We're Here. . .If not in mind, then in spirit.

And...we're here.  

Well, the kids and I are here.  Bill is still packing and moving like a banshee.  (Do they even move or was that a silly analogy?)

Here's the thing about moving.  It's terrible.  I've done it about 300 times and you'd think with that much experience, I'd be much more efficient.  I am terrible.  I procrastinate (not only with moving but mostly at life), pack slowly and with care until it's the last possible minute and the moving truck has pulled up...and then everything goes into trash bags.

Usually, the dishes are packed nicely and labeled appropriately and absolutely everything else is a free for all.

This move has not disappointed.

And that's why I'm here and Bill's not.  Well that, and the fact that we're at my folks, and really. . .who wants to be all rushing over to live with their in laws? They're my folks and I'm already scaling the walls.

The good news was that Cole took the move perfectly fine.  I think that kid could be perfectly happy surrounded by fire and brimstone so long as he had his Thomas trains and a few tractors.  And I was worried. . .geesh.  Matilda is far too young to be a concern at this point . . .except that I have to sleep with her in my room.  My new roomie is a light sleeper, by the way.  Of course she is. . .

So I expect Bill to join this crazy train any day now.  He's been driving back and forth, dropping off more trash bags (damn it, Erika!) and then takes off again to return with more.  I unload the trash bag, usually decide it's filled with crap I should have never owned to begin with, and file it away in the "donation" pile.  Which. Is. Huge.

Another good thing about moving here is that my folks are TV addicts and now I have about 1 bazillion channels.  I'm sort of excited to watch my first episode of "Hoarders."  I've heard it's a blast.  And I have a funny feeling it'll look a little bit like here. . .

I'll post some pictures when I finally get to the trash bag that has the camera.  Until then, send good vibes our way. . .we could use some love.  And if nothing else, think of the blog fodder this situation will provide!

Flight, please. With wine.

When we last left Erika, she was preparing to move her family into her parent's home IN THREE DAYS. . .

I have a confession. I don't want to move.

It's not that I don't want to leave this place; I could take it or leave it and I'm not sentimental anyway. It's just that the more I think about how life is really going to be. . .like, everyday. . .with my folks. . .the more I realize that this might have been a very. bad. idea.
My answer to this has been to do nothing. That, too, has been a terrible idea.

Bill said to me yesterday that "if it doesn't have to do with the internet or wine, you're not interested." Ouch. Okay, true, but ouch. That sentence is also taken out of context. We were having a brief moment of laughter and happiness at the time and he was kidding.

And when I say "kidding" what I really mean is. . .no. He wasn't.

I've always been interested in wine. And the internet is just where I've been lately because the boxes and the packing and the thought of having to ask my dad to stop feeding Cole marshmallows for breakfast is just not a place I want to be right now. And I'm definitely one of those flight people. Rarely a fighter. Always a flighter. Preferably with wine.

My mind starts wandering to all those little quirks of theirs [and mine, because what's that they say about apples and trees?] that will have to be sorted out in the quirk-sorter-outter. Like how my mom faaa-REAKS when anyone runs down the stairs. . .

Well, she did when I was 16, anyway. And that was the last time I ran down her stairs.

And she hates when I load the dishwasher. Bill hates it, too. . .but he deals. I mean, seriously. . who cares what it looks like as long as they get clean, right? She hates it when I let Cole eat in the living room. Also, probably a bad idea but c'mon. . .choose your battles. She always thinks Matilda's diapers are too tight. She doesn't understand why I "waste my money on organic" or why a gym membership is a priority for me when we get there.

Her oven doesn't work properly. And she doesn't care because it's just the two of them and she doesn't cook, anyway. Just the thought of trying to cook meals in a toaster oven has kept me up at night. . .

seriously?
there are people who cook entire hams in toaster ovens?

It's not my mom. I'm just a daughter and moms are easier targets than dads. And it's not all this silly stuff, either.

It's the point that we won't have our own. . .home. Does that make sense? And it's just not somewhere I'm rushing to get to.

