Contradiction

I love being organized.  I love it when everything has its right place.  But....

I have such a hard time keeping up with any sort of cleaning routine while Mark is gone.  (I think I've said this before.)

I have no clue why.  Little things still bother me.  Toys on the floor must be cleaned up.  Dishes get washed.  Counters wiped off.  Bathroom stays clean.

But laundry?  Ha!  I can live an entire 2 week period out of a laundry basket (of clean clothes) in front of our closet.  I don't mind if the opposite side of the bed has little piles of stuff on it.  (Maybe it keeps me company at night?)

But when Mark is home....  Totally different story!  I find myself getting frustrated at little piles in our room.  "Babe, is this pile of laundry by your dresser clean or dirty?"  "Would you mind finding a place for this?  It's cluttering up our room" etc.

Um.... Hello, hypocrite!

What in the world?  I'm trying to drum up an explanation for this...

it's like i've always known him

I've been very nostalgic the past week as we approach Roscoe's first birthday (this coming Monday.  For real?).  There've been lots of moments of just staring at him and remembering back on how he's changed in appearance over the past year.  From coming out with a scrunched up old man face, to his skeleton-like long and lean structure, to his more current somewhat chubby (for him at least) and very handsome state.

Before he was born I used to wonder what he would look like.  Would he look predominantly like Mark or me?  Would it be a perfect mix?  Would he be big or small?  Would his temperament be wide open or subdued?  What color eyes?  All of it a mystery that my best attempts couldn't conjure up.

But now, when I get lost in those moments of staring at him as he plays on the floor with his toys, the sweet face that's become so familiar is the furthest possible thing from a mystery.  It's actually the opposite.  I look at him and feel as though we've always known each other.  Like even though we only met face-to-face a year ago, he's been a part of me forever.  Those beautiful blue eyes framed by thick curled lashes, that button nose, the way his lips contort into a curious smile or a mischievous grin or a frustrated cry.  All of it is so....natural.  So normal.  So perfect and right.  So..... always.

The best part is that when I'm lost and spinning uncontrollably in those moments, he usually looks up and me and we stare at each other for a moment, like we're thinking the same thing.  Recognizing each other, affirming silently our bond that seems to transcend even time itself.  And then he breaks it with a light-up-his-whole-face smile.  It's typically accompanied by a squeal or other happy noise.

And, oh boy, those moments.  They're the ones that seem to erase the power of every sleepless night, every puke-covered sheet, every poop-smeared mirror or article of clothing, every feeling of failure or inadequacy, every fear.

predicaments

I knew this day would come.  And I've said that when it did, I would stick to my guns.

Because there is one way--and ONLY one way--for the toilet paper to hang.  Flap over front, not behind.

Correct

Incorrect

But when you have an exploring baby, the logistics of the proper way for hanging toilet paper are challenged.  See, if the flap hangs behind (the improper way), a child can spin the toilet paper roll all he wants without making a pile of toilet paper on the floor.  But when the roll is positioned properly, with the flap over front, any spinning will cause disaster.

Generally speaking, the bathroom door stays closed.  Because I like to sit down and blog and drink coffee and check out pinterest and other sort of time wasting things in the morning, rather than follow roscoe all over the house to make sure he's not getting into anything.  So, close doors, put protectors in outlets, and let him go.  He goes between his room, the living room, and the kitchen.  So the toilet paper isn't an issue until I'm getting ready.

But keeping him out of the bathroom when I'm getting ready is like trying to catch and contain a waterfall in a water bottle.  It's impossible.  (Unless I close the door, which I won't do because then I can't hear what he's doing.)  So I run back and forth between him and all sorts of things I don't want him touching--the toilet, trashcan, plunger, toilet brush, toilet paper roll--all while trying to apply makeup or fix my hair.

All that frustration, you ask, and you won't just turn the toilet paper around?

No, no I won't.

the broken mug; an excerpt from Roscoe's journal

Background:  tonight, Roscoe broke my favorite mug that I made in ceramics class.  I used that thing more than any other mug.  I loved it.

I wrote in his journal tonight.

There are so many things I've thought about you that I wish I could remember to tell the adult-you.  That's why I have this journal, and I'm not using it like I planned.  I was hoping to get something written in here at least once a month during the time you're with us.  So I've missed 6 consecutive.  That's 50% of your life so far.  I hope that's not indicative of my filling up the rest of these pages.

I've often questioned my motives in doing this.  Why am I doing this?  What's the purpose?  Is it for me or for you?  Will I give it to you only to have you shrug your shoulders at it because you could care less?  If that's the case, do I even care?

 I don't think I do.

Because if you're that flippant about this kind of communication, it's by your choice--not our fault.  Your dad and I so want you to learn to appreciate the little things--well, what on the outside appears to be little (notes, for example)--because those add up and are really the bigger, more treasured things in life.

So on that note- I'm going to tell you about a thing.  An item.  A creation.  It is/was tangible, and it had no eternal value whatsoever.  But I loved this thing.  I made it.  I used it multiple times a week.  It was by far my favorite...coffee mug.

You broke it tonight.

And I could say things like "if I hadn't gotten you out of bed to play because you couldn't sleep, my mug would still be in one piece," but as soon as I think that I mentally slap myself.  Because that piece of burned clay can't make me smile, laugh, swell up with the deepest feelings of contentment and love like you can--like I experienced tonight when you were up WAY past bedtime.

It really is just a thing.  It held liquid.  I own approximately 2-3 dozen other perfectly functional liquid-holding vessels.

But I was so upset when you flung it off the end table and I watched it shatter on the floor.  Upset, sad, angry, frustrated.

Over a thing.

Remember those little things I just talked about?  For me, the little thing manifested itself in a sneaky way tonight--from 8:30-10 pm when you were so happy to be in the living room working out your energy instead of crying in your crib.

And that is something I'll treasure more deeply than any thing I could ever own.

a night at the circus

A few months ago, Mom and Dad saw that Ringling Bros were coming to town and decided to buy tickets for those of us children (and our children) who were in the area.  Unfortunately, neither my brother Andy nor my husband Mark could make it.  So Mark's parents (lucky guys) got to take their tickets.

I didn't get nearly the pictures that I wanted to.  But I got a couple of Roscoe that I loved (of course).

Oh, I have to mention that Sherri (Mark's mom) rivaled the 7-year old Liam in level of excitement.  I honestly think that she was the most excited child that attended.  Love ya, ma! ;)

Attempt #1 at getting a picture of me and my little man.  I had just put him in the wrap and he was giggling and trying to squirm out.

Attempt #2.  A little better.  With grampa and cousin Gilly in the background.  (I love his little squinty eyes and smile.) (Roscoe's, that is.  Not grampa's.)

And success!  Love this guy.  And his circus-inspired hair-do.


The circus started at 7:30 and was over around 10.  Roscoe's normal, average day bedtime is 8:00, for no other reason than that's the time that he hits his must-go-to-bed-now wall.  He got a little squirmy around 9, just before intermission, but other than that I was so proud of the way he handled his fatigue.

Here are some post-circus pictures.  He looks a little tired:

Grampa just loves Roscoe to pieces, by the way.  That's the reason he's the only other person in the pictures.  He was right beside me helping with Roscoe all night.  He tends to do that when Mark's out of town.  Thanks, Dad Grant.

So thanks, Mom and Dad, for the night at the circus.  We had a blast.  I do wish I had gotten some pictures of the actual circus, but I was a little preoccupied and pictures probably wouldn't do it justice anyway.