But the summer has stuck around, seemingly forever. Something tells me that a lot of memories will be made on this porch, and it makes me happy that even though I can't totally replicate my childhood for Jackson, there are some things we can do that might make him look back in 33 years and smile.

Hello, goodbye

For a few months now, Jackson has mastered a few basic words - notably "ball" and "more," in that order.

But lately, he's been Mr. Polite whenever we see the neighbors, leave daycare or chat with a waiter at a restaurant. And usually it's an emphatic, "BYE!" followed by a wave that goes from one shoulder to another along with a few blown kisses and another "BYE!" for good measure.



Between being raised by Midwest parents and spending hours with Hispanic women at daycare, we're not sure where the Southern drawl comes from. But we think it's charming nonetheless.

Like father, like son

Let's not get in to how or why Chad is playing football again, despite the fact that's how he blew out two knees. He is.

On Sunday night, Jackson and I had a few moments to spare before bedtime and went down to the football game at Jackson's future high school.

Those of you who know this kid know that he doesn't sit still for anything so I was bracing myself for the equivalent of a track meet to catch up with him. But God love him, this kid loves football.

To prevent future injuries, which came during the quick start-and-stop of the receivers, Chad was on the line - meaning that he needed to know how to snap and play center. Jackson was absolutely riveted by this concept, and stood on the field mesmerized as all the players ran around him to practice.

The best part: as the guys all moved their practice further down the field, Jackson was clearly trying to figure out what his dad was doing - and then figure out how to do it himself. The next picture I took looked like this.

On the way out of the stadium at halftime, we got stopped by a woman who was running the track. She asked which league was playing and how her husband could get involved. "I'm looking for something for him to play where he isn't going to get hurt," she said. For her husband's sake, I kept my mouth shut.

I just don't know what to do with myself...

It's no secret over the past six months I've been crazy busy. I've been working at work and working when I got home and having a toddler underfoot means no time to do anything productive on the weekends. And those of you who know me well know that I hate to be disorganized. The fact that we moved in October into a not-very-spacious house and I still had boxes of artwork and photos and things for Goodwill made me c-r-a-z-y. Well, crazier.

The good news is, when you've worked someplace as long as I have, you tend to rack up the vacation. So when I checked earlier this month and had 38.5 vacation days I was required to take before February - or lose - I decided that it was time to put those days to good use and take myself a little staycation. No kid, no husband - just me, the dog and a list.

I'm not going to lie. I was absolutely clueless as to what the heck I'd do for a whole week. But by the time Monday morning rolled around, I had a list of projects broken out by day. Watch out, world, this lady is motivated and on a mission.

Yesterday, I slept in, got a haircut, made lunch and spent two hours cleaning out our bedroom closet. As a bonus, I found some old necklaces and instead of tossing them into the giveaway pile I spent 10 minutes shining them up and now they're good as new.

Today, I was up at the crack of dawn with the little guy, had an appointment for the HVAC serviceman, did one hour of catch-up work emails and then spent more than four hours cleaning out the guest room. It was by far the biggest project yet to be tackled and gave me some time to find a few gems, like this from my high school graduation.

Fortunately, I now have better control of my hair. And Janice has better fashion sense (but wasn't she cute?).

On the agenda for the rest of the week: clean out the attic, the storage shed in the backyard and make the coveted trip to drop all these somebody-else's-treasures off at Goodwill. But I'm not going to lie, I baked some fun in, too - lunch with a good friend tomorrow, a massage on Thursday (from a gift card Chad gave me in 2009 that I still haven't spent) and perhaps a trip to the zoo on Friday with the little dude and his cousin.

While three days ago I was worried I was going to be bored out of my mind, it's only Tuesday and I feel like my vacation is over. I'm thinking next time it might be nice to take two weeks - one week to get things done and the other week to read a few good books, go for some long walks, take a road trip with the windows down, and turn off the email. Wonder if I'd have a job to come back to if I pulled a stunt like that?

Week in review

Saturday, May 5: We buy a new washer and dryer. [Cue the heavenly chorus!] Special ordered so they will be delivered in one month.

