our knitting project

I’m always pleasantly surprised by the ways our family is knitted together. It reminds me of knitting actually. Not that I’ve ever really knitted anything so I guess it’s more like it reminds of what I think knitting would be like. I imagine that we started out thinking we were going to make a sock, and then we kept adding to it and pretty soon it became a scarf and then we added some more in different colors and it started to look like a sweater and the we add more in more colors and it might end up being some kind of poncho thing with a hood right now.

I say that because our old nanny was just in town visiting from her new home and life in California. She loves these kids like a favorite aunt: phone calls and gifts on birthdays and holidays, pictures from her new life as a college graduate. We chat over dinner about Sloane’s potty training, Tagg’s new addiction to Star Wars, her boyfriend’s crazier-than-ever mother, her search for a new house. She always feels like family to me and I hope that no matter what happens in the future, she feels that way too. 

We were blessed to find her at a time when I was really struggling with the fiscal requirements that drove me back to work when I wanted nothing more than to be home with my children. Leaving them in a stranger’s hands was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But she was perfect from the first meeting – she was the only candidate who insisted on meeting at a Starbucks because she was concerned about safety, not paranoid just cautious. I was sold! - and she just got better from there.

I was often jealous that she was leading the life I had dreamed of and planned on – play dates and swimming lessons and craft projects - while I was living meetings and deadlines and office politics. But you do what you have to do to get by, and now I realize that maybe she was brought to us because she was meant to be part of our random, ever-expanding, knitted-together-by-love little family. 

I also think she helped me figure out something that I think most working moms know, or learn: you get as much joy out of the time you have together as you can. You might even appreciate that precious time more because you actually know what you're missing. 

I do have to say that since Nessa left, I have a newfound appreciation for her ability to have EVERYTHING in perfect order when I got home at night. When Scott gets home on Saturdays, it's like Toys R Us exploded in our house and our dishwasher and washing machine are broken. Hey, we all have our strengths. Cleaning may not be one of mine, but I can craft and soccer-mom my ass off!

So who knows where it will end up, this knitted-together family of ours. What shape, size and combination of colors it will end up. The one thing we do know is that no matter what, it keeps us all warm and snuggly.

there's the thread

I went to a baby shower for one of my dear friends recently. She and I were roommates when she got divorced a little over 10 years ago. We were both in advertising, addicted to shopping, liked to hob-nob at clubs and Sundance movie premieres, we were both Pisces, and had a million more things in common. She had a pug who would wake me up before I was ready. I had a cat that liked to pee on her bed. 

We don’t talk a ton since she moved to New York City about 5 years ago, but every time we do it’s like no time has passed. That's the best kind of friend to have, in my opinion. Low maintenance, high value. She’s kind of living the dream – she packed up and moved to Manhattan to pursue a photography career and ended up in design, hopping from fabulous party to famous restaurant to high-profile accounts, always looking gorgeous and free and happy. I quietly coveted her footloose, glamorous, Sex In The City life on those days when Utah felt too pedestrian and stifling, or when marriage and a house payment seemed too grown-up and stressful, or when my job seemed boring and unsatisfying.

And then one day last summer she called me and asked about adoption. She was turning 40 soon and had decided that what she really wanted was a baby. And since the dating scene had been less than productive (even in New York…who would have thought that!) she was going to become a parent on her own. And, in typical Jen fashion, she wasn’t exactly doing it the “conventional” way.

Nope. One of her very dear gay friends had offered to serve as a sperm donor, and they were literally using a turkey baster – yes, an actual Thanksgiving-like-your-mom-uses turkey baster – to do the deed. As it turns out, that did not work for them and they had to go pro (ka-ching) but still, success! She’s pregnant and is officially staring single motherhood square in the face. We had a chance to chat when I visited her in New York and it was interesting to see that she struggles with a lot of the same issues we do with our adopted children: What is the baby daddy's role going to be? How much will he be involved? What if he wants to be more involved than she’s prepared for? Do his parents get to act like real grandparents? What does she tell this baby about how he or she was born and who all of these people are?

After a long discussion about the pros and cons of this option or that strategy, expressing our fears and uncertainties, and admitting that we really have no freaking clue what we’re doing, we settled on the one thing we both do know 100% and without question. We love these children and they can’t ever have enough people to love them, so as long as we make decisions with love and trust in our hearts, we’ll be doing the right thing. Well, actually there were two things we figured that we do know. The other? We’re probably going to screw a lot of things up along the way and that’s okay too. And just like that we’re back to having something in common. I’m excited for her and I look forward to a lot of those sporadic future phone calls and emails, and hopefully some visits, where we can prop each other up and share our unique stories just like the good old days. Maybe we'll get to do some shopping and have a martini while we're at it.