All the reasons we are doing this are still there. My folks need help. We do, too. Being together will be great for the kids. When this is all said and done we'll realize that it was the right thing to do. And the comforts of having my own home and tailoring to my own little quirks won't nearly be as front and center as they are now.

But now is where I am today. And why Bill is ready to pack me in a box and ship me over there. Because I've been useless.

And there it is. My confession. I've been pretty close to useless through this move. And we're T-minus three days.

I'm glad I talked this out with you, because it's helped me to see that I really need to get myself into gear. . .help out and take responsibility for the decision we made. As a family.

A close friend of mine sent me a note when I first told you we were moving. She told me that she lived with her grandparents for awhile growing up and that it was some of the best memories of her childhood. I needed that. And she usually knows exactly what to say, at the right time to say it.

If Cole or Matilda have memories this early in life, they'll remember this time fondly. And. . .if we all survive and make it through to the other side. . .Bill and I will have fond memories of this, too. . .

And hey. . at least I'm finally being forced to whittle down my shoe collection.

Go Team Paradis! :: fist bump ::

an update in pictures

Excuse me for my sheer laziness lately.  I'd like to be able to say I haven't posted because I'm so busy packing, but then Bill would have to comment and call me a liar.  So, I'll just tell you the truth.  I'm lazy.  I'll post more about that at naptime.

For now, check out what we have been doing. . .and by "we" I mean the kids and I.  Bill has been packing all of our stuff. Good thing someone is on point. . .

We spent a night at the beach with Nana and Pops last week. 

he could spend hours and hours just digging in the sand.
and chasing birds.
both are equally important at the beach.

obvious fun (and very little sleep) in the hotel room

a trolley ride with nana that we kept calling a "train". 
huge deal. 
huge.

huge deal for some.
not for others.

Bill and I actually got out together sans children this week, too.  Massive amounts of thanks to my mother in law, who put the darlings to bed and sat in our disheveled living room looking at old pictures until we returned. 

I actually took pictures of my dinner for you. . .that's sort of weird, isn't is?

mussels a la awesomeness

some hand holding over cappuccino

And finally, my sweet little girl has not only gotten her first tooth this week, but has also started to crawl.  Thanks for spreading out the milestones, Till. 




Here's the thing about the 2nd child. . .where you are so excited for these milestones with the first, I could wait forever with the 2nd.  I don't need her to crawl.  I don't need her to walk.  Or talk.  Or eat solids.  Anytime soon.  Because that is. . .so. . .much. .  .more. . .work.


I didn't realize that right around my proverbial parenting corner was the age of "Tilley's tushing me shuft, mum!"  Every.  Three. Minutes. 


So let me issue this disclaimer: while I am very excited and happy for Matilda to be crawling and getting around, this is one more reason that I am not excited to be moving into my parent's house, where we'll have less room than we do here, and have the unfortunate task of somehow separating toys by appropriate age. . .



That said. . .check this out. . .

godzilla of the thomas trains, right?
I'm a-gonna eatchu, Salty!

where I rant about Sears

I should have known better.

I just don't shop at Sears. 

The clothes fit funny.  The kids' clothes are poorly made, overpriced and not cute.  Linens?  Nope. Target carries organic sheets and towels that are much nicer.  Everything at Sears in the mens' department is pleated;  which Bill will be quick to point out, is the male equivalent to an elastic waistband in women's fashion.  This is why my mother loves Sears.  Pleats and elastic waistbands are the cornerstones of her wardrobe. 

Not my point.

My point is that I should have known better.  But I did it anyway.  I had a coupon for 20% off any pair of shoes with free shipping.  How's a bargain huntress supposed to turn that down?  Besides, shoes are shoes and I needed new sneaks.

And don'tchaknow?  Sears was having a sale on New Balance sneakers. . .my total fave.  So I ordered these:

Cute, right?  And, at 20% off with free shipping. . .it was totally worth it.  Plus, I didn't have to enter a Sears.  This is important.  Entering a Sears is half the reason Sears is such a terrible place. . .

