The B Sides

I've always fancied myself as a yet-to-be-discovered singer-in-waiting. In my head, I sing fine, and by fine, I don't mean 'alright fine,' but more like 'right on fine!' I mean, I have heard myself sing...and I'm not tone deaf...right? That's what I've always thought. So what if those closest to me hadn't professed their love for my so amazing voice. So? They must have been tone deaf...right?

Because I got tired of waiting around to receive the praise and adoration that I so very much deserved for my personal renditions of my favorite songs, I decided to test out my theory on my own. I was gonna prove to myself that my Madonna voice was just as good as the Queen of Pop, that my bluegrass twang could hang with Dolly, that my soulful, throaty song was perfect enough to soothe JB's ears. Armed with my iPod blaring bluegrass into my ears and the Voice Memo app on the iPhone on record, I belted out my best delivery of Spider John by Sam Bush in the car on the way home from the gym one evening. And the results? What did I learn of my talent?

Well...thank the good lord I was alone. My plan was to keep the iPod plugged in my ears to help me get the tones right. Further, I didn't want any music to mask what I was certain would be heavenly tunes drifting from my vocal cords. When I played back my recording, what I heard coming out of the phone was NOT what my ears had been witness to for most of my singing life. What? How could this be? I kept wondering, "When did my tone break?" It was like listening to one of the worst of the worst contestants on American Idol. All of a sudden, I felt like William Hung. Why did nobody have the decency to put an end to that nonesense? Why has it been allowed to go on for so many years? So many.

All at once, my singing career came crashing down around me. It was done. The cold, hard reality of never being a back-up singer for Lady Gaga was now mine. It is mine. And I now know... I owe a big apology to my friends and family. For all of the misplaced Like a Virgin moments, all the times when I thought I sounded like Garth Brooks in Friends in Low Places, for the Ripple and Ain't Life Grand and all of the other commotion...I am sorry. However, I don't plan on quitting. I just wanted to say sorry.

There is a silver lining, though. My kids, bless their little hearts, still love it when I sing them good night songs and when we turn up Adele and sing her music at the top of our lungs...but I'm pretty sure I can sing like Adele.

Their Hands

Little hands make me smile. My kids' hands. I love them. Love holding them, kissing them, squeezing them, looking at them.

I can close my eyes and think back to different times in their lives and see their hands clearly in my mind. Soft, tiny baby hands. Fat, sticky toddler hands. Markered, dirty preschool hands. I remember holding their hands for their first steps, them grasping tightly my hands when we crossed streets, baby hands all over my face, little fingers grabbing my nose and pulling my ears. I remember holding onto Ella's hands when she was in the hospital that summer and begging her to be okay. New hands full of new discoveries. Little hands that held on for dear life when they were learning how to swim. Hands that still reach up and seek out reassurance when they're trying new things. Those hands. They are so much. A physical connection between us, symbols of a lifetime of memories, possibilities for a lifetime.

I love my kids' hands. I can't wait to see the hands of this little love that is growing inside of me. Her hands, I feel every day...even as I write this, I feel her hands exploring her world in my body. And, with each passing day, the kids on the outside can better feel her making her own presence known, too. This is one of the best parts of being pregnant for me. Having Ella's or Summit's hands on my belly, waiting patiently for their new sister to kick against their hands...seeing the smiling, surprised expressions on their faces when she does...there is nothing in this world that could ever replace the love and happiness in those moments. Nothing.

So, it's no wonder that in this crazy, busy, wild time in our lives when the thought of life can be so overwhelming and challenging, it's my kids' hands that center me, ground me, and make me find my way back to appreciating the love in our world, which is the most important thing, after all.

Extraordinary Loves

Today is one of those days that doesn't happen all the time. Literally. It's the 29th of February. Or...does it happen twice each year that doesn't have the date plugged into the calendar? Or is there any such thing as March 1st at all? And, if there's no March 1st, what does that do to the 2nd? Or the 3rd? Does this affect April? If it affects April, can it change July? And, if it changes July, can we skip my birthday this year and I get to be the same age for a little longer? I'm totally willing to give up July 14th so February 29th can have a more permanent place in each year. Though, the French might not be so stoked on giving up their independence celebrations. Hmmmm.