Sunday, May 6: My dryer breaks, which I realized after leaving what I thought was a dry load of clothes in there for a week. Thankful for sisters, one of whom took the moldy load home and washed it - three times - to get the smell out.

Monday, May 7: Repairman comes to fix the dryer. Jackson bites a kid at daycare.

Tuesday, May 8: Jackson bites another kid at daycare.

Wednesday, May 9: I meet Michelle Obama. She was really nice. And tall. And thinner in person.

Thursday, May 10: Our townhouse basement floods due to a screw-up of either the tenant or the plumber, causing about $2,000 in water damage. Since neither will admit to it, guess who is getting stuck with the bill?

If Day 7 doesn't end on a high note, I give up.

Bite me

When Jackson moved up to the toddler room at daycare, we got a note about what to expect with the new schedule, what his days would look like, and a little about new behaviors he might encounter.

Please know that biting and hitting and scratching are more common with this age group because the children are not verbal, meaning they cannot use words to let another child know “don’t take that”, “that is mine”, “I don’t like that”, etc.

I was so sad, the idea of my little buddy getting hurt by a bully while I was oblivious at work. I didn't want to think about him growing up and having to deal with fending off kids who didn't want to share or play nice. I think I'd just rather he stay little forever.

My fears were confirmed earlier this week, though not in the way I anticipated. On Monday, I walked in at 4:30 to pick up my sweet boy. One of the teachers walked up with not one but two incident reports. First one was pretty standard: Jackson was running and tripped over his shoes and got a fat lip. It happens. Second one was a bit more unexpected:

What?!? Seriously? It was only Monday and I had already been unofficially given the Worst Parent of the Week award at daycare. Where the heck did this come from? Jackson has never bit us when he's been mad or upset. So they were going to talk with him about "no biting," said it was a phase, and we put it behind us. Maybe it was because another kid accidentally pushed him. Jackson wasn't the bully; he was just defending himself!

This theory lasted until Tuesday, when I got this:

And this:

Crap. One day shy of his 17-month birthday and I get called in for an emergency parent/teacher conference. I was so upset about this last night I was almost physically sick. (Fortunately, I've got a good friend who had a biter, and she knew just what to say to make me feel less bad.)

While I was getting him ready this morning, we had several conversations that went something like this, "Jackson, look. There's a shark on your shirt. And the shark has teeth. But the shark does not bite his friends." And, "Jackson, today you're going to go to school and you're going to play outside and eat lunch and take a nap but you are not going to bite the other kids. We do not bite." In one ear and out the other. I might as well have been telling him that he was going to an all-you-can-eat pasta buffet for dinner.

So then Chad and I trotted off bright and early for a little appointment in the principal's office. The best news of the day, they didn't kick him out. Didn't even threaten to. We actually had a fairly productive conversation about what could be causing this and what we can do at home to help the teachers, especially since he has never done anything like this with us. (And we did hear one comment that is consistent in every single meeting we have ever had with doctors, nurses, teachers...which went something like this: "Jackson is a very active boy. He has a LOT of energy.")

Then we left. And I waited. And waited. And waited for the end of the day. If I walked in to another incident report I was going to lose my mind.

I walked in and the head teacher did not go straight to the clipboard. Good sign. "Jackson had a very good day today." Halleluiah. My prayers worked. Or maybe that conversation this morning did the trick. Whatever or whoever is to thank for this, I'm grateful.

Here's hoping this phase was only two days long because I can't handle this scarlet letter much longer.

Shameful shirking

Earlier this week, I read a great column in the Wall Street Journal, "What They Don't Tell You At Graduation." While the piece takes a tongue-in-cheek approach to graduates - my favorite pieces of advice being "marry someone smarter than you" and "I am not asking you to cure cancer. I am just asking you not to spread it" - there's one tidbit I just can't get out of my head. It's #8:

Don't model your life after a circus animal. Performing animals do tricks because their trainers throw them peanuts or small fish for doing so. You should aspire to do better. You will be a friend, a parent, a coach, an employee—and so on. But only in your job will you be explicitly evaluated and rewarded for your performance. Don't let your life decisions be distorted by the fact that your boss is the only one tossing you peanuts. If you leave a work task undone in order to meet a friend for dinner, then you are "shirking" your work. But it's also true that if you cancel dinner to finish your work, then you are shirking your friendship. That's just not how we usually think of it.

