It has be way too long since I've told you anything about Waylon! Poor little guy. I'm just so wrapped up in my own imperfection. . . ;)
He is amazing. Still. Fifteen months old now and, really, just a little ol' person. He says lots of words: ball, bye, dog, moon, mama, da, bird, tiger (once or twice). When he wants his cup, he says 'juice' even though he has never really had juice nor have we ever referred to his cup as juice. He 'awww's and 'mmm's appropriately.
He gives lots of kisses and hugs (thank goodness. I don't know what I would do if he were not affectionate. I need his loving.) He gives pats on the back and rubs on the shoulder.
He has entire conversations with nothing but hand motions and babble that imitates the tones of our own conversations.
He pretend-reads, also imitating the tone of our reading.
He is still napping twice a day, sleeping 10-12 hours a night and eating like a hoss.
He is still cutting teeth - his eye teeth now.
He plays basketball, baseball, football, but not soccer. He doesn't kick yet, but the kid's got some arm.
He finally got rid of the mullet. Still has tons of hair.
His big blue eyes still illicit comments everywhere we go.
He is 'looking less and less like me,' in the words of Joey himself. I am pretty sure he was just fishing for affirmation that this adorable child does, in fact, still look just like him. And he does.
He is pushing boundaries more and more, just to see how far he can get.
He has gotten a 'spanking' several times now. This consists of a swift paint stir-stick to the calf. Quick pop. Just enough to get his attention. It's only ugly for a minute.
He is very generous. He shares everything from food and drink to blanket and toys. Until he wants them all back, then they better be given back pronto.
He is a regular in baby church and loves it. Blanket goes every Sunday. No more incidents. (Although last Sunday as we were picking Waylon up after church and all the kiddies rushed the door like puppies at the shelter begging for an owner to love, I saw the little punk that bit him. I pointed him out to Joey, using those exact words and gave the kid the laaaazy eye. Squirt.)
He is a ham to beat all hams. He loves attention. . . for some reason.
Still will eat pretty much anything we put in front of him - except asparagus, zucchini and Brussels sprouts.
Almost every night after dinner, Waylon takes Joey by the hand, brings him to the sofa (if he's not already there), sets him down and proceeds to bring him book after book and magazine after magazine. They read until bed or bath time. This is Joey's new definition of relaxation. He loves it as much as Waylon does.
He is becoming more and more hand fulls of pure, innocent, Dub-tastic fun.
Watching him learn the world is the greatest thing I have ever been a part of.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
ohhh...
This will be the first of a couple of posts in a row. I have some things to share, but they are of different subjects and deserve separate posts.
Back to the 'in and of the world' thing...
I am reading my daily devotion just moments ago and this:
What shines forth and reveals God in your life is not your relative consistency to an idea of what a saint should be, but your genuine, living relationship with Jesus Christ, and your unrestrained devotion to Him whether you are well or sick. . . Christian perfection is the perfection of a relationship with God that shows itself to be true even amid the seemingly unimportant aspects of human life. . . I am called to live in such a perfect relationship with God that my life produces a yearning for God in others, not admiration for myself. Thoughts about myself hinder my usefulness to God.
So, this is where I am. . . I think indeed my obsession with living a holy life is for naught. And, thanks be to God for taking the time and the focus to teach me these things in the past few months. I have had it all wrong all along! It is not a need for more Godly living that my life is lacking. In fact, it is a need for more God. It is not my imperfect record that has caused my strife, but my imperfect relationship with God. The more I think that I can live more "Godly," the further I am from the truth. I can and will never attain God's standard for my life through the lack-luster power of my own effort and devotion. I. Will. Fail. Every. Time.
Instead, I am to grow closer and closer to Him in the midst of the fuzzy, un-focused background of my every day life. I am to seek Him, not just encounter Him or stumble upon Him. Really, what does a life look like that is devoted to perfecting a relationship with God? No, no, no. . . That's not what I meant. I don't mean how should I live my life in devotion to God. What I mean is how do I obtain a perfect relationship with Him? The answer seems too simple, clear as it is in every part of Scripture. Isn't it constant two-way communication, death of self, meditation on the Word, praise and worship, all of the things I've read over and over? Surely it can't be that simple.
Let me give it a try and, as always, keep you posted. In the meantime, pray for me on this journey.
Back to the 'in and of the world' thing...
I am reading my daily devotion just moments ago and this:
What shines forth and reveals God in your life is not your relative consistency to an idea of what a saint should be, but your genuine, living relationship with Jesus Christ, and your unrestrained devotion to Him whether you are well or sick. . . Christian perfection is the perfection of a relationship with God that shows itself to be true even amid the seemingly unimportant aspects of human life. . . I am called to live in such a perfect relationship with God that my life produces a yearning for God in others, not admiration for myself. Thoughts about myself hinder my usefulness to God.
So, this is where I am. . . I think indeed my obsession with living a holy life is for naught. And, thanks be to God for taking the time and the focus to teach me these things in the past few months. I have had it all wrong all along! It is not a need for more Godly living that my life is lacking. In fact, it is a need for more God. It is not my imperfect record that has caused my strife, but my imperfect relationship with God. The more I think that I can live more "Godly," the further I am from the truth. I can and will never attain God's standard for my life through the lack-luster power of my own effort and devotion. I. Will. Fail. Every. Time.
Instead, I am to grow closer and closer to Him in the midst of the fuzzy, un-focused background of my every day life. I am to seek Him, not just encounter Him or stumble upon Him. Really, what does a life look like that is devoted to perfecting a relationship with God? No, no, no. . . That's not what I meant. I don't mean how should I live my life in devotion to God. What I mean is how do I obtain a perfect relationship with Him? The answer seems too simple, clear as it is in every part of Scripture. Isn't it constant two-way communication, death of self, meditation on the Word, praise and worship, all of the things I've read over and over? Surely it can't be that simple.
Let me give it a try and, as always, keep you posted. In the meantime, pray for me on this journey.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
the longest year: my trust story
I just read a few journal entries from the end of 2008 and the beginning of 2009. I usually hate doing this. As a matter of fact, there have been many a journal tossed in the trash immediately following one of these look-backs. Mostly I hate remembering where I have been. I have gone through vast wastelands of Godlessness and hopelessness and ugliness. And I wrote about all of it. Writing has always been this release for me. There is so much more I can say with written words than I can say with spoken ones. Somehow I get behind the pen (or the keyboad these days) and am eloquent and thoughtful and fluid. When I speak, I stumble and stutter and forget and start and stop... and edit. Maybe that's the biggest difference - when I write, I don't imagine who will be reading my words and what the reaction will be. I only write - without hesistation or consciousness and sometimes without filter.
Funny though that these entries were actually beautiful. They are too spaced out and unkempt. I wonder what happened in between February 2 and March 9 of 2008. It's only left to my weak memory. But what years were 2008 and 2009 for me! It's too easy to forget them - so freely it slips from my memory where I was and what I've been through and where I am. I'm taking a moment to recall, and to share.
You may or may not know (I'll pretend you don't) that it took me a year to get pregnant. I went off the pill in January of 2008 and got pregnant the very end of that December. I had not before and have not to this day been through anything so difficult. There have been things before; I am from a broken family full of broken people. There have been illnesses and deaths and divorces and tragedies all around me. In fact, there is so little of my childhood bobbing around in my memory that I have to make effort and focus to remember parts of it - and even then, I am not sure what's reality or dream. The difference is that I have not ever had my own tragedy. I have always, always been a supporting role, and I mean that in the truest since of the idea. I have prided myself on my pillar-esque reactions to life. If ever you needed a sholder to cry on, just give me a moment to wipe the tears of the previous mourner away and my sholder's all yours. I felt very little and processed even less. I was strong and steady and wise beyond my years, full of good advice and well-tuned ears.
Until 2008, I had never needed a God, especially not a big one. My life was playing out close enough to how I thought it should. It felt good, mostly. I did the things I was supposed to do - hassle-free high school complete with state championships, attendance at Auburn University, well-reputed sorority, skip a few mirky years, perfect wedding, marriage and on to child-bearing. Only it didn't happen like that. For the first time in my ever, my plan failed. I prided myself on my intense and complete control over everything in my life. It was as though I was going down a life check-list completing each event with one of those glorious marks of accomplishment... until 2008, which became an abrupt halt to all that I had known - praise the Lord.
I knew from forever that I would be a mother. It wasn't until late in high school, into college, that I knew that was all I wanted to do. It became more and more clear to me that mothering was my calling. Everything between where I was and motherhood became one more task to accomplish before I held my own precious baby in my thirsty arms. So, as a matter of fact, it felt to me like I had been trying to have a baby for the better part of a decade.
In September 2006, I was finally married and closer than I had ever been to fulfilling what I had come to believe was my destiny. If it had been my call alone, we would not have used any prevention from night one. In his elderly wisdom (he's six years older than me), Joey convinced me otherwise. So I continued to wait. And pine.
Come January 2008, the time seemed right. . . in our limited, finite sight. What was supposed to have happened right away did not. I was appalled. How could my body fail me? How could it not do the thing it was made to do? How could this be happening to me? Month after month, my hopes would rise so high and fall so far so fast. It was miserable. I hurt more than anything I've ever felt. I felt forgotten by God. It felt like punishment for everything wrong I had ever done in my life. I remember thinking and praying, 'What do I need to learn from this? Please teach it to me quickly so I can have a baby!'
I joined a support group at our church for women struggling with 'infertility' (although after just a year, I would find out, I hardly qualified as 'infertile.') There was one precious woman there who had been wanting to be pregnant for 9 years, all of her marriage. She works at Sav-A-Life as a counselor to mothers who accidentally get pregnant with babies they never wanted. She still hopes. Most of the women in the group had been trying for over a year. I felt silly. But they loved me and prayed for me and ministered to me in so many ways.
During that longest year ever, through all that pain and dashing of hopes and misunderstanding, I found a new God - one that is bigger than any God I had imagined or needed before. I learned lots of staggering statistics about infertility and more about infertility treatments and drugs than I ever wanted to know. But, more than that I discovered a God that not only hadn't forgotten me, but was focused on me - like I was an only child in need of some Daddy time.
One of the things I learned about myself in 2008 is that I have, or had, a problem with trust. I didn't know what it was or what it looked like or how to do it. In all of the journal entries I re-read I talk about needing to trust, learning to trust, what it would feel like if I could just trust. I stopped journalling somewhere along the way and I wish I wouldn't have. I would love to know more of what I was thinking through all that hurting and learning.
I know now how sweet trust is. I am boggled by people, especially married ones and parents, that do life without trusting in the God I know. There is so much freedom in trusting Him and so much peace and so much hope. It's so necessary.
Looking back it seems like such a short period of time, that year that felt like forever. It came and went just like all my other years, but left so much in its wake - almost more than any other time in my life. The only year that has had a greater impact on the person that I am is the year that I have just finished - from September 6, 2009 to September 6, 2010 - the first year of my first-born's life.
Funny though that these entries were actually beautiful. They are too spaced out and unkempt. I wonder what happened in between February 2 and March 9 of 2008. It's only left to my weak memory. But what years were 2008 and 2009 for me! It's too easy to forget them - so freely it slips from my memory where I was and what I've been through and where I am. I'm taking a moment to recall, and to share.
You may or may not know (I'll pretend you don't) that it took me a year to get pregnant. I went off the pill in January of 2008 and got pregnant the very end of that December. I had not before and have not to this day been through anything so difficult. There have been things before; I am from a broken family full of broken people. There have been illnesses and deaths and divorces and tragedies all around me. In fact, there is so little of my childhood bobbing around in my memory that I have to make effort and focus to remember parts of it - and even then, I am not sure what's reality or dream. The difference is that I have not ever had my own tragedy. I have always, always been a supporting role, and I mean that in the truest since of the idea. I have prided myself on my pillar-esque reactions to life. If ever you needed a sholder to cry on, just give me a moment to wipe the tears of the previous mourner away and my sholder's all yours. I felt very little and processed even less. I was strong and steady and wise beyond my years, full of good advice and well-tuned ears.
Until 2008, I had never needed a God, especially not a big one. My life was playing out close enough to how I thought it should. It felt good, mostly. I did the things I was supposed to do - hassle-free high school complete with state championships, attendance at Auburn University, well-reputed sorority, skip a few mirky years, perfect wedding, marriage and on to child-bearing. Only it didn't happen like that. For the first time in my ever, my plan failed. I prided myself on my intense and complete control over everything in my life. It was as though I was going down a life check-list completing each event with one of those glorious marks of accomplishment... until 2008, which became an abrupt halt to all that I had known - praise the Lord.
I knew from forever that I would be a mother. It wasn't until late in high school, into college, that I knew that was all I wanted to do. It became more and more clear to me that mothering was my calling. Everything between where I was and motherhood became one more task to accomplish before I held my own precious baby in my thirsty arms. So, as a matter of fact, it felt to me like I had been trying to have a baby for the better part of a decade.
In September 2006, I was finally married and closer than I had ever been to fulfilling what I had come to believe was my destiny. If it had been my call alone, we would not have used any prevention from night one. In his elderly wisdom (he's six years older than me), Joey convinced me otherwise. So I continued to wait. And pine.
Come January 2008, the time seemed right. . . in our limited, finite sight. What was supposed to have happened right away did not. I was appalled. How could my body fail me? How could it not do the thing it was made to do? How could this be happening to me? Month after month, my hopes would rise so high and fall so far so fast. It was miserable. I hurt more than anything I've ever felt. I felt forgotten by God. It felt like punishment for everything wrong I had ever done in my life. I remember thinking and praying, 'What do I need to learn from this? Please teach it to me quickly so I can have a baby!'
