F.

F is for family reunion, which we planned to attend this weekend. A day up north on the lake with Nate's extended family, who we rarely get to see.

F is for four hours, the length of drive we had ahead of us Saturday morning. Which is why we planned to leave as close to 7am as possible.

F is for frustration, which is what I felt when Nate called me on Saturday morning to inform me that the dog boarding place does not open at 7am, but 9am — putting us two hours behind schedule.

F is for the many four letter words I could have uttered (but didn't) when we discovered, an hour later, that our car had been broken into overnight, our window shattered, and our GPS stolen.

F is the letter grade I give myself for assuming I knew what time the boarding place opened, and for leaving the GPS on the dashboard when I should have put it away (since when am I new to city living??).

F is for FAIL, which is what Progressive gets for saying they'd have someone call us to set up our repair by end of day Monday. For a claim filed early on Saturday. Gee, thanks.

F is for fixed, which is what our window is after a very nice man from Safelite came to replace it on Saturday afternoon. Don't worry, Progressive. We took care of it. Still anxiously awaiting your call, however!

F is for fun, which we still managed to have this weekend despite a busted window, a missed trip, severe weather, and a child who refused to sleep for about four hours in the middle of the night last night.

F is for my very fabulous husband, who makes life's adventures bearable...and even a little funny.

Something tells me Nate did not find the shattered window as photo-worthy as I did.


Say what? What do you mean we're not going??


Man, I was really looking forward to that long car ride. Guess I'll just simulate as best I can from inside the house.


Luckily, we still had access to our Civic. Our very roomy two-door Civic. The perfect choice for an active family!


It was no day at the lake, but we still manged to get in a $12, 45 minute trip to the pool before Calvin had a total meltdown and the storms rolled in.





Mom, do you realize you're only wearing spf 30? Have you already forgotten about Mexico?


Enjoying a post-nap snack from his favorite perch.


Calvin was not the only one delighted by the prospect of bedtime Saturday night. He went to bed at 7:20. We went to bed at 7:20:05.


Sunday we went on a picnic, which Calvin found a little strange. He looked at me like "Where is my high chair? Where is that bib you always force me to wear?" He didn't let a little confusion deter him from eating his weight in food, however.




And then we forced him to ride the wheel of terror.


The only way to unwind after a wild ride like that? Footed pjs and crocs.


An ice cold beer from the cooler (all packed up for our non-trip... please note, we do not condone alcohol consumption by one year olds).


And one last swim.

Slow down.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a grown up. When I was in college, I wanted to be done with school and out in the world. When I was dating Nate, I wanted to be married to him.

My mom told me not to wish it away, but I did anyway. Her words fell on deaf ears — as they say, youth is wasted on the young. I didn't know any better.

Yesterday at the grocery store, while I struggled to get Calvin strapped into the cart (he fights it now, as he fights most things I try to get him to do these days), a woman came up to me, put her hand on my arm, and said, "It goes so fast." I stopped and looked up at her, and she went on, "My baby is starting college this fall, and I remember him being this small so well. I can't believe it. It just goes so fast." After exchanging a few pleasantries, she walked away, I finally managed to get Calvin strapped in, and we went about our shopping.

But her words stayed with me all day.

It goes so fast.

For so long, I wanted to get to the next thing. I wanted to grow up so I could drive and have freedom from my parents. I wanted to graduate so I could have a job, and money, and my own place to live. I wanted to get married because I was in love and wanted a shiny ring and the title of Mrs.

I want, I want, I want.

I got. I got it all. And I didn't rush into any of it — didn't get my driver's license until I was 17, didn't go away to college until I was a sophomore, didn't get married until I was 26, didn't become a mom until I was 30. I had time to do the things I wanted to do...I played, I dated, I traveled, I slept.

I didn't rush it, but all the while I wished for the next thing to hurry up and happen to me already. I was never content to just be. And then the next thing would come for me, and I'd look back and think...wow. I wish I'd __________ more often, back when I could.

