Holiday Greetings from Nine-Month-Contract Land

I'm a Donkey on the edge!

Back in November, I surveyed the approach of the holidays, the onset of bowl season, the ramping up of my husband's travel season, and the end to my four-day work-week on an 11-month contract. With all of the calm and clarity of a person anticipating the possibility of another mental breakdown, I sent an email off to my boss and the chair of the department declaring my desire for...no, the necessity of a modification to my contract. Either I work less or I look for another job. Boom.

If life was organized into collections of photo albums like it is on Facebook, then for me, the Spring of 2013 is the cardboard box of photos and negatives that got dropped in a mud puddle and then a toddler crawled inside and crinkled them all up. Every single thing was difficult. A quick peek back around February/March 2013 is funny-sad-bad.

I wasn't positive that this spring would be different, but I knew one thing. I didn't want to do that again.

It turned out that Spring 2014 was not the same soggy cardboard box of photos that Spring 2013 was, though when May ended I stumbled out of it feeling a little shocked and surprised.

Well. *Looks around at the lack of wreckage* That wasn't so bad. That actually went well. Brandon worked more local games, and I think that is the primary reason my head didn't implode.

There was also the shining beacon of The Future ahead: As of June 1, my 11-month contract at Ashland University turned into a 9-month contract.

After the first month of my new arrangement in which I had anticipated hours of free time spent with my family laughing and dancing in sunlight while Bob Marley sang "Don't Worry, Be Happy" and evenings cozied up on the couch with my man and my laptop writing the Next Best American Essay Collection, I am here to report that living in nine-month-contract land is not all that it is cracked up to be.

JUST KIDDING. IT'S AWESOME.

On Wednesday, I was off in nine-month-contract land checking email, because that's what I do from home when I'm not in the office, and Henry crawled up onto my lap between me and the computer, grabbed both of my arms and held them against his chest. He would NOT let me type. No matter how much I tried to break away, he just wouldn't let go. He thought it was SO funny, me chuckling and trying to type. 

"Now, Henry, let me just... if I can just finish this one thing... Just... Let go, Henry!" I said, for about twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes. That's how long I tried to do WORK from HOME on an UNPAID VACATION DAY while my son held my appendages hostage against his chest.

Here is the only trouble with nine-month-contract land that I can see, and it's all my fault: I still feel an obligation and necessity to work twelve months out of the year, to check my email and answer questions, even when I have a new administrative assistant I can delegate things to out of sheer necessity of NO TIME to do all the things anymore. I care a lot about my work, and I want it to be successful.

But Henry wouldn't let me work, so with a huge exasperated sigh I closed my laptop. This is where it gets really tough. Prepare yourselves for the horror of nine-month-contract land.

I took the kids to the pool.

We swam for a full hour with no pressing deadline to hurry up get out we need to go home to eat dinner and then bathe and then sleep. Normally, if I took the kids to the pool, we would go at 6 p.m. after eating the fastest dinner on earth, swim until 6:30, get out because it takes my children 30 minutes to move from the pool to our car, go home and take the baths that require 45 minutes of undressing and peeing and splashing and redressing, and then FINALLY bedtime. During that stretch from 5 p.m. until 8 p.m., I am in constant forward-thinking mode - hurry up and fill-in-the-blank so that we can hurry up and fill-in-the-blank. 

But Wednesday, in nine-month-contract land, there was no hurry up. There was only swim. Okay, you've had enough swimming? I guess we should get out then. Ho hum. Tweedle dee. Off we go. Meander and twiddle. Into the car. La dee da. Home again home again, jiggedy jig. At home, I made lunch at my leisure. 

Here, kids. Here is some food. Eat when you are hungry until you are hungry no more. The sun peeled back the clouds and the atmosphere warmed up, so, kids, why don't we go to the spray park? La la la. Off we go. Have some snacks, there's nowhere to be except here, right here, in nine-month-contract land.

On Thursday in nine-month-contract land, I worked from 7:30 a.m. until 7:30 p.m., and sweetheart, you ain't seen nothing until you've seen me wanting to get all the things done before needing to be out of the office in nine-month-contract land for a week and a half. I am an administrative rock star. I administrate the heck out of work. Projects were zinging back and forth off the walls and into other people's offices; proofs zooming here, final versions swooping there, to do lists shot through the heart with check marks. At the end of the day, I kicked some checklist butt.

And today in nine-month-contract land, because I have an awesome husband with some fantastic friends, I spent nine glorious hours by myself. First, I left my phone downstairs and woke up when my body was ready to wake up. Ahh, I said, rolling over and stretching, is that daylight I see? Time to wake up, tra la, tra la! 

I exercised. No need to look at the clock-- there's nowhere else to be, sister. Just lift your weights. Just run on your treadmill. Then walk back home, because no one is waiting for you, so you don't need to drive the quarter-mile to and from the gym, there's all the time in the world. Take as long as you want in the shower. Drink some coffee. Switch a load of laundry. Type a while on the computer. No hurry. No worries.

All of that anxiety back in May about whether or not we could make it on two-months-less pay, and this is what I get? Relaxation and sunshine with my family?

What a waste of emotional energy.

"There is more to life than increasing its speed." - Mahatma Gandhi

Resolution Time!

Here's a tip for next holiday season: It's probably a bad idea to eat leftover pierogies every day after Christmas through the New Year. Maybe this wouldn't be such a big deal if it wasn't also coupled with nut roll. And baklava. And buckeyes. And other delicious calories consumed the last two weeks, all of which I do not regret. Well, I regret it a little bit. Approximately ten pounds of it. 

I'm not too worried about it, because it's RESOLUTION TIME! Wooooooo!

The last couple of years, I jumped on board the resolution train. I love lists. I love goals. I love benchmarks. (I love lamp.) The ritual of checking in annually with life and its measures seems like kind of a good thing, like an annual physical. How's your blood pressure? What did you hope to do last year? What do you hope to do this year?

Top of my list right now is to detox. Brandon and I are planning on doing the Whole 30 again, and I am so excited. My favorite part of the Whole 30 is demonstrating to myself that I do indeed possess self-control, and I am capable of exercising it whenever. For real! No, Swells, you do not need to eat that piece of chocolate, because you have self-control. No, sweetheart, you do not need to drink that glass of wine, because you have self-control.

It will also feel good to fit in my jeans the right way.

Besides trimmin' up the ol' spare tire, it's also been something like two months since the time changed, so I guess I have to stop using that as an excuse not to exercise. Last night, I broke out the Lift Like a Man, Look Like a Goddess book and started Round One again. Boy, am I out of shape or what. What a disappointment to be almost back to square one (I say "almost" because I still managed 20 regular push-ups, which is way more than I could do before *roar*). But this, too, is manageable; after all, I've done it before and I know the rewards. What's there to lose?

In 2013, my resolutions were far less quantifiable than 2012, but I did set the goal of blogging every other week, and I am pleased to say thanks to my daily advent blogging, I wrote an average of once a week. Outside of December, it was closer to three times a month. So, for 2014, I think I'll aim for once a week again. The MFA thesis is well on its way to looking like something more than a collection of typed pages, and I don't think it's an unreasonable goal to write more blatherings like this one in 2014.

