Friday Morning Ramblings

It will come as a surprise to no one that I've been cleaning out our house. As per the usual. Where does all of this stuff come from?!

The good news is that I want to only have interesting things (as opposed to boring old Target crap) so when I arrived home with a stack of beautiful hand-sewn linens from my grandmother I put the old Target set I never use (because I've never liked it much) straight into my Goodwill pile.

The kids and I spent the afternoon yesterday cleaning out Carolena's room (again). That kid. Geeze, Louise. Suffice to say her bookshelf is now in her closet (she's been begging me to move it there) so that she can snuggle up next to it in a pile of big stuffed animals. She calls it her reading nook. I think if it lasts she'll need a light in there to actually read by, but I'm hoping to make her a much better reading nook in the future. We also made all of the stuffed animals go on the other side of the closet. The plan she and I came up with is that the two messiest things (books and stuffed animals) can just be shoved in there and the doors closed. Here's hoping.

We also went through her costumes and *gasp* she picked out a bunch for her younger cousin. What?! So, watch out Hols - we've got some fun coming your way. Glitz and tulle. It's right up your alley. Kelly should go through it first and tuck some fancy leotards away for Christmas gifts.

On the Nils' homefront he and I have been talking about diapers and underwear and all that jazz. It dawned on me that when Nils is out of diapers I'll be... done done done! Done with diapers. So, yeah. He doesn't seem ready yet but I remembered that there are things he'll need to work on now like pulling up and down his own pants. All this is to say, now I keep finding a naked little guy in the house who says to me, "Me need new diaper." Hm. A step in the right direction nonetheless?

Yesterday I kept thinking about how strange it is that my grandmother and her family lived during the Great Depression and had next to nothing. Her mother filled a rocking chair with worn out clothes. Here I am with a constant box going of things to get rid of because "too much stuff!" cluttering our house is the bane of my existence.

Laura Ingalls had a corn husk that she played with as a baby doll. We purge toys before birthdays and Christmas knowing that more are going to come into our home. I can't get over the weirdness (and wrongness?) of that.

Some best friends are coming to visit this morning. We see them about twice a year so the occasion called for a loaf of brioche. I need to pull the dough from the fridge and let it rest so I can bake it. What's better than brioche?! Well, caramel rolls made from brioche but as I didn't go to boot camp this morning I think its probably best I not add more butter to brioche.

Our next door neighbors moved yesterday and in the next few weeks we're watching for "a family of three with a kid around Nils' age" to move in. We're pretty anxious and excited to see what they're like. Carolena (on her own accord) told me she thinks when they move in we should bring them "something like a cake or muffins or something like that." I agree.

Futureman, call me every five minutes. You know who you are.

Time Capsule

I'm actually in town this morning so I figured I would turn on a computer.
Where have I been? Unplugged, for one thing.

It's really one of the many wonderful perks of having a "dumb phone" that I am not connected all of the time. Yes, that is a perk. If you don't think it is you need to put your phone down.

The kids and I have been foot loose and fancy free this summer. We went back to the beach and then straight to my parents' house. I could bore you with a summary blog post, but why? It was fun. The beach was perfect. Both kids got to go in the kayak. We did a lot of swimming in the gulf. And I gained 8 pounds due to trading work outs for eating ice cream. Worth it. I'll get back in the grind when school starts.

My parents are working to get their house on the market so we spent time in Beaumont trying to help sort through more than thirty years of accumulated things. I'll be honest, it's mainly books. They should jump into the Dewey Decimal System and start a beach library when they move. They could run it out of their house and probably make a fortune on late fees. Or charge membership. They really have that many books.

We went through old photographs, and attic boxes (oh the never ending Coke collection!), and Gran's linens (yes, please!), and Rush family jewelry. Actually we didn't go through the jewelry I just took it home to look through with Kelly. I think when I see her next I should be wearing every single piece, including all five of Pop's police badges.

Wait, didn't I just promise I wasn't going to summarize? Ah!

All of that is to get to this: I brought home Carolena's old rocking chair. No, not Carolena number three. Carolena number ONE. It's old. And fabulous. And the best little rocking chair that ever was.

How old is that wonderful thing? Like 100?

When I picked it up to bring it downstairs the seat cushion fell off and revealed a torn bottom. Upon closer inspection my mother and I realized it was filled with straw and fabric. *Note to self for reconstruction purposes: straw and fabric are incredibly comfortable rocking chair fillers*

"What if there's money tucked away in there?" my Treasure House mother said.
I gave her a skeptical look.
She shot me a mother look that I know very well from both her face and now my own and replied, "That's what people did. I'm serious. When you take this apart be careful and look for hidden money or family jewels."
"Mom, I don't think we're that kind of family" I replied.

A few hours later I was home and all of my new/old belongings were lovingly put away and on display. I decided to tackle the chair bottom and see what mystery was really inside.

Jewels? Money? Valuable family heirlooms?

No, a time warp to the Great Depression. Or perhaps the start of WWII?

Clearly a woman leading a life so different from my own (and yet so similar?) needed to add stuffing to the caving seat of the rocking chair and looked to her own home. I pulled out about eight pairs of antique undergarments, a small blouse jacket, and an entire dress. All of these things were torn. The tears didn't look like the tears of wear (expect for a few places on the dress), but looked to me like tears from being washed during a time with no "gentle cycle" to do all of the work.

It was astonishing. At first I started to laugh. Who stuffs a chair with old underwear?!

And then I realized who does that: people who had nothing else to stuff in there.

And I was humbled. And stood in the middle of our modern day opulence holding the torn dress turned chair stuffing of my namesake great-grandmother.

