building dreams

"Mom!  You got to see what I drew at school today,"  my six-year-old says, dropping his first grade back pack to the ground with shoes flying in every direction.

"Awesome.  I'm excited."  I say.  Reaching into his backpack, he hands me a completed math assignment with drawings on the back.

"It's my dream house!  Look, it has everything we need.  An attic, bedrooms, stairs, and the best part is the fun room.  Doesn't that look like fun?  The bathroom is here and our garage is huge.  Big enough to fit all of our bikes.  The stairs are kind of crazy, but that is what makes the house fun... right?  What do you think?  Should we build a house like this?  Should we?"  Cheeks are pink in anticipation as he bounces from foot to foot.

"I love it,"  I say with my  lips pressed against his cheek in a welcome home kiss.  "and yes, we should definitely build it."

Because why not?
Even six-year-old boys need space and time to build their dreams.

At times I am jealous of his dreams.  They are so simple, honest, and genuine.  Free from building codes, design magazines, and pinterest boards - he created the home he wants.

Over the last couple of months, I have been searching through many writing technique books.  Amid the fabulous advice, sometimes I begin to forget my dream.  Stairs shouldn't be crooked and writing should be perfected.  I begin to question my skills, talent, and dreams based upon the advice of the world.  Maybe a dream (like mine) is unsafe or unreasonable.

We begin building his house of dreams with Lego's.  One red brick here and yellow one there.  Brick by brick the house grows and eventually, the house will be completed.  Perhaps my writing dreams are the same?  Day by day, word by word, and sometimes breathe by breathe.  The house of words will grow, and my writing technique with it, but only if I dare to chase the dream.

As artists and mothers and people of the world, if we don't have the courage to dream big... who will?  

let's be honest...

Thirty dollars and seven hours later, I hate it.
The pinterest-inspired-picture now hangs in the basement.
A solid reminder to be true to the person I am inside.

I have the tendency to try to force myself into a perfection mold.  Because deep down inside I still believe that the perfect people cook everything from scratch, sew wardrobes, and craft their entire house into existence... instead of... you know... writing.

Insecurities, facades, and dreams aside.
I am doing no one a favor by pretending that I can do it all.

Living up to expectations pronounced by facebook and pinterest and myself - hurts.  Constantly fighting against the grain to make homemade play dough and homemade finger paints and homemade lasagna with perfectly happy kids every day of the week is exhausting.

I don't have the energy to exercise at the crack of dawn.
I don't have the energy to plan daily play dates and park dates and birthday parties.
And I don't have the energy to pretend to be anything that I am not.

Earlier this year, I decided to minimize my life.  To stop making commitments I knew I couldn't keep.  To stop stretching myself beyond my limits.  And to begin learning how to take care of myself.

I read this post today Can We Bring the Holidays Down a Notch? and you should too. Kristen Howerton said it better than I ever could. She makes some interesting points about society's tendency to over complicate the small things... and that falls upon mothers and teachers and grandparents.  It is no longer "good enough" to simply wear green on St. Patrick's day.  We need Leprechaun traps and gold and green pancakes.  Easter is no longer about a simple basket with candy, rather it is a second Christmas bearing gifts of toys and Lego's and DVDs.

The overused everything-is-perfect facade is heavy too carry.  I can no longer pretend to do it all, be it all, and hide Leprechaun gold for my kids in the middle of the night.  You can't rob Peter to pay Paul, and when my all of my energy is being drained in extraneous avenues to please the world, I am failing to be the mother I want to be.

True honesty demands the release of the heavy facade.  Because I know that living a life of complete honesty is amazingly difficult and liberating.  The truth?  My kids do not need Leprechaun gold or Easter baskets bearing extravagant gifts.  My kids could ultimately care less what projects hang around on my pinterest board.  And they don't need five billion toys or a perfectly clean house to be happy.  

What my kids need is love.  Love strong enough to teach them that everything doesn't always go the way we would like and that sometimes our expectations are not met.  They need to know and understand the power of simplicity.  They need to feel empowered to embrace the person they are inside.  And they need to know that everything (and everyone) has limitations.

I love playing with my kids, exploring the world with them, and reading stories with them.  I love kissing them, teaching them, and holding them close. That is how I best connect and love my children... because it is me, 100%.   

Let's be honest, overcomplicated expectations drain our energy while establishing unrealistic expectations in our children.  I don't want to be a pinterest mom, I want to be the real-deal-for-me-mom with Lego's shoved in my back pockets, muddy fingerprints covering my shirt and jeans, and story lines popping in and out of my head during diaper changes.

I want to leave the expectations behind and start living a life that is genuinely mine... again.

please go peepee on your socks for warmth...

Just because I waited 28-years to text doesn't mean that my six-year-old should have to wait.   I thought I was just being "cool" and "hip" and "educational."  Think again Angie.
 
Conner devoured the whole electronic-letter-sending and wanted to send Dad secret messages without me looking.  Good thing we were "practicing" with Dad.

Seriously.
Conner came up with that on his own.