Yeah. These are things I think about sometimes.

Most of the time, though, I'm thinking about how lucky I am to have the family and friends that I do. They are, after all, what make my world go round, what help me through when times are tough, and what bring me happiness and laughter as each year happens by. And, though they are more commonplace than the 29th of February, they are far more extraordinary than a leap year.

 

I love you all.

Real Winter Fun

At the start of February, we took the kids on their 2nd excursion into the beautiful, wild wonder that is Colorado. I made plans for a snow adventure prior to discovering that Wood Child #3 was on her way, so the intentions for me changed a bit, but, for my Ella and Summit, the party was on...or rather they were on the mountain.

To say that South Carolina has experienced a mild winter does no justice. It seems we skipped winter from a prolonged fall and went straight into the headwaters of spring. Missing some taste of cooler weather, we were excited to feel the world below 65 degrees, and the climate in the Rockies rightly cooperated. It's always amusing to see warmies experience true cold for the first time. Landing in Denver didn't really do much to affect the kids, but stepping out of the car in Breckenridge sure did. The temperature that night when we arrived was a blustery 6, and my southern bred babies were hit with a chilly sensation that simply didn't make sense. It was that kind of cold that takes the color out of things. And, their grass legs weren't prepared for streets covered in snowy ice. Did they, the almighty fountains of knowledge, believe their parents when we told them that a simple tank/t-shirt and a fleece would not be enough? Heavens no. Did they, the children of newfound knowledge, wish they had worn more on the walk across the street to the pizza joint? Of course they did. From then out, there was no argument about what to wear, and as a mama who constantly battles a 7-year-old girl about how to dress, this was a really nice reprieve from everyday drama.

The first morning that we woke up in Colorado was like revisiting Christmas. The snow was unbelievable to my babies' wide eyes, that, thanks to the time zone change, were up as early as they would be on Christmas morning. Ah well. Who doesn't heart a 5 a.m. wake-up call? Uhhh...me. I don't heart a 5 a.m. wake-up call. But, up we were, and wowed they were. I made Colorado's newest snow bunnies wait until the sun made an appearance and their daddy rolled out of bed before they could venture out of the condo...did you really think I would take that challenge that early? It was -18 degrees outside. By 7 they were bundled up in their snow gear and headed out the door. The first thing Summit did? Take one step and fall face-first in the snow. In his defense, it was up to his waist. He was as mobile as Ralphie's little brother in A Christmas Story. While I got our stuff ready to make the trip to Steamboat, the kids took turns playing and falling in the white blanketed world they'd just discovered.

Since we moved from Crested Butte, winter trips to CO usually involve snowboarding in Breck, but we decided to visit Matt's cousin, Laura, and her family in Steamboat for this rodeo. On the drive over Rabbit Ears Pass, we stopped at this amazing snowfield for the kids (and their parents) to play in. You'd have thought the moon had just been hung for them. It was beautiful and serene, and Ella and Summit's sweet, sweet laughter filled the mountain silence. Loved. It. Loved every minute of it. Even the part where I stepped in a snow drift up to my chest and had to have Matt pull my freezing cold, pregnant badonkadonk out of the snow. Even loved that.

On the other side of the pass was our skiing/snowboarding destination. Steamboat's a pretty chill (and not just because it's cold) town. Laura and AJ and baby Charlie were wonderful hosts, and they filled us in at the local level. We signed the kids up for a day of ski/boarding school, which was a great experience for both of them. Summit was a skier, and I have to say, it was hard dropping him off that morning. He was scared, and his big crocodile tears made me hug him tighter and get a little weepy right along with him. But, off he was whisked by the kids' school workers, and off we were to take Ella to her Rough Riders lesson. Luckily for her, she was the only one in a group to sign up that day, and her instructor, Frizz, had just returned from paternity leave with a brand new baby girl. Did that make him think that teaching a little girl to ride for the first time was pretty cool? Yes. Yes it did.

