four little monkeys.

i kept my eyes open during family prayer last night. 

the four of us were snuggled on our bed.

cory played with jude's hair and she played with ezra's.

moments like these.

the quiet, often forgotten ones, 

are what make my motherhood so beautiful.

#widn

strange as it may sound, i often feel left out when i don't get tagged in a #widn on instagram. ridiculous, i know. it's almost like a get a flashback to fourth grade when we'd play 'popcorn' while we read from our textbooks and no one would call on me. i always wanted to get called, it just rarely happened.

so, here i am, tagged for the first time in my life by two separate people who want to know what i'm doing now. and can you guess what i've done with this golden opportunity? absolutely nothing. because that's what i'm doing. judie-girl is sick and snotty and snuggly and sweet. we spend our days watching daniel tiger or pooh's christmas or mickey's christmas (or any christmas cartoon on netflix) and snuggle and play when she's feeling up for it. i've barely taken a picture on my phone since last saturday. our days are calm and our nights are peaceful. 

cory and i have started putting our phones away when he gets home from work and it's been wonderful. it kind of makes me wonder why we didn't do it sooner. we are more invested in each other, in our conversations and, especially, in jude. she gets our full attention and she loooves it. after dinner, cory and jude will play in the living room while i clean up. laughter and clanking dishes have become the anthem of my evenings and i love it.

so, i guess that's what i'm doing. nothing and everything. everything in life and nothing online. i haven't posted a 'gram in three weeks and it's kind of ridiculous and kind of stressful, but, honestly, who cares? i have been spending more time with my family and working on our home and pressuring cory into bringing home the christmas decorations before thanksgiving. it doesn't sound like much, but it fills my days and my heart.

but, i guess to answer the question, i'm mostly just trying to ignore the fact that in F I V E W E E K S we will be bringing another sweet baby into this world and into our home and into our hearts.

you guys, five weeks is nothing and it's absolutely terrifying.

lololz to my non-relevant pictures from october.

one day i'll remember how to blog.

but probably not. 

10.27.2014

waking up at three to give your baby a binkie
will almost always open the door to insomnia.
you'll read that the blue light in your phone
tricks your brain to think it's daytime,
but you're too warm to leave your bed
for the familiar glow of netflix.
you stalk and you pin and you forget there is anything else to the internet.
you put your phone away.
you toss and turn and adjust that blue body pillow
you tested on the floor of a bed, bath & beyond.
nothing.
you secretly will your husband to wake up so he can hold you
but you refuse to be the one to wake him
because he got up early yesterday morning
and took the baby so you could sleep in.

it seems like no matter how much you sleep,
you are never fully rested.

at 5:13, he will wake to the baby's cry,
roll over and ask if you're okay.
you tell him you've been up since three
and start to cry.
he will hold you close to his chest and keep you safe in his arms.
you try to match your breathing to his,
but exhaustion refuses to let you keep beat.
by some beautiful, blessed miracle,
you fall asleep.

you wake to a whisper that the baby is awake.
you can feel the tears welling up again.
he offers to change her diaper while you twist to the left,
pull the covers over your face and cry a little longer.
a minute passes before pull yourself together enough to empty that bladder
you swear you just emptied two hours ago.

all you want to do is cry and sleep and wish
you had your own mary poppins to drug you with a spoonful of sugar
and to watch your baby while you sleep the entire day.
heaven knows she'd learn more with mary than with barney.

you step into the hallway and curse those lights for being so bright.
tears and sadness wrap themselves around your heart.
part of you wants to let them win.
"keep wrapping. cover the whole thing. i quit."
before you reach the end of the hallway,
before grief has completely won,
a rosy little face with sleep marks smiles up at you.
nothing keeps sadness at bay like the unconditional love of a baby.
it's a love that will carry you through until 5:30.
a love that should be enough to help you power through one more day.

songs on the gray couch.

it was still early, eight or so, when i got her out of her crib.