I joined a support group at our church for women struggling with 'infertility' (although after just a year, I would find out, I hardly qualified as 'infertile.') There was one precious woman there who had been wanting to be pregnant for 9 years, all of her marriage. She works at Sav-A-Life as a counselor to mothers who accidentally get pregnant with babies they never wanted. She still hopes. Most of the women in the group had been trying for over a year. I felt silly. But they loved me and prayed for me and ministered to me in so many ways.
During that longest year ever, through all that pain and dashing of hopes and misunderstanding, I found a new God - one that is bigger than any God I had imagined or needed before. I learned lots of staggering statistics about infertility and more about infertility treatments and drugs than I ever wanted to know. But, more than that I discovered a God that not only hadn't forgotten me, but was focused on me - like I was an only child in need of some Daddy time.
One of the things I learned about myself in 2008 is that I have, or had, a problem with trust. I didn't know what it was or what it looked like or how to do it. In all of the journal entries I re-read I talk about needing to trust, learning to trust, what it would feel like if I could just trust. I stopped journalling somewhere along the way and I wish I wouldn't have. I would love to know more of what I was thinking through all that hurting and learning.
I know now how sweet trust is. I am boggled by people, especially married ones and parents, that do life without trusting in the God I know. There is so much freedom in trusting Him and so much peace and so much hope. It's so necessary.
Looking back it seems like such a short period of time, that year that felt like forever. It came and went just like all my other years, but left so much in its wake - almost more than any other time in my life. The only year that has had a greater impact on the person that I am is the year that I have just finished - from September 6, 2009 to September 6, 2010 - the first year of my first-born's life.
Monday, November 15, 2010
in and of continued
A point was made. I took it. Please please, be not mistaken. I am not judging those sweet high school cheerleaders. They don't know any better... ;) I am merely proposing a challenge - to them and to all of my brothers and sisters in Christ. And setting this massive weight on the world wide web (and in your minds) instead of continuing to carry it along on my own shoulders - venting my thoughts. Maybe I was trying to open up a hearty discussion as well.
God, on the other hand, is The Judge. He does and He will.
That being said, I told you already that not a day goes by that I am not reminded of this battle. This is a good thing, I think - the Holy Spirit's work in me. This very morning I am reading Hebrews 12:14, which says, "Make every effort to live in peace with all men and to be holy; without holiness no one will see the Lord." This is what I have grappled with and come to start to understand.
And then... a new word from the Lord!! An answer to my questions and constant debate... An ah-ha, if you will. It comes from Oswald Chambers' daily devotion for today in his book My Utmost for His Highest (which I can not get enough of. If you are looking for a daily, it is amazing.) He writes, poetically and profoundly:
Most of us live only in the level of consciousness - consciously serving and consciously devoted to God. This shows immaturity and the fact that we are not yet living the real Christian life. Maturity is produced in the life of a child of God on the unconscious level, until we become so totally surrendered to God that we are not even aware of being used by Him... A saint is never consciously a saint - a saint is consciously dependent on God.
So you see, this is my battle. I am not passing it on to anyone else. I am searching for a clue and today one was strategically placed in my lap. I do not consider this an excuse to live carelessly or without thought to my actions and their effects on others, especially non-believers. I do, however, consider this a call to focus more on my own surrender and dependence on God and less on my less-than-holy actions. From what I understand, a conscious and complete dependence produces an unconscious Christ-likeness - the closer I am to Him, the more I will be like Him. And thank goodness, because consciously trying to be like Christ has only gotten me so far. The natural ugliness of my heart is a chameleon, disguising itself as irresistible worldlinesses that I can not help but fall for, left to my own inadequate strength. So one part of my answer is here: use His strength; count on His power; have faith in His unfailing...unfailing love and boundless grace in every part of my every day (grocery-shopping and driving, wifing and mothering) and I CAN NOT fall.
I am sure this is something I have heard before, maybe even written about... But today I heard it. And I get it. Praise.
God, on the other hand, is The Judge. He does and He will.
That being said, I told you already that not a day goes by that I am not reminded of this battle. This is a good thing, I think - the Holy Spirit's work in me. This very morning I am reading Hebrews 12:14, which says, "Make every effort to live in peace with all men and to be holy; without holiness no one will see the Lord." This is what I have grappled with and come to start to understand.
And then... a new word from the Lord!! An answer to my questions and constant debate... An ah-ha, if you will. It comes from Oswald Chambers' daily devotion for today in his book My Utmost for His Highest (which I can not get enough of. If you are looking for a daily, it is amazing.) He writes, poetically and profoundly:
Most of us live only in the level of consciousness - consciously serving and consciously devoted to God. This shows immaturity and the fact that we are not yet living the real Christian life. Maturity is produced in the life of a child of God on the unconscious level, until we become so totally surrendered to God that we are not even aware of being used by Him... A saint is never consciously a saint - a saint is consciously dependent on God.
So you see, this is my battle. I am not passing it on to anyone else. I am searching for a clue and today one was strategically placed in my lap. I do not consider this an excuse to live carelessly or without thought to my actions and their effects on others, especially non-believers. I do, however, consider this a call to focus more on my own surrender and dependence on God and less on my less-than-holy actions. From what I understand, a conscious and complete dependence produces an unconscious Christ-likeness - the closer I am to Him, the more I will be like Him. And thank goodness, because consciously trying to be like Christ has only gotten me so far. The natural ugliness of my heart is a chameleon, disguising itself as irresistible worldlinesses that I can not help but fall for, left to my own inadequate strength. So one part of my answer is here: use His strength; count on His power; have faith in His unfailing...unfailing love and boundless grace in every part of my every day (grocery-shopping and driving, wifing and mothering) and I CAN NOT fall.
I am sure this is something I have heard before, maybe even written about... But today I heard it. And I get it. Praise.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
in and of the world: part 2
No comments on part 1, huh? I'm surprised. Did I offend? Not offend enough?
So, part 2 has more to do with me and my battle with being in this world and not of this world. What a bear. What a huge struggle for me. This is one of the most challenging issues that I live out daily. And because you probably know me, you are probably wondering why, because I am not so much a "worldly" person from the world's point of view. God's point of view is a little different.
I have been met with the challenge, in my face, on several occasions lately...something I can only interpret as the voice of God repeatedly fighting for my attention, muffled by my full life. The problem is that I am so comfortable here, in my life, in my little world. And I am not called to be comfortable. I am called to be uncomfortable and different. I am not. I want to be, but I fail miserably.
(The further into this I get, the more convinced I am that I have touched on this before...)
A wise Lolly told me the other day that if the world is ok with who you are and the way you are living and what you are doing, then who you are, the way and the what, are not ok with God.
smack!!
How profound. And how true.
Charles Spurgeon writes it like this: If we were more like Christ, we would me more hated by His enemies. It is a sad dishonor to a child of God to be the world's favorite. It is very dangerous to hear a wicked world clap its hands and shout, "Well done!" to the Christian. He should begin to look to his character and wonder what he has been doing wrong, when the unrighteous give him their approval. Let us be true to our Master and have no friendship with a blind and evil world which scorns and rejects Him. Far be it from us to seek a crown of honor where our Lord received a crown of thorns.
smack!!
But who wants to be hated? Who wants to be rejected or scorned? Who doesn't want to be the life of the party, liked by all? Ms Popularity? Class favorite? Friendliest? Ms Congeniality?
Jesus was hated. Despised. Mocked. Cast out. Crucified.
No fun, right? That's what Satan keeps reminding me. How easy it is to live like everyone else lives, keeping in the back pocket of your mind that when you die you will go to heaven and wondering if they will or not. How foolish. But what does it look like to be "not of the world?" Does this involve fewer possessions? More conservative clothing? More giving? More volunteering? Softer speech? Slower driving? An evangelistic license plate? More cheerful greetings? I mean, if Jesus were here today (though we know he is, in fact...I mean a walking, talking, in-the-body person) what would he live like? Would he be homeless? Wear the same outfit day after day? No cell phone? No computer? No Facebook account? No tattoos? Long, scraggly hair? Live on minimal food? Give away everything he didn't absolutely need to survive? Never spend money frivolously? Surely he would be all these things (maybe not. I don't know. That's why I'm asking.) But is this what I should do??
I mean, the goal is to be different, right? Well, there is NOTHING about me that would make someone who had never spoken a word to me or even some of the people I see on a regular basis know without a doubt that I belong to Christ. Not a thing. I dress like the world. Drive like the world. Eat like the world. Spend like the world. And, what's crazy is that I am so much more "conservative" than a lot of other proclaimed-Christians that I know. (I'm stopping there. This is not about you. It's about me. You know if you live "of the world"because the Spirit's told you so. You're just ignoring it like me.)
I just don't know what to do. This eats me. I think about it all the time, yet I do nothing differently. Now that is foolish. What's worse is that I can't even be a consistently Godly wife and mother. (True, this is indeed much harder than being a Godly grocery-shopper or driver.) I am so ashamed at the spectacles that I make based completely on myself and my own agenda. I fail my husband on a daily basis to live out Christ to him. And my son...my greatest ministry ever and I let opportunities to be Christ to him slip out of my frustrated, impatient hands.
But, ah the grace. Praise the Lord that he is faithful to be the God that he is when I fail. I am ever more awed by his goodness and his love. My prayer and hope is that every person I meet, from bagger boy and waitress to husband and son, will know Him because of me...or will at least see him because they have seen me. Oh, the burden of my heart!
I am going back to the Salon next week. Four hours a day, two days a week, eight total hours in an ideal place to be a black sheep (or a white sheep, depending on how you look at it ;) ). I am anxious for all the reasons I've already listed. I worked there before for two-plus years and failed everyone I worked with, clients I talked with, my self and my God to be light and salt. I wanted to be liked and loved and funny and cool... and I was, to my detriment. My earnest prayer is that this time will be different...I'll be different. I feel different, a little over a year since I left. But the testing is yet to come.
Oh, that the Lord would make me like Him; that He would break my heart for what breaks His; that I would see people the way He sees them; that I would be different enough to be cast out, as painful as it may be.
Praise Him that though I fail, "underneath are the everlasting arms" (Deuteronomy 33.27).
So, part 2 has more to do with me and my battle with being in this world and not of this world. What a bear. What a huge struggle for me. This is one of the most challenging issues that I live out daily. And because you probably know me, you are probably wondering why, because I am not so much a "worldly" person from the world's point of view. God's point of view is a little different.
I have been met with the challenge, in my face, on several occasions lately...something I can only interpret as the voice of God repeatedly fighting for my attention, muffled by my full life. The problem is that I am so comfortable here, in my life, in my little world. And I am not called to be comfortable. I am called to be uncomfortable and different. I am not. I want to be, but I fail miserably.
(The further into this I get, the more convinced I am that I have touched on this before...)
A wise Lolly told me the other day that if the world is ok with who you are and the way you are living and what you are doing, then who you are, the way and the what, are not ok with God.
smack!!
How profound. And how true.
Charles Spurgeon writes it like this: If we were more like Christ, we would me more hated by His enemies. It is a sad dishonor to a child of God to be the world's favorite. It is very dangerous to hear a wicked world clap its hands and shout, "Well done!" to the Christian. He should begin to look to his character and wonder what he has been doing wrong, when the unrighteous give him their approval. Let us be true to our Master and have no friendship with a blind and evil world which scorns and rejects Him. Far be it from us to seek a crown of honor where our Lord received a crown of thorns.
smack!!
But who wants to be hated? Who wants to be rejected or scorned? Who doesn't want to be the life of the party, liked by all? Ms Popularity? Class favorite? Friendliest? Ms Congeniality?
Jesus was hated. Despised. Mocked. Cast out. Crucified.
No fun, right? That's what Satan keeps reminding me. How easy it is to live like everyone else lives, keeping in the back pocket of your mind that when you die you will go to heaven and wondering if they will or not. How foolish. But what does it look like to be "not of the world?" Does this involve fewer possessions? More conservative clothing? More giving? More volunteering? Softer speech? Slower driving? An evangelistic license plate? More cheerful greetings? I mean, if Jesus were here today (though we know he is, in fact...I mean a walking, talking, in-the-body person) what would he live like? Would he be homeless? Wear the same outfit day after day? No cell phone? No computer? No Facebook account? No tattoos? Long, scraggly hair? Live on minimal food? Give away everything he didn't absolutely need to survive? Never spend money frivolously? Surely he would be all these things (maybe not. I don't know. That's why I'm asking.) But is this what I should do??
I mean, the goal is to be different, right? Well, there is NOTHING about me that would make someone who had never spoken a word to me or even some of the people I see on a regular basis know without a doubt that I belong to Christ. Not a thing. I dress like the world. Drive like the world. Eat like the world. Spend like the world. And, what's crazy is that I am so much more "conservative" than a lot of other proclaimed-Christians that I know. (I'm stopping there. This is not about you. It's about me. You know if you live "of the world"because the Spirit's told you so. You're just ignoring it like me.)
I just don't know what to do. This eats me. I think about it all the time, yet I do nothing differently. Now that is foolish. What's worse is that I can't even be a consistently Godly wife and mother. (True, this is indeed much harder than being a Godly grocery-shopper or driver.) I am so ashamed at the spectacles that I make based completely on myself and my own agenda. I fail my husband on a daily basis to live out Christ to him. And my son...my greatest ministry ever and I let opportunities to be Christ to him slip out of my frustrated, impatient hands.
But, ah the grace. Praise the Lord that he is faithful to be the God that he is when I fail. I am ever more awed by his goodness and his love. My prayer and hope is that every person I meet, from bagger boy and waitress to husband and son, will know Him because of me...or will at least see him because they have seen me. Oh, the burden of my heart!