Anyway, about three days later, much to my surprise. . .our UPS guy  [Side Note: the UPS guy is super nice, wears adorable little ankle socks with a UPS logo on them, and is pretty easy on the eyes, too.  This may be why I order everything online, including pizza.  My UPS guy does not deliver pizza, it turns out.]
brings me a box from Sears.

And in this box. . .are these. . .

Clearly not my style.  Damn you, Sears.

The packing slip is mine.  The receipt is for a woman in Connecticut who apparently has no fashion sense and is hopefully shopping for her husband.  The receipt is a printed web page, so half the right side of the page is missing, including any referencing account number.

Damn you, Sears.

The only thing for me to do was to pack both children in the van and head the half hour to my local Sears.  Which, you will remember from my previous reference, is the most terrible store to visit. 

As soon as you walk in, you have no idea where you are.  Because I swear, in a fancy-pants boardroom somewhere, Sears executives literally toss pictures of departments up in the air and where they land marks the layout of the store.  Nothing makes sense in Sears.

The women's clothes are next to the jewelry but shoes are downstairs.  So are the housewares.  But linens are upstairs, right next to the men's neckties.  The elevator is no where near the escalator.  They post bathroom signs, but when you follow them, you end up in a fitting room.  Usually men's.  If you try to find a women's fitting room. . .SHAME ON YOU because you shouldn't be trying on anything at Sears in the first place. . .

So we go in.  And I'm instantly pissed off because the shoe department is downstairs.  I loop around the top floor, finally find the elevator, and some Sears employee cuts me off, gets in the elevator, looks at us and pushes the "door close" button over and over until the doors shut.

Typical.

We get to the shoes.  I wait at the register  [Side Note:  there are 437 registers in every Sears and on any given day, they may or may not be operational.  Unfortunately, you won't know until you've been waiting about 22 minutes at one of them for someone to tell you to go wait at another register.  Up on the second floor.].  Approximately 22 minutes later (okay, that's a lie, it was about 4, but still. . .) an employee tells me that the register in shoes is not open today, but I can go to any other register in any other department to be helped. 

"But I have a shoe exchange," I say.  "Will they be able to help me?"

"Uhhh no, ma'am.  They won't.  But they'll call someone in shoes and either they'll come see you or have you come here."

That makes no sense.  I walk away.  I'm mad.  And nothing has even happened yet.

I go to the men's department (because the only men found in Sears are checking out the lawn mowers so I know there won't be a line) and I tell the girl at the counter my story.

She says I need to go to shoes.

I explain to her that I have already spoken to a nice gentleman in shoes and that we should call him.  She does.  He comes to the counter.  Matilda starts to cry.   I tell the two employees that I received the wrong online order.  Very simple.  Tassels are not my thing.  Grey and pink New Balances on sale with free shipping is my thing.  And can I have them?

They tell me to go back to shoes (breathe, Erika) and see if they have the sneakers I wanted in stock and in my size.  Of course they do not.  They do, however, have these cutie patooties. . .

These shoes are more expensive than the ones I ordered.  But you know what?  I'm sick of you, Sears.  And to get you out of my life and to teach myself a lesson, I'll pay the difference.  Besides, these are cuter than the ones I ordered and damn me for not seeing these on the website. . .so I find my size, try them on and take them back to the men's counter. . .

When I get there, the two employees have called a manager over to deal with me.  The manager is on the phone and I hear him say, "Oh fantastic.  That's no problem, the customer will wait another 7 to 10 days.  Thanks again."  I hope he's not talking about me. . .

"Well, come to find out, you don't have my size in the sneakers I ordered but I like these and can pay the difference if we do an exchange," I say to the group.

The manager tells me we cannot.  Because he reordered my sneakers and that I will get them in 7 to 10 days. . . .by FEDEX!  If I'd like to wait the 7 to 10 days, I can bring the shoes back to the store and do an exchange then.  It's bad enough I don't get to see my UPS guy, but why wouldn't they want the extra 20 bucks for my shoe upgrade?  This is absolutely insane.

If Matilda wasn't coming unglued at this point and if I had a few more minutes to spend with the fine folks at Sears, I would have demanded a refund and bought the shoes somewhere else in the mall.  But I was tired.  And my feet hurt.  'Cause ummm . .I DON'T HAVE SNEAKERS.

