Snickerdoodles

My daughter seems happy lately.

It is such a rare and fragile thing. Like a delicate butterfly that suddenly lands on your hand. You just want to freeze time, stay still, and not risk a sudden, stupid movement that will cause the beautiful creature to fly away.

I just came home from grocery shopping and found my normally mercurial, moody tween beaming from ear to ear. She proudly declared that she had made snickerdoodles from scratch while I was gone. When I asked what had possessed her, she said, "Well, you told me once that a great way to show love is to bake. So..."

I'm hiding in the bathroom right now, crying a little, as I type this.

What a privilege it is, being her mother.

Annual Mothers Day Post

Mother's Day is my favorite day of the year.

I take great pride in being a mother, and great joy in a day dedicated to celebrating that role - not only for myself, but for others as well. For a girl born on Christmas, it is still a rather new experience to have a day that's all about me. And yeah. I know that sounds selfish. It is selfish. And that's okay. It's okay to be selfish once in awhile, to crave and need a day/hour/moment where the focus is on you. Everyone deserves that, at least once a year, don't you think? I do...and when it's my turn, believe you me - I revel in it.

Not that Mother's Day is all about me. I not only am a mother, I have one too - a pretty brilliant one at that...a truly selfless woman that I love and appreciate more than I can ever show. I have a beautiful plethora of other mothers in my life as well - mother-in-law, sister, aunts, cousins, friends - that inspire me every day. And I see the joy in my daughters' eyes on Mother's Day, the excitement they feel at having an excuse to share their feelings and spoil me a little. Of course, we don't only share our feelings on Mother's Day. But the ritual of it all is nice, as it is for any other holiday - having that annual reminder to tell the mothers in your life that matter to you...well, that they matter to you.

For all of these reasons, Mother's Day is my favorite day of the year. But I recognize, probably now more than ever, that a day that means so much to me can mean something very different to other people.

People who have lost their mothers. People who have lost a child. People who grew up without a mother. People who have complex relationships with their mothers, and/or with their children. People who are not mothers, and desperately want to be. Even people who are not mothers, and choose not to be.

I see you all. I don't pretend to know what your experience feels like. But I see it, I respect it, and to all those that associate Mother's Day with pain or loss, my heart aches for you.

Please know that my joy in this day is not in any way meant to cause you pain, even though I realize that it still might. It is simply my truth. For those who feel alone or sad on this day, or any day, I truly wish you warmth and peace. That feels woefully inadequate, yet it is all I have to offer.

And now...my way to honor the tremendous effort my family puts into making Mother's Day so special for me. Some treasures from my favorite day, courtesy of my favorite people in the world.

The day actually started off the night before, when I came home late from my show to a completely clean house. They even mopped! They were three busy bees while mama was at the theater. Then I woke up to beautiful tulips, and a few surprises.

Emma made me a double layer red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting, baked and decorated all by herself.

Sophie had several homemade gifts for me, but this was my favorite.

The biggest surprise was waking up to an egg hunt! Chris and the girls each wrote specific things that they loved about me on little pieces of paper, and then folded the notes into emoji eggs that they hid all around the house for me to find. Best. Gift. Ever.

Sophie's Letter to the Tooth Fairy

Sophie lost a tooth yesterday. Here's the note she put under her pillow for the Tooth Fairy to find. IF THIS ISN'T THE CUTEST THING YOU'VE EVER SEEN, THEN YOU HAVE NO SOUL. Pretty cute, huh? It's the picture of the tooth itself that kills me.

Translation: "Dear Tooth Fairy, I accidentally swallowed my tooth. So if you don't find my tooth I swallowed it on accident but you can still give me money or a toy. Love your friend Sophie Mathews.

My Favorite Day

First of all, HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY to all the awesome moms I know, and all the ones I don't. Every mother in the world deserves a day of appreciation and pampering, which is probably why the powers-that-be went and made Mother's Day a national holiday and all. 

Since having kids, this is my favorite day of the year. Maybe because I'm a Christmas baby, or maybe absolutely because I'm a narcissist, I really like having a day all about me! And my family puts so much thought into making the day special, which really touches me.

I absolutely love seeing the excitement in my girls as they give me my presents. This year, Sophie woke me up with a Breakfast in Bed Bag, complete with tea and a granola bar.

