Grime Scene

I have this friend.

She's one of the sweetest, most generous, big-hearted people you'll ever meet.  She'd give you the shirt off her back if you needed it.  She remembers and honors every occasion in your life, no matter how trivial.  And she's one of the most creative people I've ever known, starting her own business from scratch, and becoming so exclusive she has clients the likes of which I can't even name on a public blog...like, say for example, a certain really tall German basketball player...or a certain pilot who may or may not be exceptionally good at landing planes in rivers...yes, my friend is that good.

I owe her a huge debt of gratitude for my family, too.  She and her husband introduced me to Chris.  And her mother-in-law was pivotal in Aria's adoption.  And our husbands are best friends.  Our kids are engaged to be married  best friends.

She's the kind of person that makes everything look so effortless.  She can pack 36 hours into a 24 hour day, and still manage to look fresh and beautiful and well-rested.  It would be easy to hate her if she wasn't one of the dearest people in my life, and so darn sweet and wonderful.

But I made a decision last night.

I'm never talking to my friend again.

That's right. 

Never.  Talking to her again.

On the phone.

Because apparently, my children are both gifted with a sixth sense and can alway detect when I'm talking on the phone to this particular friend.  And it is at these times they choose to...um....er....hum, how do I put this pleasantly?  Oh heck, ya'll, there's nothing pleasant about it.  Whenever I'm on the phone with my friend, my children choose to...EXPEL WASTE FROM THEIR BODIES.  There.  I said it. 

Do you remember this last year?  The Code Brown when sweet Aria Grace handed me her poop?  Yep.  That was this friend on the phone.

Or how about the Chanel Mommy post?  Where Aria dropped trow to pee in our front yard?   Indeed.  Same friend.  Same phone.

But here's the thing.  Aria's long been toilet-trained, so we should be over any potty issues at this point, right?  Caroline's just twenty months old, so she's sitting on her little pink potty every once in awhile because she thinks it's cute and she sees Ya-Ya doing it, but it's not real honest-to-goodness potty-training, just a low-pressure gig.  So you'd think I'd be safe to chat away with my friends without fear of scatological repercussion, right?

You'd be wrong.

So, so wrong.

In case you can't tell what I found when entering my daughter's room yesterday - while ON THE PHONE with SAID FRIEND - here's a close-up view.

Come to find out, after further investigation of the grime scene (yes, thought that up all on my own), my little daughter apparently removed her diaper, emptied it, wrung it out (just a guess on that one, I have no proof), and then pulled her shorts back up on that dirty little hiney. 

What did I do?   I did what any parent would do in this situation:   I ran to the window and hollered down for Chris to come upstairs and take care of his daughter.   No, no.   Kidding.   I walked back out and close the door and pretended I never saw it.   Nope, kidding again.   Actually, my very, very initial thought when I encountered the crime scene was, "Oh great. More laundry."   And then I burst out laughing and said to my friend, ON THE PHONE,  "Oh.  Ma.  Gosh.   It's happened A-GAIN.   I have a Code Brown!   I repeat, a Code Brown!   Lemme call ya back". 

The mess?  Oh, the mess.  It was everywhere.  All over the bed, the bedding, the wall, the carpet, her Blankies, her stuffed animals, her clothes.  And of course, my phone pictures didn't capture the best (worst?) part.  Girlfriend had it under her fingernails.  I kid you not.  I do not jest. 

I would never jest about poop.

So to my friend:  I have made the monumental decision that we cannot speak by phone again.  Sure, we can email.  Text.  Hit me up on skype.  And we'll for sure swap poop stories over Sauvignon Blanc like the good old days.  But chatting on the phone?  Nope, no way.  Those days are gone. 

For the sake of my sanity, my abundant use of Clorox wipes, and the exploitation of my washer and dryer, I cannot risk another Code while we chat.

Sorry, girl.  It's just the way it has to be.

--

She's so proud of herself, isn't she?

--

Foh-Wer

Ya'll, I'm so not ready.

My Princess turned 4 on Thursday.  Four.  Quatro.  Quatre. 

Or as we say in South Carolina, Foh-wer!

I just loved Three.  It was not quite baby, but not quite big girl either.  She still sucked her thumb and wanted me to rock her to sleep at night.  She still had baby fat and square feet.  Her drawings were lines and dots, circles and squigglies.  She could be happy with a box of crayons or some legos.

Three wasn't all bubbles and baby powder, though.  We had our ups and downs.  Three was actually accompanied by a lot of very dramatic histrionic mood swings that at times caused me to want to run to my own Mama, throw myself at her feet, and beg her forgiveness for that one eensy-weensy little period of time in my life that I disrespected her. 

