The Last One

My heart is filled with all kinds of emotions, today.

Today was the last time I'll have to say goodbye to my new kindergartener on their first day.  

We decided to stop having kids after two.  The second one nearly killed me.  For real.  

When she started kindergarten, I had a job lined up and was ready to start the next leg of my journey as a mom - the everyone's in school now, leg.  I was ready and excited and looking forward to the new adventure.

But then...... 

Quin.  The encore.

I had to start over.  I had the sweet opportunity to experience so many firsts, all over, again.  

He's in 3rd grade, now.  And his little brother, the grand finale in our brood, is experiencing his very first day of kindergarten.  And here I am, again.  The everyone's in school now, place.

Summer wasn't long enough.  Never is. 

My heart and the rooms of my home feel empty.  My oldest two have yet to start their school year... that I am certainly not looking forward to.   

A quiet house with no kids is just depressing.  

But these tubes have done been tied.  No more encores or grand finales, for this fam.  So, I just need to suck-it-up-buttercup and keep moving forward.  

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go wipe my tears and try to get some work done.

God's Hands

Something happened, the other day.

I was headed to my older kids' new school to exchange some uniform shirts - something I almost didn't do, that day, because of the distance and my current gas situation.  But, I felt the need to go, so I did.

As I was waiting in traffic, I noticed the car two cars in front of me was stopped.  Everyone, else, was going.  My first reaction was frustration - I was on a bit of a time crunch.

That's when the driver flew out of the car, throwing her ice cream cone (poor ice cream cone).  She turned to us (the cars behind her) and mouthed the words, "Help me!", wildly gesturing with her arms.

Immediately, I put my car in park and jumped out to run to her.  She was trying to get the back door of her mini van to stay open (it was an electronic-sliding door).  Her husband had fallen out of his wheelchair in the back of her van and she couldn't get him back in, by herself.  She was freaking out - worried about the traffic and not being able to find the hazard lights button.  I told her traffic can wait.  Between the two of us, her adrenaline, and what strength her poor husband could muster, we were able to get him back in his chair.

As I walked back to my car, I noticed the car between us just took off.  Didn't even ask if we needed help.  Unbelievable.

No one, else, stopped.  They had plenty of time to, and they didn't.

I cried all the way to the school, making it in record time (they were about to close).

I was God's hands, that day.

He sees us.  He knew that lady would need help and that He couldn't be there, in person, so He would need someone to stand in His place.

I got to be that person.

He sees our needs, even the small ones.  He's our Father and wants to do what any parent would want to do - help His children when they're hurt or scared or need help lifting their heavy husband.

When we need a hug, He wants to give us one.  When we're crying, He wants to comfort us and tell us everything will be ok.  When we're happy, He wants to celebrate with us.  He wants to be here.  And He can be.... through us.  That's why we're here - to be His hands.  I so love that I got to be.

I hope she got to replace her ice cream cone.  💙

Existential Crisis

I work from home.  People tell me how lucky I am to have found such a perfect thing. After all, it pays relatively well, I get to (sort of) choose my own hours and it's not hard work.

It's medical billing, though.  And not just any kind of medical billing, the kind where I get to call insurance companies all day and find out where the docs' monies are.  A lot of times, the docs were already paid and cashed the check.  How they lost track of all that money and how it happens time and time, again, just blows my mind.  A lot of times, they "never received the bill".  I could go on, but what it comes down to is it's either extremely boring or really frustrating.  Sometimes both.  I certainly do not love it.

So, as I've been going through a lot of things in my brain, lately, this has come to mind quite a bit.  Why keep doing what I don't love? I'm not the major bread-winner, in our home.  My funds are needed, but not so very desperately.

Read: I am not quitting my job because I don't like it.  My dad taught me better than that.  I will continue with it for the foreseeable future.

However.  I do want to do something I love.

So

I stepped out of my comfort zone.  I applied to be a copywriter.

"How is that stepping out of your comfort zone? That's what you do - and you're good at it!" is what my husband said when I told him.

The only writing experience I have is my blogs.  I won't be surprised if I don't get the gig.

The point is I did it... I took that step.  And I'm going to keep taking steps in that direction until I've accomplished what I'm setting out to do.  I want to be a writer.  In particular, a ghostwriter.  I love love love people and have a flair for the written word - what better thing than to combine the two?

You never know how many diems you have left to carpe, so there's no time like the present to do something that makes you happy.

Lasts and Firsts

Today was the last day of preschool for my last baby.

It was hard not to cry as we were driving away.  Though, I was headed to get gas - I'm quite sure people would've totally taken my tears for having to fill up a Suburban.

