Sitting Still

Happy (slightly belated) Father's Day

Do you remember distinct moments of falling in love?  The words, or images, or touches that let you know, yes -- this is the one.  Because I have some, and I remember the moment I knew my husband would be a good father.

Ron was seventeen years old when his niece was born.  When I started dating him and met her, she was six months old.  One day while looking through pictures of her doing the latest cute-baby thing, I saw a photo that made me fall in love.  On the couch, Ron lay flat on his back, wearing a white undershirt and some pajama pants.  On his chest, curled up like a tiny pink frog, was his infant niece, asleep.  And while I wasn't at that point sizing him up for his ability to care for little humans, I think there was a primal part of me that etched that image onto my deep memory.  Note to self: this might be a good one with whom to share your genes.  Maybe all those make out sessions aren't such a bad idea after all.

Many kisses and fifteen years later, that teenager napping with the baby on his chest has two kids of his own. It's a crazy thing to watch the twenty-something cutie you married turn into a father.  Trades are completed: shot glass for sippy cup, action films for cartoons, trips to Thailand for trips to the zoo.  He learns how to wrangle a wriggling baby into a diaper, and he teaches a preschooler how to cast a fishing line with her new pink Barbie rod.  Discussions are had about serious things -- discipline methods, college savings plans, life insurance -- like we're real honest-to-God grown-ups with a constant sense that the decisions we make now affect these little folks who depend on us.

Ron works incredibly hard to provide our family with what we need and want.  He became a father for the first time just as he entered the most rigorous part of his training, and balancing work and family was not easy.  In the last year, however, some of that pressure has eased, and with it has come more time for family life.  Of course, that doesn't always mean the fun stuff.  Sometimes it means standing in the midst of chaos while the baby spits up everywhere and the preschooler loses her shit for no apparent reason and your wife slowly goes crazy because of the spitting-upping and the shit-losing.  And all three of them look to you to make things work better. 

Talk about pressure.  Microsurgery ain't got nothing on the insanity we call fatherhood.

But the 17-year-old who babysat his niece has stepped up nicely to the challenge of being a dad.  And just as I fell in love with him that day, there are moments he shares with the kids everyday that make me do it all over again.  Playing soccer with Claire.  Looking for a way to learn Chinese with her.  Going fishing two days in a row just because she loved it so much (didn't catch a thing).  Taking her to work and teaching her about "fixing kids' eyes."  Promising her that we'll go camping this fall in a tent with sleeping bags.  Snuggling Gage.  Making him put his hands on his hips and say "oh, no you didn't" just to make me laugh.  Discussing your shared interest in my boobs.  Taking a nap together.

So today, I just want to say thank you.  Thank you for giving all that you do to this family -- time, energy, support in many forms.  Thank you for partnering with me to muddle through the uncertainty about doing the right thing for them.  Thank you for trusting me to mother your children as best I know how, and thank you for forgiving me when I screw it up.  Thank you for believing with me that one of the best gifts we can give our children is a happy, healthy marriage, and thank you for working with me to create that despite all the challenges we've faced.

Thank you for being a man who puts his family first, and who shows that in the decisions, big and small, that you make every day.  

We love you.  Happy Father's Day.

girls' night out

I don't think I have gone into any detail here about this amazing group of women I've met in Charleston.  I had the good luck to land in a house across the street from the coolest neighbors ever, whose 4 year old girl has become Claire's fast friend and whose newborn son makes me anxious to meet my own.  Through my neighbor, I've been introduced to a whole circle of very cool people.  People I probably would not have had the fortune to meet otherwise, as they are way cooler than me.  People who get together for playgroups and coffee and drinks and have the kindness to invite me along. 

In other words, people who keep me reasonably sane.  People who I can refer to as "friends" after just a few months of living here.  I cannot tell you just how awesome that is.

Tonight was the first chance I've had to get out with the gals without kids.  We went to a little bar withing spitting distance of my house and just hung out.  Conversation wandered from kids to husbands to the crazy small circles of people that seem to exist in this city. 

It can be so difficult to find and make friends as a grown-up, in a new city, when you stay at home with your kid the vast majority of the time.  I am so, so, SO lucky to have landed here and to have had the fortune to be welcomed into the crowd at some level.

I'm not sure that I have much point other than that.  I just feel like the universe is taking care of me and my family, and I wanted to send out a thank you note via the internet.  I know it's probably not proper etiquette, but damned if I don't have a good address for a monogrammed and handwritten note, so it'll have to do.

if this blog's a rockin'...

When you're all pissy about things not under your control, but upon which you'd like to exert control, it's helpful to hear (again and again and again!) that people like you.

My friend Jamie, who rocks the tankini over at Blonde Mom Blog, and my fellow knocked-up sistah Colleen, of The Delaney Diaries (you gonna change that name in December, hon?) have both bestowed upon me an award.  I'm officially a Rockin' Girl Blogger.

