8

November 1st.  It's usually sitting somewhere in the back of my head that day.  A lingering thought, maybe mentioned in passing or maybe not whispered at all.  November 1st, the day that I started running a child care, more importantly to me, the day that I started staying home with my son.

How did I celebrate this passing, 8 years later?  By not remembering it all. 

It happened and I didn't notice; I just kept plugging away, scrubbing the dried ketchup off the table and sweeping up the graham cracker dust.  I only remembered it a week later when I was sticking a sticker on the 'real' calendar after one of Wyatt's gymnastic classes.

It's been eight years.

At finally remembering this date, as always, I start to get bored and daydreamy, thinking about just how 'green the grass on the other side' might be.

And there's a point when I told myself that I would go back to work, 'Probably when Edy starts preschool' I declared looking at her in the infant carrier.  It seemed like that would be forever, that somehow I would have my 'fill' of her by then.

Then I was invited to an open house, for preschool, for the one that I would need to sign Edy up for in the next few months... if I were to continue to stay home.

The clash of 'I'm bored with my life' and the self-declaration of preschool being the end has pounded at my heart.

Followed by so, so many questions,..

ones that I'm not sure I'm ready to find answer to.

someday

I made a new play list for my shuffle the night before the race: Dr. Dog, Mumford & Sons, Bon Iver and the Dixie Chics.  Obviously, Dixie Chics sticks out like a sore thumb, but even if I embarrassed to admit it, sometimes they are exactly what I need.

I shoved my ear buds into my ears and covered them back up with my stocking cap.  It was cold.  I don't like to run in the cold, or the dark, or the rain... but I don't think I was thinking about what the weather would be like when I signed up for this half-marathon in August.  I just knew then that I wanted to race again, and I knew that I wanted to run it in under 2 hours.

I stopped complaining to myself after about a mile in, it was after all, a pretty day; it wasn't raining, it was sunny, it was just too damn cold, but after a mile, I started to warm up and I started to think more about things other than if my toes were going to fall off.

That's when the Dixie Chics' song Godspeed started playing through my head.  My heart squeezed a little tighter, as I moved one foot in front of the other, remembering how I use to sing that song in my car.  I sang it to Henry, still in my belly, as I drove home from work, all the time.

I thought about how much love was in that song, from a mom to her son.

I thought about how much I say 'running is for me', and it is, but there is this little part of me that does it for my kids too.  To set an example; to be brave and strong, and to be fast and self assured.

And I thought about what my husband said to me the night before the race as we talked in bed.  I told him that 'the kids didn't need to be at the race... that they don't care, that they don't know the difference.'  And he looked at me and said that 'someday it will matter to them, and I want them to see what you are doing.  I especially want Edy to see what a woman can do.'

That's what I was thinking about at mile 11, with just a little over 2 miles left and 20 minutes left in making it under 2 hours.  I knew I had it if it continued to go as is; my thought was 'I got this'. 

I thought about Edy being proud of me... someday.  Maybe not today, maybe not even in the near future, but just that 'someday' had me moving forward.

I crossed the line at 1:57:33

I'm not the faster person out there, I'm not the fastest woman out there; but I did exactly what I had set out to do. 

Someday, that's exactly what I'll tell Edy:

'Set out to do something and do your hardest to do it... that you are lucky to be a woman... to make your someday, one day.'

And to quit complaining about it being too damn cold, we live in Minnesota, it's a given.

I really DO smile, most days

Apparently, I don't smile enough, hence this...

So, the timing of a t-shirt design contest from P.S. from Aeropostale called 'What Makes U Smile' is well, ironic.

 

But, it's a pretty awesome opportunity for your child to express their creativity through designing their own t-shirt of 'what makes them smile'.  Kids in grades 1-5 will have an opportunity to win $1000 for their school, win a gift card worth $500 for themself and everyone in their school will be handed a shirt with their winning design on it.  Better yet, there's not just one winner, but five, one from each grade!

 

Here's a finalist design from last year from Courtney B. of Cottage Grove, MN

 



So yes, local people can win and you bet Henry will be designing his own t-shirt... can you imagine what $1000 would do for his school, or yours?  You can start your own design here.  Henry will be working on his design tomorrow.  

 

In fact, we will all be at the Mall of America P.S. from Aéropostale store tomorrow, October 25th from 4-6pm!  There will be activity buckets, a place for the kids to hang out and work on their designs and there may be the random handing out of $50 gift cards to a few moms!  You can also use an exclusive 20% off code: PSMOMSMN online or in the stores from 10/25 until 11/11.

 

Go on now, have your kids show @psfromaero what makes them smile.

I will be compensated with a gift card for this post and attending the event tomorrow, but heck, you might be too... if you show up, and you know, showing up tomorrow would make *me* smile!

 



a picture's worth what again?

People ask me all the time 'how's Wyatt doing in school?'.  He's in Chinese immersion, like Henry, and perhaps people are thinking they better check on him since we are forcing him to learn Chinese (and plan on him saving us come their world domination) or maybe they're just curious since he's in Kindergarten, I don't know...

Wyatt jumped off the bus last week with a book in hand.  They make these little paper books, stapled together, pretty much weekly.  The books are pretty stinkin' cute and it's over-the-top-adorable when he reads it to me in Chinese.  And no, I don't speak Chinese.  Which is almost always the second question people ask me after wondering 'how Wyatt is doing'.

But Wyatt's picture book for this week was pretty easy to figure out.  One page says something like 'this is me and I'm xx years old'. 

(Worth noting is exactly how much detail he put into drawing himself and then notice the ones to follow.  Also worth noting is the freakish amount of candles on his cake, it's because he comes from a family who puts candles on anything.  I once even put candle on a hot dog, a birthday dog... so, yes, the poor boy is confused.)

Wyatt's 'this is me'

Next, 'this is my dad'

'This is my brother'



'My little sister'



and then there's me...



 

He told me that he meant to draw a smiley face, but he got confused and didn't have time to do it over... blah, blah, blah.

 

Anyone else not buying that?

labeled

The folders are just sitting there right now, on top of the printer, each one appropriately labeled, stashed with coordinating print-outs and resources, just waiting for me to do something about them...

It's like knowing what I already knew.  Can't I just go on with the status quo?  Does this confirmation make me feel any better?

No.

It's feels like a mountain dotted with barricades and fences.  Where instead of a sword, I'm handed these three damn purple folders and told to go off... 'fight a good fight'.