I am going back to the Salon next week. Four hours a day, two days a week, eight total hours in an ideal place to be a black sheep (or a white sheep, depending on how you look at it ;) ). I am anxious for all the reasons I've already listed. I worked there before for two-plus years and failed everyone I worked with, clients I talked with, my self and my God to be light and salt. I wanted to be liked and loved and funny and cool... and I was, to my detriment. My earnest prayer is that this time will be different...I'll be different. I feel different, a little over a year since I left. But the testing is yet to come.
Oh, that the Lord would make me like Him; that He would break my heart for what breaks His; that I would see people the way He sees them; that I would be different enough to be cast out, as painful as it may be.
Praise Him that though I fail, "underneath are the everlasting arms" (Deuteronomy 33.27).
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
in and of the world: part 1
Quickly... I have lots of excuses for not posting in a month and only posting once in October. Feel free to ask about them on your own time. Now I have some venting to do!
A couple of weeks ago (actually, I think it was on my birthday), Dad took Waylon and I to the Briarwood girls' volleyball playoff game. Overall, it was a great experience. Fun, glory-day memories are in that civic center. I played on two volleyball state champion teams in that arena and one almost-champion team. Those were the days. sigh.
Waylon had a big time. Lots of balls. Lots of noise. Lots of crazy (crazy-young looking) high school kids doing crazy things. Lots of Grandpa.
Our day was overshadowed by an unfortunate offense. We noticed the ghastly-short cheer leading uniforms (how could you not) when we trekking from the car to the door. Dad and I were both taken aback at the amount of thigh hanging out of the girls' "skirts". Much to my dismay, embarrassment, shame, disappointment, DISGUST, the front of the uniforms read no other than "Briarwood Christian."
Awesome.
I can not begin to word for you what I was feeling and thinking at that very moment, or even this very moment (though rest assured, I will try.) A flood of things was running through my head then. Among them (beyond what I've already mentioned) was asking the girls how they could wear those uniforms with that name on them and feel like an accurate representation of Christ; or maybe asking, at least, when those uniforms came into play (cause it sure wasn't when I was there); or suggesting they please tie those wind breakers around their wastes as long as we were behind them to protect my one-year-old son's baby eyes from seeing something he shouldn't see for a long, long time; or asking the darling girl with her skirt half-way unzipped what she might be attempting to accomplish with this; or maybe asking at least one of them what, if those skirts could talk, did she think they would say... I had some ideas for her if she couldn't come up with some of her own. There were lots of things, and this was only in the parking lot.
Inside, the games were running over so we were subjected to the faux-pas for an extended amount of time. Now, don't get me wrong. I KNOW this is what EVERYONE ELSE is doing. I KNOW this is how the COLLEGE girls cheer. I KNOW this is probably what PUBLIC SCHOOLS are promoting, without the weight of a CHRISTIAN name to bear and a CHRIST-WITNESS to present. I KNOW these things.
Truly, the person or people I really wanted to approach once we were inside were the cheerleader moms. Yes, the ones holding the extra pom-poms and embroidered bags.
"Excuse me, ma'am," I might say. "I was wondering if you might put into words for me the exact image you think your precious daughter is portraying at this very moment. Could you tell me what you think those skirts might say if they could talk? Cause your daughter couldn't. Or could you tell me, sitting in these stands as a proud parent of one of these doll-girls, that you would love for Jesus to come sit right beside you so you could point out which set of thighs belongs to your daughter. What might his response be? Would he be as proud as you? Would he say, 'My my, those are some handsome thighs. Perhaps she should roll that skirt a time or two so we could see a little more.' Is that what He might say? Do you, ma'am, think you and your daughter and your family and your friends and your school here, or there, or anywhere are accurately representing our Lord and Savior and everything that HE stands for and everything that HE did? Because something in me, actually EVERYTHING in me, says you are not. All of you are not."
I might say something like that to her.
I seriously want to write a letter to whomever is in charge at that blessed school these days. What a pity. What an absolute shame and embarrassment to say that is where I went to school.
What a hypocrite. What an unimaginable way to finally turn away all of the lost whose best attack on the Christian church today is that it is full of a bunch of hypocrites. They would be right about many churches, especially in Birmingham where it is mostly a social scene and an economic fill-in-the-blank of what many church-goers want to appear to be... and they would be right about BCS. And I am so sad.
A couple of weeks ago (actually, I think it was on my birthday), Dad took Waylon and I to the Briarwood girls' volleyball playoff game. Overall, it was a great experience. Fun, glory-day memories are in that civic center. I played on two volleyball state champion teams in that arena and one almost-champion team. Those were the days. sigh.
Waylon had a big time. Lots of balls. Lots of noise. Lots of crazy (crazy-young looking) high school kids doing crazy things. Lots of Grandpa.
Our day was overshadowed by an unfortunate offense. We noticed the ghastly-short cheer leading uniforms (how could you not) when we trekking from the car to the door. Dad and I were both taken aback at the amount of thigh hanging out of the girls' "skirts". Much to my dismay, embarrassment, shame, disappointment, DISGUST, the front of the uniforms read no other than "Briarwood Christian."
Awesome.
I can not begin to word for you what I was feeling and thinking at that very moment, or even this very moment (though rest assured, I will try.) A flood of things was running through my head then. Among them (beyond what I've already mentioned) was asking the girls how they could wear those uniforms with that name on them and feel like an accurate representation of Christ; or maybe asking, at least, when those uniforms came into play (cause it sure wasn't when I was there); or suggesting they please tie those wind breakers around their wastes as long as we were behind them to protect my one-year-old son's baby eyes from seeing something he shouldn't see for a long, long time; or asking the darling girl with her skirt half-way unzipped what she might be attempting to accomplish with this; or maybe asking at least one of them what, if those skirts could talk, did she think they would say... I had some ideas for her if she couldn't come up with some of her own. There were lots of things, and this was only in the parking lot.
Inside, the games were running over so we were subjected to the faux-pas for an extended amount of time. Now, don't get me wrong. I KNOW this is what EVERYONE ELSE is doing. I KNOW this is how the COLLEGE girls cheer. I KNOW this is probably what PUBLIC SCHOOLS are promoting, without the weight of a CHRISTIAN name to bear and a CHRIST-WITNESS to present. I KNOW these things.
Truly, the person or people I really wanted to approach once we were inside were the cheerleader moms. Yes, the ones holding the extra pom-poms and embroidered bags.
"Excuse me, ma'am," I might say. "I was wondering if you might put into words for me the exact image you think your precious daughter is portraying at this very moment. Could you tell me what you think those skirts might say if they could talk? Cause your daughter couldn't. Or could you tell me, sitting in these stands as a proud parent of one of these doll-girls, that you would love for Jesus to come sit right beside you so you could point out which set of thighs belongs to your daughter. What might his response be? Would he be as proud as you? Would he say, 'My my, those are some handsome thighs. Perhaps she should roll that skirt a time or two so we could see a little more.' Is that what He might say? Do you, ma'am, think you and your daughter and your family and your friends and your school here, or there, or anywhere are accurately representing our Lord and Savior and everything that HE stands for and everything that HE did? Because something in me, actually EVERYTHING in me, says you are not. All of you are not."
I might say something like that to her.
I seriously want to write a letter to whomever is in charge at that blessed school these days. What a pity. What an absolute shame and embarrassment to say that is where I went to school.
What a hypocrite. What an unimaginable way to finally turn away all of the lost whose best attack on the Christian church today is that it is full of a bunch of hypocrites. They would be right about many churches, especially in Birmingham where it is mostly a social scene and an economic fill-in-the-blank of what many church-goers want to appear to be... and they would be right about BCS. And I am so sad.
Friday, October 8, 2010
the most wonderful time of the year
Oh, I heart HEART October. This is without a doubt the most wonderful time of my year. The humidity is vamoose, the sun is shining, the temperature is dipping. It is heavenly. Waylon and I have been outside more than we've been inside - walking, wagon-riding, biking, playgrounding, play grouping. Neither one of us can get enough.
Last weekend we went to Homestead Hollow in Springville...twice. Just for the scenery, the company, the smell of outside fire and the people watching. Here are some photos. Enjoy!
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
juicy cheeks: the down side
Waylon's face was assaulted in church nursery this past Sunday.
Joey and I show up to pick him up after church and he meets us at the door, Blanket in hand, puffy-eyed, face swollen. "We were just about to page you," Nursery Lady One says. "He got bit on the cheek."
Waylon's all smiles...and a few sniffles.
"We usually have some ice packs that we use when something like this happens," Nursery Lady Two interjects, "but all we could find was this teething ring and he just tries to bite it every time we put it on his cheek."
"I'm so so sorry," says NL1. "Really sorry."
"It's ok," I say. "It's not your fault." I take Waylon from NL1 to cuddle him a minute, offering unneeded support and sympathy. The kid seems fine to me, apart from his puffier-than-usual cheek with a perfect pink and purple ring that goes from his eye to his chin.
"That's the one that bit him," NL2 points to Dennis the Menace sitting patiently on the front of the stroller bus in the hallway, all too familiar with the current situation. He must spend lots of time in a time-out chair, or the Principal's office.
How old is that kid? I think to myself. Five? Geez.
It was Waylon's first Sunday in the "Walkers" class, but I had no idea it included one to five-year-olds. (Ok, I know he wasn't that old, but he was a good deal more mature than Waylon. I made a quick mental comparison based on the kind of shoes the two were wearing. Waylon's still in soft-soled slippers = an innocent new walker. This wack was wearing thick, rubber-soled hiking boots = seasoned, professional baby-biter.) Later, as Joey and I hashed and re-hashed the morning, we decided that squirt had "trouble-maker" written all over him. From his spiked, crooked dirty-blond hair to his steel-toed baby-kickers, he was up to no good.
"When something like this happens, we usually try to allow the parents to meet so they can talk about the situation," NL2 explains the procedure and hands me an accident report. "Treatment: Cold packs and lots of love," it read.
I pictured a thick-necked, meat-head dad that was always telling his boy to fight back and a Botox-injected flake of a mom that barely had time for her only child, what with all the mani-pedis and personal training sessions. I could not imagine a more awkward situation, so we bailed.
Even Waylon's eyeball was blood-shot. How did that punk get such a good mouthful of Dub's cheek? I was so sad for Waylon. Joey and I really were torn up. We're still recovering. Waylon was seriously fine. No big deal. His cheek got worse before it got better. We called him Shark Bate that day.
It's the first time someone else has intentionally hurt my son. The feelings I had were foreign to me. I wanted to make him better, to take the hurt away, and I really wanted to punish that kid. (We won't talk about the ideas I had.) The Mama Bear in me has been in hibernation, but she was rudely awakened Sunday morning. You don't need to tell me this won't be the first time. I'm aware we have a lifetime of this ahead of us. Most of the time, I choose to remain naive to the innate sinful nature born in all of us. I know the world is a mean and ugly place and that Waylon and I have a lot to learn. Lesson One was unexpected and hard. I think I could handle it all a little better if I could get a schedule, please.
I had told myself that with Waylon starting MDO in the next couple of weeks, this was only the beginning. Change of plans. Not going back to the Salon. Not starting MDO. God's doing something else that I don't know about.
Stay tuned.
Joey and I show up to pick him up after church and he meets us at the door, Blanket in hand, puffy-eyed, face swollen. "We were just about to page you," Nursery Lady One says. "He got bit on the cheek."
Waylon's all smiles...and a few sniffles.
"We usually have some ice packs that we use when something like this happens," Nursery Lady Two interjects, "but all we could find was this teething ring and he just tries to bite it every time we put it on his cheek."
"I'm so so sorry," says NL1. "Really sorry."
"It's ok," I say. "It's not your fault." I take Waylon from NL1 to cuddle him a minute, offering unneeded support and sympathy. The kid seems fine to me, apart from his puffier-than-usual cheek with a perfect pink and purple ring that goes from his eye to his chin.
"That's the one that bit him," NL2 points to Dennis the Menace sitting patiently on the front of the stroller bus in the hallway, all too familiar with the current situation. He must spend lots of time in a time-out chair, or the Principal's office.
How old is that kid? I think to myself. Five? Geez.
It was Waylon's first Sunday in the "Walkers" class, but I had no idea it included one to five-year-olds. (Ok, I know he wasn't that old, but he was a good deal more mature than Waylon. I made a quick mental comparison based on the kind of shoes the two were wearing. Waylon's still in soft-soled slippers = an innocent new walker. This wack was wearing thick, rubber-soled hiking boots = seasoned, professional baby-biter.) Later, as Joey and I hashed and re-hashed the morning, we decided that squirt had "trouble-maker" written all over him. From his spiked, crooked dirty-blond hair to his steel-toed baby-kickers, he was up to no good.
"When something like this happens, we usually try to allow the parents to meet so they can talk about the situation," NL2 explains the procedure and hands me an accident report. "Treatment: Cold packs and lots of love," it read.
I pictured a thick-necked, meat-head dad that was always telling his boy to fight back and a Botox-injected flake of a mom that barely had time for her only child, what with all the mani-pedis and personal training sessions. I could not imagine a more awkward situation, so we bailed.
Even Waylon's eyeball was blood-shot. How did that punk get such a good mouthful of Dub's cheek? I was so sad for Waylon. Joey and I really were torn up. We're still recovering. Waylon was seriously fine. No big deal. His cheek got worse before it got better. We called him Shark Bate that day.
