I lost it yesterday

I lost it yesterday.

Standing next to my youngest in a crowded line, I lost the last of my calm.

It was barely there, anyway. In fact, I think my calm has been fading away quickly for some time now. I'm more aggitated than I've ever been. My temper is on a short fuse and it keeps getting lit. I blow, and blow - silently willing the flame to extinguish. You're not that woman, Rachelle. You are a loving mom. You enjoy having fun with your kids. He's just a kid, let him be. Who cares if that child-free one over there is scowling? I doubt they remember being a kid, or being a parent to a kid. You don't want to be free if it means missing one moment of each of your blessings' growing up. And away. Independent. Seeking outsiders for amusement. Instead of you.

I lost my calm. As he bounced and jiggled and gyrated. Hummed a tune in his head while pursing his lips in a smooch and furrowing his brows in concentration. Getting right jiggy with it (except these kids don't do jiggy, they don't even understand the reference). "Let me see," he exclaimed while simultaneously cracking his head on the hot bowl of soup in my hand in mid jump, sending scalding droplets out onto my bare arm and, luckily, only onto the tips of his curly hair. I snapped. "I can't pick you up!" I hollered it - too loud to be dignified and, coupled with the yank I gave his arm, too cold to be motherly.

I felt the heat of a flush rise on my neck. Eyes cast down, I refused to look at anyone who might be nearby. The piercing eyes they darted toward me burned worse than the soup that hit my arms (even though I didn't see them).

Blow, breathe, blow harder. Extinguish.

He rubbed his head, smarting from the good clunk it'd received. He allowed himself to be led away from the line. I tugged him to a vantage point so he could see the grill. And I held back tears. Of frustration. Of apology. Of regret.

I lost my calm.

Over, Hold SWF '12:14,15

Missed Six Word Fridays last week and a few others here and there - a trend that is becoming somewhat habit as I adjust to being Mrs. The whirlwind of activity leading up to and following our nuptials has been cataclismic on my already weak organization. It ain't easy merging two households with two children each and two mature adults with quite a bit of life experience crammed into boxes. Don't tell Clean House, but we may soon be in the running for most-needed-intervention if I don't get it together soon.

Over (4.18.12)
It happened yesterday upon his waking:
He's so over being the baby.
He realized he was in charge.
No, really. He took complete control.
He whipped his head mockingly around,
Curled his lip like child-Elvis,
And admonished Mommy for being simple.
And, she's a "big meanie," too!
I mean why sweat the missing shoes?
"It's not like it's feet day."
It's picture day. Footware? Who cares?
Yeah.
That's the turning point of three.



Hold
Clinging to my last bit now.
Sanity slipping away quickly. Can't cope.
From two to four, now official.
Each with a single-minded determination
that doesn't match my dictated plans.
This one seeks adulthood-independence now.
That one wants privacy and space.
This one craves more attention, please?
And that one wants to leave.
I try to hold onto hope.
Life will create a new normal.
I ordered that parenting handbook.
The publisher review read like this:
Do it yourself and learn quickly
these kids need you to adapt
figure out what makes them thrive
and put together something all enjoy.
[Soon I'll get a hold again.]

honeymooning (with kids) on relaxation coast

The hubs and I delayed our honeymoon until we could bring the entire family along for the trip. Weird, right? Well, with the combining of two three-person households, it seemed ideal to make our first family trip happen rather than escaping on a romantic adventure sans minors. (Our minors are majors, after all.)

[Texture Tuesday @ KK Cafe featuring "Little Things"]
So, we packed up our beach bum wardrobes, rented a van, and cruised down 95 south. Half a dozen stops and many hours later, we arrived in North Myrtle Beach - a seaside vacation spot with streets lined in souvenir shops and miniature golf attractions.

Our home-from-home apartment was a nice two bedroom, two bath place in Wyndham's WestWinds resort. Unfortunately, the biggest selling point of the location was its beach front location and friendly staff, because all other comforts and amenities I've been spoiled with at other timeshare locations were not featured here.

What is here in abundance is ocean waves that never cease. Dilapidated wooden fences are nestled in long grasses. And a serenity permeates even when storms threaten high tides and pelting rains.

Ok, did anyone happen to notice that I said I was driving a VAN? Yes, to fit my family of six (plus Oma), we had to get a bigger vehicle. Poor Celi sat at home and I missed my sleek, speedy sports car terribly as I whipped through traffic in the Chrysler Town & Country beast. I suppose this is one of those turning points in parenthood - when the car of choice is no longer functional for transporting the growing family.

We're still learning how this new family dynamic works. Our littles are used to being the "baby" in their respective family- but there can only be one and both of them have aged out of the role in our cast. Our bigs are always the oldest, except now one is no longer. Instead, she claimed the role of "princess" as the only girl in a house of boys.

Admittedly, I'm still getting used to this collaboration thing. I've been independent for a long time and it's still novel to have a partner sharing responsibilities and joys. I kinda like it.

So the "honey" in this vaykay is the sweet that comes from realizing that this man of mine gives my heart flutters whenever he says "I love you." It's his insistence that the pudgy girl I've always been known as is beautiful in his sight no matter what the mirror reports. It's those times when we say the same thing at the same time without intention. It's the hugs, hand holding, and kisses of someone who adores me (and it's reciprocated).

