Lovely Mess

The days have flown like clouds, 

all helter skelter and beyond my reach.

How else would these seven weeks 

have passed so quickly?

This felt like yesterday:

About four days before delivery day.

In the car and on the way to the hospital!

And then, 

he was here.

Just like that.

Birth days are fleeting.
Brief and radiant eyelets in time.

They are my most favorite days.

It's a beautiful trauma, 

fighting to bring your child into the world.

Exciting, scary, gory, ruthless, brilliant.

You, the mother: 

the conduit for a new, little being  

constructed of matter and magic.
A harrowing passage.

Birth days are truly powerful. 

You meet this fresh, little person,

the one you knit together.

And right then and there,
your family begins anew.

It's epic, this change.

It's also hard.

Honestly, it's really hard.

If you have other kids, 

they feel pushed aside.
Tantrums and general mayhem ensue.

Your partner might feel the same.
Not so much with the tantrums,
but you can sense their expectation
that normalcy should soon return.

Fact: in the beginning,
there's no such thing as normal.

Venturing out is no small feat,
even without your baby.
Nor is it as cathartic as hoped.

Thanks to leaking mammary glands
and the irritatingly deep-seated desire
to hurry home, personal time
is on hiatus.

And sleep.
You know that glorious thing
where you rest your aching body
for a period of time?
Yeah, forget about that.

And chores.
Seriously, who has time
for laundry and vacuuming
when there's a tiny human
attached to your chest?

As the newly anointed mother 

{whether for the first or fourth time},

you are worn thin.

Your days are foggy.

Your breasts hurt.
Your temper is short.

You cry easily.

You're still wearing maternity clothes.

And everything is spattered
in breast milk, urp and/or poop.
Everything.

But all that aside, 

the relief is palpable.

Your baby has found you.
You have found one another.

And he's just as he should be.
Thank God. 

All the aforementioned craziness
- this new and unhinged life of yours...
it's all part of the 

lovely mess.

There is no dry-run.
This. Is. It.

Days such as these are numbered,
the truly golden ones.
You are experiencing
some of the finest.

So let go of the ridiculous notion that
having a baby and being a mother
is orderly or perfect.

Notions drag you down.

It's something I'm working on,
shedding my notions.

If I could live within these days forever,
with all their hectic imperfections,
I surely would.

Because I've birthed my baby,
and he's heavenly.
Chubby and squirmy and soft.

 All that matters is him and this tribe of mine.

Welcome earthside, love. 

We'll show you around.

Here and Now

The end is near. 

I can feel it in the heft of my stomach.

I can hear it in the labor of my breathing.

I can track it in those hollow, in-between moments 

when I've gone somewhere else, 

my surroundings forgotten 

and those around me left wondering 

where I've disappeared to for a beat of time.

Until this 39th week of pregnancy, 

little guy has hardly slowed my roll. 

All the pregnancies have been this way.

Not that I don't fight through 

a brutal first trimester, 

or experience the 

holy-bloody-hell-what-is-happening 

of labor and delivery.

But I know how good I've got it: 

baby-making comes pretty dang easy to me.

There are always the crap times, though.

Mine are the first fifteen to twenty weeks,

and, now, this last bit. 

Today was extra special.

And by special, I mean shitty 

{save for the morning, 

'cause I hung out with a good friend}.

Basically, I hit a wall with the Littles.

There was a lot of yelling and not a lot of patience.

There were tears and an over-abundance of time outs.

I can blame it on this nasty cold, 

which has turned my head into a throbbing snot-ball.

Or I could chalk it up to the pressure 

of a belly that's ready to explode outward, Alien-style.

Either work.

But I still feel bad.

Because they're such good kids. 

Seriously. 

They're really, really good. 

And I don't want this last week 

of mothering only three 

to feel negative.

For my sake and theirs, 

I want these coming days

to soften the blow of what's to come.

Like a cozy, mommy hug that sticks to their ribs.

Baby's arrival is a wonderful thing, 

but it's also a new thing. 

A world-rocking, huge thing 

- one that comes in an adorably small and fussy package.

So, despite the cold and this quickly failing body,

I'm going to dig deep,  

because my tribe deserves it.

And I deserve it, too -

 to leave this time of my life behind on a high note.

To love my people, the ones in the here and now,

with my whole heart. 