It's the first time someone else has intentionally hurt my son. The feelings I had were foreign to me. I wanted to make him better, to take the hurt away, and I really wanted to punish that kid. (We won't talk about the ideas I had.) The Mama Bear in me has been in hibernation, but she was rudely awakened Sunday morning. You don't need to tell me this won't be the first time. I'm aware we have a lifetime of this ahead of us. Most of the time, I choose to remain naive to the innate sinful nature born in all of us. I know the world is a mean and ugly place and that Waylon and I have a lot to learn. Lesson One was unexpected and hard. I think I could handle it all a little better if I could get a schedule, please.
I had told myself that with Waylon starting MDO in the next couple of weeks, this was only the beginning. Change of plans. Not going back to the Salon. Not starting MDO. God's doing something else that I don't know about.
Stay tuned.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
m.d.uh-oh
Who knew that getting into Mother's Day Out was like acceptance to Yale? The plan is for me to go back to dL Tuesday and Thursday mornings from 9 to 1. Eight hours a week. You have no idea how much anxiety eight measley hours is causing me. Actually, if you've followed this blog, you probably do. So I figured I would just call up MDO, tell 'em we were coming and bam! Waylon would be kicking it with some other onesie friends a few hours a week, seeing what life is like on the other side. Not so fast.
Apparently, registration is in FEBRUARY. The sweet women that I've talked to at several churches gently let me down with an aww-sweetie undertone. Man! Who do you have to pay off in this city to get your kid in good??
We're still trying. And praying. God will open up the place where Waylon is supposed to be, I know. Or He won't and that will be a clear sign that I am not supposed to go anywhere.
The good news is that Waylon will definitely get into Briarwood next year. That's, apparently, an accomplishment. I did put aside all pretenses and doubts and look at one place in Moody. Not going to happen. It's exactly what I pretensed. Yeck.
In the meantime, September will not slow down. It's constant action in the Adams' home. Joey and I have a fourth anniversary coming up in a few days. Maybe we'll order pizza.
Apparently, registration is in FEBRUARY. The sweet women that I've talked to at several churches gently let me down with an aww-sweetie undertone. Man! Who do you have to pay off in this city to get your kid in good??
We're still trying. And praying. God will open up the place where Waylon is supposed to be, I know. Or He won't and that will be a clear sign that I am not supposed to go anywhere.
The good news is that Waylon will definitely get into Briarwood next year. That's, apparently, an accomplishment. I did put aside all pretenses and doubts and look at one place in Moody. Not going to happen. It's exactly what I pretensed. Yeck.
In the meantime, September will not slow down. It's constant action in the Adams' home. Joey and I have a fourth anniversary coming up in a few days. Maybe we'll order pizza.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
addendum
There was the one time that Waylon tee-teed in his mouth. I forgot that. That was nuts. I couldn't stop it or block it or get it under control - like a lose fire hose.
And the very next night (from my original post), Stella showed Waylon how to eat poop. Sure enough. I left the two of them in the back yard for all of 10 seconds and come around the corner to find Waylon with another decrepit turd IN HIS MOUTH. He knew he was busted. Either that or I terrified him with my scream and stupefied him with my lightening speed and vicious retrieval. Either way, he pulled it out as soon as he saw the horror on my face.
I might suggest that it was the same turd from the night before (Why, you're wondering, don't they scoop the poop out of the yard? I don't have an answer for you.) But the moment I wrestled the inaugural turd from his clammy hand, I launched it over our fence in the direction of the dog park, without considering any passers-by. There were no screams or yelps immediately following the flight, so I assume no animals or people were injured in the making of this short, animated film.
To do this weekend:
1. Scoop poop in back yard. And front yard. And side yard. Just in case.
For the first time this very morning, Waylon led me to his room to put him down for his morning nap, more or less. We were watching a little show and he disappeared around the corner, returning a minute or so later with his Blanket. He snuggles into me for a minute, then puts himself down and heads back down the hall, stopping halfway and looking back at me as if to say, Come with me, please. So I did. Straight to his crib, where he reached for his pacifier, then turned and flung himself on the rocking chair. Ok, ok. I get it. Nap time. You got it, man.
Since Waylon is now allowed in the kitchen, he is spending more and more time with the dogs, who are only allowed in the kitchen. While Stella is obviously the more spirited and energetic of the two, she remains slightly skeptical and nervous of this pint-sized person batting at her head and tugging her tail and whiskers. Waylon tried to win her over for a minute. He chased her round and round the kitchen with a ball, but she would have none of it. He could chase her with a goldfish and they might be buds. Brock, on the other hand, is a bump on a log most of the time. A very in-the-way bump that tends to create tricky obstacles for Waylon to maneuver around. But what he lacks in energy, he more than makes up for with patience and gentle curiosity. What I'm trying to say is that I think he loves Waylon. I think they love each other. It's so cute (never have you ever heard me say anything positive about Brock, right?) The downside is that Brock has no idea he outweighs Waylon by 100 pounds. He's knocked him around a time or five. And when Waylon offers Brock the ball (he hasn't figured out the smartest thing is to just throw it to him), as gentle as he tries to be, Brock takes Waylon's entire arm in his mouth. Waylon just makes that famous face, then takes the ball back.
Waylon is a share-baby. He offers everything to Brock and Stella...and the rocking horse in his room that he thinks is the strangest dog he's ever seen. He offers milk and balls and rocks and leaves and food. I enjoy Waylon interacting with the dogs. I just hope he learns caution as well as generosity. And I wish they were hairless. And both girls.
And the very next night (from my original post), Stella showed Waylon how to eat poop. Sure enough. I left the two of them in the back yard for all of 10 seconds and come around the corner to find Waylon with another decrepit turd IN HIS MOUTH. He knew he was busted. Either that or I terrified him with my scream and stupefied him with my lightening speed and vicious retrieval. Either way, he pulled it out as soon as he saw the horror on my face.
I might suggest that it was the same turd from the night before (Why, you're wondering, don't they scoop the poop out of the yard? I don't have an answer for you.) But the moment I wrestled the inaugural turd from his clammy hand, I launched it over our fence in the direction of the dog park, without considering any passers-by. There were no screams or yelps immediately following the flight, so I assume no animals or people were injured in the making of this short, animated film.
To do this weekend:
1. Scoop poop in back yard. And front yard. And side yard. Just in case.
For the first time this very morning, Waylon led me to his room to put him down for his morning nap, more or less. We were watching a little show and he disappeared around the corner, returning a minute or so later with his Blanket. He snuggles into me for a minute, then puts himself down and heads back down the hall, stopping halfway and looking back at me as if to say, Come with me, please. So I did. Straight to his crib, where he reached for his pacifier, then turned and flung himself on the rocking chair. Ok, ok. I get it. Nap time. You got it, man.
Since Waylon is now allowed in the kitchen, he is spending more and more time with the dogs, who are only allowed in the kitchen. While Stella is obviously the more spirited and energetic of the two, she remains slightly skeptical and nervous of this pint-sized person batting at her head and tugging her tail and whiskers. Waylon tried to win her over for a minute. He chased her round and round the kitchen with a ball, but she would have none of it. He could chase her with a goldfish and they might be buds. Brock, on the other hand, is a bump on a log most of the time. A very in-the-way bump that tends to create tricky obstacles for Waylon to maneuver around. But what he lacks in energy, he more than makes up for with patience and gentle curiosity. What I'm trying to say is that I think he loves Waylon. I think they love each other. It's so cute (never have you ever heard me say anything positive about Brock, right?) The downside is that Brock has no idea he outweighs Waylon by 100 pounds. He's knocked him around a time or five. And when Waylon offers Brock the ball (he hasn't figured out the smartest thing is to just throw it to him), as gentle as he tries to be, Brock takes Waylon's entire arm in his mouth. Waylon just makes that famous face, then takes the ball back.
Waylon is a share-baby. He offers everything to Brock and Stella...and the rocking horse in his room that he thinks is the strangest dog he's ever seen. He offers milk and balls and rocks and leaves and food. I enjoy Waylon interacting with the dogs. I just hope he learns caution as well as generosity. And I wish they were hairless. And both girls.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
the wonder year: a recap
Waylon is a real, actual walking, talking person-in-training now. He has a whole year under his belt and no longer qualifies as a baby. Technically. He is seasoned. He is amazing.
This past year has been amazing. It has, without a doubt and I'm sure much to your surprise, been the best, most wonderful, exciting, challenging, life-changing, heart-smiling year of my entire 28 years. Waylon has changed my life in all the ways I thought he would and more. Funny, really, when I compare our 'first' year to that of some other yearlings I know, ours has been rather uneventful. Let's recap...
Waylon's only been sick twice. Once with a cold (which I caught and nearly died from (not really)) and once, more recently, with a very mild case of croup.
Joey and I have never left Waylon overnight, though Waylon and I have left Joey overnight a couple of times to visit Lolly. We missed him greatly.
I can probably count the number of times we've seen Waylon's blood on one hand, maybe less than one hand. Now that he's walking it is a little more frequent, but rare all the same - mostly busted lips due to over-zealous feet and less than cat-like hands.
The longest I've been away from Waylon is somewhere between two and three hours, I think. And I think Joey kept him. We like to stick together, me and Dub.
Waylon's gone a whole year of life and one month of walking without eating anything terribly traumatic. I did have to fish a couple handfuls of fireplace gravel out of his mouth, as you will recall, and now that we are playing outside more he tends to sample the more natural fare - mostly dirt and grass, but the occasional bark or flower as well. No dog food (which I am anxiously awaiting seeing as Waylon is now allowed in the kitchen where the dogs' food stays). No poop (though he was playing with a decrepit turd in the back yard just last night. Something else I've been anxiously awaiting). He has consumed his fair share of magazine pages and book corners. Nonetheless, he pretty much sticks to what we put on his tray. And the boy does love food. The only things that he really does not like are asparagus.....and come to think of it, I can't recall the other. There's only one more, though. His palette is broad and rather mature for his green age. He digs most vegetables and all fruits. As a matter of fact, his unlikely penchant for certain cuisine has been known to baffle even his own relatives. Thing is, we started giving him that stuff on day one. It's all he's ever known. In case you're curious, that's the way to do it.
Waylon hasn't had to be rushed anywhere. No ERs. No bathtubs. He's a pretty careful kid. My word is 'easy.' 'Easy, Waylon,' I say to him as he raises his chubby little foot high over the door step, one ball in each hand, making the preliminary 'man-this-is-gonna-smart' face he's so famous for. 'Easy, Buddy.' And you know, I really think it works. He usually stops what he's doing or slows down long enough for me to offer a helping hand.
He hasn't figured out a diaper's mechanics yet. Thank goodness. Like I said, the only poop he's played with was last night and it only lasted a moment...I think.
He hasn't taken a bottle since he was about five months old, and only takes a pacifier when he's supposed to be sleeping. Remember? We went backwards from bottle to breast and now sippy cup. I am refusing to give him a bottle again. We are currently sort of weaning. He is only nursing when he wakes up in the morning and right before bed. These are our best times of the day. He's snuggly and sweet and we just have a few moments together. I'm not in a hurry to let those go.
He's had three haircuts, all by yours truly.
He's tailgated at an Auburn game. We are currently working on the phrases 'I love you' and 'War Eagle'. Whichever comes first.
Waylon is building his vocabulary daily (it seems like) and working on repeating sounds. So far, he says ball, bye, dog, mmma, dedede. He will copy noises like the one you make when you put something yucky in your mouth (pppt, yck, bleck, tss). And just this morning, he tried his hardest to say 'boom', but came up with bmm instead. According to Waylon he's speaking volumes. You hear him get up on his soapbox once and you know what I'm talking about. The kid's got words, he just can't say 'em yet. But when he can...
Apparently, Waylon is somewhat of a social butterfly and a ham. We recently attended a friend's birthday party and Waylon made his rounds. He was everyone's insta-pal. He was patting knees and bear-hugging legs of people he'd never seen before, as if to say 'Thanks for coming. Glad to see ya.' He walked round and round the house, laughing and talking the whole way. That is until those hands and feet lost touch with one another and he busted a lip. It was all fun and games....
Waylon knows who our neighbors are, loves them and their house. (It's not quite baby-proofed yet and there are lots and lots of fun/breakable things to play with.) He tends to head that way all on his own whenever we're playing in the yard.
One of our favorite new games is 'Take everything out, Put everything back.' We do this over and over all day in different places around the house. The best place is Mama and Daddy's bathroom. Everything...everything comes out of the cabinets and into the bathtub. Then Mama gets it all out of the tub, puts it all back where it goes and we start over. Hours of fun. For some reason Waylon loves to put things in the tub - my socks, Joey's p.j.s, lotion, deodorant, brushes, balls, washcloths, everything goes in the tub. And then he just looks at it and says something along the lines of Hey look! I just threw the toothpaste in the tub too!! Toothpaste, tub, toothpaste, tub. What else...
Waylon still loves to play peep-eye. The best thing in the world is to hide from it. The best thing to use is his Blanket. The very same blanket he used when he was brand new is his most treasured possession. It's knit, so he can cover his face, become virtually invisible and still see out. It's his greatest trick. He actually walks around the house like this. What he doesn't know, among other things, is that the giggles are a sure-fire giveaway.
He finally broke things. We knew this was bound to happen sooner or later and it only just happened in the last week. He broke a candle holder at a neighbor's house and a bowl at our house. No bones.
He still doesn't push or hit other kids (granted he's not around other kids that much). But, he has started acting out some frustration on Mama. And the kid is rather strong. I haven't cried or bled yet, but I'm sure those days are coming.
Waylon's thinking about playing center. Football. He loves to stand on his head and check things out from a bat's eye view. I'm still hoping for chess, but if football is the dream, I will be supportive and peek through my fingers.
