As I race into the New Year, I don’t have time to even peer into the rear-view mirror to review it . . . lest I steer clear off the road.

Have you ever tried to take a photo while speeding down the highway as you’re driving?  Or even while you’re a passenger?  And just as you think you can snap a photo, a semi-truck chugs into the frame?  And you end up getting a blurry image which fails to do justice to what you saw for a brief moment?

Last year at this time, Iwas living with my four kids back in the Seattle area.  My husband had been home for a week before he returned here to Southern California and to his job.  I’d just paid a painter to paint the interior of my house–the house we lived in for almost 12 years.

We sold that house last October for much less than we’d hoped to get.

You know what I miss about that house?  My washer and dryer.  Now, I’m in a beautiful house but it takes two hours to dry a load of laundry.  This has cramped my style.

Anyway, last year at this time I was bobbing along in a strong current of anxiety.  I worried about so many things:  my children’s reaction to moving so far away, the reality of living in a much more expensive area of the country, buying and selling real estate in two different states, the sheer enormity of purging, sorting, packing and moving our household.

Everything sped by so fast that I have only blurry remembrances of it.

I took a few photos that kind of break my heart, like this of my son swinging with his friend (the neighbor boy we’d known since he was three years old) in our old back yard, days before we moved:

Moving a great distance when your kids are more than half-grown emphasizes the bitter part of the bittersweet motion of life.  You realize that your cozy little family is transitory and you feel the pang of loss, even while you still hold the thing you mourn in the palm of your hand.

Moving was hard.

Change was hard.

I am loving the weather here and loving my house and loving being together with my husband and family all under one roof.

But I haven’t found my niche.  I haven’t really found my people yet.  I haven’t found a satisfactory rhythm.  I’m still racing so fast that I practically trip every other step.

The sunsets help.

This year,  I hope to find a slower pace.  I hope our puppy stops nipping.  I hope someday to sleep again past 6 a.m. (See also:  Puppy).

I intend to read my Bible more regularly, to exercise vigorously, and to cook dinner more often than I don’t cook dinner.

My family would appreciate clean, matched socks in their drawers, so I’m going to work on improving that area of my homekeeping as well.

I’d like to ease my foot off the gas pedal so the view isn’t such a blur as I pass through my life.

And I plan to write here more regularly for both the sake of record-keeping and for my mental health.

Happy New Year!

From our house to yours . . .

I’m sorry I haven’t updated this site in the past couple of weeks.  I’ve been busy.  (That is such an understatement.)

We had company for ten days.  My son’s girlfriend came to visit and brought along her 16-year old sister.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then, a few days after they arrived, I abandoned everyone and went to New York on business.   New York is so beautiful during the holidays.  (My husband held down the fort at home.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Over the course of three days, I slept a total of nine hours.  Before I left the city, I indulged in the Lunch of Champions.  What?  Cupcakes and Diet Coke . . . is there a problem?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few days after I returned home, I took our visitors and my youngest kids to Disneyland.  Grace had so much fun taking pictures of the parade.  There were approximately EIGHT BILLION people at Disneyland.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Later, that Saturday night  . . . my husband brought home a new puppy.  I was in on the planning . . . but still.  So.  Much.  Work.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who needs sleep?  Not Lola the Puppy.  At least not between 1 a.m. and 6 a.m.

Our best night was last night . . . the puppy woke me at 3 a.m.  However, once delivered to the back yard, she just stretched and settled down on the patio.  I told her “go your job” and she just looked at me, so back to bed for me and crate for her.

She slept until 6:45 a.m., which was  Christmas miracle.  I took her outside and wrapped myself in a down comforter, curled onto the love seat on the patio and slept while the puppy ate and frolicked.  She came to the love seat and so I lifted her up and she snuggled right in and napped.

It’s ridiculous that I have been napping in my own back yard, wearing my nightgown, wrapped in a down comforter, but at this point, I will do most anything to sleep.

Now, I am off to procure a ham and other vittles for Christmas Day.

 

Seagulls fighting over an unopened package of Cheetos.  Seriously entertaining fun at the beach.

Things I did not do today:

1)  Write my annual Christmas letter.
2)  Cook any sort of meal.
3)  Find the sturdy green extension cords I know for a fact that I packed and moved to this house.

The end.

Hi.  So, my mom was here for two weeks.  (Hi, Mom!)  I took a little time off work, saw the sun set a few times, cooked a whole Thanksgiving dinner, dragged out the Christmas decorations and got my driver’s license.

I also managed to keep the kids alive, though one of them reportedly went to school wearing one black sock and one white sock.  He claimed that’s because he’s not racist but I think it’s really because I haven’t folded socks for awhile.

December starts tomorrow and I’m a little overwhelmed by the pace of life already.  Add in a Christmas brunch, various social obligations, creating Christmas magic for the kids and an upcoming ten day visit by more company . . . and I just want to take a long winter’s nap.

I baked a pecan pie today.  I even made the crust from scratch.

I made a peanut-butter chocolate cream pie.  I chopped onions and celery and green olives because that’s what will go in my stuffing.  What?  You don’t put green olives in your stuffing?  You have no idea what you’re missing.

