Reasons Like Seasons

As my little blog has now earned its first pennies, I thought it time to spend more than 3,000% of my earnings on business cards while simultaneously keeping my day job. However, here is where you, dear reader, can contribute and show your love for my continued reflections and rantings. Here, you can take a moment of your precious life to vote on which style of card from the "Elegent" list on Vistaprint best embodies the style, mood, and tone of my illustrious blog.  Yes, I know what you're thinking. How could one tiny rectangle of heavyweight cardstock possibly do justice to all that my blog contains? Well, obviously, or at least hopefully, it can't, but at least you can have some input as to which example does the least crappy job. I will take all votes into consideration, then do whatever I want to do anyway. Artists and writers are fickle and capricious like that. And with all seriousness, thank you for reading my blog. It brings me great joy to know that...

The most amazing things that happened today, in order. Number 1: Massages from my man, but better. Number 2: Dust buster from Amazon. I had no idea how many cheez-its had been crushed into the fabric of the recliner. Maybe I didn't want to know. That brings me directly to number three...   Number 3: Wine juice box from Target. Enough said. P.S. Although tempted, I did not drink wine directly from a box with a straw. I used a wine glass (like a grown-up).

As I waited for the elevator with my wagon, B2, and a pile of empty blue Ikea bags, I cursed myself for thinking it wouldn't be so bad having to share a laundry room with a hundred other people. It was 10:25 and I had washed six loads of laundry. "People all over the world share washers and dryers with others," I'd said. "It will be convenient to have four washers at a time," I'd convinced myself. I was an optimistic idiot. Two kids and two flights of stairs and too little time have robbed me of my best self. I want my own washing machine. B2 clapped his hands as the elevator dinged, and we rolled in to go downstairs to pick up the last two loads. But as I stepped inside, I inhaled an image of Papaw, my mother's father, standing in a kitchen in Dothan, Alabama. It was an image of menthols and humidity and sweat, and there he was, with a blue hat and a half-empty green packet sticking out of his breast pocket. In that moment, I was six year...

I got home from my lovely vacation Friday afternoon and slept in my own bed that night for the first time in almost a week, only to be woken up on Saturday morning by the fact that July is almost over and I have accomplished less than one percent of the tasks I had planned for the summer. (Insert expletive of your choice here.) What on earth have I been doing for the last two months?  (Spending time with my children, packing, and cleaning my apartment are not legitimate answers.) Time to get with the program. My frantic attempt to accomplish tasks is pretty much my husband's worst nightmare. While I endeavor to clean, vacuum, reorganize, wash, and de-own, he longs for two uninterrupted days of sleep and playing Xbox. I feel you, my lovely spouse, but this weekend, things will probably go better for everyone if you stay the (reuse expletive from above) out of my way. I started with beans: almost six cups of Sprout's dehydrated pinto beans. On Friday, I made the mistake ...

The ER doctor was rugged, handsome, sharp. He looked tan like the rich get tan, not tan like those who work the land or sell their wares on the sidewalk. He was Greek god tan, I spent last weekend on my yacht tan. I bet he made the softball team swoon. I found it hard to focus when he was talking. "...going to push fluids and get him on some steroids. That should put him in better shape while we wait for the ambulance." "The ambulance? We just came in the ambulance." "No, the CHOC ambulance. They send their own people for transfers. We are just waiting for them to call us back." "A chalk ambulance?" I felt like an idiot and a moron. "We don't have a pediatric wing, so we can't keep children overnight. CHOC specializes in children, so you will be in good hands there. I'll have the nurse come in to get that IV started." I must have been staring as he spoke. Perhaps I didn't even blink. "Do...

One of the first orders of business once we were set in our room was placement of the IV in my tiny baby's arm. This entire enterprise was an unqualified disaster. On the first effort, a forty-something bleach-blond nurse with a ponytail and bright red reading glasses on a chain tried three different times, twice on one arm and once again on the other. I held B2 as he screamed. After the third attempt, she lifted her glasses and smacked her mint gum. "He must be dehydrated," she said. "I'm going to get someone to help you hold him down." "I'll get someone to hold you down," I thought. My better self responded instead. "Could we get him something to drink first?" I asked. "Sure, honey," she replied. She left, and B2 and I together both cried and struggled to breathe.