I think she remembers it as my toddler, school-age, adolescent, and teenage years.

But suddenly out of nowhere my baby went and grew up, and can now unlock all the child locks on the doorknobs with the mere flick of a wrist.  She wants to read books that actually have chapters and plots.  She can draw stick figures and faces and rainbows.  She wants to drink from a regular cup.  She carries a purse with her everywhere and applies Disney Princess strawberry lip gloss in the bathroom mirror.  She reaches for my iPhone almost instinctively to retrieve her games and videos.  And now she asks me questions like, "Mom, what is inertia?"  (Don't feel bad.  I had to look it up, too.)

Yeeaaah, this though, I was definitely unprepared for.  A summary of the phone call I received at work the other day:

Ring, ring.  Hello?

Chris:  "Hi.  How's your day?  Aria has something to ask you."  Snicker, snicker.

Me:  "Hmmkayyyyy....  Lemme talk to her."

Aria:  "Hi Mommy!  Daddy told me to ask you, 'What is that?'"

Me:  "What is what?"

Aria:  "That".

Me:  "What?  Can you be more specific?"

Aria:  "That pointy thing"

Me, panicking:  "Um, what pointy thing?"

Aria:  "That pointy thing, Mommy, down there."

Me:  "WHAT?"

Aria:  "The pointy thing.  Down there.  By your hiney."

Me:  "PUT DADDY BACK ON THE PHONE."

Chris:  Peals of laughter. 

Me:  "What is going on?  Did she just say what I think she said???"

Chris:  Peals.  Pea-yulls.  Of laughter.

Me:  "Honeeeeeeeeeyyy.  Be serious!  Really?  What happened?  Why is she asking me this?  And what did you say when she asked you?"

Chris:  "I told her to ask you".

Me:  "Okay.  Put her back on the phone".

Aria:  "Hi, Mommy!  Why is Daddy laughing?  Is it because of that thing?  That pointy thing?  By your hiney?"

Me:  Deep breath.  "It... well... that is...well... um... The pointy thing is...um...okay.  ItsDaddyspeepee, Aria.  Boyshavepeepeesontheoutside andgirlshavepeepeesontheinside".   Another deep breath.    "AriaMommylovesyouverymuchnowputDaddybackonthephone".

Chris:  More peals of laughter.

Me:  "What the heck?  What happened while I was at work?"

Chris:  MORE peals of laughter.  "She walked in on me peeing.  And she asked.  And I thought you would like to handle it." Hysterical laughing - nay - GUFFAWING from my very supportive husband.


Okay, I'm not dumb.  I knew it was coming, I knew it.  I mean, the kid can open the child safety locks on doors, for pete's sake.  And she'll pretty much track you down anywhere in the house to ask you anything, so it was bound to happen, her walking in on one of us on the potty.  I just wasn't ready for the questions.

I thought I had ten, twelve more years.

Uh huh.  Ya'll.  YAWL.  I'm so not ready for this.

--

Elmo's a Loser

We spent this past Memorial Day weekend down at the lake.  The weather was perfect:  warm and breezy during the day, cool and clear at night.  The girls had an absolute ball feeding catfish, swimming in the lake, blowing bubbles, and helping Mimi pull weeds - and with that last part, thereby proving themselves fruit of Chris' loin.

It was a bittersweet time, though, because Memorial Weekend last year was the last time Grandad was with us at the lake, when the true symptoms of his stroke began to manifest, and we could no longer deny that he was becoming seriously ill. 

I must admit, however, that the laughter of children truly does seem to have healing properties.  It's just impossible to lose yourself in grief when you have giggling, babbling, singing, dancing, happy little ones around. 

God bless those girls.

Our neighbors in our subdivision at the lake organized a little patriotic golf cart "parade" on Saturday, replete with prizes for the best-decorated vehicle.  Hold up.  Wait a sec...  Hello?  Did you say prizes?  As in, a contest?  Ahem.  Now, it's not that I consider myself competitive or anything, but I have this annoying little habit whereas I absolutely insist on winning at all costs.  Which probably explains why I buy so much stuff on ebay, because to me, being the highest bidder in the last few seconds of the auction feels an awful lot like winning, despite what my husband says.  Whatever. 

And I don't mean Charlie Sheen's version of "winning", because, well, do I really need to overstate what an  oxymoron that is?  I'm talking the type of winning where there's a fair-and-square vote.  Or a game.  Or an auction.  Or a race.  Or at a slot-machine.  No, I did not just say that.