But I don't want to fight.  I'm not sure I have enough courage, or energy, or even fight in me to do everything that he needs.

And as horrible as it might sound, I do wish there was just some magic pill that he could take that would make it all go away.

I tell people on the phone that 'it's fine, he's only 8, there is so much that can be done to help him.'

We went into his third grade classroom telling his teachers that this is a 'building year'.  Where we don't have all the answers yet, all the pieces to the puzzle, but we are getting there, and that's the most important thing... that we are heading in the 'right' direction,

right?

I want to make it easy, saying that sounds stupid though, who doesn't want 'an easy life'.  But as a mom, you know what I'm saying, that you would do anything in your power to make you child's life less... punctuated.

For me, it's the part about 'that reading will be hard for him, that spelling may be an overwhelming task, that he may never really enjoy reading, that these are things that will always be harder for him' that makes me want to throw up.

It's just more labels to throw into my f'ing labeled folders.

morph

There are few days that I see the kids more excited than this.  I slide the magazine across the counter stopping perfectly in front of Wyatt, who is sitting on a kitchen stool. 

No, it's not a freakishly early Christmas catalog, which by the way, if I see another Christmas display before October 1st I will go all momma-crazy on that thing, ripping it to shreds in front of innocent children, screaming incoherently, until someone from the Target security team has to drag me away and ban me.

On second thought, banishment from Target would be probably the worst day in my life.

So, back to the catalog.  Wyatt glanced down at the catalog, looking a bit confused, and then moved his eyes up to mine asking "Is this from the birthday party store?".  "Yes!"  I replied, "but it's the Halloween costume catalog."

I think there was a mutual gasp from the boys as they grabbed the catalog and settled into the couch to discuss potential Halloween costumes for the next half an hour.

They stopped on the page with morphsuits. 

Henry wanted one so bad last year, but they were out of his size... or so I told him that.  I mean, seriously, I don't want to own a lime green lycra suit that outlines every part of his body and I especially won't want to get one that he'd wear after Halloween, in so that I have to explain to perfectly good strangers that 'my son's in there... and yes, he's feeling fine'.

The boys scanned over the color options and read and reread over the description.

"It says here that you can even drink still wearing it, that would be awesome!"  Henry says.  He ponders that for a moment and says in his drifting off, quieter voice... "that means, if you can drink in well then you should be able to pee out..."

"How cool is that?!"

And that is the number one reason my 8 year old son will not be wearing a morphsuit for Halloween this year,
or ever.

pockets

I found a crumbled up leaf in Henry's pocket, folding the laundry early Sunday morning.  I smiled remembering the day before and laughed to myself because I'm not one of those 'check the pockets before throwing it in the wash' kind of moms.

*

Wyatt had been asking to fly a kite for the last month or so.  It's a hard thing for a 5 year old to get though, it needs to be windy but not too windy that you rip the kite and you don't want to make a special trip for a day when it looks like a downpour is inevitable.  "It's just not a good day to fly a kite, Wu" came out more often than I want to remember.

But Saturday was deemed the perfect day.

And Wyatt mastered it within minutes.  His kite was so high among the clouds that he ran out of string.  He'd run along with it, begging the kite to 'chase' after him.  He was the leader and the kite followed religiously.

Henry on the other hand, took to a style all his own.  He laid down on the trampled grass and took to just watching his kite float among the clouds, a happy gaze in his eyes.  He'd fold his body in as the sun went under the clouds, only to stretch out again when the sun peeked through once more.

Edy, my sweet little Edy, she'd run with her kite, letting it bump up and down as it bounced off the grass with each tug from her string.  She couldn't get her kite up in the air, so she'd borrow one brother's.  She watched the boys carefully, she knew to not let go or we'd lose the kite.  She was sucking every bit of that morning up; learning, processing, growing.

 

I stepped back from the scene wishing I had my camera, but I didn't... and it's OK,

 

it's burned into my heart, into my soul.

I slipped that memory right into my pocket.  It's there and I promise, it's not going anywhere.

Like I said, I'm not one for emptying pockets.

kirks

I'm certain there are more times than this, but there is only one time that I distinctly remember getting spanked (shut the front door; yes, some parents spanked their kids... and yes, I was one of them.  I'm apparently over it and doing fine, so there is no need to contact social services).

Anyway, the one time I remember getting spanked, was when I wouldn't wear what my mom had picked out.  It sounds trivial, but I imagine I threw my body across my canopied bed, kicked and screamed, and more than likely, threw some of my clothes across the room.  I don't remember the minor details, I just remember getting a whack across the butt and a proclamation that I was to 'pick out my own clothes' from then on.

And I did.  And I loved it.  It's where my love of fashion started, I imagine.

Now I have a daughter, a two-year old little girl that refuses to wear anything other than 'kirks' (skirts).  She will stand up, scream at me and pull off a pair of jeans if I have the audacity of trying.  But then there's that memory in the back of my mind, of where I started, that just makes me roll my eyes at her and laugh.

She borrowed a friend's 'high' heeled shoes yesterday.  Little pink plastic shoes with diamond stud running across the toes.  When she first put them on, she couldn't stand up and proceeded to wail.  I teased her 'welcome to womanhood'... she only looked at me with determination in her eye and steadied herself.

She wore those heels all. day. long.  She cried anytime they fell off her feet, but was oh, so proud when they worked with her, exclaiming to me "See Momma, walking!"  She even said goodbye to the shoes as her friend took them home with her.

And I begged her friend's mom to never bring them back over...

I'm going to have enough to deal with come January, when it hits 20 below here in Minnesota and this little girl of mine is only going to wear 'kirks'.

(sigh)

keep your eye on the prize

You would think I would know better by now.

We've had several 'professional' pictures taken throughout the years that have turned out, should I just say, less than spectacular.

And because it was so good the first time, let's do another pose.

 

Perhaps you remember this awesome (cut off a freakin' head while your at it) one:

 

 

I thought I was prepared though.  I even reviewed proper smile techniques with the boys.  You can ask Henry, it went something like this "think of something that makes you happy... yes, say Lego's and then look at the camera and please smile, with teeth.  Show me your smile... NOW!"

 

But I must have had a momentary lapse in judgement (yet again) as I picked out this cute white collared, button-down shirt with tiny black vertical pinstripes for Wyatt's back-to-school picture day

 

and I packed in his school lunch, a Camelback bottle full of Crystal Light fruit punch.