Here's a few more things I hope to pull together in 2014:

• Read twelve books (one a month? totally manageable)
• Cut debt in half (We are SO BAD at this. People, you know that self-control thing I was talking about above and how fun it is to exercise it with food? Well, we're real lazy with this one. But if you don't set a goal, there's nothing to aim for, right? Here's to 2014 and debt reduction! *meow*)
• Finalize the MFA thesis. I kind of have to do this by next December. Yay! Something I'll be able to check off!
• Read through Book Two, Three, and Four of the Harry Potter series with Lydia

I know I said I was done with pierogies in the New Year, but there are a few leftovers from 2013 I hope to maintain in 2014:

• Maintain sanity
• Pray and give thanks daily
• Remember the promises given by God in the Bible and remind my family about them regularly
• Continue preparing healthy meals for my family
• Go out with my husband once every two weeks
• Play with my kids
• Expand the garden
• Go on vacation (Disney! Sea World! Yee!)

I think that's enough. And, if/when I fall short, there's always this:

Looks like 2014 is going to be a good year, folks.

2013: Resolutions - Walk Instead of Run

2012: My Thirtieth Year

2011: Harry and Henry

2010: Key West Bound and Lydia-isms

2009: Happy New Year

Boy, I've been at this thing for a while now. :)

Right Where I Need To Be

A few weeks ago, after Brandon and I returned from celebrating our tenth anniversary, I looked ahead at our calendar for October.  There were a lot of commitments that required a lot of babysitters, which translated to many nights and weekends away from the kids (and several hundred dollars in childcare and travel expenses).  I of course love to get away, especially when it is for good things, like time with my husband, writing conferences, and poetry retreats, but with Brandon gone every weekend and me working full time, it just didn't seem fair to the kids to escape leave so much.  I emailed my friend in Kentucky and reluctantly pulled out of the poetry retreat that was to take place this weekend.  I let my cousin (awesome babysitter) know that I decided not to go, and promptly willed myself to forget about the retreat.

This Thursday, my poet friends posted photos of their road trip south, and from my office desk I pouted.  I was supposed to be getting ready to head out for Louisville.  I sighed.  It would have been such a good time to hang out with these friends.  I reminded myself of the much-needed downtime with the kids, the bushel of apples ready to be sauced, and the cash that was staying obediently and responsibly in my bank account because of this decision.  But that doesn't mean I didn't throw a small tantrum on their Facebook comment section.

After work, the kids and I were off to a great start to the weekend.  Everyone ate dinner without whining.  The paved path through the woods and field behind our house beckoned.

"Do we have to wear a helmet?" Lydia asked, and I considered for a moment saying no. We had ridden the path in the field without helmets lately.  Elvis was nearby, getting ready to ride his bike, listening for my decision.

"Yes, you should still wear your helmet, since we're planning to ride through the woods."  She strapped it on.  Elvis did, too, and we set out for a leisurely ride through the woods.

The new path is only paved for about fifty feet into the woods before it transitions to gravel and dirt.  Since the weather began to turn a few weeks ago, pine needles and leaves have begun to fall across the trail.  I love the pine needle floor of the forest, the canopy high above our heads, the scratch and rustle of the squirrels through the fallen leaves.  We rode along, Henry in the tow-behind trailer and Elvis and Lydia speeding ahead.

Just over the peak of a small hill, I heard Elvis scream.  I rolled my eyes and smiled and sighed.  He is always falling, and every little bump and bruise causes him to erupt into tears.  I pedaled my way over the hill, Henry sitting in the tow-behind trailer.  There he was, splayed out on the trail, still on top of his bike.  Lydia was slowly making her way back to Elvis.

"Oh, buddy, are you okay?" I asked him, helping him to get untangled from the red Lightning McQueen bike and stand up.  He looked up at me with tears streaming and blood dripping from his lip and chin.  "Oh my goodness, Elvis, come here." I gave him a hug and worked his fingers and wrists, asked him to move his arms and legs to make sure nothing was broken.  It was clear he split his lip.  There was a small cut on his nose and a small bruise forming on his forehead where his helmet likely jammed into his skin, a couple small cuts under his chin and on his neck.  I stood for a minute, balancing my bike and Henry and holding Elvis.  A man with a dog came down the hill and held my bike for me while I inspected Elvis some more, considering what to do next.  It wouldn't make sense to take Henry out of the bike trailer and walk all three of us back, and the handlebars of Elvis's bike were bent out of shape.

"Elvis, can you walk back beside me?  I'll go real slow with Henry, and we'll leave your bike here," I said.  He nodded while wailing and hiccuping, still shaking from his fall.

"I'll ride back to the house and then come back for his bike," Lydia offered, and I said that was a good idea.

"Be careful!" I yelled.

We walked/rode back out of the woods, Elvis rubbing his neck and crying, me rotating between "Oh, buddy," and "It's okay, you're okay, you'll be fine," and "I love you, little man," until we were out of the woods.  It was still early, and we passed others running and walking along the trail.  He kept touching his fingers to his bloody lip.  Each time he did this and saw the blood, he cried harder.  Almost back to the house, Elvis spoke for the first time since his fall.

"My tooth," he muffled.  I stopped.

"Your what?"  I asked, bending over to look closer at his face.  When he fell and looked up at me, I could have sworn he was missing a tooth, but maybe he had recently lost one and I just mis-remembered?

"I lost my tooth," he cried again.

"Let me see, open up a little so I can get a good look."  His mouth was bloody; there was a dark gap where one of his front teeth had been.  "Oh no, Elvis, do you remember if you had already lost a baby tooth, or was that one of your adult teeth?"

"It was one of my adult teeth," he said, his big brown eyes watery.  I couldn't remember -- had he lost his top teeth already, or was it the bottom that were permanent?

"It's okay, buddy, it'll be okay.  We'll figure out what to do."

So began our weekend.

His other front tooth was loose, too, and I urged him not to play with it.  The next morning, I woke up congested -- tell-tale symptoms of a sinus infection brewing -- and Henry seemed a little congested himself.  Elvis threw up twice.  Concussion?  Probably.  I took him to the dentist.  She confirmed that they were, in fact, his baby teeth (thank God), and his permanent teeth had not suffered any damage from his fall.  Whew.  Crisis averted.

The boys and I enjoyed some time with my mom Friday morning, and after I put Henry down for his nap, I fell asleep on the couch.  For almost three hours.  Henry slept just as long, and Elvis put together four puzzles, colored two pages of a coloring book and some posters, and played with his Legos.  Other than a fat lip and a couple of scrapes, Elvis seemed back to normal.

I had some girlfriends over Friday evening, and after they left, Henry proceeded to wake up every 90 minutes until 6 a.m. the next morning, thoroughly congested and struggling to breathe.  My sinus symptoms worsened throughout the night.  When it comes to sicknesses, my tendency is to head to the doctor's office at the first sign of symptoms rather than let it hang on for days and days, but I've been trying to break myself of this.  Most things need to run their course, and I've paid enough co-pays to know this now.  I spent Saturday hunting on Pinterest for home remedies to treat my sinus issues and Hank's chest congestion.

Me and Henry at the football game a couple weeks ago

By Saturday night, Henry's breathing was frighteningly forced.  I called my friend Julie who came over with some essential oils, and even though I had tried steaming up the bathroom, a humidifier, chamomile oil and peppermint oil, honey, and hot tea, we gave her treatment one last shot.  Still no major improvement.  So, it was off to the emergency room.

You know, of course, that my husband was out of town this weekend, as he is every weekend in the fall.  This is how it goes, tragically funny how these things happen.  The last major incident was Elvis's kidney stone back in March, which set me further down the spiral of an unconfirmed mental breakdown.