It's not like I ever competed in beauty pageants for the love of pete, because we all know how that would turn out.  I mean, can you imagine?  For the talent portion of the evening, Sarah Wood Thomas will be...what?  Writing a story for the judges?  Elbowing her way through a sale at Nordstrom?  Organizing a party?  Reciting the Preamble in her spot-on Elmo voice?  Yeah, yeah.  I've come to terms with the fact that my Elmo impersonation is not going to win me any pageants.  And guess what, I'm totally okay with that. 

Ohmagosh, speaking of pageants, ya'll?  The other day, I was driving down the Dallas North Tollway and - I kid you not - there was a white SUV with one of those big car magnets on it that read,

"So-and-So, Ms. Senior Texas 2002" 

Oh Yes.  She did.  So-and-So won the Ms. Senior Texas NINE years ago and sista was still proudly bragging about it.  On her car!  Isnt that greatness?  I just love it.  I wish I could meet that lady and shake her hand, or maybe take a picture with her for my blog.  To have that kind of confidence and to still have it on display nine years after the fact.  All I can say is, You go, girl! 

God bless that woman.

Okay, enough with that segue.

So, can you blame me for always wanting to win?  You try and grow up in the shadow of genius and tell me you wouldn't feel a fierce need to be right, I mean, WIN.

Anyway, I devoted a lot of time, and a lot of brain power to come up with the best, most award-winningest (sooo not a word) decorative golf-cart float idea which consisted of camouflage costumes for the adults complete with helmets and Army make-up, custom-sewn American flag costumes for the kids, and may or may not have included spray-painting Lexi red, white and blue. 

What?  Something wrong with that?

This was the First Annual El Dorado Bay Memorial Day Bike & Golf Cart Parade.  And daggum it, I wanted to win.  I was going to win.

Do you want to know how it turned out?

It didn't.

Because my husband ixnayed the whole idea.  (Yes, it's a word.  Go look it up).  Turns out, he himself has these two annoying little habits of:

A -  Not wanting to look like an idiot;  and,

B -  (Gleefully) being able to point out the flaws in my logic. 

In the case of the latter, it went something like this, Okay, hmm.  Sarah.  You want me to wear what?  You only have three days to put the whole float together and you want to sew costumes for the girls?  And, oh right, your sewing machine is still in the box on the upper shelf of Caroline's closet.  And...YOU WANT TO SPRAY PAINT THE DOG??? 

What can I say, ya'll?  I like to dream big.

In the end, I was forced to scotch tape Dollar Store flags around the perimeter of our golf cart, and bravely smile and wave my sorry little wooden stick flag even though I knew in my heart we weren't going to win.  The girls were dressed up cute, though, in red, white, and blue (store-bought) attire.  I even tried, as my last ditch Hail Mary, rallying everyone in my Elmo voice, but alas, this year, it was not meant to be.  Elmo failed me. 

Elmo, and the fact that reality does always not match up with what's in my head.  Whatever.  It's not like I'm a sore loser or anything. 

I admit the 2011 First Annual El Dorado Bay Memorial Day Bike & Golf Cart Parade Best Decorated title went to a golf cart more deserving. 

Although I'm holding out hope that if the winning golf cart cannot fulfill its duties...

Meantime, I've already got plans swirling in my head for next year's parade.  And all I'm sayin' is, the 2011 winning golf cart better watch its back, because next year, I WILL WIN.

Be honest, though, really?  How could THIS not get the vote?

--

Goin' to the 'Ship

We got the fever!  Go Mavs!

--

Rapture

I woke up this morning, May 21, 2011 with mixed feelings.

I am super pumped about seeing Jesus and all, but I was a little apprehensive about not seeing my kids grow up.  So when my alarm went off in the call room at work this morning at 6:40 am, I was:  a)  very happy;  b)  slightly wistful;  but mostly c)  sorry for all the poor saps people who got duped influenced by Harold Camping's numerology hooey hypotheses, and come May 22, now have no jobs, no families, no homes, no 401k's, and no "doctrine" to support their "beliefs" anymore. 

Maybe Mr. Camping's calculator needs new batteries.

Or maybe he should have listened to my mama.  She always told me, "Believe only what God says, not what man says".  Mamas are usually right, ya'll.

In Mark 13:32   Jesus Hisself says, “But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father".  There ya go.  In His very own words.  How can that be misinterpreted, people, really?   Really?

(I say "really?" a lot in everyday life, too.  Mostly to give voice to my frustration with foolish people who irritate me.  Like Mr. Schwarzenegger.  REALLY??).