I'm not sure what that looks like, exactly,

but it sure doesn't include another afternoon like this one.

Perhaps a few more bedtime stories, 

an extra treat in the lunch box,

a lovey snuggle with The Russian. 

Definitely more hugs and kisses.

Love for all. 

That, I can handle. 

And baby will feel it, too.

I just know he will.

So, in this home stretch of 

last-minute plans,

endless pee breaks, 

and round ligament pain, 

I will shoot for love.

Love for my tribe and the here and now.

As For the Rest

The countdown has begun. 

Baby #4 will join our family in approximately fourteen days. 

Baby #4. Fourteen days.

I am simultaneously thrilled and exhausted just thinking about it.

There's so much I want to do between now and then:

weed the garden patch,

fill planter boxes, 

start my cutting garden, 

organize my garage, 

plan my picture wall, 

make frozen dinners, 

keep up on laundry, 

finish my manuscript, 

get the nursery in order. 

Pretty sure I could go on and on. 

It's not as though my life stops with the arrival of this newborn, 

but anyone who's experienced this epic life event knows that, 

in some ways, it will. 

At least for a time.

So, I'm focusing on the manageable things: 

helping Mister and Honeybee complete their science fair projects, 

making Mac's birthday special,

finding a few one-on-one hours for each of my Littles, 

scheduling a date night with The Russian.

As for the rest...well, we'll see.  

In the meantime, 

I'll sit here for a moment and feel this baby 

stretch his legs and roll about.

He'll hiccup for a bit and then settle down for a nap.

We'll share this body for a time longer 

and watch the weeds grow. 

See you on the other side. :)

The Feels

Looking back is a mixed bag, isn't it? {photo from our
epic road trip in late June}

Our winds have shifted.

It's a new year: gloriously even 2016.

We've moved into a new home: one that is big and requires very little work.

We've left the city behind: suburbia, thank you for the lovely welcome.

This ol' body is cooking up a new life {yet again}: baby #4, due in March.

These are Holy Crap sort of changes, right?

Indeed.

Sometimes it feels as though all that defined our little family unit 

has morphed into something else.

And yet, if I put everything down on paper, 

it doesn't look so grandiose. 

Besides the big-ticket items 

{hello, home purchase and in utero addition}, 

a lot of the changes have been little.

Subtleties only we would notice. 

What feels life-altering to one person is a footnote to another.

Isn't that often the way of things? 

It can make one feel invisible.

Or, one could find comfort in the knowledge that
all the dramas and trivialities 

are simply blips on a larger-scheme map. 

Like toddlers playing side-by-side, 

we're together but we're not always aware of what the other is up to.

Each and every one of us is experiencing 

the glorious ups and heart-breaking downs of life. 

And we're doing it collectively. 

Sort of.

It's not that the people in our lives don't care. 

That's not it at all.

Sometimes, the details we pass along are unclear. 

Sometimes, there isn't time for a good face-to-face chat.
Sometimes, your people have  their own priorities to sort out.
No offense.

Then, suddenly, the stars align,
and a chance to catch up presents itself.

And all of your Big Changes pour out

 in a clumsy monologue over the phone 

while you're waiting in the drop-off line at school. 

Or you're scurrying around the kitchen 

trying to scratch up something for dinner.

We get pretty good at boilerplate updates - 

a down and dirty synopsis of all that's happened of late.

Which is just fine, because living is super busy work,

 and expecting another person to get mired
in the details is a lot to ask.

But doesn't it feel really good
to share your heart from time to time?

To sit down and get all those unadulterated feels out there.

To hear what your confidant has to say.

I think, as a parent in the trenches of raising so many Littles, 

those authentic, sharing moments are much harder to come by.

On most days, a phone call
or text exchange is all I can muster.

But that doesn't mean the urge to connect and share isn't there. 

It's just buried under other, more pressing
{and sometimes mundane} things, 

like meetings and swimming lessons and Costco runs. ;)

But I'll take what I can get, and today, this post has helped.

It's given me the perspective to see 

that what I thought would be a detailed, purge-style post 

about all that transpired over the preceding months

is water under the proverbial bridge. 

Best to separate the chaff from the wheat.

