the hood of mother, Uncategorized

monday thoughts on motherhood (because musings was just too precious sounding)


Monday mornings are such an ego boost as a stay as a stay at home mom. Nate informs the kids that “Daddy is going to work and you’re going to stay home with mommy”. Children greet this news with wailing and gnashing of teeth, words being inadequate to express their horror at this fate and all.

I don’t really blame them. I like this guy too and weekends are the best because he’s in them. Also he took that first picture from our house this morning instead of waking me up to see it. Yet another reason to love him.


We spent last week camped in our basement and the bedrooms because the floors were being replaced and the spindles on our split level house were out meaning anyone could hurl themselves down at any moment so we had to stay out of the main living areas. It was awful. In a very first world sense of awful. Because seriously, we have a basement to live in. And now that it’s all done the boys pretty much think wooden floors are the best thing that has ever happened. You can roll trucks better, throw balls better (they bounce now!), and run up and down the hallway with an abandon that doesn’t happen on carpet that’s lived through three homeowners and one foreclosure. (Okay, that last part is total projection because the carpet was seriously grossing me out. No matter how many times I cleaned it, it wasn’t ever going to be clean.)

Behold the after picture because I am so happy to have these floors I smile every-time I walk on them. Including last night when I went to get the middle of the night bottle out of the fridge.


{{I love how Tal looks all confused about where the furniture went. Or maybe he’s just pondering why I haven’t finished staining the railing.}}

The first night when just a tiny bit of the floor was in Nate and I were standing around admiring them and realizing how close we came to a mistake with the other floors we picked out (too orange) and Talron (who was protesting sleeping because… duh and so was still awake at 10 or 11 pm) got mad at us refusing to allow him to hurl himself down the unspindled stairway and expressed this by throwing his toy car from his perch in daddy’s arms. Gave us our first little dent. Which, honestly, was a relief. Mostly because It wasn’t me. And because whenever I see it (which will only be when I’m on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor so what, once a year?) I will think of how cute he looks when he throws fits. Then today his brother christened the dining room floor with a broken plate. I might actually be forced to get plastic plates now. *Cue the motherhood award.*

Tal says bruber (brother) now. It’s what he calls Thane and it is so cute it makes all ovaries within a two mile radius hurt.


We co-sleep. Have I mentioned this? Depending on who you ask I am creating bonds of attachment unlike anything else OR I’m creating disrupted sleeping patterns that will haunt them for the rest of their days. Oh, also destroying my marriage. That’s one of the best parts of parenthood I think. All the non-judgment from other parents. Also being aware at all times that anything you do could be possibly ruining your child.  Parenthood: keeping therapists in business since 2000BC

Co-sleeping is also hilarious when it’s two babies and two parents in one Cal-King bed. The first night was literally an enactment of “they all rolled over and one fell out.” I won’t mention which one. On account of the non-judgmental parents out there. But I adore the cuddles in the morning. Waking up to a baby kissing my nose. Hearing my first “I love you” from little baby lips. I even love with Tal wakes up and is horrified that Mommy and not Daddy is serving as his pillow and climbs over me yelling “dada dada!”

Lastly, my two year old likes singing “I came in like a wreaking ball”. Which, inappropriate song, but incredibly appropriate sentiment. I love these two. Even when they would rather be with Daddy.


broken and okay

a beach in birch bay and a cathedral in rome (a shout-out for brokenness)

We had to drive north awhile ago to take my sister and her family to the Vancouver airport for their flight back to China. On our way home we decided to stop by Birch Bay, a little rocky beach a stone’s throw from where we used to live. I wanted to take the little boys there. I’m not sure all of the reasons why, I think I had a romantic notion that it would be fun to stand on the same ground I had stood and dreamed about them on. DSC_0903 But deeper than that I think I was hoping for a do-over. A grand wiping of old and bad memories. As if being happy enough in the same place I had been so miserable would force an emotional reboot of sorts. But memories don’t work like that. And mistakes we made in the past seem to stand out no matter how well we analyze. Like a Picasso in a room full of Monets they’ll always just be there, not quite fitting in. And moving there was our grand mistake.