It's knowing that this active brood of youngsters is under our care - that together, we're developing wonderful and independent people who will enjoy family, adventure, and learning.

And it's saying good night or good morning to those whose company is cherished.

Lo Hicimos!

We've reached the end of the episode, hit each of the three landmarks, and we did it! Yes, Project Mama to Mrs. has finally come to an end. Or is it a beginning?

Yesterday

According to Ya, everything that has ever happened happened yesterday.
And so, I'll adopt his timeline because it feels right right now.

Yesterday, I met a boy.
Yesterday, I had a crush.
Yesterday, I fell in love.
Yesterday, we shared our dreams.
Yesterday, he promised forever.
Yesterday, I said goodbye.
Yesterday, he let me go.
Yesterday, life moved on.
Yesterday, we went our separate ways.
Yesterday, he searched for me.
Yesterday, I was found.
Yesterday, he kissed me sweet.
Yesterday, he claimed my kids.
Yesterday, I welcomed home his.
Yesterday, he vowed his love.
Yesterday, I discovered my heart's home.
Yesterday, I found my soulmate.
Yesterday, he asked my Daddy - - and then, he asked my kids.
Yesterday, he said, "will you?"
Yesterday, I said "yes."

And tomorrow? We say "I do."

[five days until Mrs. is me.]

SWF '12:10 - i wish

i wish it were easier for
each one of my special gems
to adjust to newness and unknown.
they wonder where they might fit - -
if there's a place reserved here.
some fighting past hurts of abandonment,
others disappointment and frequently tumultuous disruption,
and then there are overwhelming feelings
that the crowd might consume attention.
don't they know love is limitless?
i wish they could feel enveloped
in the same rapture we do.

i wish, i wish... i pray
they're assured this family is theirs.

***shared with Six Word Fridays: Wish

In other news, we met with our officient yesterday evening with the "bigs." As he gave us sample vows and sentiments for our program, I felt myself verklempt as we discussed how our children would be included in the vows. There's a beautiful passage for pledging our devotion to these new charges - about what is essentially an adoption of the heart. Our four. Those most affected by this union. Those who have tried over the course of the last few weeks to establish their positions in the household. And, who've countless times demanded proof of our loyalty to them. We've removed the "step;" I've always prefered a one level abode (and a heart makes no distinction). Yet, it is an odd time and certainly not the repose one might expect when all the planning is done and we are merely waiting for the day to arrive.

Mine (a poem by the evil stepmother)

I admit it, I feared her
becoming the evil stepmother to two
who are not mine by birth
but are every bit a part
of our growing family, of him
(whom I love, and it transfers).
There have been setbacks and strides.
Moments when I've second guessed this...
tremendous responsibility of sharing my heart
with those who call another "mom."
Not wanting to take her place.
Not trying to steal her honor.
But hoping to add something extra
to this parental equation we've created.
I've faltered sometimes. Revealed many mistakes.
But I'm learning quickly they're mine.
Maybe not sons from their first,
but hereafter holding part of me.
My heart is opened yet again.

Project Mama to Mrs.: Web'spired wedding

There are millions of ideas out there and the 'net has made them accessible - grouped together in logical little idea boards of someone else's design and inginuity. I typed in my colors, the term "wedding," and "idea board" and I had hundreds of what essentially were graphic designer or interior decorator's pitch boards for anonymous clients around the world. Then it was just a matter of determining my style preferences and executing.

{Picking my colors was tough. And narrowing those down to three? Impossible. I settled on those that "called" me whenever I saw them on display.}

My favorite place for finding must-haves? Etsy.

I ordered my bouquets from a wonderful designer named Michele (AmoreBride). I swear, she knows my taste and style so well it's sick... peacock couture? Perfection. And once we firmed up the colors for my custom bouquet, she offered to tweak my bridal party bouquets so that each will be unique. I collaborated on a second bridal bouquet set with Lindsey of Artsy Texas Design. She is AMAZING. First, she used my inspiration photos to draft a custom design incorporating my specific flower, shape and style preferences. Then she blended my color palette into a beautiful and realistic art piece that I'm in awe of. My daughter's bouquet mirrors mine and the maid's bouquets match, but are totally different to showcase what I've deemed the major two. The only issue now is which set to walk down the isle with, because I'm definately taking photos with each!

My boutonierres were custom designed by Kelly of WaterMeNot, who not only offered fabulous suggestions for matching colors, but gave me subtle variations for each member of the groom's party that are added surprises of personalization.

When it came to jewelry, I again turned to Etsy. I picked out a stunning Victorian-style teardrop pendant in the perfect shade of blue at AzureTreasures. Tear drop earrings and a pear and crystal bracelet complete the ensemble. I cannot wait to see it all with my dress at the final fitting appointment. Kristen of Guilded Shadows customized my veil and peacock feather fascinator. She helped me decide between two head pieces after looking at my gown styling. And the beauty of the final pieces is breathtaking. Now I just have to figure out my hair.

Groomsmen's gifts came personalized from LoversJewelry. And bridesmaids' gifts came from AllforBrides, who also has fabulous accessories in a variety of themes and color palettes.

