Hallelujah

I have often found myself on the verge of tears lately. And it's not due to sadness or melancholy or the season (though everything does seem to have more weight, more meaning in the fall and winter, doesn't it?). I'm just so profoundly grateful. My life is not perfect, but it is simple and it is happy. I feel cheerful and inspired and more sure of myself. I feel as though, after thirty years of life, that I have somehow stumbled upon the secret combination of joy and the world has just opened itself up to me. Maybe it's just that I've reached the point in my life that I can truly appreciate what I have. Maybe there's a gas leak in the house. Either way, happy's happy, right?

We spent Thanksgiving at home, just the three of us. I got out the good dishes and dressed up the table and cooked some good, simple things, and the three of us sat down and stuffed ourselves, and Nate ate three whole things at the same meal, which is nothing short of miraculous. At one point during the meal, I looked at my husband, the man I fell in love with at 15, lost at 16, found again at 20, and finally married at 23, and at my son, who I'd wanted for so long that it seemed to my impatient mind that I'd never have him, and I was so overcome with love and fierce thankfulness that I had to choke back tears. And we ate and relaxed and laughed and at the end of it, the table runner was smeared with mashed potatoes and cranberry relish, and our son had pumpkin pie in his hair and more cranberry relish on his face, and it was the best Thanksgiving ever. The hands-down best part of the meal was when Nate, who'd steadfastly refused all efforts to feed him cranberry relish, finally deigned to take a bite, and his eyes, no joke, lit up, and he said "MMMMMMM" and grinned at me, and I'd liked to have died right there in my chair. No one can compliment a chef like a nearly-two-year-old.

I have not forgotten that there are others who are not nearly as lucky as I am. That thought makes me sad every time I think it. I'll never be convinced that I do enough to help my fellow man. But I do know that I am lucky, and I am thankful for it, and I am more than aware that I am not immune to misfortune. Any time I'm profoundly happy or profoundly sad, I think "this, too, shall pass." Nothing lasts forever.

The title of this post is not a reference to religion. I am not a religious woman. I'm not really all that spiritual, either, I suppose. It refers to the song, written by Leonard Cohen, and covered by just about anyone under the sun (just search YouTube for confirmation). I've been listening to it a lot lately. It could be considered a sort of melancholy song, but to me, it just seems reverent - of life, of music, of love. It makes me feel peaceful, and it reminds me how I feel about my own life these days. It's as close to a personal hymn as I'll ever have, I suppose.

I am filled with love and light. This, too, shall pass, but not forever. Hallelujah.

Things That, Despite My Best Efforts, I Have Not Managed to Make My Son Believe Are Not Finger Foods

1. Yogurt

2. Pudding

3. Applesauce

Worst. Blogger. Ever.

I keep meaning to sit down and post, and then I open up the window, and *poof*. Nothing to say. And I'm afraid that might not get better for a while. My husband has decided that he wants to get the hell out of this community. If they want to let rapists and murderers and drug dealers go unpunished, then let them have them, says he. And since I've wanted to get out of this town since, oh, about a week after we got here, I'm disinclined to argue. So we're considering selling our house and buying another, and since Chet's at work and in trial term, all the grunt work falls to yours truly. I don't really mind much, truth be told, because I get to make lists and spreadsheets, and I love doing that. (Yet I hated my last office job. Explain that.) But I am more than a little intimidated. This is our first house. We've never sold a house before. I'm still not even sure I understand what all went into buying this one. Plus, our buying a new house is contingent upon us selling this one, and I'm not sure how quickly we'll be able to sell. Ugh.

I will be sad to leave this house, even if I'm happy about leaving the town. This is the first house we ever bought. Our sweet Isabella kitty is buried by the house. I found out I was pregnant in the awkward little second bathroom. This is the first house we brought our son home to. This is where he took his first steps. No other house will ever contain those memories.

So, for now, I will be busy, and maybe in the not-too-distant future, I will write to you from a much calmer, bigger, happier place. Or, you know, maybe I'll just continue to be a slacker and post once in a blue moon. Either/or.

Fullgrown

For most of my adult life, I haven't felt very adult. I've often wondered aloud if I'll ever truly feel like an adult, if there will ever be a defining moment that will truly mark me in that way. My dad says that at 53, even with three grown children and a grandson, he still doesn't feel all that adult. I suppose that will be true for me as well. But there are tiny little shifts in the way I view myself and the passing of time, and those, I suppose, are my markers of adulthood.