She also decorated a special photo frame for me. She was very proud of herself, as she should be.

Emma gave me a wonderful gift basket with a picture frame she put together at school, three new nail polishes, and a lime orange foot rub that she made from scratch. (My DIY girl.)

 

Em also made me a card, with a picture of me (not bad, right?) and a beautiful note inside that made me cry. (It references another gift still to come. She knows how to build anticipation!)

And both girls wrote me something special...a letter from Sophie and a poem from Emma.

 

 

Chris would not be outdone, surprising me with a brand new desk. Our old one came with the house, and it's been held together by random staples and lots of prayer for quite awhile. I was totally blown away by the surprise.

Even better than the gift itself is that he worked all day long to put the thing together for me. As he labored away, I told my girls that flowers and candy might be the stuff of fairy tales, but having a guy dedicate an entire day toward building something just for you is true romance. Sophie said, "Mommy, it makes me so happy that Daddy did that for you. It makes me happy that he loves you."

Eight hours later, the masterpiece was complete. Ta da! My hero.

I am full of gratitude for this wonderful family of mine. I sure do dig them a lot, and I'm super glad they feel the same way about me. Long live Mother's Day!

The Mathews Family on NYE: A Photo/Video Essay

New Year's Eve 2013 in the Mathews household was all about the board games. And cocktails. And games. And tears. And games. And ridiculous local television coverage that made me embarrassed for Chicago. And GAMES!

New Year's Eve begins with a rousing game of Beat the Parents! Will they beat us? Time will tell. And yes, those are Mommy and Daddy drinks in the picture. We gotta level the playing field somehow, folks.

 

The kids win! BUT...the parents are into their third cocktail each, which means....THE PARENTS WIN TOO!!!!

Next board game...Labyrinth. Who will win, WHO WILL WIN?

And the victor is...Emma! Final verdict for Labyrinth: two thumbs up. In fact, we like it so much, we play it again.

Labyrinth Take 2: Sophie wins! Very proud smile with tears still drying on her face because 30 seconds earlier, she was convinced she had lost and crumpled into a sobbing mass of despair. Ah...the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, the emotional roller coaster of Olympians and six-year-olds everywhere.

Up next...Make 'N' Break.

Make 'N' Break: A Video Snippet.

We have a winner!!! Anyone notice I'm the only one that hasn't won a game yet? I blame the margaritas. Also...this is not normally how my husband looks. He doesn't usually come across this handsome. :)

All four of us made it til midnight, and all we got was this lousy awesome selfie. :)

Happy 2014 from the Mathews family! May your year be filled with wonder, laughter and love.

Us on a Tuesday

The girls and I are hanging out today.

They let me sleep in until 10:00am, which is practically unprecedented. More accurately, Sophie let Emma and me sleep in. She got up about 7:00, crept into my room, grabbed my ipad, and headed to the family room for a three hour marathon of "My Little Pony." Normally I wouldn't let her watch videos on my ipad for that long, but considering I would probably let both girls bungee jump off the roof in exchange for extra sleep (as long as they promised to be quiet), extended screen time seems pretty benign, don't you think?

After I arise (and Emma soon after me...she is a definite non-morning person just like her mother), we eat breakfast and start whittling away at Sophie's birthday gifts that have yet to be opened. Sophie makes duct tape pencils and Lalaloopsy pop bead necklaces while Emma listens to music on her ipod. Em gets distracted more often than not by Sophie's activities and clearly longs to be part of the fun. She is at war with herself, trapped in that weird land of childlike tweendom, torn between "little kid" and "big kid" endeavors. She wears the struggle like a coat, for all to see, although she herself is unaware. Finally, she abandons the ipod and hunkers down on the floor alongside her sister, joining Sophie in dressing Minnie Mouse in gorgeous snap-on ensembles. The struggle usually ends this way, with Emma jumping into her sister's world, as delighted as Sophie to play with dolls and other "babyish" things. I am very aware that soon--tomorrow, next month, next year?--the struggle will end very differently and/or change altogether. But for today, fun has won. My girls are truly enjoying each other, and I listen to their exquisite giggles as I work at the computer.