Ohhh...boy, oh boy. I so do this. I honestly can't count the number of times in the last several months I've done this, there are too many. Sure, I've got excuses - at one point, I've literally been doing four people's jobs - but just because you have excuses doesn't mean what you're doing is excusable.

I've skipped important lunches that would catch me up with friends. I've totally forgotten birthdays. I've completely neglected emails, and walk dates, and girls' nights, and promised meals for new moms. I've been speeding into the parking lot minutes away from daycare closing time at 6:00 even though I'm supposed to be there around 3:30 to spend a few hours with my little dude before bedtime. I haven't cooked dinner since...March?

Quite frankly, and pardon my French, I suck. There's just no other way to say it.

This isn't even my boss's fault. He's actually a crazy nice guy with a young family who would be the first one to tell me to get my priorities in line. But here's the problem, because the author is right: nobody other than my boss throws me peanuts. (Even though Jackson throws just about everything he can get his hands on, we've not yet gone the peanut route.) So I work like hell at the office to the detriment of everything else. Good thing I don't get a performance appraisal as a mother or a friend because sometimes I worry I'd get a big, fat "does not meet expectations."

All that said, the article came at a really unique point in my life, as I transition to a new role at NRF and away from a department I've been a part of for almost 10 years. (More on that another day.) I'm anxious to get started, sad to leave my diehard team ... and thrilled to be putting something new together. But as I move into that position on Monday, I've had this weirdly refreshing perspective that I'm free. I get to start over with this work-life balance thing. A whole new team. New expectations. The rest is up to me. Instead of working more on work, I need to be working more on life.

So when I leave a mound of emails to spend time with my kid, take the dog for a walk, put together a meal that doesn't require something frozen going into the microwave, and spend an evening with my husband that doesn't involve me sitting on the other side of the room with a computer on my lap, I just have one request: somebody, please, pass the peanuts. Or just smack me upside the head with them.

A day in the life...

This one is for all the stay-at-home moms I know...And I don't know how you do it.

A man came home from work and found his three children outside, still in their pajamas, playing in the mud with empty food boxes and wrappers strewn around the garden. The door of his wife's car was open, as was the front door to the house. There was no sign of the dog.

Walking in the door, he found an even bigger mess. A lamp had been knocked over and the throw rug was against one wall. In the front room the TV was on loudly with the cartoon channel and the family room was strewn with toys and various items of clothing. In the kitchen, dishes filled the sink, breakfast food was spilled on the counter, the fridge door was open wide, dog food was all over the floor, a broken glass lay under the table, and a small pile of sand was spread by the back door.

He quickly headed up the stairs, stepping over toys and more piles of clothes, looking for his wife. He was worried she might be ill, or that something serious had happened. He was met with a small trickle of water as it made its way out the bathroom door. As he peered inside he found wet towels, scummy soap and more toys. Miles of toilet paper lay in a heap and toothpaste had been smeared over the mirror and walls.

As he rushed to the bedroom, he found his wife curled up in bed in her pajamas, reading a novel. She looked up at him, smiled and asked how his day went.

He looked at her bewildered and asked, 'What happened here today?'

She smiled and answered, 'You know every day when you come home from work you ask me what in the world do I do all day?

''Yes," was his incredulous reply.

She answered, 'Well, today I didn't do it.'

Mr. Personality

Jackson has parent-teacher conferences at daycare. Chad thinks these are ridiculous ("Congratulations, your child is walking..." he says when I ask if he wants to attend another one), but I find them mildly helpful. Why? Because I can ask his teachers things I wouldn't bring up to a doctor that are burning a hole in my mind.

