The House that Built Me

I know they say you can't go home again.
I just had to come back one last time.
Ma'am I know you don't know me from Adam.
But these hand prints on the front steps are mine.
And up those stairs, in that little back bedroom
is where I did my homework and I learned to play guitar.
And I bet you didn't know under that live oak
my favorite dog is buried in the yard.

I thought if I could touch this place or feel it
this brokenness inside me might start healing.
Out here its like I'm someone else,
I thought that maybe I could find myself
if I could just come in I swear I'll leave.
Won't take nothing but a memory
from the house that built me.

               -Miranda Lambert, The House that Built Me

Those who know me well know that I hate pickles and olives.  They know I love singers like Jewel and Savage Garden, that I hate scary movies, and that loud noises and chaos make me want to jump out of my skin.

Those who know me well also know that I'm a pretty sensitive person, and I get very emotionally attached to worldly things like cars, books, and homes.  This blog is dedicated to my childhood home, the home I've spent much of my life in, the home I spent my formative years in.  

Let me digress for a moment to say that this home has also been home to many other families and people before me.  I don't want to make it sound like I am the only one who ever lived there or made memories there.  I know I kind of came in last, and the home wasn't originally my home.  Two families were blended together, and I consider myself a lucky person to have so many people in my family.   What I'm going to write about tonight is my personal experience with the House that Built Me.  It did, after all.

My mom and step-dad are selling their home after many years - Darryl has lived there over 40 years and essentially raised two families, and my mom has lived there with him for 25.  Like any family life, not all of the years were good, but that is life.  And the years make up who we are.  

I moved into the house on Alaska in 1990 when I was seven years old.  I was terrified of it at first, because it was filled with people I didn't know, smells I was not familiar with, noises I couldn't identify, and - worst of all - upstairs bedrooms that separated me from my mother, who I had pretty much shared a room with for most of my life up until that point.  My poor mom - I slept on the floor in their bedroom for many, many, MANY nights because I was too afraid to sleep upstairs by myself. 

After a while I got more comfortable, and the room at the back of the house became mine.  The windows looked out into the backyard, where a great Walnut grew and I could see Bogus Basin from my bedroom window.  It's the best room in the house - the coolest in the summer, and the coziest in the winter (though there is a smell of creosote from the chimney that runs right through the room).  I loved that room.  I did try living in nearly all the four upstairs rooms at one point (except for my brother's room), but in the end, I always came back to my room at the back of the house.  Like I said, it's the best.

It was in that room that I grew up.  Where my decor changed from  pink paint and little girl accouterments to hundreds of pictures of puppies cut of of calendars that adorned my bedroom walls, to dark burgundy paint and pictures of hot guys cut out of teen magazines.

My brother and the puppies on the walls

I had a lot of sleepovers with friends in this room.  I also had a couple of special sleepovers with my brother on Christmas Eves, where he would sleep on the floor and I would sleep in my bed and we would laugh and laugh until late into the night.  I remember him calming my fears one night because I was afraid that our dog at the time, Bandit, would try to attack Santa Claus, and that Santa Claus would retaliate and injure or kill our dog out of self-defense. Luckily it never came to that, though Bandit didn't last long because of his determination to kill every cat in the neighborhood. 

  ----------------------------- ----------------------------------- ---------------------------- 

Christmases were the best.  We were not rich, but my mom always made our Christmases amazing.  My brother and I would sneak down the stairs early in the morning, rounding the corner to the landing to peek at what Santa had left behind.  I remember a couple of years in particular: the year I got a bike with a radio on it, and the year I got a karaoke machine (my poor family had to listen to me belt out Shania Twain and LeAnn Rhimes for way, way too long).  

Summers were also awesome at that house, especially once I had my dogs, Kiko and Lucky.  I loved to lay out in the front lawns, laying my head on lucky's side while he snoozed in the sun, Kiko keeping watch from a few feet away.  I'd usually have a book in hand and a content feeling inside.  Those puppies were the best.  Sadly they are not buried at the house under any trees, as the ground was frozen when they crossed that rainbow bridge, but their memory is forever with that house and in my heart.

My beloved grandpa took his last breaths in that house.  A death which I'm sure he never dreamed of and never wanted (he always wanted to go out bravely on a mountain top with his boots on in God's great outdoors fighting of a grizzly bear by hand, or something like that).  I will forever cherish the quiet last moments I got to spend with his body before he was carried down there stairs by two men who loved him greatly and looked up to him. I stood in that particular spot perhaps that longest today.

The house went through a lot of changes over the years, from a complete remodel shortly after we moved in, to the dirt driveway finally getting concrete; my own room changed colors countless times, and doors put on the old garage.   The front door also changed many times. 

The beginning...

My awesome cousin Greg in his cool shades in the kitchen before it was remodeled

My friend Kenna in the driveway when it was still dirt.

The one room that never changed was the family room at the back (or front?) of the house.  With it's orange dingy carpet, ugly brownish copperish wallpaper and freezing cold temperatures in the winter due to a lack of insulation, that room was forever a favorite for watching movies and hiding from whatever was going on in the rest of the house.  This was our official TV room, and we never had a TV in the main part of the house until after I grew up and moved out and my grandparents moved in.  The family room was too cold for them.  :)

There is a stair, second from the bottom, that squeeks in the most delightful way when stepped on, and I always teased my mom about farting when she would step there. 

This happened - homecoming day!

