Out of the Mouths of Boys

I wanted to do a blog to put down on paper (er, computer screen) the funny things my little dudes say. Sometimes I feel like I have so many that I can't always dedicate my blogs to them equally.

Camden
Camden is a very bright, inquisitive, articulate kid with the nice added bonus of being all boy--athletic, messy, and endlessly energetic. He's always thinking (and talking but I'm not sure where he got that from). Sometimes when he declares things, he does it so matter-of-factly that I forget he's only six. He is quite obsessive with nature and God's creatures right now. Last month he collected several "pet" ladybugs, which I ultimately convinced him would fare better outside. As we were walking back in, he looked at me and said, "You know what they say, Mom. If you love something, you set it free." Really?! Has he been watching chick flicks or reading chick lit to learn that mantra?

I also had to inform him that his elementary school principal will be moving to a new school next year. He thoughtfully replied, "Well, being a principal is like presidents. You can only serve a certain amount of years." I'm thankful he made this connection and took the transition so well.

He does, however, remain very distressed that I don't know more about Pokemon. Pokemon is his new obsession, and I'm completely lost when he says things about Ash and Water Type Pokemon (what?). Lately he has been frustrated with my ignorance, so he keeps telling me, "You really need to brush up on your Pokemon skills, Mom." Touche.

Hudson
Hudson is quiet, sweet, thoughtful, intelligent, studious, and socially reclusive at times. He also has a nice little silly streak and is a master at putting puzzles and Kung Zhu fighting rings together. I imagine his being the middle child is more difficult than he is able to express as he is constantly trying to assert his place among his siblings. (I never get to be first! Lawson got out before me! Camden has toys and I don't!)

As of yet he hasn't caught on to the fact that we find every opportunity we can to get him to say the word "caterpillar." He reverses the sounds so that it comes out like "cal-uh-pitter," which is one of my favorite funny words right now. He understands the life cycle of the "calepittar" very well, so he never minds explaining it to me. Eventually he'll realize what I'm doing and self-correct (like he did when I made him say "thirty" over and over because he used a Boston accent). What a sad day that will be.

Yesterday he scared the life out of me by jumping off the side of the Y pool while I had my back turned putting Lawson's life jacket on (Hudson was next in line). The lifeguard was quick and pulled him out, and when his shaken up mommy asked him why he did it, he simply replied, "Dodge said he could do it, and I just wanted to be brave like him." Sweet boy. He perked up two seconds later and said, "Mom! I've never been saved by a lifeguard before!" At least he had an easier time seeing the positive in the situation than I did.

Lawson
Oh, there are so many things I can say about our youngest boy. He's devilishly, mischievously handsome. He has the absolute cutest little speech patterns EVER (chair is "shair" and "thirsty" sounds something like "stirsty". Oh, and "I think" is "I stink"). Overall he's just an easygoing little dude. He's quiet until he can assess a situation, so you may seem him sucking his thumb and rubbing his "wubbing tag" while he draws his conclusions. He's also very funny without really trying to be. His constant attempts to aggravate his brothers drive me absolutely insane, but he always says something hilarious or flashes his toothy grin to get out of trouble.

I did manage to document one particularly indignant exchange he had with Hudson last month. While climbing up on his stool to brush his teeth, he slipped and borrowed a line from Tangled. "Mommy, my smolder's broken!" Hearing him, Hudson said out of the blue, "You're never going to fall in love with anyone!" Lawson didn't miss a beat in stomping his foot and saying, "Yeah-huh! With Mommy!" How could I not smile about that?

Last week he asked me where God lived. When I pointed up to the sky, he scrunched his face up and asked, "In the clouds?" "Sort of," I replied. He thought for a few seconds and then inquired very directly, "Which cloud is it?" It appears I'm going to have to expand my explanation a bit.

I promise to detail Scout's vocabulary at a later time. This blog is already so long that you guys will take one look at it and decide you don't have time to read it right now. Plus she's not really saying much other than Mom, uh-oh, and Dora, Dora. Wait, I take that back. She does converse fluently in her own little Scout language. I'll try and capture it on video for you.

