Some updating

I'm feeling it's time for a little updating, to get you caught up.  What better thing to do on a Sunday evening while watching The Wonder Pets save four singing beetles who are trapped in a yellow submarine in Liverpool?

1. Really, I didn't mean to leave you hanging for so long.  We have an idea of what is in store for us next in life.  Nothing is secret, but nothing is official.  Once things are/feel more settled, you'll see an announcement on my blog.  (In the mean time, you can always ask...)  
2. Mary is magical.  The very week I wrote about this, she busted out of her infant car seat.  Even without the straps, it was too small.  What were we to do but put her in her crib, give her a blanket and a binkie, and tell her to go to sleep?  It worked.  Like magic.  This is pretty much the first time I've had a baby sleep in that crib, let alone one who falls asleep without any help.  I've often suspected that parents with babies who happily fall asleep in their cribs were either lying or secretly drugging their children.  I guess some babies really are magical that way.  I'm glad Mary is one of them, even though she came into her magic a little late in babyhood.  But I'll take what I can get!
3. Greg's paper was accepted for this year's Academy of Management conference.  That's a very good thing.  Hurray!
4. I have a new laptop.  This is exciting.  Now I can use the Internet to ignore my family with much more efficacy by going into the back bedroom and locking the door the behind me.
5. As a mature toddler of 17 months, Mary's first day of nursery class at church was today!  The plan was for Greg to go with her for the first month, to help her get used to it, and then, once she reaches the legal age of 18 months, he would leave her.  The problem?  She loved it!  She did really well!  So well that it would be counterproductive for Greg to go with her for a month.  So it looks like she won't be going again until she's "legal."  Oh well...

The beetles have been rescued, the children put to bed, and it's together time for Greg and Alisa.

Good night.

Happy Pi(e) Day!

We invited this family, this family, and this family over for a little pi(e) party.  What a wonderful way to spend a Saturday: friends and pie.  The kids played together well for hours--which meant we grown-ups got to relax together for hours. 

And lest our celebration consist only of pie and no pi, there was some excited discussion of this.  Perhaps one day the party (which has become a family tradition) will include actual mathematical games that will deepen our appreciation for pi.  But, for now, bringing good pie and good company into my house one afternoon is reason enough to be grateful for pi.

[I also think Brooke would be proud of me.]

Lunch date with daddy

We were all very excited to eat lunch with daddy at work today.  

David was especially looking forward to seeing "Daddy's friends," as friends are the best thing in the world, the reason you go to school or church or work.  (Why else would daddy go to work, if not to see friends and have fun?)  Daddy's work, of course, is going to school, and this being a Friday afternoon the week before finals, there weren't too many friends around.  Good thing Daddy had us for company today.

Mary happily sat (and stood) in a big chair munching her banana and french fries.  She did not insist on running around the cafeteria like a chicken with her head cut off, which is what David would have done at her age.  We were grateful we have a David and a Mary, and not two Davids.  (Mary also gets a gold star today for letting me leave her in the child care at the Y so I could lift weights.  This is something she does not always do.)

As for me and lunch with Daddy, any extra hour in my life that I get to spend with Greg that I wouldn't normally otherwise is a wonderful hour indeed.  In case you didn't know, I love that man.

Now I get to say "My therapist said..."

I have long since learned that giving birth did not instantly transform me into a perfect person.  A bit of bummer, yes.  I'd had such high hopes that motherhood would automatically erase all my weaknesses.  I soon realized that, imperfect mortal that I am, no matter how hard I try, I am doomed to screw up my kids.  Instead of putting all of my energy into the futile pursuit of perfection (mine and my children's), I think my resources are better spent teaching my kids to deal with their screwed up selves.  

This why I often joke that what matters not is that I raise children who won't need therapy; what matters is that I teach them to go get therapy when they need it.  (Technically, my sister-in-law gets credit for pointing this out.)

Well, time to start practicing what I preach:  This week I had my very own first therapy session! 

Despite a bout of post-partum depression and a one-time meeting with a psychiatrist in college (long story), this therapy thing is totally new.  And like all new experiences, very interesting.