Tomorrow I will cook the Thanksgiving feast, though my 18-year old son will make the green bean casserole.

We’ll be using cloth napkins but only because I ran out of paper napkins.

My mother has been here for a week, which has been fun.  We’ve been having lunch out most days and have been to the ocean a couple of times to watch the sun set.  Today she chopped cranberries for the Cranberry Fluff she makes every year–I think we’re the only two who eat it, but she makes it anyway because it really wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without it.

The past year has been full of craziness and stress and unexpected events and blessings.  I am thankful for all of it.  (Well, most of it.  Some of the stress was kind of . . . unwelcome.)

Mostly, though, I’m thankful for my family–especially my husband who has finally grown to appreciate stuffing with raisins and green olives in it.

Happy Thanksgiving!  Count your blessings . . . name them one by one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the state of California,  you are supposed to apply for a new driver’s license within ten days of your arrival.

I arrived 151 days ago.

Every time I would drive past a police officer, I would flinch.  Every time I’d see a California Highway Patrol officer on a motorcycle, I would yell, “ERIK ESTRADA!”  And then I’d flinch.

I was so afraid I’d be stopped and they’d ask for identification and I’d have to hand over my Washington driver’s license and then I’d be arrested and land in the jail just to make an example of me for all over recent California residents.

My husband told me I should make an appointment at the DMV to take the driving test.  I agreed.  And then I failed to make an appointment time and time again.

Last week, though, I went online and scheduled an appointment for Monday morning.  Yesterday morning.

I arrived at the DMV at the appointed hour to find a line of people outside of the building.  What?  It was like Target the night before Black Friday.

Once inside the building I was able to go to the front of the line marked, “LINE FOR APPOINTMENTS.”  I had my Washington license with me along with a folder of documents:  birth certificate, HOA bill (proving residency), proof of insurance, car registration.

I filled out a form.  Waited a bit.  Then I went to another window when my number was called.  The woman asked for my documents.  She glanced at them, flipped my birth certificate over and said, “Do you have your marriage certificate showing your name?”

No.

Really?

I waved my HOA statement showing my name at her.  I showed my driver’s license.  I immediately became fed up when she told me I would have to come back again.  I wanted to fall to the floor in a tantrum like a two year old.  I wanted to spit.

After working until 1 a.m., I had studied the driver’s handbook until 2 a.m.  I woke up early, took a shower, carefully styled my hair, applied my make-up with more care than usual–all because I knew I’d be getting a new driver’s license photo.  And now she was telling me I’d have to do it all over again. (Yes, I’m so vain.)

Bah-humbug.

But to my surprise, I was shuffled through the lines.  I had my picture taken, I took the test (I only missed one!) and then I was issued a temporary license with my maiden name on it.  I was told to return the next morning at 9:20 a.m. with my driver’s license.

So I did.  I went to the DMV two days in a row.  This morning I hurried to get dressed.  I barely dried my hair and I certainly did not wear lip-liner.  I had to stand in a line behind nine people.  But finally, finally, finally, I was at the final window where I presented my marriage certificate.

Then the man behind the desk told me that although I’d been photographed the day before, the computer wasn’t cooperative and I needed to get my photo taken again.

Pause.

“I was a lot cuter yesterday,” I told him.  And I was.  I really, really was. Yesterday I had lips and no crazy hair.

I’ll try again to look more presentable in five years when I do it over again, hopefully in one visit.

Over a week ago, I came home from my daughter’s soccer game to find my husband just waking up from a nap. He’d been with my son at his football game while I was at the soccer game (and subsequent after-soccer activities).

My husband and I were lounging around, catching up on the day’s events when our daughter came into the room and said, “Why is Zach making that funny noise?” Then she demonstrated the sound of someone sobbing.

I went into our 13-year old son’s room to find him weeping, face red and covered by a damp blanket. His ankle hurt. One of his teammates collided with Zach’s ankle during a tackle. After limping to the van and then into the house, he took a shower and went on the computer when his ankle started to hurt more and more–so he went to his room and sobbed for two hours without notifying anyone at all about his pain level.

Immediately, our evening turned from leisurely television watching and chatting into an urgent situation, requiring us to locate an Urgent Care and find out what our insurance would cover. Only a minimum amount of parental bickering occurred which caused me to be so frazzled that I forgot my iPhone at home. Alas.

I ended up being the one to drive Zach to an Urgent Cafe in San Diego–the local Urgent Care offices that our insurance covers seemed to all have closed at 3 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon.

We drove 40 minutes to San Diego and followed the GPS-voice to the correct location. But the doors to the building were locked. I was so puzzled. Zach said, “You can call . . .” and I said, “Well, I could if I hadn’t forgotten my phone.”

It’s amazing how weird it seems to be without a cell phone. How did previous generations survive without cell phones?

After driving around the parking lot and punching futile word-combinations into the GPS, Zach said, “By the door there was this thing so you could call.” Oh. One of those things.

So I went back up to the door and punched in the numbers and a voice said he’d come and let us into the building.

It was odd.