  

School Daze

This morning I attended the second graduation ceremony of the season for my little dudes. Two weeks ago Hudson and his pre-k class matriculated in high style for five-year-olds, and this morning I watched Camden trot proudly across the stage to receive his kindergarten diploma. Every ounce of frustration I've felt with my kids the past few days disappeared in those minutes, and I found myself teary-eyed at the warp speed time travels. The past six and a half years have gone by in a blink, and the times I feel flustered, I try to remind myself they're only mine to nurture and love within my own home for a short time.

At both ceremonies all the children sang songs and posed for pictures with proud smiles on their faces. I sat wondering how each little spirit would grow and speculating on what marks they'll make on this world as they navigate life's challenges. Their innocence is amazing to me, but even more amazing to me is the individuality God grants each of us even from such a young age. My boys' classmates and friends have endearing, quirky qualities that are each their own, and learning their personalities and appreciating them the way I try to in my own kids has been a fun challenge for me as a mom to school-aged kids. I've found myself praying lately that each of my four kids learns to love and accept others no matter what challenges or personalities their peers may have and hoping God gives me the strength and wisdom to instill this quality.

I am a proud mommy who will hopefully draw calming patience from the reserve of deep emotions I experienced watching my babies go through one of life's rites of passage. In reality I know it will only be a matter of time before I'm fighting the urge to put my head in my hands because Camden is telling me the same story for the fifth time in a forty-five second time period. Hudson will inevitably push me to the brink of tolerance with his emotional outbursts. Lawson will start a fight by elbowing his brother on the fly and playing the victim when his brother ultimately retaliates. And my sweet Scout will crawl out of her new big girl bed and into the kitchen five times before finally giving in to exhaustion.

All of these stresses are part of my daily routine, but there is also great joy in knowing I'm privileged to watch them grow, to appreciate their individuality, to hold them in my arms when they slow down enough to let me, and to cheer loudly and embarrassingly when they graduate from any grade. I hope I remember every day that their "school days" go by in a "school daze" and take a moment to regroup enough to soak up as much time as I can.

How Many More Days Till August 22nd?

It's official. Two of our three "school age" kids are out for the summer, and the debauchery is already in full swing. Finding the motivation to get up and get going the past two mornings has proved challenging, but we still have a kindergartner in school well into the month of June. Breakfasts have been a hodge podge of items, and this morning's spread consisted of bagels, scrambled eggs, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Gogurt, and applesauce. Hudson, Lawson, and Scout were loaded in the van in PJs and allowed to rock some nasty morning breath. Poor Cam was decked out in his school uniform, wearing tied shoes and buckled belt, and sporting a mouth full of freshly scrubbed pearly whites.

After dropping a slightly dejected Camden off at school, the rest of the Jones family slackers skulked back home to see what we could accomplish. So far our list of accomplishments is depressingly short. Well, let me clarify that statement. My list of accomplishments is short. So far I have managed to put Scout down for a nap, drink a cup of coffee, and talk myself out a Mommy Hulk moment. Several Mommy Hulk moments.

Now, Hudson and Lawson's accomplishments are quite noteworthy. So far they have wrestled, run through the house yelling, convinced me to let them watch Spider Man 2 instead of Dinosaur Train, and last but not least, DESTROYED my bed. My comforter and arsenal of pillows are on the floor in a pile, and they have occupied themselves for the last hour by alternating trying to suffocate each other and seeing who can stick the landing of their acrobatic jumps off my bed. My blood pressure and anxiety levels are up, and to prevent a serious case of PMS (Pissy Mom Syndrome), I finally decided to walk out of the room and shut the door.

Scout's low-grade fever and hacking cough will prevent me from escaping to my exercise class today (how do moms with no stress outlet survive?), but the guilt I feel from looking at four loads of unfolded clean laundry would have kept me in the house if Scout hadn't given me a better excuse. It's time to rally and at least pretend to live up to the title of "domestic goddess" (though most days I think "domestic disaster" is more appropriate) no matter how tempting it is to lock myself in a closet and count off the days until school is back in session.

Yes I Can! Yes I Can!