I ask the girls to get dressed. Emma brushes her hair and wails "Oh my god, it hurts SO MUCH, I can't take it, I CAN'T TAKE IT!" for 10 minutes while Sophie and I pointedly ignore her. The girls help me dye my hair, which is to say that they laugh and tell me I look like a weird alien as I wait for the dye to set. We eat lunch. They play the "He Is Dead" game, which seems to consist of pointing at imaginary bodies on the ground and chanting, "He is dead! He is dead! He has a bullet in his head!" They morph into different games with odd titles like "It's Dead As A Chicken Bone!" (sense a theme?), "The Hug Game," and "Spit Or Don't Spit? You Decide." (Yes, they title all their pretend games.) The games seem to include a lot of running and pushing and wrestling around, punctuated by frequent declarations of "T," which means time-out. Emma is always the leader, although Sophie is often the mastermind. Every game ends the same way--one girl accidentally gets too rough with the other, harsh words are exchanged, tears are shed, and then play resumes before I even have time to intervene.

We move on from pretend games to doing Barbie hair and listening to Ariana Grande. The girls discuss the merits of high ponytails vs. braids, and Emma tells Sophie she is really good at taking care of her dolls. Sophie beams with pleasure at the rare compliment from her big sister. They argue over which of their favorites on "The Voice" (Jaquie or Caroline) should win. Emma suddently screams, "It's so hard to brush her hair when HER HEAD KEEPS MOVING!" while seemingly oblivious to the fact that Barbie's head keeps moving because she keeps moving. Emma hands me a list of 19 songs she wants me to download for her ipod.

We head out for errands. Marshall's for winter coats - Fail. Corner Bakery for monster cookies - Success. (OF COURSE.) Costco for Thanksgiving supplies. Library for movies to see us through the long weekend. Burlington Coat Factory for winter coats - Success, but only after 90 minutes of wading through six rows of coats sized 2T to 20, in absolutely no order. (Come on Burlington...you're better than that. Have some pride, dude.) Sophie is the holdout. After wading through tons of coats for numerous options that are tried and rejected, one coat is declared the winner. We walk to the checkout area at the other side of the store, stand in line for the next available clerk, and approach the register. As the clerk begins to ring us up, Sophie pulls her classic Actually move, as in, "Actually, I don't like this one after all." And she does this twice. TWICE. We go back, look again, go through the same routine, only for her to change her mind at the register a second time. I come very close to screaming right in her face, "I WILL NOT LET YOUR EVIL DEFEAT ME." (I settle for screaming it in my head instead.) Finally, as they say, the third time is the charm. However, of course, the coat she finally settles on is twice the price of Emma's coat and every other coat we have tried. When I complain about this, she shrugs and says, "I'm sorry. I didn't know how much it would cost. I don't know how much being happy costs, Mommy."

Now we are nestled back at home, and they are again listening to Ariana while I finish this post and start to scramble for dinner. I forgot some of the ingredients I need when we were out shopping earlier, so Chris will run to the store for me after work. I will make tilapia, Emma's favorite...complete with a salami sandwich for Sophie, who will not touch fish even under threat of grievous bodily harm. We will gather together after dinner and watch last night's "The Voice," with one girl snuggled on each side of me. (Poor Daddy. The girls adore him, but I get all the snuggles. Doesn't seem fair, does it?) We will do showers and brush teeth and read books and sing lullabies, and after the girls are all tucked into bed, we will Skype our beloved friends in New York for a long overdue check in. I'll make a list before bed of all the packing/organizing/cleaning/etc. that needs to be done tomorrow before we hit the road for St. Louis. And I will fall to sleep thinking of 1) how much I love my family, 2) how blessed I am that they love me back, and 3) how very, very much I have to do in the morning. In that order...I hope.

Days like today, with all the chaos and simplicity, make me so unbelievably grateful. I seem to have accidentally built myself the perfect imperfect life...or at least, the perfect one for me.

One Happy Mutha

Mother's Day has become my favorite day of the year. I was born on Christmas (as I think maybe I've mentioned once or twice or many, many times before), so until Mother's Day came along, I didn't know what it was like to have a day totally focused on me and nobody else. And I gotta say...I dig it. A lot.

