We fell in love with a property, but not the house. We found out that properties in Ohio can lack a well. I received paperwork for an appointment with a neurosurgeon without warning that said paperwork was coming to my mailbox. We had a wonderful group date night with wonderful friends. An old friend of mine lost his father. I learned that surgery was probably going to happen. A friend died. We fell in love with not one, but two houses. A friend experienced a horrible loss that broke my heart into a thousand pieces. We chose a house. We made an offer. We waited. Our offer was accepted! We began the long, arduous task of cutting our way through the red tape of a VA loan. I learned that I wouldn’t have to have surgery, but a dorky back brace was a must as well as some butt-kicking physical therapy. We found out that we’re getting a nephew! I found out that the back brace makes my back feel worse.

Up and down and up and down and up and down. And up and down.

This is life, I suppose.

These are the moments — these juxtaposed moments of happy and sad and busy and confused and angry and what-now? and heart-breaking and heart-bursting — that remind me adulthood is a mix of responsibility, faith, luck, triumph, loss, failure and love. Being an adult is hard. I get that. I accept that. But sometimes, I miss the not knowing. I miss the ability to just go along with the flow because that was your only option. The being in charge of the flow… or, no… the understanding the even though you’re in charge of the flow that you’re not really in charge of the flow is what gets me the most.

If I had my way, my friends would all be happy, healthy, cancer-free, and never side-swiped with unimaginable loss. If I had my way, my back would function properly and my son wouldn’t ask me, “Mommy, does your back feel good enough to pick me up today?” If I had my way, the red tape would fall away and we could pick and choose our place of residence without worry, without confusion, without second guessing ourselves. If I had my way, it would all be up for everyone that I loved.

But that’s not the reality of life. I accept it for what it is… I suppose.

I’ll put on my dorky back brace and make my way through red tape and visit friends who need a friend and pick up my not-so-baby boy even though it hurts and smile through the pain of it all. I’ll paint pin rainbows and pray and wish and hope and plead and shake my fist for happier times for all. And do laundry. Lots of it.

Because, when I stop and think about what stepping off of this roller coaster called life means, I would rather stay on it indefinitely than step off. I don’t want to miss any of the good just to miss the bad. I don’t want to give up the responsibility just because I don’t like the gunk that comes with said responsibility. I mean, I’d like to miss the gunk; I would. I really, really would. But I don’t think that’s what living life is about.

So I’m on this roller coaster for life. It’s just a shame I’m afraid of heights.

Roller Coaster is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

I just have to say…

I’m always home.

I have a post brewing about house hunting and selling and all things related, but right now, I’m focusing on what we have. What is in front of us. And I’m okay with all of it.

Home is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

I do.

– __ — __ –

Thanks for the past seven. Looking forward to the next seventy.

Seven is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

That’s right. We’ve endured seven years (on Sunday) of marriage on a Full-sized bed. We’re either awesome or stupid. It’s hard to tell. But over the years, the bed has been shrinking — or we’ve just been having more children while simultaneously expanding our waist sizes — and a larger bed was necessary.

We didn’t get all fancy pants. This is our first upgrade, so we just went the more traditional route. We got a Serta Perfect Sleeper Davidson mattress (and box spring); it’s a firm mattress, which we were hoping would be a better fit with my back injury and subsequent pain. We grabbed it for a stupid-awesome price at the Big Lots sale. My dad asked, “So is that your Christmas present to each other?” I realized that it wasn’t and decided, “No, it’s our anniversary present!” Even though we said no presents this year — the price was too good to pass up!

The boys think it’s awesome because it’s big. And it is. FireDad got into bed the first night and, after a brief pause in the darkness said, “Where are you?” We laughed. But we’ve spent seven years mashed together. We’ve spent a number of those years with a baby, a toddler or a big boy sleeping in between us; whether he was nursing or boogery or scared of the boogey man or having leg cramps or couldn’t go sleep in his own bed because his room smelled like puke. We found a way to fit in that little bed, on the mattress that kind of dipped and caved in the middle when we took off the sheets to move her on out of the bedroom. I’m sure we’ll all fit just fine in the new bed — once the boys figure out how to climb onto it as it’s much higher.

2006

And it has changed over the years: the room, the bed, the clutter. Us. I look at the photo of our old bed set, and I wonder who slept there then. I see bits and pieces of us. I see shadows of who we were. In fact, in that photo of our old bedroom style, I can see the book that started me on the path of menu planning and, as the years went on, a true love of cooking. But I also see things that were phases: a baby monitor, country things, empty frames because I was too tired to fill them. I’m still too tired to fill them, so perhaps that isn’t a phase.

2011

The white and red decorative pillows made their way to the new bed set, but so much has changed. You can’t see the cluttered nightstand in the new photo. But it currently holds fire truck erasers, necklaces that aren’t hanging where the country quilt used to be, a phone charger, more empty picture frames, and a taller pile of books, all stacked by the wall. Every time I completely clean it off, it fills up again. Such is our life.