As soon as I scooped Elvis up off of the bike path, I knew why I had to call off my weekend poetry retreat.  And when the sinus congestion clogged up my nasal cavities, and when Henry's chest heaved and wheezed on Saturday night, I knew why I was home this weekend.  It felt like God providentially said, "Nope, not this time," two weeks ago.  "Nope, you need to be with your kids.  You need to be Mom.  The poetry can wait."

I don't always feel this way, of course.  I leap at opportunities to get away, and I think that's healthy for me and for my kids.  But other than a smidgen of envy at the laughing, eating faces of my poet friends, I felt no regret about being home this weekend.  Disappointment, yes.  Disappointed that we had to spend it sick, nursing fat lips and receiving breathing treatments at 11 p.m., cancelling plans to watch the Browns with my husband at the stadium.

But I was here.  I was present.  I was available to snuggle my loved ones on the couch, to watch Despicable Me and Cars 2 and several dozen episodes of Looney Tunes, and to rest.  Sometimes that is exactly what we need.  Exactly where we're supposed to be.

Most Memorable Moment: Ten Years Later

Last night, we went to Bull and Bones Brewhaus and Grill in Blackburg, Virginia (look at that nice alliteration... it's even a poetic location) for karaoke and drinks.  Brandon asked me what moment is most memorable for me from the last ten years together, not counting our wedding day and the births of our children, and I was stumped.  Most memorable?  God.

Maybe singing "Love Shack" with Brandon on the stage of our honeymoon cruise, or the long walk back from nearly drowning my new husband off a Key West beach, sandy flippers and snorkles in hand.

Maybe the day we came home to the house on Leland to find that our dog, Tex, had eaten everything in the kitchen.  The loaf of bread.  The plastic around the loaf of bread.  A candle.  A coffeepot.  A chocolate Easter bunny.  We were stunned.  We were certain he would die, but he didn't!

Maybe the night I brought both pregnancy tests downstairs grinning to Brandon sitting on the couch watching the Indians with Tex stretched out next to him, and he said, "Wow.  Wow."  And I said, "I know!"

Maybe driving all over Akron and Hartville looking at houses under $50,000 feeling downtrodden, rolling over the tip of a hill and seeing a for sale sign on a burned down house, or walking through the house that was sinking at such an angle into the earth that we could barrel roll down the living room floor, until finally we found the house on Ardella, olive green siding and a fenced-in backyard for Tex, enough bedrooms for a bunch of babies.

Maybe the day we expected to find out that we were twelve weeks along only to find out that we had miscarried our first baby, and we stood alone in the parking lot, summer sun bright and hot above us.  "I guess I should go back to work," I sniffled, head low and tears a slow leak, and Brandon put his hands on my face and whispered, "Be strong and courageous, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go," and we held each other, facing the first intimate grief of marriage together.

Maybe six months later, standing in a restaurant after the boys basketball team won a tournament game in East Liverpool (right? was that where we were?), getting the call that our nephew was born but that he was struggling in the NICU and feeling so helpless there, states away from our brother and sister-in-law, how the parents and basketball team all bowed their heads and prayed for Braden, for Ben and Kelly, for health and miracles and life.

Maybe when we brought Lydia home to that house on Ardella, our two crazy redbone coonhounds ready to meet the new addition.

Maybe "I see a firetruck, a bright red SHINY firetruck!" for Thanksgiving, celebrating Braden's second birthday (was it his second? do you remember? time goes so quickly and it all runs together, and now I don't know, was Lydia there for the firetruck or was that the next year?).

Maybe our trip to Butler, PA, when we felt the push to start looking at seminary, the need to move on to the next big thing.

Maybe the day we realized if I took the job at Ashland, he could quit his job, and we'd still be fine, actually better than fine, and maybe even start seminary.

Maybe walking on the towpath in the valley with Lydia right after Elvis came home from the NICU himself, and Brandon wore our strong, fragile, healthy but so sick before little boy in the Baby Bjorn, and the light danced through the leaves, and we prepared to go house hunting again, and then how every house was like something from Flip This House - the Bacon House, the Flea House, the Power Line House, the Putt Putt House - until we found the house on Morgan, a clean slate of white with so many walls to paint, so many ways to make it ours.

Maybe the day we decided to step out on faith and start to tithe regularly.  Maybe the call later that afternoon asking Brandon to work for ESPN.

Maybe every trip we've taken tagged on to work where we've eaten good meals and drank good drinks and slept in large beds, work as the brackets around relaxation.

Maybe every time I've worshiped next to Brandon in church, our fingers intertwined, or the time at Hudson during the sermon when we watched the bump of Lydia's elbow or knee move across my abdomen, or every time we have held a baby during a praise song, or every time we've walked with Lydia and Elvis to the communion table, the kids eager for bread to fill the empty spaces.

Maybe every time Brandon and the kids have walked over to my office on campus just to stop by.

Maybe every time we have sung, "Jackson" by Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash.

Maybe every time we've quoted Dumb and Dumber or When Harry Met Sally or The Anchorman or Forget Paris.

Maybe every time we have walked nine holes in the fading fall light.

Maybe every time Henry says, "Juice, Dad, Mom?"

Maybe every family picnic or backyard barbecue with friends.  Maybe every fourth of July picnic.  Every Christmas morning.

Maybe every time we have danced slow or fast, in our kitchen, in our living room, after a Christmas party with Lisa and Zack, at the Boot, at the Dusty Armadillo, at Thirsty Cowboy, at weddings, singing "and we'll remember them!", singing "He stopped loving her today..." and always, always laughing, always smiling, always his rough cheek against mine.

Maybe every time we have forgiven each other.  Maybe every time I have been forgiven.

These, yes, these, and so many, so many other memorable moments that have comprised ten years of laughter, ten years of learning, ten years of growth, ten years of grace, ten years of choosing each other, and yes of course ten years of love, ten years, ten years, ten years.

Favorite memorable moment?  If a moment can stretch across a decade, then, this last one.  This last decade, with my husband.  Every happy second, every difficult season, every grief, every mercy.  Everything.

Looking for the Goods

First off, sarahmwells.com is broken, and I'm unhappy about it.  I kept hoping it would reset itself or just reappear, and after multiple attempts to contact customer service people at Google and at GoDaddy.com, I have given up, deleted the domain name entirely, and with any luck it'll become available again in the next couple of days, so I can register it once more for my use.

This is one of the reasons I haven't written lately.  Another reason is because I've had two weeks of vacation over the last three (I wedged in five workdays somewhere in there), and most of this time has been dedicated to my husband and the three little people.  Heavenly, I tell you.  And the last reason is that I actually have been writing, quite a bit, but it's all super-secret-awesome stuff.  Not really.  It's for school, though, which means it is hopefully going toward my thesis, which is HOPEFULLY going to turn into a book.  

But before any of that can happen, I need to go yell at the circus animals hooting in the room above me.

Sigh. Okay. Threats of separation delivered.  I don't know why it is that they respond so well to this threat - I would think it a treat to get the whole room to one's self while the other one snuggles into my bed.  I like having the bed all to myself... once in a while.

I have the bed all to myself this weekend, a foretaste of things to come.  I admit I'm already panicking about Brandon's road trip days beginning again in August.  In fact, my heart rate just jumped a little.  It feels like summer is already over now that my vacation days are nearing an end and the MFA residency is approaching.  Before I know it, we'll be back to soccer games with an angry toddler and the husband out of the house half the week.

The quickened pace of life that will begin in a few short weeks makes me tired already.  I don't think I've had a long enough reprieve.  I don't want to feel like a single parent for half of the week again.  It is not easy.  