When Tagg was born, someone gave us this lovely book called The Red Thread, An Adoption Fairy Tale. It's about people following this thread that tugs at their hearts till they embark on a journey to find their family and their joy. I kind of think that's how a lot of families are made these days. And a lot of friendships. I know that Jen and I have a "thread" connection, just like Scott and I have a thread that unites us with our birth families. And Jen will have that same bond with her baby-family, I think; sometimes it may wear thin or get a little twisted but you're still joined together by love. And that's what makes it all work.

soccer mom

 Tagg's first soccer game was Saturday. I am officially a soccer mom. His team is called the Ladybugs. I don't know why. It's a mix of boys and girls under 4. After one practice and one game, I am already learning a lot.

One, just be happy if your kid runs around on the field for some or all of the game, poses for at least one cute picture, does not hit, kick or push any other kids, and does not yell a swear word - especially not the really bad one.

Two, you need some stuff. A lot of stuff. Just when I thought I was done with diaper bag nonsense, I now have camping chairs, a first aid kit, snacks, a blanket, sweatshirts (for me and both kids), drinks, spare clothes including a long sleeve shirt, a port-o-potty for Sloane because there are no bathrooms, and an extra ball for Sloane to play with — all in my car. I suspect that summer soccer may also involve a sunshade of some sort, maybe some spray bottles. And I need to make sure the iPad is in the bag and charged up just in case #4 (see below) doesn't happen.

Three, Saturdays are no longer my day. Or even "our" day. We have to get up early for 8am soccer games, or juggle our usual Saturday plans around 11am or noon games. I'm actually pretty happy about that. How we're going to handle it when Sloane gets in on the soccer/dance action, I have no idea. But I'm pretty sure there are not going to be any Saturday pedicures in my near future.

Four, enlisting a cheering section (aka, aunts, uncles, grandparents) is critical. Otherwise, you will not be in any photos with your little superstar. Your non-playing child will be a screaming mess or trying to run into the parking lot or onto the field while you're trying to get your little soccer star to get up off the ground (the team has decided it's "nap time" so they are all laying down at mid-field while the opposite team is scoring goal. Plus, there may not be anything better than having a huge cheering section when your son gets his first goal in a soccer game. Even better when he proceeds to get three more goals for the other team. And then lays down in the middle of the field because he's tired. And it's nap time.

Five, this is what it's all about. I have never been more proud that Tagg was the first and only kid on his team to score a goal. That he's really good at dribbling, even if it's not always toward the right goal. That his super-giant soccer shorts stayed up. That he scores the most, if not the only goals for his team. That he now loves his shin guards that make him look like a Transformer so much he won't keep his socks tucked over them. That he almost always listens to Coach and tries really hard to play. Watching him clap his hands with excitement about getting to practice kicking a goal. The big hug when the game is over. That's everything it was cracked up to be and more.

 I'm a soccer mom. I think I scored!

PS...you will notice that I am not in one single picture with my little soccer star. Please refer to tip #4. Must have paparazzi.

ouch...that's a good app

I've been getting back into the workout routine. Let's face it. I can't just run all the time. (A) I don't love running in an addiction kind of way. I mostly run so I can drink wine and eat Cheetos occasionally, and because I love the medals and my run buddies. (B) My knees and ankles certainly don't love running. They remind me all the time with little sharp pains and dull aches. You'd think that would remind me to stretch more but I still don't. (C) I need variety! It's the spice of life, as they say. I don't really know anyone who says that. But I get bored of doing the same thing all the time. 

My sister showed me this Nike Training Club app for my iPhone so I figured I'd give it a shot. I was running a little late to get the kids so I picked the 15 minute "Get Focused" workout and opted to do the "Leaner Legs" workout. How hard could that be? I just ran 9 miles the week before and it barely phased me. I am obviously in great leg shape, no matter what they look like. The workout had 5 different exercises, a combination of squats and lunges. One exercise for one lousy minute each, three rounds. No equipment other than a couple of weights or a medicine ball, so you can do it easily at home. The app shows you step-by-step images of the moves, and has a video of each move so you can see exactly how to do it. And you can sync it to your playlist. Plus there's a lovely little audio "coach" who motivates you and counts down the time from move to move. I was thinking this would be a breeze.