I wonder what our bedroom will look like in another five years — or seven — or seventy.

– __ — __ –

As an added bonus, the underside of our bed is clean. The boys even noticed.

“Hey, BigBrother, look! There’s nothing under their bed!”
“Like nothing?”

BigBrother knelt down next to his brother and took a look; their heads together as they bent to peer under our new bed.

“Wow! I’ve never seen it that clean.”

Busted.

A New Place to Rest Our Heads is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

“Do you think that they’re adding too much girly-stuff into the show? I think the show is at the top of its game when it’s mostly science with the sexual tension undertones. I mean, I love all of the girls, especially the geeky ones, but if I wanted to watch a show about planning a wedding, I’d watch Brideszillas!”

He agreed with me. And then there was a pause.

Now, normally my dad loves to not only recap the show but launch into deep, philosophical questions about why our society believes what it does and acts how they do. He is who I go to when I want to discuss the whys of the world. He’s always up for discussion, especially for debate. So the pause was disconcerting. He ended it with a sniffle.

“Uh, I have some bad news.”

The last time my parents called with bad news, my grandfather had passed away suddenly. I sat up straight on the couch and braced myself.

“Steinway died.”

Steinway came to us in the winter of 1998. I was just turning 17. My first cat, Boo, had died the previous year and I had sworn, as most pet owners do, that I was never going to get another cat. Steinway was a stray that a family friend rescued at work, and upon seeing his sleek black body, white feet, white ascot and white whiskers on one side but black whiskers on the other side, I fell in love immediately. Like our previous cat, he was my cat.

To name him, I went through every letter of the alphabet and wrote down two names for each of those letters. Until I got to S. As he sat beside me, all black and white and love, I wrote down Steinway. If you don’t know my history, it would be a good time to let you know that Rachel from Glee and I shared something very important: We were musical theater geeks. I wrote down Steinway and didn’t write any more. He was named. My musical, loving, beautiful cat.

He was with me in my senior pictures (though not all of them). When I was pregnant with the Munchkin, he protected me. And, oddly as he was fixed, sprayed me. Twice. Apparently that’s a thing that happens. When I married my husband, Steinway had to stay with my parents. My husband is allergic to cats. At one point in time, a Post Secret card read something like, “My partner is allergic to cats and I resent him a little bit.” My husband accused me of sending it in. I didn’t. But I did always miss Steinway.

I visited with him whenever we visited The Farm. He was always my cat; funny and loyal and foot attacking. I always felt liked he looked at me with a sad gleam in his eye when I left. I had cat abandonment guilt. But my parents loved him and he was well cared for.

Mom told me last night that when she did the laundry earlier this week, he attacked her feet as he always did. I made a joke, through my tears, that seeing as he was my cat, it was probably his kidneys that gave out — like my old cat.

I cried on my husband, who let me cry on him despite sneezing at the thought of a cat. My eyes were puffy and my eye makeup was smeared as I realized: Steinway was the last cat I’ll ever own. My heart tugged a little more. Boo and Steinway were such great pets. I feel a bit of sadness knowing that the cat-owning phase of my life is completely over. Unless I outlive my husband, at which time it will be understood that I will become a crazy cat lady. (Because another husband? I think not.)

The pets from my childhood are now officially all gone. Alice in Wonderland, Boo, Pretty Patty, Casey and Steinway have all passed on from this world. I now feel the tug even more to get my sons a pet, but I realize that we’re not ready yet. In fact, this pain of loss pokes that soft spot in my heart that reminds me how deeply I feel these losses. I don’t think I could handle my sons dealing with such a loss either. Someday. Someday.

(As I moved out in 2003, pre-digital camera, I have zero pics of Steinway scanned. I should work on that.)

Goodbye, Dear Friend is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

As such, we have very few dandelions in our yard.

Yesterday, the boys and I were outside enjoying the bright blue sky and sunshine. We planted their little Veggie Tales greenhouses that they got for Easter. We watered my new fuschias and the other two hanging baskets. They got mad when I told them we didn’t need to water the plants in the ground just yet since we’ve had enough rain to take care of those ones. And then LittleBrother spotted one.

“A wisher!”

He ran over and picked the fluffed-up seeded dandelion. He blew it and delighted as the puffs floated away on his breath and the breeze. I smiled. Such a delight of childhood; blowing on a wisher and believing in your heart that your wish will come true.

As we kicked the ball, argued over kicking the ball and pretended to be pirates, LittleBrother picked about three more wishers from the edges of our property, even finding one hiding in a clump of my lilies. And then they were gone.

He stood, looking to the neighbors yard. Our rule is that we stay in our own yard. The other children in our neighborhood don’t seem to know this rule exists and, if they do, they don’t heed it, but we do. And so, he looked longingly at the neighbor’s yard which was covered with dandelions in all stages of dandelion life. His lip came out a little bit as he stared.