There are times, of course, when it isn't so bad.  A few weeks ago as Brandon worked to settle back into the full-time dad routine, every. little. thing. I. did. was. wrong.  Every thing.  Not wrong, but different from what he does, I should say.

"Did you put my water glass into the dishwasher, Gary?" he teased one morning after I had prepared breakfast, loaded the dishwasher, and cleared off the counter.  His dad, Gary, is known for the quick snatching and cleansing of the glassware, almost before your lips have left the rim of the cup.  I sighed.  "... The kitchen looks nice," he said with a smile, reaching to pinch my butt.

"When do you go back to work?!" I squeaked.  "Can't you call ESPN and ask them for work?"  This, after counting down the days until he was done with work for the summer.  This, after a mental breakdown this spring, after childcare challenges and scheduling conflicts and children who miss him and ME ME ME who missed him over and over again.  Go back to work, I said.  Leave me alone.

We laughed and squeezed each other.  "You have to stop critiquing everything I do, husband of mine. It's driving me bonkers."

I had gotten used to running things my way without Brandon around.  And then he was back, full-scale, with not much to distract him from the household and our children except the occasional round of golf and softball.  We had gotten out of step and in turn kept stepping on each other's toes as we did or did not take out the recycling, did or did not load the dishwasher, did or did not take Henry to the potty fifteen minutes or forty-five minutes after the last time he went.  

The trouble is now that we've worked out a few of these kinks, now that we've learned how to live together again, kinda, well, now he's going to go away again.  This is not the norm, this more laid back summer of temperate weather and short-distance road trips, of golf and barbecues and softball and boats and drinks with friends.

No, the norm is more like the last two days alone with the kids after Brandon left for the weekend to spend time with a friend.  The norm is me and my three little people eating pizza on a picnic bench at the park, walking across the lawn for ice cream, home in time for baths and bed.  The norm is me and my three little people on the couch for Saturday morning cartoons, the slow rise for scrambled eggs with cheese, and then a ride around northeast Ohio, to the tall ships in Cleveland with my mom, to the backyard swimming pool at my in-laws.  The norm is the long ride home with Henry sideways slouching in the backseat while the older two watch a movie and I seek through the stations for tunes I can sing to.  The norm is small feet stomping and giggles from the floor above me, empty threats of separation until they are quiet, sound asleep with feet and arms draped broadly across their beds.  The norm is this silent living room, the clicking of my fingernails on the keyboard, the flick of the paper as I turn the page on a memoir, the clock ticking past the time I'd go to bed if Brandon was here.

If Brandon was here, the Indians game would be on, and he'd be yelling at the TV or talking to the commentators about the last play or commenting on the job the stats guys are doing or laughing at the local evening news anchors.  If Brandon was here, the computer would be sitting on the floor charging, my book would be cast aside, and I'd be cradled between his chest and his arm, listening to the sounds of his stomach and heart (because if he had any of that pizza tonight, his stomach would have been talking louder than his heart).  We might be sipping whiskey (oh, who am I kidding, we would definitely be sipping whiskey) and listening to music, or maybe he'd be playing his guitar, or maybe none of that, maybe just us, alone in our living room, being husband and wife, occupying this space we've created together.

It is good when he is here.  It is good when he is gone.  Both are good.  In fact, when both are in their best gear, both are very good.

I don't always see it this way because I want both goods simultaneously and that isn't possible.  He cannot be here and not here all of the time, and if he was here and not here all of the time I would resent him for not being here when he is here.  You totally get that, right?

It is hard to learn how to balance this life.  How to make room for each other when we're together.  How to appreciate the space when we're apart.  How to shore up the foundation when the support beam goes missing.  How to lean into each other when the rain washes everything away.  How to be content - even when I want him near.  Even when I want him gone.  How to love deeply in every season.  It is hard.  But it is very good.

(That's what she said.)

Why Do We Need Men?

So there's news flitting about that women are increasingly the leading or sole breadwinners in the American family.  In most cases, this means more and more families are being raised by a single mom with an absent father, or the reason mom is the breadwinner is because dad can't find work. 

It isn't because a couple sat down together and reviewed their financial and family plan to assess what the best scenario might look like for their family.  That is what we did back in 2007; we looked at my job prospects and our growing family, our move to a new city, and we said, let's see if this can work.  It did, with bumps and bruises, just like every new adjustment.  We know other couples who have made similar decisions and have made it work, and made it work well.

That isn't what we're talking about here, though.  Not many are celebrating this shift as a strong, positive, changing tide in family dynamics.  Kathleen Parker in her Washington Post article "The new f-word: Father," Fox News anchors (all flabbergasted males), and the MSNBC "Morning Joe" edition (almost all successful females stumbling about for a good answer to the "why men?" question) all discuss this trend toward women as sole or primary breadwinner, and none of them think it's a good thing.
 

The study spawns one of the strangest questions I can think of to be taken seriously by the general public, "Why do we need men?"

If a woman can earn a degree, work hard, carry a child, mow the lawn, take out the trash, prepare meals, and change a diaper all on her own, why bother with a man, who simply complicates life with his dirty clothes, smells up the place with his burping and farting, and adds another person to worry over and provide for?  Obviously all men are good for is sperm.  After impregnation, we can take it from there.

Why do we need men?  Why are we asking this question?  Why do we need women, when we can grow babies in test-tubes?  The necessity of an entire gender of a species is obvious.  What we're really asking is, "Where are the good men?"
 

Good men, whether stay-at-home fathers or sole breadwinners, love and support their wives, whether they stay-at-home or go-to-work or some combination of those tasks.  Good men teach boys how to be men.  Good men show girls what a good man looks like.  A good man leads when a good woman doesn't know what to do or where to go; a good man communicates with his spouse when he doesn't know what to do or where to go.  Good men (and women) lift up when the other falls down. 

We need good men for the great pleasure of building a family and a life with another person.  We need good men because men are at their core different from women, and women are at their core different from men, and these differences (whether traditional or non-traditional in their manifestations) provide balance, beauty, and character refinement.

Society is shouting, "We need good men!"

How do you make good men?  You raise good men. And if there isn't a good man in your life to help you do that, you find other good men to stand in that role as best as they can.  Good men must help other men to make men out of their men so that they can raise up good men, too.  We cannot complain about there being no good men out there if good men don't step in to make men good.

Stop asking "Why do we need men?" - that is not the question.  It should never be the question.  Substitute in any demographic and the question sounds preposterous, derogatory, and dangerous.  That question, when extended to its scariest places, devalues an entire population of our society. 

We need each and every kind of person to strive to be the best versions of themselves.  Let's stop asking dumb questions and start making good answers.

Instructions for Crazy

Who is that crazy person in my last blog post?  Woah.  She's crazy, isn't she?

She hasn't completely moved out, but I think I've at least stashed her polka dot and pinstripe clown suit in the closet for a couple of days.

AWP was restorative.  I slept a lot, ate good food, and had great conversation with some amazing women and a few good men.  I sold books and talked about writing and reading and slept.  Sunday morning, I ordered breakfast in bed and wrote for three hours until it was time to check out and fly home.  And then I played with my children and saw my husband who was not a mirage but the actual thing in flesh and blood not tucked in skype or my phone but the real deal, and it was very good.

