chocolate happiness

His very first cone of ice cream to eat all on his own was a waffle cone bigger than his head. He loved it deeply.

It loved him back. They became one in a melty explosion of chocolate toddler happiness.

You just can’t stand in the way of a love so deep (and sticky) as this – you just put it outside, watch the sweet carnage unfold, laugh and take lots of photos.

Mark it down on the list of fun stuff I’ll miss witnessing one day.

It’s been real, Nashville. Peace out.

The next time you see me here, I’ll be back where I left my heart years ago.

This is what I was bursting with in this post, and what made me smirky in the photo here.

Heading back to live in Austin, my friends.  With a huge grin plastered across my face.

I’m sure I’ll be tweeting all along the way there, so if you’re interested in coming along, follow me on Twitter!

I am so, so, so happy.

when he’s not handing me boogers

my son is a super secret spy.

he is an agent who seeks answers hidden in dark places with the desire to solve outrageous mysteries

he has to be in top physical shape to get in and out of the dangerous places he’s drawn to

he is always aware of his surroundings, noticing tiny details that even the best, most intelligent operatives might overlook, spotting things of great importance

he plucks precious treasures from their hiding places, with a clear understanding of what must be done

and turns them over only to she whom he most trusts, knowing that his mission is completed by this hand-off

then he slips away to the next daring adventure, leaving his leading lady with a smile on her face.

Here Comes The Sun

Oh the roads we have traveled.  And oh, those we have yet to travel!  They stretch out before me in my mind.  They’re sometimes long and winding, but more often, lately, so straight and fast that I can see the endpoint like a sudden, bracing hug and it takes my breath away.  That place on the horizon where the road blisses out is bursting with warm sun, calling me.

There is so much going on right now, a flurry of to dos and plans and please let this work outs, that I can’t even begin to tell you about it all.  I want to tell you.  Of course, I will.  In just a little while.  My thoughts are racing along so far and so fast, ahead of me on that straight-shot road, being drawn to the place where my heart lies in wait.  When it all snaps together just right, I’ll calm down, take a deep breath, and let my fingers do the work of spilling the proverbial beans here.

For now, my feet are getting tangled under me as I dart this way and that in nervous anticipation and fervent getting readiness.  It’s quite a dervish of a whirlwind that’s whipping me around currently.

Luckily, in the breaks between spinning and racing and running around with far too much to think about and much, too much, to do, Braden and I have private dance parties to the music of The Beatles in our living room.  There is generally an abundance of giggling.  (You can dance really stupidly when there’s no one but a 3 year old watching, and it doesn’t matter.)  Often, there is falling down on the floor silliness to be had, as well.  And sharing a moment or two of just being.

Life, contrary to what you may have heard, is good.

When you sleep among train tracks.

I spend a lot of my time with a little boy and a little dog, and we mix it up together with this and that.
Sometimes a little bit of the other.

I am very fond of throwing open the blinds as far and wide as they will go when the sun comes out to play at this time of year.  I am not a fan of being cold and gray.  I need light and warmth and vibrance or I forget how to breathe.

The dog is very, very fond of sleeping in puddles of sun on the carpet. (I have to admit that I am, too.)

What he did not realize, however, is that if one chooses to sleep among the train tracks of the little boy, one gives up all rights not to be built upon.

I was the foreman, looking on and supervising. I must confess that I felt this was a questionable choice of foundation.

But the builder, the artist, had a vision, and he followed through.

The foundation was kind of not interested in allowing the vision to be realized.

In fact, the foundation was all, “I am utterly displeased with the choice of building materials and deeply disturbed that nobody found it necessary to request my permission to build on these grounds. Oh and I’m definitely thinking of peeing on something you like as a form of revenge.”

But the little boy builder was not going to give up so easily, and quickly went for a second try at his plan once the foundation had resettled.

But the foundation was all, “Uh. No.”

He had other things in mind.

The little boy was unsure of how to proceed.

But then the builder decided he was really always meant to be a masseuse, and a compromise was reached.

And everyone was happy.

Which, when laying in puddles of sunny carpet among train tracks, is really not all that surprising.

No, Fig Newtons did not sponsor this.

But we love them. And their wrapper. Wanna see how 2 sickies entertain one another when they’re home alone at snack time?

Be warned, this is about 5 minutes of your life you will never get back. It will, however, leave you with a goofy grin on your face and a feeling of happy deep within you. If it doesn’t, you likely have a dead fish for a heart. Good luck with that.

So? Do you have the happy?

our regularly scheduled program will return after this brief period of bliss

I got this tiny bell in the HerStory Workshop today, at Blissdom. Isn’t it cute? Thanks to Aliza and Maya. The exercises they offered were thought provoking. And I discovered that the story of my life is entitled, “I haven’t screwed up too bad, yet. But give me time.” You’d buy it, right?