And this is why I will never shop at Sears again. 

Suppose the trip to the mall wasn't a total loss.  I did end up taking the kids to Starbucks, where I had a beautiful iced caramel macchiato and split a muffin with Cole.  Matilda calmed down and I sat, sipping my macchiato and practicing my deep breathing exercises until the urge to completely flip out subsided.

I'll let you know when I get my shoes.

a post of pictures

I don't have anything important to tell you today, but I am collecting a bunch of candids that I haven't shown you yet.

Here's a post of just pictures. . .

just a boy.
and his 8 rubber cows.
pure toddler bliss.

oh, hallo

this is not a joke.
this is real.
and ridiculous.

pretty serious ice cream problem

sunday mud-pie-making in pajamas

this was mr. snack
I thought it was clever.
Cole took one look at it, and said "no mum."

camping with less whiskey. . .but whiskey nonetheless

In all my thought about motherhood and saving the world. . .I forgot to tell you what the pods and I have been up to this week!

Saturday was our 6 year anniversary. . .

it's still pretty much like this

[Side note:  Why do some people feel the uncontrollable need to tell you that who-the-hell-cares % of marriages break up within the first 7 years?  Seriously?  What is that? And while we're on the subject of complete garbage that comes out of some people's mouths. . .quit asking me if I think that moving in with my parents will strain my marriage.  If I did, we wouldn't be doing it.  Ahhh, thank you.]

To celebrate, we took Cole camping for the night (my, how things have changed. . .). 

Bill and his family used to camp.  I never camped.  The only experience I have with camping has been as an adult, with a bottle of whiskey, talking over a campfire and under the stars with my hubby until the early morning hours.  For.  One.  Night. 
The next morning, we pack up.  We go out for breakfast.  We go home and shower.

We only pulled a one-nighter with Cole but surprisingly, he went to bed when we told him to.  We were able to enjoy each other's company, over a campfire and under the stars (with a bit less whiskey).  It was a great night.

beach toys are multi-functional

we're not out in nature that often, trying to drive buses up trees

slamming an entire roasted marshmallow in his mouth
while wearing his favorite [read: hideous] Thomas tee shirt
and death-gripping a glow stick all night

Then, if that wasn't enough excitement for one week. . .I decided to take the children to a local theatre that puts on kid-themed plays during the summer.

In my defense, I called a few family members to ask if this was a crazy endeavour.  Overwhelmingly, their answer was yes. 

We went anyway.

It took me longer to find a parking spot than it did to get there, so unfortunately, we were a bit late.  We went to see Snow White, and joined the show during the dwarf's "Hi-Ho" bit.  Cole likes that bit.  It still makes me giggle when he walks around the house singing "Hoooooo."  That, and when he messes up his "j" and "d" while trying to say "juice."  Most times sometimes, I act like an 11 year old.

So. . .yeah.  To all you haters (mainly my brother and father) who said I couldn't handle two little ones in a quiet theatre. . .I not only did it, but made it look good.  Well, we got there late and sat in the back of the balcony. . .that might have helped, too.

Anyway, here's the thing. . .

I'm a terrible photographer.  Which is unfortunate, because I'm the one that takes all the pictures.  This theatre was so adorable and would have made for great pictures. 

I just can't take nice pictures.

Look at this fantastic picture that someone else took of the place:

and this is just the front of the joint

Now, look at the picture I took:

wtf? 
no, I don't know who that is
and I swear I didn't see her adjusting her britches when I snapped the picture

So, I would have enjoyed showing you how much my little man (and baby girl, btw!) loved the theatre.  The only crying to be had was when the house lights came up and it was time to go.  We did manage to hunt Snow White down so Cole could snuggle her legs a little before we went home.  Guess that stuff starts as early as you'll let it.

You know, as an aside. . .head over to Dear Baby for a bit and check out her lovely pictures of dovie, as her little one is affectionally nicknamed.  Beautiful pictures of a beautiful family. . .maybe I could benefit from a photography class. . .that's a thought.

Is it. . .enough?