she burrowed her whole body into my chest.

my heart melted.

then she decided that didn't allow her to be close enough to me.

she did a little hop, flattened her body against mine,

grabbed my left arm with all her might and smushed.

there.

close.

her breathing calmed and she started patting my arm.

we swayed our way into the living room

where i attempted to feed her the rest of her bottle.

all she wanted to do was nuzzle.

so that's what we did.

i sang her lullabies from my childhood a thousand times each.

when those got old, 

i switched to some of my favorite songs to play on the guitar.

while i sang she rotated her head back and forth on my chest.

every time our faces were level, she gave me a kiss and a smile.

at one point she looked up at me, patted my face and said, 

"maaa maaaaaaaa."

and once again, that little girl gave me just what i needed.

the reminder that while she is adorable and sweet to every person she meets,

and hands out her dimple smiles to strangers 

and will dance for anyone who's watching,

i am her mommy.

i am the one who makes everything right again.

i am the one whose lullabies make her fall asleep.

i am the one who kisses every bonk and bruise.

i am her best friend

and she is mine. 

one am is basically an all-nighter for us now.

last night was one of those nights

that makes any day infinitely better.

cory got back late from work

so we had a quiet (read: jude-free) dinner, talked about our days

and decided to pair the brooklyn nine-nine premier with ice cream.

after a solid premier (new girl and mindy could learn something from jake peralta),

we took our cold medicine, said our prayers, kissed each other goodnight

and rolled to our respective sides ready for those zzz's to take over.

sleep did not come as quickly as we thought it would.

as exhausted as we were, 

i'm so glad the sand man stayed away. 

we stayed up until one talking and joking and laughing.

it was basically one giant ginger snap.

oh the lawlz that were had! 

last night was a testament to my belief

that the little things in life are what make it so wonderful.

late night jokes and talks about absolutely nothing

were just what i needed.

even if he did keep singing "shake it off."

last night was such a simple reminder 

of why i fell in love with cory,

why he is so good for me,

and why i am so blessed to have him in my life.

i love that boy.

and i really, really love being his wife. 

wiiknd: my kind of getwaway.

we spent it disconnected. 

we spent it with each other.

we spent it with mountains and changing leaves.

we spent it enjoying the peace our lives so desperately needed.

it was perfect. 

073114

it was 9:13
the sun had set and the sky glowed that familiar dusty blue
that comes before night falls.
cory brought a sleeping jude into the room to be swaddled.
i shut the laptop and he asked me what i was doing.
"writing."
and even in the dim light,
i saw a faint smile cross his face.
i wrapped my little girl up
and he put his hand on the slope of my neck and whispered,
"i love when you write."

and that's why i do it.
because as long as he believes in me
and in my words and in my ability,
even when i don't,
it's worth it.
because he makes me better.
because he makes me strong.

a sunday in july.

there are moments in life
that don't feel real as you're living them.
you feel like you're out of your body
and you're watching and you're thinking,
"no. this isn't real. this doesn't happen in real life."
but it did.

so you push those moments down.
you hide them away in a bag inside a box inside a closet inside a room inside your mind
because you don't want to remember.
because your heart can't handle the feelings that will surface when you do.
but you have to remember.
you have to recall.
you have to write it down.

a month and some days go by
and you find yourself in front of a blank screen,
the cursor blinking, waiting for you to unlock that room and open that door.
waiting for you to find that box you buried so you can open the crumpled bag.
a month wasn't enough time for dust to collect
but you go through the motions as if there were dust to clean.
you sit there, with that moment in your hands
and you let it seep back into your heart.
you close your eyes and remember.
a tear slips out.
then another.
then some more.

your heart is beating.
no - it's pounding.
"stop. please. don't feel this again.
don't remember. just forget.
it's so much easier if you just forget."
but you can't and you shouldn't.
because the pain and the tears and the cries
that littered that downtown driveway
are the fuel you need to keep writing.
to keep fighting.

