[flickr id=”5980079990″ thumbnail=”medium” overlay=”true” size=”small” group=”” align=”left”]
Four weeks from today it starts.
All three kids in school.
All three.
For about 3 hours a day I will have quiet.
It will be time to clean.
Time to shop.
Time to myself.
I am definitely looking forward to this…
I first wanted ink when I was 18. When I was 18 I carried my mother’s voice with me everywhere. And while this didn’t discourage me from the DESIRE to get a tattoo…it did discourage me for getting something I would regret.
And I would have. Because I would have gotten Taz (as in the Tasmanian Devil).
And much as I love Taz – I would have regretted it by now.
So I promptly forgot about it until I got ‘old enough’ in my brain to choose something I loved.
Around 22 or 23 I had the image set in my head…but then the fear held me back. The fear of the pain.
Finally I became determined. Last year I was pointed to a place to get it…and I started setting it up. My 35th birthday I would finally get my tattoo. It wasn’t the one I envisioned when I was 23 (which I still plan on getting at a later date) – but it was one even more special.
So the day arrived and I gathered my friends close. My nerves were high, I was so tense, anxious…okay…afraid.
She made the first mark and asked me how it was.
With a huge breath of relief (and surprise) I said “It didn’t hurt at all!!”
From that point the tattoo was smooth sailing. We talked, joked, pitied the guy next to us getting a tree tattooed across his ribs…at one point I tweeted while getting my ink on. In the end…I loved it…and I’m planning my next, while trying to convince the hubby to get his.
Getting the stencil set:[flickr id=”5976156176″ thumbnail=”medium” overlay=”true” size=”small” group=”” align=”none”] [flickr id=”5976156562″ thumbnail=”medium” overlay=”true” size=”small” group=”” align=”none”]
First harrowing minutes:[flickr id=”5976156684″ thumbnail=”medium” overlay=”true” size=”small” group=”” align=”none”] [flickr id=”5975594673″ thumbnail=”medium” overlay=”true” size=”small” group=”” align=”none”]
Hey! This is fun! Tweeting & Tattooing:[flickr id=”5976157358″ thumbnail=”medium” overlay=”true” size=”small” group=”” align=”none”]
Snoozing & Tattooing (okay, I didn’t actually doze, but I came close):[flickr id=”5975595493″ thumbnail=”medium” overlay=”true” size=”small” group=”” align=”none”]
Finished:[flickr id=”5968345333″ thumbnail=”medium” overlay=”true” size=”small” group=”” align=”none”]
[flickr id=”5888954984″ thumbnail=”medium” overlay=”true” size=”small” group=”” align=”left”]Once upon a time it was us against the world.
There were no secrets.
Lots of snuggles.
Lots of talks.
He told me everything.
Now he’s 13.
When I had to tell him about the neighbors passing, I expected something…words…hugs…tears…
Instead he asked to go for a bike ride.
He didn’t want to deal with it when I was there. He didn’t want to talk about it. He tensed when I tried to hug him. He tried to force back every tear that threatened to fall.
Selfishly I went outside and threw a class-action temper tantrum a kindergartner would be proud of.
I wasn’t mad at him.
I was mad at me.
Where had I gone wrong? Did I not have enough patience? Have I been too focused on the girls that I lost touch with him once they were old enough to survive w/o constant attention? Do I just suck as a mother?
I miss the little boy that truly believed he could tell me anything.
I miss the feeling that he and I have a connection that no one could take away.
The teenage years have just begun.
I already hate them.
I don’t blame him. I don’t blame me (usually).
I still hate them.
I don’t know how I will survive these teenage years.
[flickr id=”5502918424″ thumbnail=”small” overlay=”true” size=”small” group=”” align=”left”] Brandon left on Sunday.
Boy Scout camp for a full week.
Riley & Angel left this afternoon.
Gone to their grandparents for 2 days.
Archie leaves in the morning.
Off to work. Then to Family Night at Scout camp. Then work the next day.
The house is empty, save for me.
I sit in silence.
I will most likely be cleaning – something I always do when left alone.
During the in-between I will sit and soak up the silence.
Stuck between content and disturbed.
Normally chaos and noise fill this house.
The silence is disconcerting.
But rare enough that I will take some time to enjoy it.
I have a stack of books to read. Trying to meet my 50 books read in 2011 goal (15 read, several partially read).
I have 6 rooms that all need cleaning – one that needs a splash of paint on the trim.
I will complete what I can.
And enjoy some time off.
Most of my baking craziness comes out in December when I make hundreds upon hundreds of cookies that my family could never possibly eat all of.
In the fall I go crazy with the bread baking.
The summer doesn’t usually lend to a lot of baking. The heat of the stove on top of the heat of weather just doesn’t lend to enthusiasm toward baking.
Some days you just need to.
I wanted to make cupcakes. Something beyond boring simple cake.
Out of that craving came these. Delicious. Moist. Flavorful. Yum.
Pink Lemonade Cupcakes with Fresh Strawberry Buttercream Frosting.
Make them.
You won’t regret it.
Preparation time: 20 minute(s)
Cooking time: 20 minute(s)
I didn’t have heavy cream, so I used 1/4 c. milk. Frosting is still delicious & fluffy, but it would definitely improve with heavy whipping cream.
The past couple of months in our house have been, for lack of a better word, muted. My blog has lacked life because I sort of have. For the second time in less than a year I’ve found myself struggling for air. I don’t like the recurring theme of the feeling.
I’ve mentioned in recent months my regular struggle with isolating, disappearing into my head. Then I’ve turned around and done that (once again to my husband’s disappointment).
I’ve mentioned in passing once or twice my husband’s struggle with depression, and the recent months have been bad for him too.
Maybe it’s the winter that’s refused to let go until suddenly turning into 80 degree weather. Maybe it’s the constant fluctuation of health news in our house. Maybe it’s realizing that our kids are growing up faster than we feel capable of.
I’ve been playing with perking up. Getting my cute shoes recently & wearing them when I go out to feel perky. I’ve taken a recent foray into playing with fingernail polish (my current color is a bright, cheerful orange). Today I dug out my camera in hopes that maybe using it it again will help too. Today I’m writing a blog post for the first time in weeks. Little steps. Once again trying to unbury from the pile of crap that is my current funk.
Then this morning I was catching up on one of my favorite TV series, House. As I watched, distracted by other things, half paying attention…one statement pulled my attention back. Thirteen (yay, she’s back!) was talking about happiness…and her comment was:
“Our level of happiness is set. It’s in our DNA.”
It’s an incredibly cynical view.
But is it right?
Are we pre-destined to be happy or miserable by our DNA?
I’ve often wondered, throughout my whole life, how I can feel so different. So very…”un”. That people seem to sense it before we’ve finished being introduced (or is that paranoia?). And yet my brother, very clearly of the same genetic pool as I am…can be one of those magical people that draws everyone to them. That is the center of attention. That is popular. Happy. Confident.
Nature vs. nurture.
Can we literally blame our parents for creating a genetic cess pool that became us? Or does life mold us into something that becomes set in stone at a certain age?
Am I destined to live with my available level of happiness no matter what I do to fix it? Is my husband destined into a world where not even the most modern of medicines can help him cope w/ sometimes disabling levels of depression?
Are we truly limited in our happy?