Beloved

I've always been comforted by routine.  Even with an adventurous spirit, there is something very soothing and grounding about it's simplicity and predictability.  When I must have been about three years old, I can remember the daily rhythm of Sesame Street.  It came on after my nap.  I can still faintly remember that post-nap sleepy feeling and the reassurance of watching my favorite characters do their thing.  I also vaguely remember Mr. Rodgers and how soothing it was to watch him take off his jacket and street shoes and put on his cardigan and Keds (at least they looked like Keds to me).  So I try to incorporate a lot of routine into Buster's days and, honestly, this is probably as much for my comfort as it is for his.

Motley Crew

These guys are all a part of our daily rhythm.  These are the "people" in our neighborhood.  It occurred to me recently, that they are quite the mixed assortment.  They do all share one thing in common though, well, two things, actually:  1) They must all come from some French origin as they all greet Buster with a kiss on both cheeks;  2)  They all share his affection as evidenced by his gummy grinned response to their kisses.

Out of this motley crew, however, there remains a favorite.  A beloved who already has a slightly worn nose and often damp ear to prove it.  His name is Roy. Roy is the friend who is reached for when nothing else will do.  He is the buddy who is cuddled first thing in the morning and as the last thing before bed.  He accompanies us to the doctor's office and bravely stands by the tough stuff of life.  Like shots.

This mom's heart kind of wants the Roy stage to last for a long time.  Something about it feels warm and comforting.  Like groggy Sesame Street viewing after a long nap.

Roy the Beloved

Lu.

Before I became mom.  Before I became a wife.  Before I moved to the mountains...

I became a cat owner.

This was essentially a "hand me down" cat.  A friend had rescued her from the streets.  Well, actually, a friend had rescued her from a suburban Denver neighborhood.  Due to the fact that this cat has something buried deep inside her that makes her want to kill any cat that comes within her line of sight, my friend, already a cat owner, had to find a different home for this little aggressor.  My friend basically challenged me to just "try out" this cat for a week.  So I did.  That was about five years ago.  And I named her Lu.

Lu and I have had our challenges.  Like coming home from work after one day of owning her to find her hanging from my shower curtain.  Like continually having to "rescue" her off of the roof of the house that I lived in because, for a period of time, she preferred to try to enter the house through an upstairs window.  Like a very expensive visit to the emergency vet after Lu took on her nemesis, Mike, the neighborhood orange cat.

And yet, I love this animal.  She pretty much does nothing all day long other than lay on soft things.  But I do love her.  She has endured many changes with me including moving to the mountains and subsequently becoming an indoor cat.  Though I think she'd hold her own against this new neighborhood's cats, she probably wouldn't fair so well against the bear that my husband saw off our deck about two years ago.

I have, however, recently become aware of some very passive aggressive behavior coming from my cat.  And, I have to say, it pushes my buttons.  I mean, it REALLY pushes my buttons.

I have developed a little routine that involves a cup of coffee and a few minutes just to be still in the morning after I put Buster down for his first nap.  I love this time.  And, lately, just as I sit down and reach for that first sip of coffee, Lu appears out of nowhere.  She marches over to my cup of coffee and she begins to pretend like she burying my coffee.  Like it is so distasteful to her that the only option is to bury it deep inside the earth.  And then she marches off to go lay on something soft.

It drives me bonkers.  It is so unnecessary, so opinionated.  So catty.

Graced.

Two tiny smiley face stamps.  One planted deliberately in the center of my right palm and one in my left.  Given to me at the end of an hour spent with a new kindergarten age friend.  This little person had been entrusted to my care for the purpose of understanding why the sudden changes in behavior.  The parts of the story that were being entrusted to me through words and pictures were linked together by grief.

I really try not to take for granted the privilege that it is to bear witness to another's grief. Particularly grief that is expressed from the littlest among us.  The kind of grief that brings a lump to my throat as I attend to the story.  The kind of grief that makes me want to come home to my little boy and wake him from a nap just to hold him for a while.  A nap into which his daddy has just spent an hour settling him.

And I struggle to be reminded that grief is sacred.  I cannot take on or take away another's grief.  I can enter into the process where I am invited, but I cannot and should not take it as my own.

So, at the end of our time together, these two smiley faces were given to me to carry home.  Such good and not necessarily deserved gifts to me.

Like little marks of grace.

Dinner at Denny's

One evening this past week, we found ourselves cruising up the road to a town about twenty minutes away underneath a brilliantly clear starry sky.  Our destination?  Denny's.  My husband, my son and I were taking a little road trip to find some supper and a little solace.