The crazy person in me still feels a little unstable, still cries easily and flinches when something unexpected happens.  My eye still twitches.  But we have a few strategies to manage her now, I think.  Here are your instructions, Crazy:

#1: Take life cut into triangles drizzled with maple syrup.  If you try to jam that big of a piece in your mouth like that it'll make you gag and that's just gross, so cut it into bite-size pieces, and make sure it's sweet.  Get up fifteen minutes earlier, for God's sake, and slow the morning down a smidgen.  Start the day with a Word so it sticks to your hips like the pancakes.  Get everyone off to their respective destinations, and then breathe because you're at the day job and the day job has manageable to do lists, meetings, phone calls, goals and instant gratification.  The work day does what it's told and doesn't talk back because you're the boss (well, of your work day, anyway) and that's what work days do, they do what they're told, that's right uh huh you know it.  Then return everyone to their destinations of origin for food (home-cooked if you're able, and if not, don't beat yourself up, they won't die from that cheeseburger... at least not today), baths, and bed.  Try to make bedtime stories and prayers and songs happen.  Try.  And then breathe again, take a few hours to drink a glass of wine, write, read, and listen to quiet music.

#2: Sneak in some exercise here and there because you know how good it feels to get a good sweat on.  Even if it means skipping your lunch break to get to the gym, do it.  Just do it.  You can even drop the crew off at the childcare station after work, even though you feel guilty about all of this childcare but hey, better to have a sane mom some of the time than a crazy one all of the time.

#3: Be content with adequate for once.  Be content because nobody is impressed with 150%... they think you're crazy AND YOU ARE.  Those looks are pity, not awe.  Those looks are, dude, you're crazy.

#4: Cancel the spring soccer practices and games.  No one is going to miss it, not even for a minute, and baseball is right around the corner, when your husband's crazy schedule loosens up, and you won't have to tote the gang into the rain on Saturday mornings alone.  Lyd might be sad for about ten seconds and then she'll be over it and on to coloring and dancing and laughing and light.

#5: Don't substitute another weekly activity for the one you just cancelled, i.e., no swimming lessons, gymnastics practices, dance, ballet, tap, piano, karate, etc. you crazy person just let it go so you can enjoy your children for more than the minutes they are sleeping silently in their beds.

#6: The laundry can wait until Saturday.

#7: The dishes can wait until... there aren't any more clean ones.

#8: Don't shut down and shut out your friends and family, even though it's tempting to hole up, burrow in, and battle through alone, even though it feels safer and warmer under these covers.  Coffee is good.  Wine is better.

#9: Even though he's on the road and working, call and text your husband, who loves you and misses you, and believe it when he says it because it's true and you know it's true that this is just a season and crazy will end one day in the foggy not-so-distant future that feels a million years from here.

#10: Read instead of watch TV.  Write instead of scroll through Facebook.

#10: Sleep, you dimwit.  You need it.  After all, you just made two #10s.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

For fun--

What I'm Reading: Grace Notes by Brian Doyle (which is awesome. read it.)
What I'm Writing: a lyric essay on miscarriage, which is so inspirational I can hardly stand it.
What I'm Drinking: the last of a bottle of merlot and a large cup of water.
What I'm Listening To: Norah Jones, "Painter Song"

The First Step Is Admitting You Have a Problem

"There is more to life than increasing its speed." - Mahatma Gandhi

I leave in the morning for my annual trek to the AWP Conference, this year in Boston.  I'm leaving with my homework done for this week, a packet submitted for the program, "spring break" for school waiting after the trip, four manuscripts formatted and sent to print in February, a grant written and almost submitted, all of the laundry in the house done, dishes washed, fridge stocked, living room and dining room vacuumed and clean, and all of my children healthy.  I've got my son home from Akron Children's Hospital after discovering a FREAKING KIDNEY STONE on Saturday.  A KIDNEY STONE.  In a FIVE YEAR OLD.  Why, Universe, Why?

I've also finished several glasses of wine.

My husband is supposed to fly in tonight from Baltimore to Cleveland, but it's delayed, hopefully not cancelled.  I need to leave the house at 5 a.m. to go to Boston from Cleveland.  If he's cancelled, he's arranged for a friend to come over to be with the kids so I can leave.  Which is helpful.  At least there's a contingency plan.

My eye won't stop twitching.  It's been doing it for weeks now, and it's really starting to drive me nuts.  I feel a little bit like Meryl Streep in It's Complicated, holding my eye lid up with my finger all day.

I need this trip, even though it is work and I have about fifteen different responsibilities while I'm there, I need this trip to try to regain some sanity, to try to slow down for just a second and not feel guilty for not doing something I should be doing.  Like right now, I should be putting the clean clothes away.  I should be sweeping the kitchen floor.  I should be reading through the school newsletter so that I know what's going on with Lydia's class.  I should know something about what's going on in my kids' school lives.  I shouldn't be blogging.  I shouldn't be whining.  I should just get over it, suck it up, like I've been doing, and stop making such a big deal out of it because it isn't a big deal, right, right?! RIGHT!?

Only I'm so tired.  I can't sleep, though, because if I sleep I'll dream about flies hatching from underneath my fingernails, like last night.  If I sleep, I'll miss my alarm and miss my plane.  If I try to go to sleep before I'm thoroughly worn out I will lie there and catalog whatever it is that is left to do on my to-do list that I'm ill prepared for or certain to forget about in the morning.  Better to Google, "How to know when you're having a nervous breakdown."  Better to watch Harry Potter #3 and drink another glass of wine and eat another piece of dark chocolate.

I want to quit everything.  I want to quit, to quit, to quit, burrow under my blankets and stay there until the Universe remembers that I am its center and it should do exactly as I tell it to, like we've discussed several times before, but noooooo, the Universe ignores me and does whatever the heck it wants.

I didn't work today because of the whole five-year-old-in-the-hospital-for-freaking-kidney-stones episode, which actually allowed me the space and time to reassemble the house that exploded on Saturday with unfolded/crumpled clothing and dirty dishes from Saturday from the dinner I made but didn't eat because of the kidney-stone-episode.

Let me pause in my ridiculous four-year-old tantrum that I'm throwing to tell you how incredibly grateful I am for so many friends and family members who came to the rescue with prayers and help with kiddos this weekend.  I don't know what I would have done without you.  Really.

And that's what it might boil down to, right there, that's what this all distills down to.  I know I'm not alone, but I feel so alone.  I don't want to ask for help because I'm always asking for help, but if I don't ask for help my eye twitches more and my heart starts to race and my hands start to shake and I start bawling my eyes out like I'm doing right now sitting in my kitchen sobbing like a four-year-old that's denied his ice cream cone.  I feel guilty for asking for help because I should be able to DO THIS, it isn't that hard, what's so hard about working and taking care of your kids and doing a little reading and writing here and there?  What's the big deal?  Why can't I keep it together?

I don't know what to give up or let go in order to regain some semblance of sanity.  And because I don't know what to give up, I want to quit it all, to say goodbye to work and to school, to retreat into my house and leave only to get my kids off to their respective schools, buy groceries, and go to yoga when I can because I need someone to remind me to breathe.  

But, like I've said a thousand times before on this blog, I am not a four-year-old who has been denied an ice cream cone.  I am a wife.  I am a mother.  I am a faithful employee.  I believe in my work and my family and my marriage and my God and my writing, and I know what I do is good and right, and I need to keep doing it, even though right now I'd like to curl into the cave.  This is what we do.  We keep on going.  It's only one really, really, really, long season.  It has to end sometime.