There is a tin box buried in the front yard that I will probably never find that served as a time capsule for my friends and I, buried sometime in the early nineties.  I don't remember it's contents.

The basement is unfinished and has a musty smell of dusty concrete and iron, and can feel a little damp and creepy if you spend too much time down there.

The fan in the "computer room" whirs annoyingly.

I descended the stairs many times to a handsome boy in a tux holding a corsage after patiently waiting for me to finish my make-up for homecoming and prom.

I played on many tire swings over the years, hung from the great trees that adorn the property and provide shade and shelter to the aging house.

In that house, many hugs were shared, laughter rang out, angry words occasionally exchanged, meals cooked, tears shed, games played, children raised, grandchildren learned to crawl and walk and play, and love was grown.

Today was my last time visiting the house that built me.  As my two older children played in the trees outside, the house was quiet and I found myself alone (well, with my baby boy) in the house.  I walked every room, taking pictures in my head and remembering different things that happened in each room. I ran my hands along the walls, wiped away some tears, and said goodbye.   Even Camden was quiet and melancholy as we strode through the house, sharing one last walk-through in a house that he will have no memory of. 

I feel as though as loved one has died - the memories are there in my heart always, but now it's just an empty shell where life was vibrant and has now gone quiet.  I keep reminding myself that my memories are not retained in that house, but in my heart.  Home is with us always, in our memories and hearts and not necessarily in the sheet rock and concrete walls of a house. 

I always dreamed of my children having that house to go to to visit Grandma, playing in the vast lawns and under the great shade trees.  Many adventures are yet to be had there - but those adventures will be had by someone else - another family, another child.  I hold the memories made in that house forever near and dear to my heart, but it's time for someone else to take over.

I happen to know that the family buying that house has young children, which I am grateful for.  They will make amazing discoveries and go on amazing adventures as they find all the nooks and crannies and secrets of the house.  There are so many places to hide and explore.  I hope they are able to hang tire swings, dig holes, build a new tree house, play hide-and-seek, and ride bikes and have sleep-overs with all the neighborhood kids.  

As hard as it is to say goodbye to my childhood home, it's simply time.  Time to let go, time to move on, time to discover new places.  I'm lucky - I spent most of my childhood in one home. I had roots, and I am grateful.  I had a warm bed and space to run and people who loved me.  What more could I ask for?  My goal in life is to provide the same for my children.

I hope in 20 years I can go back and knock on the door and ask to look around my old home.  I'd love to touch the walls and find my way back to my childhood, find those memories back in the house that built me.  

My kids on the front porch, the last day at Grandma's house on Alaska

Stupid Cat (please read the whole post before you judge me here)

We got our stupid cat October of 2012, shortly after I had quit working at the bank.  We had actually been to the animal shelter looking for a dog several times, but never found the right fit for our family.  We were walking past a little cage filled with kittens and I said, "Hey honey, what about a cat?  They're pretty easy."  So, we peered in at the fuzzy little faces and chose a couple tabby ones that we liked.

We took the first one in a little room for a "test drive" to see how it would do with the kids.  Well, he cowered under a chair and away from us the few minutes we were in the room with him, so we sent him back and got the other little tabby.  He was the cutest kitten!  He acted like a big-shot super hero at six weeks old, walking around the little room like he owned the place, investigating the kids and playing around like he was already part of the family.  We knew he'd fit right in, so we adopted him on the spot.

I've always considered myself a dog person.  I've never cared much for cats - I've always thought of them as snobby, self-centered creatures.  I would much prefer the sloppy drooly company of a giant dopey dog!  However, the kitten was cute and over time, he kind of grew on me.

The first night we had him home, he immediately perched himself on my shoulder and took a nap.  That became his special place in the evenings, and I really didn't mind.  I thought it was kind of cute.  It only became a problem after he grew up and there was too much of him for my shoulder, so he had to resign himself to my lap instead (or my chest if I happened to be laying down reading a book).

He grew on me over the years, though I still often referred to him as "Stupid Cat" (even though his name was Scout).  As far as personality goes, he had one of the best ones I've ever seen in a cat.

Every morning he would sense me stirring, and would coming in mowing his good morning to me, then follow me to each of the kid's rooms as I woke them up.  He would walk into their rooms meowing his good morning to them, then rub against their little legs as they rolled out of bed.

He loved to cuddle with one of the kids as they lay on the couch drinking a warm cup of milk.  If he wasn't sitting right on top of someone, he would reach a paw as far as he could to make sure he was in contact with whoever he was sitting nearest.

Matt and I would always laugh about the fact that he acted part dog.  He loved to play fetch with his favorite toy, a pipe cleaner.  He kept his stash of pipe cleaners hidden under the oven.

When someone would come over, rather than skulk away to hide like most cats do, he would be the first greeter at the door, then usually sit in close vicinity to whomever  was visiting, often cuddling up right next to their hip on the couch.

During family gatherings, he loved to lay in the middle of the floor right in the middle of everyone so he could be a part of whatever was going on.


Over the nearly three years that we had him, we tried our best to keep him inside.  It worked for a long time, but in time, he started bolting out of open doors.  He usually kept to our yard (even right up until recently as far as we know).  We don't believe in letting our animals roam, and believe it's irresponsible and disrespectful for an animal to poop in someone else's yard (heaven knows we have plenty of cat poop in our back yard that did not come from OUR cat).

I tried to not like him, keep my affections from growing for him.  But the stupid creature was just so...likable!