Anyone who knows me well knows I LOVE The Nutty Professor. I work a Nutty Professor quote into casual conversation whenever possible. When my bestie Amy was in labor with her first little dude, I tried to make her laugh between contractions by doing my best Sherman Klump/Buddy Love impersonation and pulling out the most crass tidbits I could call to memory (I'll stick this in the crack o' yo' ass!). Of course I'm fairly certain I mainly succeeded in offending her mom (I love you, Ms. Pat) and causing her dad to snicker in silence and shake his head at his daughter's inappropriate friend. But hey, I gave myself a good laugh, and that always counts for something.

Now, when the average viewer watches The Nutty Professor, he or she may find it to be your stereotypical slapstick Eddie Murphy classic. But as Rafiki from The Lion King says, "look harder." The Nutty Professor has tons of heart beneath all of its hilarious, timeless fart jokes. Its message to persevere despite the most overwhelming of challenges gets me every time. In fact, the blog title is inspired by one of the pep talks Sherman Klump gives himself about battling the bulge. I've been giving myself similar pep talks about a variety of things for many years.

Jason and I have decided to try and run Savannah's Rock and Roll Half Marathon in November. I think I must be crazy. I have degenerative disc disease, arthritis in my hips and feet, four kids, and the lack of bladder control to prove it. Yep, I'm owning that one all you fellow mommies, despite the embarrassment it takes to admit it. Yet for some reason I hear Sherman Klump's voice in my head saying, "yes, you can, Molly. Yes, you can."

I started training two weeks ago and ran my first mile. Ever. Since then I've sweated my ass off five days a week stepping, running, jumping rope, jumping jacks, and praying to God in heaven I don't throw my back out, pee on the floor, or lose my motivation to achieve my goal. The other two days of the week I'm in a two hour yoga class stretching and strengthening my core in an effort to combat the shin splints I already feel coming and to make sure my abs are strong enough to hold me in place when my feet go numb halfway through my cross-training class. I am determined to do something amazing for myself.

At one point while I was trying to bring Scout into the world, I remember thinking I was just going to quit. I wondered what would happen if I just stopped. Stopped trying to push through the indescribably painful contractions that two failed epidurals couldn't prevent, stopped listening to my friends urging me on, stopped trying to obey the nurse's order to quit screaming and use my energy to push, stopped looking at Spaceballs playing on the TV every time I lifted my body to curl around my gigantic planet of a belly. I don't really know what happens when laboring, exhausted moms refuse to cooperate, but I do know my beautiful little Scout was so worth every ounce of commitment I put into getting her here. After I held her for the first time, I remember thinking, "I'm kind of a bad ass. I just had a nine pound baby with no epidural."

So I can't give up. Because when I finish 13.1 miles in November, I want to be able to say "I'm kind of a bad ass" one more time. I'm going to attempt to run three miles this Saturday, and that's something I never thought I would be able to even consider doing. I'll need all the support and encouragement anyone can offer because I know I'll want to quit when it's 100 degrees outside and the gnats are setting up shop in my hair and ears. Sherman Klump will be in the back of my head the whole way, and just when I think I can't run another step, I hope I'll picture his momma clapping her hands and saying "Hercules! Hercules!"

Hot Mess Moms

My friend Tara and I were talking yesterday, and she expressed frustration over her new found Mommy Brain and why it won't just go back to normal. She recently had her first baby, and I've been so excited to get to know her as a mom after eleven years of friendship and countless shared experiences. She specifically mentioned her inability to focus on just one room while cleaning, and if I could have come through the phone to hug her, I would have. She validated six years of personal frustration in one single sentence.

How many of you moms have noticed you can't remember ANYTHING anymore? Not even what room you were cleaning before you walked into another room to put something away. I'll start in the kitchen, which unfortunately is where all of our random crap goes to hang out and socialize. In an effort to put things in their places, I'll walk to my bedroom to put away one shoe that has lost its way en route to the closet, and suddenly I'm completely overwhelmed and distracted by the state of affairs in my closet. Cue frantic and compulsive attempts to organize said closet until I'm suddenly interrupted by a crying baby or a raucous fight between two or more Jones boys. As official baby whisperer and head referee of the home, I soothe crying baby and/or establish peace between sparring brothers only to look down in horror at the state of the playroom.

