Just so you know...

My third semester started this morning, so I'll be on campus (re: busy) for this week, and then hopefully back and revived for writing after the 4th.

Happy Anniversary to us...

Originally my thought for the day was to post this random picture from our vacation. But as I previewed it, I realized that since today is our wedding anniversary it could be, um, misunderstood...




So, we'll go with this instead:



Our day wasn't particularly romantic. It consisted of an early morning with The Boss, a home inspection (which went well), and a lot of house work here at my parents place. Rather than go out to a fancy restaurant, we settled on a trip to the grocery store and a little time together in the kitchen (I really wish there was a way I could've video blogged the art of my husband "dicing" an onion...it was quite entertaining.) Overall, it was simply a nice day. No trip to Italy, or even Disney for that matter, but nice.

I wish I had access to my wedding albums, I would've liked to have posted a picture of us from that. Oh well, maybe in another month after we move and our belongings are no longer being stored in my in-laws basement - 30 miles from here. Instead, I made Vin take an 'arms length' picture of us to commemorate the day. It's fuzzy and we both look as sleep deprived as we are, but happy nonetheless (and, really, where on earth do my eyes go when pictures are taken?)

Truckin'

A friend of mine introduced me to this little online magazine of short stories, poetry and tales from the road.

A short story of mine is in the current edition.

On Sharing

We're built differently. She has a smaller frame, slender fingers and feet. Her eyes blue, her skin darker and unblemished by freckles. Unlike me, with my thin net of freckles over skin so pale that in the winter it's nearly transluscent. My feet have always been bigger; all of me has. Broader shoulders, rounder knuckles and knees, breasts.

Of course, none of this ever deterred me from raiding her closet. I'd do it and return shirts to their hangers, clean, but stretched so much that when she'd wear them, they'd hang loose over her narrow frame. She hated that.

Today, we share everything. It's a habit we've nurtured over the past decade. We share clothing, couches, food, burdens, experiences, everything. And today, even this; the one thing I wanted to keep for myself.

But now it's on her, draped and heavy over her shoulders and I can't take it off. Can't make it only mine again. And I finally understand, there are some things sisters shouldn't have to share.

Halfway There

Well, technically, we were halfway there (20 weeks along) last week, but I haven't been around enough to post these pictures.

Taking pictures throughout pregnancy is something that I didn't do when I was expecting my son, and I regretted it after the fact. So, I'm trying to do more this time around. I won't post them all of the time, but I thought the halfway point should be shared. Now, I can tell myself that we're coming down the other side and that it's almost over (though, as you can see, the worst of it is still yet to come...Gah, I hate pregnancy, but that's a whole other post all together.)

Twenty-Week Tummy Shots

(Obviously, I didn't do any tanning while we were away.)

Peek-a

Boo.

We're home. Well, back in our temporary space, squeezed between laundry baskets and heaps of clothing, boxed in the dark wooden walls of my childhood bedroom.

After our couple of weeks at the hotel, The Boss had a terrible time trying to sleep in his own crib, in a room apart from my husband and I.

And, as though he needed to do anything more to prove his worthiness for the title of Father of the Year, my sweet husband, (despite having to be up for work at 6:30 this morning,) did as he always does when it's two in the morning and our family is awake - he peeled back the covers and comforted our son, over and over...and over again. Until it was nearly three.

While I handled the early morning hours with much flopping of pillows and hissing and heavy, angry sighs - my husband did what we he does in the times when I fail, he soothed our son.

He does this every time either of us cries in the night. He's a comforter, like no other. A husband and father, yes. But moreso, at the risk of sounding like I'm penning a card for Hallmark, he's a friend.

A friend who knows that I don't shine at 2 in the morning; but rather than forcing me to do what could be considered to be "my job" - he simply, without question, does what he needs to do to take care of his family.

And I don't even have a Father's day card for him yet.