“I wish we lived in that house so we could have all of those wishers.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that even if we lived in that house, his Daddy would still get kind of crazy on the dandelions and that his wishers would still be limited. But I may have searched really hard for another hidden wisher for him to blow before we went inside for the evening.

Because what is childhood without wishers?

Land of the Wishers is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

I’m grumpy enough when the kids get up before seven-zero-zero on their clocks, but the truth is that I no longer have to get up to help them go to the bathroom. They can use the bathroom and keep themselves busy until it’s actually time to get up (aforememtioned 7:00). A dog? Not so much. Also, I worry about travel issues. And hair. I shed enough.

But when I see pics like this of my sons with my uncle’s dog this past week?

My resolve is lessened a bit. But only a bit.

Ben, the dog, is the next litter brother of my parent’s Golden Retriever, Indiana.

Both great dogs.

And so is Polar.

Even though I witnessed him throw up Easter grass.

And so is Fiona.

Even though she ate baby bunnies.

But we’re just not ready yet. And by we, yes I do mean the adults in the household. So, for now, we’ll just love on other people’s dogs. Because while I love pet cuddles, I know the commitment is huge and we’re just not there yet. So if I spend time just petting (or, uh, photographing) your dog when I visit your house, it’s simply me getting my fix.

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For someone who always has something to say, I feel useless. But this isn’t about me.

Today I will be holding Mom, Outnumbered, her husband, her children, her grandma, her sisters and brothers and in my heart. I may not be there in person, but I’m there in spirit holding my friend up as she honors her mom.

(PS: Hug or call your mom today. Okay?)

When There Are No Words is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

I have grown over the years and through life experiences and interactions with others I have toned it down, pulled it back a bit. I am more discerning with people and opportunities. I am not quick to trust if you want me to invest money, but I may hear you out before — politely — telling you no. I do reserve some mistrust for the adoption industry as a whole, but even then I have this positive place inside where I believe that the work being done by groups like Ethica will someday make a difference and influence ethical reform. But, yes, I’m still a trusting person.

I kind of have to be. I am married to a firefighter.

When he kisses me on the head in the morning, heading off to another twenty-four hour shift, I have to trust that twenty-four hours later he is going to come home, pour himself a cup of coffee and sit in his recliner for an hour or so as he gets his Family Legs back. I have to trust that when I hear the scanner start to go crazy, his fellow firefighters will have his back and he’ll call me later in the evening. I have to trust when I hear a fire truck whiz by that my husband’s training and know-how will guide him through the proper ways to do his job. I have to trust that he’ll come home.

That’s a lot of trust expected out of one human being. Maybe that’s why I am how I am and I married who I did and we are where we are and who we are. I believe that my ability to trust so easily keeps me sane on the hardest of days.

I wonder then how our boys will be as they continue to grow. As of right now, they don’t yet “get” that firefighters can die. They know they can get hurt, but death is not something that has yet been questioned or brought up, though we’ve read books like Fireboat and September Roses. They’ve never put it together that their father could die in a fire. I prefer that — for now. But when they do find out, will the fact that we are just supposed to trust that he will come home cause them to trust easily in other areas of their lives? And is that a good thing or something to work against? I don’t know the answers.

I do know that as I step from tonight into tomorrow, I’m trusting that the changes I’m making in my life are going to be for the best. For more on that, tune in tomorrow. But for now, I am taking comfort in the fact that I am a trusting person.

And comfort in these guys…

Door open, move forward. Oh, and breathe.

Trust is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.

Today the not-so-Snowpocalypse hit the area. For awhile there, it was snowing hard. The boys were giddy. So was I. I knew as soon as I finished my work hours, we were going to get our snow gear on, get our butts outside and get to the important work of snowball fights, sledding and general snow fun.

Except, I forgot that I am currently without a pair of snowpants.

Last year, I broke the zipper on the ski pants I had for years. I attempted an outdoor snow-venture without them but ended up with snow in areas one doesn’t really want to have snow. For our first snow this year, I attempted to put on a pair of really old (I’m talking high school, people) wind-pant-type-of-material pants. As you might imagine, they didn’t fit all that well.

And so, I have no snowpants.

I just got a new ski jacket. It’s black and white and, wait for it, green. I know you’re surprised. I just want a pair of simple black pants, though I do like the version of bibs that Lands’ End carries as well. The problem? I don’t know where to find them other than Lands’ End. And you’d think Lands End would have their snowpants on some kind of reasonable sale considering Target has swim suits in the store. But no. No sale. And spending $80-$100 on pants that I can only wear 2-5 times per year in places and situations that lend to tearing, ripping and general damage seems… well… wasteful.

Who else carries adult snowpants? For reasonable prices?

Because I’d really like to join these guys…

…before they don’t want to play with me anymore.

(But don’t worry, FireDad threw enough snowballs for me. And at me.)

I Need Some Snowpants is a post from Stop, Drop and Blog. Want more of Stop, Drop and Blog? Like our page on Facebook! If you have questions, contact me or hit me up via twitter.