- macaroni and cheese from a box - snack bars - hot lunch from camp - pepperoni pizza and bread sticks from Taco Bell - more snack bars - several juice boxes - hot lunch from camp - cheese sticks - a happy meal - tortilla chips - ice cream

What I have is Focus. Details. Assignments. Tiny compartments, neatly filled. Straight lines, Black words, Controlled, contained, Allotted. What I need is Wind: Blowing, dancing, Bursting from the seams; Endlessly curving Vibrant colors Exploding down the pavement Unabashed and unafraid...

I once read that families are comparison machines. In the story, it was argued that the close proximity of one sibling to another drives innumerable comparisons to the surface, often with life-long implications for those compared. For years, during the formidable childhood years, kids are told they are this one or that one: this sister is the smart one; this one the outgoing one. This brother is the funny one; this one is good at math. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter if both sisters are outgoing and smart in comparison to the rest of the human beings on the planet. It only matters that this one seems smarter than that one, that this one seems more outgoing than the other. In this way, brothers and sisters learn to carry these beliefs like widgets, widgets of judgement and self-limitation. Widgets that help define who they are and how they see themselves in the world. So, of course, I compare my boys. Boy One was an articulate speaker almost  immediately ...

I cut the baby's hair yesterday. It wasn't the first time, but it was the most significant. Previously, I had simply trimmed, shortened his baby curls in a formation that allowed for at least cursory containment. But now, I have done the irreversible. His baby curls are gone, likely to never return, and with this unique action, with the use of a simple machine to trim and cut and shape, he has irrevocably left the baby world for the world of an older sort. He has become, with no reservations, a toddler. In the conservative Jewish tradition, a boy's hair is not cut until he is three year's old. Once he has arrived at this ripe old age, there is a ceremony called an  upshernish , an event in which members of the religious community ceremoniously cut the child's hair, a symbolic cutting away of  infancy as the small human enters into childhood and the beginning of his formal education. It is at this point that the boy...

Dearest Reader, Today, I bought a fancy new purse and wallet to celebrate my 4,000th page view on this very blog. 4,000 page views? I mean, come on! That means, on average, that more than 60 people read each of my posts. Now, there are (at least) two possible explanations for this documented phenomenon: either sixty random people show up to read each of my posts and never return, only to have 60 more random people show up for my next post and get board out of their minds, or, and I find this second option far more likely, around 50 people are reading my musings on a regular basis, with a small number of transitory visitors who stop by, then move along their merry way. For each and every one of these readers, I am thankful. I like to believe that I bring a small sprig of joy to people as I write myself a path to sanity. Thank you, everyone, who takes the time to read what I have to say. But now, I beg. According to Google, I have two subscribers. Two. One of those it probably my mom...

Not A Cat Boy Two has decided that everything on four legs is a cat. "Cat! Cat!" he squeals, pointing excitingly at an overweight golden retriever. "Dog? Do you see the dog? What a nice dog," I reply. (Note proper use of target noun used in context. ) "Cat!" Fine. Sure. I give up. Your ability to identify a large, four-legged, hairy creature walking around the apartment complex as similar to the small, four-legged, hairy creature that roams our apartment has been proven. Good job, dude. Mozel tov. Good luck getting into college.

Dearest Reader, Tonight, I would like to amuse you with a long, detailed description of my near endless adventures with not one, but two steam-cleaners. Similarly, it would bring me great joy to regale you with my mis-adventures trying to make sense of the gluten-free print-out I brought with me to Trader Joe's. In the same vein, I long to wax poetic about the drama that unfolded as my husband came home, tired and over-worked, to find the boys using a bike lock as a grappling hook from atop our piled-up belongings (see steam-cleaning in sentence one). However, tonight, the best I can do is this lowly paragraph and a new page on my blog documenting my meager attempts to feed my younger child food that does not exacerbate his breathing and skin problems. Watching a child unable to breathe is torture of the cruelest kind. May my efforts bring him, and me, some relief. Sincerely, RL

Yesterday almost killed me. It was Tuesday, which is supposed to by my day with Boy One, but Boy Two has been really sick, so he was home with me as well. Clearly, I am not cut out for having any more children, and may the universe bless the Stay At Home Moms out there, because my people had driven me to the edge before ten-thirty in the morning. Boy Two was up at 6:00, because apparently he did not get the memo about it being summer vacation. He also missed the one about not requiring two doctor's appointments in the same week. Man, I really have to teach that kid how to read his email. Order your own at http://shop.lego.com/en-US/ByCatalog Boy One slept until 9:00, by which point B2 was bringing me my shoes and banging on the apartment door to be let out for the day. B1, cooperative as ever, refused to get dressed and replied to all requests for progress with some variation of, "I'm reading my magazine!" by which he means he is pouring over his Lego catalog...