Generations of babies have now been rocked on that chair. I think it is safe to assume that my dad snuggled up on a lap in that rocking chair a time or two. I'm sure I did. I am positive that my own children have snuggled and rocked on top of the original Carolena's old clothes.

I don't know what I'll use to reconstruct the seat of the rocking chair. Whatever modern convenience I use I'm sure it be it will somehow be less comfortable than Carolena's old clothes. I plan to wash a piece of it and put it back in. I like the thought of generations to come continuing to soothe their babies on the tangible memories of our family.

Scenes of Summer

It feels like it's been summer around here for quite some time. Is it not the middle of July? Huh... weird. I could have sworn it was. I'm thrilled that it isn't as we are having a great time. Going to Disney World and then the beach twice really threw us into summer mode around here, and things are going swimmingly. It seems everywhere I turn there are things that make me smile. Sure, the house is a mess (which I'm swimming upstream trying to clean it), but at least the mess is largely due to people having fun and using their creativity. We've watched little to no tv as we have all been have been too busy reading and playing and painting and creating and imagining. Ah, bliss.

I love when the tv is off. I'm convinced my children are far better behaved when they are getting out energy and creativity rather than zoning out in front of a screen. So, behavior around here has been pretty great lately too.

I can't remember the last time we ate dinner in the kitchen. Why would we when we can eat outside on our deck? A tablecloth, a "summer time" meal, dessert most nights, and candles that get promptly blown out by the wind, yes, we love eating on the deck. The lizards scamper around and we dream about what our deck dweller rabbit might be up to. And then we walk back inside carrying all of our plates and utensils, toss them into the sink, and clean up is nearly finished!



Bathing suits have been constantly drying in showers and laundry room. Watermelon is staining our clothing. A pile of "to be tie-dyed" has started in the kitchen.

Summer is in full swing around here and it's pretty darn swell.

Run and Grab It

Once when I was working out and a cute British gal was instructing she talked about the British tradition of having the first words out of your mouth on the first of each month be "rabbit rabbit rabbit" and this ensures good luck in the month to come.

I thought she was saying "Run and grab it!" until I remembered the British thing of saying "rabbit." For those few moments of lying on my back bench pressing my bar and thinking "run and grab it!" I was totally in. I love that. Forget about "rabbit rabbit." Let's run and grab it.

January and February were disastrous when it comes to eating well. They were highly successful months in terms of drinking beer and eating queso and having a great time. Thankfully I kept working out so not all is lost.

March is going to be different though.

I'm committed to March as a back on track month, which for me means Simply Filling. Anyone who wants to have a great March can join me. No more 10,000 cookies before bed.

My plan is simple... to go back to the basics. I'm going to eat healthy food for every meal I am in charge of (which is most meals). I'm going to only have beer during Spring Break (beach!). Other than Spring Break - no alcohol this month. Rodeo night (tomorrow) I'll eat crapola. Other than that, I'll be on track. I've got to run and grab it.

That's the plan and I'm sticking to it. If you need the moral support of knowing someone else is committing to this month on track - I'm in whether you're coming with me or not.

It's March. Run and grab it.

Why? the Workout Edition

Why? Sometimes I find that question terrifying. If I don't know the answer, it feels as if everything I hold to be true can crumble. But I'm finding as life goes on that more often than not the question "why?" is answered with "I don't know." And then the questioning leads to deepening.

A terrible time to ask oneself "why" is at 440am when the alarm is beeping. The appropriate response to such a thing is to hop out of bed, turn off the alarm, turn on the coffee pot, and get moving. Don't ask "why" before 5am. But later in the day... "why?"

Friends rarely (never?) ask me about what drives me. They know that I rise early. They know that I go to Weight Watchers. They know that I exercise three times a week. They don't ask about it. You know who does? People at the gym. And they ask often.

I find myself approached all of the time by people at the gym picking my brain for what motivates me. They want to know what time I wake up. What I eat for breakfast. Do I get up early everyday or just workout days? How do I move up in my weights? How do I stay committed? The questions are varied and constant.

I answer their questions as best I can. I think everyone ultimately has to find what works best for them. I've just found what works for me. For now. I'm happy to share that with people if it will help them to figure out what will work in their lives.

My alarm goes off at 440am on M/W/F and 5 T/TH/Sun at which point I never ask "why?" and if I accidentally do ask the dreaded question then my answer to myself is simple: "because this is who I am." Because this is who I am... that leads to hopping out of bed and walking to the kitchen. All I have to do is plug in the coffee pot because I got it ready to go the night before. I head to the bathroom and put on the workout clothes I left out for myself (or slept in depending on what I'm wearing that day). Then it's back to the kitchen for coffee and a greek yogurt. I leave the house at 5 with my water bottle in hand (that was also made the night before). Always. I do not miss a workout unless I am sick (no, really. migraine or SICK) or out of town. That's the rule. I stick to it.

Then, I make it count. Women are always interested in how I move up in my weights. I am happy to share that advice: I use the wisdom of a dear friend and Nils' godfather, "I just do it."

Oh, need a better explanation than that? Okay, well, I think back to my first weeks in the class. It was hard. Haaarrrddd. Is the class still hard? No? Then put on an extra "baby" weight. At the end of an exercise are your arms shaking and you feel like you are going to drop the weight? No? You could add a baby next time. You don't have to do that for every muscle group. Just pick one or two muscle groups and move up. Women can lift much more than we think. The other thing is this: I didn't move to the front of the class because I got stronger. I moved to the front of the class in order to get stronger. If you stand in the back you can't see yourself in the mirror. You can't watch your form. I stand in the front so that I don't have to pay attention to what I'm doing - I can just hang out and watch that girl in the mirror lift weights. That's a tricky piece of advice though... because spots in the front are limited. Don't take mine. It's funny that people always ask me how to move up in their weights when I'm always trying to move up in mine. I guess weight lifting is the same as anything - there will always be someone richer/poorer, taller/shorter, stronger/weaker than me.

