Six Word Sunday

Sleep is worth millions of dollars.


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The Moment I Knew

Flashback Friday
John and I met on April 17, 2001. By Memorial Day, I knew there was a whole lot of potential for the relationship, so I figured it was a good time to bring him home to meet My Big Fat Greek Family. If they were going to scare him off, better sooner than later.
Part of our weekend was taking my much younger (20 years) brother to see Shrek. During the scarier part of the movie, a big fiery dragon chasing around the intrepid anti-heroes, I glance over to see my baby brother curled up against John, clutching his arm, just peeking out. And that, my friends, is that. I melted and haven't truly solidified in the ten years since. Tonight we laid in bed and watched Shrek with our children. How does live get better?


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Magic Moment

My husband John, from daddyrunsalot.com, and I dealt with unexplained infertility for three years before we decided to adopt. It was almost another two years and two disappointments before we were blessed with our son. Two weeks before he was born, I found out I was pregnant. At 32 weeks we found out it was a girl. This picture reminds me of all the magic even during all the crazy.


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Love Myself Because John Said So

I'm required to participate when it's my husband. And I do need this.

1. I like my smile. It seems to make others smile back. I have been told I smile with my whole self.

2. I like that I am a reader. I don't get a lot of time for it, but I always have a book. I hope I instill this in my kids.

3. I am proud that despite how hard it is to coordinate, I work out regularly.

That's about all I have time for now!


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Define

It has become politically incorrect to put labels on people and for some good reasons. In the past and still today unfortunately, many of these labels, black, gay, etc., are used to demean and repress those seen as Other. Yet labels have their place. Humans work better with a frame of reference. It gives us a jumping off point for our journey into the world outside ourselves. As long as we don't make the labels more important that the people we are applying them to, they are a handy tool our brains use to cope with all the input we receive.
And while labeling the world around us is important, the most important labels are the ones we give ourselves. Some are simple: brunette, short, Greek, thirty-four. Others are a little more complex: funny, friendly, smart, forgetful. Then there are the ones we use to define ourselves, the ones that shape the decisions we make and the life we lead. They can come in a variety of categories. Career: Writer, Teacher, Librarian. Talents: Writing, Knitting, Photography. Family: Daughter, Sister, Wife, Mother. Throughout our lives as we grow, they change. Some disappear, others are added. The level of importance of each always morphing along a sliding scale.
Some people have shining label that glow and drive them. They become not just a label but a definition of our core selves. Actress, Athlete, Reporter, Engineer, Professor, Artist, Volunteer, Activist. Especially in our youthful adulthood the career labels often are the ones of most important or at least daily focus. The family ones obviously grow in import if you choose to start a family with a significant other and perhaps children.
I never felt the pull of a Career. I had jobs I liked, that I worked hard at, but while they were labels, they were never definitions. I always felt my family connections more even at the time of my life when they are often more in the background. I have always been the most proud of being a good daughter and sister and then wife. And when I became a mother, I found my definition. I know it is the one label I was meant to carry and turn into a definition of my self. It is hard. It is exhausting. It is my natural state of being. That is an awesome understanding, and I love the truth of that statement. Yet I worry just a little. It is a definition that is fundamentally about others, one in which I can easily lose myself to the fulfillment of my children. Other parents I know still have careers and talents that are definitions, not just labels. They are of an import in their lives that they go to extraordinary lengths to juggle all the parts of their cores. I juggle diapers and toys, laundry and a vacuum, a part-time job and workouts. And I am very content. I wonder if I should be. Is it enough to have one definition and many labels? Will labels be enough when my kids no longer need constant attention? Maybe a label or two will then change to a definition. Who knows? Maybe I'm worrying for nothing. I am glad it is just a tiny worry, a rumination, really. I wonder if I am the only one who has it.


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Motherhood Exposed: Eating with the Kids

So over at The Little Hen House, Morgan, has come up with a great little blog hop called Motherhood Exposed: Sometime This Job Sucks. So here is one of mine. I hate eating with my kids. Family dinners at home aren't bad. The kids know the routine and for the most part they are uneventful and even pleasant-like. But breakfast and lunch? It's me, a 21-month-old and a 14-month old, neither of whom talk or will let me help them eat their food in any way. I am a very social creature, so these meals are excruciating. Sometimes the hubs (daddyrunsalot.com) is not home for dinner, and that's even worse. I am always so tempted to eat in front of the TV for company, but the mom guilt overrules that. I have read books aloud during a meal and played audiobooks and podcasts just to not have to listen to.

And let's talk restaurants. I love eating out. If it wouldn't bankrupt us or make me die by 40, I would eat out every meal. I love being waited on, not worrying about any kind of clean up, just being able to chat and relax. Hmmm. That is a thing of the past. Apparently, restaurant highchairs are sprayed in some kind of kidicide because the second we try to thread their feet through the leg holes, they are screaming. Sitting on laps or in the booth or a booster may last for a while, but the only thing that really makes them happy is walking around and around the restaurant.

I can't wait until they can color without eating the crayons.

Pet Peeve

Here's a pet peeve of mine. Upon hearing the story of my children's births, inevitably there is someone who will say, "See all you had to do was relax to get pregnant." Um, no. First, saying that when I couldn't conceive was utterly non-helpful. Saying it now is just silly and makes you sound like you think you're omnipotent. Second, that time in my life was more stressful than any other I can remember. We'd gone through two failed matches, one of which involved an elaborate lie that kept us on the hook for over a month, and CJ's due date was changed from September to November. His birthmother had issues of her own so contact was spotty at best. We were tied in emotional knots, trying to be excited but so scared of being let down again. And somehow in the midst of all this, one lone sperm found an egg and decided to stay long term paying no attention to John's or my emotional states.
So, please, consider this a PSA. When you run into someone with a similar story, don't bluster. Just be pleased for them, thank God or Fate or The Flying Spaghetti Monster or Chaos, and tell them both kids are adorable. Don't analyze or guess or in any way try to figure out why it happened just glory in the fact that it did.
Thank you for your time.


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