So, *deep sigh* I will finish this post, switch the last load of laundry, refill my wine glass, turn on something light and funny, or Harry Potter #3, and stop thinking for a while.  Whatever I forgot to pack can be purchased in Boston.  They actually have stores there, so no big thing.  And, if I do miss my alarm and miss my flight, hey, guess what, they fly more than one airplane to Boston.  Perhaps the hardest thing about this mini-mental-breakdown season of my life is that I know it isn't futile.  I know there's hope and an answer to the busyness, and I know that part of my problem is pride--I am proud of keeping this life balanced precariously on the edge of sanity.  Look at me, I'm doing it, I'm surviving!  But I don't want to just survive.  I want to thrive.  To live a life of contentment, as recommended by the good ol' Solomon in Ecclesiastes:

"Go then, eat your bread in happiness and drink your wine with a cheerful heart; for God has already approved your works.  Let your clothes be white all the time, and let not oil be lacking on your head.  Enjoy life with the woman whom you love all the days of your fleeting life which He has given to you under the sun; for this is your reward in life and in your toil in which you have labored under the sun.  Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might; for there is no activity or planning or knowledge or wisdom in Sheol where you are going.  I again saw under the sun that the race is not to the swift and the battle is not to the warriors, and neither is bread to the wise nor wealth to the discerning nor favor to men of ability; for time and chance overtake them all.  Moreover, man does not know his time: like fish caught in a treacherous net and birds trapped in a snare, so the sons of men are ensnared at an evil time when it suddenly falls on them" (9:7-12)

Perhaps the only real crisis will be if I don't hurry up and refill this wine glass.

Tomorrow is a new day with its own worries, and thank God, thank GOD, THANK GOD His mercies are new every morning.  He is faithful, even if his faithfulness appears in my mind like Trace Adkins shaking his head and singing, "You're gonna miss this, you're gonna want this back, you're gonna wish these days, hadn't gone quite so fast, these are the good times, take a good look around, you may not know it now, but you're gonna miss this."  I am grateful for the myriad ways He has been merciful.  God, not Trace.  Although maybe Trace Adkins is also merciful, I don't know.

 

Sick Days

Know what I loved about today?  This morning after breakfast, I cleared the dining room table with my husband and loaded the dishwasher. "What time do you need to leave this morning?" I asked.

"Around 10," he replied.

Henry came in and tugged on my pantleg, "ILK? ILK?!"

"No, buddy, you already had two cups."

"OHHHHHH, Nooooooooooo!" Henry slow-melted to the floor.

Lydia and Elvis watched cartoons in the living room until Elvis needed to go to school, and Brandon drove him to Park Street.  When he came back, I was still working on dishes in the kitchen, hair pulled back in a pony tail, still in pajamas.  We small-talked through work-related issues, our schedule for babysitting the next few days, whether to take Lydia to the doctor for whatever cold she woke up with, and what I planned to make for dinner.  After a while, Brandon took a shower and I started a load of laundry.

Brandon left around 10 as planned.  Lydia and I played rummy in between loads of laundry while Henry watched Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.  We picked Elvis up from pre-school and went to our pastor's house for a lunch meeting.  Lydia and Elvis watched a movie all afternoon while I made chicken soup and changed loads of laundry, never ending laundry.  When Henry woke up we went down into the basement and I watched Elvis and Henry play cars together while Lydia colored and I (wait for it) folded more laundry and read books for class.  Eventually we ate dinner, Elvis and Hank took baths, and the kids went to bed.  I'm writing this all now after indulging in an ice cream AND chocolate AND peanut butter sundae (so much for the Whole 30) and in the midst of loading the dishwasher and preparing to fold yet another load of laundry, occasionally checking Words with Friends for new games and my online discussion boards for new posts about my class.

I loved all of this.  I love that I didn't shower today (sorry, general public), that I spent the day with my sick daughter and toddler doing house-y stuff while also thinking about writing, reading essays, and watching my children be children.  I was present, if not always fully engaged.  I was home.

It ebbs and flows, this conflict between my desire to work full-time, which satisfies a drive to accomplish something and to contribute to a larger cause using the gifts and talents given to me, and the desire to quit and have days like this always, to simply be here when I'm needed instead of feeling torn between responsibilities of work and my sniffly daughter and traveling husband, and also the desire to sit down and write or read for class, which I am LOVING, by the way.  I have always enjoyed being a student, and being in the classroom again (albeit online) is a delight and feels a little indulgent, honestly.

If I could have the best of both worlds, I'd work 8:30-3 every day with a half-hour lunch, with the flexibility to work from home when necessary, and take a few weeks off each summer when my husband is also off.  I'd do exactly the same job or a slight variation of it, with the same enthusiasm and passion and excitement I have for my job now, with the added plus of not coordinating childcare every time my husband travels for work, simply doing the job from home that day.

Would that be so awful?  I'd be so less stressed all of the time!  Who invented the 40 hour work week anyway?  And wouldn't it be GREAT to have a relaxed morning, enough time to get the kids fed healthy breakfasts and carted off to school, maybe even (gasp) exercise or (whaaat?!) read through a devotional or passage of Scripture before the day gets rolling?

Enough whining.  I still love my job, in spite of its occasional burps and hiccups.  I'd just like a little more of my kids and a little less of my work.  That's all.

Advent Days 17-21: Run, Run, Rudolph

The last week of advent before Christmas got a little scrambled up, but there were plenty of highlights. 

Elvis's Christmas program was on the 18th.  Lydia finished off an antibiotic for strep on Monday and by Tuesday morning, she had it again, so the rest of the Wells family stayed home while I took E to his program.  Unfortunately, my kids seem to have gotten my stage presence instead of Brandon's.  Elvis spent the entire Christmas program in the front row of the risers pouting and mouthing "mama," which looked so sad.  I thought if he could see me, he'd be okay, but nope.  I don't think he sung any of the songs, and sadly, he also didn't say his line in the play, just like last year.  He knew it, too.  Poor guy.  I hope both Lydia and Elvis are able to conquer whatever fears they have about being in front of an audience. 

We took the kids to the Buckeye Express Diner in Bellville on Wednesday this week, taking the longer way home to see Christmas lights, thereby killing the hypothetical two birds with one stone.  If you haven't been to the Buckeye Express Diner, you should make a point of it the next time you're driving on I-71 between Cleveland and Columbus.  Great burgers, good french fries, homemade applesauce, and you get to eat in a TRAIN!  That was clearly a highlight for us.

The kids and I also wrapped the gifts we bought last weekend.  Aside from a couple of special gifts for the boys, all of the wrapping is done, and I think all of the gift-buying is done, too.  I can hardly wait for Christmas giving to begin, there are so many things I'm excited about.  It's going to be a sweet Christmas for the Wells family.  Brandon's gift arrived in the mail yesterday, and I can hardly wait for him to unwrap it.  He's going to love the lifelong supply of Hanes underwear.

Thursday evening was our almost annual White Elephant Christmas party.  We had about 22 people or so (I'm not real sure because I put two 18's into the gift number bag), and "Das Boot" made a return, along with a pinata, a Russian hat, and a pocket chair.

Brandon and our friend, Bill, finished the microwave installation on Friday, the kids played in the first snow of the season, and I had coffee with one of my best friends, made some truffles and presents for family gifts, then hung out with some girlfriends down the street afterhours.

It's been a good week, albeit with its usual random interruptions of whininess and complaining from the peanut gallery.  My threats to return Christmas gifts just aren't meaningful enough to demand good behavior.

I can't promise a post between now and Christmas, and we've actually done all of the advent activities on the calendar already (today was supposed to be make and wrap presents, but that's done, so I think we might make some paper snowflakes instead).  So, if I don't post again before Christmas, please have a jolly one!