But... why? Yes, why indeed? Last year when my mom and I went to see Jillian Michaels she talked about how everyone has to find their own "why" - their reason for wanting to be healthy, their ultimate motivating factor(s) for eating well, exercising, and taking care of their general well-being. The thing is, you can share yours with people, I can share mine with you (and I will), but you have to find your own. You can borrow other people's for a little while, but I can assure you from experience, when you are covered in sweat and trying to chest press 40lbs for the 100th time in a row (BodyPump!)... someone else's "why" just ain't gonna cut it.

My "whys" - in no particular order other than coming to mind right now:

1. When I was in college I went to class. Pretty much always. For two reasons: 1. If I made a poor grade in a class and I didn't go then I had nothing to blame but that. I didn't go. Done. The same holds true for me with my body. I have to do my best to take care of it. If I am eating well and exercising, then at least the things within my control are at their best. 2. I looked at the people I knew who were skipping class and didn't want to be "one of them." I am a person who goes to class. I feel the same way about exercising and eating well. That is who I am. If a line is drawn on the sand, I am on this side of it.

2. I look at my husband and my children. I love them with all of my heart. And I know that they love me. I have to take care of myself.

3.  Thanksgiving. I am truly thankful for what God has given me and thus I take care of it.

Those are my "why." Those are the things that drive me. Those are my driving factors that don't change. There are other "whys" that come and go. Sometimes my bathing suit matters to me, and honestly sometimes it doesn't. I know bathing suit is a legitimate "why" for many - if that's your "why" - awesome! Go for it! Sometimes an upcoming event matters and can motivate me. I have a wedding later this year and I'm sure that will be a number 4 on the list in a few months. But those top three are always there. "Whys" can be as deep or as shallow as they need to be. It doesn't matter what they are. It's just what moves you.

Jillian Michaels told us hers. Jillian Michaels, Jillian Michaels doesn't like to exercise. Nope, truly. She said she is a "clock-watcher" counting down the minutes until a workout is finished. Want to know why she works out? Because she wants to wear bikinis. Believe her? I have a feeling that's just one of many.

It doesn't matter what your why is as long as you find it and it moves you, even if it changes.

My grandfather Ed the Red inspires me. He ate well and exercised and went to the doctor. He was the picture of good health, and here's what I learned from him. The picture of good heath doesn't mean you don't get sick. Really sick. It doesn't mean you don't have health scares or surgeries. It means when you do, they're more likely to be caught early and the chances are higher that your body is healthy and strong and you can bounce back. It means you feel pretty darn good in your day-to-day life because you are taking care of yourself. It means you spend your eighties traveling and painting and cooking and doing things you love. It means you live to an old age and your eldest grandkids, who knew you well because of said old age, raid your fridge after your funeral and drink all of your beer. That's my plan and I'm sticking to it. Except, you're in luck future grandchildren: I drink bourbon. You're welcome.

“after all, the best part of a holiday is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other fellows busy working.”

When it's fall, fall is my favorite season. When it's "winter," "winter" is my favorite (it gets quotation marks because... well... Texas) but, man oh man, when summer comes...

 

There's just something about summer. I think it's because I live in a southern state on the coast that just makes it so darn easy to celebrate summer. I love the fall, but its hard to do fall-like things everyday when you're still wearing short sleeves and sweating buckets. In fact, just read that sentence again and substitute the word "winter" in for fall. Spring is fun... but mainly as a precursor to the jubilant summer. In fact, right now it technically still is spring... but we're calling it summer. We start the summer season early and stretch it out for as long as possible because we've got a lot of hot and sweaty months to spend along the waterfronts down here.

As mentioned and mentioned and mentioned, we kicked off summer '15 with one of my favorite vacations ever. We came back home and immediately went into my "rule" of doing something fun and summer-y every single day. So, we got a new kid pool (last year's cracked) and put up a clothes line for hanging wet clothes and towels. Carolena really wants to start hanging all of our clothes on it from the washing machine. I could totally dig that if it weren't going to be more work for me... but I mean... I'm barely keeping Mount Everest at bay here. Perhaps I'll throw the sheets out there sometimes. That does sound wonderful.

The pool has been thoroughly inaugurated through both a party with Carolena's school friends (a smashing success except for the moment when I realized there were sugar ants in the cupcakes. Did I mention the friends with "cake ladies" were there?) and a family impromptu water fight last night. Taco dinner is postponed to tonight and peanut butter sandwiches were consumed yesterday as we spent all of dinner time waging a water war in our backyard.

I told Chris and Carolena that I want our house to stay clean all summer so that any time we ever want to invite friends over we can. So far so good. The goal is to have people over on a whim any time we feel like it. I see that Tuesday is Donald Duck's birthday and Thursday is Kamehameha Day (luau anyone?) and Sunday is National Bourbon Day and Strawberry Shortcake Day so it looks like we have a lot to celebrate just this week alone.

I plan for us to spend the summer with iced teas and mint juleps and lemonade and popsicles and cookouts and the bubble machine and good books and good friends and our back deck and the splash pad and the ymca and the beach and well... you get the picture. Join me if you're interested.