I realized recently that there's not really a next thing. All of the things I was anxious to have happen to me have happened already. I got engaged, had a wedding, bought a house, adopted a dog, had a baby. The next big thing for me is retirement. Of course that doesn't include having more children or celebrating their milestones. But as far as MY big milestones go — well, with the exception of retirement and becoming a grandparent, I'm pretty much done.

So where does that leave me? In it. I'm in my life. I'm not waiting for it to happen, I'm in it. All the waiting and wishing and dreaming has led me right here, to St. Paul, Minnesota. To a very happy life with my little family. Just what I always wanted.

Yet I find myself wishing this away, too. I get frustrated with Calvin and I think — gosh, if he was just a little older, maybe five or six, things would be so much easier. I can't wait until he's five and we can __________. But he'll be five soon enough. And then he'll be 25. And then I'll be stopping frazzled young moms in the grocery store to warn them of the fleeting nature of time, of childhood, of life.

The woman who put her hand on my arm yesterday was not the first to do so. Everywhere we go, people stop to tell me about their grown children, and how it seems like just yesterday they were small like mine. I smile and chatter with them for a moment, say goodbye, and go about my day. But I always tuck these conversations into the back of my mind. And for a few days after, I hold Calvin a little tighter, rock him a little longer, and love him a little more.

I welcome these little reminders from strangers, because all too often I forget that I already have everything I ever wanted. That this time in my life is incredibly precious. That I won't always have the pleasure of grocery shopping with my sweet-faced, sticky-fingered little boy in the cart. That it all goes by so fast.

And that I need to slow down and enjoy it, this blessed life of mine.

Shame.

This morning I received an email from DSW with the subject line "Meet your new go-to shoes." I opened it expecting to see some drool-inducing pair of leopard print flats, only to find this:


How on earth did they know that there's nothing more appealing to me these days than a flat, neutral comfort sandal available in wide width?*

Oh, how the mighty fall.

Less than two years ago my go-to shoes would have been a pair of four inch heels. Heck, at 35 weeks pregnant I was still teetering around the office in three inch platform sandals. But now my go-to shoes look like this:


I never thought I would stoop so low as to purchase a pair of Crocs for myself. Even if they are hot pink ballet flats. But my goodness, they're comfortable. And practical, given all the time I spend chasing my kid around the house/yard/park.

Don't worry, though. I haven't worn them anywhere but my backyard and the grocery store.

Yet.

*Not those, though. Those are seriously heinous. Completely unlike my pink rubber shoes which are super cu...oh, forget it. They're heinous, too. I have officially chosen comfort over style. Mom jeans, here I come.

Break time.

Hanging on my stepstool...just me, my snack trap, and my awesome hair.

Happy place.

If someone told me to go to my happy place — and meant that in the physical sense — I would head straight for my kitchen. Which is weird, I know, since I don't cook. But I do eat, and there is plenty of that to be done in there, too.

Food aside, it would be because my kitchen is the one room in my house that makes me perk up as soon as I walk in. It's hard not to feel happy when you see a yellow room with a red ceiling. A magnet board covered in pictures of people you love. A big, cheerful dahlia. Cute plates on the wall. A dishwasher that occasionally busts out a patriotic lights and music show after your toddler pushes a weird configuration of buttons. And dishtowels — a heaping, overflowing drawer of adorably kitschy dishtowels. My weakness.

It's the only room in my otherwise very neutral house that really feels like me. I wish I could figure out how to achieve that same level of cheerfulness throughout my home, but I am really lacking in the decorating vision department. So instead I've put it all into the one room that very easily accommodates bright colors and my oddball collection of vintage pitchers and beautiful cookbooks I don't use.

As of last week, there were only two things left to add to our kitchen. The first is a 1960s paper placemat we found at Nate's grandma's house that says "Welcome to the Breyers!" It's hilarious, and one of these days I'm going to get it framed. The other — curtains.