My son, who is not yet 2, has the beginnings of calluses on the soles of his feet. I noticed this about 2 weeks ago, and it kicked me right in the heart. The world is toughening up my baby. I have no wish for him to stay a baby forever, but the proof of his boyhood made me all too aware of how fleeting the time is, and how soon the day will come when I send him out into the world for it to do with him what it will. I suddenly felt older, and truly like a mother. Every night since he was an infant, I've kissed those little feet as I've dressed him for bed. Those feet, clean and soft and unblemished and still warm from the bath, have been a sign of his vulnerability. Now, they are a measure of his autonomy. He's getting older, and more capable. So am I.

I suppose all this might seem a bit maudlin, especially for bits of thickened skin. All of us watch and mark the inevitable march of time in our own ways. This has become one of mine.

Sure, I am and still will be the same woman who giggles at her own horrible puns when no one else is around, who dances in her car, who too often forgets to brush her teeth, who constantly has overdue items from the library, who has the sense of humor of a 12-year-old boy. I will probably always feel a bit like my awkward 16-year-old self. But at least I can recognize and appreciate now that I truly am an adult, and that no one is going to knock on my door and enact some sort of penalty for Impersonation of a Grown Person. All because of a little boy's feet.

My Most Frequently Used Phrases

(I had another post partially written and saved as a draft, but upon rereading, it just sounded like a bunch of whining, and if there's anything I hate, it's whining, so *poof* it went away. Instead, please enjoy this list of things I find myself saying almost constantly.)

In no particular order:

1. No. No.......NO!

2. Nathaniel!

3. Are you hungry?

4. Come on, let's change your diaper! You got poops!

5. Do NOT drop that off your tray. Eat it or leave it.

6. STOP. Just.....stop.

7. Hey, Stink Pot Pie/Stinkeroo/Natrox/Natrox the Indomitable/Boo-Bah/Nater/Naterator/Pumpkin Belly/other nonsense nickname!

8. I love you.

9. You are so goofy!

10. Please stop stepping on my feet.

11. Yes, that's your penis. Good job having a penis!

12. What are you doing?

13. Have a nap, baby.

14. Yes, that's your belly button!

15. Yes, that's Mommy's belly.

16. Please don't touch that. Okay, thank you.

17. No, that's yours. You eat it.

18. Child, you're going to drive me to drink. More.

19. Gentle!

20. You are so freaking cute.

Empty Well

I promised I would blog more, and now I'm reminded why I don't blog that often. I've got nothing. Sure, things happen around here, but they don't tend to be too interesting to anyone but us. Sure, I could wax poetic about my child, but no one on earth finds your child quite as interesting and wonderful as you do; that's just a universal truth. I could talk about projects I'm doing, but I can't really do any, because I've got an 18-month-old who's into everything, meaning the only time I have to myself is when he's napping, and that time is spent exercising and showering, both of which are pretty essential.

Wow, this is sounding an awful lot like whining. "Oh, woe is me; I can't doooo anything because of my horrid child!" I don't feel that way; I love watching Nate discover the world, and I'm grateful that I'm able to be here to see him do it. It's just that right now, that's really all I can spend time doing. And that's okay. It just makes for really boring blogs.

So, all--what, three of you?--who are reading: do you have any questions you want me to answer? If not, I'm sure I can mine my past for some interesting anecdotes (the story of my first wedding alone could be a couple of blogs, probably). I'm just going to have to rehash the past until I can do a little more in the present.

Because I promised...

We just got back from visiting Windy and Margo (who shall henceforth be referred to as "Fargo Margo," because it's funny, and she's a Dakotan, so there you go), who made me promise to blog more when we returned.

A fantastic time was had by all, and I'm sure I'll write a more substantial blog about it at some point, but two of my favorite moments were finally getting a brilliant smile and a big kiss from Ray, my gorgeous, wonderful godson, and this exchange:

Me (to my son): This is Ray. Ray was Mommy's godson before she had you. So it's kind of like you're related.

Storm: Yeah, because you're both white.

Every adult within earshot: *muffling hysterical laughter*

If you have the chance, go visit their crazy commune. There are kids and animals and toys and chaos everywhere, and it's incredibly, spectacularly fun. I never feel like a visit with them is long enough. But we don't want to move to Florida, and they don't want to move to Mississippi, so visits are just going to have to hold us for now.