Every time he got out, Matt and I would always say that one of these times, he wasn't going to come home.  Well Monday, that time came.  He escaped out the sliding glass door as he often did, but this time, rather than coming home after an hour or two, he just didn't come home.

Stupid cat.  Didn't know what was best for him.  Stupid cat for worming his way into my heart.  Stupid cat for breaking the "cat stereotype" for me so that I actually LIKED him.  Stupid cat for winning me over. Stupid cat for adoring the kids and showing particular affection for the baby.

Stupid cat for making me drive miles and miles of back roads over the last two days hoping to catch a glimpse of him where someone may have hauled him away and dumped him.  Stupid cat for making me call the local animal shelters every day, hoping someone has brought him him.

Stupid cat for making me lose sleep wondering what could have happened to him.  Stupid cat for making me leave the back door open when I leave the house, just in case he does come home and is hungry or dehydrated he can go right to his designated eating place.

Stupid cat for leaving a cold spot in my lap when I sit in the living room in the evenings.

Stupid cat for actually making me ugly-cry for you.

Stupid cat for leaving a void.

Stupid cat for making me like you.

Stupid me. I guess I really am a cat person after all. I keep hoping I'll walk through the kitchen and see you sitting at the back door waiting to be let in.  I hope you find your way home.

The Treehouse

Once there was a tree....
and she loved a little boy.
And everyday the boy would come
and he would gather her leaves
and make them into crowns
and play king of the forest.
He would climb up her trunk
and swing from her branches
and eat apples.
And they would play hide-and-go-seek.
And when he was tired,
he would sleep in her shade.
And the boy loved the tree....
very much.
And the tree was happy.
But time went by.
And the boy grew older.
And the tree was often alone.
Then one day the boy came to the tree
and the tree said, "Come, Boy, come and
climb up my trunk and swing from my
branches and eat apples and play in my
shade and be happy."
"I am too big to climb and play" said
the boy.
"I want to buy things and have fun.
I want some money?"
"I'm sorry," said the tree, "but I
have no money.
I have only leaves and apples.
Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in
the city. Then you will have money and
you will be happy."
And so the boy climbed up the
tree and gathered her apples
and carried them away.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time....
and the tree was sad.
And then one day the boy came back
and the tree shook with joy
and she said, "Come, Boy, climb up my trunk
and swing from my branches and be happy."
"I am too busy to climb trees," said the boy.
"I want a house to keep me warm," he said.
"I want a wife and I want children,
and so I need a house.
Can you give me a house ?"
" I have no house," said the tree.
"The forest is my house,
but you may cut off
my branches and build a
house. Then you will be happy."

And so the boy cut off her branches
and carried them away
to build his house.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time.
And when he came back,
the tree was so happy
she could hardly speak.
"Come, Boy," she whispered,
"come and play."
"I am too old and sad to play,"
said the boy.
"I want a boat that will
take me far away from here.
Can you give me a boat?"
"Cut down my trunk
and make a boat," said the tree.
"Then you can sail away...
and be happy."
And so the boy cut down her trunk
and made a boat and sailed away.
And the tree was happy
... but not really.

And after a long time
the boy came back again.
"I am sorry, Boy,"
said the tree," but I have nothing
left to give you -
My apples are gone."
"My teeth are too weak
for apples," said the boy.
"My branches are gone,"
said the tree. " You
cannot swing on them - "
"I am too old to swing
on branches," said the boy.
"My trunk is gone, " said the tree.
"You cannot climb - "
"I am too tired to climb" said the boy.
"I am sorry," sighed the tree.
"I wish that I could give you something....
but I have nothing left.
I am just an old stump.
I am sorry...."
"I don't need very much now," said the boy.
"just a quiet place to sit and rest.
I am very tired."
"Well," said the tree, straightening
herself up as much as she could,
"well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting
Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest."
And the boy did.
And the tree was happy.

~The Giving Tree

By Shel Silverstein

The story of The Giving Tree was the first thing I thought of as I watched my husband pull the remnants of many wonderful childhood memories out of the tired old tree.  For many years, only a  desolate moss-covered platform has occupied the space where there was once a large, two-room tree house.  A tree house that provided countless hours of elevated fun for numerous kids has simply been a playground for squirrels and landing pad for doves and pigeons.  But oh, it was once a glorious place.  

I cannot lay claim to the tree house - it originated before I was even a thought on Earth.  My step-dad built it with and for his children in the mid-seventies.  I wasn't there to witness the construction of it.  I don't know how many hours it took to build, how many boards were cut just right, or how many nails were pounded in.  I don't know how many slivers dug into the working hands that put up the tree house, or how many fingers got in the way of the driving hammers.  I wasn't there to witness the meticulous calculations of making sure the tree house fit just right into the waiting arms of that massive Elm.  I'll never know the excitement those children felt as they watched their Dad erect this massive wooden haven, the giggles shared, the stories told, the dreams imagined for that place.  Those sacred memories belong to Darryl and his children. 

But I am thankful they happened, and that I also got to share in the fun of the big tree house in the big Elm.

When I first moved in to the house on Alaska Avenue, it was 1990 and  I was 7 years old.  I was terrified of that tree house, and being a child who was afraid of everything, I could easily picture my broken body laying at the bottom of the rickety ladder which led up to the tree house, having slipped from a rung or gotten dizzy and disoriented on my way up.  I refused to scale that thing for a long time.  But one day, my brother talked me into it.  