I am reminded of my age and status by my absolute love for the love of Mr. and Mrs. Bates. He is quiet, brooding, loyal and damaged; she is hard-working, eager to please, kind, and damaged as well. Their love is constant, generous, protective, and bruised, yet they carry on together, comitted to finding some joy in this wide world. Besides the obvious disadvantages of the lives of fictional characters in a drama, they live how I would like to live with my husband: glad of his company, proud of my work, and able to afford a fancy dinner once in awhile. I would also like to have a cook prepare all of my meals, but that is besides the point. I think a younger me would more easily see herself in Mary, tragically flawed by her own relentless fear of what could be if she allowed herself the chance to let go, lost in trying to find her place in the world. But I have a place in the world. I have a job I love and a husband who loves me. I have Boy One and Boy Two, and despite the great...

I want to bang my head against the wall when I think about how messy my apartment still is after several days out of school. A wise e-card once said that cleaning one's house while one has small children is like brushing one's teeth while chewing an Oreo. I get the simile, and it kills me. My first goal is to make the room I need to de-own. I need a tidy room and significant space before I can start pulling things off of shelves and out of closed drawers. I am crowed in my space. I need less. My next goal is to define an area in which all of Boy One's toys must fit and give him a series of opportunities to pass along any toys that he can allow to move on to their next home. I realize that I am much more enthusiastic about this process than he will be, but I am a hopeless optimist. (If I have to pay him off, I may be reduced to doing so. I'd like to thing of it as a child's version of a tax break for charitable donations.) Next week, I will work to show you my ...

After reading my previous post several times, I was tempted to delete it, as I was embarrassed once I realized that if one of the women I most trust with the health of my children reads it, she would likely find it neither amusing nor flattering. However, in the journey that is publicly spilling my figurative guts (get the doctor joke?) on the Internet in the never-ending quest for positive feedback, I thought it would be better to clean up my discomfort than to simply delete it away. So, here it goes. I highly respect my children's doctor and the care she provides for my boys. I also appreciate her kindness towards them (and me) and the ways she takes time to soothe and comfort them (and me!). She manages all of this tending with grace, humility, and timeliness, which is far more than I can say for many members of the medical profession. In times of stress, it is easy for one to feel petty, and yesterday was one of those days for me. I feel helpless in the face of Boy Two's ...

My sons' pediatrician, bless her heart, cannot possibly be two minutes over twenty years old. It would not shock me in the least to hear that she was conceived to All-4-One crooning " I Can Love You Like That " somewhere in the depths of 1995. She does have an engagement ring the size of a Range Rover, but since I have known her for two years, that timing leaves just enough leeway to ensure that she was eligible to vote when she got married. Barely enough, but enough.

Dear Apartment, I realize you are covered in dirty clothes, dirty dishes, and toys. I realize you have been ignored and abused for weeks, if not months. I realize I have not been there for you as I should have been, as you have been there for me. Everyday, you house me and my menagerie. You give me a lovely view of a safe neighborhood and offer not only electricity, but also hot and cold running water. I am truly blessed to have you in my over-scheduled life. I promise you that next week, you will get some of the attention you deserve. I know you have to share me with three people, but I also know how to be true to you. Please know that I love you, even when I forget to say it. Soon, I will lighten your load by clearing your floor, vacuuming your carpet, and possibly (gasp!) washing your mirrors. You will shine like the princess you are, and this difficult time between us will be over. (Well, that is, at least until school starts again...) Lovingly yours, Raychel

Ah, graduation: the culmination of years of work, learning, and personal growth all wrapped up in a funny hat with a tassel. Oh, to be young again. When I graduated from high school in the summer of 2000, I had high hopes and great plans. I was about to leave town for a three week road-trip along the Pacific Coast, and upon my return I was going to UCLA as a member of the university's honor's program. I was the cream of the cream. I was the top of the top. But what is down on paper and what is locked in one's heart seldom match, and I was as (or possibly more) anxious, scared, and unprepared as the rest when I walked down that long aisle made of eight hundred white folding chairs on the football field. As I watched my peers pass by, I dreamed dreams for them: doctor, lawyer, musician, architect. Some of these dreams came true, some did not. But they were my dreams, so they didn’t matter. The test that counts is if people dream their own dreams and make those dreams ...