 

You can see where I'm going with this... You would think I was some sort of back-to-school-picture-day-mom virgin.

 

Wyatt came running off the bus, moving in this choppy back and forth run that only a big ol' backpack can do.

 

I looked at him and then glanced down at his shirt.  There were splatters of red drink all across the front of his shirt and better yet, he had a big swipe of blue marker running across his right shoulder.

 

I asked him and he swore that pictures were taken before all of this happen to his shirt.

 

But it's hard to trust a Kindergartner sometimes, after all, that same day, he told me he got a prize and pulled out, from his backpack, an empty bag of potato chips that he found on the floor of the bus and started licking the insides of the bag.

 

So, you know, that recount of a day's events is hard to believe when things seem to get a little messed up in the mind of a Kindergartner.



supa socks

Wyatt hates that Edy loves them. 

They were in the back of his underwear/sock drawer, remains of the days when we fought (and cried) for several minutes every day over Wyatt having "bumpy socks". 

I still cringe at the thought of him sitting on the last step of the stairs, waiting for his final verdict of his socks being 'alright' or the full-on freak out over him being able to feel his sock's seams. 

And yet, somehow, it's over. 

I can't even remember the last time I heard him complain about his socks not fitting just right. 

We've found socks that seem to fit him well enough that we don't stray far from them.  These socks have appeared to form some small feat (no, I couldn't pass that one up) in him getting over his sensitivity to sock seams.  So, these Spiderman socks casually made their way to the back of his drawer like the million of other things that he no longer wears and no longer fits him...

(because I only clean out drawers when I can on longer fit anything else into them).

And even though they were in the far back, Edy found them.  Her little eyes lit up when she saw them.  Socks and even better, socks that reminded her of her favorite person, her big brother, Wyatt.

She calls them her 'supa socks'.

She calls everything that has a superhero on them 'supa'.

Being her biggest hero, I'm pretty sure she'd called Wyatt a 'supa' too.

Even if he still hates that she's wearing his socks.

stuck in the middle

You know that pit in your stomach, that hard little sucker punch to your middle, the one you got when you found out you're pregnant again and then you looked at your first-born, your only child at the time, and wanted to cry? 

And don't tell me you didn't get it, because you would be lying... there is not one single mom out there that ever knows that they have enough love for another child.  When you look at your first-born, your heart fills like a balloon getting blown up in your lungs and you think 'how could I possible be able to take one more breath in?'  'How could it possibly handle one more person?'

I feel that way now. 

My poor, middle child.

I feel like I'm giving you the short end of the stick, that there just isn't enough me to go around.

When we sat at the table last night talking about your first day of Kindergarten, Dad asked if Henry was able to find your class okay?  You beamed and Henry shrugged and said something like 'it was no big deal, it was the same Kindergarten room that he was in.'

Then Dad looked Henry in the eyes and said that 'It was a big deal.  That Wyatt will remember that his big brother took him to his first day of Kindergarten.'

 (punch). 

Not that I didn't feel that ache already growing in my stomach

 as the hours past from the moment of dropping you off at school.

Because, it wasn't me. 

I was the one who dropped you off at the front of the school with four 2-year olds in the minivan waiting for me to kiss you goodbye, watching from the open minivan door.  It was your brother who took you in, walked you into the classroom and said goodbye.

It's a tough thing to learn at 5-years-old, that life isn't fair, that even in family, things aren't always going to be fair.  Being the middle child, you get the remnants of your older brother's.  Things aren't the same as they were 3 years ago, and they won't be same 3 years from now either.

But that doesn't make it better.

And it doesn't make me feel better right now.

I just wanted to let you know.  That even though I wasn't the one to walk you into that room yesterday morning, for your first day of Kindergarten, I was there. 

I held you in my thoughts all day long

and you are still this achy pit in my stomach.

survival of the fittest

I overheard them as I walked down the steps, coffee in hand and my mind planning what I could make for lunch with elbow noodles that didn't (yet again) involve spaghetti sauce and ground beef.

Henry cheered to Wyatt "I wish brothers could get married, because then we could be together all the time, forever!"

Wyatt gleefully shouted back to him "That would be so awesome, Henry!"

I walked into the room, smiling, trying to tell them something about 'being brothers is the best because they will always be together'.  They didn't care though, the conversation turned to police officers taking them away and forcing them to marry gross girls.

And the moment was gone.

But this is what I'm holding onto: our own survival of the fittest.  After a summer long of punching and screaming; of tears over who got into the car first, washed hands first, got to pick out their show first; of being bored and of asking 'what are we going to do now?',

we made it.

On the last week of summer, the boys still love each other enough to marry.

contrary to what some of the above photos may exhibit

death and dying and crying

I don't know what's wrong with my kids. 

Today, they packed up Henry's old backpack with their own homemade 'tornado survival kit'.  They included some stuffies and blankets, and at my suggestion, they added a couple granola bars, a bottle of water and a few flashing light things for their bikes that they got at this year's neighborhood block party.

(Note to self, supervise how many your children shove into their pockets without your knowledge when the police officer dumps out the entire contents of her bag and says "take it all, I've had a really bad day". Unsupervised pillaging leads to you owning approximately 2.3 billion little blinky flashy light things that all say 'Centerpoint Energy' on them.  This is enough to create a runway in our backyard to land the occasional, off-course airplane).

Back to my point, the boys are currently obsessed with death and dying and what if we all die.

Last night, as we dined at Costco.  (Yes, I'm fancy... I know.  I can't deny that I like spending less than 5 bucks for dinner, where I can split a ginormous slice of pizza, a Diet Coke and still get a swirl cup of ice cream.)  Sitting there with the spoon dangling from his mouth Wyatt wondered about him going into Kindergarten next week.

"Are you going to cry, Mom?"

"Perhaps," I replied.  "only because I know what a big change it will be.  You'll officially be spending more time with your teacher than with me... and that's sad."

Wyatt ponders that for a moment, "So, will you be really sad when we are all teenagers?  Will we make you cry all the time?"

I giggled at the thought of this and answered with a knowing smile, "Yes, probably."

Wyatt moves forward and says in his little serious voice, "Would you cry if Daddy died?  Without pause, he continues...  "that means if Daddy died, you would have to be the nice one - and that would probably make you cry the most of all!"