At our semi-annual conference this go-around, I heard all about how Jackson can turn pages of a book (yep), help take off his own shirt and pants (check), and understand a few words (uh-huh). He's doing absolutely everything a 16-month-old should be doing.

But here's what I was really wondering from a woman who spends her entire day with kids his age. Did Jackson have more of a temper than other children? Was he more demanding and feisty?

When I asked the question, there was a pause. Pausing during parent-teacher conferences means that the teacher is thinking about how to respond. And that's never a good sign. The teachers there are always direct and no-nonsense. Oh dear Lord...what was I going to hear?

After a moment, Miss Patti, who I just absolutely love and who treats Jackson like he is her own son, starts to speak very slowly, as if she's choosing her words carefully. Then she says the kindest thing I've ever heard:

"I think...well...I think maybe Jackson is just very smart. He was telling us when he was really young what he wants."

And then this sweet, mild-mannered Hispanic woman closes her eyes, points across the room, and replicates his I-want-this-right-now chant:

MAMAMAMAMAMA!

Yep, that's my boy.

This is a child with a very strong opinion, and I have no doubt that someday this assertiveness will be one of my favorite characteristics. It's bound to get him into trouble but I like to think that if we raise him the right way, this personality will help him make really good choices, too. Until that day, oy vey, it's exhausting. But in the moments lately where he has tested my patience, I think of Miss Patti's perspective, and it makes me smile.

He's not cantankerous, he's smart.

Bless you, dear woman, for giving me another viewpoint. Even if you only said it because you thought it would get me through the crazy days, thank you. You are worth every penny.

My second child

Surprise! Earlier this year, I had another baby.

I'm only half-kidding.

Since January, we've been knee-deep in this video contest called "This is Retail," which is supposed to tell the stories of the people who work in our industry. Much like a child, this thing has taken YEARS off my life. I created it, I baked it for a little while, and then it came to life. And there is no putting that genie back in the bottle now, even though sometimes I wonder what in the hell I was thinking.

It's true that someone from Monmouth is in the running, which is a little town near where I grew up, but that's not who I'm rooting for to take home our $25,000 grand prize. (Galesburg people, please don't kill me.) I'm voting for this small businessman who does an incredible job showing how retail powers the economy.

I love this guy. I'd shop in his store if I was closer to it. And, umm, if I was a runner.



So my ask: Get your little self on www.retailmeansjobs.com/vote and vote for my buddy Jim through this Sunday (ten times per day per email address). I love this guy and his story. Of the 2,000 YouTube hits, I swear I've watched this video like 100 times.

I'd like to say it all ends here.

But as with having a child ... the first three months you don't even remember, the second three months are kind of a fog, and then it just continues to get better. Until after a year or so, you forget about all the sleepless nights and the nausea and the complete immersion into something bigger than you are and you're stupid enough to decide you might be willing to go through it all again. So stay tuned for more info on next year's contest once I get through this insanity.

Totally tubular

Apparently nine ear infections in as many months is a sign that it's time for tubes. So a few weeks ago, we went to an ENT who confirmed that was our best course of action. In between scheduling the surgery and our "go" date, Jackson got another ear infection, which I took as a sign that we were making the right decision.

The surgery was this morning at 8 a.m. and we were back in recovery with him at 8:20. It took Jackson awhile to get back into sorts after the anesthesia but after a long morning nap he was back to his old self.

Since it was a beautiful day, we got to play outside a little this afternoon - and Jackson got to play with his Easter gift from his Grandma and Grandpa Davis. The little mower blows bubbles but I hadn't refilled it, though Jackson sure didn't care. When they say kids bounce back fast after surgery, they're not kidding!

We've got spirit, yes we do...

I'm reading a great book called The Happiest Toddler on the Block, a sequel to The Happiest Baby on the Block, which I buy for absolutely every expecting mom I know. The jury is still out on the toddler version, though if Dr. Karp can prevent meltdowns the way he claims then he's been worth every second of time I've spent reading.

In Chapter Two - and that's only as far as I've gotten so we haven't cured meltdowns yet - Karp talks about how children fall into three temperaments. Most are "easy," a few are "shy," and then a small portion are what he calls "spirited."