I told him he's getting too big.  He said, "I'm still five", like - duh, Mom.  I'm not that big, yet.

He and my other youngest son are watching a movie, right now - Gnomeo and Juliet.  I love that movie.  As a song started playing in the background, I was brought back to the days when I could only watch certain shows without having a smallish breakdown.  I truly hated postpartum depression.  Still do.  Even though this movie was one of the few that didn't bring me to tears in a bad way, it still brought back memories of having a fragile psyche.  But, I digress...

First smile.  First giggles.  First steps.  First time on the potty.  First time riding without training wheels.  First day of preschool...

Of all the lasts I've had with my kids, I have had a lot of firsts.

First time they told me they loved me.  First time they told me they hated me.  First time they talked to a friend on the phone.  First time they went to a friend's house.  First day of school.  First time they tied their own shoes.  First time they showered by themselves.  First time they did their own laundry.

And I get to embark on all of those firsts, again, with my last.

My last.  I've had a very strong feeling that I need to hold on to this one as long as he'll let me.  I've had this feeling since I was pregnant with him.  For most of his life, I had a sinking feeling that this was because I wouldn't have him for very long.  (I've had several heart attacks over the past five years.  I'm glad he's my most cautious child.)  I haven't actually told many people that.  I don't know what the future holds, but I do know this:  I've been given a gift in this urging.  I've held onto every moment I can.  I've held him any time he would let me.  I wish wish wish I would've held him more, as a baby.  I hate hate hate that I didn't even want him awake most of the time.  I'm quite certain I experienced part of what Hell is.

This will be the last summer before he enters the real world of school.  There will be friends and homework and bad influences, a plenty.  I'm excited to see how his personality develops.  It shall be an adventure, that's for sure.  This boy's all confidence and has no qualms about talking to pretty much anyone.

I'm grateful for all of the lasts, because that only means there once was a first.  I'm glad it won't be my last "last".

He's having his "moving up" from pre-K to K party, in two days.  I'm bringing tissues.

All in.

Lately, I feel like I'm too busy being a mom to have time for my kids.

The day started without me, this morning.

My son wasn't able to go to seminary, this morning, so I overslept.  I somehow unplugged my phone from across the room and brought it to my night table.  Somewhere in there, I turned off my alarm.  I don't remember any of this.

I was awakened by a panicked little 8 yr old who was to be ready for school and hadn't even had breakfast, yet.

We hurriedly got his lunch ready and some things gathered for a school project that was due, today, and he ended up leaving with an empty stomach.  I prayed hard for his tummy to feel full and he'd have the energy he needed to focus.  I felt like Mom of the Year.

I'm currently (supposed to be) working.  I work from home.  This is necessary for us to survive, financially.  We don't need much and we're working on paying off debt so we can survive without my income, should we have to.  But I like working.  I like using my brain for something other than the following, which happens to be my to-do list, today (in no particular order):

Get the boys' laundry done (and put away).

Make sure dinner is in the works and actually gets made.

Make sure my kids are up to par on their schoolwork.  

Make a meal plan.

Form a grocery list.

Get said groceries.

Take my son for a much needed haircut.  

Do my share of the chores I've divvied out.  

Make sure the kids do their share of the chores I've divvied out.

After school carpool.

Son's baseball game.

Fax an immunization record to my kids' new school.

Finish the get-in-shape chart I fashioned for one of my children.  

Get kids to bed on time.

Get myself to bed on time (harder than you would think).

And my husband's out of town, so I'm doing this a la Han Solo, but without the Han.

I look around and see my super messy room.  It's in the middle of several projects; cleaning the room being one of them.  I think of the mess on my desk and the mess in the kitchen and my son needing socks and my other son needing underwear and my other other son needing a hair cut and the opportunity I have to earn a little extra money on my birthday and the time it would take from my day and the fact that I haven't eaten breakfast, myself, and my brain just goes into overdrive.

Yesterday, I was hardly home.  My kids had to make dinner.  Someone else had to get my son to Cub Scouts.  My 5 yr old had the opportunity to go to daycare, but he opts not to on account of his friend not being there and I opt not to because it saves us money.  But that means he stays home and watches TV and whines about being hungry and not getting attention and...... 

I don't know what to cut out of my day.  I don't know what I can cut out of my day.  I try to tell myself to just focus on one thing at a time, but my brain's very "all or nothing".  I keep telling others that, which is probably why it complies.  I believe in that sort of thing.

I know I'm not the only one who has days like this or thoughts like this.  I'm not entirely sure why I posted this.  Maybe to get it out of my head and out into the cosmic void that is the internet.  I feel like, if I write things down, I don't have to think about them, anymore.