The playroom is frantically picked up (which is really so pointless until bedtime), and by the time I've moved on to putting away laundry, someone is screeching about being hungry and has taken it upon himself to hijack the bag of Goldfish and tear their way through it on the carpet of the playroom. Call in the dog to eat the crumbs and then break out the vacuum cleaner to suck up the ensuing tumbleweeds of dog hair. Back to laundry until the alarm sounds to remind me it's time to pick Camden up from school. Sit in the carpool line for half an hour and wait for the real fun to begin (which it does the second the oldest joins the mayhem). By the end of the day, no one room in the house is completely clean, I'm a frazzled mess without a firm sense of accomplishment, AND I'm out of Goldfish. And I've got to get up tomorrow and do it all over again.

Today one of my friend's Facebook status updates is "sometimes laughing at yourself is the best option." Perfect. I would only go so far as to say that laughing at yourself is always the best option. Jason may not find it quite as amusing as I do that I forgot to load the clothes in the dryer (especially when he reaches into the drawer to pull out clean underoos and finds none), but hey, it's life. It's messier than I thought it would be, but just for clarification, I can always find a pair of clean undies for him hiding somewhere. (I would hate for you guys to feel like I've got him creeping around in dirty drawers.)

There is color and humor all around, even when Mommy Brain threatens to turn everything disconcerting shades of gray or brown. Even when you can only see the humor after the kids are asleep and you've had a glass of wine or two. Laugh. At yourself, at your friends, at your kids (well, sometimes it's best to do this in private in an effort to preserve their little self-esteems), at your husband when he's flustered, sometimes at the ridiculous and seemingly insurmountable state of affairs in your life. I'm often surprised to find it's possible to laugh your way right out of a bad mood or to help someone else do the same. When the laughter won't come, let the tears do their job. They're pretty close relatives when you think about it, and both are incredible gifts from God to give us ways of expressing our joy or pain when words just can't do the trick.

Today I charge you to do what a great mommy friend charged me to do just this morning. Admit being a hot mess mom and love yourself for it. Maybe Mommy Brain is meant to distract us from the mundane tasks of organizing closets and encourage us to embrace something as simple as trying to follow the hilarious conversations of our kids. That's better than vacuuming any day!

Owning Your Mommy Mess-ups

This morning I sat in a room with MOPS mommies I didn't know at all when I walked into my first meeting last summer unsure what to expect. More than providing a ministry that reaches out to moms, MOPS has provided a forum for women to open their eyes to the fact that the "perfect mom" is an illusion.

This principle is applicable not just at my MOPS group, but in the community of moms at large. In getting to know the women on this island, I've received the gift of their insight on so many things. I've also been able to listen to their perceptions of me as a mom even before they knew me on a personal level. Our community is small, so many of the moms I now call friends were in the backdrop of my life at the YMCA pool, the soccer field, or the grocery store. My friend Meghan recalls thinking I was a patient mom as she watched me attempt to manage three boys in the same swim lessons class while juggling six-month-old Scout last summer. This six day period of torture was probably one of the least fun things I did last year, and I remember thinking I was an epic failure at the swim lessons gig. It's so funny to hear her perception of me when my perception of myself was so negative.

We're hardest on ourselves for so many reasons--fear of making the same mistakes our parents made, fear of alienating our children, fear of damaging their self-esteems. But here's the thing. Every mom feels this way. Every. Single. One. We all worry we're not good enough for our kids, and we all make some super duper stupid blunders as we navigate the bumpy terrain of parenthood. Would you like to hear some of my own slip-ups? They're classic and guaranteed to make you feel better about yourselves.

• Six months ago Lawson climbed onto a shelf in a store to hide when my back was turned, and we had to endure a Code Adam while they locked everything down to find him.
• Three out of four of my children have rolled off my bed--some more than once.
• I once got so pissed at Camden for screaming at his brothers that I told him to shut up. 
•  Lawson tumbled down a flight of stairs when he was eighteen months old because Jason and I didn't effectively communicate who was watching him.
• I can't remember Hudson's first words because I was too busy trying to take care of a toddler while pregnant with my third baby in three years.
• We once had two boys get CT scans for falls within three days of each other. (I braced myself for the DFACS visit that never came when that happened.)
• Sometimes I have to tell Camden to stop talking so much in order to preserve my sanity.
• I once fed the kids cookies for breakfast and Goldfish for lunch (on the same day) to avoid taking all four to the grocery store.
• I don't know how to appropriately communicate to Lawson that he has to stop touching my boobs.
• Hudson's incessant emotional outbursts drive me so close to the brink of lunacy that I'm practically incapable of responding positively when they occur.