Parents usually know they have a spirited child because they're the 'more' kids. More active. More impatient. More impulsive. More defiant. More intense. More sensitive. More rigid. The No. 1 recommendation to parents with this toddler personality type: Keep them active. Get them outside to play -- a lot. These kids need to burn off their energy and work through their moods, experts say. They also need firm structure to keep them safe and stable -- and lots of patience.

Jackson sure sounds like a spirited sort, but since he's our first I can't be sure. Maybe all kids are like this, I thought. Dr. Karp suggests a test to determine your child's temperament:

Go to an uncrowded place, release your child's hand, and pretend to turn your back for two seconds. (Keep a close watch out of the corner of your eye.) What does she do? Stand there? (Easy.) Grab your coat and cry? (Shy.) Run away without looking back? (Spirited.) The answer will give you a pretty good reading of your child’s temperament.

Here are the pictures we took yesterday at the Cherry Blossom Festival after we let Jackson out of his stroller. Sense a pattern here?

Food fight

I've mentioned before how there are just some things that I just don't understand now that I'm a parent. And there are some things that I understand exclusively because I'm a parent (ie: drive-thru pharmacies).

Jackson doesn't read books. At ALL. It's not that we don't try. In fact, every night at bedtime we pull out a book and read it, but all he wants to do is open and close the pages. Finally, we've identified a book that Jackson seems to like: The Very Hungry Caterpillar. The little holes in the middle of the pages distract him long enough for me to read each page.

But as I was reading Jackson his bedtime story tonight, in between this incessant opening and closing of pages, I had one of those perplexing parent moments. What the heck kind of lesson is this book for a kid?

Let me sum this story up for you: A little bug wakes up, is hungry, eats for seven days including absolute JUNK on the sixth day, is so full he wants to pop, goes to sleep, and wakes up beautiful.

Uh-huh...If it was that easy I'd weigh ten pounds less.

Has anyone ever considered that there's an obesity problem in this country because too many kids read this book when they were little?

Then they do

Ok, I admit it. I am not a "stop and smell the roses" kind of person. I try. And for a few fleeting moments every now and then I do stop to take a quick break to soak in absolutely everything that's amazing with my life. But for the most part, it's run run run.

On the weekends, I wish for 15 more minutes of sleep when Jackson wakes up. Then it's time for breakfast. Then constant entertainment until lunchtime. Then lunch. Then he naps, and I scurry around to get dishes, vacuuming, laundry, yard work, and anything else done during those sacred two hours. (Who are these people who read books during nap time and why am I not organized enough to ever be able to do that?!?)

Yesterday, while I was hustling around during Jackson's midday snooze, I straightened up our room, folded two loads of laundry, made and ate lunch, cleaned up the kitchen, washed the dishes, and then decided to get a head start on dinner while Chad was out working in the yard.

I threw some music on and was buzzing around with a sort of efficiency that only belongs to the parent of a toddler. I was halfway through a song before I stopped to listen to it.

Now you've got time that's all your own, you've been waiting for so long for this day to come...Then they do. 

Ah, Trace Adkins. I hadn't listened to this song since before Jackson was born. A song about a parent who is constantly wishing for their kids to grow up...and it happens in the blink of an eye.

Oh crap, I realized. Someday - probably someday really really soon - I'm going to realize that my little guy is totally self-sufficient and I'd give absolutely anything to have some of these days back.

Secretly, I sometimes wish for teenagers. Or grown-up kids. At this rate, I'd even take the elementary school ones I could toss outside on a nice day with a "don't come in 'til dinnertime" charge. I would give anything to sleep in, or read a magazine while my kids played, or get any iota of housework done without one eye constantly planted on my child who has no fear of anything. Parenting something this mobile is completely exhausting.

But on the flip side, someday I know the ear-to-ear grin I get just for walking in a room will disappear. And little things like riding in a wagon or singing the "Itsy Bitsy Spider" won't elicit shrieks of excitement. Instead, someday - probably sooner than I'd like - I'll get a hurried wave out the door and maybe an obligatory hug before heading out for an afternoon of who-knows-what. I'll have time then to cook dinner and read books and nap. I'll have time for me.