On that note, the boy loves a ball. I mean loves. Any ball. He can throw and stop (not catch). Balls balls balls.
Oh, I just remembered another really gross thing he did last night. It wasn't a pretty, sweet night for Waylon. He picked up a dried up worm and broke it into pieces. I don't think any went in his mouth.
Waylon still loves a bath, only now they're bubble baths and way more fun. And he has dinosaur toys in there now and the T-Rex is his favorite. Weird.
He wears his Auburn jersey every game day, just like Mama, and actually seems to like watching football on tv, just like Mama.
He's still a spitting image of his Daddy, much to his Daddy's pleasure. As a matter of fact, I think Joey makes a point to rub it in at least once a day. 'Gosh he's adorable,' Joey says. 'Did anyone say he looks just like his Daddy today?' 'No, babe.' I say. 'No one did. But he still does.' He gobbles it up. But Waylon does have my skin tone. There.
In summary, he is the greatest person I've ever known. I love everything about him and I like it all, too. He is the best part of every one of my days. I can't wait to get him up in the morning and I drag my feet to his bed at night. And I know I can say the same for Joey, too. Most of the time. I think the Dad will be glad when he's trained a little better, like Brock and Stella. 'Go lay down,' and 'sit,' and 'shh' don't really command Waylon the way he'd like right now. One of Joey's co-workers told him months ago, when Waylon was little, that you spend the first part of his life trying to get him to talk and walk and the rest of his life trying to get him to sit down and hush.
Really, we both would tell you this parenting thing is all it's cracked up to be. Someone told me once that you always feel inadequate when you have a second or third or more children, like you don't have enough love to go around. I don't think it works that way. Instead of the family getting bigger and the love getting smaller, I think they both get big together. More is more. That's what I think. That's the way God's love works, anyway.
Monday, August 16, 2010
steps
Waylon walks - about four to five feet at a time. Not steps, feet. There are lots of steps. And he is so proud of himself. We are so proud of him. We have a little party every time and we all clap and cheer. He has got to be the cutest little walker I've ever seen.
And he stayed in the church nursery on Sunday like a champ. Took the blanket. Pep-talked on the way there. No big deal.
My man.
And he stayed in the church nursery on Sunday like a champ. Took the blanket. Pep-talked on the way there. No big deal.
My man.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
trying to remember: eleven months
a fun visit with some of our favorite girls
already a Dave fan (Ramsey, that is)
exploring Lolly's tupperware cabinetOh man, Waylon is almost ONE. Gasp.
You know how when someone is gone and you start to lose pieces of them a little at a time until one day, something calls them to mind and you try your hardest, but you can't find enough pieces to create a whole person, a whole memory?? It's like that with my Mimi most of the time. I keep things that were hers, that meant something to her, around my house on purpose, just to make me think about her often enough that I have enough memory-pieces to survive on. Well, it's like that with Waylon...only he's still here. It's just that he's changing so fast that I can't seem to remember him the way he was. It feels like he's always been crawling, always been babbling fluently, always been pulling up and walking along the furniture, always been the way he is. This, my friends, is why I blog. For this exact reason, one should make a record, a readable record of goings-on to pull up, savor and recall. Remember.
I really think a memory is such an amazing, complicated, absurd thing. It's as though you have to work out your brain. I know I know. They say you really do - crosswords and whatnot. It's just that you don't really think about having to work to remember a person, someone so close to you that you know every freckle and cowlick and which fingernails grow the fastest. I must take more pictures. And write more blogs, or notes, or post-its or something.
I can barely recall what it felt like to hold Waylon's tiny new body 11 months ago. I can't tell you what an eight-pound Waylon felt like. I forgot. I bet it was the best feeling in the world...until the next time I held him. I still think about how chick-fuzzy his little head was and how wrinkly and baggy his skin was and how searching and wise his big eyes were...have always been. I have a good grip on those things cause I think about them all the time. They are some of my favorites.
One of Waylon's sonograms is framed right next to our computer in our living room - I can still remember exactly what it felt like for him to move in my belly. So is one of my all-time favorite pictures of him on his very first day, looking straight through the camera lens - big, knowing, wrinkly eyes. I haven't once considered changing those pictures out. I keep them around for the same reason I keep Mimi's bronze giraffe right here.
All that to say, Waylon is 11 months old now. Almost a whole year has gone by and my head is spinning. I can't say that my nostalgia has completely let me down - I have enough pieces to put together a baby Waylon. It's just that this has all happened so quickly. He's eleven months old, and he...
crawl-runs laps around the house
follows me everywhere
follows me everywhere
kisses on demand
comes to get me when he's got a poop diaper
pulls up on and walks along everything
is unquestioningly too big for size three diapers
is running out of clothes that fit right (come on fall consignment sales!)
has had two haircuts (I just did the second one myself this morning and am highly impressed.)
will go find Daddy if prompted
is still not interested in tv shows he should probably be interested in. This is ok with us.
whines
has ridden a three-wheeler with his Pop (just this past weekend!)
does not sleep late enough with me and Joey in the same room
naps better than he ever has before
has 10 teeth (still cutting his first molars. Those have been tough.)
still nurses four times a day and eats three big-kid meals
responds appropriately to the words dog, ball, Lolly, Mama, Daddy, Waylon, hey, no, come here
is amazingly cooperative with this whole boundaries thing
listens very well
says 'yes' at just the right time
loves loves books
has tried to eat fireplace gravel twice
loves a bath
tolerates teeth-brushing
thinks Daddy's golf swing is hillarious
gets more fun by the minute
His personality is magnetic. I really am astonished at how mature he seems sometimes and how happy he is almost always. He plays so well by himself for long periods of time, all the while acknowledging the 'boundaries' Joey and I have set in place for him. He is so smart and curious and interactive and observant. And sometimes sensitive. And always entertaining.
He is my favorite person.
Monday, July 26, 2010
angst
It is entirely possible that Waylon is experiencing a degree of separation anxiety at the moment. Clarity: He has been staying in the nursery at church for the last couple of months. It's nice. It gives Joey and I the opportunity to be grown-ups together, alone for about 45 minutes. We get to sit in church together, undisturbed, focused, like we used to. I am a big fan of our church nursery. They are super nice, thorough and clean. Not to mention the fact that they have a police officer standing guard through all three services. Secure.
For the last, say, four times that we've taken Waylon to the nursery it hasn't gone well. First, when we picked him up he was crying, supposedly, because Miles was having a bottle and he wasn't. (Waylon wouldn't know what to do with a bottle if you gave him one. Not the issue.) It was funny that day, though. We talked about Miles and the bottle on the way home - that we should love Miles anyway, bottle-schmottle we said. Now we talk about Miles every Sunday on the way to church, like we know who the kid is and he and Waylon are good friends. We couldn't pick him out of a line-up. ha.
Next, I went to pick him up and Nursery Lady was walking around the halls with him, crying. He was, not Nursery Lady. She said he had been crying on and off for the last 30 minutes. He flew to me. Oh, how it broke my heart.
Then, I drop him off and he starts crying the moment he lands in Nursery Lady's arms. I duck away as quickly as possible and wait around the corner to see if he's going to relax. He doesn't. He sees me. It's all over. I take him to the Mothers' Room for the remainder of the service. (Which was actually kind of nice. We used to have our own little play group in there on Sunday mornings and we miss those kids.)
Yesterday, Joey and I drop him off together, crying commences at hand-off and we high-tail it down the hall. I don't know about this. Everything in me says Turn around. Go back to him and love on him. You don't have to leave him. But we do. I am tense for the next 45 minutes. I know, my inner mama knows that it's not going well in there. I am watching the screen intensely, waiting for our number to pop up, giving me the go-ahead, the green flag to race to the nursery and rescue him. It doesn't. Amazing. We go to pick him up and he's sitting on the floor (not alone, with a few others), crying. They weren't. He was. Facing the door, red eyes, snotty nose, can't-catch-his-breath, crying. He sees me and Joey and I can read his mind. It's not good. I hate the way I feel. There were too many babies per Nursery Lady. They were all busy. No one was getting him for me. My hand was on the knob, ready to get him for myself, when a Nursery Lady extra stepped in. Just in time. It was all I could do to just stand there and watch him cry.
I don't know what the solution is to the dilemma. I haven't read a lot on separation anxiety. What I do know is that it did not feel right to leave him while he was crying, watching us walk away, ignoring him. I am not okay with that. I don't want Waylon to think that crying gets him what he wants. It doesn't work like that at home. But, isn't this a particularly sensitive time/subject? Shouldn't we handle this a little differently than, say, another bite of ice cream or another m&m? Isn't this different from the camera, or my phone, or the remote control, or any other 'toy' he's not supposed to play with? Isn't there a way to be a little more tender and compassionate and sensitive and love him through this, when he appears to need us a little more than usual? Won't this phase not last very long and then he won't want anything to do with us? Let's be honest. Waylon has been the most ideal baby. I couldn't have dreamed up a better kid. He's allowed to be a little nervous around strangers. I just can not bring myself to accept, mentally or emotionally, looking him in the tear-filled eye and walking away when I don't have to. It's church nursery, for crying out loud.
No pun intended.
For the last, say, four times that we've taken Waylon to the nursery it hasn't gone well. First, when we picked him up he was crying, supposedly, because Miles was having a bottle and he wasn't. (Waylon wouldn't know what to do with a bottle if you gave him one. Not the issue.) It was funny that day, though. We talked about Miles and the bottle on the way home - that we should love Miles anyway, bottle-schmottle we said. Now we talk about Miles every Sunday on the way to church, like we know who the kid is and he and Waylon are good friends. We couldn't pick him out of a line-up. ha.
Next, I went to pick him up and Nursery Lady was walking around the halls with him, crying. He was, not Nursery Lady. She said he had been crying on and off for the last 30 minutes. He flew to me. Oh, how it broke my heart.
Then, I drop him off and he starts crying the moment he lands in Nursery Lady's arms. I duck away as quickly as possible and wait around the corner to see if he's going to relax. He doesn't. He sees me. It's all over. I take him to the Mothers' Room for the remainder of the service. (Which was actually kind of nice. We used to have our own little play group in there on Sunday mornings and we miss those kids.)
Yesterday, Joey and I drop him off together, crying commences at hand-off and we high-tail it down the hall. I don't know about this. Everything in me says Turn around. Go back to him and love on him. You don't have to leave him. But we do. I am tense for the next 45 minutes. I know, my inner mama knows that it's not going well in there. I am watching the screen intensely, waiting for our number to pop up, giving me the go-ahead, the green flag to race to the nursery and rescue him. It doesn't. Amazing. We go to pick him up and he's sitting on the floor (not alone, with a few others), crying. They weren't. He was. Facing the door, red eyes, snotty nose, can't-catch-his-breath, crying. He sees me and Joey and I can read his mind. It's not good. I hate the way I feel. There were too many babies per Nursery Lady. They were all busy. No one was getting him for me. My hand was on the knob, ready to get him for myself, when a Nursery Lady extra stepped in. Just in time. It was all I could do to just stand there and watch him cry.
I don't know what the solution is to the dilemma. I haven't read a lot on separation anxiety. What I do know is that it did not feel right to leave him while he was crying, watching us walk away, ignoring him. I am not okay with that. I don't want Waylon to think that crying gets him what he wants. It doesn't work like that at home. But, isn't this a particularly sensitive time/subject? Shouldn't we handle this a little differently than, say, another bite of ice cream or another m&m? Isn't this different from the camera, or my phone, or the remote control, or any other 'toy' he's not supposed to play with? Isn't there a way to be a little more tender and compassionate and sensitive and love him through this, when he appears to need us a little more than usual? Won't this phase not last very long and then he won't want anything to do with us? Let's be honest. Waylon has been the most ideal baby. I couldn't have dreamed up a better kid. He's allowed to be a little nervous around strangers. I just can not bring myself to accept, mentally or emotionally, looking him in the tear-filled eye and walking away when I don't have to. It's church nursery, for crying out loud.
No pun intended.
Friday, July 23, 2010
these knees are made for crawling
chubby feet
Lolly and Mama having too much fun with a shower cap.
Lolly and her boys.
smush face
sweetest Mama sugar
stander
walking Grandpa
close-upJust vacuumed and mopped (for the second time this week) wearing from the toe up, flip-flops, undies, nursing bra with paper towels stuck underneath (for sweat, not milk) and pearls. Pretty. Reminds me of the time I was cleaning the shower (bird #1) whilst taking a shower (bird #2), thinking I was home alone - except for Waylon, of course. Joey busted me - yellow rubber glove, sponge and shower cap. Sexy. This may be too much information, but it made me stop and laugh.
This has been an eventful month. No wonder I've only blogged once. Waylon is officially a crawler. He is a man on the move. After he crawled accidentally on July Fourth, it took him a week or so to go again. It's been non-stop since. He follows me around the house. He pulls up on everything. He walks along furniture, and even from furniture to furniture. He is obsessed with danger; he wants to play on the brick hearth, in the actual fireplace, on the only metal/glass-top table in the whole house, in his diaper bucket. It's so tricky, too, because I don't know how to train a kid. I can train a dog, but kids are harder. I don't want to yell at him or spank him or scare him. I just want to teach him. And I really don't want to baby-proof my whole life. I would rather Waylon learn boundaries. I think he can do it. I think we can do it.
I finally broke down and bought a bumper for Waylon's crib. (Kind of late, I know.) But, come to find out, he was burrowing right into the rails and waking himself up. You know that can't be comfortable. Ever since the bumper installation, he has been sleeping like a you-know-what. Until last night...