I made my own centerpieces - with most of the materials coming from yet another online retailer: Save-On-Crafts. Beyond offering reasonable prices on their crafty supplies, there is an idea gallery and how-to section that was pretty helpful. And it didn't hurt that the customer service team was responsive and extremely accomodating. As a reformed scrapbook supply hoarder, I rarely visit JoAnn or Michael's anymore. But the wedding gave me an excuse to visit both again. With coupons, I saved a bundle on a stamp, some self-adhering bling, my guestbook, a "kissing stool," and some foilage for my alter pieces.

My bedroom has become wedding central - and as I scan the various boxes, I'm proud to see it all coming together beautifully. I can't wait to get it all out on display on I Do Day.

Oh, and my cake? Well, It's a variation of a cake I found online by The Pastry Studio... except we changed the colors and the number of circles. Oh, and added cupcakes. Yummy.

An aside: Somehow I established early on that I loved the color scheme naturally found on peacocks. Yeah, God; you and Mother Nature rocked that pretty cock. And while I stop short at saying I have "themed" my nuptials around a jumpy, flashy show off, there are nods to his fierce appearance everywhere.

Ever the student, I required research into the symbolism of the peacock. It was, afterall, taking over. Somehow the significance of the bird in worldwide religions and cultures just fits. The abridged version of symbolism is pretty impressive: good luck, wisdom, integrity, beauty, renewal, patience, compassion, royalty, pride, openness and acceptance. I'd say those are pretty good ingredients to a foundation.

Project Mama to Mrs.: 'Zilla attacks?

Ok... so I've neglected the poor blog for weeks and weeks... but I'm counting down. Forty one days is NOT a long time to execute the biggest party I've ever thrown. Wait... it was 40 days when I started this post... and that was... a few weeks ago?

I am not a party planner. I don't like parties. I don't like crowds. And now, all the attention is on me (and my groom, of course).

At one point, I used to watch that WE TV show "Bridezilla" and wonder how in the world that groom could say "I do" when his woman was so crazy. Ranting and raving about little details. Fussing about what he should (or shouldn't) do. Whining about every little thing - especially situations which pulled attention off of her.

I get it now. And, my 'ZILLA tee shirt is on order.

I'm not going to just be bridezilla. I picture myself as all encompassing: momzilla, wifezilla, teacherzilla, womanzilla. Yes, I'm every zilla, it's all in me. Anything I want done, baby, I expect to be pleased. Whoa, whoa, whoa-oh-oh. Sing it with me!

Ahem. Ok. I'm back.

So planning a wedding *alone* is no easy task. While Rob is certainly there to give the nod of final approval, the details - - every little element combined into the whole - - are mine. I must've sketched ideas for centerpieces half a dozen times. And until last week, when I finally got the coveted vases I needed, I was still sketching and tweaking and altering. And the final centerpieces? Nothing like the sketches and yet exactly what I wanted.

But I flipped out in Dollar Tree when the vases I wanted weren't in stock. Not-a-single-one. I picked a substitution, drove home with the trunk of glass, and then lost it as I looked at the terrible 16 ill-shaped flower holders. Yuck. They weren't sleek. They weren't modern. They weren't making an appearance at my affair. Zilla had spoken.

MOH to the rescue: she remembered my internet search in preceding weeks. "Why not order the ones you wanted?" She was nice enough not to say "Duh," but I heard it anyway. And once online, the vase catastrophe was solved and a dozen centerpieces were set to arrive in my name to the store with no extra shipping or handling fee. (And when I picked up my box, the shelves were full of them! Ugggh.)

There was a little debacle in the wedding gown store too... but I held my tongue. I seethed in a corner. I stared down the manager and sent subliminal hate messages in her direction. That episode is worthy of an entire post all its own.

There might have been a few terse words thrown at the customer service agent of the photography company. Maybe an e-mail of pure distain. I think it was warranted. I reread the contract. They were behind schedule and totally owed me some actual service. But the poor young woman who answered the phone? Yeah, she probably had no idea that call was coming. And I think she might have made a note in my client "file"... it might say "she's nuts, coddle her," because the next representative was so appeasing it was almost annoying. Except I got exactly what I wanted immediately.

And I might have tossed aside one, maybe two vendors who just didn't react quickly enough to inquiries about the status of my requests. Um, my though here is a business ought to at least provide a time frame of productivity so I'm not stressing about whether I'll be without on "I do" day.

I'm told I've been short with the family. Projecting my frustrations at random targets. But wait... he was late for our engagement photos. We were also late for our taste testing of the reception food. He did forget to take out the trash and only offered to help when I was already lugging bags to the curb. She didn't wash the dishes right - - there was food stuck to plates and silverware. He didn't clean his room again, the stuff's just on the side you can't see from a doorway scan. And they didn't go to bed when they were told to. I did do the laundry - all five loads - myself (but thank you for helping fold one of them). Ok. Perhaps my bickering was a little harsh?

Where the hell is that tee shirt? I feel like I need to wear it now.

Just a few more weeks of this hoopla and I might find my calm center again. Which means, in true leo fashion, I'll be the overzealous control freak over some new project meant to propel me into the spotlight for a few seconds of applause.