So, here's my synopsis, brief but heartfelt:

~ The reno, listing, burglary, and move of last spring were all pretty terrible,

 and I wish to unremember them altogether.

~ We left all that crap behind by taking an epic road trip with our kiddos. 

Over three-thousand miles logged in eleven days! 

It was fantastic,
and I came home pregnant.

The view from the top of Vail Mountain.

~ We crashed at my parents' place over the summer, 

and they graciously let us take over their home 

as we house-hunted and decompressed.

Summer at the 'rents house.

~ Much of the summer and early fall is a blur of fatigue and nausea, 

but somehow we managed to celebrate a milestone anniversary
and buy a wonderful home in a beautiful area!

A night in downtown Portland, OR, then off to the coast. 

Hiking near our new house.

~ We spent our first-ever Christmas at home. 

No travel, no overnights - nada.

It was magical, and we can't wait to do it again.

~ I'm now well into the third trimester with
our fourth Little - a boy!
He's highly anticipated, 

undoubtedly a rock star baby, 

and likely to make a rush appearance 

in the first couple weeks of March.

Our social media announcement for the baby.

And now you're caught up. 

Thanks for the chat and the feels. :)

Mea Culpa

Disclaimer:

I wrote the following "Mea Culpa" post in the early summer of 2015.
The words were very hard to get down
- so hard, in fact, that I was never able to post them.

Now, as I sit in front of the Christmas tree in our new home,
my heart is light. My family is settled and well!
And so much has changed since last spring - thank God.

But I still feel this post deserves a place.

So, here it is - in all its morose glory! ;)
I'll catch you up on more current happenings as time permits - promise!


~~~

I've been M.I.A.

Mea culpa.

In the distant future,
when my stress level and blood pressure have taken a nose dive,
I might look back on this time with an odd sort of fondness.

It's not likely, but maybe.

In any case, these last four months have been a lot.

Nothing we can't handle, but still, a lot.

There was the entire kitchen demo and the remodel,
the listing of our home and subsequent burglary,
and the countless hours of packing.
Now, finally, the move.

And here it is, the last night in our home.

The beds are broken down, and the three Littles are camped out in sleeping bags.
Our possessions are boxed up and lining the walls.
There's an unsettled feeling to the air - an empty, flighty way of things.

It's been this way for weeks.

We've danced around goodbyes, but the time has come now,
and I'm terrible at goodbyes. 

I'd rather write a note or a blog post. 

Honestly, I don't revel in the sharing of tears.

I'm the one that lets them loose in the dark, after the house has fallen silent.
When I can feel them on my own terms and no one watches.

And the process of leaving this home has laid us low.
Consequently, there have been many tears.

This, the building that welcomed our children into the world;
this, the never-ending project that taught us patience and resilience;
this, the street that brought us dear friends and Americana memories;
this, the neighborhood that fed our urban dreams.

Leaving is a wound that will only heal with time.

We are onto new, uncertain things. Better things, I hope. 

But still, I smell the familiar sea air tonight; I hear the hum of the City.

I know our future has so much promise, but I ache for this loss. 

~~~

Love: Ballard. 

Love: 12th Avenue Northwest. 

Love: a tiny, pink home that shaped our adult lives. 

Be well, little house, we have loved you.

The Salty Darlings

Back in January, I attended a baby shower.

I've attended literally countless of these celebrations {as we all have},
and they tend to run together in a  homogenized blur of pastel burp clothes,
trivia games, lactation implements,
and hand-held appetizers.

But not this one. 

Oh no, dear reader, this particular baby shower was different.

Obviously, the mother-to-be was the star of the show. Obviously. 

Buuuut, I'll admit my attention was stolen by a not-so-pregnant runner up.
A stand-out of the dessert variety, in fact.

Here's the simpleton truth:
I was dazzled by the Browned Butter and Sea Salt Rice Crispy Treats.

*Dazzle factor, in review: Browned butter. Sea Salt. Marshmallows. 

And not to get fanatical, but lumping them together with their lack-luster
Rice Crispy Treat cousins is hardly fair.

Instead, I've dubbed them The Salty Darlings
{which makes me giggle and The Russian roll his eyes}.

So, back to the baby shower.

Amidst the small talk and tissue paper,
I gobbled up five of the neatly cut squares.
Then, I asked for the recipe.