Of course, he's probably right, being 'the nice one' would probably kill me.

two

My Sweetith Edith,

Edy, how could you possibly be 2?  I look at you and see this long-legged baby with a freakishly good vocabulary, but nonetheless, my baby.

I want to write to you about the silly things I taught you; like eating a can of whipped cream off your finger, singing to every song on the radio, though mostly off-key, to dancing when no one else is, screaming when you can't keep it in any longer... all from me.

Then there are things that seem to have come naturally to you, the way you tell Wyatt to put his head on your lap and you stroke his hair or the way you sing to yourself while you color.  (People use to make fun of me because I would sing in my cube, to myself, as I checked stocks and orders on my open-to-buy.)  I didn't teach you this, it's innate.  It's you and it's me.

I joke, you aren't really a baby anymore, but there are times when you sit on my lap, your chest into mine, with your legs wrapped around my stomach, that you feel like my baby.  It's the way I've held you since you were born, heart-to-heart.

You have a true twinkle in your eye and I will ache when it's there no more, because it does disappear.  I see it... in your brothers, too busy with this or that.  Not enough sleep with the stuff they push their own little bodies to do.  And it makes them tired, their eyes less shiny, little red veins running through those eyes that use to be as white as yours are today.

You just started getting scared of loud things, like a large truck or our vacuum cleaner.  It makes me laugh, but it frustrated me too.  I just don't want you to ever feel limited about doing something because you are scared.  I want you to just try it.

Part of being a woman will be overcoming what you hear/feel that women can and can't do.  Believe me, you can do it!

And so I often make you 'do it'.  You've gone down huge, spinning water slides and up-a-mountain alpine slides.  You roll down grassy hills that go on forever and jump off the highest of beds.  You swing fifty feet in the air.  And you know what, once you tried it, you (almost always) scream "again" with that giant smile on your face.

I tell people all the time that I love this age.  It's the age where everything is magic, the world is this crazy place where bubbles float and water pours from the sky.

With this comes all that you have taught me, looking at the world in awe, feeling emotions; being brave but letting people know you are scared, having the sparkle in your eye for everyone and everything, for having fun in life.

Thank you for being my daughter.  I'm so, so lucky to be your mother.

one minute

"One minute."

That's what I thought when I crossed the finish line.  I was one (f'ing) minute over a 2 hour half-marathon.  In training, I've run 13.1 miles each month for the past three months and every single one has been at exactly 2:00.

So I knew I could do... but then again, I didn't.

It hit me about mile 10, like it does most times.  10 miles is the perfect run, enough to feel like you really did something, but not too much where you cuss under your breath about 'why the hell I ever thought this was a good idea'.

At mile 10, I looked up, sucked in air and whispered 'fuck' to no one but myself.  It turned from paved to gravel and even better, it was headed straight up to the clouds.  Running on rocks makes me feel unsteady, makes me lose my footing and forces me to think too much about every step, but I dug in my heels anyways and worked up it, moving slower and slower with every step.

Then I did what I never do, I stopped running.  I looked around, surveyed that lots of people were walking and justified it... 'maybe it will help me in the end' I thought.  I've never walked, only because once I do, I fear it gives me permission to do it again, and maybe again.

I'm pretty sure I had the look of defeat on my face as I reached mid-way up the 'mountain'.

Then a woman ran up beside me, slapped me on the shoulder and with a stern voice directed me to "Come on!".

It was exactly what I needed.

And it's exactly what I thought about hours later when I was driving my mini-van to drop off our latest DVDs at Redbox, just another mundane task on my to-do list, checked off.

I thought about this stranger, this woman, who just slapped my shoulder and told me, essentially, to 'fuck it... it is what it is and let's kick some butt'.

I'm pretty sure she has no idea how what she said to me makes me feel.  It's become my new mantra.  When you think you can't make it any longer, you can.  When you think that you have it suckier than anyone else, you haven't looked around enough.  When you think that hill is a mountain, that this road is going in the wrong direction, when you regret the decisions you've made, you're wrong.

When you think that you can't take it- the kids, your work, the piles of life- for one more minute, you can.

It's just...
one minute.

$43.72

I can't tell you how many times I've stomped the pavement with the song 'And I would walk 500 miles...", which I hate that damn song, stuck in my head. I blame the rhythm of my feet and me congratulating myself for, once again, rolling out of bed and attempting to calculate how many miles this will make it.

 'And I would walk 500 miles to be the man who'd walk 1000 miles...'

Do you have that song in your head now? You're welcome.

So, I've run more than 500 miles in the last 5 months. And this is just another excuse for my absence in blogging.

Backup, I've been napping when I use to be blogging, because I've been getting up to run when I use to be sleeping.

It's a vicious circle.

I read all the time about how running is suppose to be one of the 'cheapest sports out there'.  That statement feels laughable.

Obviously, if you run a lot, you have to buy new shoes a lot.  Even when they still look stinkin' brand new, the insides are all smushed up and worthless and your feet start to hate you, then your knees start to rally with their friends your feet and you have a little riot on your hands.

And then you go buy new shoes. 

And they can't be cheap ass shoes... no, they have to be an almost $100 pair of shoes.

I've experimented with shoes over the years too (before seriously running).  I'm not proud to say that I once bought RunTone shoes, because honestly, what woman doesn't want a nicer ass and if shoes are going to help by 25%, I'm saying 'yes and please'!

Well, unfortunately for them, us ladies get mad when we don't get nicer butts and we sue.

I honestly don't remember how this happen, but I was googling something, came up with a class action suit against Reebok RunTones and I filled out a quick online form.

And then I got my check:

Apparently, my ass is worth $43.72 for *not* getting any smaller.

Which will go directly toward new shoes, which, as it turns out, is the only thing that does make my ass smaller.

It's (another) vicious cycle

(I'll be running this half marathon on Sunday morning, if you like crowds of sweaty women with your coffee, come cheer us on!)

damn green

I remember, when Henry was born, how my husband and I joked about how we could mess with our kids, teach them that the color 'yellow' was 'blue' instead.  How we could have really fuck them up like the poor kid that won't have any friends that know if he's a boy or a girl.  We laughed about the power we had to teach them whatever we choose... 'No, the sky is purple you crazy kid'.

I was reminded of this yesterday, when Edy was wearing her green Crocs. 

