I Want To Be A Sap

Whilst editing a recent engagement session, I stumbled upon this lovely image.

"He has made everything beautiful in it's time..." Ecclesiastes 3:11. When I saw that frame, this verse came to mind immediately. When I saw that frame I felt hopeful. Hopeful that my mother will survive her life, that my brothers and sisters will come out on the other side, healed, and that I will somehow remain soft. I fear the "hardness" that often overtakes people when their lives change, when their realities shatter. I still cry during sappy movies. I want to stay a softy, I want to be a sap. Forever.

He.

These past five days have been a whirlwind. My mother is in the process of moving 6,000 square feet of home furnishings from storage in the desert, up to storage in Big Bear. The divorce is ugly. It's uglier than anything I've ever seen, and I'm stuck right in the middle of it, mediating my (at times) childish parents. (Sorry mom and dad). As a result of this, I've had my five brothers and sisters staying with me for five days. The house is a mess, a complete disaster. The food is quickly diminishing, there is a TV blaring constantly, and the complaining never ceases. It's a clash of parenting styles like you wouldn't believe. I swear these kids are going to hate me and Scott by the time they go home. You see, we have rules, and a set bedtime, and we make them drink freshly juiced apples in the morning (poor things). Yesterday I came down with a high fever, a 24 hour bug that confined me to bed. A train had come into my house, and hit me. Bad timing. 

Through all of this, one thing has remained the "constant", the unwavering pillar of "No, you won't do that, say that, wear that, watch that in my house". My Hubby is one tough cookie.

He's strong. He let's me lean on him when life is tough, and I'm a mess. The messiness has been prevailing lately.  

He is warm and hysterical. He's quirky when he's uncomfortable and on occasion, let's me dress him. 

He lights my fire, everyday.

At the end of it all, he takes me by the hand all reassures me that it will all be OK. I couldn't be more grateful for him, for the man he is, for the father he is and for every moment we spend together as a family. 

Afternoons...

Hello, Blogging Monday. I've made it here successfully, and I've even brought a photograph. Our afternoons usually look like this....

I love my kiddo's faces in these images. Aden's eyes are fixed upon Daddy. He anxiously awaits his return to Daddy's arms, the safe place. Ava, on the other hand, is completely oblivious to any danger she may face as she soars through the air. She's a wild one, not a care in the world. 

Right now there is an apple pie in our toaster oven {yes, toaster over}, and a pot of vegan chili is on it's way. I may burn the house down if I don't close the computer....

"My Mommy Cuts My Hair" Hair.

It's 4th of July. 7:33am. I've had about two sips of coffee and my blessed children are pounding native drum beats against the walls with their tiny hands. Just thought you should know.

Yesterday was a monumental day. A day that happens once every three months. It should happen more often, but the sheer misery of it keeps me from getting it done. Yesterday, I cut Aden's hair. I know this may not be a big deal for the rest of you Mommies and your children without sensory issues, but for us, it's a nightmare. I have to warn Aden for a week before we actually get down to it. The day of, he gets a warning every hour, then every 30 minutes, then every fifteen....you get the picture. Aden wants his shirt off during a haircut so that it won't get dirty, but he refuses to wear a towel around his shoulders. The spray bottle, a strangle sound next to his ears, the falling snips of baby blond hair onto his soft, pale skin, it's his own personal version of hell. There he sits, on the bathroom counter (yes, like a 2 year old), and the screaming commences. We've tried suckers, TV, computer, conversation, bribery of all things amazing and even iPhone privileges during the big event, but to no avail. The kid can't cope. He screams, cries, wiggles, throws my makeup brushes and bottles of lotion off of the counter, the boogers come, he spits all over the mirror, and eventually sits somewhat still and makes Jabba The Hut noises until we're done. Tongue out, scrunched up face, the works. For 10 minutes. 

"Blllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeegggggghhhhhhhhhh!!!!!"

"Blllllleeeeeeegggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!"

I don't tell him, "no".  He's never in trouble for his terrible haircut behavior. I let him completely destroy my bathroom so that we can have a four year old with choppy "my mommy cuts my hair" hair. After I brush him off and he hops down, he's gone. A screaming flash, flying through the house, uncontrollably. No destination, no purpose, just pent up anger that can only be released by running like a banchie. Eventually, he tires, and comes to me to talk about it. At this point, he falls into my arms and wails about how sad he is, how he hates haircuts, and how his back is itchy. After a long, warm shower, he emerges, renewed. My boy has returned! 

Praise God.