I'm sure I'll love that life, too. But I'm sure I'll look back at these unpredictable, crazy days fondly, and wish for them every now and then. So during these times when it feels like we're on a treadmill from 8 a.m. until 8 p.m., I tuck a few special moments away in my memory for those days I'll actually be able to sit and think about the way it used to be.

I just hope I don't lose my mind between now and then.

Mending wall

When Chad and I moved in to our new house, we knew we were going to need to replace the fence. It was so old it was rotting - you could see right through to the neighbors. So when we got our tax refund back, we called our trusty landscaper, bought some fence panels, and scheduled the work.

Fine. Done. End of story.

Until I got an email at work from Paige, our landscaper. It said only this, "Ellen, please call your neighbors" - and included a phone number.

Oh, $#&!^. I thought. That is the last thing I want to deal with. Some pesky neighbors sticking their nose in the business of what we are doing on our property. I braced for the worst. And then I had Chad call them. (Yes, I'm spineless that way.)

Turns out our neighbors have a dog, and we're all lucky they were paying attention when they sent Fido out in the middle of the day to go to the bathroom and they had no back fence. (Oops. Ok, should have given them a heads' up about this little project.)

But here's why they were really calling. These neighbors, who we have never met because they live on another street, said they agreed the fence needed to be replaced. And - no questions asked - they wanted to contribute toward the cost. (What?!?!) Chad told them the fence was on our property and we had intended to pay for it ourselves, but they insisted. Fine, he said: if they wanted to chip in a little we would welcome it but it was not required. They asked us to call them back when we got the final bill.

So Chad called today to give them an update on the cost. Because 1/2 of our fence covers their backyard, they reasoned, they would pay us for 1/4 of the cost. In other words, $350 right back into my pocket.

As Robert Frost would say, "Good fences make good neighbors." And in this case, our neighbors are very good indeed.

Three is a crowd

A friend of mine with two kids (2 & 5) was looking for a babysitter in a pinch, as she and her husband had conflicting responsibilities after work.

Could I watch the girls on Tuesday night from 6-9, she asked? She'd drop them off and pick them up. I offered to feed them dinner - and she actually took me up on it (eiks). While I was putting on a confident front, I was a little skeptical. All day, I psyched myself up for this. I mentally prepared for meltdowns, accidents, separation anxiety, food fits, and everything else under the sun.

Around 6:45, Chad called to say he was leaving work. I was just sitting them all down for dinner - one was in a high chair, one taste-testing the milk (skim vs. whole) and another was carefully selecting which dining room chair to sit in. "You ready for three kids?" he joked.

I'm fairly certain he didn't like my answer.

It was a breeze. Three hours passed faster than they have in ages. All the kids played together, ate with no complaints, Jackson took a bath and the other two watched a movie until their mom picked them up. It was actually fun. (Did I just say that?)

Don't count me in for another bambino anytime soon - and I'm under no false assumptions it would always be that way - but in a fleeting moment I actually considered that three might be better than one. If I could only fast-forward through the first rough months, you might actually sell me on it.

Weekend update

This is embarrassing. I haven't updated this blog for almost three months. (This is what happens when an active toddler and a crazy job collide.)

And this is also embarrassing.

Jackson goes to daycare every morning looking cute and crisp. On the days we have somewhere important to be (ie: the doctor) or I actually take a video of him (as was the case here), Jackson will soak through or dirty the clothes he's taken in and be redressed in something too tight and too short.

So while you watch his latest accomplishment, and his pride over the ability to move the little balls from here to there, please keep in mind that he doesn't walk around with skin-tight clothes as often as this may imply.

I'm going home

Earlier this month, we went back to Illinois. (Rachel and Connor went with us. Two moms and two babies on a flight means that most people got out of our way - and prayed they weren't seated next to us.)

True to form, I took almost zero pictures. Actually, I took about 11. But these are my two favorites...

Playing with his first tractor

Learning how to play the piano