Karlin climbed up that ladder before me and coached me on the way up. There was a big, thick branch towards the top of the ladder, just before you reached the open doorway of the tree house, that you had to snake your body over in order to complete your ascent to the top.  That was the worst part.  I remember standing on the rung just below that branch, shaking, not knowing how I would ever get over that big branch into the tree house, or back down for that matter! But, with Karlin's coaching, I snaked my little body over that branch, and found myself standing triumphantly in the middle of the tree house.  I still wasn't fond of making my way up that ladder, but soon I forgot how scary it really was, and I visited that tree house daily.  

After making some neighborhood friends, they all joined me regularly in the tree house, and soon we were the typical story-book tree house dwellers, pooling our money together to try to buy knick-knacks and carpet to fix that tree house up.  We kept a jar of money "hidden" there, and to be honest, I'm not sure what ever happened to the couple of bucks we managed to acquire.  

We spent countless hours up there, playing, sweeping, cleaning, and playing make-believe.  We always talked about having a sleep-over in the tree house, but my mom never allowed it, and I'm sure the parents of my friends would have never allowed it either.  We never did spend a night up there (though I can't say with certainty that my brother never slept up there).

After a few years of climbing that old rickety ladder hundreds (if not thousands) of times, Darryl decided to take that ladder down and replace it with a sturdier, marginally safer stairway.  I remember watching him build those stairs, and position them just right up to the door way of the tree house.  The stairs were marvelous! I really don't remember if they had side rails to hang on to, or if it was just a dangerous drop off on both sides of the stairs, but I didn't care.  The stairs were so much easier to climb up than that ladder!  

Several more years were spent playing in the tree house, and those stairs stayed in place for a long, long time.  I even had a dog who wasn't afraid to ascend those stairs up into the tree house.  She wasn't sane by any means (my husband always said she reminded him of Ed from the Lion King, the not-right-in-the-head hyena), but she didn't mind heights.

More years went by, and eventually other things took my time and attention.  School, Flag Corp, a boyfriend - life just happened.  But life always happened in the shadow of that tree house in the Elm, which stood above us like an alter to our childhood memories.  

Eventually, Darryl took down the stairs that led up to the tree house door.  A few years later (once I was married and out of the house), he started to tear the tree house down.  It was very old and dilapidated (not so different from what it was when I played in it as a child, but I didn't notice it), and we weren't sure of the safety of it anymore.  Walls came down in pieces, but for some reason, no one was ready for the finality of a big empty space in the big Elm just yet.  After those walls came down, the floor of the tree house remained, and sat there cradled in the tree for many years.  Without the walls around it, the platform wasn't very note-worthy or attention-drawing, so no one paid it much attention.  

Until Mom and Darryl started talk of down-sizing and selling their home (a story for another blog, another day).

It was decided that the platform should come out of  the great tree, so that whoever buys the house wouldn't have to risk their lives to take it down themselves.  So, I volunteered my young, able-bodied husband to scale a ladder 20 feet into the air and start knocking that platform out of the tree.  

On the day the platform came down, the weather was forecast to be a bright, sunny and warm day.  This did not turn out to be the case.  When we woke up, it was overcast, but we didn't think it would rain because the weatherman said it would not rain until the following day, and weathermen are always right.  Right?  

By the time Matt set up the ladder and was working away, it started to sprinkle (or "leak", as Audrey says).  After a while, the leak turned into a heavier drizzle, and the temperature dropped more.  Still Matt worked away at the platform, as I watched from below.  I know it's a little melodramatic, but I couldn't help thinking that the sky was weeping for that tree house, mimicking the thoughts going through my head.  In the pale light from the overcast skies, the tree, too, looked like it had given up, given in -  sagging in it's old age, mourning what it was once, and what it had once held.  

I have to admit, as I sat there under my umbrella watching, I shed a couple of tears.  No one saw me, thank goodness.  They might think I was nuts to cry over the deconstruction of a tree house.  But it was more than that.  It was watching my step-father walk around below the tree house, unable to climb a ladder anymore because of some health problems.  It was the thought of not having that house to visit anymore, my childhood home, gone, sold, belonging to someone else, a stranger who never knew the memories of that place.

It was the fact that I dislike change very much. I dislike watching people I love grow older.  I dislike saying goodbye.  I dislike the thought of them moving.  I dislike the thought of someone else moving in there, possibly knocking down those old beautiful trees, changing everything.  

I dislike the tree house being gone. It's final.  The beginning of a big change, an inevitable change, but a change I don't want to happen.

In the last few hours before the platform came down, it was evident that the tree did not want to let go of what was left of that tree house.  It had literally become a part of the tree.  Boards and cables were grown into the tree itself.  Matt sawed, hammered, pulled, pounded, and sawed some more to get it loose.  We pulled and pulled, and eventually had to tie a rope to the platform and pull it down with a truck.  Finally, after a few pushes to the gas pedal, the last boards came crashing down. 

It was done.

The space left where the tree house once was is so lonely, so unnatural.  As I stood there under that now open space, the story of The Giving Tree came to me.  The big Elm gave 40 years of it's life to cradling that tree house.  It supported it, shaded it, kept that tree house sturdy so many children could enjoy it.    While the children played in the house of that tree, I can only imagine that the tree was happy.  It smiled down on those laughing children, enjoying it's shade and massive support.  But as the children grew and moved away, the tree grew lonely.  Soon the tree house was empty, and that tree was cradling an empty shell, a shadowy reminder of the once happy and vibrant life which once surrounded it.   Though the children often came back, they had grown to old the climb into the tree.  It had served it's purpose. While it was happy to still provide shade and greenery, what it cradled was no longer needed. 