Project Mama to Mrs.: Child-free Calamity

When I was 12 years old, my uncle got married. His wedding was one of those really fancy affairs. My mom was a bridesmaid, as was one of my aunts. And the hoopla before the wedding had everyone in the vacinity totally charged for his nuptials. I saw the reception venue - beautifully ornate with crystal place settings, dimmed lighting, and clothed tables and chairs. Or, maybe, that was what I envisioned. I wasn't allowed at that part of the affair. As a "not-quite-teen" and therefore child, I was uninvited. And because I was "old enough" to serve as babysitter to all my younger siblings and cousins, that's exactly what I was relegated to be. I begged an older cousin who made the cut to take photos for me - - to capture the event so I could experience it vicariously through prints. I never saw those photos. And, I think, I am still bitter about the exclusion.

My cousin was married when my daughter was five and I was expecting my second child. She, too, held a "no kids allowed" reception. When I first held the beautiful black and silver invite, I read that tiny clause and fummed. Where would I send my child off to if everyone who had ever watched her was expected at the event? I was saved by a second invitation to have her serve as flower girl. As part of the wedding party, she was welcomed into the adult-only festivities and she had a blast - - until bedtime. Then, the stress of the day's activities caused a meltdown and it put a damper on my enjoyment of the evening.

There've been many weddings in between (and after) these two, and most that I've elected to attend welcomed children. Some even catered to their enjoyment with blow up toys, bubbles, and specially selected kiddie tunes. I admit these were wonderful, family-oriented parties that made for oh-so-precious photographs. I resolved that I'd want to be all-inclusive with my own wedding.

Now, finally, it is my turn. And when I become Mrs., there will be four children officially under my safe keeping. That's right, four, ages from 3-12.

But we, too, elected to eliminate other people's teeny boppers from our reception. Hypocritical?

Well... I feel a little like "Father of the Bride" on this one.

Our reception space holds 75 for a sit down meal, and with that maximum capacity reached, it's a tight fit.

I'm already told I'll have to sacrifice my round tables for rectangles to make room for a dance floor.

If children come (and my family and friends average three per household), then the number of adult guests will dwindle to nothing. We'd already trimmed our guest lists to those we could not bear to have missing and those we absolutely knew would be crushed were they not invited. We eliminated many wonderfully faithful friends who've made us the people we are today. It felt horrible.

When Rob mentioned that his eldest sister recommended a "child-free" soiree (who, herself has three), I reluctantly agreed. In my head I tallied the number of effected parties - my closest friends have six among them, my few invited cousins have at least three in their party, and only a few uncles and aunts with young charges. Ok. Perhaps it was not so bad.

We sent out the invitations.

And then I got a phone call. How could I leave out kids? Who would watch the babies? Why can't they come? Can't you make an exception?

It wasn't a callous decision. It wasn't about economics. It wasn't meant to create the next family controversy that divides us into separate sides of the boxing ring. If I chose the chapel I fell in love with and its associated reception venue, this exclusion was the only one that maximized my beloved guests - - those I'd grown up with, loved forever, confided in, and cherished long before children were even born.

He said it...

Ya is three. Three, I say. He is all boy. He is smart. He is witty. He is full of character. He is profound.

Ya:"Mom, can I pretend I'm a doctor? How do you feel?
Mom: "My tummy hurts."
Ya:"Just drink medicine. Medicine and water."

***
Ya: "If I don't drink no medicine, then I won't be feeling no better. Mom, please."

***
Ya: "Can you make me food?"
Me: "The kitchen is closed."
Ya: "There is no kitchen door."

***
Ya, while watching my NY GIANTS beat the 49rs in football: "What color is redskins?"
Me:"red and yellow. They're not playing. That's Rob's team, 49rs. We like giants. Say, ' go giants."
Ya:"I like the star. Can I have them?"
Me: "traitor."

***
During a discussion about why he cannot eat my left over English muffin sandwich:
Me: "You eat breakfast at School."
Ya: did you see me eat? No. I didn't eat nothing."

***
Ya: "Mom are you ever going to get downstairs and get me food."
||ten seconds later||
"Are you going to get yourself downstairs? Cause I'm hungry. I ate a muffin. I ate fruit. Potatoes. Potatoe salad and..."
Me: "Why are you hungry?"
Ya: "Because I never ate a lot of stuff at my school. I ate a muffin, I ate fruit, I ate corn. And nothing else. Told you that. That's why I'm still hungry. Are you just going to get yourselves downstairs now?"

with these hands

There is something beautiful about working with your hands...

and creating something out of nothing...

Fat aint my fault - I need it

BlogHer Book Club presents:

Why Women Need Fat: How "Healthy" Food Makes Us Gain Excess Weight and the Surprising Solution to Losing It Forever
William D. Lassek, M.D. and Steven J.C. Gaulin, PH.D.
Hudson Street Press, 2012

No man? Blame it on the belly fat.
Difficult birth of children? Blame it on the belly fat.
Poor health? Blame it on the belly fat.