Today marked my tenth Mother's Day. (Hell YES, the "in utero" one counts!) As usual, my family pulled out all the stops. I was greeted with flowers, handmade gifts, a new apron, a digital picture frame, a gift card to my favorite nail place, and lots and lots and lots and lots of love. My girls were actually waiting right outside my bedroom when I first woke up, pouncing on me the minute I emerged and bursting with excitement to give me their gifts. Nothing in the world can match the feeling of knowing that there are people in my life - people that I MADE - who love me so intensely that they literally cannot wait to make me happy.

I am so grateful to my husband for letting me be a lazy bum all day, and for always making me feel like the most amazing mother on the planet. And to all the moms I know - especially to my mommy Christine and mother-in-law Pat - HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

This is the pic on my apron. So cute!

This is Sophie's rendition of me. I think she made me look really beautiful.

This is from Emma. On the far right (partially hidden under a feather) it says, To be the best is good, but love is better. She told me, "I came up with that all by myself, just from thinking of the kind of mommy you are to me." Ha! I'm with Emma - being the "best" anything, especially the best mom, is impossible anyway; I'd definitely rather have love. I'll never stop being fascinated by the way this kid's mind works.

These Are Our Demands

Emma and Sophie were upstairs yesterday "cleaning their rooms" (ie, playing/reading/fighting/giggling/procrastinating) when Chris found this note at the foot of the stairs:

(Background: Emma talked Grandma Kitty into buying her a huge stuffed seal from Ikea. She may be the teensiest bit impatient about its arrival.)

Sophie then came downstairs, delivered this note, and solemnly exited the room without a word:

(Background: the kids miss their grandparents, aunt and cousins. A lot.)

They were clearly very serious, so Chris and I were careful to make sure they were both out of sight before cracking up laughing. One thing about kids - one of the BEST things about kids - is that you truly never know what's coming next.

Emma the Brave

Emma had her first day of third grade yesterday. (Btw, check out the new accessories in the pic below. Yep, Em finally took the plunge and got her ears pierced on Monday. Every time I see those little earrings twinkling away, I'm struck by how damn mature they make her look. It's semi-terrifying.)

As most of you know, we moved out to the 'burbs this summer after 14 years of city living. So yesterday not only marked the start of a new grade for Emma, but also a brand new school at which she didn't know a soul. I was so lucky growing up because I never once had to change schools. I lived in the same town - hell, the same house - my entire childhood, and the kids I met in kindergarten were the same ones I graduated alongside senior year. I always thought being the "new kid" would be so scary, and I wasn't really sure how Emma would handle the transition. This is the first time we've moved since she's been born, so there was really no precedent. She was super nervous, I was super nervous, and there were a few tears from both of us as I dropped her off. But when the last bell of the morning rang and her class began shuffling inside, she marched right into that school building and didn't once look back. I was so damn proud of her. At pick up, she greeted me with a huge smile and declared that her day was "awesome" and she already had two new friends. I gave her a huge hug and kept chanting in my head, "Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you."

Her first homework assignment of the year was to fill a paper bag with three items that really describe who she is. She decided one should be a picture of her doing a cartwheel. (Sadly, just a few minutes after the below photo was taken, Em's foot got into a fight with the entertainment center during a cartwheel-gone-wrong and the entertainment center won. Now she's rocking a nasty slice the whole length of her foot, which I think she's rather proud of.) The other two things she selected were a pen to represent her love of writing, and a smiley face because she likes to tell jokes. She's not particularly adept at telling jokes, but it's true that the girl definitely digs telling them. 

THIRD. GRADE. Wow. It feels unreal. If anyone out there knows how to stop time, drop me a line please...sooner rather than later. In the meantime, I'm just gonna keep watching this little girl of mine blossom and try to stay the hell out of her way.

Beauty. Love. Safety.

Rough night in the Mathews household.

Emma was a grumpy, mouthy mess most of the afternoon. Finally, after multiple reprimands and consequences, I asked out of sheer frustration, "What is wrong with you?"

She climbed onto my lap, put her arms around me, buried her face in my chest, and started unloading a jumble of thoughts that were clearly weighing heavily on her. She doesn't like the way she looks. Her hair has holes in it and doesn't "stick together" and hang straight like she wants. Her face is a mixture of mine and Chris's, but she doesn't look like either one of us, just a weird blend of both of us that doesn't add up and makes her feel "like I'm not yours, like, for real." She likes her legs and her feet and her arms, but what does it matter if her face and hair are not perfect? Kids at school tell her she looks weird. Her teeth are crooked, her eyes are too big, her nose is "fat," her ears stick out. She hates all the clothes she wears because they don't cover up her face, and she wants me to help her change it, change her, so she looks like somebody new, somebody beautiful.