I had a lot of time last week to consider the apocalypse.  In fact, ten hours on a bumpy plane with a very active and vocal 19-month-old had me praying for it at several points along our journey.  But in the end, I decided I am not yet ready to go.

You see, I hate to fly.  Those are strong words coming from someone who loves to travel as much as I do, but flying absolutely does me in.  I don't know if it's the lack of control, or the cognitive dissonance that takes place in my brain as I try and reconcile the physics of 200 people and all their baggage hurtling through the air six miles above terra firma in a winged biscuit can.  Or, it could be as my husband says and maybe I'm just a Drama Queen.  I even tried to face down my fears by taking flying lessons at various points of elevated bravado in the past fifteen years.  But even that doesn't help.  Whatever the reasons, I don't like flying and flying doesn't like me.  However.  It's how you have to get from Point A to Point B. 

Or from Dallas to Vivi & Papa. 

Or... across half the country and the Pacific to Hawaii so your daughter can be the most fabulous flower girl EVAH in a beautiful wedding on the beach of one of your dearest friends.

Oh yes, friends, it was quite a trip. 

I can't even begin to tell you how fabulous is was.  We had such a blast.  The kids were great - couldn't have been better (no, really!).  The weather was gorgeous.  A bunch of dear friends all gathered in one place to celebrate such a happy occasion.  Even the hundreds of hippies and their chemically-induced fun at the rave conference at our hotel (??,  I know!) only made it more memorable (for us, that is.  I doubt the hippies will remember one detail of their weekend). 

Geni's new husband, Ke'o was born and raised on the Big Island.  Mr. Trump, does this or does this not mean Ke'o could one day be president?   Really?  -Sorry, sidebar.  Anyway, Ke'o.  All of his family lives on the Island, and they could not have made us feel more welcome.  In fact, I felt like they were all cousins or aunts and uncles by the time we left.   His sisters are beautiful - warm, generous, and very talented - one is a professional photographer and took incredible photos of the whole week, and the other made all the leis, Aria's crown, and the astounding arrangements from flowers she cut herself from their family farm in the mountains.  The day before the wedding, the bride and groom took us on a sunset catamaran cruise, and the day after the wedding, Ke'o's family hosted a picnic at an active volcano.  How cool is that?

I have many stories to tell, and not the brain power nor the energy (the laundry, oh my holy moly, the laundry!), so I'll just post a few pictures from the trip until I can organize my house and thoughts enough to write more. 

Enjoy!

Arrival after a loooooooooooooooong day:

 Mommy and big girl on the sunset cruise:

Aria and Peachy pre-ceremony:

Princess A and her "crown" of flowers (she was very excited about her crown):

Two down-dogs and a child's pose (my kids love doing yoga.  Not kidding):

Rapture  (rap' cher):  noun

1. the state of being carried away with joy, love, etc.; ecstasy
2. an expression of great joy, pleasure, etc.

Lots more photos here :)

--

Happy (Blank) Day to you

It's Mother's Day! 

I know I totally should do something all profound and original and not just repeat last year's blog post, but it still rings very true, and I love, cherish, and deeply respect all the mommies I wrote about last year. 

Really.  Love ya'll.  Mean it.

But allow me to get kinda introspective for a sec.

This day is a little bittersweet for me too.  Even though they celebrate Mother's Day in Vietnam on Mua Vu Lan, the seventh full moon on the calendar year - and a Buddhist holiday (about which I will decline to comment so as not to oh-fend all the Buddhists who read my blog.  Natch.) - which means the second Sunday in May is really just another day for them.  Even so, I still think about her.

I think about how her swollen feet must have ached as she carried my growing daughter in her belly.  I think of the alternating anxiety and joy she must have felt every time she felt the baby kick - her heart swelling in love, but also breaking in pain, knowing she could not care for this child the way she should.  Or when the first labor pain ripped through her body, and how she must have pushed with all her strength, pushing this tiny, black-haired, dimpled baby out into the world, and yet wanting desperately to keep her still inside of her - safe, protected, and always a part of her. And how hearing the baby's first cries must have hurt far worse than the physical pain of childbirth, knowing she would be unable to answer those cries with soothing kisses.  Or how she must feel now, every time she looks at a little girl Aria's age and wonders...just wonders... 

Not a day goes by that I don't marvel at something Aria Grace says or does, and think to myself, "Wow, if only she could see her.  And know.  And believe".  But it is here that I must stop before I begin to weep, and simply ask the Holy Spirit to intercede for me to let her know that Aria is alright.  I ask Him to absolve her of her pain, her guilt, her anguish.  That the Peace That Passes All Understanding will fill her heart and assure her this child is happy.  Healthy.  Safe.  Loved.  Cherished. 

