My Littlest Love

Mac, the melter of hearts.

Mac is two today. My baby.

I'm trying to be all chipper and breezy about it. Because this is a happy occasion! Truly, I know that in my heart. I do.

Our little Mac is strong, smart, healthy, and growing in leaps and bounds. I feel so very grateful for his light in our lives. And that's what we're celebrating today.

Yep. Just another birthday, people. No need for tissues, thank you very much.

I mean, who wants to be that sappy mom, anyway? That mom is soooo cliche.

Of course, I did consider regaling you with the frantic, quick-as-a-flash way in which he entered this world. Or delving into the five days we spent at the hospital, wringing our hands as his tiny body fought off a raging fever. Or how I knew we had a gentle soul in our care.

But I thought better of it. Those are our stories - the tender, newborn details tucked away at my center. Stories that will be with me until I pass into the blue someday. Maybe even after that.

The ultimate ski groupie. Next year, bud!

They're branding, those first days and months when your child is fresh from the other side, their untrained, bleary eyes focused always and only on you. Once a parent, you're marked forever.

And now, I have a baby-turned-boy. That's definitely what he is, too. I guess you could say he's more toddler than boy, but still, as I watch him scrunch up his face just now, one chubby hand on his round tummy, the other scratching his equally round head, I see a boy.

He throws food like a quarterback. He shrugs like a cool dude. He has this really disturbing habit of sounding like Darth Vader at random times. He talks about Captain America with utter reverence (FYI: 'round here, The Cap' is called He-Whoa. Translation: Hero). He imitates our speech like a super-adorable, non-feathered mynah bird.

Basically, he's packing his bags for college.

Aaaand, there I go again. Getting ahead of myself is one of the things I do best.

Yes, I know that his chubby Fred Flintstone feet are still firmly planted in Littledom. He's only two, for crying out loud! It's just that I'm overly sentimental and reflective these days. Let's chalk it up to some alarming 30-something phase, though I have a feeling it's a permanent affliction.

So, maybe I'm over thinking it, this birthday of his.

The littlest one gets all the big hand-me-downs!

I feel lucky, that's what all the fuss is about. Being Mac's Mama is one fantastic job. He's roly poly; he's smooshy sweet; he's a daily dose of double rainbow. Nah, make that a triple.

This little boy with the big, blue eyes, who can turn me and The Russian into piles of mush, is now two.

Happy birthday, my littlest love. I love you all the way to the moon and back.

*And now I will have my sappy moment. Shamelessly. Because this Mama's earned it.

:)

Ski Legs

Blackcomb Village

Up in the rugged and forested Coast Mountains of British Columbia, you'll find Whistler. It's a picturesque, multi-season resort town, though most people would be familiar with the snowy side of things.

Whistler was home to the winter Olympics in 2010, and its clearly a sweet destination for all activities involving boards strapped to ones feet.

I happen to like having boards strapped to my feet.

My brother and I grew up on skis, our parents throwing us at the mercy of the slopes at the ripe old age of two. We spent countless weekends crisscrossing hills, cutting our way through powder, and circumnavigating tree wells.

But as I reached the perilous 20-something years, my ski legs were forgotten. And let's face it, the sport isn't cheap.

Back in my pre-The Russian days, one lift ticket equaled two nights worth of drinks and taxi fares (give or take a round of shots). If it didn't involve jeans, liquor, and/or loud music, it didn't involve me. At least not on my precious weekends, when the city of Seattle and my girlfriends beckoned.

Of course, there were far more obvious and far less boozy reasons to talk myself out of skiing. Like getting up crazy early, throwing on a million sweaty layers, braving perilous roads, and weathering frigid temps. Oh, yeah - those reasons.

So, a decade came and went. But every year, when the snow began to accumulate in the mountains, and I'd hear outdoorsy people talk about pre-season training, I'd feel the twinge of guilt. Well, first I'd smirk, because seriously, besides Olympians, who trains for ski season? But then, after the smirking part, I'd feel guilty.

Then I met The Russian, and we bought a house. Then we moved to another house. Then we had kids.

Skiing was shelved, yet again.

But this year, my parents decided to resurrect this shared pastime of ours. They booked a condo and made plans. And I felt ready. Finally, after so long, I wanted to ski.

The nine of us packed our cars to the Crap-I-Can-Barely-See-Oncoming-Traffic brim and trekked north into Canada.

And what a trip. It snowed non-stop for five days. Non-stop. Five days.

Every morning, when we woke to the crystalline glint of snowflakes filtering down, I guarantee that my squeal was louder than all three of my kids' combined.

We sledded, we skied, we window shopped, we made snowmen, we went hot tubbing, we threw snowballs, we took walks, we sat and stared out the window at the ever-climbing drifts.