you will never stop fighting.
you will never stop believing.
you will never stop hoping.

soon.
it'll all be over soon.

three at home. that's the way it should be.

after a ridiculously long week without cory,

saturday was wonderful.

jude laughed more in two hours with him 

than she did the entire week combined.

we spent our entire weekend 

telling each other how much we missed each other

and snuggling and watching jude wave and climb and eat.

it was perfect.

the older i get,

the more i realize it's the little things and the simple days 

that make life so beautiful. 

these are my favorite mornings.

this morning, we lazed around in bed
hoping to wake up a bit before we started the day.
jude picked up my chapstick
and examined it.
she passed it from hand to hand
and watched it move as she bent her wrist
forward and back.
forward and back.

she dropped the chapstick behind her back
and twisted her whole body trying to find it.
when the twisting didn't work,
she tried to pick up my water bottle.
when that didn't work, she tried sitting up
only to lean forward and fall into my chest.
exhausted, she leaned back and s t r e t c h e d.

she puffed out her belly and squinched her face
while her arms did a dance above her head and her feet kicked the bed.
then, she looked at me, locked her eyes on mine
and smiled so big it filled my heart.

i will never understand how so much love
can fit in such a little body,
but i am so glad it does.

boo blah cha cha cha

yesterday we had a serious thunderstorm. 

it was absolutely terrifying.

i haven't been that scared of thunder since i was a kid.

i remember going to the grocery store with my dad

and telling him i was too scared to get out of the car

because the thunder was so loud.

he told me i didn't need to be scared.

thunder just meant the angels in heaven were bowling.

a big crack meant they got a strike.

dad's are the best.

other than being a big baby,

i hung out with my baby.

she rolled over from her belly to her back

and gagged herself with her hands.

we watched a movie with subtitles

and ate at least seven times.

i read a bit from mindy's book

and perused my better homes & gardens.

i washed my dishes and made leftovers for dinner.

today has been slow and wonderful.

happy friday.

hormones have taken over my heart.

"what do you need?"

"i think i'm just going to cry for a bit."

"do you want me to hold you?"

before i could nod 'yes'

he wrapped me in his arms.
i felt small and scared and safe.
my brimming tears broke free
and stained my face with worry.
between stuttered sobs
i felt peace come back.

don't let the sun go down on me.

as i cooked dinner,

you set up the bookshelf in the study.

i measured and poured and stirred

while you adjusted shelves and wiped them off with a t-shirt.

i played elton john loud enough

we could hear him upstairs and down.

loud enough to be truly felt.

i quietly sang along while the two of you serenaded me. 

elton was cool and emotional and, well...elton.

you sang your heart out.

loud and proud, occasionally straining to hit a note

and it didn't matter.

 you didn't hold back because you didn't have to.

monday night has been one of my favorite moments.

hearing you sing your heart out because you could.

because you were excited and proud.

because you were home. 

 

good heavens,
i love you.

                                                                i write.

                                                                to remember the moments 

                                                                that disappear first.

                                                                to catalog dreams that clear

                                                                when daylight breaks through. 

                                                                to give my heart more room to feel.

                                                                to find myself in words.

all praise the rotisserie chicken.

i've been in a bit of a slump

when it comes to writing.

so today,

i opened my journal 

and let the words fall onto the page. 

i wrote my heart.

unedited. 

after i finished my scribbles,

i thumbed through old entries.

memories of my pre-wife life.

i almost cried.

grocery lists.

charlie brown smiles. 

arguing about flight of the concords.

spending an entire afternoon in a hammock. 

a kitty card wishing me luck on my interview. 

splitting a rotisserie chicken for dinner. 

that night we gazed at the stars and i felt like that moment

on the truman show where truman felt love.

little things that didn't seem to matter saved me. 

today i found what i feared i lost.

my voice.

my purpose.

my reason.

twenty minutes of gold.