I'm embarrassed to say this but...I was out of breath. Full on winded after about the third move. I even skipped a few reps by the third rotation, just to catch my breath. This is FIFTEEN minutes of exercise, people! I run half marathons. Sure, I don't do them fast or train enough but still. Shame. Spiral.  

Wait...it gets worse. The next day I was sore. Really sore. The kind of sore where every time you stand up it takes a half-dozen steps to loosen up. Stairs? Ridiculous. And sitting down? Old. Man. Noise.  That lasted for three full days. I am not joking.

So, a few things I learned. One, I need to cross-train. A lot. Two, running a lot does not necessarily deliver strong legs. Three, the Nike Training Club app kicks ass! Literally.

happy birthday, nana

Nana with the grandkids and her fabulous birthday cake.

Leave it to my mom. She's 60-uh-something and for her birthday, no spa days or fancy dinners or expensive jewelry. Nope. Let's go camping! And, just because we're all busy, she'll even get all the food for breakfast, lunch and dinner. You gotta love her!

Marc and Papa working the grill

The guys barbecued some wonderful chicken, but seriously, how much do you think we eat?!

We got this Pili-Pili hot sauce at a full-on, hippie, green festival
they were having at the lake campground. This stuff is HOT.
Like burn-your-face-off hot. But delicious, and award winning.

Do not ask me about the bangs. It wasn't me.

My little princess. She digs in the dirt. Runs down the rocky dirt trails. Climbs up the slide and hangs with the boys at the playground. But she'll pick up a broom and start cleaning up the campsite, too. Because, you know, she can find all kinds of gross and dirty stuff to put in her pockets - or her mouth - by sweeping.

Tagg found this stick in the water and immediately dubbed it his "Jedi walking stick."
I didn't get it until he said it was like Yoda's. Duh.

You get a little spoiled by Lake Powell boating and camping. The beaches at Jordanelle - where the water is down a ton! - were insanely rocky and muddy and kind of gross. And the water was 10 or 15 degrees colder. Still super fun, but not...Powell. Needless to say, we did not spend a whole lot of time in the lake.

Besides cooking, cleaning, boating, playing, beaching and running around, we also managed to do a cool art project where we painted a bunch of sea shells, and some frames. We ran out of time to glue them to the frame but the shells alone were just cool. Note to self: the best paint for the sea shells is not washable. So when your kid wipes his hands on the baby's special blanket...not so good!

Me and my mom "camping" back in the day. No wonder I love getting all back to nature with my family.

I have to say that I love this trip with my family, and I'm so grateful to celebrate another birthday with my mom. We played cards, games we haven't played in years. Papa made Yoda and Dora shaped pancakes for the kids. We went to the beach, the playground, the hippie festival and introduced my parents to the Chow Truck, Best of all, we got to celebrate my amazing mother. The woman who made us crafty, taught us to love cooking, musicals, reading and basketball, and loves all of us - her grandkids most of all - with a heart so big and forgiving and patient and sweet and strong.

We love you and happy birthday, mom!

got an extra hundred bucks sitting around?

Yeah? Really? You have that kind of money to burn? Then you might be in desperate need of this plaster HORSE HEAD! Yes. This is for real. A $100 plaster horse head (if you count tax, of course).

I found this "decorative" HORSE HEAD at a furniture store while shopping for a new loveseat. Apparently the rich - or interior designers who work at furniture stores - have no taste AND no sense of humor, just money to burn. I mean some ceramic roosters, sure, sign me up (not really). But a white HORSE HEAD? Who would shell out a hundred bucks to put a white plaster HORSE HEAD on their coffee table?!

Me! Well, it's not exactly going on the coffee table. I'll paint it brown, put it in our bed, under the sheets, liberally doused with a bunch of ketchup to look like blood, and let Scott have a Godfather moment. That's fucking funny, right?!

I guess money can buy happiness.

boots

Finally, you shall be mine. Serious cowboy (aka cow-LADY) boots. Tried them on at the Buckle. Fell in love. And they had two left feet (literally) not in my size. DAMMIT! I knew they were meant for me because every time I see the photo on my phone, I'm a little sad and I talk about them a little too much and I have dreams about wearing them. Just found a killer online deal and now, finally, I will have my boots. 

Even Scott says, "good for you." I think that's a pretty good hubby validation moment. We will probably be going on a Harley ride with my new boots soon.