“This day was the first of many similar ones for the emancipated Mole, each of them longer and full of interest as the ripening summer moved onward. He learnt to swim and to row, and entered into the joy of running water; and with his ear to the reed-stems he caught, at intervals, something of what the wind went whispering so constantly among them.” The Wind in the Willows

Got Milk?

I can't remember how I first learned of the need for sharing human milk. It was at some point while we lived in Austin though I don't remember how or through whom. I do remember getting on the computer when I was pregnant and finding Mother's Milk Bank Austin (Hey! Look at that! It's proof that I did do something while pregnant other than just eat queso and reread Harry Potter!). I did some research and quickly realized that donating to the milk bank was something I couldn't bear to not do. Preterm and many ill infants are at risk for something called necrotizing enterocolitis - which attacks and destroys the intestines. Human milk is the best defense but mothers are not always able to supply enough milk to their hospital-bound child(ren). Enter the milk bank. Long story short: the milk bank is safe, healthy, and effective. There were babies who needed help! How could I not apply?

First though, I had to have my baby. And learn how to breastfeed. *sigh* Details. Details. Knowing that I could donate to the milk bank only added to my determination to successfully breastfeed my firstborn. As many new moms discover, breastfeeding isn't necessarily as simple in the beginning as one would hope. But knowing that mastering the ability to feed my infant would allow me to not only feed her, but also help provide milk for fragile babies (not to mention who wants to have to wash bottles all of the time am I right?!) furthered my determination to succeed in breastfeeding. After a great trip to a lactation consultant I was feeling much more hakuna ma tatas and had finally mastered the fine art of feeding my newborn. Err... kind of. Eventually my baby and I got a (football) hold on the whole nursing thing, and I was pumped about getting signed up with the milk bank (yes, I do think I'm very punny). Going through the screening process couldn't have been easier. Some quick paperwork. A phone call with a lovely supportive employee. A quick trip (on their dime) to draw some blood (which really, after pregnancy and with a newborn what's one more trip to a medical building?). And badda bing badda boom: I was a milk donor.

The donation process was simple: pump.
That's it. Pump.
Okay, perhaps more than that: Pump. Pour into bottles. Label. Repeat.
I made a date with my pump new brest friend part of my nightly bedtime ritual. Take out my contacts, take my vitamins, brush my teeth, wash my face, pump for the milk bank. It just became a part of the nightly routine. And I discovered an added bonus: it gave me a guaranteed nightly 15-30 minutes of coveted alone time. All mothers know how valuable a few uninterrupted minutes of peace and quiet can be. Especially during those first few months after giving birth to my second child when every moment of my time was demanded. I found that pumping was my time to just sit. Sometimes I would spend the time in prayer. Sometimes I would spend the time reading a magazine. My plan was always to pray for the recipients and their families while I pumped... honestly though I spent a lot of the time during those first few months after my second child was born just zoned out in a tired daze. But it was my time. I was alone. No one was crying. No one's hiney needed wiping. No one's favorite blankie was inexplicably missing (again?!). It was just me and the quiet sounds of liquid gold. And it was glorious.

I nursed Carolena for eleven months until she demanded sippy cups. Typical. I'm surprised she didn't jump directly from breast milk to cappuccinos. I diligently pumped for the milk bank while we lived in Austin but our month long nomadic stint and Carolena's self weaning ended my donation time a month or two earlier than I had anticipated.

I nursed Nils for just shy of a year. He too discovered the freedom that sippy cups afford and began to push me away and bite and claw and bring cups to my husband demanding that he be served milk. My children are very independent and strong willed. I have no idea where they get that from.

During my second round as a milk bank donor I found an added bonus for our family: sharing the donation process with Carolena. She was thrilled to see our freezer slowly filling with milk containers. When it would reach a capacity that was full enough to make ice cream purchasing impossible, Carolena would help me load up a cooler and we'd drive to the hospital drop off location next to our house. Carolena found this thrilling. "Tell me about the babies!" she would call out as we drove. I would tell her about the pumping process. We'd talk about how Nils drank milk from my body and how all babies who are newborn need milk from mommies. I would tell her about how some babies are born and are sick or really very very little and their mommies just don't have enough milk for them. "I have more than enough milk for Nils. So we share. There is enough milk to go around. If we all share then everyone has enough."

Every once in a while I would find her sitting by herself quietly nursing her stuffed animals and baby dolls. Sometimes I would find her holding a small baby bottle to her chest whispering to herself, "pump. pump. pump." Inevitably during her "pumping" she would catch me watching her. She smile up at me and face shining say, "I'm pumping for the sick babies. If we all share then everyone has enough."

Having weaned my last breastfed baby, I have now begun a new chapter in my relationship with Mother's Milk Bank Austin. I have joined their team as a volunteer Milk Bank Ambassador - a retired donor committed to the good work the milk bank is doing. Among other things I will be distributing pamphlets to pediatrician and obgyn offices, inviting nursing moms to donate milk, and encouraging others to spread the word about Mother's Milk Bank Austin: an organization I could easily vote as the Brest in Show. 

And finally, here's a good breastfeeding joke for you. Ah, nevermind... it's a letdown.

My friends, consider sharing something you have with Mother's Milk Bank Austin. What can you share? Got milk? Get pumping! Got money? Yep, of course they need it. Got a voice? Tell a friend about the milk bank, link them on your blog, post them on your facebook.
If we all share then everyone has enough.

Springtime In Texas for the Duncans (Sung to the tune from The Producers of Course)

Dinner on the deck means... Daddy will cook!

 

And inevitably someone will fall into the kiddie pool...

  and we'll spend the entire evening together playing and laughing and running and squirreling around.

And the table will be set and the candles will be lit and all will be peaceful... err... as possible...