He woke up crying at 11:30. I turned on the monitor to make sure he was ok and watch to see if he would settle back down. He usually does. He didn't. I went in to help him and he did not want me to leave, to say the least. I rocked him for a minute, which I usually do not do at night. Thought he was asleep, put him back, he loses it. I get him back up and try again. Same thing. So we go to the guest room to lie down together. He is awake. Just awake. Not upset (I guess cause he's with me). He just lay there, blinking, playing with my face. He finally fell asleep. I did, too. I don't know how long we slept, but at 3:00 this morning, I oh-so-carefully transferred him to his crib again and collapsed back in home-sweet-bed. He woke this morning at 6:00 (which is an hour early) crying. Put him back in bed with me and we slept 'til 8:00. Shew.
This is pretty much never happened before. Waylon has always slept through the night...I mean, since he started sleeping through the night. I think he may be working on tooth #9. We'll see soon enough, I suppose. Kyle asked me if I was taking it easy today. I said Goodness, yes. If laundry, vacuum, mop, shower, chase baby is easy. Yes.
It has been such a fun, big month for us around here. I was right, by the way. It is much easier now that Waylon can crawl than it was when he would just sit in the floor and cry until I would come walk him around the house. Slightly more dangerous, but easier. I think he'll be walking soon. I can't imagine...
Thursday, July 8, 2010
double-digit dub
This is the third day that Waylon has been 10 months old and already it's a whole new ball game. There are several 'firsts' that popped up this past weekend. Lolly was here for a few days (of non-stop fun) which probably has everything to do with it. Waylon really likes debuting new things while Lolly's around. Always has. Either he's trying to impress her or he's fishing for a clappy-bouncy-cheery-Lolly reaction. Probably both. So, Waylon is 10 months old now, and he...
crawls!!! Finally. Let me clarify: he has crawled several times. It's not like a mode of
transportation yet or anything. But he has done it and tries to do it and gets very close
regularly. Joey and I agree that he gets around pretty well for an imobile fellow.
has figured out how to drink from his sippy bottle on his own, and man does he love to turn that
bottle up. What's really funny is that he likes to carry it around and chew and suck on the
nipple. Well, get him up on his crazy legs, turning that bottle up with one hand and it looks like
he's been turning up the bottle a little too much, if you know what I mean. Grandpa said he
looks like a drunken sailor.
turns the page for me when we're reading
was sitting up waiting for his valiant crib-rescue at nap's end for the first time (adorable)
said 'Hi' back to me in the car yesterday. I promise.
zooms around his pool all by himself (well, with the help of his baby float)
waves a little more, not quite all the time
cheers and claps for himself regularly (for eating, crawling, laughing, walking). Should have
little-to-no problem with self-esteem.
loves to stand up all on his own, leaning against the back of the sofa, surrounded by pillows. Has
started this funny game where he falls on me or Joey on purpose, like he's 'getting' us.
is falling more and more in love with his grandparents with every visit. Our visits this past
month involved significantly more favor and affection toward every grandparent than they
ever have before. And Joey and I both love it. It is so precious.
has been tongue-kissed by Brock more than a couple of times, much to my disgust and horror.
He loves to walk through the kitchen because the dogs swarm and dance around us hoping for
a stray pat on the back. Whenever one gets near Waylon, he pulls his arms in as if to protect
himself and opens his mouth as if he's being doused with ice water. Brock takes this as his cue
to kiss every time. yech.
only wants to walk. Ever. Pitches a screaming-Mimi fit if he is sat down prematurely. He will run
if he gets really excited, but stops dead in his tracks if you take a hand away, like he can't do it
without two hands.
is staying up longer and napping longer. Officially only two naps now, as of this past weekend.
Mom convinced me that he really is probably getting as much sleep as he needs, even from
one morning nap and a long car ride.
still blows everyone away with his ease, good nature, patience and overall 'good babyness'
still nurses four times a day and has three regular meals. Some of his favorite foods now are
(still) tomato, berries, toast, chick peas, squash. Wait. These are the same favorite foods he's
had for a while. Perhaps it's time to broaden his culinary horizon.
We did have a minor incident involving Mexican food that I will never live down. It was ugly. I'll spare you the details.
Everyone agrees that he is changing and getting more adorable by the day. I agree with everyone. He is so much fun! We giggle and belly-laugh all day long (minus the sit-down melt-downs). It's like we have inside jokes. Maybe we do.
crawls!!! Finally. Let me clarify: he has crawled several times. It's not like a mode of
transportation yet or anything. But he has done it and tries to do it and gets very close
regularly. Joey and I agree that he gets around pretty well for an imobile fellow.
has figured out how to drink from his sippy bottle on his own, and man does he love to turn that
bottle up. What's really funny is that he likes to carry it around and chew and suck on the
nipple. Well, get him up on his crazy legs, turning that bottle up with one hand and it looks like
he's been turning up the bottle a little too much, if you know what I mean. Grandpa said he
looks like a drunken sailor.
turns the page for me when we're reading
was sitting up waiting for his valiant crib-rescue at nap's end for the first time (adorable)
said 'Hi' back to me in the car yesterday. I promise.
zooms around his pool all by himself (well, with the help of his baby float)
waves a little more, not quite all the time
cheers and claps for himself regularly (for eating, crawling, laughing, walking). Should have
little-to-no problem with self-esteem.
loves to stand up all on his own, leaning against the back of the sofa, surrounded by pillows. Has
started this funny game where he falls on me or Joey on purpose, like he's 'getting' us.
is falling more and more in love with his grandparents with every visit. Our visits this past
month involved significantly more favor and affection toward every grandparent than they
ever have before. And Joey and I both love it. It is so precious.
has been tongue-kissed by Brock more than a couple of times, much to my disgust and horror.
He loves to walk through the kitchen because the dogs swarm and dance around us hoping for
a stray pat on the back. Whenever one gets near Waylon, he pulls his arms in as if to protect
himself and opens his mouth as if he's being doused with ice water. Brock takes this as his cue
to kiss every time. yech.
only wants to walk. Ever. Pitches a screaming-Mimi fit if he is sat down prematurely. He will run
if he gets really excited, but stops dead in his tracks if you take a hand away, like he can't do it
without two hands.
is staying up longer and napping longer. Officially only two naps now, as of this past weekend.
Mom convinced me that he really is probably getting as much sleep as he needs, even from
one morning nap and a long car ride.
still blows everyone away with his ease, good nature, patience and overall 'good babyness'
still nurses four times a day and has three regular meals. Some of his favorite foods now are
(still) tomato, berries, toast, chick peas, squash. Wait. These are the same favorite foods he's
had for a while. Perhaps it's time to broaden his culinary horizon.
We did have a minor incident involving Mexican food that I will never live down. It was ugly. I'll spare you the details.
Everyone agrees that he is changing and getting more adorable by the day. I agree with everyone. He is so much fun! We giggle and belly-laugh all day long (minus the sit-down melt-downs). It's like we have inside jokes. Maybe we do.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
baby maker
This is the only picture I have of my beautiful pregnant belly. And the only time it's been shared.
A good friend of mine recently found out she is pregnant with her first baby. I am so happy for her and her husband and it got me thinking, rather fondly, about when I was pregnant. Which brought me full-circle to an email conversation I had with a LDBFF (shout out to Amber in CA) about weight.
If you've known me for at least five minutes, you know that being a mother is all I've ever wanted to do. It's something I am proud of and eager to share. Yes, it is the most fun, most rewarding job I have ever had. No, I do not get bored. EVER. Seriously. It is my dream. Understand this. There is one part of this dream that took me by a pleasant surprise and that's losing the baby weight. Where do I start...
I'll try to get to the point like Joey has taught me to do. I have a sorted history with weight gain and loss. My weight tends to fluctuate very easily. In fact, I thought my weight fluctuated more than anyone else I had known, until I married Joey. That boy can gain and lose anywhere from 4 to 8 pounds in a single day. No lie. Anyway, I am 5 foot 7 inches. Normal. Mom has always been obsessed (you have, don't argue) with nutrition, calories, fat grams, weight loss, fat burn, you name it. Needless to say, it is somewhat ingrained in me. When I was in high school, playing volleyball, I was in the best shape of my life. Maybe slightly on the skinny side, which made my nose look bigger (Once after looking at a high school photo of me early in our relationship, Joey asked if I'd had a nose job. Sure.) When high school ended and the real fun began at The Loveliest Village (insert sarcasm), I put on weight like it was my job. Do to stereotypical circumstances, I blew up from a measly 130 to a hefty 190, pushing 200. And fast. We're talking skinny fall 2001, chunky fall 2002. No kidding.
The actual times get a little fuzzy here, but I think it was the end of my sophomore year that I went to some weight loss place with a friend and was flabbergasted when they told me my actual weight. I scooped my jaw up off the floor and marched to the car, more determined than I had ever been to return to my high school jeans. I had recently moved back home with Mom and knew I had a chance living under her low-cal roof. I joined a gym and hit the ground running...or waddling.
My enthusiasm didn't last a long time. I was still going to Auburn on the weekends, first to visit my best friend Jessica, then to see Joey. My weight wasn't exactly dropping like I hoped, but I wasn't gaining anymore either. And I was in love. December my Junior year, Joey took a job that took him to Panama City Beach. The following summer, I went to stay with him for a few months and met Angie (the same Angie mentioned frequently in these pages.) Perky, out-going, tan, girl-ripped, slightly physically intimidating, but insta-friend. I guess I complained to Angie enough that she decided to do something about my weight for me. She showed up to get me every morning at 7 a.m., whether I wanted her to or not, and we walked 4 miles. Every day. Soon enough, I started to care more about what I was eating and the weight began to fall. I moved back to Birmingham with Mom again and continued to lose more and more weight until I was down to about 140. The closest I had been to high school since I graduated.
I was still walking miles and miles a day and eating healthier than ever before. I enrolled in UAB to finish school. Mom got remarried and moved to Auburn. I moved in with Dad, went to school full time and worked part time. Joey and I got engaged in May, married in September. At our wedding, I was still between 140 and 145, a solid size 8, healthy, happy, in great shape and loving life. Marriage brought with it a few pounds of its own for both of us, so we joined a nearby gym and got back to fighting shape again.
I started working at the salon, eating salon chocolate and drinking salon coffee and crept back up about 10 pounds. During the year that it took me to get pregnant, I was desperately trying to lose 30 pounds so that I wouldn't look like a bad food allergy reaction throughout my pregnancy. Needless to say, that didn't happen and I ended up gaining a hearty 50+ pounds over the course of nine months. What's weird is that I didn't feel all that big. I felt great. I loved being pregnant. (You could've guessed that, right?)
I was on the path to motherhood and no amount of nausea or swelling was going to rain on my parade. I remember feeling sorry for women that got huge while they were pregnant and grateful that I was not one of them. Ha. I loved my body in spite of itself. I was carrying my child. Every time he moved, my heart skipped a beat. Every hiccup made me smile. I would sit for hours with my hand on my belly so I could feel him from the inside and out. I was growing a life and I was in awe. And then it got even better.
I never quite topped 200 pounds before Waylon was born. 199 was the closest I got. I had plans for how I would lose all that weight. I recruited Kyle to come up with a plan for me. This was serious. It was going to be long and hard, but it had to be done and a.s.a.p.
I labored for 14 1/2 hours, pushed for 2 1/2 and delivered (to our surprise) a healthy, beautiful baby boy. It took weeks to recover (more on that some other time) and breastfeeding was not the bliss I expected it to be, which ended with me pumping for 5 months and nursing from 5 months to present day. After Waylon was born, my weight was the last thing on my mind. I guess you push that baby out and feel lighter and skinnier by default. Due to breastfeeding, which burns crazy calories, and considering the fact that I was producing enough milk for twins, I began to see my weight fall. Fast.
Today, almost 10 months later, I have still not dieted, only eaten healthy and have started preliminary training for a marathon coming up in February. I have gotten back down to my 140, size 6, sometimes 8 and could not be happier. But, I could not really care less either. I'm pretty certain that I could be a size 12 and be just as content. I'll tell you why...
I have never, ever been more in awe of my body. It did and continues to do amazing things. I grew a person and am making milk that keeps him alive. Absolutely blows my mind. The love and appreciation I have for my body now is like none I have ever had before. I hope it never goes away. (Considering the fact that I will be making and feeding babies for the next 7+ years, I don't expect it to. If it does, and we're still talking, please remind me to read this blog.) I am so grateful that I am a woman, that I am privileged to experience all of this. I am so sorry that Joey will never get to feel any of our children inside him, living and moving. I can only try to describe it to him.
I am so grateful for God's immaculate, detailed orchestration that brings every life into being from the moment of conception and for His grace that our own little life was carried and brought to this world healthy and safe. By the same grace, I will carry more lives in my own amazing body and by the same grace, they too will come to this world in the same way. I am grateful every time I sit down to nurse Waylon that this amazing thing is happening. It is beautiful and sweet and not to be taken for granted.
I have tried every diet I have ever heard of. I used to write reminders on my own hand to eat less, work out more. I have lived on bananas and coffee for weeks. And I am so sorry now. I am so sorry for all the unhealthy, selfish decisions I made that put my body at risk. I have seen what it can do, what it was made to do, and am struck with wonder. It truly is a temple.
And I can't wait to be pregnant again.
june
Two peas...
Grandpa and his boys...
Grandpa and his boys...
I forgot to mention that Waylon's nine month check-up (on the 9th) went well. The only minor trauma was a 'circumcision adhesion' that Dr. Wilson had to pull back apart. Yes. It was awful. He weighed 22.8 pounds and was 30.5 inches long, 75th and 95th percentiles, respectively. Still perfect.