Man, I use to hate those Crocs.  They were Wyatt's and the only reason I got them was because I accidentally threw his in the dryer and consequently, they shrank... and he hated me.  And of course, he cried and screamed and refused to wear any other shoes and 'luck' would have it, it was Fall and there were no Crocs, anywhere, in any stores, except this crappy second-hand store and the only pair left in his size were these damn green Crocs.

And now, Edy discovered these Crocs in the back of her closet and she loves them.  Ultimately, she loves all shoes.  She sits in the entryway, pulling pair after pair of shoes from the cubbies and tries them on.  They have to be shoes that she can put on herself, like Crocs, or she gets pissed off, like only a two-year-old little girl could do.

She has two pairs of Crocs, red and what I call damn green.

I look at the Croc a little differently now.  For some reason, they look adorable on her feet.  People compliment her on them all the time and they are her 'go to' shoes.

Except she gets the colors messed up and she calls her damn green Crocs 'red'.

I opted to attempt to teach to her: "No, these are red.  Those are green".

Enter full body convulsions and cue screams "NO... GREEN!"

I can't count how many times we've had this umm, 'conversation'.

I give up.  Damn green, or red, or whatever the heck she wants to call them that day, wins.

*

I know, I haven't posted in 3 months... let's just get that out there. I'm sorry. 

You can suck it up and forgive me or not.

Honestly, I've written 57 post in my head over the last three months and as each week goes by, it gets harder and harder to push 'publish'. I'm tired of the social media game: of tweeting my post, slapping it up on Facebook, making sure it goes up on my non-existent fan page, pinning it.  I just want to write.   So, I'm hoping to do just that.

remember

I remember walking into the psychologist's office wondering if she really wanted me to sit on the couch or to lay down on it, just like, I imagine, everyone deliberates upon entering.  What is the protocol with appointments like this?  She sat across from me in a chair, scooting it closer to me.  I decided to sit.

I had just finished my written test, the one that is suppose to determine if you are nuts or not.  Not really, but of course, I felt like every answer would be over analyzed: she lies (like about sending out an email yet or not), she steals (as in taking a pen from the office)... she's no good.

"So", she began, "what do you think will happen after the baby goes home?"

Straight to the point.

I wasn't even pregnant, not even paired with a potential family.

I paused for just a moment and answered "I think the baby will go home and live with their family.  It is, after all, their baby.  I'm not going to be one of those people that requests weekly updates, or monthly pictures.  That just isn't me.  I have my family and they will have theirs."

She continued "You're just going to send this baby off into the world and you'll never need communication with them again?  That sounds very altruistic of you".

I wondered why she had to use such a big word, couldn't she have said something more like 'nice'.  She didn't have to make me feel like I was going to be a surrogate, have a baby and then forget the whole thing.

But that's what I almost did.

My eyes popped open this morning at 2 something and I freaked out.  'I missed it!'.  I counted the days in my head; 21, 22, no... it's OK, it's just Wednesday.

It's my surrogate son's birthday.  Today, he's 6 years old.

It really isn't something that I want to forget, but it slipped.  The ten thousand other things that are going on in my family right now didn't coincide with their family.

But today, I will remember Ari's birthday.

*

I also want to remind you to remember those that struggle with infertility and if you are one of the lucky ones, remember there is always something you can do to help:

offer support.

speaking diva

It's pretty much a secret language between her and I.  Edy says 'ninwo' from the middle row of the van upon us pulling out of the garage.  She's pointing to the window and wants it down.  She then proceeds to point to the other three windows, that I can control, insisting that they each go down too.

Then she usually says something that sounds like 'baabas', but she pinches her thumbs and fingers together and bounces them on her temples.  I know that she wants her sunglasses.

This day, she probably asked for 'wa-wa' and 'yummies' (water and gummies/fruit snacks) at some point along the short car trip to drop Henry off at school, in which case, I was already screwed, because I didn't have either with me... and the girl can scream, like ringing in my ears aftershocks from her screams.

I roll my eyes to myself and wonder how in the hell did I get such a diva on my hands.

Then I remind myself that she's only 1, and that her world revolves around her, and that, as one too many people have told me, 'girls are so different than boys, this is just the way girls are' - dramatic.

ugh...

From farther back, I heard Wyatt yelling something at me, which I didn't initially hear, because I turned up the music to drown out the screams.

Wyatt leaned forward and shouted again "Can you put down the windows?"  Which, in his little mind, means 'can I roll up the windows?' (don't ask).

I looked at him through the rear view mirror "Buddy, it's not that cold, can we please leave them down for Edy?"

Wyatt proceeded "but she's dressed.  I don't have any clothes on, I'm reeeaaaallllly cold!"

I do a double take in the mirror.  Yes, he's wearing a t-shirt, but did he take off his shorts for some weird Wyatt reason, I ask myself.

"Wyatt, you still have your pants on (insert lingering, I'm not sure I want to know the answer, pause) right?"

He responded "NO, I don't have pants on..."  I nearly pulled the car over, but he slowly continued "I have SHORT PANTS on, that's why I have no clothes on, THAT'S why I want the windows closed".

Umm, so apparently, wearing shorts and a t-shirt is equivalent to wearing nothing to this, winter is 9 months long, Minnesota kid.

I'm going to have to brush up on my 'diva' since they both already speak it well. 

Is there a Rosetta Stone for that?

riddle me this

Riddle me this, is a dinner party going extremely well when you are dumb brave enough to pull out your scrapbook from high school, or is it going terribly wrong?

It started somehow because I wanted to show our friends a picture of my husband and I at prom (yes, we are high school sweethearts, you can see it here if you want a giggle) and at that point, I had a few Sam Adams under my belt and could only think of the picture in my scrapbook.  So, out it comes.

There we were, skimming through my book, laughing at me being involved in almost everything, because when you graduate with a class of 52 kids, staff/coaches are pretty much begging you to participate.  A list of a few things I don't do anymore... play clarinet, counsel students, twirl flags, act in plays, sing (at least not for an audience other than those in my van), cheer lead, well, maybe a kick and rah once in a while.

Then we landed on my poetry pages and I, instinctively, slapped the book shut.

*Imagine this poem with flowery love sayings from magazines clipped out and glued around it making a lovely paper border.

I've been with you for only a short while.
But I still feel so close to you.
Many words rush through my head.
Words I'm not sure if they are true.

I know how quickly I am falling.
It is too hard to stop me now.
I am not suppose to fall in love.
No, not this quickly, I don't know how.

I don't want to give you my heart.
For you'll hold it like a treasure.
Once you win the prize,
There will be no love for us to measure.

