Mission Impossible

Your mission, should you chose to accept it:

Turn this

Into this.  Ish.

I have average intelligence.  Not only should I never have touched this one with a ten-foot pole, but I should have run from it, screaming, with all the life left in me.

But there's this little phenomenon called the Do It Yourself blog post, where perky people assure you that these kinds of transformations can occur in roughly a week--all while working around your busy toddler's erratic nap schedule.  

And I'm kind of a tight-wad.  Living in a place where I know very few people and trust even less of them.  And where I'm 2,000ish miles from Nelson Construction--the only people I would ever consider paying to accomplish this.

So in desperation, I Google searched.  And spent an hour on Pinterest.  After reading just a couple of these DIY entries plus a trip to Home Depot and the Benjamin Moore paint store, I was fully armed with the tools and  most importantly, the ego necessary to begin.  

That was four days ago.  

My kitchen now looks like this.

And there's still all of this that hasn't even been TOUCHED yet.

I swear those cabinet doors are having babies over in that corner.  Every.single.time. I walk by, there are more of them.

I am nowhere near finished.  At this rate, I'm shooting for a completion date around Eldest Bro's high school graduation reception.  June-ish of 2016.

So even though "Carpenter Casey" has a nice, albeit Sesame Street-y ring to it, I'm pretty certain it is not ever going to be a thing.  Ever.

And the Do It Yourself blog is very possibly the spawn of Satan.

And So It Begins Again

Well, that was the world's shortest summer ever.

I had such grandiose plans.  We were going to get so much accomplished.

Instead, we finally cleaned out our garage and we didn't kill each other.

And now it's back to the grind.  

Don't they look excited?

    Way to represent, Kiddo! Go Royals!!

This kid will likely get to add "homework" to his list of birthday presents.  He is so unbelievably lucky.

        My baby.  Middle school.  Sigh.

What a Difference a Year Makes

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One year ago today, in the wee hours of the morning--so early as to still be considered the previous day by most, I tearfully hugged amazing friends who spent the better part of a school night helping me with last-minute packing and cleaning.

One year ago today, my oldest daughter and I walked to the nearby convenience store to grab a quart of milk for breakfast.  The fridge was essentially empty and the car already on its way.  I don't remember what we talked about on the way or the way back, but I remember knowing that I sure was going to miss getting to hang with this beautiful girl/woman whenever I wanted.  And I remember worrying about being 1000+ miles away from her.

One year ago today, my three younger children checked and double-checked their bags, weighing them one last time just to make sure they were under the plane's 50 lb weight limit.

One year ago today, our dear friends Chad and Sarah, let their sweet daughter skip school just to see my sweet daughter off.  AND they loaned us their car, because we had too many people, and too much stuff, to load into one.

One year ago today, I read Alexander, Who Is Not (Do You Hear Me, I Mean It!) Going to Move to my kids.  And I cried.

One year ago today, my best friend took the day off of work, loaded up her car as well, and took us to the airport.

One year ago today, my mother drove four hours to surprise us at said airport for one last goodbye.

One year ago today, I ugly-cried harder than I maybe ever have in my life.  So did my youngest.  I'm surprised the TSA let us board the airplane without some serious proof that I was indeed her mother and not, in fact, a crazy kidnapper/suicide bomber.

One year ago today, we met Better Half in at an airport in a new city where we knew absolutely no one.  He was so excited to see us and I was so, well, not excited to be there.

One year ago today, I could hardly see the scenery around me through the blur of tears threatening to fall, let alone appreciate it.

One year ago today, I walked through the house that would be my new home.  I couldn't for one second imagine making a life in it.  It was so different from the house I had loved and left and of which I had so many memories.

One year ago today, I worried that my children would hate school.  That they wouldn't make friends.  That they'd be miserable.

One year ago today, I worried that I wouldn't make friends.  I worried even more that I'd never want to.  And that I'd be miserable.

One year ago today, I cried myself to sleep in a strange, small apartment where I had just seen a roach.




Today I woke up in my bedroom, surrounded by my things that work just as well in this house as they did in the old one.  I got a cup of coffee from my kitchen that sports a five-people-live-here kind of clutter.

Today I kissed my husband "good morning" with a smile on my face instead of tears in my eyes.  And I noticed yet again how great he looks.  He is challenged and valued at his work.  He's thriving in this climate--with mountains and the ocean practically in our backyard.

Today I was reminded that he lived my dream for eighteen years, and it's an honor to be living his.

Today, my daughter woke up excited about 7th grade orientation, her California Bestie spending the day with us, and a youth group party tonight.

Today, I dropped forms off in the school office and was greeted by name and with a smile by a fellow parent.

Today, my boys headed to the nearby gym for a workout--excited for the upcoming fall baseball season.  They have plans today with friends and with teammates.

Today, I noticed how beautiful the mountains look.