And since that miraculous day,
I've managed to find four separate occasions
which "required" the making of a double batch.

Let me restate: four double batches in two months.

Things are clearly getting out of hand.

Therefore, I feel the need to pass this most coveted recipe along (here it is).

Maybe by popularizing The Salty Darlings,
I'll stop craving them.

But probably not.

Choose Love

Love, 

let's talk about it.

Specifically, my love of brie. 

Also, bacon.

And....basil.

Maybe some waffles and maple syrup, too.

Hey, here's an idea: 

let's just pile all those things on top of one another. 

And voila - a crazy-brilliant combo is born.

I want it, of course. Urgently.

You should, too - trust me. And guess what?

The Ridgeback Cafe & Market invented this bacon/basil/brie-awesomeness, 

and they call it the Triple B.

It gets better.

This enchanted palace of waffles and crepes is just a few blocks from our house. 

Given my complete lack of will power, 

this could be dangerous.

So, The Russian and I have resolved to go only when it's just the two of us 

{which means practically never}.

Reason being: kidlets.

In the case of small, city-type cafes, sometimes five can be a crowd 

{an adorably rambunctious, syrup-slinging crowd}.

But back to love.

As you may know, Valentines Day is around the corner.

During this brief 24-hour span of time, sentiments of adoration are often expected.   

Typically, these sentiments involve spending copious amounts of money on 

sub par chocolate and drooping roses.

Or...you could choose to forgo the conventional offerings 

and opt for waffle-bacon-brie-basil bliss.

Yes. Do that. 

This Valentines Day {or any day, really}, 

choose love...

...the sublimely delicious kind. 

Because I'm pretty sure bacon speaks louder than words, anyway.

Blood & Tears

If I had a quarter for every day that I've found a tape measure in a kitchen cupboard...

...or duct tape on my walls...

Of course it would be right there.

...or a screw driver on the counter...

...or a huge, cardboard box with a sink or lighting fixture in my living room...

...if I truly added those days up, well, what's 365 by eight?

I guess I'd have about 2,920 quarters.

{Hmm...maybe I should be counting imaginary lattes instead of quarters. 

These years have demanded more coffee than I could get my hands on.}

As mentioned in my bio, we live in an old house. Built in 1938.

Back in 2007, our desire to live in the city overruled common sense.

We ignored major issues - such as livable square footage {860 sq. feet} and the general condition of the structure {who needs windows that open?} - in order to live in our dream neighborhood. 

I wouldn't say we purchased a lemon, 

because we've turned it into something so very different over the years, 

but it was dang close. 

This one cracks me up! 'Cause if it weren't for the tape,
I definitely wouldn't notice the plaster that needs patching. ;)

But seriously, we had absolutely no idea what we'd gotten ourselves into.

The Russian, and any friends/family who would lend a hand, 

spent the better part of a decade on this transformation. 

Almost eight years now to be exact. 

{Though we did take some time off after Mac was born.}

But truly, the rest of those years were game-on.

And this was formidable work. 

Random remodel stuff in equally random places.

These were big, Big, BIG projects, like, oh...

removing seven layers of old siding and putting up hardiplank, 

replacing ALL the windows, 

cutting massive holes in our walls for new windows, 

building two decks, 

knocking down a chimney, 

rewiring and replumbing everything, 

removing the octopus-shaped furnace, 

building a stairwell and stairs, 

and finishing {from the foundation up} the entire basement.

In the burning heat, driving rain, freezing cold. 

Before and after his eight- to sixteen-hour works days.

The Russian did it all. And not just to make things prettier.

This remodel saved our asses, because shortly after we bought our home, the recession hit. 

We had no choice but to dig in and stay put. 

To raise our family in a tiny house with no insulation, 

one that we'd only intended to live in for two to three years. Max.

Aforementioned sink in living room.
I think of it as an end-table now.

And for the record, I wasn't twiddling my thumbs, people! 

I had our three kidlets during those years. 

And, because the work was non-stop, 

there was also the constant job of making sure they didn't fall through actual holes in the floor, 

or step on roofing staples hidden in the grass, 

or inhale the never-ending clouds of drywall dust.

To say that The Russian and I have aged a bit throughout this process is a polite understatement.

But in the end, we doubled our square footage.

We created some lovely, new livable space.

