Oh, Maine!

Yesterday, it rained. All day. It was all I could do to keep Harper entertained. 

Around 10:00 a.m., she got bored with me and decided it was time to nap.. until 2:30 p.m.

I got a million things done.  And when it seemed like Harper would keep sleeping, I did another million things.

And then I sat.

Outside, the temperature was higher than it had been in weeks - but rain poured ceaselessly and in the balmy warmth and absolute quiet of the house, I missed Maine.

Last June and July, we were lucky enough to spend 7 weeks there.  I am forever changed by the beautiful things I saw and pace of life to which we adapted very easily.

Anyway.

One Saturday, we drove south to Freeport to do some shopping and on the way, a light drizzle of rain began to dot the windshield.

About the time we got out of the car, the bottom fell out and we spent 15 minutes under a tree with a baby who wasn't amused.

We made a mad dash to the car (probably the best part of Harper's day) and, soaking wet, we gave up.

We drove back to Waterville and put Harper down for a nap.  Great story, huh?

Well. . .

The next weekend, we went back.

The little town bustled with activity in the mild breeze and sunshine.

We walked all over Freeport,

ate lunch,

visited a petting zoo,

watched the fish in the LL Bean flagship store,

and shopped in cleverly disguised outlets.

And the people, oh.  They were so nice.

A sweet older lady even offered to take a picture of our family as we struggled to do it on our own.

After a lengthy tutorial on which button to press, multiple practice shots and her entire family making silly faces and noises to get Harper to smile, she snapped this priceless family portrait:

Yep. Just our necks and chests.

Possibly Unpopular Opinion of the Week

Does the illness have a name?

There are only two symptoms.

Upon sight of a camera, one experiences involuntary mouth scrunching with uncontrolled jerks of the index and middle finger of one or both hands.

It's a relentless illness, as the afflicted continually post the contortion on their Facebook page.

Unfortunately, it's contagious. I've even seen some moms do it in their weekly pregnancy pictures!

Luckily, there is no shame or stigma, because usually, it's a profile picture.

Most luckily, it seems to dissipate with the removal of a camera, because I've never seen anyone standing in line like this at Target.

Be aware of the symptoms. Don't be the next victim.

Oh, hay Urban Dictionary WebMD!

A mile in my shoes. . .

We met with a Realtor this weekend.

Because, well.. we'll be moving in 15 months.  And I want to make sure everything is perfectly ready to sell when we have to.  No surprises. No unforseen expenses. How Type A!

For the 20 minutes it took our savvy hired gun to assess our house, I prepped for nearly a week.

Because she looked in every room, I couldn't just hide toys & coats & junk in the office.

I had a wonderful helper who's always up for a conversation and whose hands absolutely gravitate to clutter.  and sharp objects. and electrified objects. and objects which make permanent marks.

I left the attic for last, because it's a bit of a wreck and..

..because it's a little sad.

Stored are wedding gifts too breakable to display,

boxes of baby clothes that have been outgrown,

racks of beautiful silk dresses, skirts, suits, oxford shirts still pressed,

and shoes.. oh, the shoes.

As Harper and I sat playing on the floor with a "new" old toy, I begrudgingly gave the racks a glance.

I don't have a portfolio of my work, so ridiculously, the display on those racks is my sorely outdated resume.

I saw my first interview. God, was I nervous.

My first day of work in Milwaukee. And the weekly meeting that left me wanting to quiver under the table or run home.  Neither of which I could manage in those sky-high shoes.

My first trip to Chicago. Oh, the days of buying fancy things on a whim ..& taking trips on a whim.

My last day of work in Milwaukee. I've never been so sad to leave something behind.

My first huge presentation at a new job. 200 people? Why didn't someone tell me that? I would have worn a suit!

The day I told my boss I was pregnant. Wow, I spent a lot of time dreading that for no reason.

Some days, when yoga pants and a ponytail don't exactly scratch the itch, I might long for burgundy suede and leopard print and black patent leather with gold chains. . .

..because the resume served me well.

It led to the job for which I was made.

And who says mommy life is void of leopard print?

Top of the muffin to ya! Week 8

In just two short days, a Catholic you know might whisper sweet nothings to a bag of M&Ms, look forlornly at a glass of wine or tie themselves to a chair to keep from checking their Facebook page.

Without fail, they will refrain.

Yes, yes, y'all. Lent begins on Wednesday.