So here's the thing. . .

A few weeks ago I run out of the house to knock off a few errands. . . i.e.: hair is a mess, minimal to no makeup, kids may or may not be in their pajamas, and it's possible I'm still in mine, too.  And don'tchaknow. . .this is when you run into people that you wished you hadn't.

I run into this girl that I used to work with before children, when I had a job.  Well, when I had a job that I wore supportive underwear to.  That's not so much a necessity at my current job.  Okay, so. . .this girl. . .

. . .has two kids of her own now.  About Cole's age.  Cute little things. . .twins.  She works full time and so does her husband.  Kids go to "Toddler Camp" on the weekends.  Kids have a nanny.  I think, 'man. . .wish I had a nanny.'  Then I realize, I am the nanny.  I think about Rebecca De Mornay's character in "The Hand that Rocks the Cradle", (such a great movie, btw!) smile and realize I'm not giving this woman my full attention.   And I let her continue. . .

. . .and she finishes, looks me up. and. down. . .[side note: I'm pretty sure she looked me up and down although I'm willing to throw out there that it might have been my own insecurities about still having yesterday's mascara smeared under my eyes that made me feel that way. . .but still.  For dramatic purposes, let's say she did.  And meant it.] . . . and asks, "So what are you up to, now?"

I look at my two darlings, (one, btw is strapped to me in her carrier, covered in drool and gumming the spit-up left behind on the bib of the carrier. . .the other. . I'm pretty sure, was picking his nose and wiping it on his stroller. . .) . . .and say, "well, this."  Like, der. 

The woman, whom I remember having some sense about the world (that she's clearly lost since then) says. . .
. . ."so, that's enough?"

What?  Enough?  What's enough?  It's enough that I've wasted this much time talking to you. . .if that is what you're talking about.  And I go into this very sophisticated rant thing that I do when you've offended me and I need to show you that yes, I'm still an intelligent human being. . .and while we're at it. . .what were you thinking when you bought those shoes? 

This actually never happened.  I probably just tilted my head a little off to the right when I do when I'm confused because she clarified. . .

". . . uh, I mean. . .staying home with the kids?  That's enough to keep you happy, is it?  I just couldn't do it.  Seems incredibly boring.  Might make you loose your mind, too.  Think I've read that somewhere.  You know, stay-at-home-mom's IQ levels dip or something for each year they are home. . ."

Ohhhh Jesus.   Are you kidding me?  We're going to do this? In the middle of the local Shop-O-Rama, too?

I said (seriously, no joke here). . ."Yeah.  It's more than enough.  I can't really think of anything more important than being the one that raises my own kids.  Have a good one."

AND. . .true story. . .by the time I got home, she had sent me a Facebook friend request.  What is wrong with people?!?

Of course this gets me thinking. . .

I always thought it was an absolute privilege to be home with the kids.  Not always attractive.  Not always sunshine and "shank you mums" or even rewarding.  But nothing is.  Not even your fancy little job that you still have and I don't.  I thought moms that worked had a way tougher job than I did. . . going to work each day and coming home to do the things I've had all day to do.  But they still would rather be home. . .right? 

Is that crazy?  Do moms (or dads. . .) want to work all week and still send the kids to Toddler Camp on the weekends?  Hmmm.  Crazy thought.  Maybe I'm the one that's crazy. . .

I have way less money.  Less sanity.  Less fancy clothes or places to wear them.  But I have more time with the kids.  I get to see all the "firsts", first.  I see the yucky and the wonderful and the "ahh-wished-you-hadn't-rubbed-that-into-the-couch." moments.   Who wouldn't want that? 

You know, I'll admit, my pendulum is a bit swayed.  I never send the kids anywhere.  My mother-in-law asks pretty much weekly to take them off our hands so I can spent 5 minutes with the hubby not covered in spit-up.  I could do better with that.  But it's tough to imagine not wanting to do what I do. . .even if I complain from time to time. 

I mean, come on. . .who doesn't complain about what they do from time to time.  In fact, I remember that being a pretty big part of my daily grind when I worked at that "real" job of hers. . .

So here's my question. . .