At least that's what a quick read of several of the chapters in Why Women Need Fat would lead me to believe. Looking closer at the well-organized discussion of BMI and women's shapes, however, leads me away from these quick (and warrying) conclusions.

Like most busy professionals, I didn't have endless hours to devour every chapter of this book. So I skipped around - drawn to intriguing chapter titles and remaining for a closer read because of the content. I started, then, in Chapter Four: The Mystery of the Tiny Waist. I don't have - nor have I ever had - a waist that would be called tiny. Brick house? Yeah, unless you're looking for that 24 in the middle. I'm more like "Sistah Big Bones," the so-called pudgy gal with the barrel torso. It should come as no surprise as to why I started with a chapter about something I've never been blessed with.

I'd always believed that - as it has been said in many a passing conversation - that weight was indicative of wealth. You know thin people don't eat, right? Well, it has to be because they can't afford food. Isn't that what they say is the assumption in many cultures? A woman with some girth is ready to bare your legacy and is a showcase of your ability to provide.

But authors William D. Lassek, M.D. and Steven J.C. Gaulin, PH.D. debunk this myth quickly. They provide conclusions from a study of college men who've been asked to rate women's attractiveness. The women shown are all collegiates and have blurred faces and wear nude bra and panties. The only thing being evaluated is their shapes. The results? Well, after evaluating the tracking pictures of each participating males' eye movement (which primarily lingered on the waist just before a rating was chosen), it was determined that men are attracted to proportionately smaller waist-to-hip body types. [In a later clarification, the authors note it is "a small waist combined with quite a bit of fat in the hips, buttocks, and thighs" that attracts the visually-selective man.]

The authors add ratings of Playboy Playmates and cartoon women to these research experiments, concluding that though it "made no evolutionary sense," the smaller the waist appears to be, the more attractive a woman is. And these itty bitty waists typically mean a lower BMI. I found it intriguing that, "Women with BMIs well below 20 - like Playmates, the women men prefer in Tovee's studies, and the students with the smallest waists - tend to be less healthy, less fertile, and less able to conceive children." So though humans are supposed to be physiologically wired to be attracted to healthier mates, they're not?

I read on, hooked. In the next few sub chapters, the authors discuss the health-related cause of bigger waists - less Omega 3 DHA (needed for a baby's brain development) and more Omega 6. So my bigger-than-it-should-be belly signals I'll birth a less intelligent baby. It also suggests a riskier birth experience, the possibility that I've been pregnant before and have "used up some of [my] brain-building supplies" stock-piled in my pudgy pubescence. Oh, and if I appear as though I've had one or more kids before evaluating-man spots me for this analysis, chances are that I'm no youngster. Hold up, " gaining weight after having [the] first baby is beneficial for any other babies that follow," right? My expanding girth, then, is protecting the health of his future offspring (that's my story - I'm sticking to it.)!

Now, obviously I'm skipping a good bit of information that Drs. Lassek and Gaulin have compiled. But if I didn't, I'd just be rehashing the book, which at this point I'd decided was worthy of a thorough read through.

I'm overweight and diets aren't working because, in part, the poultry and livestock I consume is stuffed with corn instead of the grains and grasses they'd once been raised on. Corn, the authors report, is replete with Omega 6 (the bad one) and I have to eat more meats to acquire the needed Omega 3 my body craves. So that 'lean meat' I thought I was preparing? It's making me anything but.

Oh, and there's something about leptin, too. Leptin is part of the "fat gene" discovery. It tells my (confused) body how much fat I've got on reserve - and I swear it's calculations are wrong. Why else would this body of mine be holding onto every fat particle it encounters?

But wait... is it hopeless?

The simple answer is no. Drs. Lassek and Gaulin say I can reduce my Omega 6 abundance by boiling, roasting, steaming, stewing, broiling, or grilling my foods. And when I crave fried? Stir fry or braise (huh?) my food in "canola or olive oil or in butter." Oh, and fish is good, very good. Too bad I do not "do" seafood and refuse to chug fish oil (which is suggested).

Now, I am also told that my height - four feet and ten inches of pure me - is not a good thing in a small package. (Pout.) Basically, my compact frame didn't make room for essentials like kidneys, liver, spleen, or intestines like a tall woman's body does. I was destined, you see, to be a little (bite your tongue!)on the thicker side.

The doctors, of course, counter my conclusions with charts for figuring out my natural (ideal) body weight, my body type and body widths, and my body fat. So, I can figure out my ideals and then try to get there while realizing, as the last chapter title states, "it's not your fault if you're heavy, but you don't have to be this heavy."

So it would seem that I have a little work to do. With the appendix of food facts and nutrition information, and a meaty chapter on restoring my newly-calculated natural body weight, I just might have the tools to lose the hefty, hefty uncinched sack that should be my waist.

Disclosure:
This is a paid review for BlogHer Book Club. As always, the views and opinions expressed herein remain my own. I wouldn't write it any other way.

Play it again (on competition among lovers)

I've never been much of a competitive person. Of course, I like to win. Who doesn't? But I would rather lose in a fair and fierce competition than win because someone felt I needed to be recognized. That kind of winning, frankly, sucks.