Nice confession.
Followed by the obvious:

Caleb, Colton, and Baby will now be waiting until they are 28-years-old to enjoy the powers of texting.

If you receive a random text from me? Blame it on Conner.

...On a personal side note,  yes, my husband's name appears twice in my phone book.  On more than one occasion I left I-love-your-sticky-buns-messages on Nate's old cell after he had changed his number.  Embarrassing!

year of the dragon

The excitement of Chinese New Year celebrations at school provide plenty of competition for Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy.  My little Chinese-astrology-Dog has long awaited the day he would be allowed to parade around the dragon with his classmates at school.  Goodbye to the year of the Dragon and hello Snake.
 

Caleb and Colton?
They were pretty excited to watch Conner parade around "inside of the tummy of the dragon." 
 

In the words of Caleb, Chinese immersion is "super super awesome."
I only hope we can land a job near by so we can stay here and parade around dragons forever.

one reason i need to meet brooklyn's mom...

"I am dying,"  Conner says, his body leaning over his chair towards the wood flooring.


"No, Conner, you are not dying."  I say.  Dinner-time-theatrics is not my favorite time of the day.


"Yes, I am.  I tried a bite of the turkey in the spaghetti pie and now I am going to die."  His moans and complaints continue.  Apparently, microscopic bites of meat equate to the death sentence.


I am beginning to believe that my two-year-vegan-experiment has severely damaged my kids for life.  The three of them would gladly exchange any source of meat for a large bowl of raw spinach. Sure, we love our veggies... but I wish the boys would learn to appreciate the alternative protein sources to our traditional nuts and beans.


"Well, then I guess Caleb is going to inherit a lot of Lego's." I don't even try to hide my frustration at dinner time any more.  A simple thank you would suffice.  My ears mute out the complaints as I picture myself eating spaghetti pie on the beach with waiters fulfilling my every request and need.  Life is good.  I am on the beach for a short time when Nate's voice interrupts the complaints and I am rocketed back to reality.


"Well, Conner, I heard that Brooklyn (Conner's I-want-to-marry-her-crush-of-the-month) LOVES meatballs."  Nate says.  I married a genius.


"She does?"  Conner asks.


"Yep, she eats every meatball her mom gives her without complaint.  What a nice girl she is.  You sure know how to pick them." 


Conner begins digging at his meatballs.  Hesitantly, he takes one big bite.


"Wow!  These meatballs don't taste that bad.  I am beginning to like them!"  Conner says.  He quickly gobbles up his meal in two-minutes and our regular two-hour-dinner-ordeal spontaneously ends.


Life is amazing... well, it was until the next day when Conner stormed in the door from school.


"MOM!"  Conner yells, "I asked Brooklyn today during lunch if she liked meatballs.  And she said that she HATES meatballs.  I am never ever eating a meatball again."  He folds his arms and collapses on the couch, with steams of anger radiating from the top of his head.


"Well, darn it, I guess Dad and I misunderstood.  Sorry about that."  I say while quickly excusing myself to clean the bathrooms.


And this, my friends, is why it is imperative that I meet Brooklyn's mom.  I need to know Brooklyn's interests and (most importantly) what kind of food she likes to eat.  I plan to maximize Conner's I-love-girls-mentality to it's full potential.

my hammer-yielding-dish-cleansing-night-time-warrior-neuroscient...

 {picture graciously taken by Coray}

In our marriage, Nate is the hammer yielding soldier.  Simply put, hanging pictures has never ever been my speciality.  Despite my lack of qualifications, nesting instincts inspired me to try.  I am, after all, twenty-eight years old.  Time to pull up my big-girl-underwear and act like one.

Three hours and fifteen pictures later, thirty new holes dotted our walls.  Within four hours, each and every picture had fallen to the ground.  Who knew that the angle of the nail when pounded into the wall would make such a difference??

Not me.

Nate graciously helped me patch each and every wall.
And then he rehung each and every picture.

He is the stud of all studs. 

In addition to hanging pictures, Nate graciously rolls up his shirt sleeves each and every night to do the daily wash-by-hands.  It is a well known fact (at our house) that one-out-of-one Angies hates doing the wash by hands and he desperately works hard to avoid making me do anything I don't like to do.

Sudden screams in the night manufactured by little boy lungs are always answered by Nate.  Chivalrous to the core, Nate always allows me to stay in the warm bed while he jumps out into the cold darkness.

There are a billion and six reasons why I love and honor my husband.

Earlier this week, I sat in an audience of graduate students and faculty during a research presentation competition.  Watching my husband present his addiction research with lab mice and their affected dopamine levels was incredible. His subtle winks in my direction, smile, and jokes still make my heart flutter.  After nine years of marriage, I still can not believe this man chose me.

Cheering his name with the boys when Dad won the competition?
Amazing.

I love that I get to stand next to this man throughout the victories and defeats.  My hammer-yielding-dish-cleansing-night-time-warrior-neuroscientist is amazing.  And I am so grateful that he is mine.