We turned our lemon of a house into a cute, little home. 

A home in my most favorite neighborhood in Seattle. 

A home on the cheeriest, most wonderful block you could imagine.

Still, there's work to be done. 

Like a living, breathing thing, this house requires more from us.

The kitchen is rough. Real rough. 

And the walls need work, as does the upstairs bathroom. 

There are other projects, too.

Our make-shift pantry in the ROUGH kitchen.

Bottom line: a move is likely imminent. Not written in stone, but close.

And despite our love/hate relationship with this old heap of lumber and glass, 

admitting that we may leave often elicits a wide range of emotions. 

Typically the teary kind.  

But change is good. I know this.

A bigger space that requires less work will be best for our family. 

I know this, too.

And a part of me does long for adventure - the chance to start fresh.

So, we begin final projects on a structure 

that has stood through three quarters of a century. 

In all likelihood, this house and these projects will outlive me.

Despite the blood and tears, 

our little pain-in-the-ass home will be held in my heart forever. 

All the love and uncertainty and dreams and fear tucked safely away within its walls.

Funny how that works. :)

Holiday Detox

Christmas is quite the season.

All the festivities, the decked halls, and the love. 

All the baked goods.

Even in my thirties, I still get giddy with anticipation as the time draws near.

But dang if the holidays don't take it out of me!

And this last week - the last month and a half, really - has been particularly rough.

Rough in a mostly good way, I suppose. 

Though this season had its own unique {and sometimes torturous} quirks.

But here I am, so incredibly tired.

It's that bone-deep sort of weariness.

We've all been there.

And then the house needs a cleaning. And the luggage should be unpacked. 

And the gifts sorted. And the decorations shuttered away. 

And the piles of laundry addressed. 

And, mostly importantly, the desire to bake more cookies staunchly ignored.

'Cause what I wouldn't give right now for a plate of spritz. 

Or anything soft, chewy, and coated with sugar. 

Or a Christmasy beverage, heavy on the rum.

Yeeeeaaah. 

Typically, I'm not the Scrooge type, 

but tonight, as I find myself simultaneously ignoring a killer headache, 

whining kiddos {no, you may not take out every toy at once, and yes, it's an utter travesty}, 

and a family room strewn with left-over wrapping paper and ribbons, 

the answer is glaringly clear: 

I need a holiday detox. 

That's the bottom line here.

Less crazy, more calm. 

And so, I bid this season a heartfelt adieu.

Give me 10 months, and I'll be ready to dive in head first once again.

Fingers crossed. ;)

Thank You, Panty Claus

The holidays bring to mind many things, 

but panties aren't usually among the contenders.

I'm pretty sure they don't even make the list of second-tier contenders.

In fact, admitting that you think of panties during the holiday season 

may actually get you kicked off a Christmas card list or two. 

Ahem, funny thing: 

for me, panties are right up there with Christmas trees and manger scenes. 

Go ahead, remove me from your list if you must, 

but let me qualify the above statement by saying that panties really are the gift that keeps on giving. 

Day after day, year-round, people. That's some kinda hard-working gift.

I will also divulge that there are, in fact, a handful of other women in this world that would agree with me.

For the past 13 years or so, 

some of my favorite people have gathered on one special night in December.

The Pink Door in Seattle.

We've all known one another for much longer - 

before real jobs, marriages, and children entered the picture -

but this night out has become one of the defining points in our shared histories. 

After a year of the good and the bad, it's one of those events that we long for.

 It's on our calenders months in advance, and we always find a way to make it happen.

We dress up, 

grab drinks in a swanky, little bar, 

dine in a fabulously chic restaurant, 

and forget everything else in the whole, entire world. 

Champagne and oysters arrive at the table.

There is wine and non-stop chatter,

decadent entrees and desserts.

It hasn't always been this fancy, but the heart of the evening never changes.

We go around, and, one by one, share our thoughts on the year - 

our hopes, our successes, and our tragedies.

Generally, these are topics we've all discussed at some point already, 

but it's cathartic to speak of them again. 

One last time before the slate is wiped clean.

Before they're history. Our history.

And then, as if that weren't enough to wrap it all up with a pretty, little bow, 

we bring out the tiny packages.

I do mean tiny.

Panties for all, that's the theme of the night, 

and we buy each pair with a particular friend in mind.