And of course, I'd like nothing more than to spread the love.  If you want to read some more rockin' stories and tidbits, stop by and say hi to Jamie and Colleen, then go see these other gals:

There's no hiding my love for RBelle and the whole Belle family.  Have you seen her other blog at News for Women on the Fly?

Mrs. Welby is a fairly newbie blogger and a friend of mine from Nashville.  We've both left that one-horse town and have husbands in fellowship training.   She's funny.

Stew is actually not a man, as the name would imply, but rather my long-lost-kind-of-sort-of-cousin-in-law.  She gardens, she birdwatches, and she talks a lot about food.

Do you know Mindy?   She's pregnant with her first baby and uber-cute.  Watch the transformation from hip chic to mommyblogger at her place.

Mari and Morag are the MomAgenda coven, in addition to the above-mentioned Mrs. Welby.   You want wise (ass) advice and commentary?  Check them out.

And honestly, if you are not reading my friend Elaine at Wannabe Hippie, you're missing the fun.  She's one of the brilliant minds behind Mama Says Om, along with webmistress Krystyn and the gorgeous and creative Christina.

lowcountry living

I stretched as Ron reached for his alarm, ready to roll back over and sleep some more, but found that I couldn't.  I slept peacefully last night, with the advantage of an evening prenatal yoga class, an early bedtime, and a book that delights and entertains without keeping me up.  Ron's now gone to work, Claire is still snoozing, and for this one morning, the house is quiet, and mine.

Our trip to visit the Belles was an absolute delight.  Claire and I enjoyed the drive there together, listening to our favorite tracks on CD and singing along while munching animal crackers.  Time passed quickly, and before I knew it we were far from the city, traveling roads shaded by old canopies, trees draped with Spanish moss.  Makeshift stands offered whatever the owner had available: tomatoes bursting with summer flavor, shrimp caught earlier that day,  sweetgrass baskets.  The brackish air mixed the sweet of summer flora with the salty of the marsh, and with a few deep breaths I found my body relaxing into the pace of the summer island.

We were greeted warmly by our hosts, fresh off the boat, kids already greasy with sunscreen and sporting bright lifejackets.  Quickly changing into swimsuits, we hopped aboard not knowing where the day would take us.  As it would turn out, we explored a private island, tromping along shores awash with oyster-shell-covered branches, catching hermit crabs, and standing back as Mr. Belle reeled in a three-foot long shark (who got away, as they all do).  Cruising along, we beached the boats later on the beach, pulling up by sea to the home of some other friends vacationing along the shore.  We swam, grabbed some lunch from their generous kitchen, and then headed back home for some afternoon respite.

Ron drove down after work, tired and reluctant, but soon found himself caught up in the fun of the group.  An evening cruise along the creek found us trailing a small pod of porpoises as they played and fed at dusk.  The other grown-ups drank beer (Bud or Bud Light) and we laughed as Claire and Beaux argued in only the way preschoolers can -- illogically.  While we were out, the other grown-ups were toiling back at the house on gin and tonics and frogmore stew.  Dinner saw the collapse of the preschool crowd into deep dreamy sleep, while the grown-ups carried on peeling shrimp, delighting in warm bread and good conversation.

We left soon after, under the cover of night ("black as the inside of a cow" quipped Mr. Belle-in-law), exhausted by sunshine and water.  Alert for deer and other creatures rumored to frequent the region, we made our way back home safely, grateful for the generosity of friends and true Southern hospitality.

(Apparently we made a good impression, and we're hoping a repeat trip Saturday will continue the fun and allow Ron to break in his brand-new fishing license!)   

happy birthday, cutie!

Today is my nephew's first birthday.  The boy who was an adorable lump of baby has become this busy, charming toddler.  I haven't seen him since Christmas, and am badly in need of some snuggling.  Luckily, he's coming to visit in the fall, and I can squeeze him then!

life is tough

Sigh.  I have to go to the beach today.  Again.  With friends.  My life is so hard.

Claire and I are going to go disrupt the peacefulness of this scene.  We might poke RB relentlessly just for good measure.  Anyone want me to add a poke for them?

Now if I could just get moving to pack our beach gear and put the final touches on the gift basket for our hosts... 

people who played with me

Here are the results of the interviews I did for that last meme:
Steph
Mindy
Sonja
Christa
Morag
Colleen
Shelley
Angela (not done yet.  ahem.  HINT HINT)

You'll notice that I repeated some of the questions.  One of my favorites involves undergarment choice: bikini, brief, thong, commando, other?  I'm a bikini girl myself, and a fan of the middle road in general, but am always curious about what others choose and why.

That curiosity does not typically extend to my mother.  However, today, I had the pleasure of finding out anyway.

"Nicole, I have a question for you."

"Ok."

"I decided to be fancy and bought three pairs of those thong underwear."

"Uh huh.  And?"

"Well, does the strip of fabric go up?"

"Up?"

"Yes.  Like up your...crack?"

"Yes, Mom.  What did you think it did?"