Today, my kids may not be looking forward to school starting (or they aren't admitting it), but I know that they'll see familiar faces in class and they'll have friends to sit with at lunch.

Today, we still miss our friends back "home" very much.  But if we were to leave here, there would be people we would miss just as much.

Today, I still wish that I could grab my oldest daughter--now truly an adult, but always my child--and take her for a cup of coffee or have her stop by for a chat whenever we want, but I am so incredibly proud of how she's making her own way in the world.




The sun has amazing and healing powers.

Especially the ones that come simply because planet Earth faithfully makes a complete trek around it, over and over and over again.

What a difference a year makes.

My, How Time Flies!

I could swear it happened yesterday.

It certainly feels like it did.  I remember it with that much clarity.

The day that they put him into my arms and I officially "met" him for the first time.  

I was terrified.  

I didn't know if I would have enough love for two.  

I'm a book-reading, introverted, not-at-all-athletic, well...girl.  

The child I had managed to keep alive for the two years prior to that point?  Girl.

I had serious doubts about my abilities to talk Hot Wheels or Transformers, play catch, or (let's just be real, here) sit through a sporting event of any kind.  

But as I held him that evening so long ago and looked at his sweet face, I realized there was more than enough love.   

I realized that whatever it was, if he loved it and was interested in it, I would love it and be interested in it too.

So now I know all about stuff like NASCAR.  

I can hold my own in a conversation about Orka whales.  Or I could when he was four.

I can still recite the entire dialogue of Toy Story and sing most of the Veggie Tales songs.

I now know that you can laugh so hard that you cry about things like farts and burps and underpants.  Not because you yourself think these things are funny, but because your child's belly laugh is so incredibly infectious.

I finally know the difference between a double and a double play.  

As well as the fact that an official is a "Ref" in football and an "Ump" or "Blue" in baseball.  

I know the indescribable joy coupled with the agonizing heartbreak of watching a tiny baby morph into a little boy and again into a young man before my very eyes.  

And again.  I can hardly believe it.  

Because when I think about this person who completely changed my life seventeen years ago, this is who I kind of still expect to see.

But I'll admit.  This is pretty great, too.

So many happy returns of the day, Kiddo!  

I absolutely love being your mom.

Heart Healthy

“There is no exercise better for the heart than reaching down and lifting people up.” 
― John Holmes

So today, my son and I stopped at a convenience store on the way to his baseball practice.  He wanted to pick up a Gatorade.

We pulled into a parking space and he immediately got out of the car and started to head toward the door.

And because I'm, well, me, it took me a few seconds longer.  

Two people were sitting at a table outside the front door.  They had bags next to them that appeared to hold all of their posessions.  

It's no shocker to anyone that this is a frequent occurrence in Southern California.  

As I  closed the door to the car and hurried to join my son, the woman said something to him.

I couldn't hear her words.  

But I saw my son. 

Without hesitation, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket, opened it, extracted some bills, and handed them to the woman.  

Summer jobs are hard to come by for teenagers in SoCal.  My kid has been earning money by helping his friend's dad with landscaping.  He's been getting up early, spending hours in the hot sun, digging trenches, picking rock, and planting flowers.  It's hard, dirty, exhausting manual labor.   

I heard her say, "God bless you."  

I heard the man with her ask him a question about his baseball uniform.  My son chatted briefly with the man about baseball and then said goodbye. I smiled at the couple, and he and I entered the store

I have never been more in awe of or inspired by the man this kid is turning out to be than I was in that moment.  

Because in that moment I realized that if he never rinses out his cereal bowl or takes out the trash without being reminded, or always keeps his clothes jumbled up in a laundry basket on the floor in his bedroom, it won't matter.

He's got a well-exercised, healthy heart that will serve humanity for a long time.

The Difference Between Boys and Girls

Running has become somewhat of a family affair at my house.  And lest I doubt whether or not there is an innate difference between boys and girls...



What running with my daughter looks like.

What running with my son looks like.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And while we're on the subject of kids and differences--

Nelly and I stopped at a convenience store for a drink after a baseball game the other day.  

"Insane thirst" and "urgent need to find a restroom" are introducing me to all sorts of areas I might not otherwise see here in LaLa Land.

Let's just say that this particular location upon which we stumbled is probably best frequented during daylight hours. 

Anyway, while we were inside, this man kept hovering around us.  He wasn't threatening, or rude exactly, but he just felt a little "close."  

And I noticed that I kept positioning myself in such a way that my 5' 9", "completely ripped" sixteen-going-on-seventeen, son was between me and the hovering man.

Hello?!?!

When did THAT happen?  

I swear that if  we had entered that convenience store just yesterday, I would have scooped up my little red-headed four-year-old in my arms--physically placing myself between my son and the stranger.

And before everyone  the three of you who read this get crazy thinking that I'm a horrible person, please know that had that guy pulled a knife or a gun, you wouldn't believe the mad Ninja skills I'd summon to get between him and my kid.  