Yeah, right.  haha

Breakthrough

I've been doing a lot of soul-searching, lately.  I'm coming to realize that some things I thought were, might not actually be.  But, that's a story for a different blog.

Part of it, though, is thus:

I'm a hoarder.

Let me explain...

For the longest time, I thought it was because I was a flake, a failure, an idea-haver but not an idea-doer, a project-starter, but not a project-finisher.

Every time I see a Women's World magazine boasting of some miracle way to lose weight by drinking water or walking, I buy it.  I have a bunch of them.  I've never actually followed through with any of these seemingly amazing feats.  I do the crossword and sudoku, though.  I'll even read the articles.  I buy them with the intent of losing many, many pounds and maybe even being awarded a sum of money for their choosing of something I wrote to publish in their awesome magazine.  But I've never done it.

I have buckets and totes of fabric.  I've nabbed up-for-grabs material off of facebook.  I have quilting patterns and books and notions of all sorts.  I have the sewing machine, a sewing table with two long, folding leaves for making of great things.  I have thread and zippers and buttons and a cool peg board in which to organize my "tools".  I even have a list of items I can make and possibly sell.  But I've never done it.

I have yarn.  Lots and lots of yarn.  I've self-taught myself crochet and knitting.  I have patterns and books and needles and hooks (now I'm channeling my inner Dr. Seuss).  I've bookmarked things on the internet.  I even have a sweet chair in my very own sewing/craft/office room, for those moments when others are occupied and I have time to myself.  I've added to my list things I could make and possibly sell.  But I've never done it.

I have yoga paraphernalia.  Yoga mat, bricks, belt, DVDs, books, a yoga bible, even... I have it all.  I found several programs through a friend and online where I can learn to be a yoga instructor.  But I've never done it.

I have so many workout DVDs.  Yoga, pilates, cardio, hula, dance, Beachbody of all sorts, kickboxing.  I buy them thinking, this is it - this will make the weight problem go away.  But I never stick with them.

I have receipts and various filled pages in notebooks and random pieces of paper with my book ideas.  But I've never written them.

I bought a guitar.  I bought a piano.  I even have sheet music from my favorite artist.  But I've never learned.

I used to have a book for learning sign language.  I have water colors and a full book of water color paper.  I have a blank canvas.  I have a very expensive camera I haven't used in years.  I have a calligraphy book and pens.  I have shelves of books I've never read.

All of these things.  I collect them.  I never do anything with them, but I keep them, just in case.  Someday I'll do something with them, right? I keep adding to them, too, like what I have isn't enough.

It didn't occur to me until recently.  I hoard them.

I'm a hoarder.

I hoard good intentions.

The Middlest Child

When I found out I was pregnant, I was afraid to tell my husband.  I told my best friend, first.  I don't even remember how I told my husband.  We weren't trying for a baby.  We had a miscarriage less than a year, earlier.  I can tell you what day it was likely we conceived.  (July 13, 2008)

I was scheduled for a c-section March 26, 2009.  I went to the ER with real contractions, before that, maybe a couple weeks? I wasn't progressing, cried a bit on the phone, with my mom, then went home.

A few days before I was to have him, it snowed.  Like, a lot.   I was panicked.  And pregnant.  And full of anxiety.  And bossing my husband by quite seriously demanding he go start shoveling.  All worked out, though.  We were able to get to the hospital, as was my doctor.  And the c-section was uneventful.  

Then came the postpartum depression.  If you backtrack through my blog around that time, you'll see much evidence of this.  I don't care to remember - you'll just have to read about it.

Many years of sleepless nights and bed-wetting, later, we find he has sleep apnea.  One surgery and two very long weeks, later, that problem is fixed.  

A small year after that, he started Kindergarten.  He was only slightly hesitant and held back the tears.  And he did great.

Then we moved to a new state (third one he's lived in, in his short life) and he experienced major anxiety issues when it came to school.  Again, you'll just have to read.  I've already talked about it and made my peace with it - no need to dredge it up, now.  

He's in a school he loves, now.  He has friends he loves, now.  He's been playing sports he loves, now.  He's growing grown-up teeth and eating like his body is growing, too.  He's super smart and so very sweet and loves babies and his brothers and sister.  He loves trains and hot dogs and soccer and video games and avocados and onions. Onions! He dislikes reading and watching TV and hard candy and steak.  Steak! He wears glasses because he's got his mama's eyes.  And his mama's nose.  And his mama's face.  And his mama's feet.  And his mama's mouth (and, unfortunately, his mama's teeth).  I predict he'll have his mama's lack of height (5' 9" is my official guess).

