I blame the cereal commercials. The sun is always shining on their kitchen tables through the California soundstage for Sunny-D or Raisin Bran or whatever, but here, the moon is still shining as we stumble through our morning routine and it’s still dark when my daughter walks into her school. In the commercials, the mom is not getting dressed in the dark next to a sleeping baby bassinet. She doesn’t run half-dressed down to the laundry room to try to find the missing pieces.  The cat doesn’t  vomit at 4:00 a.m. Her white collared shirt and khakis are freshly pressed and she’s been up for hours reading the paper. She doesn’t read headlines exclusively from her phone during middle of the night feedings or eat lunch at her desk or pump breast milk while driving down the interstate. If she did, she wouldn’t look so put together. But I have to remember that the she of the commercials doesn’t really exist. She is as airbrushed as any other media image.

Fridays, I am filled with hope about all that I will get done for the house on the weekend. By Monday, we will have a menu for the week. We will have organized the by-the-door mail tray. We will be visions of Real Simple zenness. But by Sunday, I am hit with the reality that I’ve still got so far to go. I scratch the surface but by Wednesday, the wheels start to fall off of the bus.  The floor starts to show wear from the week. The things I was caught up with on Sunday have begun to pile up and it begins again.

I have one friend who sets her alarm for 3:00 a.m. so that she can go to a 24-hour superstore to do all of her shopping while her husband and children sleep. Another schedules her conference calls for 4:00 a.m. (her business is mostly in Asia) so that she can pick up her children at their after school program. And so many of my friends admirably get up to exercise at 5:00 a.m. because that is the only time that is just theirs. What I find both inspiring and a little heartbreaking is the lengths we will go to in order to get it all done and not cheat anyone else out of our time. I think about those women and their extremes – ones beyond anything I do- and I wish that I could (in the words of a friend) give them an “S” for their chest.

While mopping the floors in complete darkness at midnight on Wednesday, I thought about this and this song and it reminded me that these are first world problems and I wouldn’t trade any of my responsbilities. I just need to change my expectations and recognize myths like cereal commercials when I see them.

Just follow the seasons and find the time.

Reach for the bright side.

“Let’s see how long she lasts” is one of those whispers that gets me out of bed like a bass driven Nike commercial.

And, to thank you for coming back here to read, I’ve put together a Teaworthy Holiday Gift Guide board on Pinterest.

Cheers!

This beautiful soul came into our world three weeks early. He came so fast and has seemed so pleased with himself to be here. We are overjoyed and I hear Billie Holiday’s version of Moonglow in the margins of my days.

“I still hear you sayin’, “Dear one, hold me fast”
And I keep on prayin’, “Oh Lord, please let this last…

And now when there’s moonglow, way up in the blue
I’ll always remember, that moonglow gave me you”

On January 1, 2011, I made a New Years resolution that I wanted to take time to notice everyday miracles. No plan to lose weight or anything like that. I felt cynical and wanted to shift my attention to positive things. I was willing to start small. But three days later, I was pregnant. It took the help of two very brilliant doctors to stay that way and the prayers of a church congregation and our families through several complications, but he’s here now and he is doing great. And with every thank you note that I write – more than fifty now – I am humbled to think about how many people helped us get here.

I have so many essays in my head that I need to write. They are pushing and shoving for their turn in this place and I hope to get to them. They sound like background noise at a cocktail party- several simultaneous conversations. I worry that by the time I get to them, it will be too late and someone will already be taking away the empty glasses and turning chairs upside down to clean the floor. They may not be of any use to anyone else, but I need them to put things in order and not writing (or in the alternative taking photographs) seems a bit disorganized.

Joan Didion has a great essay about writing called Why I Write that she published in the New York Times Book Review in 1976. In it, she says, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I fear….what is going on in these pictures in my mind?” Absolutely. I feel a little rudderless without that order of things. Someday soon, I hope. Until then, I’ll collect as many images as I can to remember.

I will look back on this summer and remember these things.

I’ll remember watching my belly grow.

I’ll remember working with swollen feet and being so excited to put them up after she went to sleep to watch
Zen or this Sherlock series with my husband: one eye on the TV, one on Words With Friends.

I will remember her new love for headstands and mine for watermelon. I will remember sitting on the porch early in the morning. I will remember not being able to go to the ocean and missing it like a friend.

I will think about being thankful for each week that we made it through.

I’ll remember taking my girl out of summer camp like a jail break and listening to this song on the way to get her some treat:

like this:

I’m sure there will be many things that I will forget, but these little pieces will be sea glass in the jar that will glow for me through the winter.

…and this one of Stevie Wonder’s Overjoyed.

{To watch the video version of Ben Sollee’s Tiny Desk Concert, be sure to click through to NPR. I love the first song he plays called Hurting. Ben is one of those talented, positive Kentuckians who make us all proud of home.}

We are working on getting the little cottage ready for our new baby. Three in this house has taken some creative storage solutions. Four is….well, it’s taking a lot of creativity and a carpenter with vision, but we are getting there. We thought about moving to a bigger house and even looked at a few, but I kept coming back to all of the work we have put into this house and thinking that I don’t want to start over. We’ve been through a whirlwind of changes lately and there is something to be said for having one common denominator in your life, even if it is sprinkled with saw dust.

I’m travel restricted now. And while I would love to go down to my parents’ place by the ocean and float, being in one place for a while has made me more appreciative of how beautiful Kentucky is in the summertime: lightening bugs and sprinkler runs, trips to the library on rainy Sundays and Boyle County tomatoes at the Farmer’s Market.

Last summer, I looked at everything here with a sense of anticipatory nostalgia- thinking that we would not be living here for another summer. I noticed things I thought I would miss: the fresh-cut grass and new rain smells that are not quite the same anywhere else. I waited outside for the cicadas to sing in the evening. This time last year, I didn’t know we would ever be able to have another baby or that we would stay. It feels like a stolen season to be here in this time and in this place again, to be here to see flowers that we planted bloom.
And I am thankful.