I imagine some day, after my family has moved away and new people take over, those big old Elm trees will be chopped down, no longer appreciated, seen as a danger in the wind.  The happiness they once provided will be just a memory.  

Maybe when I am an old woman, I will go back and visit that house some day.  The trees won't be there anymore, and the house may not be standing either.  But I will be able to stand where those trees once stood, and remember the old tree house which held the tree house I used to play in.  Maybe I'll have grand-children with me, and I can tell them about all the fun times I had playing up there.  Even though everything will be different, I can stand there, and be happy.  

**I am trying to find a picture of the tree house. When and if I find one, I'll post it**

The First Decade

We used to walk 3.5 miles from Jefferson Junior High School to my house just to be together.  Back then, we really didn't go on a lot of dates as we were both still pretty young (14 and 15), and neither of us could drive yet.  The most we got to see each other was during passing time in the halls at school, exchanging notes and maybe a hug (I can't remember if we had taken the baby step towards hugging yet?), which normally occurred downstairs at Jefferson, me on my way to Home Ec. and Matt on his way to Science.  Granted, my very first note to him was given to him a friend because I was too chicken to give it to him myself, but I'm sure glad I wrote that first note.

That was nearly 17 years ago.

On December 18, 2014, we will be married 10 years.  A whole decade!  Many people would shake their heads in amazement, thinking to themselves or out loud, "Where did the time go?"  Not me.  I know exactly where it went.

It "began" inside the temple as we vowed before family and God to love each other for the rest of forever.  From there, many hours have passed vacationing up and down the Oregon Coast, even down into the big trees of California and up into Washington.

Even more time has been spent pouring over books, studying, writing, learning as we paved the way to getting our college degrees.

Countless moments have been spent together on road trips, laughing, joking, singing  along to our favorite music (each of us relenting to the other's choice of artists, as Metallica wouldn't be my first choice, nor would Jewel be Matt's).

Many dates were spent wandering the aisles of Barnes and Noble, especially in the early days when there wasn't money to do much more.  We could spend hours there, looking over book titles, piling books into our arms we hoped to purchase, then putting all but one or two back because we couldn't afford the $200 bill it would come to.

Too little time was spent overseas, taking a group of high school kids to France and Spain for a week and a half.  Though the trip was short, for me it was the trip of a lifetime as I had never been out of the country, and there was no one else in the whole world I wanted to share that experience with.  Even though we were busy with many teenagers and ran ourselves ragged across a small section of Europe, we still found time just the two of us to enjoy the wonders of a foreign country together.  I certainly hope to do this again as time passes.

Two and a half years passed in a tiny apartment on Poplar Street, crammed together as newlyweds, trying to figure out how to survive those first few years together with too little space and too little money.

Yet another year was spent in a small 3-bedroom house on Teton, where we grew our love and learned we  were expecting our first child, a daughter, to be born during the winter of 2008.

Several weeks were spent house hunting, looking for that perfect home to call our own and raise a family.  Though we walked through many houses, I knew as soon as I entered the great space on Kipling that we would make that our home.  So far, six years have been spent doing just that.

Eight days were spent at the local hospital, bringing new life into this world as we welcomed our three beautiful children into our lives through tears and open arms.

Ninety-one hours were spent crammed together in our Nissan Altima, making the trek together for the very first time down to Texas, with many spots along the way.  We passed through Idaho, Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, and Colorado. It was a looooong trip, but well worth it and one of the best trips I've ever been on.

More hours have passed happily celebrating birthdays, anniversaries, new jobs, degrees, good news, and just because.

And the rest of the time?  Well, those quiet moments are reserved just for us, no one else.  The moments sitting in our room, reading a novel and holding hands.  Watching a movie cuddling on the couch.  Making dinner together in the kitchen. Whispered conversations so to not wake our sleeping children.  Just letting moments pass together where nothing particularly special is happening, except that we are within arm's reach of each other, right where we want to be.  Kisses.  Hugs.  Slow-dancing to a song.  A smile, a laugh.  A quick glance to the other to share some unspoken words.  Time saying I'm sorry.  Time saying I love you.  Time saying I forgive you, and there's no one else in the world I'd rather be with.

These are the moments that make up a decade.

Happy 10 year Anniversary to the love of my life.  Let's shoot for another 100.

One Day I will Conquer the Chocolate Chip Cookie (and No, This is Not About Dieting!)

Baking the perfect chocolate chip cookies is the bane of my entire existence.  Okay, perhaps that's a bit melodramatic, but seriously!  I cannot bake a good HOME-MADE chocolate chip cookie to save my life!

I consider myself to be a pretty decent cook.  I love to try new things, cook new things, and peruse Pinterest for new and exotic recipes to try.  I can bake a mean Perfectly Chocolate Chocolate Cake, for example, with home-made chocolate frosting and everything.  It's one of my chocolate-loving husband's favorite desserts.  I cannot, however, bake the perfect chocolate chip cookie.

I recently came across this picture of different chocolate chip cookies, all cooked with different amounts of each ingredient, along with a brief description of what went wrong.  This is serious stuff - this article  dives into the science of baking the perfect chocolate chip cookie, tailored to what YOU think the perfect chocolate chip cookie is.