 

and Mommy will pass out ice cream

And we'll decide to do it all again tomorrow!

 

Greening

After almost nine years of marriage, two kids, several homes, and a few moves...

 

 we finally have a compost bin!

  

We had to relocate our (failure to thrive) blackberry bush, but we finally agreed agreed upon the perfect spot! Unfortunately, it is right along the rat superhighway aka our back fence so we'll be doing some internet research on how to keep those little guys out of our compost. Why is our back fence the rat superhighway? I'm glad you asked. I think it has something to do with the sign across the street from our backyard that looks a little something like this:

Chris had plenty of help as it turned out to be a family affair. Carolena held onto the screws and passed boards when needed. I attached boards and had one attempt with the saw that included freaking out because I wasn't wearing safety glasses, putting on Chris' real glasses, and then sawing next to the line I was supposed to saw. I was much better at using the drill and being in charge of measurements. Nils was in charge of entertainment and general merriment.

 A few hours on beautiful spring Saturday, and voila! We're in business!

 

Full Disclosure

I knew my pregnancy with Nils would be my last pregnancy. Not because I don't want more children, but because, as it turns out for me, pregnancy sucks. With all of the vomiting, and migraines, and bed rest, and blood pressure concerns, and failing organs and all that jazz... I just can't do it again. I would love to have another child, but my health is more important. Taking care of the two beautiful little munchkins I already have is more important.

And when I came to fully realize that, I found that I was crushed.

And no, not crushed in the CRushD kind of way that I love when I combine my initials and my maiden name.

Crushed.

I spent most of last year crying. I'll tell you what, crying every day isn't as glamorous as it sounds. And then sometime in the fall I decided it was time for another Kellying. It was time to rally and pull myself up by the bootstraps. A new haircut, weekly workouts, more makeup, a fresh take. Except, when you're facing something so deeply difficult, sometimes that just isn't enough. Daily prayer led me to daily thanksgiving. I decided to be happy and thankful for what I have, rather than sad and pouting over what I want.

What I want is to be pregnant again and have it be easy. That isn't going to happen. So I might as well change what I want and want what I have: two wonderful children.

Giving thanks changed everything. It got easier. I cleared out all of our baby clothes and got rid of all of the things Nils has outgrown. That was surprisingly freeing. They were like shackles around my ankles. Getting rid of all of that stuff has allowed me to move forward. I think it was around that time that I stopped crying. My last infant has been weaned. Our bottles are gone. We are moving forward to the next phase of life, and I am excited to see what this new phase holds.

Overall, I'm doing okay. In fact, I'm better than okay. I'm doing pretty great. As it turns out giving thanks changes everything. And if I find myself in a moment that is rough I go visit this picture of Leona and her two... and I smile.

Mooning You

Do you ever look at the moon?

I love to stare at the moon. With dinner and baths and tucking in and early to bed early to rise nonsense, I rarely see the moon at night. But, at 4somethingam when I leave my house for the Y (which arguably could be "night") I love to stare up at the moon. Other people are hustling and bustling in and out of the Y and here's old Luna Lovegood staring up at the sky.

Last week the moon caught my eye. Its enormity, brightness, and overall beauty... I just couldn't look away. "I want to go there!" I thought. I found myself thinking about this one action of staring at the moon in longing and how it really tied me in with humanity. I thought about how for so long humans longed to go there. What is that beautiful place? What will we find when we arrive? Generations and generations of people have stared at the moon in wonder. And then we finally got there and it was a big barren rock.

{Que Debby Downer music.}

The moon, while cool, is a big desolate rock. Space travel? Fascinating. The moon? Eh. What makes the moon enchanting is the fact that it reflects the light of the sun.

And then it hit me... we are not the moon.

Christ says, "You are the light of the world. A city on a hill can't be hidden." (Matt 5:14) Bam! Just like that I understood that we are nothing like the moon. The moon in and of itself is not all that interesting. Stand far away and watch the light of the sun reflect from it surface? Yeah, I can dig that. I like to look at that everyday. But go there? Hang out? Grab some drinks and start a long term relationship? Well... sorry moon... I, uh, have a previous engagement... some dude is bringing me to the movies.

We aren't the moon. We are a city on a hill. We give light. Sure, we are beautiful because we reflect God, but we are also beautiful in and of ourselves! We are a city on a hill for Christ's sake! Show up on the moon and you want to go home. Trudge all the way up a hill to a well lit city? Bring me my slippers and a bag of Doritos. I'm staying for there the long haul!

Now, let me take off my astronaut space helmet and put on my southern-pastor's-wife-teased-bleached-hair. You were created in the image and likeness of God. You are beautiful. You aren't the moon! Your beauty isn't surface value. You aren't just reflecting the fabulousness of others. You are a city on a hill! You have light and depth of your own! You bring beauty into the world. You are a place where people want to stay. So, be the city that God created you to be. Shine brightly with your own light. Be confident in who you are and who God made you to be.

Now think about this combined with the fact that God, the source of all light and life, dwells within us... and your head might explode.

Go in peace to love and serve the Lord!

Is That a Speck of Sawdust in Your Eye?

A few weeks ago I found myself perusing the wine aisles at Kroger while my two munchkins chowed down on the free sample cookies we'd scored. Okay, okay, there is a slight chance that I too was munching on the free sugar high. We weren't long on the wine aisle before some familiar faces came by. They too were looking for wine as in-laws were going to be at their home for an extended stay. In our family, grandparents bring a suitcase full of wine and coffee knowing that both will be consumed in large quantities. Evidently this is not true for all families. Go figure.