Advent Days Ten and Eleven

Package Christmas Cookies, and Open a Christmas Book

We made an unplanned trip up to Great Mom-O's house last night, so we took care of yesterday's advent activity when Lydia got home from school today.  We prepared our cookies from Saturday for delivering to neighbors and designed a few cards to go with them.  The plan is (spoiler alert!) to deliver the cookies tomorrow for our 12/12/12 advent activity.

 



I was home with Hank and Elvis today because Elvis has croup and an ear infection and Brandon worked in Cleveland.  It was nice to get a few household chores done while taking care of the kiddos.  I made a yummy vegetable soup, roast chicken legs, roasted carrots, and steamed broccoli.  The kids opted out of the soup-- I think they've grown tired of soup-- but oh, it was so good!  I am already looking forward to lunch tomorrow.

I got a little more work done on Christmas presents today too aaaaand I ordered my books for my first semester in the MFA program. That's right, folks, Sarah is jumping on the MFA train at Ashland, in nonfiction. I'm excited and nervous about whether I'll actually be able to keep up. We'll see how the spring goes.

Before putting Henry to bed, we opened up a new Christmas book, The Nutcracker, which we read together after I laid Henry down in his crib. Don't tell the kiddos, but I'm hoping to track down a Nutcracker to wrap up for Christmas morning, so if you know of a place near Ashland to get a nice one, I'm in the market!

That's all for tonight, friends.  Two weeks until Christmas!

Advent Day Three: Dance to Christmas Music

Welp, not all advent activities can be as romantic or successful as the rest.  I woke up this morning with an ugly cold that landed me on the couch most of the day, and advent activity #3 was supposed to be "dance to Christmas music." This isn't so appealing when your head is pounding.

Lydia had her heart set on dancing to Christmas music tonight, though, so for a little while we played some music and she danced around with Henry.  It was shortlived.  The night turned into a movie night.  We watched Elf and one of the ABC Family Rudolph shows (the Happy New Year one) before Brandon brought out his guitar and strummed a few Christmas songs for Lydia to dance to.  She was by far the one most interested in dancing tonight and couldn't get Elvis off of the couch to dance with her.  The night ended in multiple-kid meltdowns and early bedtimes. 

Can't win 'em all. 

I failed to report on the Ashland Poetry Workshop this weekend - it went very well!  The workshop was laid back and enjoyable, and I think the group appreciated the feedback and discourse.  I had a great group and a handy list of guiding questions to direct our review of each other's poetry, and that helped me quite a bit in leading the group discussion of work.  The experience was energizing instead of exhausting.  I look forward to running a workshop again sometime soon.  If you know anyone looking for a poetry workshop instructor, I know a gal.

That Isn't on My 30th Year Goal List

It's been a while since I checked in on my 30th Year Goals.  Ever since the summer residency my reading and writing efforts have been unimpressive.  Besides a draft of an essay that probably won't ever see the light of day because it's so bad, I've written one poem and a short lyric essay of about 750 words. I've started about half a dozen books, some from my "read ten books list" and then others that have been recommended, but lately all I want to do after the kids go to sleep is hang out on the couch with my husband and watch movies or listen to him play the guitar and sing along.

Part of this is because I've been exercising in the mornings before work, and the wake-up call is early.  By the time the day is over, I'm just plain done with anything that requires brain activity.  I'm rather sure if I picked up a book I'd fall asleep within the first five pages.  Exercising at the gym wasn't on my 30th year list.

I expected weekday writing and reading to drop off with the kids in soccer and implementing date night again, but I had hoped that the weekend reading and writing would ramp up, since my weekend evenings are now husband-free.  Instead, I've watched a lot of romantic comedies. That wasn't on my 30th year list either.

I think the next time something comes up (like laundry or dishes), I'm going to let my husband/boss/friends/church/family know that I'm exempt because it wasn't on my 30th year list. Sorry! :) Of course, neither was sleeping, so maybe my body will pay attention if I tell it to stop spending 1/3 of every 24 hours doing nothing.

The good news is that I'm not in a binding contract with my 30th year list of goals.  They are goals, not vows, after all.  I also wrote the list in January, and it's amazing how much changes in the course of ten months.  I didn't know that Pruning Burning Bushes would be published this year or that I would be trying to schedule readings from it this fall.  If I had known that, I might have added something about my book to the goal list.  I also didn't know that we would become such foodies, losing weight and feeling better in 2012.  Can I retroactively add goals to the goal list so that I can check them off?  Absolutely! 

In general I feel good about the status of my goal list for 2012.  We're making progress in most areas, and the areas I'm not are at least on my radar or in "continuous improvement."  We have a ways to go in the credit card debt area but we have a plan, at least.  Bible study and daily quiet time looks more like frantic random prayers on the treadmill, spurts of conversation with the Holy Spirit in times of stress and thanksgiving, and the occasional deep breath appreciation of nature/family/seasons/life. 

The marathon or half-marathon idea is eliminated from the list; I laugh just reading it.  Sometimes you have to approach your goals realistically within the framework of real life in order to find balance.  I don't aspire to be a marathoner, and my guess is that it is hard to be a marathoner plus anything else.

I am glad that I didn't say "write 12 good poems" or "write 6 publishable essays."  I've surpassed 12 poems, though who knows if any of them are any good.  I'm close to six essays, maybe seven if I count the really bad one that won't ever see the light of day, and I'm way beyond that if I include the short essays and articles I've written for a few different blogs this fall.  This makes me feel better about myself but it also makes me wonder if I shouldn't have had a higher goal in mind.  Meh. I think instead of raising the bar in quantity, I can spend the rest of 2012 working on quality.

This has been a great exercise this year. It's something I've kept in the back of my mind, and having a place I can refer back to in order to see how I'm doing has been really handy.  It's helped me to keep perspective when I don't feel like I'm accomplishing much besides living, which should be enough, anyway.  I think that contentment and ambition don't have to be mutually exclusive.  It's possible to strive toward goals and be content, and whether ambitions succeed or fail should not shatter that contentment, especially when there's so much around us to be grateful for.

Things Left on the 30th Year List:

• cut our credit card debt in half (unrealistic at this point in the year, but pushing forward anyway)
• blog once a week (average isn't too far off)
• incorporate Bible reading and prayer into daily life more
• read ten books (eight down? I think?)

Not too shabby.  Maybe I can take the rest of 2012 off once I finish my reading list. 

Paleo Parenting Update

It's been seven solid months since we dramatically changed the way that the Wells family eats, from a primarily grain-based diet (cereal for breakfast, sandwiches at lunch, pasta/rice at dinner) to a more fruit, vegetable, nuts, seeds, and meat focused diet, with an emphasis on food that is not processed or packaged.  If it comes in a package, we can read the name of the ingredients on the package and know where it's coming from.  It's called "Paleo" because it's supposed to be closer to what our pre-packaged, pre-GMO ancestors ate.  It isn't so much a diet or weight-loss strategy as it is an attempt at living healthier lifestyles.

We kickstarted our food change by following a detox-type diet for 30 days - the Whole30 Program - which we found out about through one of our friends.  The Whole9Life is a cool concept worth reading about, too.

BW and I knew, based off of the positive impact it has had on us, we would keep on eating this way as much as possible, with the occasional cheat and indulgence, but it seemed almost too much to ask to get the kids to skip peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cereal, mac and cheese, and pizza, their four main food groups.

We started with breakfast because that was easiest.  They like eggs well enough, and when we discovered paleo pancakes, well, breakfast became a piece of cake... er... paleo pancake.  Throw in some bacon or sausage frequently and the kids are set for breakfast.  The default bowl of cereal is history.  Henry, our squishy Paleo baby, typically eats scrambled eggs with turkey, kale, or spinach in 'em and a banana.  The older kids almost always have eggs and meat, and if they are still hungry maybe a banana or an apple. 