Here is the graphic:

(www.ozy.com)

I have baked every chocolate chip cookie in this picture, with none of them turning out the way I want.  If my family wants a really good chocolate chip cookie, I go to the store and purchase a family roll of Pillsbury Chocolate Chip Cookie dough (not the pre-cut kind, but the actual roll), roll the dough into little balls, and bake the perfect chocolate chip cookie.

Anyway, back to the home-made kind.  I found this recipe on Pinterest called the Best Ever Chocolate Chip Cookie.  The name alone gave me hope, as this is exactly what I've been looking for my entire baking life!  Looking over the recipe, it sounded pretty good, but needed a few tweaks.

With guidance from the website above, I once again set out to bake the perfect home-made Chocolate Chip Cookie, with the help of my little bakers-in-training.  I followed the recipe for the most part, but added extra flour, a little extra vanilla to reduce the over-floury taste, and then refrigerated the dough before baking it.

Once the dough was mixed and well-chilled, I was a little worried because the dough was very flaky.  But, still I held out hope.  I like a round cookie, so I spooned dough into my hands, rolled it into little balls, and placed them on the baking pan.  I knew the dough wouldn't spread much because the butter had set in the fridge, but I wasn't worried - I had this scientific website, dangit!

After baking my cookies for 10 minutes, I took them out of the oven.  Well, they weren't exactly - perfect. They were still in the exact same little balls I had rolled the dough into. They hadn't spread at all!  I took a metal spoon and smashed them out into a cookie shape, but in doing so, the chocolate chips smashed and spread all over the cookie.

Okay, so they weren't pretty, but I had hopes of them tasting great!

Audrey loved them of course!  (Kellen doesn't like cookies much, so he didn't taste.)   My main taste-tester - my husband - lovingly told me they tasted a little floury, but were much less cake-y than the last ones I baked.   I agreed.

While the cookies tasted okay, they still weren't exactly what I was hoping for.   They were alright, but not perfect.

I still have hopes of one day baking the perfect chocolate chip cookie.  Until then, I'll continue to test, fail, and test again.

Yet another failed attempt at chocolate chip cookies.  Do you think this qualifies as a Pinstrosity??

I WILL, ONE DAY, CONQUER THE HOME-MADE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE!

Life Lessons from a 4-Year-Old

God sent my middle child to test my patience - of this I am well aware.  I have unlimited amounts of love for my children.  Boatloads of hugs and kisses.  I love snuggling and singing and reading with my munchkins.  What I do not have copious amounts of is patience.  Patience eludes me.

So today, yet again, I lost the patience I didn't have with my 4-year-old, but I also learned a valuable lesson.  Well, maybe "learned" isn't the right word, because I was already aware.  "Reminded" is a better one.  I was reminded of a valuable lesson...

A few weeks ago I ordered an ornament kit for Christmas to bring Christ into our holiday season.  It's called 25 Days of Christ (click to view the web page), and it's such a great idea!  Basically you get 25 ornaments for your Christmas Tree, each symbolizing something from the Bible.  Each day, beginning December 1, you pick an ornament, read the scripture that goes with it as a family, and talk about the story surrounding that symbol.  It's an advent calendar of Christmas ornaments!

 There are two ways you can order the kit - finished (all painted and ready to go), or unfinished.  Since they were sold out of the finished kits, I purchased an unfinished kit, planning to paint the ornaments with my children as "Mommy/child" time (which I strive to do every day).  Of course it would be messy, and of course the ornaments would look like they were painted by a small child, but that's perfectly fine.  We'd be creating memories!

Finally, after about a week and a half, I got my kit in the mail. I couldn't WAIT to open it!  I held off until after Thanksgiving to bust it out, so today was the day we would get started.  After dropping Kellen off at morning preschool, Audrey and I started making preparations by gathering the needed materials to complete the ornaments.  I talked to Audrey a little bit about what we were doing, and she was delighted to do this project with me.  After all, painting is one of her favorite things to do.

We painted and glued and painted some more for about an hour, until time for her to get ready for school and go get her brother.  I planned on working on it more in the afternoon with Kellen while Audrey was at Kindergarten.

A word about Kellen - he is a tornado.  Literally.  My house can be spotless, then enter Kellen: the room looks like a bomb went off. He runs from one thing to the next to the next wreaking havoc like a tornado.  He reminds me of the little boy in the Family Circus comic strip who runs around like a whirling dervish and you can follow his crazy trail to see where he had been.

I love him to death, but he is a mess!

I knew the afternoon craft would be a challenge with him, but I was determined to make it fun.  As soon as we walked in the door from taking Audrey to school, Kellen wanted a warm cup of milk and to lay on the couch for a few minutes.  Ok - I would have a chance to feed and change Camden while he relaxed, then we could get to work.  As I was warming up his milk, I heard a splash and a tiny voice say "uh oh Mommy."  What this time?  I turned around to see the cup of water I had been sipping (which was still mostly full) spilled all over my new ornament kit.  The ornaments were wet, the instructions were soaked, the story book was dripping, the chair was covered in water.  I lost it.  I was SO MAD! Camden was screaming, I started yelling, and Kellen just stood there and stared at his crazy mother while I yelled at him for not being careful and ruining my new ornament set!  I handed him his milk and told him to get out of the kitchen while I cleaned up HIS mess and everything he destroyed.

Like I said, I'm not very patient.

Kellen sauntered into the living room to drink his milk, half watching cartoons and half watching me. By this time my anger had dissipated some, but I was in tears. I was in tears over yelling at Kellen for his accident, I was in tears over my ornament kit, because I had been so excited to get it and start a fun and meaningful Christmas tradition with my family.  I wasn't going to spend the money to replace the kit - they aren't super cheap.