Anyway, Carolena and her friends commenced what appeared to be a break dancing contest to which the other mother turned a blind eye while I screeched "Don't you dare break any of this wine!" It was around this time that Carolena began to check out the grocery items in the other family's cart. And just what was her friends' cart? Frozen cereal.

Frozen cereal for Pete's sake.

Not frozen cereal like something you might find stashed between a bag of corn and a boxed pizza. Frozen cereal as in Elsa, Anna, Olaf and the rest of the gang. Frozen cereal as in a kid's Gucci bag. Frozen cereal as in this was the same girl who had asked Santa for "apps" this year. Apps.

Since that day Carolena has asked exactly one time to get Frozen cereal. I think she knew asking even once was a long shot. That's the kind of thing grandparents buy. And at the age of three she has probably already noticed that we're more dented cans kind of people than made-in-house guacamole types. What she will hopefully grow to learn as time goes by is why I can't bring myself to buy expensive groceries. I'm sure she'll spend some time yearning for her version of a Dooney bag, but if I do my job right, eventually she too will shun the Starbucks brand coffee in favor of Costco's Kirkland in bulk.

It's not about the money per se.

Well, that's not true. It's almost entirely about money. 

There is something about the fact that there are people in this world, many many people in fact, without enough to eat that makes me steer clear of the organic chicken. Yes, yes, I know that it's kinder to the chickens. And yes, I know that it's better for my family. But... I am grateful to even afford chicken at all. So I stop in front of those poor lifeless frozen (with a lower case f) chicken and give thanks that I can buy food. We keep beans stocked in the pantry not only because we love red beans and rice, but also because I don't want to be the rich man passing by Lazarus (Luke 16:19-31).

I mean no offense to Frozen cereal buying people. Even as I type I am certain I am peering right around the log sticking out of my eye. But for me, for now, I will rest easier knowing that there are people eating tonight because we spent our extra grocery money on cans for the food bank. I will serve dinner from some dented marked down boxes so that we can send some money to ERD. And in the morning when Carolena and Nils sit down at our kitchen table I can open the bag of store brand Happy O's and pour them each a bowl, thankful for the fact that we have so much food and love in our home.

You know what? That's not true either.
That's who I would like to be.

Instead, I am the mom who serves her kids red beans and rice and then beats myself up that we don't do enough. I lie awake in bed worrying over unknown people, unseen faces who are suffering. Chris sometimes accuses me of secretly wearing a hair shirt. But, I am who I am. And like Erma Bombeck, "When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, 'I used everything you gave me'."

I hope that someday Carolena and Nils will choose to spend their money on others rather than themselves. Though it is counter-intuitive, it remains true that breakfast from a crushed box of off brand oatmeal fills the stomach much more than a bowl of Frozen cereal. 

Is There a Doctor in the House?

This morning as Chris was leaving for work he stopped to say this:
"If your dermatologist turns out to be a handsome Scandinavian man again, please let him look at your body this time instead of just giggling and letting him only examine your face and arms."

My husband just told me to take my clothes off for gorgeous Scandinavians with names like Dr. Handsome.

Deal.

Here's hoping my new dermatologist has a sub in the office today!

*This is officially the least "becoming Leona" thing I've ever posted.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

A few years ago when I was pregnant with my firstborn I found myself on the phone with my sister, complaining about all of the annoying things people say to pregnant women. "You look so big!" Wrong. "You look so small!" Wrong. "Any day now?" Wrong. No matter what anyone said, unless it was "You look fabulous," it was the wrong thing to say.

After listening sympathetically to my woes Kelly responded, "Casey, people just want to be a part of a miracle."

And my head exploded.

She was right. No one knows what to say to a pregnant woman (except me: just tell them they look good and then shut your mouth). Everyone flounders and says stupid things. People reach out to touch their bellies. Everyone just wants to be a part of the miracle.

We say that the Episcopal Church welcomes you. What we don't mention is the caveat: the Episcopal Church welcomes you... until you start celebrating Christmas earlier than we have deemed appropriate and then people start to lose their shit.

Until recently, I would watch my neighbors string up their lights in mid-November and shake my head, "It isn't even Thanksgiving yet!" I would hear the carols playing in stores and roll my eyes, "Ugh, don't people observe Advent?!"

Last week we were driving home and passed a few houses decked out for Christmas. I inwardly cringed, but then I heard Kelly's voice echo in my head (how does she DO that?!), "Casey, people just want to be a part of a miracle."

People just want to be a part of a miracle.

People just want to be a part of a miracle and they are looking for it in the wrong places. Each year we put up more decorations and bake more cookies. We turn on the Christmas music a little earlier and watch just a few more Christmas movies. Those things are fabulous, and certainly fun, but do not in and of themselves bring us to the miracle of the incarnation.

One of the overlooked aspects of Christmas is that the Church stole a lot of our Christmas traditions from others. Sure, the incarnation part is significant to say the least and wholly ours, but the huge winter party complete with tree trimming - that was originally pure paganism. No one even knows when Christ was born. We took some traditions from "the world" and work to make them holy. It's kind of our thing.

So why do we get so worked up when people start celebrating too early? People just want to be a part of a miracle. Plus, get ready... not all churches observe Advent. Gasp! Perhaps, instead of blasting them on Facebook and shouting about how it isn't Christmas yet, we should offer them grace. Perhaps we should stop worrying about the world stealing our Christmas celebration (much of which we conveniently forget has always belonged the world) and instead work to make this time holy. Why don't we work to celebrate Advent and Christmas in such a way that people look at us and know that there is something more going on then just a big winter celebration?