I was completely, utterly stunned. I tried hard to take in what she was saying and not just rush in with compliments and contradictions. I endeavored to keep my expression neutral, but my mind was churning with despairing thoughts: Dear god, this starts at eight years old??? I am wholly unprepared to tackle these issues so soon. What do I do? What do I say? What do I not say? How to proceed?

I told her I thought she was beautiful. She said I was just saying that because I am her mom. I told her that what she was feeling was common, that many people struggle with accepting who they are and how they look, including myself. She said she didn't believe me. I told her that nobody is perfect, and that our imperfections are actually what make us most beautiful, both inside and out. She said she didn't understand.

So I just shut up and held her. After awhile, she mumbled into my neck, "I don't want to leave here."

I thought she meant that she didn't want to leave our apartment, because we are moving in three days. But she clarified that she meant "here" literally, as in where she was at that exact moment.

"When I am in your arms, I feel safe. Your skin is warm and I can feel your heart beating and I know that you love me no matter what. I wish I could always be with you, and then I would never be scared."

I leaned down and whispered in her ear, "Emma, what you just said was beautiful. That is beauty. Love is beauty. All the rest of it - the hair, the face, the clothes - those are just distractions. Please don't let yourself get distracted."

She took this in, looked into my eyes, and said, "Okay. I think I understand, Mommy. That I understand."

I held her for a bit more before Sophie got tired of sharing me and wiggled her way in between us. I watched Emma resume cleaning her room, still struck dumb by the most mature and profound conversation I have ever had with my daughter. Then I prayed that the next time she feels unworthy - whether it be five minutes, hours, days, months, or years from now (oh please god, let it be years...can it please be years?) - she will remember the safety of my arms as she navigates the twisty road of self-doubt and self-loathing. Because honestly, as much as the knowledge terrifies me, I know that a safe place to fall is the only true and tangible thing I have to offer her. The rest she must do on her own. And I think she knows it too...which is a pretty shitty lesson to learn at eight years old.

A Rocken Mother's Day for a Rocken Mom

Because my birthday is on Christmas (which, yes, has always kinda sucked), and Christmas is really all about the kids (and rightfully so, in my opinion), Mother's Day is my best "me" day of the year now. My family goes out of their way to make it really special, and this year was no exception. Check it out!

A bouquet of flowers from each girl to start my day...pink-tipped roses from Emma and "rainbow flowers" from Sophie. (Clearly, Sophie has inherited my knowledge of plants b/c I would have dubbed them the exact same thing.) They were both quick to point out that they picked out their own ribbons too.

As you all know, I am obsessed with photo books. Well, my husband has apparently jumped on the bandwagon. Welcome to the funhouse, Chris! Emma made and decorated the green paper house for me, and Chris put together an awesome Mother's Day photo book that I will seriously treasure forever.

Emma made me many wonderful drawings and cards, including a meticulously rendered sketch of Gir from "Invador Zim." (And really, what mother doesn't want a drawing of a weird-looking robot for Mother's Day?) But the above poem that she wrote for me was my absolute favorite gift. She was so proud and insisted on reading it out loud. I LOVE how this girl's mind works. (p.s. I've never had carrot juice in my life.)

I loved the outside of Emma's poem-card too (above). I am particularly fond of the exclamation point family.

Sophie was in a bit of a mood on our family walk...I think she was regretting her decision to adamantly refuse to draw or make me anything all week long after she saw the huge haul her sister gave me and all the extra hugs and kisses of thanks Emma received as a result. :) (Don't worry - she got plenty of hugs and kisses of her own! But everything's a competition with sisters, you know.) She was pouty, and she needed major coaxing to sit and smile for the camera. Right after the above picture was taken, the girls ran off to fight over who could pick the most dandelions and Chris and I screamed at them to get out of the way of bikers flying down the jogging path and Sophie's shoe kept falling off while she ran and she eventually ended up bursting into tears because she didn't want fish sticks for lunch, even though no one had mentioned fish sticks for lunch. So all in all, a typical Sunday...which is to say: AWESOME. I love my sweet, combative, nonsensical, divinely imperfect family just the way we are, and I'm grateful every day that they love me too.