Aanndddd......breathe. Ah. It feels good to get that off my chest. Believe me, the list goes on and on and on. We try our best, but no one is capable of being at their 100% best every single waking moment of the day. Mistakes are inevitable. We have to own them, sometimes laugh at them, learn from them, and share them with other moms who feel they're sucking up the one job they want to be the best at. Knowing I'm not alone is essential for me to grow from my mistakes and sometimes even to understand that what I perceive to be mistakes are just every day normal life events. Loving your kids and communicating your love as much as possible is essential, and my guess is we all give this goal our best shot 24/7 even when we feel like we fall short in other areas.

Perfect mommies? Overrated. Every kid will need some parental shortcoming to discuss with their therapists later in life. I've started admitting to my kids when I make a mistake and apologizing when I feel like an "I'm sorry" is warranted. I figure they'll either appreciate my honesty and toss out their own ideas of perfection, or they'll worry over my apparent incompetence and use my blunders as ammunition against me when they're surly, rebellious teenagers. Let's hope it's the former.

Loving Ourselves is the Hard Part

Why is it that we as parents often take care of ourselves last? Why can't we be smart enough to remember happy parents equal happy kids? Instead we throw our energy into brushing little teeth, packing lunches, chaperoning field trips, and chauffeuring to baseball practice, telling ourselves all the while the money for our much-needed haircut is better spent on the kids or the few extra minutes in our day have to be spent folding laundry in order for the world to continue spinning on its axis.

My last haircut was at MOPS Spa Day last October. It was free and fabulous, but since then I've neglected to budget the time or money to have my split ends shaped up. And believe me they're screaming for help. I convinced Jason several months ago (after many years of pleading) to grow out his beautiful, dark, wavy hair. He's got that great McDreamy hair, and I've loved running my fingers through it since he agreed to "just say no" to scissors and clippers. However, he has risen the past few mornings looking more Chia Pet than Patrick Dempsey and as a result, I finally concurred he at least needs a shape-up. I'm thinking it's time I made the effort to schedule my own haircut because I seem to remember even the slightest of trims does a lot to boost self-esteem and keep away bad hair days. We women understand the irrational turmoil and havoc a bad hair day can wreak even when our men puzzle and scratch their heads over our tearful meltdowns and dodge the hairbrushes we toss away in frustration.

I digress, but my point is loving ourselves is hard. More than just finding time for yoga or budgeting money for the the good face moisturizer, committing to the relationships we have with ourselves can feel far more daunting than loving the people in our lives unconditionally. When I was twenty years old, I suffered a debilitating bout of depression that left me a shell of myself. It was not the first time in my life I had suffered such overwhelming emptiness, but this time I lost twenty pounds and any desire for happiness or pleasure at a time when I should have been discovering who I was and who I wanted to become. My dad and friends pushed me to seek help, and I fought them with every ounce of what little energy I had. I knew I wanted a different kind of life for myself, but I was so afraid to revisit the pain of my childhood. It was hard to look inside myself because I knew there was a very strong possibility I wasn't going to like who I saw. My pain was what I built my sense of self around for many years, and without it, I feared I'd be lost. Who would I be if I wasn't the girl who felt abandoned and angry over the hand I was dealt? How would I make my way in the world without my self-destructive and self-induced chaos? Was forgiveness really liberating?

Looking back, I was so incredibly lucky to have a father who understood I needed help and somehow managed to make sure I got it without ever making me feel weak. After a diagnosis of clinical depression and two years of sometimes grueling, sometimes uplifting talk therapy, I emerged from darkness a whole new person. There is a Christian song on the radio entitled "I'm Not Who I Was," and I smile in understanding every time I hear it. The woman I am today was buried somewhere beneath layers of hurt and fear, and I fought hard to peel it away and discover how to love myself. My counselor saved my life, and I feel gratitude for her validation every time I look at my beautiful family, talk to my dad on the phone, read my mother's loving words of encouragement on my blog, or simply catch a glimpse of myself (whole and happy) in the mirror.

