The Kitchen is Complete!

After many months of hard labor (mostly my husband's, although I did help a little), we are declaring the kitchen remodel officially DONE. When we first moved here back in 2008, the kitchen was a disaster. There were three different floors, all of which were outdated and filthy. The main foyer was paved with ugly, gray, chipped ceramic tile that we re-purposed in the garden as stepping stones. The main area of the kitchen had yellow-stained linoleum that curled up at the edges, and the hallway leading to the garage was a lovely brown shag carpet. It was all ripped out within the first few hours of owning the home and replaced with snap-together laminate that looks like ceramic tile but does not freeze our feet in the winter and does a wonderful job of hiding the messes of a family with two boys and no dogs. (Translation: They spill stuff. No one licks it off the floor.) Hubby also did a bit of reconstruction, moving our refrigerator out of the eating area, where it had been nestled in a flow-cramping alcove, and closer to the main kitchen area. We replaced all of the broken appliances and added a cookbook nook under the microwave. All of this was done within the first few months of moving in. Nearly six years ago. Fast forward to the spring of 2013. After saving our pennies, we were able to replace the pink counters with stone and then stare at the damaged walls for several months before finally deciding on and putting in a back splash. Hubby did most of the work, but I did get my hands dirty and help wash the grout. It was no fun, no fun at all, but we are very pleased with the result! To make my prep area more user friendly, hubby installed new track lighting and gave the fan a thorough scrubbing. The brightness makes it much easier to cook all of my wonderful veggie concoctions!! Here are a few before and after pics:

 As you can see, the tile was rather dull and dingy and it didn't really match the cool brick arch.

Working on the back splash

 Ta-da! Bright and beautiful!

Hard work and patience pays off!

Happiest Memory

One of my resolutions this year is to write more, and to help accomplish that I am participating in a daily writing challenge. Today's challenge was to write your happiest memory. There were a good handful of memories to pick from, including my wedding day and the moment I became a mom (which I have written about many times), but I wanted to try something a little different. Please comment; I would love to know what you think!


The sun was just beginning to make its appearance over the harbor and already the day was hotter than any I had ever experienced. My thin cotton sundress was stuck to my skin, and I could feel the sweat pooling in every imaginable place on my body. Moments earlier I had stared in the mirror, fixing my hair just so and now it sat angrily on my shoulders in damp, frizzy strands. My feet were swollen and sore, and my hands were white from wringing in anticipation.

None of it really mattered. The heat, the pain, the unkempt appearance. All that mattered was the horizon. I kept my eyes peeled and waited, as patiently as was possible for a moment like this. Minutes felt like years as men and women piled off the small boat and onto the dock. Each boat carried a full load of passengers, but it was a mere fraction of the 5,000 people who were waiting to come ashore. Thankfully there were several boats travelling at once, making the journey back and forth, back and forth, but I knew it could take hours before he would arrive. I settled in for the long wait, my heart steadily pounding in my chest.

The aircraft carrier sat still in the distance, firmly grounded to the sea. The sailors were tiny dots, growing larger with each wave. My heart leapt and sunk with each small boat’s arrival. Finally he arrived. Dressed in his khaki uniform, with a bag slung over his right shoulder, my love emerged from the boat and stepped steadily onto the dock. I locked my knees to keep from swooning, and when he approached the waiting area I ran into his arms. Our embrace was sweaty and tight, his lips salty and sweet. I looked into his eyes for the first time since that cold, dark January morning when he had left for what was scheduled to be a three week underway. Then bombs were dropped in Iraq and everything changed. Now here we were, eight months later, embracing in the heat of summer in a foreign land where I never thought I would have the courage to journey. The long separation had forced me to exit my comfort zone and travel halfway around the world alone. It was worth the fear to see his smiling face, to feel his palm in mine.

The happiness of that moment was pure and deep. We only had a few short days together before I would journey home to wait out the final month of deployment. But we had made it this far, and I knew in that moment that we could survive anything.