With the kids in their designated areas and Matt snowboarding his mountain-loving heart out, I was left to my own devices, and rather than shopping or something, I couldn't pull myself away from watching my Ella and Summit learn how to board and ski. So, I just stood there...at the base of the mountain...in freezing cold, windy, morning, Colorado weather...and cried. What? Yes. I cried. I was so proud. So proud and so happy and so fortunate to get to see my little loves experiencing these things for the first time. My heart was full. And, so I cried. Not the tears that Summit had earlier, though I was nervous for them, but tears of gratitude and love for them. I know that I'm one lucky mama.

By three in the afternoon, Ella and Summit had learned a bunch. Ella had ridden the big chair lift with Frizz, and Summit had figured out his groove with the tiny bunny hill. And, they were D.O.N.E. done. We met up with AJ and Laura and Charlie, and headed to Steamboat Hot Springs, another first for E and S, and they loved the chance to swim outside in 5 degree weather. I did not love the journey from the locker room into the pool, and even less the one on the way out, but it was nice while we were in the warm water. Summit did not love the fact that he was too short to take the crazy big slide into the water, but his sister sure enjoyed that ride. At day's end, AJ and Laura fed us some good-for-the-soul food, and we were done.

 

We enjoyed a few more days in the Rockies before we had to mosey on back to the South. The kids and Matt got to spend some more time on the mountain. Ella would have loved to have had the chance to ride with Frizz, who was cooler than cool by this point...to Matt's slight dismay...it was cute. And we visited with our friends and family. While it didn't snow AT ALL in the mountains, Denver got dumped on, and by the time we made it to Carol and Steve's place, they had feet of snow waiting for us to play in before we got on the plane back home. How cool is that? What a send off!

There's something special and down-to-earth and completely relaxing about being in Colorado, something that makes you appreciate how big the world is and what a great thing it is to be able to play in the earth's adventures. I always try to relish the moments that we have there, and this was no exception.

Valentine's Day Schmalentine's Day

Since the moment I woke up today, I've been bombarded by messages of lovey-doveyness. On the Facebook, in the news, all over the paper. Proclamations of he-loves-me-this and she-loves-me-that and roses and balloons and candy and enough sweetness to exorcise the demons out of Regan MacNeil. Everywhere. In the State, there was a story of a husband who sends his wife flowers on the same day every month, and he's done this for more than a decade. Are you kidding me? On the Today Show, Hoda Kotb was bragging all about how her boyfriend had a concert violinist playing tear-jerking music just for her as she left for work at 5 in the morning. Barf. I mean, it's my parents' freaking anniversary for the love of God. Can it get anymore in your face than that?

Valentine's Day Schmalentine's Day is what I say. I mean, is it really necessary? All around the world...or wherever the hell it's celebrated...women, married or single, have these amazing ideas of grandeur about this day. They imagine what could happen... and if you're me, you imagine AMAZINGNESS. We dream about what our significant others will do to show us love and romance and appreciation. Will there be candy or flowers or sweet messages or lovely dinners or blingy jewelry? We dream. And I underscore dream. I can tell you this right now, some men know how to bring it, and they bring it every year. However, I would venture to guess that many fellas don't, and when they don't bring it right away... Well, those dreams turn into moments of anticipation. Moments of anticipation into hours of waiting, and with each passing hour, disappointment builds up like an freezing cold wall of icy bricks. Freezing cold.

It goes without saying that today hasn't been one for bringing it for everyone, and because I fail miserably at pretending, it ain't exactly been brought for me. Thanks to the honesty of some special best friends, I know that I'm not alone in wanting to throw up everytime I hear how incredibly sweet and thoughtful and forward-thinking and better some other person's person is. (So we're clear, my person is awesome, and I'm very lucky that he's mine, and I love him very much.)

So, here's to February 15th. I love it already because I know it won't be wrought with all of the Hallmarkable crap that this one is. Oh, February 15th, won't you be mine? May the thaw begin.

P.S. Happy anniversary to my Mom and Dad! 38 years ain't too shabby!

Not a Fan

I always hear lots of women gushing over how much they luuurve being pregnant. How wonderful it is. How feminine they feel. How empowering and incredible the whole process of carrying a child and bringing a life into the world is. Well, I'm here to say I have NEVER felt that way. These amazing emotions and ideas that "most" women feel have completely escaped me.

No, I'm not a fan of pregnancy.