I often wonder what path my life would have taken if I'd never taken the step to focus on myself and make it a priority to understand I was worthy of love and deserving of a new life. Clinical depression is a lifelong diagnosis, and there are times I've had to take action when signs of of my illness creep up on me. There are also still painful aspects of our childhoods both Jason and I have brought to our marriage, but understanding why we think, love, or disagree the ways we do makes the journey of marriage more fulfilling. Self-awareness and self-love are incredible gifts to give yourself, and it's never too late to find the time to work through whatever holds you back from embracing both.

I know my husband and kids deserve to have the best version of me I can offer, too. I hope something as simple as Jason's heading OI (what my family endearingly calls going off the island) and letting a real stylist shape up his luscious locks brightens his day and his confidence level. I hope I can stop feeling guilty over purchasing $12 shorts for myself instead of buying clothes for the kids and rock my new khakis at the grocery store come Monday. When I gather round the table with my Savannah ya-yas this week for coffee and mindless chit-chat, I hope I remember it's as important to nurture my own spirit as it is for me to nurture my four little doorsteps. In fact, it's not just important to love ourselves to be better parents and partners---it's absolutely essential.

What if We Just Got Real?

We are down to soap chips rather than soap bars, and I was very disgruntled to find my face soap in the shower when I was finally able to jump under the spray twenty minutes before our departure for morning carpool. Hudson screamed and cried all through breakfast because I served him water instead of Capri Sun, then trashed his room with Lincoln Logs when he was sent to calm down. He and Lawson took great pleasure in punching, kicking, and pinching each other from that point on. When I rolled up to Camden's school with only seconds to spare, the teacher who opened his door was bombarded by the screams and hums of my other three children. She let an "oh, my" slip from her tongue before the van door closed behind Camden, and I could only nod my head in silent acknowledgement of her bewildered expression.

When one of my mommy partners in crime offered to walk Hudson and Lawson into preschool, I gladly accepted and raced home to try and dry my heavy, wet, tangled mop that masquerades as hair and still make it to my MOPS meeting in time. I attend these meetings because they give me a sense of belonging and sisterhood I haven't experienced since I found my best college girlfriends. These women are worth my fighting for a shower every other Wednesday (though I know they would gladly take me as I normally am with greasy hair and grubby clothes). They were pillars of support when I came to them very nearly broken with loneliness back in September, and they continue to inspire and encourage me months later in a variety of ways.

When I attended my first MOPS meeting, I felt somewhat out of my element. I'm so open and outspoken with a crass sense of humor to boot, and I was intimidated by some of the mild-mannered, godly women I encountered. I can't quote you scripture, I have a recovering potty mouth (motherhood does require censorship), and I love so big and bubbly that sometimes people aren't really sure what to think of me. MOPS is a Christian based organization, and though my faith feels more secure than it has in a long time, participation in organized religion has ebbed and flowed throughout my adult life.

The more time I spend with these women, the more masks I take off. I'm learning to love myself the way God made me rather than doubting myself for not being more demure. In taking off my own masks and accepting who I am and why I am who I am, I've come to realize all the moms at MOPS are united by the same insecurity. We all want acceptance for what one of my favorite mommies put so plainly this morning--for being real. For being someone who has endured pain and heartache and understands strife and the isolation of living in fear. For someone who has gone to the depths of self-destruction or self-loathing and fought hard to come out on the other end intact. Or for being someone who isn't perfect but struggles with the understanding that it's her idiosyncrasies that make her so special.

The women who surround me at the tables are real. Only in the last four months have I begun to form deep connections that reward me so richly with laughter and fellowship. It's easy to become so engrossed in my own insecurities and desires for love and acceptance that I forget those around me are looking for the same thing. We're united by love, by the pain and joy of our life experience, by the desire to be great moms, and by the support we have to offer each other. There is little room for judgement when you choose to be real and in doing so, allow others to hold the confidence to be real themselves. My heart has grown a little more each meeting and with each new friendship, and it grew exponentially today in watching moms lay out their struggles and let us all in to their little worlds.

