Sitting in the Lobby

I’ve been staring at a blank screen for well over an hour now.  Okay, I might be stretching the truth just a little.  It’s more like, stare at blank Blogger screen, look at other monitor refresh Facebook feed to see who is finishing their “school is canceled” status with thirteen exclamation marks and who is happy that they don’t live in Ohio, because it’s really, really, really cold here, then return to blank screen again.

The truth is, I want to write.  I’m longing to write again.  I want to put it all out there like no one is reading it.  I know how it feels to let it all go.  I imagine it feels much like running to the middle of a forest and screaming at the top of your lungs, knowing that only the rabbits, deer, and birds hear you. A kind of release, refreshment.  Letting go.

And then there is a flash of a thought, people will read it.  With that thought comes, you must be happy, upbeat, positive, funny, joyful. . .
So then I decide I’ll just tell a funny story. . . like this one. . .

Chad:  Charlie, do you want some eggs?
Charlie:  Okay.
Chad: Scrambled or Dippy? (sunny side up for those who teach their children the correct terms.)
Charlie: Dippy, please.
Chad to Charlie: (already standing at the stove making dippy eggs for Meadow.): Okay, can you get the eggs out of the fridge for me?
I’m standing in the kitchen watching this entire scene as Charlie walks to the refrigerator.  He opens the fridge and stares into the bright light and shelves that contain two cartons of eggs, a few gallons of milk, a container of leftovers, and some condiments. (Give me a break, it was the end of the week and have I mentioned that it is a whole 15 minutes to the grocery store?)

Charlie stares for a bit before looking back at Chad and says, I don’t know which eggs to use.
Chad and I respond in unison: What??
Charlie:  I don’t know which eggs you need.
Chad and I still confused:  What???
Charlie:  Which eggs are scrambled and which are dippy?

Needless to say, Charlie, who eats eggs a minimum of four times a week, got a quick lesson in the art of making eggs.  How he has been alive for nine years without this knowledge, I do not know.  (Total parent fail.)  Thankfully, his mother is yours truly so the art of laughing at ones own mistakes is learned early in our household.

I should probably just move on from there and post some pictures and call it a blog post.  However, I think I’ll just keep it real.

I’m moving slowly into 2015.  I’m standing watching an elevator filled with happy, enthusiastic, go-getter, people go up, up, up and away and I’m staying put.  Have fun ya’all, I’m stuck in the lobby.

Don’t get me wrong, I mean 2015 did happen.  We were there, and we saw it happen. . .

. . . the next morning.  (Yep, we are awesome.  We had friends over for New Years.  I think I fell asleep at 11:52.)

New Years breakfast (after watching the (recorded) ball drop.

It’s no secret, I don’t do transition well.  (I know Chad, my sister, and my Dad are rolling their eyes and nodding their heads.) I hang on with a white-knuckle grip to all the once was and used to be.  I look back and paint beautiful pictures of the past in my head and make sure my eyes are hidden from all the beauty that lies ahead. (Sleepless nights, dirty diapers, and the terrible twos apparently didn’t happen.)

“Hello World, meet my irrational self.”

I’m not sure what started it.  Maybe it was the lightening speed of the Christmas season?  Or the fact that we tore our tree down Christmas Eve? (That’s another story.)  Or maybe it has something to do with our first conversations of preschool for Meadow?  Or maybe it was watching the baby furniture that has worked its way through all three of our kids leave the house and be replaced by ‘big girl furniture’?

I’m not sure.  I just know that time is marching on, life is moving forward, and I’m sort of sauntering my way at a snails pace.  I kind of want to look at everyone and yell, come on, lets chill in the lobby for awhile.  Let’s talk, breathe deep, slow down.  Yet while I just want to sit and talk about life, others are living it.

Like I said, my irrational self.

I’ll shake it off, no doubt,  (cue Taylor Swift) and pick up the pace, in time.  Today, though, I’m stuck watching the days tick by more quickly than I’d like and wondering what will life look like there. Down the road?

Seriously?  That toothless grin is the best.

Parenthood is a constantly (and quickly) changing season.  I realize that as they define themselves more and more with each passing year, I, too, must redefine myself.  A work in progress we all are. A work in progress I am.  Roles change, needs change, and times change.

As I packed away clothes that Meadow has outgrown this weekend, I couldn’t help but be surprised, didn’t Chanelle just wear these?  How are the years passing so quickly?  Parenthood is not for the faint at heart.  Unfortunately, that’s what I am.  My only option is to do it, and feel it.

So that’s what I do. . . I feel it and every now and then I (irrationally) refuse to move ahead.

But I will.  I will find the spark and allow my eyes to see what lies ahead–like watching them discover new horizons and spread their wings. Watching them understand their own hearts and the hearts of others.  Seeing them become more and more who they were born to be–independent of Chad and I.  Watching them make choices and experience the joys and sorrows of life. So much lies ahead and I know it’s not as scary as I think it is.  In fact, if I really let myself dwell there, I might even admit that the journey of parenthood might become even more beautiful. . . if I let it happen.

Hello World, meet my rational self.

In the meantime, I’m enjoying the little bits of now that are the treasures of these years. . .

Snow Days. . .

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Art at it’s finest. . .

You may or may not remember this incident from a couple of years ago.  You know, when we painted Meadow.  Well, our world hasn’t been the same since.  Paint means something different. . .

I have never once minded the mess we make.  The memories are worth it. . .

I call it our beautiful mess.

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Taza love. . .

Many have asked how we came up with her name.  Here you go. . .

Taza has great food.

Taza is a great dog. . .

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Light. . .

 

 I found some in our basement.  Lesson learned:  If you look for it, you will find it.

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Meadow’s Style

Girlfriend wears no less than three outfits a day, sometimes many more. . .

Hats. . .

Fancy Dresses. . .

Backward polka-dot dresses with backward plaid pants. . .

Dresses with a smile. . .

And, well, I’ve got no words for this one. .

Girlfriend knows herself.  She owns herself.

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And Daddy’s arms?

Nothing better. . .

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And this is why I am compelled to write.  To say it “out loud” to no one in particular.  Because pounding it out on this keyboard helps me find perspective.  And suddenly I feel the pace of my saunter quicken.  I’m not racing to jump on the elevator just yet, but maybe I’m off the lobby couch making my way to the doors.  I’ll get there, I have no doubt.