Nevermind.  Don't answer that.

GATOR!

Just in case you were not yet convinced that I am the hub of rational thinking in a family of crazies, let me recount a couple of conversations in which I've participated over the last couple of days.

As I mentioned, we found a house to rent in Charleston (in the West Ashley area, for those who know the city).  It's three-point-three miles from Ron's new workplace, a short drive downtown, and maybe 20 minutes to the beach.  We are thrilled that it is actually larger than our current home, with three bedrooms instead of two, meaning that we'll have a proper guest room for when crazy Southern bloggers come to visit.  (You know who you are *cough*Mrs. M*cough*.)

I sent the photos of the house to my mother, and she also checked out the most recent Flickr additions from our trip.   That photoset includes some from our trip to the swamp.  Unfortunately, I think she now believes that we'll be living IN a swamp.  Which we will be.  And of course I shall make grits for breakfast and rabbit stew for dinner and spend my day sitting on the porch, whittling figurines out of wood with a jackknife.

"You know, Nicole, you're going to have to be careful in your backyard," she warned, with a generous dose of motherly concern.

"Why?" I replied.

"Because you'll probably have alligators."

"MOTHER.  We will not have alligators in our backyard!"

"Well, you could.  They live there, you know."

Let me make it clear that my mother has never ever been to South Carolina.  Nor is she a herpetologist.   She is, however, a bona fide worrywart.

The next day, I was telling Ron about the conversation with my mother.

"Get this honey: my mom thinks we're going to have alligators in our backyard in Charleston."

"Oh, yeah.  I hope so.  That would be cool."

(Easy for him to say.  He'll be at work, tucked safely away going, "Better one, better two?" while Claire and I fight off the beast with a broomstick.)

"That so would not be cool."

Claire was nearby and overheard this exchange, and her eyes widened.

"We're going to have alligators in Charleston?"

I glared at Ron.  "No, honey.  No alligators in our backyard.  They live in South Carolina, but not in our backyard."

She thought for a second, and then added, with relief, "Right.  Because we don't have enough space."

"You mean there isn't enough space for an alligator to live in our yard?"

"Yes.  And they need stuff to eat."

"Right.  But we don't have anything in our yard for them to eat."

And it took everything I had not to say: EXCEPT YOU.

31

I turned 31 while we were on vacation.  There was my birthday, Wednesday, which started okay with a visit to the aquarium but ended with me grumpily reading a book on the balcony to get away from the demon that possessed my child sometime around noon.  Thursday was a much better day -- a trip to the swamp, shopping for summer clothes and engaging in a little retail therapy, then dinner with RB.  By that afternoon, I'd declared a do over, officially making Thursday my birthday, observed.  I figure if dead presidents can do it, so can I.  Because yes, I am that damn important.

The older I get the poutier I become about my birthday.  It's not because I'm getting older: I'm thrilled to be into my thirties, feeling confident despite the fine lines developing around my eyes.  It's that my birthday is no longer a big deal.  I want a party.  I want presents.  I want someone to bake me a cake and sing to me and make a fuss because it's my birthday.

But just as I feel that lower lip pooching out, I gather up my birthday cards and realize that my birthday wishes may not be shouted over the din of a loud party, but they are coming from people who GET ME.   Here are just two of the cards sent to me by the bestest girfriends in the whole wide world.

Can you think of any better summation of my life now (and forever)?

Yep.  You suspected it.  Now you know.  The funk?  I BRINGETH.

And as if the messages weren't enough, both contained something permanently on my wishlist:  Starbucks cards.

I think 31 might be my new lucky number.

I need a rub down

My inner thighs are so sore that they hurt just sitting here.

And no, it's not why you think.  Filthy minds, I tell ya.

Turns out that this weekend was the time to makeover the backyard.  Garden, if you're fancy. Conservatory, if you're a fan of Clue or a pretentious bitch, though I know none of you are.  This task required more squatting and trimming than a bikini wax, with pain that lasted much longer.

We weeded.  We raked.  We bought mulch (a word that Ron offers as almost an onomatopia).  The big task was to clear out the crevices between the flagstone, which were once filled neatly with grey gravel but had since become cracks full of weeds.  And no one wants to buy a house with those, of that I'm quite certain.

Saturday we worked from morning to dusk.  I was gifted with a little reprieve in the afternoon, meeting Susie of The Underpaid Kept Woman and Lindsay of Suburban Turmoil at the local Starbucks.  I had met Susie awhile back when we were up in Michigan, and although the circumstances of her visit to Tennessee were horribly sad, it was great to see her again and meet all of her guys before they headed back up north.

We collapsed into bed last night knowing that we'd have to get up and do it all again today.  And we did, though without the same gusto as yesterday.  As of this evening, we haven't quite finished, but we do have pansies and pea gravel and seven paper bags of yard waste to show for it. 

We totally rock the home improvement, y'all.  Too bad the home we're improving won't be ours in a few months (Lord willing and the weeds don't rise!).