Remembers

(Got a poem from my past in my inbox today...)

remember
we sung stevie tunes
in the baptist mobile,
and counting the key changes?
and the endless cups of coffee
and going to berklee to hang?
and you wore a butterfly sticker
under your left eye?
and i was a mess of immersion
and jazz
and you wanted to be a writer
and i wanted to be an actor?
and remember
sitting
at your lake down a path
behind your parent's house
listening to motorboats?
were there bicardi breezers involved?
and remember i wrote you in romania
to inform you that i was in love with you?
and more cups of coffee
and greasy breakfasts
in a pullcar
and then i worked at that coffee break
and yes
did you work there too?
and remember
i took a male date
to your wedding and was nearly late?
and remember
we danced together
in west side story
and dug kerouac
and vonnegut
and jazz?

i just got knocked out
by this wave of remembers.
i love remembers,
but i remember that your remembers
are made of steel,
and can drink my remembers
under the table.

Here's to Letting Go...

Sitting in a hotel suite, my son is banging toy trucks against the air conditioner vent, the desk is cluttered with faxes and forms and applications for mortgage lenders, the phone is off the hook (with the disconnected handset trailing around The Boss's little legs), towels are spilled in a heap across the couch, blocks and books and puzzles are scattered over the floor and from the corner of the room, the Food Network is teaching me how to perfect my lobster bisque recipe.

And at the center of it all, I'm at peace.

Summer sent an email this morning, she's back with the boyfriend who bruised her breasts and marked her arms with deep purple fingerprints (whom she left not even two weeks ago to pursue another man, who subsequently has decided he wanted to screw his ex instead.) And so she's back with the abusive coke head. Her soon-to-be ex-husband is demanding more visitations with the children and for Summer to give him money towards payments on their old house (that has yet to sell.) The tone of her email is desperate. Help me. Fix me. Tell me what to do.

And at the center of it all, I'm at peace.

The seller accepted our offer on the house, and now we're entering the terrible nerve-wracking, humbling experience of spilling our financial lives out for strangers to pick at and scrutinize. My realtor calls often. My husband is busy in business meetings and training and I'm left to fill out fax-smudged documents while holding our son at arms distance so that he doesn't get sticky fingers on the important papers.

And at the center of it all, I'm at peace.

My body is no longer my own, and is making it known moreso with each day. My hormones are a mess. I burst out in hysterical laughter during sex the other night, which would have been fine, except that it then turned to sobbing...and when my husband asked, quite nervously, what was wrong, I started laughing so hard that I again doubled over in tears.

I stand in front of the mirror and lift my shirt to study the smooth white skin of my slowly-stretching stomach. Will there be stretch marks this time? Is the scale going to scream at me at my next appointment? Have I lost the contours of my face - has it become rounder. Fatter. Twenty-more weeks of self-scrutiny and hormonal mishmash to go.

And at the center of it all, I'm at peace.

Time to let go of these things I can not control and embrace the ones that I can. Like my little man, who's so quietly sipping his juice now and staring out the wide windows at the cars that rush past. Vrooom. His voice hums from behind the cup. The sound of life moving beyond our small space. The sound of letting go.

Best not hope too hard, but...

It's not a castle, it's not a mansion, it's not even two floors. It's actually a medium-sized wood-framed ranch that was built on the rails of what used to be a singlewide trailer...in a park of mobile homes. But, it's all brand new. And it doesn't hurt that there's a giant bathroom with a jacuzzi tub and seperate stand up shower. And a gas fireplace & French doors in the master bedroom. There's a good-sized deck and a nice lawn with a built in irrigation system, and a shed.

It's nicer than anything we've looked at, single-family, multi-family. It's just our size and just our price. It's a place to start, I guess. The plan is to live in this area for another couple of years and then reassess our situation as my husband continues to move up (and to other sites) in his company. All is temporary.

In the meantime, I'm living in a state of panic as we begin the process of working with lenders and exposing our bank account to prying eyes who can control whether or not we're allowed to live in our own space or not.

I was up at five wondering when our tax returns will come in to help beef up our bottom line.

I hate this process.

But, at least for this morning I'm sipping decaf German Coffee Cake flavored coffee from my favorite cafe, while sitting in a hotel room with my son, miles away from everything (except my own neurosis.)

My Daughter

We'll call her Lila