Authentic winter wonderland bliss.

On the real-world side, we wore our clothes way past their prime (coin operated laundry machine three floors down), we threw hissy-fits because our ski boots were too tight, we forgot half our gear back home, we got snippy with one another, and we locked ourselves in the bathroom for long, peaceful spans of time and claimed intestinal distress.

Because vacations aren't perfect and that's what happens when nine bodies are crammed into a small space for six days. You find a little peace wherever you can. Even if it involves hiding in the washroom (that's Canadian for bathroom, btw...I'm nearly fluent).

But none of that mattered because Whistler rocks. Every season is glorious up there, and if I had to pick, I'm not sure which would be my favorite.

This trip, though - this one goes in the memory cache. And that's saying something, because I have a truly terrible memory. Ask The Russian.

Even though Mister has been skiing for years now (his Papa has taught him), I skied with him for the very first time. We went down both green and blue runs, and we took the chair up to the top of both Whistler Mountain and Blackcomb Peak. He was amazing, and I was so proud.

Honeybee gave it a shot, too! Skiing between her Papa's legs or my legs, she freakin' owned that bunny hill. Owned it.

And, of course, all that snow. All that family time. All that wintry awesomeness.

None of us wanted to leave. But we did, and we're home now. Back to our snow-free lives.

I'm okay with it, though, because I've got my cache. And The Russian is already making plans to return next year.

Long story short: my ski legs are back, and they feel pretty good. Skiing's a sport I can share with my family now. Gotta love full circle endings. :)

Walking back to the condo after dinner.

Olympic Plaza in Whistler Village.

Hiking to the sledding hill.

The Aspens on Blackcomb resort.

Best Snowman of All Time.

Mister, the master of the pizza pie.

Little Ambitions

I can be an organized person. Sorta.

Mostly, this organization occurs in fits and starts and only ever in certain areas of my life. For instance, I'm pretty good at long-range planning and timelines, both making them and sticking to them.

This ability stems from my days as a copywriter and marketer. Both fields require a basic aptitude for keeping things on track. And, just to toot my own horn a little bit, I wasn't bad.

But my life is a lot less structured these days, and timelines aren't as pertinent as they used to be. In fact, most of what I used to do in my past life (i.e., working outside the home) is only loosely relevant to what I do on a daily basis now. Aside from getting dressed, of course. Still manage that one, though I do wear far fewer thongs and way more hoodies. Thank God.

Organizationally speaking, the other thing I'm pretty good at is list-making. I can list the hell out of a party, dinner menu, or vacation. I fill sticky notes up and down, front and back. They line our kitchen cabinets like Christmas cards in December. Except they pop up randomly throughout the year, and look a lot messier.

The practical things, like sorting through closets, bills, kid toys, and paper piles generally fall outside of my jurisdiction.

The Russian tackles most of those unsightly beasts, which is probably best because he's the purger in our family. I will think of a million reasons to hang onto something as ridiculous as a decade-old lotion sample from Nordstrom. Because it was free, and I might use it in five years.

But not my husband. No, The Russian is beautifully merciless. Which is why he often does his dirty work in private, and unbeknownst to me. Because, obviously, I would totally eff it all up by digging crap out of the garbage.

So, being super amazing at list-making and timelines is great and everything, but there's WAY more to being organized than that. 

In fact, I feel like organization is one of those pivotal matters that effects a whole slew of greater issues. Like core muscles serving as the foundation for a strong body. Not that I'd know much about core muscles, either.

But here's the kicker: my primary goal isn't organization.

Before you throw up your hands and call me a ditz, let me explain. Organization is a necessary and welcome part of my process, even though its not the pot of gold at the end of my rainbow.

Living with Purpose, that's my goal. (And yes, I know it sounds cheesy.)

What does living with purpose look like? Um, your guess is as good as mine. In fact, our definitions would probably be quite different. To each their own, as they say. All I know is that I want to feel more in control of this blur of a life.

Between homes and jobs and pregnancies and babies and school and a massive remodel, our years have gone by with not a lot of forethought. And it's all been exhilarating and amazing, and I know every young family can relate, but dang. Dang. Non-stop for seven years.

So, I want to think things out a little more.

I want to keep my brain sharp and pursue my creative interests; I want to instill a sense of wonder and adventure in my children; I want to explore the world; I want to thoughtfully love my family.

On a smaller scale, I want to spend more time planning our meals and cooking. I want to write every day with determination. I want to make nice things for people. I want to take a few cross-country trips before the kids get too old. I want to get my favorite pictures up on the walls of our home.

I'll start with those little ambitions and go from there. And maybe my version of living with purpose will end up being a long line of little ambitions. Which sounds good to me. Manageable goals make sense.