Our kitchen never had window treatments of any kind. All it had was a very clear, very close view of my neighbors' house. So clear and close that our neighbors would stand outside — in the yard or on their back porch — and talk to us through our kitchen window. The ease with which they could see us in our kitchen made feeding my dog every morning at 5am in my tank top and underwear feel kind of awkward. I don't even want to think about all they've seen me wear (or not wear).

So last week I decided to finally do something with the fabric I bought in Mexico back in 2006 when I still lived in an apartment and didn't need fabric: make curtains.

I am a novice sewer. I previously made curtains for my stairwell and my bathroom, but those took me forever and I have a new sewing machine I still don't really know how to use. But — lucky me — my mother-in-law is a sewing genius. She came over two nights in a row last week and more or less made my curtains for me. I pinned a couple things and refilled our water glasses, but she did all the real work. And they turned out beautifully.

So now, thanks to Mary, my happy little kitchen is even happier. And a far more appropriate setting for me and my underwear.

A few of my favorite things in my favorite room:

Adorable new curtains. This fabric was love at first sight.



The cutest measuring spoons ever, a gift from my friend Barbara.


Nate's grandma had an awesome collection of classic cookbooks, a few of which I am proud to now own.


My very cluttered magnet board. I'm of the "have stuff all over your fridge" school of thought. But you can't hang stuff on stainless steel, so I had to come up with an alternative. For me, kitchens need clutter. And lots of pictures.


My shiny new (untouched) cookbooks, and adorable pitcher.


Plates Nate bought me. I swap them seasonally, but these four are my favorite.


My red ceiling. Which I hated at first, but now love. Everyone notices it — kind of hard not to.


And, finally, my sweet baby's handprints. A cheesy little mother's day craft at daycare. Having this taped up in the kitchen makes our house feel like a home.

Strawberry Seusscake.

Something about this series of photos reminds me of a cross between Strawberry Shortcake and Dr. Seuss.

I think it might be the hair. And probably the strawberry.

Four days.

Two days is the amount of time Nate and I have decided we can spend together without driving each other crazy.

We're not used to being together all that much. For the past nine years, Nate has worked jobs that require evenings and weekends. And I've worked a nine-to-fiver. A typical week for us includes maybe two nights together at home and possibly a weekend day. Some weeks we barely see each other. Those weeks are rough, but we're used to them — we've each settled into our own routines at home without the other.

Which is why we tend to drive each other a little batty when we're both home over a long weekend. And this weekend we were both off for FOUR DAYS.

Yikes.

But Friday was one of those magical days that rarely happens — a day when we're both off, but our daycare provider is not. Hooray! Off to daycare went Calvin, and off together went we. We slept in, went out for breakfast and lunch (and wine), and did some shopping. We spent a few fun hours with Calvin in the evening, then ended the day with the worst movie ever made: Couples Retreat. We felt severely ripped off by Redbox. I'd like my dollar back, please.

And then Saturday morning I got to go see Eclipse with a friend (judge away, I don't care, it was awesome). Later that afternoon the three of us went to our little neighborhood pool. Where we actually saw a neighbor! How cute.

On Sunday we celebrated the 4th of July by taking Calvin to the zoo. Which was really just a trip to the farm, with lots of adorable pictures and a quick stop by the bears and fish. And then Nate and I watched Valentines Day and ate Culvers. Yay for french fries, romantic comedies, and America!

Today Nate played golf, then we went over to see our friends the Vuongs and meet their sweet baby girl, Kiley. She is precious. I thought maybe my uterus would start quivering at the sight of a newborn (an adorable GIRL newborn, I might add), but I left feeling surprisingly okay with just the one boy child I have. He's kind of a lot of work. Plus he woke up at 4am this morning, so I think I'm just too tired to quiver.

Turns out it was a full, fun weekend at home with the two I love most. Minimal crazy-making by the husband and quite a bit of cuteness from the small one.

Hmpf. Four whole days. Who knew?

Fun at the farm:


And the picture I can't stop laughing over:


I love both of my crazy-makers to bits.