Many people, Chris included, have encouraged me to write to Aria's birth mother and the orphanage to let them know how well she is doing.  How perfect she is. 

I can't do it...

Because words absolutely fail me.

There is no way to describe the gift my children are.  Writing (typing) words on paper seems to do an utter injustice to the abundance of peace, contentment, and joy they've brought to my heart.  I can't imagine the sacrifices so many people have made for me to be a mother to these children, and I am struck absolutely dumb with humility.

Side eye to anyone who wants to make a snarky comment to that last sentence.  (Chris.  Kick.)

Anyway, I figure when the timing is right and God has the proper words for me to say, He'll help me write it.  God's grace.

Changed my mind.  I actually did want to write something profound today after all!

And so on this, my third Mother's Day as an actual Mother, I'll share a little something I've learned about myself.  For me, Mother's Day is about reflecting on:  my own mother, Saint Vivi, and how much she means in my life; my mother-in-law, Mimi, and the graceful way she has weathered life's most terrible storm; my sister-in-law, through whom I was imparted the most incalcuably valuable gift of Caroline. 

But it's also about celebrating the Two treasures that are Aria and Caroline, the Two that have made me a Mother.

In other words, my Mother's Day is not about me being their mother.  It's about them being my daughters. 

So I'm renaming it...

Happy Aria and Caroline Day to me! 

And Happy [Insert Child's Name Here] Day to YOU!

--

History

Yesterday, May 1, was an historic day.  I'm sure the whole world is aware of it now.

It was the eleventh anniversary of the day my husband came walking towards me, clad in a white golf shirt and pressed black slacks, hand extended to shake my own, huge smile lighting up that darling face.  My life changed forever. 

I remember it like it was yesterday.  Historically significant for Chris too, seeing as how that's probably the last time he's had ironed pants.

May 1 is also the day THAT RAT OSAMA UP AND GOT HIMSELF KILLED.  I'm pretty much not altogether unhappy about this news.  I don't know if I can go so far as to say I'm celebratory, seeing as how I know this man's soul is, has been, and always will be, separated from God.  For that, I am profoundly sorrowful.  But I am also profoundly glad he is no longer walking the surface of our planet, breathing our air, drinking our water, watching our sunsets, and causing immeasurable amounts of pain to thousands and thousands of people.  And maybe, just maybe, the inalterable impact he made on the landscape of so many people's hearts and souls may now be just a tiny bit redeemed by the fact that this monster ceases to exist, and can no longer continue to plot the demise of freedom, Christianity, and the west.

I'm not bitter or anything.  I'm just sayin'.

Another milestone from this weekend, April 29th marked the one-year anniversary of my blog.  A whole year.  Which, while this seems like the absolute longest year of my life, has also passed by remarkably fast.  My little tiny baby girl has suddenly become a person, talking up a storm and telling me what to do.  My oldest, who has always told me what to do, can now do so with excruciating clarity and eloquence.  And although this year has brought our family unfathomable losses, God has not only upheld us, but revealed Himself to us in astonishing ways. 

For that, I am peaceful and hopeful.

Chris and I always get excited when we say a sentence or combination of words we wonder has ever before been uttered in the human language.  Like, "Let me balance the Sound Warehouse budget, rinse the drywall out of my hair, and I'll be ready for dinner."  Or how about what he told me on Friday, "Sarah, a suicidal turkey vulture dented the hood of your car".  See what I mean? 



Please don't get me started on the whole turkey vulture fiasco. -- Ha!  Look-y there.  That's another one I never thought I'd hear (say?  write?).

So anyway, allow me summarize all these occasions in an oddly-worded contextual axiom I'll write down today, because I'll probably never have cause to say it again:  Honey, happy meet-iversary, bin Laden, enjoy your 72 virgins  eternal Lake of Fire, and friends/loved ones, happy one-year bloggiversary!

And now, completely off topic but intended to make you smile, please enjoy some cute photos of the girls visiting Mommy at work Easter Sunday...

Sweet Caroline saying the blessing at dinner...

Making a little history of her own, Aria proudly riding her bike, finally, without falling down or giving up...

And one of my all time faves, this picture of Aria Grace on a joyride at the lake with her Best Friend Forever, Peach, both restrained (read:  bungeed) to the back of the golf cart, by the designs of their fathers and unbeknownst to their mothers...

Cutest picture ever!  Can't you just see those two walking down the aisle together?  Someday. 

In Hawai'i.  Very soon.  Woop!

--