It is easy to point out the problems with modern Christmas. It is difficult to find solutions. Nonetheless, here is what I propose:

• This year, let's focus on holiness. Instead of being annoyed with others and the frantic Christmas present buying and all of the excess, let's focus on silent nights. Holy nights.
• This year, let's forget about that damn Elf on the Shelf. Everyone knows that Santa does in fact bring presents to the "bad kids" - let's stop the b.s. on that one and instead teach our children the truth: Santa brings presents to everyone because all kids are actually good kids.
• This year, let's not worry about what others are doing during Advent. Put up your tree, sing Christmas carols, do all that jazz in December. But then... celebrate Christmas. Celebrate the twelve days of Christmas (they start on Christmas Day!) with acts of love and charity. Christmas is so much more than celebrating Jesus' birthday. It is celebrating incarnation, the moment when the Creator stepped into his creation. We are an incarnational people. Let's celebrate Christmas by being just that. 

My plan for our family to celebrate Christmas this year is to set aside the 12 days of Christmas as days to reach out to others in love and charity. Days to focus on being incarnational people. I plan for us to have projects for each of the days of Christmas to make it a time that is holy. Cookies for the garbage truck driver, food for the food bank, bird seed scattered to the birds, each day we'll find a way to bring peace, comfort, and joy to the world during this season.

This year when I see people celebrating Christmas "too early" or in ways that I think to be shallow or irreverent, I will remember that people just want to be a part of a miracle. People just want to be a part of the miracle, so let's shower them with tidings of comfort and joy.

Boo Hoo... and... Moo

Carolena's school is collecting canned goods for a local food bank. She came home with a note from the teacher asking for each kid to bring something to add to the bin during chapel. So, I took my little Carolena grocery shopping for the food bank. This should not have been new to her as we have a collection bin at church that we add to, but, nonetheless, this was the particular day that it hit home to Carolena that she had no idea what was going on.

"Why?"

I am asked that question 50,000 times a day. "Why?" she asked as we choose our items. As I began the process of once again explaining the food bank to a three year old I was suddenly over come with the beauty of it all.

"Well," I replied, "we have enough food in our house right now and we have enough money to buy some more. We are going to pick out some things that we think other people might like... oatmeal, salt, seasonings, muffin mixes... then you can bring them to the donation bin. Someone will come pick up all of the food and bring it to a really big pantry. All of the food will get sorted onto the shelves. Then, if someone finds that they need more food in their house and they don't have enough money to buy some right then, they can go to the food bank and pick out things that they would like to bring home for their family to eat. When we share then everyone has enough."

And then, as per the usual, I teared up (I'm 10 months postpartum, give me a break).

Later that same week a newsletter from the Mother's Milk Bank, an organization I love greatly, arrived in the mail.

"When we share then everyone has enough."

These words ran through my head once more as I read about a few of the infants who are current recipients of the milk bank and the good work that the staff there is doing. And I wept once more.

When we share then everyone has enough.

The Problem of Excess

This morning as I was driving Carolena to school I glanced in the review mirror to catch a glimpse of Nils in the mirror by his carseat. When I glanced back I saw that there was a Kroger sticker on his mirror. Kroger stickers are always all over my car.

What is it with American excess? It is making me insane. Don't get me wrong, I am incredibly thankful for the time, place, and circumstances in which I live. In fact, I give thanks to God everyday for clean running water, my dishwasher, and my washing machine. Really. However, in so many ways I think that the excess is just too, well, excessive.

Why does my child get a sticker every time we go to the store? She doesn't even care about the sticker. She only cares (tantrum style) if she doesn't receive one. The sticker itself couldn't matter less. That is why you see so many Kroger/Target/WhateverStore stickers stuck to the carts, because kids don't care!

I keep thinking about Laura Ingalls with her corn husk. In Little House in the Big Woods Laura doesn't even have a doll. She literally wrapped a blanket around a corn husk and used that as her one toy. And I have a child who has more toys than she can play with and for the most part doesn't actually give a shit (pardon my french) about any of them. Besides her special "whoppie frog" and Howie I could probably slowly sneak every toy out of this house and she wouldn't notice or care.

Every year for Christmas the Ingalls girls were giddy with anticipation and yet they weren't even sure if Santa would show up or not. Carolena will never worry about whether or not Santa will bring presents. The Ingalls girls were happily surprised to find a small amount of Christmas candy and one gift per person. They would marvel over the one present and savor the candy with delight. We can have candy any day of the week. Carolena sees candy in every single checkout line we ever stand in. We don't have candy that often, but certainly it isn't that big of a deal when we do. And don't get me started on Christmas. Geeze Louise. "Let's celebrate the incarnation, God come to Earth in human form, by giving each other a bunch of crap that no one needs or even cares about."

What is it with the excess? While we have made our lives so much easier and I am thankful for the access to so many things, I think it's just gone a bit too far. It's too much. What saddens me is that it cheapens things that could be special. It could be special to get a sticker every once in a while. It could be special to get a new toy. It could be special to have cookies, or gummies, or candy, or whatever fun food every once in a while. It could be special to get that one really awesome gift for Christmas and savor it. But it isn't. The excess is the norm now. And I don't like it.

So, I'll keep buying less and donating to thrift stores so that the stuff doesn't overwhelm us. I'll keep cooking at home so that going out to eat is a treat. I'll ask Santa to keep the Christmas gifts low-key. I'll ask the Easter Bunny to bring stickers and the Toothfairy to leave quarters. I'll work to give our family balance so that we don't fall prey to the excess. I'll keep working on Becoming Leona. Let's just hope those damn Kroger stickers don't kill me first.