As I mopped up the water from the floor, sopped up the water on the table, tried drying out the story book and instruction papers, and wiped off my wooden ornaments, I kept glancing at Kellen through my tears.  He was watching me carefully, with a sad look on his face like he was really sorry but was afraid to tell me so because mommy might yell at him again.

After all the water was cleaned up, paper towels were placed between each page of the book to keep the pages from sticking, and the ornaments were dried off, I picked up Camden and went and sat down in the living room with Kellen.  He was still watching me, and I was still trying to calm down and dry my tears.

I called him over to me.  He came and stood by me and before I could say anything, he said, "Mommy, I'm really sorry for spilling the water. I didn't mean to."  He is such a sweet boy, and sometimes in all his chaos, I forget that.

I gave him a big hug and told him I loved him. I told him that I get mad and yell sometimes, told him I was sorry for yelling, and that even when I get mad, I don't love him any less.  I told him he really hadn't really ruined the stuff, just gotten it wet (and warped, but I didn't mention that part).  I said "I love you Kellen, do you know that?"

"Yes Mommy, I know that," and he happily went on his way.

It was a bittersweet moment. I hate myself for not having patience, for yelling at my kids.  I hate yelling.  It's just bullying, and I really hate bullying.

Here's the lesson I learned today:  I was so excited about this beautiful kit and starting this tradition.  I wanted it to be flawless. Well, life with three children five and under is not flawless.  That's just the way it is.  I realized that even his spilling water all over my new kit could have been a funny memory.  While I was making plans to email the company and ask for replacements, I figured out that the warped pages of the story book and water marks in the paint are part of the memories we created today.  Rather than yell at Kellen, I should have laughed.  I should have just said, "It's alright, don't worry.  The stains are just reminders of the fun we had making these."

After his warm cup of milk was finished and baby was fed, Kellen and I sat down together and worked on finishing the ornaments.  We had fun.  We laughed.  We painted and tied and glued.  We had a good time together, and I soon forgot about the anger I had earlier over a spilled cup of water. I really hope Kellen forgot, too.

I've decided to keep all the water-stained, warped pieces to remind myself of this lesson.  The Christmas Spirit is all about love and spending quality time with those we love, being thankful for what we have, and giving all that we can.  Every year when we pull out the 25 Days of Christ kit, I'll be reminded that I spent that time with my children, painting and decorating, laughing, making mistakes, saying I love you.  When I pull that kit out in  25 years after my children have all left home and perhaps have children of their own, I'll sit in my quiet house with Christmas music playing and remember the time that Kellen spilled the water all over everything before we even had a chance to use it.  And I'll laugh about it, and I will desperately miss my 4 year old little boy and all his craziness.

Ever Wondered What It's Like to Birth an 11-Pound Baby?

I never really had since the average baby weighs between 7 and 8 pounds.  Apparently my births aren't typical, the first two weighing in at 6 lbs 11 oz and 9 lbs 10 oz, but even birthing my nearly 10 pound baby wasn't too bad.  I got the shock of a lifetime, however, as I delivered my third child.  Since I have been asked by several people to share my birth story with them, I thought I would write it out so more people can read it if interested.

Here is the birth story of Camden, my 11 pound third child...

After having Kellen in 2010, Matt and I both thought we were done having kids. We had a girl and a boy, the perfect American 4-family, and I was satisfied and happy.  That was until I started having dreams about this little blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy named Camden.  Starting sometime in 2013, he entered my dreams often, and I just couldn't shake the feeling that I had one more child to bring into the world.  Every time I denied that feeling, I'd have another dream about him.  Eventually, a couple of family members who have passed away entered my dreams as well, each time talking about babies with me.  I consider myself a religious person, and though I often keep my religious beliefs and experiences to myself, this experience really started to blow my mind, and I absolutely believe that it was a prompting from a higher power that there was another little child waiting for me.  After many dreams, I knew I had to talk to Matt about another baby. I knew it wasn't going to be easy to agree to bring another child into the world.  Not only was he not wild about the idea, but I very much dislike being pregnant, and the thought of going through another pregnancy made me want to cry and throw-up and scream all at the same time.

After lots of discussion and going back and forth a few times, we decided it was time, and after a couple of months we had a new little peanut on the way (I had actually decided to go back on the pill if I ended up not being pregnant, but, of course, I was...).

Fast forward to 20 weeks and the big ultrasound to find out what we were having, and I was quite nervous. What if it was a girl?  I was supposed to be having a boy according to my dreams!  What would I do?  Would we have to try for #4, and hope he was a boy?  I was so worried (even though I was 90% positive I was carrying a boy).  All through the ultrasound the tech could not get a good gender shot as the umbilical cord was wrapped between the baby's legs, but right at the very end, he decided to shift in such a way that we were able to see his little boy parts, and VOILA! A BOY!  I KNEW IT!  That little boy who appeared so often in my dreams had become a reality.

The pregnancy was not an easy one. I kept having problems here and there with different things, and I kept growing larger and larger and LARGER.  I started to express my worries about baby's size to my doctor, but there wasn't much we could tell about his size until right toward the end.

At the last few appointments we talked about baby boy's size - I was getting quite concerned about the exit strategy, especially since my last baby was nearly 10 pounds.  I thought I could probably handle a 10 pound baby, but much more than that, well  I just didn't want to think about it.