It was not exactly the happy sunshiny day I was hoping for on Birch Bay. Instead the weather was exactly as gloomy as I remembered it was the fall we moved there, back when it felt like we didn’t see the sun for the first nine months. It could be because the apartment we lived in was as cheerful as the inside of a tomb, but when I think back at that time it’s like watching a movie in black and white, a grainy one where the action is jerky and the sound doesn’t match. for-blog---delete1_thumb2 That apartment was like a bowling alley. Downstairs was one long room: kitchen, dining area, living area. Blond laminate floors, the cheap kind that feel like you’re walking on plastic. The upstairs was dark green carpet that felt rough underneath your feet. I didn’t know carpet could feel rough. It was cold, devoid of any kind of soul or life. Homes should have souls shouldn’t they? They should greet you when you walk in the door like an affectionate pet. When we were shopping for our current house I remember the feeling it gave off the minute we walked in the door. It was sad. So sad. Seven years of being neglected will do that to a house. It’s different now. That old apartment never did get happy. It was like a zombie house. Mimicking life and rotting inside. The funny thing was it was almost brand new. So maybe more Frankenstein than Zombie.

A few yards from where we walked with our little boys was the firepit we used to use. We had so many picnics there, the sounds of the crackling fire intermixed with the waves lapping the pebbles on the beach. Fire and water. Who would have though they went so well together? We took our Christmas tree there onetime, a tiny little Charlie Brown tree. About two or three feet high. It had sat on our back porch until it was dry as old timber. We set it on fire and the flames leaped into the air, six or seven feet high. And then it was gone. Such a metaphor for our time in that town. It all started out with such promise, expectations, high hopes that burned up in a hot second into nothing but ash.


Continue reading “a beach in birch bay and a cathedral in rome (a shout-out for brokenness)”


random thoughts that wander (occasionally into sarcasm): pictures are unrelated, also old

Bangs and layers are pretty much the soccer mom haircut of this generation.  Add a scarf and tall boots and it’s practically a uniform. Excuse me while I go fix my bangs, find my boots, and grab my scarf.

I feel there is a conspiracy going on in my home to separate the sippy cup lids from the sippy cup…cups. In my next life I will buy one brand/kind religiously and stick to it. Better yet, why does no one make sippy cups in which the lids stay permanently attached?


A few weeks ago I told Thane how many days it was ‘til Papa and Gigi got here, his reply: “MMMM, that will be yummy”. Is this how an adorable vampire movie should start? I think yes.

Talking about heaven to a two year old takes a hilarious turn when your brother has a dog names Angel.

This week I discovered that a poopy diaper, when dropped over carpet, lands like a cat and not like a sandwich. My relief over this cannot be properly expressed.

I hope I raise my kids with enough emotional honesty that they will recognize their need for therapy one day. On account of me raising them.


It makes me laugh when people say their diet is all about getting healthy and not at all how they look and then post pictures of their waistline and not their cholesterol numbers. I can laugh because I should go on a diet. For my waistline. Not my health.

Yesterday I was rocking a two year old to sleep for nap while his daddy was rocking the one year old who was protesting naptime something fierce. Thane looks up at me and declares “Him just being a loudmouth.” Accurate.

We had a wonderful week with Papa and Gigi here. They left behind an installed kitchen faucet, a bathroom facuet that now has hot water, rewired entryway lights, two newly organized closets, and a host of smaller jobs. Not to mention two very spoiled little boys. Seriously, I don’t know where they get their energy. They come back in November. We are counting down the days. So lucky to have grandparents that want to be involved in all our lives. And who can figure out how to get a hot water pipe to work (that hasn’t worked since the previous owner did all sorts of interesting thing to this house) without calling a plumber. I still don’t know how he did it but I know it involved a bicycle pump. Filed under “My dad is awesome. Also useful.”

{{Pictures from this summer, also all taken by my sister A.}}