Would you choose to stay home with the kids if you could?  If money was no issue?  If some sacrifice would make it work?  Or does leaving the house each day with a different identity and a different job to do help you be a better mom when you get home?

And is staying home . . .enough?

I'm enjoying it.

a day at the fair

We went to the fair a few days ago.

Talk about a little guy's heaven!  There were horses and pigs and sheep-shearing and oxen pulls.  Lines and lines of tractors (Cole's new favorite thing. . ."shrackters mum!") and a Ferris wheel (which I don't mess with. . .are those things even inspected?!?) and pony rides. 

Let's not even discuss fair food.  Okay, let's. . .cotton candy and blooming onions. Corn dogs.  Fresh lemonade and hand-cut fries.  "Elephant ears."  A beer garden.  Four words:  sweet. cream. ice. cream.  Amen. 

Unfortunately, Bill had to work but Matilda, Cole and I went with my brother, sister in law and my sweet baby niece. . . or, as Cole calls them. . . "Shack, Auntie and Cora." It was nice to have the help.  I don't realize that you don't really get the opportunity to do things with one child when you're lugging two.

Here are some pictures from our day:

public toilets are exceptionally interesting

shorts must be optional for pony rides.  tattoos welcome.

discussing oxen pulls

clearly the hat is too large, but just look at those big, brown eyes

A Quick Update: I'll Probably Have a Curfew

There's all kinds of things I've been wanting to post about this week.  We went to the farm, I ran into a girl I used to work with who was all snarky with me about being a SAHM, Matilda's started solids, blah blah. . .but my mind is still obsessing revolving around the fact that we have decided to move. 

I'm having serious amounts of anxiety this week.

So, quick story:  My dad had a liver transplant a few weeks ago.  Some know that, some don't and either way, it's his business that I'm throwing out to you all on the interweb. . .so that's why I've been hesitant to say much.  But it's had a pretty big effect on our family and therefore, is fair game. ;-)  He's doing well, and we're doing well, but it's a long recovery.  Very long.

And it requires plenty of help from all kinds of people, willing to do all kinds of things.  And that's where this move comes into play.  Our plan is to move back into my parent's home for a little while.  There are things around the house and with my dad that we can help with and we need the help, too.  It's a good time to stop, reevaluate what we've been doing, and make the changes that need to be made. 

Sometimes, if you don't admit that you need to do that. . .you just keep going in the wrong direction.  Keep doing the same things, over and over.  The same way.  Because that's what you know.  And really, when better to do this then when I can also be helpful to someone else that I love very much?  So. . .score.  You know, as much as moving back in with your folks can be a score. . .

Bill said to me the other day that in most countries, its normal for generations and generations live together under one roof.  He always tries to be so positive.  I wonder if those generations yell at each other about using all the hot water in the shower.  Or that the dishwasher is loaded incorrectly.  Or that the TV is on volume 400 all. day. long.

There's the obvious concern of what happens when you put people together that haven't been together like that in a long time. There's parenting issues we'll have to deal with.  Some quite simple like, not feeding my toddler marshmallows at all hours of the day or night.  Some a bit tougher like, how do grandparents get to be all spoiley with their grand kids if we live there.  all. the. time? 

We'll figure it out.  And it's only for a short time.  Although when I write that, I hear myself say "yeah, okay. . ."

You know, we're so fortunate that we have great relationships with both of our families.  For a lot of folks, something like this wouldn't even be an option.  I know the kids will be better off for it, and it'll make me feel useful, too.  There's just a lot of things swirling in my head right now and I'm sure I'll need to be back here more often for some sanity.  Well, that. . .and maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to map out the local bar.

I'll keep you posted but right now the plan is to be there by the end of the month.  If we're scarce until then, you know why.

We've had a pretty busy week!  I took Cole and Matilda to the farm to see the animals.  Such a hit.  When we got home, it took Cole 2 hours to settle down and stop mooing enough to take a nap.  Now that's a kid that likes livestock. . .

there was a stand-off with a sheep

seconds before a freak out while being swarmed by chickens

standing back to admire the goats

there was a retreat from the sheep