A couple of firsts yesterday: he consumed a wad of paper and sat up all on his own, from belly to bottom. Both have been a long time coming. He loves paper - magazines, letters, mail, books - and inevitably puts it directly into his mouth. I have fished out many a slobbery bite over the last few months. But this time I left him in the living room for a minute, looking at a magazine (USAA, learning early). When I came back, Waylon was smacking his lips and there was a big plug of page missing. I'm sure it won't be the last time.
And bless his heart. You can tell he is trying desperately to crawl, but still hasn't quite got it. He knows, without a doubt, that he can get from point A to point B on his hands and knees. He will get up on all fours, but when he starts to make a move, he splats. It was a big deal for him to go from lying on his belly to sitting on his bottom. Progress.
Kyle has bestowed Jersey Shore names to both Locke and Waylon. Locke's is The Attitude and Waylon's is Double Down. (This also happened a while back, but I forgot to share.) Something tells me that one might stick around through college.
Angie just got back from Orange Beach and said the beaches are closed. They are covered in oil. This breaks my heart up. Mom thinks it will not be in her lifetime that things get back to normal. Joey says nobody will even be talking about it in three years, tops. I fear both. I am afraid it will be decades before the economy and the environment are reestablished, and that as soon as the leak is stopped, it will slowly fade from the headlines, replaced by some other two-bit story about Brangelina's seventh puppy. 72 days. That's how long oil has been gushing into the ocean, at who-knows how many gallons a day. I don't think that's ever been established. They say BP is now spending $100million a day to 'fix' it. That's a heck of a lot of money to have not made an ounce of progress. They say it will be at least August before they hope plan whatever-letter-we're-on-now works.
Frankly, I think that's pathetic.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
every once in a while
I've established the fact that Waylon is the dreamiest baby around. Every once in a while, we have one of those days. Like yesterday: We started with a healthy breakfast and a lovely (read:hot and sweaty) walk, which ended in a massive blister on my heel. (I can run 14 miles in a week with little more than a sore calf; I walk three and end up limping. Go figure.) Waylon fell asleep somewhere along the way, which is nice during the walk cause I can go further, but a little tricky after the walk. If ever Waylon falls asleep pre-naptime - whether in the car or stroller - he is a pill to put down for a real nap at real-naptime. We get home, cool down, watch Elmo's World on S.S. and head for bed. An hour later, Waylon is still tossing and turning, rambling on about something or another, which turns into fussing, which digresses to full-blown take-your-breath death screams. I relent. I rescue him from his bed (a mere 30 minutes before he usually eats again) and lie down with him in my bed. He finally settles down and we both take a 1 1/2 hour nap, pushing our schedule back an entire hour.
I know some of you (ahem, Angie) are probably reading this thinking, See, that's why we don't do schedules. Why doesn't she just go with the flow? I did go with flow. Granted, I was flopping and flailing a little trying to bend the stream back my way. But I flowed. I did.
Noon: wake, lunch, head to the grocery store. *Side note: my coupon clipping and sales ad comparing is finally paying off. Major success this week at CVS and Publix. I think the Publix customer service people would have given me my entire cart of groceries if I would just leave the store.
Waylon is usually (surprise, surprise) a dream at the grocery store. That was, before we started shopping through his mid-day nap and before he figured out how to make Mama fetch. So, fetch I did, through most of the store. He batted his baby blues and flirted with many a shopper. One man asked if he was a boy or a girl. Seriously?? I took too long comparing coupons and sales and ran a little over, you guessed it, schedule. W snoozed in the car on the way home. We get home by 4:15, put the groceries away, have a 'snack', visit neighbors, start dinner. It's tricky these days when Waylon skips his late afternoon nap, but it was just too close to dinnertime and bedtime. So we skipped. For the second time. Big mistake.
First he's in the jumper with Cheerios. Meanwhile, I'm chopping, stirring, sipping a Miller Light, talking on the phone, boiling water, shucking corn, passing out Cheerios, tripping over Stella...just a jumble of noise and bustle for a good 30 minutes. My dinner-cooking is usually much less hectic. Sometimes it's just me and the Miller Light. Other times, Waylon's around but he's had a little more nap earlier in the day and is a better sport. Not this day.
He's finally had enough. Chug the beer. Hang up the phone. Grab the baby. By this time, it's almost 6, which is at least 30 minutes to an hour later than Daddy usually gets home, and around the time Waylon usually eats dinner. About that time, Dad's truck roars up the driveway. Tag team.
We greet Daddy at the door, with Brock and Stella in tow. He's got a sinus headache; it's been another stressful day; his clothes are wet with sweat. He's going to take a shower and change.
I decide to feed Waylon early. (A new favorite is chick peas/garbanzo beans.) Before he's done, Joey and I join him. Finish dinner (which I realize a little too late was too complicated and took too long for the time crunch we were experiencing). Clean up kitchen. Walk dogs. Play with Daddy while Mama showers... All the while growing more and more ill by the minute. We're talking about a kid that gets three naps on the perfect day, and he's only slept maybe two hours all day today, mostly before lunchtime. He's done. d-o-n-e.
Everything's making him cry. Walking around with Daddy = crying. Sitting down on the floor = crying. Changing a diaper = crying. Putting on pj's = crying. There is no question we're going to bed early. Last thing to check off our list is brush the teeth. I set him on the counter with is sock feet in the sink (what else do you do with a baby while you toothpaste the brush?) He makes a diving reach for something on the other side of the sink, slips and face plants onto the edge of the sink. Serious crying ensues.
I scoop him up and console him. Daddy comes to investigate the screams. By the time he gets there, Waylon's mouth is full of blood. It's running down his chin. Daddy takes him...from me...away. I was horrified. I know he wanted to help and console and, really, to make sure we didn't need to get in the car, but I was jaw-dropped. I wanted him back. It was my fault. I let him fall, I had to fix him.
He finally stopped bleeding and settled down. Joey decided it was just a little busted baby lip and that I/we was/were lucky he didn't go the other way (backwards with a busted baby head). I was so rattled and guilt-ridden that I cried as I nursed him to sleep. The perfect ending to this challenge-day. I replayed the whole thing - slow-mo slip, scared-face, bloody mouth and all - as I lie in bed willing myself to fall asleep. Waylon slept like a...baby...through the night and woke with a swollen baby lip reminder this morning, at the sight of which I encored my profuse apologies from the night before.
This transition phase - not-quite-crawling-still-kinda-wobbly-sitting-up-thinks-he's-walking-fearless-and-indestructible - is exhausting. I hope it passes quickly. I'm thinking crawling or walking would pose fewer health risks. I could be wrong. I probably am.
I know some of you (ahem, Angie) are probably reading this thinking, See, that's why we don't do schedules. Why doesn't she just go with the flow? I did go with flow. Granted, I was flopping and flailing a little trying to bend the stream back my way. But I flowed. I did.
Noon: wake, lunch, head to the grocery store. *Side note: my coupon clipping and sales ad comparing is finally paying off. Major success this week at CVS and Publix. I think the Publix customer service people would have given me my entire cart of groceries if I would just leave the store.
Waylon is usually (surprise, surprise) a dream at the grocery store. That was, before we started shopping through his mid-day nap and before he figured out how to make Mama fetch. So, fetch I did, through most of the store. He batted his baby blues and flirted with many a shopper. One man asked if he was a boy or a girl. Seriously?? I took too long comparing coupons and sales and ran a little over, you guessed it, schedule. W snoozed in the car on the way home. We get home by 4:15, put the groceries away, have a 'snack', visit neighbors, start dinner. It's tricky these days when Waylon skips his late afternoon nap, but it was just too close to dinnertime and bedtime. So we skipped. For the second time. Big mistake.
First he's in the jumper with Cheerios. Meanwhile, I'm chopping, stirring, sipping a Miller Light, talking on the phone, boiling water, shucking corn, passing out Cheerios, tripping over Stella...just a jumble of noise and bustle for a good 30 minutes. My dinner-cooking is usually much less hectic. Sometimes it's just me and the Miller Light. Other times, Waylon's around but he's had a little more nap earlier in the day and is a better sport. Not this day.
He's finally had enough. Chug the beer. Hang up the phone. Grab the baby. By this time, it's almost 6, which is at least 30 minutes to an hour later than Daddy usually gets home, and around the time Waylon usually eats dinner. About that time, Dad's truck roars up the driveway. Tag team.
We greet Daddy at the door, with Brock and Stella in tow. He's got a sinus headache; it's been another stressful day; his clothes are wet with sweat. He's going to take a shower and change.
I decide to feed Waylon early. (A new favorite is chick peas/garbanzo beans.) Before he's done, Joey and I join him. Finish dinner (which I realize a little too late was too complicated and took too long for the time crunch we were experiencing). Clean up kitchen. Walk dogs. Play with Daddy while Mama showers... All the while growing more and more ill by the minute. We're talking about a kid that gets three naps on the perfect day, and he's only slept maybe two hours all day today, mostly before lunchtime. He's done. d-o-n-e.
Everything's making him cry. Walking around with Daddy = crying. Sitting down on the floor = crying. Changing a diaper = crying. Putting on pj's = crying. There is no question we're going to bed early. Last thing to check off our list is brush the teeth. I set him on the counter with is sock feet in the sink (what else do you do with a baby while you toothpaste the brush?) He makes a diving reach for something on the other side of the sink, slips and face plants onto the edge of the sink. Serious crying ensues.
I scoop him up and console him. Daddy comes to investigate the screams. By the time he gets there, Waylon's mouth is full of blood. It's running down his chin. Daddy takes him...from me...away. I was horrified. I know he wanted to help and console and, really, to make sure we didn't need to get in the car, but I was jaw-dropped. I wanted him back. It was my fault. I let him fall, I had to fix him.
He finally stopped bleeding and settled down. Joey decided it was just a little busted baby lip and that I/we was/were lucky he didn't go the other way (backwards with a busted baby head). I was so rattled and guilt-ridden that I cried as I nursed him to sleep. The perfect ending to this challenge-day. I replayed the whole thing - slow-mo slip, scared-face, bloody mouth and all - as I lie in bed willing myself to fall asleep. Waylon slept like a...baby...through the night and woke with a swollen baby lip reminder this morning, at the sight of which I encored my profuse apologies from the night before.
This transition phase - not-quite-crawling-still-kinda-wobbly-sitting-up-thinks-he's-walking-fearless-and-indestructible - is exhausting. I hope it passes quickly. I'm thinking crawling or walking would pose fewer health risks. I could be wrong. I probably am.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
walk hard - the waylon james story
I'm pretty sure Waylon has decided to skip crawling. He's walking. Let me clarify. He can't even pull up, stand up, stand up holding on to something, etc. The kid has no balance. Nonetheless, he literally thinks he can run. We are currently lapping the house. It's exhausting...and adorable.
He takes a huge step with his right leg (usually more to the side than to the front), and his left leg comes up to meet him. The whole time wobbling and swaying and dipping. We've tried to encourage the crawl. We've set him up on all fours and even helped him move one limb at a time, but he will have none of it. Walk.
I wish I had video. You'd laugh.
My lower back and neck remind me how close I'm getting to 30 and make me wonder how older/handicapped/lazy people do this. **Not that one of those qualifications necessitates the others. Don't read into that. If you know me, you know I would never...** And Waylon's increasing enthusiasm clues me in to the impending change - this kid is fixin to be out of control. Stuff's about to go down.
After more than a couple brutal days of running in scorching heat and stifling humidity, I have decided to postpone my marathon training until, say, September. I'm hoping I'll be feeling it a little more then. Surely. Anything's got to be better than running slathered in petroleum jelly, wrapped in cellophane with a handful of cotton balls stuffed in my throat (that's exactly what it feels like to me). Oh, and with a 'flying nun' hat of tinfoil to attract the sun. Death.
At this exact moment, Waylon's snoozing, there's an Alabamasummertime thunderstorm creeping in and a stack of magazines resting seductively on my coffee table. I give in.
He takes a huge step with his right leg (usually more to the side than to the front), and his left leg comes up to meet him. The whole time wobbling and swaying and dipping. We've tried to encourage the crawl. We've set him up on all fours and even helped him move one limb at a time, but he will have none of it. Walk.
I wish I had video. You'd laugh.
My lower back and neck remind me how close I'm getting to 30 and make me wonder how older/handicapped/lazy people do this. **Not that one of those qualifications necessitates the others. Don't read into that. If you know me, you know I would never...** And Waylon's increasing enthusiasm clues me in to the impending change - this kid is fixin to be out of control. Stuff's about to go down.
After more than a couple brutal days of running in scorching heat and stifling humidity, I have decided to postpone my marathon training until, say, September. I'm hoping I'll be feeling it a little more then. Surely. Anything's got to be better than running slathered in petroleum jelly, wrapped in cellophane with a handful of cotton balls stuffed in my throat (that's exactly what it feels like to me). Oh, and with a 'flying nun' hat of tinfoil to attract the sun. Death.
At this exact moment, Waylon's snoozing, there's an Alabamasummertime thunderstorm creeping in and a stack of magazines resting seductively on my coffee table. I give in.
Monday, June 7, 2010
el nine-yo
Waylon is nine months old yesterday and I feel like I just posted the eight-month round-up. My life... I am realizing more and more that we are quickly moving out of the baby phase toward the toddler phase. Last night, as I was attempting to snuggle Waylon before bed and he was attempting to throw himself anywhere but in my arms, I said to Joey, 'What am I going to do with this boy when he actually can move around on his own?' Silence. So, Waylon's nine months old now, and he...