last night,

after a mediocre crock pot meal,

you finished a project at the table 

while i did the dishes.

mumford & sons quietly serenaded us.

occasionally getting swallowed up in the water

as i rinsed the 'meh' off our plates.

we exchanged a handful of words

but mostly kept to our work.

at one point, i stopped rinsing

so i could look at you.

i wanted to remember

the way you bent over your work,

your hands constantly moving

with only one foot planted on the linoleum.

i wanted to remember

because it was those twenty minutes,

in almost perfect silence,

that made me love you more.

now that quiet moment in our kitchen

has a special place on my shelf of favorites

in my ever-growing heart.

it's amazing, really.

there are times i feel my heart has reached max capacity

and if one more thing sneaks in,

it will undoubtedly burst with love.

but right before that happens,

it stretches just a little bit more.

you did that to me.

you came in

and fixed the holes in my heart

with little bits of spandex. 

you knew i'd need a whole heart.

a stretchy heart.

a heart that could handle

all these feelings.

thanks for patching me up

and filling me with love. 

i feel like a piñata.

the fanciest kind of piñata. 

24 to 48 hours. that's what they said.

my abuelito is in the hospital.

my 95 year old grandpa

who talks like he's in the mafia,

blasts his music like a teenager,

and cheats at blackjack,

 is sick.

he's sick

and he's not getting better.

i'm afraid if he goes,

the floodgates will open

and heaven will call all my favorites 

home.

i'm not ready for this.

i'm not ready for death to start playing.

i'm not ready to say goodbye.

it feels selfish of me to keep saying "i"

like i'm the only one that hurts.

and it's unfair to focus on future losses

that shouldn't even be thoughts.

but that's what death does.

it knocks and knocks 

and forces you to listen.

 it rips open your heart and injects 

a fear that spreads like fire.

my mom,

my angel of a mother,

has been taking care of him

round the clock for over a year.

she is so strong.

she is so sweet.

she is so selfless.

i don't know how she does it.

watching my uncle cry,

listening to my mom and her siblings

talk to him about everyday things

like shaving or summer plans,

trying to convince him everything is okay

adds salt to the wound.

i never thought i'd think

95 is too young.

but it is.

it really, really is.

as i cried, the weight lifted.

yesterday i left a job 

i hated.

i said goodbye to a place

i felt unappreciated.

i emptied drawers

that had been collecting self-doubt.

i turned in my key

and cashed in unused vacation days.

i got in my car,

rolled down the windows, 

blasted this song on repeat

and cried the whole way home.

i cried because i did it.

i took a stand

and finally said "enough!"

i cried because i realized

 it's okay.

it's okay to quit something that destroys you.

it's okay to be proud of yourself for quitting.

it's okay to be free.

it's okay to be appreciated.

it's okay to take time and figure life out.

it's.o.kay.

and for the first time in six months,

my traditional after-work-tears were happy.

my soul smiled 

and i felt free.

this is my life.

making out in the front seat

like hormone-hyped teenagers,

you're transported to 

"the old days"

when making out was the cheapest thrill.

hugging as close as the center console allows,

you breathe in last summer

and remember sunshine.

knock.

knock.

knock.

the dream is broken.

night is back and blacker than ever.

fond memories are replaced by fresh nightmares

when you realize your mother-in-law

is the one who knocked.

kill.me.now.

things i am excited to taste this summer.

freedom.

peach rainbows.

state fair corn.

fresh blackberries.

fresh strawberries.

ice cold lemonade.

vanilla soft-serve ice cream.

cole slaw.

grilled burgers.

grilled chicken.

grilled pineapple.

these winter soups 

& teas

& hot chocolates

have filled me for too long.

give me something freshly grown

 & simple

& good.

give me something that doesn't require

a microwave or defrosting time.

for pete's sake,
give me something i can pick
& wash
& eat
on a blanket in the sun
while i listen to birds chirping
and park-goers laughing.

just give me summer already.