The Good Times.

Things have been pretty crappy around here lately.  And pretty pukey. I won't go there.  Instead, I'm going to post some pictures from back in the day, Christmas break '09/'10.  Ivy and Loch were asleep on Grandma's futon.

Check out the cool sled Toby built from skis we bought at the DI our last Utah trip.  It slides over snow like a pat of butter in a hot skillet.

 
We had to hurry and play because it was getting dark fast.

What can I say?  I love to make rounded corners on my photos in Picnik.  And guys in my old Astronomy Club sweatshirt.

One Thing.

I am an overachiever with a cushy slacker coating.  Sometimes, I have trouble starting a project because I'm afraid it won't measure up to my expectations.  It's a little complex I like to call "crippled by perfection."  As the Hens and Flylady are fond of reminding me, "Done is better than perfect."

So here's to today.  I will keep moving.  I'm not doing anything huge.  I'm just going to lift my fanny from this chair (as soon as I finish blogging!) and do something.

Of course, there are a million squared things to do.  I am SO not going to think about it.  I am going to go and reboot my laundry.  Then I will do another thing.  One at a time.  It is liberating to do one thing, instead of worrying about how to do a million squared.

Listening to...

Hey, everyone else knows that working out is easier when listening to music.  Duh, me!  I've been struggling to put in fifteen minutes on the treadmill, while watching an episode or two of Good Eats (is it wrong of me to watch food while trying to lose weight?), or a Netflix movie.  Today, I just plugged earbuds into my skull and did 30 minutes, no problem.  I think a fast beat and a large number of changeovers between songs help keep me going.  Yeah, my attention span is about three minutes.  I even felt kind of...happy.  Go, music!

Rocking my world today:

The Killers, Muse, and The White Stripes, and some Queen.

Dozen.

I just thought of a better, if more black, title for this post:  "Still Crazy After All These Years."  It is true in so many ways.  Today is our 12th wedding anniversary.

Twelve years ago, Toby and I were both nineteen.  Our families viewed the match with some skepticism, but we plowed ahead.  The day I was married, Dad, Laural, and I drove to Joplin, ate fried chicken, and visited a rural park to see "the meaning of life."  (Ask me sometime when I'm sure you're not the type to judge....it was hilariously tacky graffiti.)  Later I took a bath, painted my toenails sparkly white-gold, and got dressed.  It all seemed unreal, that the date I had been anticipating for so many months was here.

There's a fine line to walk when you get married young.  You want to do things your way, but are constantly aware that you're already causing enough fuss by tying the knot in the first place.  I wanted to wear white Chuck Taylors, and possibly make Toby chase me around the church for the kiss.  My mortified mother talked me out of it.   I didn't want people to look at me, so I made my veil of a near-impenetrable thickness, and nearly smothered.

What else do I remember?  I remember cracking nervous jokes with Dad and a then-nine Emma in the bell-foyer at the church.  I remember a story the officiator told us about bamboo and its growing cycle and how it relates to marriage.    I remember my very-conservative friend making a lewd remark about the honeymoon in a smirking whisper.

We've spent the last twelve years proving that an optimist and a pessimist can coexist, if not always peacefully.  We've added five kinda neat people to the world.  We've tried and succeeded.  We've also tried and failed, and learned the hard way.  I've said a great many things that I regret, but I've never regretted "I do."

Check out Toby.  He looks like, five.  But in a hot way.

Ten and Three and Half.

December is gone in a whirl of activity, and I'm not sorry for it to end.  This month, to borrow a phrase from Michelle, has kicked my rear.  A lot.

At the beginning of the month, we celebrated Ivy's and Olivia's birthdays, just one day apart.  Liv is now ten, and beginning to show some interest in being a young lady in addition to a tomboy.  She requested having her ears pierced as her present from Mom and Dad.  She's been perfectly diligent about caring for them, and I've not had to remind her at all.  Only a couple more weeks until she can take out the first pair and try some others. 

When I turned ten, my family was on a Labor Day camping trip.  Mom woke me up, wished me a happy birthday, then cried, since ten is the first of the double-digit birthdays.  At the time, I was a bit embarrassed.  Mom, now I understand.  Ten years ago, Liv was a tiny Charlie-Brown-bald baby girl.  Today, she's an athletic and compact goofball.  I'm impressed every day by her individuality and compassion.

Liv moved everyone up a level of "great."  We became parents, our parents became grandparents, grandparents became great-grandparents, and even great-grandparents became great-great-grandparents.  All the "greatness" is on Toby's side of the family, by the way.  His family produced five generations in the time it took my family to do three.

Sadly, two of her great-great-grandmas are no longer with us, but the last, Great-Great-Grandma Dawna, is still going strong.  She told me if Liv has kids while "still in diapers," like the rest of us, she might get to be a great-great-great-grandma.  (She is an awesome lady.)  (By the way, Liv, no hurry!)

Ivy turned three, another milestone.  Three is more pre-school age, she's not so much a toddler anymore.  We're working on lots of grown-up skills like potty training and keeping clothed.  Ivy is a force of nature, and the mischief gleams in her eyes, but she has a caring side that keeps it from sliding into the malicious.  She loves to listen to "We Are the Champions" and sing along.  She thinks "no time for losers" is "you guys are losers."

Ivy has a very lively sense of humor, and she is what I like to call a "chain yanker."  She calls my sister "Grandma" and my mom "Laural."  She knows perfectly well which is which, she just thinks it's funny.  When Maggie is is the bathroom, she'll stick her little toes under the door and say, "Maggie, can you see my toes?  Come and get them!"  Ivy has an insane mad-scientist raspy laugh, and she uses it all the time.  What will she be like in seven years, when she's Olivia's age?

Loch is now six months old.  He's sitting up and can work himself around on the floor.  It's not crawling, it's more like he's in a wheelbarrow race, but with nobody carrying his legs, kind of sledding around on his chest.  He is beginning to try out a few foods, but he is still very much a mama's boy when it comes to nutrition.   Loch is easily frustrated, and toys seem to only appease him for a moment before they've let him down in some catastrophic way, making him shriek with agitation.

What will Lochlan be at three?  At ten?  Will he be goofy or solemn?  Will he talk all the time like Olivia, or sit quietly with a car and play for hours like Hollis?  Will he love to read?  Will he have a baby brother or sister that he loves as much as Maggie adores him?  Parenting has its ups and downs definitely.  But there's nothing like it to make the future look appealing. I can't wait to see what they will become.