The Art of Deception

With another Christmas season in the rear view mirror, I have been thinking a lot about the lies we tell our children to keep the magic alive. It may seem harsh to say it that way, but it's true. And I am not very good at sneaking around. Take the Tooth Fairy for instance. Paul has lost five teeth, and each time I need to sneak into his room to retrieve a tooth and leave some quarters I have an overwhelming fear of being caught. What would I do if his little eyes popped open and discovered that Mom was the Tooth Fairy? He lost tooth #4 at school and I carefully placed it in a tissue and put it under his pillow. That night I was out and when hubby put Paul to bed they could't find the tooth. I went back during the night, feeling around in the dark for the missing tooth. Eventually I gave up, slid the money under his pillow and hoped he wouldn't roll over and discover the missing tooth. Thankfully my deep sleeper didn't hear me rummaging around, and I found the tooth in the sheets the next day when the boy was at school.
This Christmas as I was putting Santa presents under the tree I had a similar fear of getting caught. Paul said he wanted to "catch Santa" by staying awake and hoping to spot him coming down the chimney. As I sat on the couch munching on carrots and gingerbread cookies I kept a watchful eye toward the hallway leading into our family room. Every noise worried me (which did not stop me from slurping up the milk) and I tried to formulate some sort of explanation should my eldest make an appearance. Again, I was saved by deep sleep.
There will come a day, hopefully not too soon, where the boys will realize that mom and dad are the ones buying the gifts and putting them under the tree each year. What will be the punishing blow? For my eldest niece, it was the discovery of a box containing all her baby teeth. Her mother had performed elaborate feats to keep my niece's beliefs alive for a long time, and the day she discovered the box of teeth was difficult and painful. Everything fell like dominoes and my mother-in-law needed to comfort her granddaughter for hours as she cried away the magical mysteries of childhood. The good thing about my boy is that despite his penchant for the practical, he has a strong spark of imagination. He sleeps with a row of stuffed animals and his sacred blue blanket every night, talking with them in a secret language that only he understands. It makes me smile because, despite our lack of genetic connection, we share a similar spirit. I too spoke to my stuffed animals and had a secret language that I shared with my invisible friends. It is that spirit that will keep Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny alive a bit longer. I have a feeling that even when he figures it all out, he will still want to participate in the ritual and will still appreciate the magic of Christmas. I hope we can hang on for a few more years. Seeing the faces of my boys light up when they got what they wished for was an amazing moment. Paul even got a few extra things that weren't on his modest list. It was worth all the lies and scamming, the sneaking around with bags and special wrapping paper, to experience the pure joy of a childhood miracle.

Trying not to be Grinch-y

I like Christmas, I really do. But it has been difficult getting into the spirit this year. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Christmas has been in the stores and on the radio since Halloween, or perhaps it is the fact that instead of snow it is currently a balmy 60 degrees out, or perhaps my head isn't screwed on just right. Whatever the reason, the stores or the snow, I just can't seem to find joy this season. Last year at this time my husband's family was dealing with the fatal illness of my father-in-law. We were able to spend the holiday with him before he passed, so I know this year is going to be sad and painful for the family. I can remember the first Christmas after my grandmother died, I fell to the floor in tears when I tried making cookies in her old mixer. It will be hard to stay upbeat during our first Christmas without Pop-pop. But my melancholy stems from more than the empty place at the table. Because of my lack of work this fall, we've had to pinch pennies, and I fear the boys will be disappointed to find out just how tight Santa's budget was. Thankfully they each kept their lists short, but Paul somehow managed to single out the most expensive, discontinued toys on the market. Instead of circling in the catalogs this year, he went into one of his collector's books to find ideas. I blame the stores again. Their giant toy catalogs came out in early November and I recycled them. Oops. Alas, I have been exploring the wonders of E-bay and hoping there aren't crazy man-children living in their parents' basement waiting to outbid me at the last second. Sorry, that was a cruel stereotype. I just spent time yesterday watching in depth videos of children's toys narrated by men. Weird.
But as the Grinch discovers, Christmas came without "packages, boxes or bags." It should be about family, togetherness and tradition. Hubby and I have been trying to develop new traditions with the boys and hopefully some of them will stay in their hearts long after the wrapping paper has been tossed into the recycling bin. My big sister is coming in this weekend to make cookies with me and the boys and I plan to make a mess and not be overly controlling if that is genetically possible. John is excited about making snow flakes to decorate the kitchen (and make up for the mud outside). Somehow I'll get myself in the spirit. But I will not, under any circumstances, be carving the roast beast.