We opted for the two lane highway rather than the freeway.  Longer drive time.  Less traffic.  More peaceful.  More of a chance for Buster to settle down a bit and be soothed by the movement of the car.  It had been a rough afternoon.  Sometimes, when you're almost five months old, you have rough afternoons.  It happens.

We were seated in a booth in the far corner of the restaurant.  Perfect.  My husband and I both settled on the Grand Slam.  Somehow, the option to put together a breakfast-for-dinner combination of our choosing was just what our slightly frazzled nerves needed.  I chose fruit as one of my combo options.  I think that fruit always tastes better when someone else has washed and cut it for me.  Even at Denny's.

We ate, both of us taking turns distracting and entertaining Buster.  Then we packed up, got back in the car and drove home.  And on the drive home, with our little guy finally settled and sleeping in the backseat, it struck me.  We are becoming a family. I know that we are technically already a family:  a mom, a dad, and a baby.  But, at the same time, we are becoming a family.  We are developing a shared history of simple moments and struggles; car rides and meals at Denny's.

The adventurous part of my spirit delights in the process and prospect of becoming and I couldn't ask for better travel companions.

Big Box Stores and Belly Laughs

Lest you judge, I'm just going to be straightforward and blunt about this.  I shop at Wal-Mart.  There, I said it. 

I have my own qualms about all the issues related to big box stores and all the ways in which these stores are not the prettiest reflection of our culture.  I also don't feel great about how this particular store has been cited for less than supportive employment practices.  But, the fact is, I still shop there, or perhaps the better description of what I do at Wal-Mart is wander.  

I've never really been a big "shopper" in general, but when I used to live in an area where there were malls, I would, on occasion, wander around a mall.  I now live in an area where there are no malls, but there is a Wal-Mart about twenty minutes up the road.  And there are days, particularly this winter as of late, when it simply isn't reasonable to go outside for a walk with Buster.  We get to about 3pm and he's already made the rounds of a couple naps, lots of indoor playtime (including baby flashcards, by the way, for those of you who still might be judging me) and we are in desperate need of a change of venue.  So, I load up my baby boy and we head to Wal-Mart.

Our little trip serves a variety of purposes.  One is that Buster really doesn't nap well the later in the day it gets, although he is clearly tired.  So a little car ride is a sure-fire way to get him to snooze a bit.  Another purpose is that, at this age, seated in his carseat while riding in a shopping cart and looking around at all sorts of things like lights, boxes, colors, people, etc. truly seems entertaining to Buster.  He's usually mesmerized by the experience. 

A final purpose is related to a quest that I'm on.  It's the quest for the belly laugh.  I've heard it a couple times, and I have to say that I feel like an addict of sorts.  That first belly laugh was so rewarding that I find myself just wanting more.  I'm a baby belly laugh junkie, and Wal-Mart has the makings for my fix:  Hoops and Yoyo greeting cards.  Buster finds these guys VERY funny.

So, after we've made a couple wandering laps around the various departments, we settle on Greeting Cards.  And I show him card after audio card of Hoops and Yoyo.  I laugh in an exaggerated way hoping to encourage the elusive but oh-so-worth-it belly laugh from my tiny Wal-Mart companion.  And, my bet is that I sound like a raving lunatic.  In fact, there may even be secret footage of me on someone's cell phone that they are intending to send into that website called People of Wal-Mart or Wal-Mart People or something like that.  But, quite frankly, I don't care, its worth it to me.


The temperature when we got up this morning was -12F.   I have a feeling its just that kind of day.  Hoops and Yoyo, here we come.

Its true.

It's true. 

I do crave milkshakes.

To be more specific, I crave vanilla milkshakes.  Straight up, no frills, vanilla.  Which is only significant because I have not always craved milkshakes.  They started to occupy a space towards the front of my thoughts when I was pregnant with my son.  It was my food of choice immediately after he was born.  Mixed in with a bazillion other thoughts while I was in labor, was the thought of a cold, smooth, creamy vanilla milkshake.  And so, shortly after my little guy entered the world and while I was holding him in my arms, both of us probably looking more than a little amazed and bewildered, my husband and my dad went out to find a vanilla milkshake for me.  They came back with the most heavenly milkshake ever created.  From McDonald's.  I promise, it was pure bliss.

My love of milkshakes is also only significant in that I can no longer indulge my desire.  For the sake of my little guy I'm going "dairy-free".  No milk, no cheese, no creamer in my coffee, and sadly, no milkshakes.  The truth is, I would eat crickets if I thought it would help him feel better.  But we're starting with dairy-free and seeing how that goes...