And so, when my fiancee and I began a friendly game of "Words with Friends" (Zenga's version of online Scrabble), it began as a, well, a friendly game. We'd play while on breaks at work. We'd play sitting side by side on my parent's couch (facing our phone screens away from each other under our "no peeking policy"). Fast forward about 50 days, and our amicable competition has become a cut throat past time.

As the English teacher with a penchant for and affinity to unusual words, I'd just expected to wipe out my competition. I mean, I have a word wall in my classroom of interesting words I find in my readings (making the list are words like perclempt, cacophony, erstwhile, and clairvoyance). How can I not kick butt in a game about forming words?

I tell you, I was on a role. Game after game I was winning (I even made a 150 point come from behind victory and clenched the win by two points). I was pulling out words I've not heard or used for years. I'd seen him play, trying out a letter here or there, rearranging at arbitrary random until the game was "sending" his word. He'd gotten me with a few good ones - - words I would not have believed existed (qi, quop, et, jape, yock, zu). But he didn't know the secret. You have to be conscious of the TL (triple letter), DL (double letter), DW (double word), and TW (triple word) squares.

I told him. He listened. And then, I lost.

Imagine the devistation. I considered the initial win a fluke, meerly a lucky handout of letters (I was denied consonants, for heaven's sake!).

And then, I lost. Again.

Half dozen losses later, I decided I'd play him on his own game. Beat him in something he loved. We made a simple wager. I picked up an XBox 360 controller and selected a comic character to battle against his Mortal Combat choice.

I mashed those darn buttons. I twirled the little joystick with my thumb. I mashed more buttons. I moved the controller for extra oomph on my button pushing frenzy.

I lost. Badly.

Every once in a while, my frantic and obscure button punching resulted in more than just sore thumbs - a special combination or a glowing figure with what seemed like temporarily better talent. But for the most part, I was just depressing buttons and my morale while my defenseless character was beaten to a pulp.

It started out best out of five, but I lost three matches (six deaths!) so quickly, that he revised that to best of ten. And suddenly, with a new character (because, you know, it was the character and not my playing that sucked), I won. And then I won again and secured a match.

On a sudden streak of success, I picked another character. I mashed those darn buttons. I twirled the little joystick with my thumb. I mashed more buttons. I moved the controller for extra oomph on my button pushing frenzy. I won.

But then I realized that he wasn't really moving his fingers on his controller. Instead, his thumbs half rested on the buttons while he pretended to be shocked at my sudden burst of playing genius. He moved his controller slightly for legitimacy (he couldn't very well set it down without me noticing he was letting me win, could he?). It was clear, though, that he'd allowed me the win.

Hmmm... so was he giving me the wins in "Words with Friends?" Could I have found my intellectual match in this guy? And if I did, can I handle these occassional knocks to my pride?

*** He insists he did not and has never "let" me win... I'm inclined to believe this a sweet attempt at making me feel better.

For the inquisitive minds
qi (aka chi) is life force or energy in Taoism
quop (usually spelled quob or quab) is to throb or quivered
et is a simple past tense way to say eat (as in "Mommy I done et it already")
jape means to mock or jest
yock, like yack, is to laugh loudly or obnoxiously
zu is an Italian instrumental trio from Rome usually consisting of saxaphone, bass and drums

How we met... and again

It was 1995, and Rob had just graduated from high school. At the recommendation of a teacher, he'd applied to Howard University's Multicultural Journalism Workshop. He was one of 20 selected for the elite program. And Rachelle? She was another.

Begrudgingly, Rob packed an overnight bag and his father dropped him off at the dormitory where participants were meeting. He had no intention of staying, and was merely making an appearance because family insisted he try it out.

Then a rising high school junior, Rachelle was hyped about attending the workshop. Two weeks in a college dorm as a working journalist seemed like a perfect opportunity to hone her skills. And bragging rights for being chosen out of 65 applicants was a must.
Rob ending up staying at the workshop for the duration...

During the day, Rob and Rachelle busied themselves with interviews and how-to sessions at USA Today, and in the afternoons, they commuted together to their respective dorms. They spent several careless hours with their class mates playing truth or dare (though no one really dared take one) on the 50 Yard line of the Howard football field. Trips to Pentagon City were frequent. And - totally out of character for both - the relished in their horoscopes over breakfast in the dining hall. There was something about those fortunes of the stars that seemed to connect them (and it alienated several other participants). Rob and Rachelle talked for hours while Elton John's "The Lion King" soundtrack drowned out other dormer's crazy, unmonitored antics.

The two kept in touch through long letters written in the late night and predawn hours. The occasional phone call - in the days before cell phones and the time of her Dad's strict (or, perhaps protective) "no phone" policies - was cherished.

On occasional weekends, Rob and Rachelle worked for YoungDC newspaper. They sat at adjoining computers in the dusty, archaically equipped "press room" churning out stories. It was, unfortunately, their sole time 'together,' as Rob lived in D.C. and Rachelle in Virginia.

Early Spring 1997. A sociology project required Rachelle to plan a wedding - from invitations to thank you notes. She and Rob actually plotted their guest list together.