Windy, Fargo Margo, I love you both. Thank you for sharing your house and your children and your friendship. You are absolute treasures, the both of you, and I'm proud to say I knew you when.

And now, I've got to go put my kid in the bath. He carried some Pensacola (god, I'm tired--that took me three tries to spell correctly) home in his ears.

Unfortunately, no one's coming to take me away.

Everyone currently in the house is driving me crazy today. Goddamned cats with their goddamned fleas, running under my goddamned feet when I'm trying to goddamn walk. Goddamned kid, whining for no apparent goddamned reason, wanting up and then wanting down, doing the same goddamned things over and over that I've just told him not to goddamn do, then whining and crying because I told him no. Goddamned cat, lying on receipts that I have yet to record, and flicking them onto the goddamned floor with her goddamned tail.

Goddamn!

(Disclaimer: I love everyone in my house. I really do. But today, lovelies, Mama sure as hell drinks because you...are the way you are. Gnnnngh.)

Dependent Independence

My son is currently in a state that I'm referring to as "dependent independence". He wants to walk everywhere...but he wants to hold my hand. He needs a nap to get through the day...but he doesn't seem to want to take one that's longer than about 45 minutes, which is definitely not enough. He most emphatically does not want his diaper changed...but he's too young to grasp potty training. It's very frustrating for the both of us, and is complicated by his lack of speech. See, he doesn't talk. He babbles, and sometimes he says words that sound like other things, but never on a consistent basis. We can't even say that he says "mama" or "dada". Sure, he says "mamamamamama" and "dadadadada," but he doesn't do it to get our attention, or even when he sees us. He definitely understands a lot. He follows simple commands, even the ones that are a bit more abstract ("put your bottom on the bottom," for example, which basically means sit down in the tub). But the words aren't coming. The pediatrician isn't worried yet, because he does understand and respond to verbal commands. Of course, I'm a little worried, because I'm his mother and that's what we do, but also because I know way too many kids with speech problems. It boils down to a basic fear that there's something wrong with my child, which of course would be my fault, because what is motherhood without self-flagellation, and/or a basic frustration on both our parts because if there isn't anything wrong with his speech and he's just refusing to speak, he won't tell me what he wants and I can't figure it out. 

I guess I'm in a state of dependent independence, too. Nate's of an age now that it's not as easy to impose my will on him. He's much less portable now. I may have my own plans for the day, but he has his, too, and is quite vocal about them. I tried to take him to the outlet mall today, so I could look for swimsuit tops (ugh) and some sandals. I thought it would be good for us to get out, let him walk around a bit. The umbrella stroller was in the trunk of my husband's car, but no matter, I thought. He can walk! I'll just hold his hand! It'll be fine!

Anyone who's parented a toddler has likely laughed themselves silly at this point. It went as well as you'd expect. We hit two stores and were gone about ten minutes before I aborted the whole stupid attempt. It hit me full-on as we were headed back to the car that my life just got exponentially harder. I am, at the best of times, in somewhat of a pre-hermit state anyway. But now, even my occasional desire for public company is going to be nearly impossible for the next....I don't know, three or four years at least. That revelation was not good for my mental state. We live in a very small town. We have no family any closer than a 6.5 hour drive. We have no close friends anywhere closer than an hour and change. The childcare options are nearly nonexistent. 

It's enough to make me want to bury my head in the sand, if my son would let me leave the house to find any.

A Fresh Start

Well, since it seems like everyone I know is on Blogger, I decided to go ahead and jump on the bandwagon. It was annoying me not to be able to comment on my friends' blogs. 

I doubt I'll get much traffic by people who don't already know me, but just in case, here's an introduction: I'm Randi, a 30-year-old stay-at-home mother and aspiring bon vivant (ha). I live in Mississippi with my husband, Chet, our 15-month-old son, Nate, and two cats named Molly and Calvin. I'm agnostic, very liberal, artsy-craftsy, and terrible with houseplants. I am consistently inconsistent and I have a memory that only seems to hold on to useless, impractical things like celebrity trivia. I remember everyone's birthday, but can rarely get cards or gifts out on time. I am trying to be a better person. I named my blog "Crow and Pitcher" because of the Aesop fable, which my husband read to my son one night in his early infancy, and which struck me as being particularly relevant to me at this and every point in my life.  I am hoping to force myself to post more so that I may have some sort of outlet. Goodness knows I need it.

So that's that, for the moment.