Why must men just be like that.
Will I ever learn or understand?
How courageous the women are
To give he love the men demand.

Each day I'll dream of you.
You'll be in my mind forever.
The first day and the last,
Of the love that began, Never!

I especially like the dramatic "Never!" part. 

Honestly, I don't know how my 8th grade teacher handed this back to me with a straight face, or without writing a warning in big red letters 'just you wait'.

She must have read this swigging a few Sam Adams herself.

well, poop on you

I took the kids to the library on Monday, because, as I tell my husband, I like to use their environment to educate entertain them, and well... it was Monday and I was tired.

As we walked in, we were surprised to see a former preschool classmate of Wyatt's there.  They both got a little giddy and chased a circle around the young adult section until both moms slowed them down to a few wiggles and instead, had them sit on a bench next to each other by the window.

I overheard his friend tell Wyatt "I can read that one to you, just stay here next to me..."

At that time, I was flipping through the books seeing which ones catch my eye (because, yes, I really do judge a book by it's cover, sue me).  I whispered to his mom, who was standing close to me, watching them, "He doesn't really know how to read, does he?"  I sort of said this laughing, I mean, he just turned 5, like Wyatt.

She replied like it's no big deal "Oh, yes... he does."

I must have looked a little stunned by that.

She continued, obviously feeling the need to rewind a bit, "But he was highly motivated by his big sister".

I couldn't get any appropriate response out, all I could think was, 'well, Wyatt has a big brother too, and that doesn't make him want to read.'

Just at that moment I heard Wyatt yelling something to his friend who was still sitting next to him "I don't know how to read, but I know how to write!"

Thank goodness that conversation sort of turned at that moment and they started talking about 'who was taller than who', because the only word Wyatt knows how to write, other than his name, is p-o-o-p.

Apparently, this is how Wyatt is motivated by his big brother.

little holes

My mom leaned over in the front seat of the car and asked me 'if I remembered to wear my underwear?'. I lifted up my skirt and the confused look must have said it all as she made a quick turn around to swing into the nearest Pamida to buy me a new pack of days of the week underwear so I could go to preschool properly dressed.

This is how I remember that day, but I'm pretty certain there are like a billion holes in this story.  Like one, why am I sitting in the front seat of the car? (Yes, it was the late 70's, but still...). Two, my mom is asking me 'if I remembered my underwear?', so did I not wear my underwear enough times that it warrants her to ask me before dropping me off at preschool?

'Yep, Beth, you use to forget to wear underwear all the time!'

Awesome. Child genius, clearly.

It's just one of those memories where you look at a picture and it feels like you remember being there, being in that moment, remember that second when the camera snapped.  But in reality, you have a picture and you have people reminding, telling you, filling in all those little holes.

Today, I'm pretty happy for those little holes, those memories that Edy won't really remember.

Because I was pretty much insane.

I chased after her all. day. long. trying to get the perfect picture of her in her first day of pigtails.

I think I'll be selective in telling her the story, short and focused.

'No, Edy, your mommy is not crazy, you just looked so cute!'

Dang it... she probably need some convincing that I'm not crazy.

(and this is only 3 of the umm, 47 that I've taken).

wisdom and shaky things

Wyatt turns five tomorrow, with age has (apparently) some sort of new wisdom.  Take last night, we were on the bike trail heading towards the skyline of Minneapolis; birds chirping, wind in our faces, grass blowing (get the picture) when from behind us, we heard music creeping up, getting closer and closer.  When he finally passed us on his left, it was some idiot with this little stereo duct taped to the handle bars of his bike.  I wanted to yell at him something about 'did you know, you can get an MP3 player for like 10 bucks now?  Amazing!', but I didn't, I kept my mouth shut and pedaled a little slower to pace him farther away from us.

Wyatt chimes in though "Now he's all set!"

And we laughed, and to no surprise, he screamed at us.  And then we explained how he sometimes says things that are just so smart, so adult, that we just have to laugh.

Wyatt settled down to a low grumble as he complained about sitting in a baby seat, aka the Burley, once again.

With this new found wisdom, this sitting on the edge of becoming five years old, there are certain things that we expect from Wyatt; like to get dressed by himself, wipe his own butt, not put things in his mouth, nose, or other accessible areas.

So, we were at a friend's house.  Wyatt was playing downstairs, when he comes upstairs, crying, shouting that he put something in his nose, but he doesn't know what it was.

All the parents head down the stairs to the basement to figure out what we will have to be extracting from his nasal passages.  Turns out the kids cracked open a maraca and Wyatt put one of the tiny little beads into his nose.

"Why?" we all want to know.  At almost five, this is something that he should totally not be doing.

He shrugged and continued rambling on about 'how in the world we are going to find the tiny ball in his poop?'

Later that night, settling into the back seat of the minivan, driving home from our friend's house, Wyatt whispers something in the dark...

"I put that bead in my nose so I could make the shaking noise like the shaky thing."

(sigh)

Now that's some awesome (almost) five year old wisdom.

closer

I don't know what possessed me, but I bought something from Oriental Trading Co., which means that I (willingly) put myself on lists to get some of the crappiest catalogs known to man.

I should back up, are you familiar with Oriental Trading Company? It's a catalog company that sells plastic crap in the form of foam fingers, with discount pricing on ordering multiples. I'm pretty sure their slogan is something like 'we sell China' umm, I mean... 'we sell fun'.

And that's exactly the trap that my boys have fallen into.

They leaped across the counter to grab the catalog from the pile of mail before I had the chance to throw it into the recycling.

Henry stared at the catalog, mouth slightly hanging open, "whaaaat's this?" (I swear, I can see a slight bit of drool too).

I tried to downplay it; "it's just a catalog, it's full of junk..."

It was pointless though, he was already thumbing through the pages.

And out of the million and one pieces of crap in the catalog, what does he point out that he'd loved to have?

The life-sized inflatable palm tree. (Poor Henry, he has some weird obsession with palm trees and here he is, living in the tundra of ol' Minnesota).

Wyatt grabs the catalog out of Henry's hands and points to the palm tree on the back page.

"No way! We should get this one!" He waved a picture in front of us, it's the (slightly smaller) inflatable palm tree in pool cooler.


He continues "Mom, this would be a great idea. You could finally get rid of our freezer and put all our drink in there with the ice instead. It would be perfect for your drinks... we could use it at your parties!"