My Writing Adventure

Writing is something I have always loved. There is a box in our basement filled with folders of poetry and old journals that chronicle my life from elementary school through college and slightly beyond. I've affectionately labeled it "Pandora's Box" because whenever I open it I get sucked into reading overly-dramatic drivel for hours. The husband has been instructed to burn Pandora's Box when I die. It's that bad. But lately I have been trying to refine my talents, fueled by the success of my adoption article and the encouragement of family and friends. I have been entering writing contests and working on a YA novel. Things are slowly falling into place and some days I think it may actually be possible to become a successful writer! Then I start cruising the Internet and become completely overwhelmed. Writing is no longer about sitting in a secluded cabin by the sea typing away and then stuffing your manuscript into a manila envelope and hoping for the best. It's about getting yourself out there on social media and promoting your work and the work of others in your field. Once an introvert's dream job, a career in writing now seems more about who you know and how you can use your social skills to get published. That truly frightens this little introvert, who prefers to spend her days holed up away from society where I can remain equally fascinated and disgusted by the human race but take as little part in it as possible. But I want to be a successful writer, and that means stepping out of my comfortable imaginary cabin by the sea and interacting. Thankfully, I have started to make some new friends in the writing world who are not only providing motivation to keep working on my projects but also some much needed guidance. I am learning how to use Twitter (follow me!), write more efficiently with cool software, and query agents (must finish something first of course). It is downright scary, but it feels like the right path. Who knows, maybe people out there in the literary world want to hear what I have to say. Which would totally rock my world.

Why oh Why...

...is my four and a half year old peeing the bed almost every night? We did not go through this with our oldest. When he was four I took him for his annual physical and when the nurse asked if he was potty-trained I proudly said yes. Through the night? she queried. Well, no he still wears a pull-up. Not fully potty-trained she logged into the laptop. Ugh. We went home and created a sticker calendar to keep track of dry days. If he could make it to ten days in a row I would buy him the pack of water guns he so desperately coveted. It was a painful few months of near accomplishment (seven days! eight days!! nine days!!! oops), but by early summer he was fully trained. And has not had an accident since. We tried a similar approach with John when he turned four. His reward of choice was a new Spiderman bike helmet. It took a bit longer, but he was finally able to make it ten days in a row and was rewarded with his new helmet. And then, the setbacks began. He would be dry for a few nights, then wake up completely drenched in pee. I was up changing his pajamas and sheets at all hours of the night, wondering how one little body could produce so much waste. We tried limiting his fluids after school - half glass of milk with dinner and only a mouthful of water with teeth brushing. That has reduced the quantity a little but hasn't stopped the bed wetting. We tried waking him up before we went to sleep and bringing him into the bathroom for a sleep-walking toilet visit. That also helped a little, but sometimes he would pee before we got there, especially if we were up late. The weird thing about all of this is that he gets out of bed during the night - sometimes two to three times - to use the bathroom by himself. I know this because he turns on the light, which shines through our bedroom door directly into my face. At 2 am. And then neglects to turn it off. (We have to keep the door open for the cat who will scratch relentlessly if she cannot go in and out freely.) The worst part of the whole bed-wetting process is that his laundry consistently smells like pee. He pulls off the wet pajamas and stuffs them inside out into his laundry basket. In the morning he proudly announces that he is dry and little do I know he has only been dry since 4 am when he changed his clothes. When I go to do laundry I find wet underwear balled up inside wet pajamas, and EVERYTHING STINKS! When I try to talk to him about it, he grins at me and laughs. LAUGHS! Huh?? Is that some sort of defense mechanism? Why do you think this is funny? I ask. Do you like the smell of pee? No. Do you want to go back to wearing diapers at night? No. Then please please stop peeing the bed. Help!

Settling In

In the early part of my adulthood, time was measured by duty stations. We never stayed anywhere for very long, and my memories involve temporary jobs, unfamiliar towns and strange weather. Now that I have been a mom for seven years (as of tomorrow), time is measured by milestones and holidays. The family is setting down roots in a place I never expected: our hometown. And my memories involve birthday cakes and Halloween costumes. I'm not going to lie - I miss that nomadic lifestyle, a lifestyle that involved throwing out whatever didn't fit in the moving van, discovering new neighborhoods and reinventing myself every few months. But we are here now, and we are settled. The husband started a new job, the boys are happy at school and have tons of friends and we have family right around the corner. Every year we bust out the Halloween decorations and devise new ways to scare the neighborhood kids. Every winter we head to the park in our neighborhood to sled down the hill. Every birthday is celebrated with a crazy cake and the grandparents are there to watch my boys blow out their candles. Life has become traditions and settling in. It's an odd mix of comfort and anxiety. Is this what the next 15+ years will be? The same thing year after year with slightly taller children? Is that really so bad?