Don't get me wrong. I think it's cool that I have this little life growing inside of me. I love her and all that. However, she...like her brother and sister before her...makes me feel completely awful. Completely. Awful. I'm tired as I've ever been after a long night of partying...and believe me, I've known some long (very fun) nights of partying. And, I'm sick as I've ever been after a long night of partying... all without the benefit of bad (also very fun) decisions and those oh-no memories that creep into your thoughts the next day. Yeah, while all these other women talk about how fan-freaking-tastic they feel when they're pregnant, I'm feeling as hungover as I've ever been in my entire life, and my new BFF is the porcelain god. For months and months on end. Hungover. Without end.

Then there's the weight gain. What. The. Hell? And, this time around, the nurses make me keep a little card with my weight from each doctor's visit as a gentle excruciating reminder that yes, I am gaining weight...I am indeed getting fatter with each and every breathing second. Thanks for that. As if I couldn't tell by the unattractive way that my clothes no longer fit, the increasingly unflattering angles that the mirror produces, or the extra jiggle bouncing from my booty.

And, since my clothes have protested their ways off my body, what's left is the lovely horribly gross disgusting maternity wear. Whichever butthole invented the store Motherhood is, well, a true butthole. I mean, why? Why? Why? Is this the best you can come up with? Poorly stitched jeans, sandpaper-like materials, styles that were popular at the Dress Barn back in the flipping 80s?!?!?!?!? Thanks, but no thanks. There are other stores, some folks profess. Well, yes, yes there are other stores, but they ain't here. Not in this town. And, ordering maternity clothes online is like sending your grandmother to shop for you: Only half of what arrives will fit, and only 5% of that will look decent.

Also not helping pregnancy's cause is the incessant peeing. In the middle of the night, several times a night. I thought this was gonna clear up after the first trimester. I thought wrong. Why was I still  making a break for the potty every other breath? Well, it seems THIS baby girl has positioned herself right on top of my bladder. Awww. Isn't that sweet? So precious. This would also explain the puke-n-pee episode that happened just last week. I mean, really? It just doesn't seem to get any easier.

At least the outcome is absolutely worth it all. Not the delivery part. Oh no, I am definitely not a fan of my south of the equator being a stage for all the world to see. I'm talking about the part where she's out of my body and resting in my arms. I don't even mind the middle of the night stuff or the crying stuff. I love my babies. Love them. I can't wait to see and smell and kiss all over this one. And get my freaking body back.

love her to pieces

Ever since we told the kids that another love would be joining our family, they've each been rooting for one to match their own gender. Ella was ecstatic to have a baby sister, and Summit was certain that the stork would be delivering him a little brother. Me? I didn't really have a preference one way or the other. Not to sound cliche, but really all I want is a healthy baby. That's what weighs most on my mind.

I even toyed around with the idea of waiting until it is born to find out which stereotypical color bow to put on the mailbox. Toyed for a minute. I'm not one for surprises...when I was younger, the very presence of a wrapped gift sitting beneath a tree in the days leading up to Christmas would cause me to have restless leg body syndrome until I'd unwrapped the thing (and wrapped it back - sorry Mom and Dad-) and found out what was inside.

No, I wasn't even able to wait until the 20-week appointment to find out if I'm growing a blue or pink bonnet. Thank goodness for the early, 16-week gender-diagnostic ultrasound. Thank goodness they squeezed me in at closing time when I cracked under the pressure of seeing the machine and needed to know. Right then. And, thank goodness we found out with plenty of time to spare. I hadn't put too much thought into just how ruined one of my non-parasitic (see: umbilical cord no longer attached) kids would be when they found out the results.

To say Summit didn't take it well would be an understatement. He was completely devastated. He cried sobbed bawled for an hour straight. He was furious at me, at Matt, at Ella, at the new baby-to-be. As if we got to pick it out. As if we just ordered up the thing at Target. As if we had just subjected him to the ultimate betrayal: another girl. Eventually, Popi was able to console my forsaken 4-year-old son by explaining all of the benefits of being the only boy (see: fishing, four-wheelers, sword fighting with him while the yucky girls are shopping).

So, it seems that we're welcoming another baby girl into our fold! I had a dream about a sweet, rolly, brown-haired little princess just the other night. We couldn't be more excited! We love her to pieces already.