Did you notice how he mentions drinks and parties and getting rid of a kitchen appliance?

Geesh, this kid sure does know how to close a sale.

lather, rinse, repeat

It's one of those weeks were everything feels like you've done it before.

I've sat in on the same library story time for seven years now. I've done the same 'baby shark' song some million times in my life, or so it feels. I've hovered over the bouncy house at the Rec Center the same way that I did seven years ago. I've wiped the kitchen table probably a billion times, the same way every day, every meal, cleaning from top to bottom... that phrase still runs through my head all the time and whoever owes it, I want to slap them.

This kind of week puts me on auto.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Henry moans over chores that he has to do, "when do I get to take a break from making my bed?"

I snap back at him "I don't like making your breakfast everyday, but I have to, it's just something I have to do!" I'm too harsh and I regret it immediately.

But it gets under my skin. Sometimes you just don't get a break.

By the third child, and I'm saying this in all honesty, there are things that lose their luster.

Because I've done it all before.

But I do the story times, the bouncy houses, the Laurie Berkner, the parks, because they are new to her.

And in this blog, I've been blogging for four years and when I sit down to type something up, it feels like I've written it before. 'It's the same shit I've done before, maybe I should just link it up and be done with it.'

But I'm better than that. Or so I want to believe I am... so I haven't posted.

Maybe I've taken a break from the one thing that I can take break from.

A little less lather, rinse, repeat.

big dreamer

I'm not good at playing with my kids. I'm not saying I don't, I'm just saying I'm not good at sitting there, legs crossed, getting down and dirty on the hardwood floor, and playing on their level of imagination.

It doesn't help that Henry, our big dreamer, wants to make things like pretend atomic bombs or solar paneled windmills to flush the toilet for him. Some things are just impossible for me to wrap my head around and I get frustrated that I can't explain to him why it's not possible for us to do such and such.

My husband is so much better at this; he listens, cheers him on for being so creative in his thinking, and then turns to YouTube to see what ideas they can come up with... and they can spend the next hour or so looking at videos of go-carts and LED lights.

So, this weekend, when Henry asked me to play Lego's with him, I almost teared up, saying: "Yes! I can play Lego's with you". This is something (finally) doable.

And what does a totally creative, big dreamer, think outside the box, kind of mom like me make with Lego's and her 8 year old son?

A little shopping center; complete with a bowling alley, flower shop, fire station and of course, a Target.


What kind of town would it be without a Target?

(I can't even imagine the horror of that nightmare.)

when the cat is away

What's that saying: 'when the cat is away, the mice will play'? I think that's bull. When the cat is away, the cat gets to play, and when I say 'cat' I'm referring to my husband.

I'm lucky though. My husband leaves on business only about once a year. (I'm sure lots of you are screaming at your computer screen about how I should quit crying in my tomato soup and get over myself, that your husband is gone all the time.)

We all know it's hard though, doing everything; dinner and dishes, baths, books and bedtime. There is no split shifts, it's just you and well, you. But for me, what seems to be worse than the pressure of doing it all, is the jealousy of him doing all that other stuff.

Sure, it's a business trip, but what happens after five?

Where's my dinner at where ever in the world I want as long as it doesn't have a kids' menu? Where's my going to a mid-week chic flick? Where's my complimentary breakfast I bring up to my room to eat in bed?

Where's my little trip away? Where's my fancy hotel?

Then I got a text from my husband's most recent trip with this picture:


Yep, that's his fancy motel room (the creepy kind with the front door going to the parking lot). Yes, that's a mini-fridge on top of the dresser, with a microwave on top of that. And oh yes, that's a baby bed bug breeder velour Harley Davidson blanket on the bed.

This picture helped.

It at least put a damper on the jealousy...

a bite bit.

just another WTF Friday

Dearest Caillou,

I'm going to be blunt, you are not normal.

Let's just lay out the facts here:

1) You're a 4 years old and you still have no hair. My children were all bald, but they eventually grew hair, and it was way before 4.

2) You're always playing by yourself and your parents are somehow doing other stuff; like talking on the phone, cooking dinner, chatting with friends... you are never playing with your parents and apparently, you're fine with that. (Does anyone in real life have uninterrupted phone conversations? Yeah, I didn't think so.)

3) You wear hats to bed. You probably wear socks too (shuttering at that thought).

4) Your voice is akin to a helium balloon being stretched apart and slowly leaking air out, and has anyone ever mentioned that you might whine complain a bit too much?

5) And apparently, from the book I just checked out from the library, you wake up at 10 in the morning.


See the close up of the clock:


I've heard from other parents that their kids get up at 5am, and I'm pretty certain I would die if that was me. I'm lucky enough to not have to drip coffee into my veins intravenously, but are any parents really getting to sleep in until 10am?

Come on, Caillou, WTF.

let's just cut to the chase

I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I felt pretty drained after searching for the perfect gift for Henry's classmates for his birthday. So, three weeks later, I just didn't care anymore what he put in his Valentine's cards. I drove to the nearest Dollar Store and bought these tiny little compass rings.

I suck.

These stupid compass rings stand for so much of what I hate: buying junk and giving people crap.

Remember when it was easy (and oh, the horror...possibly edible) and you could just scotch tape a sucker onto your card?

So, what was my favorite piece of crap from Henry's Valentine's cards from yesterday?

Yep, the Valentine card that just cut to the chase.

The one that wasn't crap at all... it was the one with a quarter taped on.


How I adore her parents right now.

It says "instead of me buying junk, I'm going to give you money, the money I would have spent on whatever."

Brilliant!

Of course, Henry, right away, wondered what he could buy with a quarter.

crap

the bigger the snack, the harder the fall

The most vivid lie I remember ever telling my parents was about me and a Rubik's cube. I sat in a swivelled chair, facing the corner, peeling colored stickers off and placing them back in right color order. I ran to my mom shouting that I 'did it myself!'. Though it was probably so obvious to my parents; the nail scratches, the corners pushed up, I thought at four years old, I'd gotten away with it.

I thought 'my parents officially know I am a genius.'

It took me over a week to finally admit to lying to them. (Or at least it felt like a week, I was 4 for goodness sakes, details are fuzzy.)

But yes, I was one stubborn genius child (a trait that my husband would say has only gotten stronger with age).

::

So, Wyatt sat in his seat from preschool going on and on about 'how hungry he was'. He then paused and started to tell me about how he didn't get a snack. Then he decided that wasn't enough, but that the whole school didn't get a snack.