And now he's eight.  Which is a big deal for folks like us.  This is the age of accountability.  (Mostly.)  When a child turns eight in my church, they have the opportunity to be baptized.  He's choosing to do so.  We've been doing our best to prepare him and teach him and guide him in what we believe to be right and true and good.  I can't believe we're here.  I still remember, quite clearly, praying and praying and praying that he would just sleep.  For the love of all that is holy - JUST. SLEEP.  I remember being comforted by my Heavenly Father during those tender moments.  I say tender because that's what they were.  They were opportunities for me to love him, to hold him, to rock him and sing to him and just be us.  Yes, I was tired.  But those moments are not there, anymore.  I had so many opportunities to hold him.  I'm grateful for the gentle reminder that one night, a little less than eight years, ago, that this is special.  This won't last forever.  It won't.  One day - these days, to be exact - he won't need me to hold him and rock him and comfort him.  These days, he has a little brother who usually tags along and gets most of the attention.  These days, he's gaining on me, height-wise, and holding him on my lap is awkward, to say the least.  These days, he sleeps.  

I remember quite clearly how I felt about his spirit before I was able to hold his little body.  I felt him as a strong, silent leader.  When my husband told me his name (he picked them all out), I felt it, again.  Quinlan Thomas Hamblin.  

For now, he's still my Quinnie.  His cheeks are still squishy and smoochable.  He still lets me smooch them, too.  And he loves hugs.  My sweet boy.

My Littlest Little

My stinky little dude is five, today.

He's the life of the party.

His favorite color is pink.

He loves kitties and puppies.

He calls all meat chicken and loves to eat it with barbecue sauce.

He's been able to ride a bike without training wheels for some time, now; better than he was ever able to ride it with them.

He's not so scared of things, anymore.  (He used to be afraid of the night sky and water.)

He doesn't like heights, but he's getting braver.

He's good at making people laugh with things he says.

I haven't met someone, yet, who doesn't get a kick outta this kid.

I've been blessed with a keen awareness that his little won't last very long.  I can still hold my "little ball of boy" and he still "loves me so much".

But, he's five, today.

He's all registered for kindergarten and has had (and hated) his shots.

He doesn't like to wear shoes with socks, like his mom.

He has a super kind heart and will share with anyone.

He still sees things that bigger people don't have time to notice.

He's always more than happy to "have the rest" of whatever it is you're eating or drinking.

He still loves his soft blankies - the ones we used as burp cloths.  He was so pukey, he attached to them because we always had them when we had him.

He loves to make people notes and stick them in envelopes.

He still gets excited about stickers and play-doh and bunnies in the backyard.

He loves whatever music his sister loves, and whatever computer games his brothers love.

Oh, he's such a sweet little boy.

And he's five.

Slow down, time.

Night and Day

I was thinking, this morning, how I wanted to start a blog to share my life with others...

I think there have been more posts that are for me, though.

This one is.

To say our move to Arizona, was stressful, would be quite the understatement.  I've posted (i.e. whined) about that, enough, though.

I took my sweet 7 year old to his new school for the first time, today.

I was just going to drop him, off, but decided I would walk him to where he lines up.

They wouldn't let me past the gate.

So, he just walked in.  No hug, no looking back.  I had to call his name, just so he would turn around to say goodbye.

He waved and just kept on walking.

No picture.  No tears.

He just went right in and kept going.

This should come as a relief, to me... Don't get me, wrong - it does.

But...... it was so uneventful! Shouldn't the first day of school be more than just a wave?

I'm having to remind myself that this only means I've done something right, as a mother.  He's confident, brave, and ready to face a new challenge, with new people, in a new place.

He just went in.

This is a good thing.

Moving forward

I withdrew my son from his last school, today.

He'll be going to a new school, next year, which I'm so very thrilled about.

As I walked to my car, though, I got all emotional.

We started this last school a month after it had already started.  My kids didn't know anyone.  They had just been moved from one state to another, mostly against their will.

It was rough.

I remember feeling stressed to tears on a daily basis.  To know my kids were having a hard time and not liking their new school made things worse.

My boy whom I withdrew, today, struggled the most, I think.  He had such a hard time going each day.  I had to practically drag him in, and he usually ended up crying.  Once, he was so stressed about going, he got sick in the parking lot.  Another time, I had to have two teachers hold him, back, just so I could leave the building.  I questioned him in as many ways as I could to make sure nothing horrible was happening to him.  I talked to his teacher.  I talked to the front office.  He just had major anxiety.  And it was hard.

So, why the emotion, today?

Because we have been through so much and we survived.  It was bittersweet to leave that school.  I won't miss it; I'm just glad we're in a better place and settled and finally happy to be here.

The thing I said the most during those troubled times was, "We can do hard things".

And we did.