Happy Mother's Day to all the "rocken" moms out there!!!!!

Best Gift Ever

2011 was a rough year for me.

Wow. Just typing that sentence feels self-indulgent. And, in a way, I believe that it is.

This past year was not filled with any debilitating disasters or losses for me. In fact, if anything, 2011 was a year of riches, particularly compared to what others endure every day. I still have my job, and acquired another one this year that I love equally. My children are healthy, happy, and thriving. My husband, in spite of all reason, seems to love me more than ever. I am surrounded by supportive family and wonderful friends. I want for nothing that I truly need. And therefore, any complaining on my part feels not only self-indulgent, but selfish and petty. I mean, if life were rated on a 1-10 scale, any objective observer would give mine a 9. I am a very lucky woman, and I am deeply grateful.

I just sometimes have trouble feeling it all.

Clinical depression is something I have struggled with my entire adult life. I was first diagnosed in college, and Depression and I have had a very up-and-down relationship ever since. Like any relationship, we have moments of bliss when everything seems to click. I let Depression alone, and she does the same for me. We do our own thing and are happy for it. We are both still aware of the other's presence, but that awareness only helps enhance our happiness because we both understand, more intimately than anyone else could, how hard we've fought to get to such an awesome place. In blissful times, we are each other's biggest supporters. We stand back and cheer each other on unobtrusively.

But there are darker times in the relationship when we clash. We drag each other down, tear each other apart, hold each other back. Those are the really rough patches, the valleys of despair when the only defense against the pain is to embrace numbness. The goal becomes simply to plow through, to try not to feel anything. But the numbness becomes heavy, like pounds of mud sitting on my shoulders, and it takes all my energy just to keep moving through the muck. I feel exhausted, weighed down, apathetic, detached. During those times, Depression and I are not on the same side. We want different things - I to rise up, and she to keep me down. And so, it becomes a battle. Once more into the breach, dear friends. We fight, and fight, and fight, and fight, and fight again.

2011 was a year of fighting.

Depression and I have been together a long time. Long enough for me to know that eventually, we will once again find a way to live together peacefully. It takes time, and patience, and a lot of work. Some days we almost get there; other days we are at each others' throats. However, after many years of denial, I've finally accepted that Depression isn't going anywhere. No matter how hard I try to push her away, she always comes back. We seem to need each other, her and I. For better or worse, we are a pair. Whether friend or enemy (and she has been both to me), she is always a part of my life. Recognizing that fact has been oddly liberating. While I don't particularly enjoy Depression's company, knowing that I can finally stop expending so much energy trying to get rid of her is freeing. Depression is here to stay. The only option is for us to learn to co-exist, and that is what I focus my energy on now. Finding and maintaining the balance between us is continuous work, but it is worthwhile work.

And so, in 2012, the work continues.

I don't talk about my relationship with Depression much because, as I referenced earlier, doing so often feels self-indulgent. I fear that people will judge me, will look at my admittedly wonderful life and think, "What in the hell do you have to feel depressed about?" And part of the reason I fear that is because, deep down, I share that opinion. It is ridiculous that I should feel so empty when my life is so full. It makes NO SENSE. But, unfortunately, depression is a senseless illness. I know that to be true. Yet I still struggle with the guilt of not being able to just shake off the damn self-pity and enjoy life. So if I - someone who understands depression more than your average Joe - can still feel that way, it seems reasonable that others would probably label me a whiny narcissist.

Yet, on the flip side, the same average Joe doesn't have the opportunity to understand depression if no one ever talks about it. Ay, there's the rub. (Oh, William. You understood depression well, didn't you my friend?)

There is still much to my relationship with Depression that I don't feel comfortable revealing...and perhaps I never will. Like any relationship, I believe that many of the more intimate details should remain private. However, I do think it important to try and strip away the fear of speaking of it at all. Giving voice can mean giving hope, and if my words help someone else, even in the smallest of ways, then the outcome outweighs the fear.