SAID MAMA!!! That's right! He did! Yesterday afternoon, as we were having a Cheerio pic-nic, he said MAMAMAMA... I cried. (I think it might have just been perforated mmm's.)
has a total of six teeth
claps
waves...sometimes
actually converses with us, or responds to us, instead of constant babble
fed Joey a bite of food (I can't remember what it was, but Waylon didn't really want to do it. I think he just wanted Joey to get away from his plate.)
laughs at things now, instead of laughing because of things (does this make sense?) What's funny is that it sounds like a courtesy laugh.
loves things with buttons - remotes, phones, toys
loves balls and can actually throw a ball (really hard) back and forth
is very observant - picks up on the tiniest things, like a little mouse on a big page of a book filled with lots of other things
stays in the church nursery with his 'friends'
seriously hates to have his diaper changed on his beautiful changing table. He hates that thing.
finds his 'privacy' whenever it's available. So early for a lifetime of obsession.
is almost crawling and pulling up. He wants to so bad it hurts.
loves meal time. Favorite foods right now are tomato, olives, mushrooms, fruit, cottage cheese
loves bath time, play time, run time. does not love nap time. still.
loves life
Waylon enjoys a good tv show from time to time. His favorites are Wonder Pets, Backyardigans, Elmo, Baby Einstein (video). I think his favorites are the computer animated ones with lots of singing. He does not like cartoons (thank goodness) or Yo Gabba-Gabba. We only watch tv for about an hour a day, and even then, it's only in the background as we are playing with toys. The rest of our days are largely spent outside (swimming, swinging, walking the dogs, running, checking the mail, looking at things like birds and flowers). The kid is a nature lover. I'm so glad.
I am trying to mentally prepare myself for what it's going to be like when he's crawling. Life is going to be drastically different, I think. There is so much to baby proof, so much to clean. Oh, so much to clean. That will be the demise of my sanity, I'm afraid, and possibly the dogs. I'm sure there is a good book out there on raising a baby with OCD (the mother, not the baby. Lord, please don't let me raise Waylon to have OCD.) I heard once that your house should be clean enough to be healthy and dirty enough to be happy. But, is there a happy dirty? That's an oxy-moron if I've ever heard one. Like jumbo shrimp.
Someone asked me the other day if I had learned a lot from being a mother. I thought for a moment and decided that I discover something at least every waking hour of my days. Sometimes more often, I'm sure. I've never had a greater teacher than this baby. I think soon I'll make a list of all that I've learned or discovered during Waylon's life. I'll share it.
I forgot to mention, I think, that Joey and I started training to run the Mercedes Marathon next February. So far, the furthest I've run at one time is five miles. I think I'm quitting already. I hate hate to run. It's miserable. Who are these people that love to run? And what's wrong with them? Thing is, the whole thing was my idea. Right?
I proposed to Joey, to help us get in shape, that we run the half marathon. This would be a monumental accomplishment for me. At first he thought I was nuts. Understandable. I have always hated running. Well, after a moment of contemplation, Joey grabs this marathon thing by the horns and away he goes. The boy has become obsessed. He hasn't talked so much since...I don't know what. He has done hours of research on everything from when and how to train, to what to eat and drink, to how to tie your running shoes. It's out of control. Well, needless to say, it didn't take him long to decide that a half-marathon is only half a marathon, which is quitting half-way through. He decides to run the whole thing. No pressure. Then, the biggest losers run a whole dang marathon! They used to be 400 pounds, completely out of shape, never worked out, barely walked a mile, and they ran a whole dad-gum marathon. I decide to run the whole thing that episode.
I am crazy competitive and have made Joey's and my weekly running totals somewhat of a competition. I am struggling to keep up with him and it's driving me nuts. Joey could care less. I just don't know how in the world I will run 26 miles. I don't know how. I'll keep you posted.
Which reminds me. Quick grocery update. I just discovered SouthernSavers.com. I am hoping this website will revolutionize my grocery shopping. We'll see.
SAID MAMA!!! That's right! He did! Yesterday afternoon, as we were having a Cheerio pic-nic, he said MAMAMAMA... I cried. (I think it might have just been perforated mmm's.)
has a total of six teeth
claps
waves...sometimes
actually converses with us, or responds to us, instead of constant babble
fed Joey a bite of food (I can't remember what it was, but Waylon didn't really want to do it. I think he just wanted Joey to get away from his plate.)
laughs at things now, instead of laughing because of things (does this make sense?) What's funny is that it sounds like a courtesy laugh.
loves things with buttons - remotes, phones, toys
loves balls and can actually throw a ball (really hard) back and forth
is very observant - picks up on the tiniest things, like a little mouse on a big page of a book filled with lots of other things
stays in the church nursery with his 'friends'
seriously hates to have his diaper changed on his beautiful changing table. He hates that thing.
finds his 'privacy' whenever it's available. So early for a lifetime of obsession.
is almost crawling and pulling up. He wants to so bad it hurts.
loves meal time. Favorite foods right now are tomato, olives, mushrooms, fruit, cottage cheese
loves bath time, play time, run time. does not love nap time. still.
loves life
Waylon enjoys a good tv show from time to time. His favorites are Wonder Pets, Backyardigans, Elmo, Baby Einstein (video). I think his favorites are the computer animated ones with lots of singing. He does not like cartoons (thank goodness) or Yo Gabba-Gabba. We only watch tv for about an hour a day, and even then, it's only in the background as we are playing with toys. The rest of our days are largely spent outside (swimming, swinging, walking the dogs, running, checking the mail, looking at things like birds and flowers). The kid is a nature lover. I'm so glad.
I am trying to mentally prepare myself for what it's going to be like when he's crawling. Life is going to be drastically different, I think. There is so much to baby proof, so much to clean. Oh, so much to clean. That will be the demise of my sanity, I'm afraid, and possibly the dogs. I'm sure there is a good book out there on raising a baby with OCD (the mother, not the baby. Lord, please don't let me raise Waylon to have OCD.) I heard once that your house should be clean enough to be healthy and dirty enough to be happy. But, is there a happy dirty? That's an oxy-moron if I've ever heard one. Like jumbo shrimp.
Someone asked me the other day if I had learned a lot from being a mother. I thought for a moment and decided that I discover something at least every waking hour of my days. Sometimes more often, I'm sure. I've never had a greater teacher than this baby. I think soon I'll make a list of all that I've learned or discovered during Waylon's life. I'll share it.
I forgot to mention, I think, that Joey and I started training to run the Mercedes Marathon next February. So far, the furthest I've run at one time is five miles. I think I'm quitting already. I hate hate to run. It's miserable. Who are these people that love to run? And what's wrong with them? Thing is, the whole thing was my idea. Right?
I proposed to Joey, to help us get in shape, that we run the half marathon. This would be a monumental accomplishment for me. At first he thought I was nuts. Understandable. I have always hated running. Well, after a moment of contemplation, Joey grabs this marathon thing by the horns and away he goes. The boy has become obsessed. He hasn't talked so much since...I don't know what. He has done hours of research on everything from when and how to train, to what to eat and drink, to how to tie your running shoes. It's out of control. Well, needless to say, it didn't take him long to decide that a half-marathon is only half a marathon, which is quitting half-way through. He decides to run the whole thing. No pressure. Then, the biggest losers run a whole dang marathon! They used to be 400 pounds, completely out of shape, never worked out, barely walked a mile, and they ran a whole dad-gum marathon. I decide to run the whole thing that episode.
I am crazy competitive and have made Joey's and my weekly running totals somewhat of a competition. I am struggling to keep up with him and it's driving me nuts. Joey could care less. I just don't know how in the world I will run 26 miles. I don't know how. I'll keep you posted.
Which reminds me. Quick grocery update. I just discovered SouthernSavers.com. I am hoping this website will revolutionize my grocery shopping. We'll see.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
new wave
I have delayed this post because I don't have the proper pictures to accompany it. Nonetheless, it must go up, lest I forget.
It's time I confess...I applied to be a freelance blogger for one of my favorite websites recently. As of yesterday, I was officially rejected. Let me say here that there have been few (really, I can't think of a single one) jobs that I have applied for that I did not get. Perhaps I have a way of convincing people that they can't live without me. I'm not sure. But, I do know that rejection stings. Bad. I was sure this was the job for me - that God had placed this in my lap, sat back, crossed his arms and grinned, pleased with Himself for the amazing things I was about to do, thanks to Him and the abilities He's given me. Not so. Maybe God did place the opportunity in my lap, but it was not so that I would get the job. I don't know why, but He did not want me there. So, I move on. Rejected. And perhaps a little turned off of my own blog...thus the lull.
We all know I don't want a job outside the home. But when it comes right down to it, I really would love to be back at dL Salon. It has been my most loved job since forever. My friends are there. The blog thing would have been nice on the side, is all.
We got a new pool. (Wouldn't it be great if I was talking about a real-deal-holifield in-ground pool??) It's one of those 8-or-so-foot inflatable pools from WalMart. It's fun. We've already had to purchase chlorine to combat the algea and will soon be purchasing a tarp and a skimmy-net to combat all the junk that falls in that I obsessively try to scoop out instead of enjoying the wade. Needless to say, it's become a bigger hassel than I expected. I'm pretty sure Joey expected it. He's such a dad.
I've told you before that Waylon loves swimming. He does. He is a swimmer, without a doubt. Sitting in this little inflatable pool, however, is not swimming. I'm virtually positive he's just wondering what we're doing taking a cold bath...outside...together...with our clothes on. hmph. We got him a swimg ring, so now when he sits in the pool I don't have to hold him up the whole time. Which gives me more time to scoop bugs out and focus on my tan. It suits us fine.
It's hard for me to believe that May is officially over (for a few days now, even). It was super busy and went by super fast. We spent Memorial Day weekend in Auburn at Lolly's house. We had lots of big plans with Auburn friends that all fell through, but our time with Lolly was as sweet as ever.
Kyle has been in China with Aunt LeAnn (Dad's other sister) for the last week and I am anxiously awaiting notification that he has made it home safely today. You won't catch me there. China's a little too restless for me.
About a week ago, I cut my hair even shorter than it was originally. I told you I would. I like it, mostly. I look like I'm four most of the time, and I can't pull it back. Mom says it chic and likes it better like this than long, which is saying a lot.
It's the Katie Holmes cut. I confess.
It's time I confess...I applied to be a freelance blogger for one of my favorite websites recently. As of yesterday, I was officially rejected. Let me say here that there have been few (really, I can't think of a single one) jobs that I have applied for that I did not get. Perhaps I have a way of convincing people that they can't live without me. I'm not sure. But, I do know that rejection stings. Bad. I was sure this was the job for me - that God had placed this in my lap, sat back, crossed his arms and grinned, pleased with Himself for the amazing things I was about to do, thanks to Him and the abilities He's given me. Not so. Maybe God did place the opportunity in my lap, but it was not so that I would get the job. I don't know why, but He did not want me there. So, I move on. Rejected. And perhaps a little turned off of my own blog...thus the lull.
We all know I don't want a job outside the home. But when it comes right down to it, I really would love to be back at dL Salon. It has been my most loved job since forever. My friends are there. The blog thing would have been nice on the side, is all.
We got a new pool. (Wouldn't it be great if I was talking about a real-deal-holifield in-ground pool??) It's one of those 8-or-so-foot inflatable pools from WalMart. It's fun. We've already had to purchase chlorine to combat the algea and will soon be purchasing a tarp and a skimmy-net to combat all the junk that falls in that I obsessively try to scoop out instead of enjoying the wade. Needless to say, it's become a bigger hassel than I expected. I'm pretty sure Joey expected it. He's such a dad.
I've told you before that Waylon loves swimming. He does. He is a swimmer, without a doubt. Sitting in this little inflatable pool, however, is not swimming. I'm virtually positive he's just wondering what we're doing taking a cold bath...outside...together...with our clothes on. hmph. We got him a swimg ring, so now when he sits in the pool I don't have to hold him up the whole time. Which gives me more time to scoop bugs out and focus on my tan. It suits us fine.
It's hard for me to believe that May is officially over (for a few days now, even). It was super busy and went by super fast. We spent Memorial Day weekend in Auburn at Lolly's house. We had lots of big plans with Auburn friends that all fell through, but our time with Lolly was as sweet as ever.
Kyle has been in China with Aunt LeAnn (Dad's other sister) for the last week and I am anxiously awaiting notification that he has made it home safely today. You won't catch me there. China's a little too restless for me.
About a week ago, I cut my hair even shorter than it was originally. I told you I would. I like it, mostly. I look like I'm four most of the time, and I can't pull it back. Mom says it chic and likes it better like this than long, which is saying a lot.
It's the Katie Holmes cut. I confess.
Monday, May 24, 2010
gift idea
My sweet Aunt Jan (Dad's sister) is crazy crafty and has never met a project she won't try. As a matter of fact, when she was here in October, she was weaving her own hammock. See what I mean?
Anyway, she has been making these adorable aprons for a while now and has developed a relatively lucrative business out of it. Each one is themed and some come with their own cooking tools. I'm not exactly sure the sizes, but the ones I've seen would fit your average 2-6 year old. I'm sure there are other sizes as well. You should check out her blog and scoop one up for your own kid or for your next gift-giving occasion.
Anyway, she has been making these adorable aprons for a while now and has developed a relatively lucrative business out of it. Each one is themed and some come with their own cooking tools. I'm not exactly sure the sizes, but the ones I've seen would fit your average 2-6 year old. I'm sure there are other sizes as well. You should check out her blog and scoop one up for your own kid or for your next gift-giving occasion.
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