My dear friend who spoke today has no idea how much less alone I feel just hearing her testimony and watching God grant her the bravery to give it. I suspect she stood up there feeling vulnerable and fearing judgement for removing a veil and exposing her private life to us. She inspired me today more than she ever has (and this is a mom who inspires me regularly), and I once again come to a place where I passionately and whole-heartedly tell God thank you for leading us to Savannah. Thank you for my beautiful husband and for the blessing of his job. Thank you for my spirited children who scream and fight. Thank you for MOPS and the sisterhood of women you've brought into my life. I truly believe it's no accident I'm here.  

We're on the Move...Again

This week I'm packing up and moving out for the fifteenth time in fifteen years. Eight of these fifteen moves have been made with my handsome attorney. Six of them have happened when we had kids in tow. Two happened while I was pregnant. You get the picture. We move A LOT. At first our moves were due to the fact that Jason was from a real estatae family, and buying and selling is just what real estate families do. Well, what we real estate families used to do before the market turned on us and bit us in our unprepared rears. I never minded the change because I get bored and restless very easily, and moving always seemed exciting for me. We moved down here out of a necessity that turned into a wonderful blessing, but I knew going into our current house it was only temporary.  It was simply the best we could find with two weeks' notice.

When we settled into our life in Savannah, I started to become keenly aware that my kids might not share the same sense of adventure I have when it comes to feeling settled. They need a home at this point--not just a house. They're in big-kid school now, so staying in the district is important for their stability and friendships they've formed. Having four kids has provided me with quite the adventure, but moving with four kids has proved to suck, for lack of a better word. Basically it's time for me to tame my restlessness and channel it into something different and healthier for my kiddos.

I hope with this latest move to put away my packing tape and take U-Haul's 1-800 number off my contact list. We're headed to a great house in a great neighborhood, so I know it's time to be a grown-up and become more "settled." I'm lucky to have fantastic friends who have come through for me during my first move without our family's help. I know Jason's gaggle of brothers-in-law are feeling they dodged a bullet now that we're too far away to enlist their brute strength. I did cheat a little and ask my dad and stepmom to come for a portion of the move, but I know my dad is ready to hang up his work boots after this relocation. For everyone's sake, I hope I can pour all of my excess energy into writing and maybe another adventurous hobby. I hear knitting is fun.

The Illusion of Balance

Balance is a simple word that manages to confound us all. It's the reason I've attended yoga sessions for the past six years and why I spend so much of my time analyzing my place in this world. I'm searching for the key to mental, physical, spiritual, and emotional balance. Sometimes it feels as if my life is dictated by the whirring spin of the washing machine or the persistent glub glub of another tubful of dirty bathwater swirling down the drain.

Today I sit at my computer with the all-too-familiar sounds in the background. Libby the Farting Dog outside growling at a squirrel, the buzz of the dryer as my fourth load of towels finishes its cycle, Hudson and Lawson turning the pages of books in their beds, and Scout's sound machine lulling her to sleep in her room. My hair is saturated with the "color in a box" I've grown accustomed to since the real estate market went belly-up, my Crocs are riddled with sand from yesterday's beach trip, and my neglected fingernails are tip-tapping across the keys as I attempt to put my jumbled thoughts and feelings into words. I'm counting down the minutes until I load up the gang to go get Camden from his long day at kindergarten and contemplating how to orchestrate the inevitably necessary chore chart for my spirited little men.

I'll get ready for bed tonight wishing I had found a way to walk on the treadmill and wondering what part-time job might be right for me next fall. But at the close of the day, I'll be lying next to a true partner who has the power to both infuriate me and inpsire me, sometimes in a single breath. A challenging, intelligent, dry-witted mess of a man and someone I love more than I ever felt was possible. The laughter, stories, and sass of my kids will still be ringing in my ears, and I'll wonder which one of them will clamber into our bed in the middle of the night. The tomorrow that awaits me will present its own set of balance beams to walk, and I'll be ready. I may never fully achieve the delicate art of balance, but at least my clumsy attempts at it are infused with joy in the midst of exquisite, life-fulfilling chaos.