He tells me "No one got a snack today, Mom. No one! No one in my classroom, no one in any of the classrooms!" He motions along with this like it's the end of the world.

I thought it was pretty strange, I mean, I pay $180 a month for a snack to be included, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. "Really?" I replied. "Don't you guys usually have a snack? Did you run out of time?

It was like I was his pawn... "Yes!" he shouted, "we ran out of time!".

"You must be starving then, I'll fix lunch as fast as I can." I respond.

I think I could physically see him deflate from the backseat.

Unknown to me, his plan for a snack before lunch didn't work. He reacted badly to this news. He started to get mad at stuff that well, usually makes him mad.

"My shirt is all wet (sobbing), I HATE my shirt! Why did you pick out this shirt for me?"

I snapped, "don't say hate and why in the world is your shirt all wet?"

"I spilled all my water," Wyatt whined back.

"Well, when did you have water?" I asked.

"At snack time"... that sort of tapers off to not being audible.

busted

Turns out it was even a huge snack, with granola bars, string cheese and water, which sort of makes me even a little bit more mad. The bigger the snack, the harder the fall.

So, Wyatt sat on the step in a time out as I made lunch. As he climbed the stairs after the timer went off, I then told him the story of my lie of pulling off the stickers of the Rubik's cube.

And when I finished, when I hoped for this big ah-ha moment from Wyatt, all he wanted to know 'why in the world would I have told the truth?'

Apparently, getting away with a lie would have been way more impressive to the storyline.

I heart you, literally

I imagine his preschool teachers plopped papers, paints and brushes on the table and told the table full of four year olds, "this week we are talking about Valentines. You know, love and hearts and all that kind of stuff..."

They continue "Could you all paint some beautiful hearts for your moms and dads for this upcoming Valentines? I'm sure your parents will love it!"

And they were right; I do, I love it.

Wyatt painted my heart...


and my stomach and those 'wiggly things' (intestines, I'm assuming, though there is no doubt he would correct me if not).

I have a feeling this child has my sense of humor.

::

My sweet Wyatt, I heart you too,

literally.

a tutorial worth pinning

I know many of you will be asking me to post this up on Pinterest so you can get a step-by-step tutorial on how to get the perfect family photo (after seeing my previous family photo), but I haven't succumbed to pinning stuff, just yet, so a blog post will have to suffice. My apologies.

So, have your family go to Chuck E. Cheese. (No remarks on the cleanliness level of your Chuck E. Cheese, please.)

Deposit one coin into the sketch photo booth thing with half your family members.

Next, deposit a second coin with the other half of your family members. (Remember to point clearly to where the camera is and where it isn't.)

Smile.

Trim to fit, scotch tape together and there you have it.

The perfect family photo... for the cost of only two coins (and perhaps your sanity as children around you are screaming about you taking too long in the photo booth).

half-assed, half marathon

There are things in our lives that make us think "oh, crap, what did I just get myself into". This just happens to be one of those things...

I signed up for a half marathon.

eek

Having to just say the word marathon freaks me out a bit. OK, more that just a bit, but I'm just going to concentrate on the half part.

The logical side of me was like this:

"It says right here that walkers are welcomed, as long as I can finish in 4 hours... I can finish in 4 hours, umm, right?"

"And the site says the course is slopey (or something to me that reads 'not too hilly'). I like flat runs."

"I'll get a medal if I finish. I like medals too."

"I can put one of those 13.1 miles stickers on my minivan... no one will have to know that I walked the whole thing"

"I just dropped 80 bucks on this race, there is no way that I can back out. (That's the same price as a new microwave!)"

So, I'm doing a half marathon, more for the medal and the bumper sticker than anything, but still... I'm doing it. (I think)

And yes, should I reiterate what so many others say? "If I can do it, so can you!" Especially if you plan on finishing just under the 4 hour, closing it down, mark with me.

Not that I've done 'it' yet.

'It' being the half-assed, half marathon.

Hold me.

life cycle

This is my microwave, kicked to the curb, though not really a curb (and technically, not really kicked), but thrown into the screened in porch in a fit of anger, where I pray that it get frozen over and covered with at least 12" of snow very shortly. "Take that!"

You might be asking (or not care, but will scroll through anyways), but why?

Because the damn thing died on me after, maybe, 3 years... and that pisses me off for several reasons. Let me list them for you in numerical order, it will be fun:

1) I swear, my parents had their first microwave for like 20 years. It was bigger than my toddler, a dark, ugly, brown color, and it made a strange humming noise, but it lasted forever. Math people, 20 years is way more than 3. Heck, I'm not even sure it died on them or that my parents just got tired of looking at it.

2) There are only a few things that I need for my daily survival, Diet Coke and my microwave are two of them. Being that it quit working in the morning, I had to cancel all plans for that evening to go out and buy a new microwave, not to mention, I had to waste my time online, during nap time when I should be napping working, looking for the best deals on microwaves.

3) I bought (almost) the cheapest microwave out there because our kitchen is on (a not really ever happening) time schedule of being redone, where we get a fancy over-the-range microwave, so I don't really see a point in spending a significant amount of money.

4) I will have to throw this stinkin' broken microwave in the back of my minivan and drive to some suburb that might as well be in Nebraska and pay $30 to recycle it properly, when I just spent $60 on the new microwave... something doesn't add up to me on this. I need some smart person's ratio of time to cost calculation, but you get the point. I feel like I'm getting ripped off.

and finally

5) Just knowing that the new microwave is going to stop working in 2 to 3 years and that I get to repeat this lovely cycle again just stabs me right in the heart.

::

Would it sound oh, so old of me to say 'they don't make them like they use to.'?

I think I can feel my parents laughing at me right now.

eye of the beholder

She usually wakes up singing, something along the lines of 'hi', then she changes it an octave and says it again 'hi'. Maybe a little louder, it depends on her mood. She jumps up and down in her crib, holding onto the side railing, screeching the already well-worn springs. She's literally just jumping at the chance to start her morning.

But this morning, she woke up with snot smeared across her face, her hair standing up on end on the left hand side, her breath not at all that sweet baby smell we all dream about.

It was an actual temperature of negative 7 this morning, perhaps she knew.


Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right?

My snotty beauty.

Me getting a good laugh every time I look at this photo on my phone, that's pretty beautiful too.