Dinners were the second beast.  Our kids (except the Paleo prince) balked at all things vegetable for quite a while, unless it was broccoli (with cheese), carrots (coated with honey), or potatoes (with sour cream, cheese, deep fried, or french fried).  They whined.  They sometimes cried.  They sometimes didn't finish their food.

Just the other day I marveled at our three children at dinner.  On their plates: grilled chicken, roasted carrots (no honey), steamed broccoli (no cheese), and a cucumber/tomato salad.  There were no complaints, no pouting, no whining, just eating.  And asking for more!  It was amazing. 

I never thought we'd get to the point where they would stop asking for candy and sweets as a snack or begging for the gut bomb foods that dominated their lives before, but here we are.

Lunch has been slower going, but I think we're just about there.  Lydia seems to have a more sensitive stomach than Elvis, and white bread especially seems to give her a belly ache.  She gets this now, and so she's suggested a few things for her lunch.  Instead of packing a PBJ sandwich, Lydia usually gets something with peanut butter - either celery or sliced apples - or if no peanut butter, a couple of slices of turkey, plus a couple of other add-ons: grapes, banana, raisins, greek yogurt, sweet potato chips, carrots, etc.  We try to pack her stuff we know she'll eat or let her pick out what she wants us to pack.  It seems to be working out well.

It might just be that Elvis is getting older and maturing, but I also think that his diet changes have affected his behavior and his ability to pay attention and listen at school.  Since school started he has "stayed on green" every day.  This is a big change from last year.  In fact, last week he OPTED OUT of the "good listener treat" that is given at the end of each week to the kids who stayed on green all week long.  As a reward, he had a "banana sundae" for lunch - banana with peanut butter, plus strawberries and blueberries and some honey.  He was one happy little man.

I am really proud of my kids and the choices they are making.  It seems to be true that the more we incorporate healthy lifestyle choices into our family, the more they seem to get it.  We aren't psycho about it (I am going to order a pizza tonight, after all), but we want them to understand that, like everything else in life, we have a choice -- whether to eat healthy and feel good, or whether to eat something that tastes good but might make us feel icky later, and knowing that, to indulge or abstain.  Sometimes we indulge and love it (fair food!), and sometimes we choose to skip junk and wait for the good fuel.

So far, so good.

Here are some foods that we eat a lot and places that we refer to frequently for recipes:

Sweet potato fries
Paleo pancakes
Roasted carrots (nomnompaleo.com - love her stuff)
Roasted chicken
Baked sweet potatoes
Grilled anything
Steamed broccoli
Cabbage
Guacamole (awesome with the sweet potato fries)
Avocado salad
Avocados straight-up
Lots of salads with veggies and chicken or turkey on top
Roasted butternut squash mmmmm
Omelets
Kale chips
Sauteed spinach or kale
Sauteed peppers and onions
Sauteed apples or homemade applesauce mmmmm

and more, of course.  Usually I just google "Paleo +" whatever I am wanting to cook in order to find quick and easy meal solutions with what I have on hand.  The greatest thing about eating this way is that most of the food prep is quick and simple food prep that brings out the natural flavors in foods.  The trick is to find the things that you can return to over and over again -- for us, sweet potatoes are a must on our shopping list, and so are bananas and eggs -- figuring out what staples are going to replace your defaults from before really helps when dinnertime rolls around.

We love eating this way, and not just because we feel (and look) so much better, but because food actually tastes good this way.  Once you've killed your need to add sugar to everything, suddenly your tastebuds can actually taste the natural sweetness in foods like carrots, sweet potatoes, and so on.  And they are way more delicious and satisfying than any added sweetener.  We also have the added benefit of knowing exactly what it is we are ingesting.

We'll keep working on the lunches and let you know what we come up with.  There's a few websites that have been referred to me recently with some lunch options for kids that I'm excited to look into more - Paleo Parenting, Eat Like a Dinosaur, and NomNomPaleo all have some great lunch suggestions. 

Feel good and enjoy food! :)

The Road Ahead: Fall 2012 Outlook

We had a great weekend with the kids here in Ashland, the last weekend before Brandon goes back on the road for football season.  It feels a little bit like a storm front is on the horizon. There's only a few more hours of daylight to soak up before hunkering down inside for the long night of lightning and thunder. 

It isn't that bad, really, it's just different from what we've been used to for the last three months or so. It's much faster paced, more scheduled, more demanding, more exhausting.  Summer is over.  I am taking deep breaths and long sighs; I am mentally stretching and flexing for the quickened pace.  I'm out of practice, haven't trained for the coming marathon. 

So tonight I went for a run after Elvis's late birthday party, after our parents left and the kids were bathed and ready for bed.  I didn't take my phone, didn't wear headphones, knew that if I ran through King Ridge and back toward campus it'd be about three miles or so, a solid 30 to 45 minutes.  I haven't run since July 9 but I figured if I took it slow enough I could make the distance. 

Sometimes I have to run without music in my head; it invites the kind of plodding out of thoughts and emotions and prayers that require pounding feet and even breaths, and as I rounded corners I welcomed the stream of conscious ponderings. 

I made some commitments to myself about exercise (before work), about date night (probably once every other week, maybe once a week), about how to handle the evenings when BW is out of town (friends and wine and when they aren't available, writing and books), and I made some concessions about time and weeknights.

Let's face it: turning thirty doesn't just mean I get to feel like the adult that I am a little bit more.  It also means I have three children who require, demand, and deserve my time and attention from 5 p.m. until they go to bed at 8 p.m., whether that means carting them off to soccer practice (which will take place four out of five weeknights the first few weeks-- gah!) or just skipping out on the temptation to commit to a dozen non-children oriented evening activities.

With Brandon leaving town Thursdays or Friday mornings and returning late Saturday or Sunday each week, I have to admit to a weight pressing down on my chest right now, a wearing down thinking about just me and the kids those days and nights.  I love the time I get to spend with them on the weekends, love going places and doing things with just the three of them, but I also know what it's like when it's all of us during the summer, when we're a less scheduled and stressed family unit.  And I know Saturday morning soccer standing in the cold wet with a toddler and a preschooler.  And I know packing up the kids for church and standing in the pew alone.  And I know family gatherings with me and the kids, taking pictures and sending them out to Facebook so he can see them.  I don't want him to go.  I miss my husband already and he's sitting eight feet away.

Now that I've finished throwing myself that little pity party, bawling and sobbing and causing Brandon to worry about his crazy little wife and her sudden eruption, let me say too how grateful I am for this work and that it is important for our family, financially and strategically, that he has this work and this schedule so one of us can be at home with the kids any time we're needed.  This is important and good for them, especially good for Henry, and maybe in a few years when he's in school things will be different, but until then, it's so great that Brandon can be here for Elvis and Henry during the day.  It's so great that we can both parent our children, even if it is in shifts.  It's so great to be able to work off some of the debt that we keep piling on and then chiseling away at.  It's so great to be blessed with jobs at all, let alone jobs we enjoy and are proud to do.

Running is a lot like writing, the outcome is unknown (exhausting or satisfying), both require an undistracted block of time, and both take you routes you might not have traveled otherwise.  Both always lead me home.

"Sow your seeds in the morning, and at night let not your hands be idle, for you do not know which will succeed, whether this or that, or whether both will do equally well." Somewhere in Ecclesiastes