Little House on the Rice Fields

There are homemade dresses under construction in the dining room, cloth diapers in the washing machine, and homemade laundry detergent in the laundry room. There are newly planted tomato plants in our backyard, a bowl of fruit on the counter that constantly needs replenishing, and home-cooked meals everyday. There are small handmade items collecting in the closet to fill two Easter baskets.

Ma Ingalls ironed clothes while living out of a chuck wagon on the prairie.

Ma Ingalls for the win. You just can't compete with that.
{And thank God I don't have to!}

En Garde!

Chris (with the generous help of his father) just finished tearing down our old fence and built a beautiful new one for our backyard. This is awesome in that our backyard is much nicer and safer now.

But, most importantly, there is now a huge pile of old fence in our backyard.

Perhaps some women would see that as a negative. I, however, am not "most women." Chris is dying to move the pile out to the curb and get the backyard to a cleaner state. How could my Leona side let him throw away something that can be so easily repurposed? And how could I throw away something that keeps talking to me?

Oh, now might be a good time to mention that I tend to over-personify inanimate objects...

Nonetheless, here are some of the phrases posts from the heap keep calling out to me:

"Caaassseeeyyyy... I want to be a signnnnn... for youurrr laundry rooommm... you know what I should say... paiinntttt meeee..."

"Caaassseeeyyyy... I want to be hunggg on  a walll toooo... but first I need some paint and hoookkkksss... I will be functional and beautiful... pllleeasseee..."

"Caaassseeeyyyy... I want to be a tablllle... a small one... for the new deckkkk... I promise to look good and holddd your drinks and bookssss while you recline on yourrrr deckkkk..."

So, I've got some work to do. I can't deny those little posts their new desires. They've had to hang around staring at an ugly backyard for the past ten years. It's time they had a little fun.

Hey There, Hi There, Ho There!

I find it beyond bizarre that children's Halloween costumes in any given store in Texas are made of fleece (or other warm fuzzy fabrics), long sleeved, and typically hooded. Does it not seem beneficial to Wal-Mart, Target, Babies R Us, etc. to cater clothing to climates? I simply cannot get my mind around it. What parent in their right mind is going to send their child out Trick Or Treating wearing what is basically a snowsuit in Texas?

Getting Carolena some school clothes back in August put me in the same dilemma... what Texan wears anything long sleeved before December?!

That was Dilemma Numero Uno.

Dilemma Numero Dos: Carolena has two days to wear her Halloween costume. She is going to wear it for a friend's birthday party and then again on Oct. 31st. Why on earth would I spend a million dollars on a snow suit for my child to put on, decide it's too hot, and then promptly take it off? Twice.

So, I started brainstorming. What is something that Carolena would love to wear? What is something that would be comfortable for a two year old to run around in?  What's something that wouldn't cost an arm and a leg?

And after brainstorming and searching through my craft supplies so that I could use things I have on hand I came home from the store and compiled all of this:

 

Then, I turned my $7.45 into this:

 

Carolena and I are both giddy about how her Mouseketeer shirt turned out. She is so excited about it I finally had to hide it away (because, let's face it, it's a white shirt - it will be stained after one wear). The best part about her costume? After Halloween she can still wear it whenever she wants! Oh, and I got to use some of my overflowing creativity for something productive rather than knitting 5,000 hats that no one is buying... but that last part is neither here nor there... and think of those five remaining white t-shirts just crying out for decoration!

Becoming Leona: What's in a (Blog's) Name?

Most women my age are scared of one thing: becoming their mothers. This has never registered with me. Perhaps it's because of the fact I never went through the process of "becoming" Karen Rush. I was simply born just like her. I have the Svendsen genes (and the bell bottom jeans) to prove it. Believe me... I have never worried about turning into my mother. Remember the time in middle school I wore go-go boots to a dance? I do. When people exclaim over how much I look like, talk like, act like my mom, I receive this as one of the greatest of all compliments.

And now, now I find myself in the process of "becoming" like someone else too... Leona, to be exact. To tell you the truth, I'm excited about it. Leona was my paternal grandmother, "Gran" to Amy, Kelly, Hunter, and me. Leona was ladylike in a way that only women born around 1918 could achieve. Remember Jesus' commandment to love God and love your neighbor? She loved God. She loved her neighbors. She loved her family. She went to church. She wrote in cursive. She read. She traveled. She made lemonade when children came over. She thought a full serving of coke was approximately 4 ounces. She saved everything. I mean... everything. She ate fresh foods, and most of the vegetables on her table came straight from the backyard garden. She was kind to everyone. Everyone. 

And so it is with happiness that I look at my own life and see glimpses of Leona. I love God. I love my neighbors. I love my family. I go to church. I (sometimes) write in cursive (although not with Gran's exquisite penmanship... I'm working on that). I read. I travel. I make lemonade when children come over. Coke? Who drinks Cokes these days? I save... well... I don't save much actually. Leona was a child of the Great Depression. So she saved. I am a child of The Treasure House. So I purge. I reduce, I reuse, I recycle. I eat fresh foods (*ahem* or try to) and since our last move we're in the process of building a new backyard garden (though I can only dream of the day that I have a garden as awesome as Pop's was). I try to be kind to everyone... but come on, let's not forget I do have that Svendsen gene. 

So, what's in a (blog's) name? Plenty. My hope is that this blog will entertain you, let you get to know me and my fam a little better (or just keep up with our shenanigans if you already know us well), and allow me to keep a record of the hilariousness that is Carolena as I work on Becoming Leona (see what I did there... you're not sure if I meant "work on Becoming Leona" like in life becoming more like my grandmother or "work on Becoming Leona" as in posting to this blog. Gotcha!).