Even though the waiting room was deserted and the hallways were empty except for a cleaning guy, our evening in the Urgent Care dragged on and on. The doctor had to call in the x-ray technician . . . by the time it was all said and done–at 10:30 p.m.–Zach was wearing a temporary cast because the doctor wasn’t sure if the ankle was fractured or not. (We found out on Monday that it was not fractured and then I hacked off the cast with old dull garden clippers.)

While in the waiting room and while waiting in the exam room, I read old magazines–a National Geographic from 2004, for instance, and lamented the fact that I’d forgotten my phone. It was so boring that by the end of the evening I was pilfering items from the exam room much to my son’s shock and horror. Latex gloves, for example, and a tongue depressor which is still in my purse. (I should not admit that.)

I did ask the doctor if I could keep the ice pack and he said yes, so the next time someone injured something in our house, I am all prepared even though I am still not sure if there is a closer Urgent Care facility located near my house that is open on weekends.

And that is what I did on the last Saturday night of October.

I Am Hutterite The Fascinating True Story of a Young Woman’s Journey to reclaim Her Heritage

By Mary-Ann Kirkby

 

Long ago, I received a copy of this book to review.  And the email accompanying the book has been sitting in my email box ever since as a reminder that I need to write the review.

It is the oldest email in my box.

I really loved this book.  In fact, I gave it to someone else long ago, which is the ultimate recommendation I give.  (If I don’t like a book, I will not pass it along.)

I Am Hutterite is a memoir (my favorite kind of non-fiction).  It’s the true story of the author’s seemingly idyllic life growing up in a Hutterite colony  in Canada.  (The Hutterites are similar to the Amish in that they are a religious group that live together in community, shunning the outside world.)

When the author was ten, her parents made the decision to leave the colony.  As you can imagine, this was a major adjustment to the whole family.  The family’s adjustment to life outside the colony is as interesting as the description of life inside the colony.

I admit that I don’t remember all the details now, but I do remember admiring the writing and reading the book with rapt attention.  I learned so much–I had never even heard of the Hutterites before–and found the real-life story fascinating.

I’ve long had an interest in the Amish–ever since I had an Amish midwife care for me during my first pregnancy and attend my birth.  (I even went to the Amish midwife’s home for prenatal care and ate a meal there.)  The Hutterites seem similar to the Amish, so the glimpse into their closed community was amazing.

Anyway, so I liked the book and recommend it.  You can purchase it from Amazon for only $8.00 at the moment!  I’d loan you my copy but it’s long gone!

* * *

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the publisher through the BookSneeze®.com book review bloggers program. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255: “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.”

The only time I’ve been really 100% sure I was an excellent mother was before I had any children.  Back then, I had absolutely no doubt, only supreme confidence in my innate ability to win the whole Motherhood Contest.  (Because it’s a contest, right?  Like a pageant only without the swimwear competition?)

On Sunday, I took my daughter to a birthday party.  We are acquainted with a pretty wide circle of people in our new area and this particular woman brought her 9-year old to my daughter’s impromptu birthday dinner back in September.  She returned the favor and invited us to her daughter’s party.

I dropped off my daughter, then returned an hour later.  When I returned, I walked past the bouncy house and slide crowding the driveway and walked through the open front door.  I found my daughter holding someone’s baby–she loves babies–and so I sat down and began chatting with another mom who was a complete stranger to me.

I began to look around and found that I was sitting in a room that was probably once a dining room but had been turned into a homeschooling room. The cursive alphabet bordered the top of the wall.  Scientific terms and maps and all sorts of school-related items were tacked to the walls which appeared to be covered in some kind of fancy bulletin board material (floor to ceiling).

My daughter does school at home, you know, through a charter school.  My twins are doing homeschool for their last year of high school.  And I don’t have anything school-related tacked to any wall in my house.  I don’t even have a bulletin board.

(I have a fancy pencil sharpener, though.  And ten packs of Crayola markers.)

I sat there feeling like such a failure as a homeschooling mom.  I’m just winging it as I go along.  We fit school into the nooks and crannies of our days.  I feel like an utter failure.

Even worse?  Today, my daughter had a Costco frozen yogurt for lunch.  I didn’t even realize that I hadn’t fed her an actual lunch until my husband called me from soccer practice to ask me what she had for lunch. That’s all she had.  Frozen yogurt.  (Please, fire me.  I deserve it.)

I recently read a blog post by the most delightful adoptive mother of many who homeschools and my heart just sank when I read about her systems and her order and her attitude and her children.  Why can’t I be like that?  Why can’t I try to be like that?  Why can’t I line my ducks up and make them swim in an orderly fashion? Am I just that lazy?  That ill-equipped?

I read on Facebook about other people’s kids volunteering and applying to colleges and and I do this horrible thing that I hate . . . I compare my kids.  That’s the worst thing ever.

I kind of wish I could go back to those days of dreaming about a velvety baby cheek, confident in my ability to raise SuperKids.  Being a mom was a whole lot easier in my imagination.  Then again, imaginary kids don’t ask for hugs or . . . money.  (Wait.  What?)