It's just gone by too. stinking. fast.  Them being little and stuff.

I love them.  My teenagers and adult children.  They are the coolest people on the planet.  And I feel blessed every day to get to be their mom.

But sometimes I really miss the kids that they were.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In completely unrelated news--

I think our kitty might have been bitten by a radioactive spider.

The Truth About Cats and Dogs

I am not a dog person.

I am neither comfortable with this truth, nor am I one-hundred percent resigned to it.

The "me" that lives in my mind has an adorable, perfectly behaved chocolate colored "doodle" of some kind curled up sweetly at my feet as I write this.  She was also free, completely house trained at six weeks,  doesn't chew, never gets on the furniture, only needs to go to the bathroom once a day, and she never smells like dog.  

See.  It totally makes sense why this scenario only exists in my mind.

We've owned dogs in the past.  And we're bad at it.

I'm the kind of person who still--even after over nineteen years of parenting--thinks that potty training was one of the top 10 ... 5 ... 3 worst things I've ever had to deal with as a mother.   

I did manage to hang in there with it for my four sweet little people who called me "Mommy" and gave me hugs and kisses and told me they'd never grow up and always love me best.

But I cannot hang in there with it for a dog.  I just can't.  So eventually I give up, send the dog outside to live, and periodically send the children out to put bricks in the holes under the fence where it digs to escape.

And their smell.  I just can't do it.  When I pick up a pet, I want it to smell good. Every time.  Not just within the first 30 seconds of having it groomed.  

But despite  these things, I still think I should be a dog person.  I see people's dogs and I want them.  I've convinced myself that if I just find the PERFECT dog, I'll become a dog person.

So I spend a significant amount of time on places like Petfinder and Craigslist and Doodle breeder sites.  And I drive Better Half to drink by emailing and texting him links to potential perfect dog candidates all day long.  

He's so awesome about it, though.  He says we'll discuss it.  He lovingly shows me our backyard--beautifully landscaped without an inch of grass anywhere.  And the pool.  And he reminds me that I think it's gross when people's dogs swim in their pools.  And that our pool guy might not find us so wonderful to work for if he has to clean dog hair out of a pool filter all the time.  He reminds me that it's not fun to HAVE to be outside with a dog at 6 am, even if the median temperature where we live is 70 degrees.  He sweetly reminds me that we spend hours.  HOURS.  away on weekends for baseball games, swim meets, and the like.  He wonders aloud what the cost of boarding an dog would be in SoCal for two weeks when we "vacation" to Kansas.  (Probably close to what it cost for he and I to go to London for 7 days a few years ago.)  He declares emphatically that if we get a dog, he's not taking care of it.

So this Father's Day, I gave him the best gift ever.

I waved the white flag of surrender.  I promised him that I would stay off of Petfinder, Craigslist, and the like, and I would stop asking for a dog.  I even wrote this down in his Father's Day card and signed my name to it and everything.

I am not a dog person.  There.  I said it.

But in the interest of being true to myself...

I AM a cat person.

Cats fit my personality.  I admire their independence. It doesn't creep me out to see them curled up on a couch or a bed.  I love that you just have to show them where the litter box is and you're done. I love that the SkyMall catalog advertises a system by which you can teach your cat to use your toilet to go to the bathroom.  I also think that there are very few things that would be more disgusting than walking in the bathroom and finding cat poo in your toilet, but I still think it's wicked-awesome that you can even teach a cat to use the toilet.  Dogs just don't have the necessary skills.

Anyhow... Better Half was just so happy that the Craigslist link that showed up in his email a week ago Saturday wasn't a dog (or a huge wrought-iron chandelier for him to install in the dining room with no directions), that he said "Yes...as long as I never have to scoop the litter box."  to her:

Of course this kitty had a catch.

 I had to pay someone a $20 "re-homing fee" for her.  I'm certain that my Kansas friends are laughing and groaning as they read this.  Specifically my Kansas friend who has a litter or two of kittens every year at her house that she gives away For. FREE.

And it gets better.  It's not like I paid someone twenty bucks because some mama kitty chose to have her babies on her owner's $250 leather coat and that poor lady needs some cash for the dry-cleaner's.  Or because she had to be bottle-fed, or because she's already had her her first set of shots, is de-wormed, and her current owners just want to recoup a little bit of the cash they put into her..   Nope.  Apparently she was a stray who followed someone home.  And that person thought she'd make an easy $20--SoCal-style.  With a "re-homing" fee.

I don't care.  Too much.  She's darling.  And I love her.

I don't have to walk her at 6am.

When I bury my nose in her fur she smells delicious.

She "devours" books.

She matches the furniture.

She has great "taste."  

Her favorite hangout--on top of my stack of Eating Well magazines.

This is her favorite toy.  And I'm happy to spend hours reading books while holding the end of the stick playing with her.

And the kids like her.  

We named her Calypso.  

And I'm happy.  As a cat person.