Prom 1997. Rob and Rachelle rode in a white limo to the Gar-Field Senior prom. He wore the white tuxedo she'd picked out (and has been teased ever since by close family). She wore a turquoise backless dress and high heels that didn't even begin to bridge their height distance. They ate at Sakura Steakhouse, toured Georgetown in their chauffeured car, and stopped for dessert at The Cheesecake Factory.

Summer 1997. Rachelle prepared to head out of state for college. In the last letters between she and Rob, they agreed to part ways. Their last correspondence was signed "love always."

Fall 1997-Spring 2010. Passing thoughts of whatever happened to Rachelle and to Rob were commonplace. But several moves meant lost or obselete contact information. In several searches, the internet proved useless for Rachelle, who quickly realized that his name was often used and he was virtually hidden from her. If only she'd kept those envelops his letters came in... Because of her employment, Rachelle restricted access to searches for her social network profile, rendering a search for her virtually impossible.

And then came FaceBook... July 2011. An impromptu search revealed no hits for Rob, but he remembered that prom. He joined her high school's alumni association on FaceBook and, though she was not a member, some privacy glitch connected Rachelle to the group. He sent her short a message.

2011 End: a recap in mostly pictures

It was just shy of 7 pm and my dates for New Year's Eve were looking quite tired. With all three accompanying me into 2012 being under 10, I'd collected assorted noisys to make the midnight madness a loud and exciting exclamation point on our 2011 fairwell.

And then something happened. The littles were nodding off on the short three miles drive from mom'n'dad's to home. I made a mental note of this. I'm amazed that car rides confine a child enough to pacify their "if I stop moving, I'll succumb to sleep" antics and provide much needed parental relief.

Inside our house, we quickly jumped into nighties and took inventory of our celebration goodies. Clackers? Yep, they work. Whirly-whistles? One dud, seven working screamers ready to go. Mardi Gras masks? A little odd, I know, but oh so cool. Any sense of anonymity encourages silliness and inhibitions.

But as the eldest watched the sun set and the darkness overtake the skies, she asked softly, "Mom, can you wake me up when it's time?" What? I knew we'd be watching the clocks, but could my child - who prolongs night time rituals for hours to avoid sleeping at a reasonable time - konk out even before bedtime?

Nah!


Happy New Year!!!

shared with Sweet Shot Tuesday

It's our anniversary, Chi

My baby girl is NINE. There's now no denying that she is really a preteen -- growing up (and into herself) before my eyes.

I think every mom views this change in a series of spurts, but in the cob webs of recollection, it's remembered as a "blink of an eye" transformation. My baby isn't one...

She's her own person now. She functions within her own carefully guarded world independently and I am but a bystander gawking at her life. Is this what it means to live vicariously throught a child? I selfishly celebrate her triumphs, and there have been many this past year.

Ever desiring to be an artist, Chi has located her long since discarded sketchbooks. When thrown a curveball at school [and I admit that I don't follow baseball, so this metaphor...] she held her bat at ready and hit a homerun. "I have to apply for art club this year," she told me. And she presented a quickly sketched 'application portfolio' self portrait. Though discouraged when I bluntly told her she needed a stronger effort on her piece, she turned out a masterpiece. We actually worked side by side using a photo of her as a model for the portrait. And, as I'd already known, she realized she was a sight artist. She's pursued her art with more fervour now than ever before. She's one of only twenty selected for the now-exclusive art club.

She also managed to earn herself a brick at our elementary school - - making the legacy of us permanent (because my own mark with stylizing the mascot in a yearbook cover contest has long since faded). And though she has struggled with the intensified expectations and work load of fourth grade study, she is an A-B Honor Roll Student. My one regret here is that her teacher fears me (she actually told me this!) as the evil demanding mother who e-mailed her that "a C is average and she will not be." Yes, I set the standards high, and Chi has met them.

In Tae Kwon Do - a sport she has firmly disliked since month three of our 24-month contract - she is ready to test for her blue tip. She's already a green belt and was only expected to make it to blue by the time our contract expires in July. I'm impressed, because the rigor and demand of her Master is beyond that the average adult would tolerate and she accepts his heavily-accented torment with a strength I envy.

Frankly, I think my baby girl is amazing. She continues to thrive in every situation. She is a charming young lady with a sensitive heart and an empathy towards others that I find rare. If ever I wonder what God's plan is, I know He's got a good one. How else would He have matched me to her just when I needed her most? You see, she is my strength and my comfort.

It's our anniversary as a family - - her ninth birthday and my celebration of the greatest gift given to me.

Painting up some decor

I feel like I have little excuse for the neglect I've served this page. But honestly, merging two households into one is a lot of work and we've yet to find a delicate balance that suits us well. The weekends have seen our children enjoying their perfect pairings - the littles with their train conducting and the biggers with their artistry seems to be the blend of choice right now.

Would you believe that when the kids put up our Christmas tree and decorated it (beautifully, while sharing a chair for reaching up high), I took not one photo? Not a single capture on Cam or Droid! Failure.

We've gotten a gingerbread village for the kids to put together and Ya has been wanting to do his "buhninja house" for some time. It's penciled into next week's calendar, for sure.

This week, though, I had this ridiculous desire to create our annual ornaments. I buy the kits on clearance at the end of season sales - perfect for non perishables, which paint, apparently, is not. Despite a minor setback of dried out color, Chi located her acrylics and the kids set to task.