After just one session, here are some things I liked about therapy:

1. The workbook.  I'm getting a workbook.  As I do the homework (yes, there's homework, I can't wait), I will discover the names for all the things that are wrong with me.  That should be interesting.  My mom suggested we might pass the workbook around the whole family to find out what's wrong with everybody.  Now that's a family reunion idea!
2. I am excited at the prospect of rewiring my brain.  My brain is in desperate need of some rewiring.  Maybe a complete renovation.
3. This person is paid to listen to me.  That was weird.  I had a hard time getting used to that.  I am more comfortable asking other people about themselves.  But, at some level, we all like to talk about ourselves, myself included (check out how often I post), so this could be a good thing.  I'm not sure I talked enough to get my money's worth the first time.  Actually, the military is picking up the tab.  Next time I promise to talk more to get your money's worth.
4. My therapist told me I am smart. 
5. The very, very best thing about going to therapy is that I can say in everyday conversation with people, "My therapist said..."  I have already used that phrase several times in conversation with my husband.  I feel like the annoying character in a movie.  It's fun.  

Things that I didn't like about my first session of therapy:

As soon as my therapist found out I was "charismatic LDS," she automatically assumed--

1. My husband wants to have seven children and I don't and all my problems stem from this.  (WRONG!!)
2. My mother enjoyed every second of raising small children and thinks I should too and all my problems stem from this (WRONG, again!!)
3. My college didn't serve any caffeinated beverages on campus and while that has nothing to do with my problems, speaking of caffeine, I should probably cut back on the diet Coke.  (WRONG...oh, wait, she was right about that one.  Completely.)

But I think I did a pretty good job of clearing up some of her misconceptions about me and my way of life.  (It might be good for her to know me.)  And I promised to do number 3.  

Why go to bed when I can post these pictures instead?

Before and after pictures to accompany my last post

Before:

These pictures were taken over a week ago.  They are not official "before pictures"--but I think you can get an idea of the length.  (By the way, previous to this, Mary had already had three major haircuts.  I'm sure her hair would have been to her diaper otherwise.)

After:

All that fear and anxiety over one thin layer of bangs?  Yes.  Hey, seventh grade scars can run deep . . . and irrationally.

(I told you she looked really cute.)

The haircut Mary didn't get last Thursday

So I had every intention of taking Mary to get her haircut last Thursday.  But I didn't: She took a nap, I wanted to do another load of laundry, I was worried about picking up David on time.  Actually, those are all lame excuses.  The real reason?  Bangs.  (Oh, that age-old debate.)

Mary needs bangs.  The whole point of her getting a haircut is bangs.  She'll look better.  She'll see better.  But whenever I think about giving Mary bangs, I become paralyzed . . . with fear . . . of seventh grade.

You see, I decided to grow out my childhood bangs in the seventh grade.  Growing bangs out is miserable, especially at a time, like 1989, when it was not socially acceptable to simply pin them back with a bobby pin.  Seventh grade itself was miserable enough.  So miserable that I still can't laugh about it, which means I can't write about it, so you are spared from reading about my seventh grade woes.  (I'll let you know when seventh grade seems funny to me.) 

The effect of growing out my bangs in the seventh grade is that the misery of Parkway South Junior High and the misery of having incorrigible hair in my eyes is all intertwined and inseparable in my head.  I know it makes no sense, but I am convinced that if Mary gets bangs, she is doomed, at some point, to a year as awful as my twelfth.  I feel like I should not make this decision my own.  That I should wait until Mary and I can sit down and have a frank discussion about the pros and cons of bangs.  I don't want her to suffer ten and a half years from now for a choice I made on her behalf when she was a baby.  

But since her vocabulary primarily consists of the words "apple," "bum-bum," and the sign for "drink," I think our discussion will have to wait a few years.  Which means the decision is mine to be made.  I guess that's what parenting is all about:  Making decisions for your children and hoping they don't hate you for it in the long-run.  On Thursday I decided for the two-hundredth time, "No bangs."

BUT . . . today is Tuesday.  And I decided, "Yes bangs."  Don't hate me, future-Mary-who-wants-to-grow-out-her-bangs-and-wishes-she-never-had-them.  You look really cute. 

And when it comes to seventh grade, if it's that bad, I promise to home school you or buy you eight pairs of Guess? jeans, whichever you prefer.

Sunday afternoon monster truck

The "monster truck" that David built, complete with "a sleeping compartment" in the back for Mary:

Here is David all suited up for the "big race":
Not a bad way to fill up a Sunday afternoon.

A man of many talents

This is a dad who does everything.

Proof

Does this make you want to buy my book?  (Or not...)

Mary in the cupboard

Bonus picture:

Thursday afternoon