The day before I delivered we discussed doing an ultrasound to measure baby, but since they can be off by as much as a pound or two, I was really hesitant to do that and have an unwarranted C-Section.  I really, really didn't want to have a C-Section, so I decided to take my chances.  I told the doctor I'd try it on my own, and if baby boy got stuck or was in distress, we could do a C-Section then, but I wanted to give it my best effort.  We decided to induce the next day, 1 day before my due date.

15weeks

31 weeks

35ish weeks

Delivery Day!

I was supposed to check in very early the next morning, and of course I couldn't sleep that night. I got up about 3 a.m. to soak in a bath for a while.  While I was relaxing, I heard my phone start ringing (always a scary thing in the middle of the night!). Matt answered and it ended up being the hospital calling to ask if I would come in later in the day because they filled up with women in labor over night!

OK, a word here about putting off the induction of a hugely pregnant, grumpy woman: I wasn't happy. I knew it wasn't the hospital's fault, but I was miserable and ready to go. I couldn't WAIT to get that baby out of my body and into my arms.  Ugh!  Luckily, my induction was only put off by a couple of hours, and by noon I was in a room, in a gown, hooked up and ready to go.  Yes!  I was so miserable and uncomfortable that I didn't dread labor one iota.  I just wanted that baby out by whatever means possible!!

Shortly after breaking my water, contractions really started to pick up, so I requested the epidural I was planning on all the way along.  I tried to go drug-free with Kellen, but Pitocin is a you-know-what, and knowing this was going to be a big baby, I didn't even want to try it without drugs.  There were several women ahead of me, further along in their labor than me, so I had to wait a bit for my epidural. By the time the nurse anesthetist got in there to get it started, my labor was in full swing and I was sweating and breathing hard, contractions coming less than a minute apart. I couldn't wait for some relief!  Well, relief took a while.  The first attempt at the epidural went into a vein, and the test doses put in sent my heart-rate sky high and I about passed out!  It was crazy weird, so it had to be re-done.  Attempt sticking a giant needle in my back part 2 - still didn't work out.  The test dose wouldn't even go in.

Let me digress for a moment - the anesthetist was older, very experienced, and she started to sweat right along with me at the thought of having to try a third time.  I trusted her, and I knew it wasn't her fault, but I really wanted to punch someone or something at that point.  I was in SO much pain, plus I had just had not one but TWO needles stuck into my spine, and if you've ever had it done,  you know it's not the most pleasant sensation.

Attempt #3 - SUCCESS!!!  YES!  No crazy heart-rate, no vein, no blockage of test dose going in - it worked!  HALLELUJAH! Relief was finally on the way after over an hour and three spine-needles.  Phew.

Once the epidural settled in, I got quite comfortable (except for my entire body starting to shake and shiver, which happened with each epidural and delivery).  By this point it was about 4 pm, and I was progressing fairly quickly.   Contractions really started to intensify, and the pressure was building.  A little before 5:30 I told Matt to find the doctor - I was feeling "pushy", and I knew it was time.  Here we go!

I'll avoid getting too much into detail, but I would like a word here about pressure during birth.  It  hurts, and it's uncomfortable, but I had never experienced this type of pressure with my other births. It was insane, and I didn't think I was going to be able to handle it, even with an epidural.  At this point I knew the baby was bigger than we thought, and I knew I had my work cut out for me.   Once baby boy was about halfway out, the doctor started commenting on how big he was.  I was thinking to myself, "Yeah, I could have told you that."  Lucky for me, I have never had to push very long with my babies, and after only 10 or 15 minutes, my healthy and quite large baby boy was born. Matt got to cut the umbilical cord, and baby boy was put on my chest for me to meet for the very first time.  He was sweet and beautiful and HUGE!  He had ROLLS already!  And boy could he scream!

We didn't weigh him right away, and the doctors and nurses started throwing guesses around as to how much he would weigh. It was quite amusing listening to the number flying around.  When they rolled the scale in and placed baby boy on it, we were all still blown away to see the numbers that showed up: 10 lbs 14 oz!  Two tiny ounces shy of 11 pounds!  I was in awe of my little chunky goober-smooch, and totally in love.  I know Matt was, too.  The look on his face was indescribable.

Needless to say, the experience was unforgettable (as any birth is, really).  But it's not every day you give birth to an 11 pound baby.  Every discomfort, every sleepless night, every cramp, every pain, every waddle, every tear shed in frustration at my discomfort, every contraction and labor pain was totally worth it.  Though I was miserable at the time, and it was probably the longest 9 months of my life, it was ALL worth it.  Would I do it again? No way.  I made sure of that the next morning.... but my little "big" Camden Byron was worth it all.

Finally in the hospital!

Taking his first breaths of  life!

Meeting my sweet baby boy. His little face is right next to mine.

Showing his weight!

Pouty face. :)

Starving already!

You were worth it little one, you were worth it.

Sweet baby boy.

Karlin, Lundynn, and Gma Diane meeting Camden.

Exhausted yet thrilled Mommy and Daddy.

Grandma Joycie meeting Camden.

Audrey and Kellen waiting to hold their baby brother!

Mesmerized!

Aunt Melyssa meeting Camden.

McDaniel cousins.

First official 5-family photo!

Angel baby.

Tiny little ears.  

Binky drunk.  

Sweet Daddy/Camden moment.

Brothers.

Audrey and Camden.

Love this!

All curled up in Daddy's arms.  Look at the size of those feet!

Sweet baby boy!