I also want to give giant props to the ladies who paneled the Writer’s Craft Workshop. I *thoroughly* enjoyed myself – what a great discussion. I had the beginnings of what I think is going to be a very good post in my hands when I walked out of that room Thursday evening. Thank you so much, Megan, Arianne, Deb, and Amber.

I’ll be heading back to the Opryland Hotel (can you say “friggin’ gorgeous?”) tomorrow morning and staying until Sunday (Weekly Winners may post late this week, but it will be up by Sunday sometime.)  Thank you so much, Monica & Bridget, for letting me share your hotel room.

Gotta go pack a bag now and get a little sleep before I hurry back over there tomorrow to hug on some more beeshes.

I love seeing so many women that I think the world of in one place.

Every time I hear a squee, an angel gets her wings.

Pain and joy mingle.

We purchased this year’s tree on a Sunday while John was home for a day.  That night, I put the lights on it.  The smell of a real Christmas tree is something I love so much that I don’t exactly know how to put it into words.  The olfactory sense can trigger some of the strongest sense memories we have, and I think this smell is linked into the magic and joy that laces my memories of Christmas as a child.  We never had a fake tree, so when I smelled this smell – a real pine, cedar, or fir – it meant Christmas was coming.  And that meant magic, love, and light.  It meant my soul would lift and float for awhile.

This year, before we bought our tree, I went in search of something I’ve had in a cabinet all year long.  It is a glass spice bottle with a black plastic lid.  The glass is very heavy, and the plastic is thick and sturdy.  It appeals to me in some way, and so I saved it to use for something when the spice ran out.  I had no idea when I put it aside that later I’d be gathering fallen needles to place inside.

Last year, I lost a baby (Davin) right at three months into the pregnancy.  It was my second miscarriage of the year and, for many reasons, it throttled me in different and harder ways than had the first one (in April).

I found out on December 9th during a prenatal appointment that he had died.  A D&C to remove Davin from my womb was scheduled for December 16th.

I had carried him for a week, knowing he was no longer alive.  It was both maddening and oddly comforting.  On the one hand, I felt insane knowing he was inside of me and he was not alive; my body was incapable of doing anything to help him.  On the other hand, I got to be with him and say goodbye, come to terms with him being removed.

On December 15th, the day before the surgery, I asked John to go get a tree.  I didn’t tell him, but I wanted that tree in the house with all 4 of us.  That’s how it was supposed to be, and in my fractured state of being, I was going to have it that way, regardless.

When last year’s tree came into our home with all of its wonderful smelling glory my child was still inside of me.  The next day, he was all the way gone.  I was sedated for some time after that.  When the pills ran out there was still wine and liquor.  I got tipsy regularly; I ate crappy food.  No matter what I ingested, I was empty.

I was empty in more ways than the one that made my uterus ache as it healed.

That tree sat in the living room with me.  I watched those lights flash and dance through my bleary eyes.  I sat here, numb, with that happy smell.  Each day rolled by and I tried whenever I could to enjoy them, even if it was an altered, forced experience.

I cried a lot.  I was angry and sad.  A lot of days I was just nothing.

The tree was there.

At some time way past Christmas there came a point when I had to admit that the tree was dried out and needed to be taken away.  I cried about that, too.

When that tree came into my house, I still had my baby inside of me.  Now the tree was about to leave, and I had to keep a part of it, because somehow, it was the last thing I could hold onto about Davin.  Is that crazy?

I got down on my hands and knees with that damn spice bottle and I gathered up fallen needles until it was full.  Then I put it in one of my kitchen cabinets.

Only a couple of times during the year, when my heart ached the very most for Davin, I went and opened that bottle.  I held it, smooth, cool and heavy, in my hand.  In my fingers, it felt strong when I felt weak.  I stared at the needles.  I opened the bottle and smelled.

Pain and joy mingle together in that smell for me now.

Not long before we got our tree this year, I went for that bottle for the first time in quite a while.  When I smelled it, I wept for my lost son.  The smell was still very strong and crisp.  It wrapped me up; it sang to me of both sorrow and delight.  Afterwards, I felt a sort of peace.

I put the bottle out as the very first Christmas decoration in our home this year.

I will think of them both every Christmas: the baby who we thought would be born in December 08 as well as the baby who died in December 08.  I don’t think I’ll ever smell that happy smell or watch those dancing lights again without a twinge of sorrow.  But I believe I will always still smile at them, as well.

Pain and joy mingle together, and that is not such a bad thing to experience, or acknowledge.

It is far better than pain sitting in the heart by itself.