I'm giving up the usual - sweets. No cookies, no candy, no cake, no anything else that, midway through the 40 days, I decide I might try to use as a substitute. Like peanut butter and jelly in excess. I've almost done it and I know it when I see it.

The first few days are rough.  Not because I'm actually thinking of cheating. . . but because I simply forget (which speaks volumes about what I eat without thinking about it).

Oh, the poor people around me during Lent. . . My unintentional lapses have resulted in spitting out chewed food (very attractive. very.) and actually swallowing a forbidden item then, in realization, yelling, "Oh my Gawd!" to the confusion and shock of bystanders.

Lent drums up interest.  People ask questions about Catholicism and there's always someone to look out for me and keep me on the straight and narrow.

To this day, when I'm torn over an item and wondering, "Can I eat this?," I hear my childhood friend Misty's syrupy Southern voice yell the same words she did across the high school softball field as she saw me poised to pop a piece of sugary, ballpark bubblegum into my mouth: "Court! You're lenting!"

I wish I heard Misty's voice every single day of the year instead of just 40 days.

Lent isn't about a diet, which is why I hesitated to even write about it here. It's about suffering & sacrifice & an effort to change bad ways forever, which is why I did decide to write about it.

For the next 40 days, I'll be reflecting on a permanent life change and hopefully not spitting out too many half-chewed peppermints in public.

Oh. And no loss this week, after a couple unfortunate run-ins with a Pyrex of banana pudding. 

Come again?

Before I had a child, every now and then, I'd hear a toddler "talk" and - amazingly - their parent would swiftly decode the (and let's call it what it is, here) gibberish.

This unnerved me.  Foreign languages have never come easily. I've been trying since high school.

So this morning, I stood at the counter and blearily succombed to muscle memory as I made coffee and a sippy cup of milk & oatmeal for Harper.

Just then, I heard a small but stern voice issue the diktat: "Hi! Borsch gurts gah dish!"

Without pausing to whip out my Toddler to English dictionary, I replied, "Ok, but only one. You haven't even had breakfast!"

So, I opened the refrigerator, she handed me the pressurized whipped cream, opened her mouth, and again, I said, "Only one" as I squirted a minuscule dab of the sweetly combustible dairy onto her tongue.

"Mmm. Danks."

Y'all, I'm bilingual.

-- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  - - 
Harper to English: Entries 5,000-3
borsh - four.  In context: "wunn, teww, freee, borsh, fie."
gurts - squirts
gah dish - whipped cream and/or ice cream. Origin unknown.

Enjoy the "pitch."

exquisite normality

When I worked to earn money (instead of love & kisses & hugs & the occasional tantrum), I had different priorities. Around about noon, my mind would begin to wander. . .

What will we do for dinner tonight? Seriously, who cooks for two people unless you love to cook?

Where will we go? Because home is kinda boring, and when you can go somewhere, why not?

What will I wear? Because in my copious amounts of free time, I'd shop.

Will anyone else be coming along? None of our friends had kids and were always up for a fun night out.

I'd love a glass of Chardonnay tonight.  Because, well.. who wouldn't?

Things are different, now.

Noon rolls around and I think about nighttime.

What will we do for dinner, tonight? I figure it out and start prepping in the stillness of Harper's nap.

Where will we go? Probably to the kitchen, where we'll color and stack blocks between stirs and oven checks. After dinner, we'll sit on the floor in the den and play Harper's favorite game - Monkey in the Middle. We'll laugh as hard as we ever did on any crazy night out.

What will I wear? If PJs are good enough for Harper, they're good enough for me.  I draw the line at those adult-sized footed ones. No. They're scary.

Will anyone else be coming along? Our dinner guest is a frequent one.  She's short, is very messy and has a lot to say.  After she's tucked in, I don't clink glasses and do a tipsy dance with girlfriends at a bar, but we text. . . about girly things and mom things and life things. 

I'd love a glass of Chardonnay tonight.  Because, well.. who wouldn't? Tonight, though, I'll lie in bed and sip a glass of water because I can't wait to start over in the morning. . . and that's hard to do with a hangover.

Possibly Unpopular Opinion of the Week

Hi, all of you post-collegiate gals and guys who stumble into Starbucks at 9:30 a.m. without brushing your hair.

I get that you're trying to pull off a sexy, rumpled Abercrombie look, but you're too old.  

So, you look freaking crazy. 

Put that mess in a ponytail!