We pass them around. 

We look at them from all angles.

We compare fabrics.

We laugh at the shockingly big or ridiculously small.

Or the seriously funny.

Panties, sexy or understated, remind me of Christmas.

Of lovely friends and a few hours of carefree fun. 

Thank you, Panty Claus, from the bottom {tee-hee} of my heart.

~

I wish you all love, panties, and a merry holiday!

Meggie

I Heart Bend

"Over the mountains and through the woods 

To grandmother's house we go

The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh

Through the white and drifted snow."

~~~

I have always loved that song.

A family, all bundled up and filled with excitement as they travel through the wilds of winter
to see their loved ones. What an image. 

Normal Rockwell classic.

But truth be told, it's also not as glamorous as it sounds.

We made such a journey a couple weeks ago, and I can attest to that fact.

There was no sleigh, just a sturdy mini-van with low-profile tires
and a flimsy bag of chains in the trunk.

We weren't heading to grandmother's house {though MomLady was in attendance}.

I saw plenty of white and drifted snow, which was lovely,
but when semi-trucks are skidding out, it's slightly less charming.

And if we're getting nit-picky about stuff,
I'll just specify that the mountains were quite large, Cascade Mountain Range style,
with miles and miles of deep, dark woods on either side
 - the kind that freeze your ass in an instant, should you befall engine trouble.

There were some frozen lakes, too. And Lord knows how many miles of icy interstate.

It was quite the adventure,
and I'm not ashamed to say that The Russian white-knuckled most of it.

But we had good reason to trek southeast some 330 miles.
The Russian's family gathered together - all 17 of us
{not counting one bun in the over...and no, not my oven}. 

We stayed in a large rental property on the outskirts of Bend, Oregon - one of my
most favorite places on this round and magnificent earth. 

The house was tucked in among the pines, hiking trails,
and countless roundabouts of Sun River, a family-style resort and residential community.

Although it didn't snow during our stay, we enjoyed the spoils of that early storm that
blew in before our arrival. 

Obviously, sledding ensued. All seven of our Littles squealed and slid for two days,
and it was pretty great. 

They stumbled around outside, thickly padded arms and legs
like the ornamental stick appendages of snowmen.

Even though its kind of mean, I always laugh when they topple over face first. 

I woke with Mister, Honeybee, and Mac every morning, before the sun fully rose in the sky, before the rest of the family stirred, and we watched the light filter down through the tall, thin trees. We tiptoed out onto the decks and listened to the crackling quiet of ice. We cuddled on the couch and watched cartoons as the coffee brewed. 

And at night, after the kids went to sleep, the adults watched movies, talked about life,
and carried on the fine and admirable tradition of beer sampling. 

There is always much savoring and discussion, because in the immortal words of Stephen King,
"A man who lies about beer makes enemies."

So, there you have it. Just trying to promote world peace one beer at a time. :)

On our second day, we drove into town, and this turned out to be a most enlightening experience. One of my sister-in-laws led us down Tin Pan Alley to a hidden,
hole-in-the-wall cafe - Lone Pine Coffee Roasters. 

And there I tasted the best cup of coffee I've ever had in my Whole Entire Life.

This Lemon Cream Latte - true nirvana. 

Is it possible to be smitten with a delicately flavored, caffeinated beverage? Absolutely yes.

Long story short, it was a fun trip.

I wasn't sure what to expect of Bend in the off-season,
but I should have known that the time of year wouldn't matter. It's just one of those places...

...one of of those always cool, big sky, woodsy smelling, outdoor crazy,
coffee innovating, brewery laden places.

Exactly my kind of place.

I heart Bend.

A Fine, Fine Layer

It's back, the silvery shimmer in the air. 

I love that about this time of year. 

As the months wear on, and the icy winds of dark winter come down from the north, 

our atmosphere takes on a periwinkle hue. 

But for now, silver twinkles in the sky. 

A fine, fine layer of fairy dust.

All hours of the day, especially on those clear and sunny ones, it's there - just above the trees.

On the horizon-line.

Above the water.

Riding the rare sunbeams that burn away the grey.

And everything seems more brilliant, the fiery shades of Fall amplified.

~~~

Here's what I see: a silvery-shimmer spectrum of light.

A seasonal dimension of color.