But let's be honest, its a freakin' banner week if the kids' bathroom doesn't smell like pee and our feline doesn't attack the mail lady. How am I supposed to accomplish the rest - the dreamy, perfect world, purposeful rest?

Well, it helps that living purposefully isn't finite. It's a work-as-you-go kind of thing. A one-day-at-a-time kind of thing. A take-a-deep-breath-and-clean-out-your-fridge kind of thing.

Because it looks to me like being organized and being purposeful go hand in hand. By cleaning up my everyday life here and there, I might have a better chance of accomplishing some if my little ambitions.

Case in Point: the cake. Making a nice thing for someone.

For the first time in eons, I made a cake from scratch. As in actual flour, sugar, and eggs in a bowl.

I should tell you that I love cake mixes. I use them frequently. I use them because they're easy and pretty damn good. And that's never gonna change.

But I've had the desire to bake a cake from scratch for a while. There's something really special about made-from-scratch cake and frosting.

It was delicious. You can find the recipe here. The kids and I even did a fun, little heart-thingy with sprinkles on top.

But sprinkles aside, I'm serious when I say that I want to work on organization and living purposefully. I'm also serious when I say that The Russian and I often feel as though we're barely keeping our heads above the crazy current of life.

So, for right now...today...I'll focus on cleaning my kitchen and doing the laundry. I'll finish this post, and after the kids have gone to bed tonight, I'll work on my story. I may even polish off that bottle of wine, because the recycling really must go out in the morning. Just doin' my part.

And I'll think of the lovely cake that we made for my mom's birthday.

A little ambition realized.

A good place to start. :) 

Stone Cold

Team Player (as defined by Dictionary.com): a person who willingly works in cooperation with others.

Basketball, baseball, soccer, volleyball - I've tried them all. Granted, this team sport stint took place between the ages of six and 14, but still, at the urging of my parents, I dabbled.

From this, I learned three things: I'm a barely passable volleyball player, being tall does not guarantee all-star success, and - most importantly - not everyone is a team player. And that includes me.

First, let me say that I'm not a terrible person. Really, I promise. Even non-team players have hearts.

Second, I'm generally a cooperative person. I like working with people to accomplish worthwhile goals.

Third, I've participated in all sorts of groups and teams. So, you can rest assured that I haven't been shirking my duties as a functioning member of society.

But from the vantage point of a woman straddling her mid-30s, I can see the pattern. All in all, I tend to steer clear of mass fads and organized groups - classes, boards, councils, and team sports. They make me feel claustrophobic and rebellious, the urge to oppose or ignore nearly overpowering.

The reason for this personal quirk is elusive. Like my eye color or my penchant for Mochi and marzipan, this team-aversion thing is just another part of me. A fickle part I suppose, as I'm currently involved in several groups.

But back to sports, because, believe it or not, this post actually has a point (even if it is nice to ramble a bit).

While some people thrive in that competitive world of coaches and goalies, rules and referees, I do not. Back in my team days, I did the opposite. I withered. I forgot the rules and lacked the drive to "kill" my competitors. I bit my nails and dragged my heels, and I'm not speaking figuratively. In short, I hated it.

It wasn't until my late teens and early 20s that I found my athletic niche - physical endeavors of the solo variety. Skiing, kayaking, yoga, running, biking, hiking. Sports that pit a person against him or herself, against nature. Much more my style. And I excelled at them.

It just so happens that The Russian is similar. And so, in our home, we don't watch many pro sports games. Football, basketball, soccer, baseball. Its not that we don't like them, we just nothing them.

But lately, my views have been changing. Maybe its because I'm a mom to three kids who are entering the age of sports craziness. Maybe it's because I'm a celebratory kind of gal, and I love an excuse to get together with friends and family, have delicious food, and get excited about almost anything. Maybe its because my city has finally been bitten by the pro sports bug. Whatever the reason, I'm warming up to the idea of team sports.

Not for myself - Lord no! I still prefer the solo stuff, and I still largely avoid most organized groups. But in the last few years, we've become Sounders fans. And this last season, I kept my eye on the Seahawks, who, as you probably know, won the Superbowl.

The Russian even took the day off work to watch the game. Mister spent the morning making sweet, little decorations in blue and green. We had my parents over, made some tasty apps, pulled some pork, and spent the afternoon lounging on the couch and screaming at the television. It was awesome!

So, raise your pint glasses, folks. Lets hear a round of cheers for the Seahawks and the Sounders! For people kicking and throwing balls at one another! For the the softening heart of a stone cold non-team player!

Just don't ask me to join your adult baseball team. I will laugh at you. Seriously.

The creative genius of Mister.