The one person in this world who understands the intricacies of my relationship with Depression better than any other is my husband. He knows how hard I am on myself, how much I struggle to feel my own beauty and worth, how much my depression manifests itself as self-loathing. He has seen the darkest parts of me, the parts that I hide from all others, and he is still my most steadfast friend and supporter. That alone is a priceless gift. And on my birthday a few days ago, he and my daughters gave me another gift - one of the most precious gifts I have ever received.

It was a simple hand mirror. (I have never owned a hand mirror. I'll let you guess why that might be.) But they decorated the back for me and attached a note to the mirror with ribbon.

I don't know if I will ever get to a place where I am able to fully accept myself as I am. One of the most harmful aspects of my relationship with Depression is how thoroughly she erodes my self-worth. But I believe that love IS beauty. So at this moment, as I hold my mirror in my hand and stare into the glass, I see the love of my family reflected back at me. And that love makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

My Core Rocks

Emma just gave me this birthday poem. I haven't quite decoded it all, and I'm starting to worry a bit about her spelling, but still...it made me smile.

Mom,
Your so sweat [methinks she meant "sweet"]
Because you have so much needs!
Even though you have so much core,
You have a husben who is a little bit more.
Happy birthday Mom!
Hope you have a wonderful call!
Merre Christmas!

A Girl Can Dream

Here is a photo of one of the girls' many awesome Christmas gifts. They are pretty excited about it, but I don't think their excitement even comes close to matching mine. It came about 30 years later than I wanted, but I finally got my dream dollhouse. I may even let Emma and Sophie play with it once in awhile. Maybe.

FUN: A Photo Essay (and check out that gee-OR-geous TREE)

Four Years at Supersonic Speed

Four years ago today, I was super pumped to give birth. Being knocked up with my second child, it wasn't as if I didn't know what was coming. I knew my way around a delivery room, and I also knew that a lot of the crap that goes down in there is not pretty. Still...I was like - BRING. IT. ON.

After months of nausea (to all you first-trimester-only "morning" sickness sufferers, I simply say: AMATEURS) and increasingly stressful attempts to control my gestational diabetes that grew from a restricted diet and some finger pricks to a daily regimen of six insulin shots and calls to my endocrinologist every morning, noon and night (literally), I was really really really really really ready to not be pregnant anymore.

So I waddled into that hospital as giddy as a kid on Christmas morning. And after twelve hours of labor, four failed epidural attempts, one sweet-ASS epidural success, and a mercifully small number of pushes, Miss Sophie Patrice Mathews entered the world.

I can't believe that was four years ago. Our baby is not a baby any longer, and my heart sings and breaks simultaneously at the very thought of it. I wish sometimes that I could scrunch her into a little baby ball, like human Play-Doh, and cradle her infant self in my arms just one more time. But mostly, I relish seeing her develop into this independent, feisty, sweet, clever, fantastic little girl...and I'm eager to continue watching her change and grow.

Happy birthday to our beautiful four-year-old! They haven't invented a word yet that adequately expresses how much you are loved, darling Sophie.

The Chalkboard of Feelings

I sent the girls to their own rooms for some much-needed alone time after an afternoon of seemingly endless arguing between the two. Emma didn't get a chance to grab her doll Molly beforehand, and I wouldn't let her go back out and get her. (In all honesty, mostly because I was feeling too pissy/petty/annoyed to answer anything other than "No" in the moment.)

A few minutes later, she told me to come read what she'd written to me on her chalkboard. "If something is underlined," Em explained, "that means I REALLY mean it." Here's what the chalkboard said:

I told her that she had expressed her feelings very clearly, and I was proud of her for putting her anger into words instead of screaming or throwing a fit. However, I admitted that when I heard she'd written something especially for me, I had hoped it might be something nice.

A few minutes later, she called me back in to read this:

Good gravy, do I love this girl.

A pumpkin ate my finger!

This was the best I could manage with a sawed-off Qtip. If anyone knows where we can get inexpensive polish pens for design stuff like this, let me know. (Nail painting is one of my secret weapons - it keeps the girls occupied, happy and still for at least a half hour or so, and it's actually kinda fun to do.)

Happy Halloweeeeeeeeeen!

Indigo Girls...You Complete Me (And My Daughters?)