The concentration on painting these wooden ornaments was intense. I suspect it had something to do with the terribly wide plastic brushes not giving flex the way natural bristles of artists' brushes do. Chi has, it seems, misplaced her brushes in the hidden corners of the netherworld otherwise known as her bedroom. She did, however, manage to find one so that she could paint her ornaments. I wonder sometimes about her true motives. Each kid whipped through their painting projects completing three apiece before Chi completed her first. These were, I think, an opportunity to showcase her artist's skills (and she knows quite well that every year they'll be displayed on our tree).
She's never had another artist in the house before, and Rico's presence has gotten her back into her passion with renewed fervor. Santa, if you're listening, both of my little creatives really want new supplies this year. They've been commissioned to create several pieces of wall art for our home.
As for my littles? No competition threatened just yet, but they did color some pretty impressive trains that are just calling for their photos to be placed inside as the conductors.


*Shared with Sweet Shot Tuesday, though next week's project is far sweeter.

Where Ya At Mama?

Oh, so many things are happening right now... and it feels so horrid not to be able to share freely. It's as though I've embarked upon a covert mission, and cannot divulge the specifics of my movements on penalty of death. Or, like one of my favorite shows [poTledoM] has proven of late, perhaps I have signed some iron-clad confidentiality agreement and to reveal information prematurely would thwart my chances at winning a title?

I'm still out in the universe... still writing... still dreaming... but right now I'm living in the moment instead of chronicling it.

But I miss you.

Skittles: quite the contradiction

I'm not spontaneous, but I'm not a planner, either. I think I might just be a skittle.

As a child, my vision of marriage was skewed. Most of the adults I was close to had husbands or wives and yet the distance between them and their other halves seemed contradictory to the union. Disrespect, infidelity, and physical distance seemed the norm. There weren't a lot of positive examples of marital bliss I'd witnessed - save the Huxtables, of course. It seemed like marriage, as I knew it then, was more comparable to Peg and Al Bundy's: a contractual trap that was too hard to get out of, so the couple merely endured. Everything I'd witnessed made me dread the very idea of exchanging vows.

It took a high school sociology project to get me thinking about weddings. The assignment required me to set a budget based on my family's income. Then I was supposed to plan everything for my big day. As I often was the case with school work, I was consumed by the assignment. I purchased every wedding and bride related magazine on the shelves of the bookstore. I poured through brochures, called (or wrote) companies for samples, and dedicated my sparse free time to sketching out the ideal wedding dress. That dress was a corset-style top akin to those worn by Renaissance aristocrats, but was full of vibrant colors across the bodice and featured a straight skirt rather than the ball gown flair variety. It was divine. Suddenly I could envision myself a bride. I was obsessed with preparing the perfect event - right down to a tentative seating chart to scale with the venue's dimensions. I actually thought I might like to have a wedding, but the husband was optional.

[Narrator interrupts: She began to think, "Dare I say that I had much the same thought about children: pregnancy as an experience might be interesting, but I didn't fancy being a mother?"]

By college I had a simple time line: married by 24 - finding a husband is the main purpose for higher education, right? And kids - three of them - before age 30.

In the years since that project - quite a few more quickly elapsing than I cared to admit - the time line became a measure of failure. Despite several promising adult relationships, I found myself becoming the girlfriend just before the wife. But I wasn't worthy, it seemed of being propositioned with forever.

It can make a person somewhat guarded, this history of being the unchosen. If I commit unabashedly to a theory of "this is the one" in each new beginning, it could become the set up for a terribly heartwrenching break up (or worse, an obsession akin to "The Cable Guy" fame). But if I move at a snails' pace and keep a distance of at least two car lengths between myself and Mr. Maybe, am I dooming it from the start? It's relationship skittles: How can I be the devoted one in a relationship if it is "likely" to end in nothing but an experience to file away in memory? But how can I not give all?

I have relished in a not-so-secret obsession for watching "My Fair Wedding with David Tutera." Occasionally, I catch myself hypothesizing my own "I do," dreaming up themes and motifs and envisioning the photographs of my happiness yet to be created.

Insert big flashing "DANGER" sign: I suspect this could be a bit scary for someone not ready to plunge into a marriage even if my musing wasn't a sign that I was...

Mr. Right At the Time, I think, suffered countless bouts of agita from my frequent rap sessions with my almost-sister-in-law during the planning of her ceremony. I was taken to bridal shows, given magazines of ideas, and sucked into the vortex of the business of weddings. In being her sidekick, I had unintentionally created a ticking clock - a time bomb of sorts - for him. A trail of skittles led from my house to his car as he sped away slowly from fear that I might give subtle hints or grandiose ultimatums about "us."

Throughout the years, my visions of the pomp and circumstance of becoming Missus DotDotDot has become a vague nod to the teenage dream. Skittle that I am, I have the framework of the ideal and no doubt meticulously plot the details if given the opportunity. But planning the big event?

[Narrator interrupts: Her chest rose and fell as she sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly in a sigh.]

I want it amazing. I want it something to talk about. I want to be the center of attention. But I don't like playing hostess with the mostest.