For those of you who skip the ramblings on this blog and go straight for the cute stuff, I'll reveal up front that there is a video of the girls singing at the end of this post. Now you can just scroll down and click, if you so choose, instead of wading through my long-winded love letter to the Indigo Girls.

I have been an Indigo Girls fan for almost 20 years. Our one-sided love affair began when I was a freshman in college. (Good lord, has it seriously been NINETEEN YEARS since I first went off to college?!? I feel sweaty even thinking about it. Or maybe I'm just having a hot flash. But I digress.) My roommate, Rebecca, brought this weird contraption called a CD player. Now, CD players weren't all that new back in 1992 - I'm not that old. But I grew up in a super-awesome-but-financially-strapped-family, so CD players were certainly new to me. (In fact, going from a town of 500 people to a campus with over 30,000 students, many things were new to me at college...but that's a post for another day.)

Rebecca taught me many things during our four month stint as roommates, before I drove her across campus to another dorm for fear she'd commit murder if she lived with me another day. (No worries...we ended up great friends. Life is strange, no?) Here's just a brief list of some of the life lessons I learned while sharing space with Reba:

1. The power of a good hug.
2. The joy of executing the perfect prank.
3. The exhilarating release of throwing rotten fruit and watching it explode into a zillion pieces.
4. When you hear a vacuum running and Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" playing on repeat, it means you will not be sleeping in your own bed for awhile.
5. Not everyone is a TV person.
6. You can love someone and still want to strangle them.

But the best thing Rebecca brought into my life was the Indigo Girls. I still remember the very first time she played me "Ghost" off of Rites of Passage. No other song, before or since, has ever reached into my heart and squeezed. I lost myself in the haunting music and lyrics. It was almost as if I was in a trance. I know it sounds dramatic, but I knew at that moment I'd found something special that would stay with me for the rest of my life. And I was right.

Simply put, I fell head over heels in love that day. And over the last two decades, my love has only grown stronger. To say that the Indigo Girls is my favorite music group is a bit of an understatement. I own almost everything they've ever produced - including several rare discs that were only released overseas. I've seen them in concert at least 20 times. (At this point, I"ve seriously lost count.) "Power of Two" was my wedding song. If and when I ever get up the nerve to get that first tattoo I've been fantasizing about for years, it will be a quote from one of their songs. And on one perfect day in 2004, I even pulled a few strings at my PR job (which is a nice way of saying that I begged lots and lots of people) and was able to actually meet my idols. I spoke to them, shook their hands, and then watched them perform in front of me, close enough to touch, in a tiny radio studio with only ten people present. A framed picture of us from that day hangs in my bedroom, and a glance at it is still enough to bring tears to my eyes.

 I brought my friend Bonnie with me, basically so I had someone to hold my hand and keep me from passing out, and then she almost edges me out of the picture! Amy and I are like, "Sorry to intrude Bon and Emily, but can we be in this photo too?"

People throw around the word "genius" way too often, I know. But truly - as musicians, lyricists, poets, singers, and performers - Emily Saliers and Amy Ray are GENIUSES in their field.

So...uh...yeah. I love them. And I've loved introducing them to my daughters. The girls don't dig a lot of their music. It's hard to fight the power of what's on the radio, like Kesha (I refuse to spell her name with a dollar sign - I REFUSE) and Lady Gaga, particularly with my seven-year-old. But a few songs have stuck. Hands down, their favorite is "Galileo." We sing it as a lullaby almost every night, and my three-year-old is especially enamored with the song. I've tried for months to get video of them singing it together, but as is the case with kids, the minute they sense you really want them to do something, they won't do it. So, despite Grade A begging/bribing/manipulating on my part, they have steadfastly refused to do the performing monkey thing for the camera.

But the other night we had guests over, and suddenly the girls decided to show off. I actually got a video of them singing "Galileo." They skipped a verse and spaced on a few words, but they nailed most of the song.

I cannot adequately emphasize in writing how much joy this video brings me, so I'm not even going to try. Just...enjoy.

Summer In October

Mother Nature gifted us with Summer in October today. The girls and I took advantage of it.

Sophie (literally) hanging out.

If only this kid weren't so camera shy...

Is there anything better than rolling down a hill on a beautiful day?

 

I've written and deleted at least 10 captions for this photo. 

The truth is, seeing it just leaves me speechless with gratitude.