Yeah, I've been Drinkin' the Yoga Kool Aid

I love it when I get a writing assignment on a subject that I'm into. For November, I'm writing a piece on the benefits of doing yoga. Oh, how I wish I had more than 600 words for this story! In my opinion, this should be a 2000 word feature, because there is so much to share!

So, what are the benefits of yoga? Why would anyone want to develop a yoga practice?

My research and interviewing aside, these questions have made me brainstorm and reflect on my own practice and how I came to find myself with a practice at all- because for many, many years, I had no interest in yoga whatsoever.

I don't think I'm alone in having been skeptical of yoga, once upon a time. The idea of having a "yoga body" of course has always been appealing, but there always seemed to be this whole lifestyle and mindset that I didn't get or care much to explore- like you had to be a certain kind of person with a certain way of living to practice yoga- and by God, I wasn't about to conform to anything to attain that yoga bod, no matter how incredible all those yoga girl's figures were.

Before I developed what has become a consistent yoga practice of my own just this past couple of years, I had taken some classes on and off to check it out, but at that earlier point in my life, it wasn't fast-paced enough for me. It wasn't aggressive enough for me. In all honesty- it bored me and I wasn't exactly looking for what I perceived to be the fruit loopy, vegan, peace-loving hippie stretch fest that was yoga.

Throughout my 20s, if I were to exercise at all, I would take a kickboxing class and go beat the hell out of a punching bag for an hour or so, then light up a cigarette on my walk back to the car after leaving the gym.

Having grown up taking martial arts with my brother, kickboxing was comfortable, familiar and released a lot of pent up frustration and untapped aggression that I had yet to confront and deal with in those days.

Tree pose? Downward dog? Try a swift right hook and kick to the face! That pretty much sums up the mindset.

Then, as is typical for so many women, I got pregnant and that hard rock loving, drinkin, smokin, punching bag beatin' chick who you couldn't pay to slow down was forced to slow down and adapt to an entirely alien lifestyle. It was strange. It was unfamiliar. It was awkward and uncomfortable.

It was an era of body evolution that truly humbled me as a woman and human being. Being pregnant, particularly around the last part, is to be physically handicapped. To hurt when you walk.To struggle to get off of a couch, or the toilet or to even get the fuck out of bed.

Operating as a life-creating vessel had this way of making me panic and freak out about the future of this bag of bones I toted around and manhandled on a day to day basis. My body wasn't just mine anymore, and having to share it meant I had to take better care of it.

Pregnancy also smoothed down and softened what I know now was my "edge"- something my ego once thrived on (still? I think a certain element of our hard-wired egos never fully evolve). Taming this diluted version of my ego wasn't (hasn't been) easy- since you know how easily our egos like to be tamed, right?

Then after Jude came and all the physical stuff came to a head, the real fun began when it finally dawned on me, this watered down, tamer, safer, softer version of myself: Being a mother means being pulled into every direction at all times, never sitting down, constantly tending to someone else's needs before your own, unable to have your own thoughts and mind to yourself for 5 minutes, cleaning shit up constantly, being available for physical affection at the drop of a hat, not listening to music you like as loud as you like and sacrificing watching/reading/listening/eating/going places/talking on the phone/taking a shower/ordoinganythingelseunderthesunthatyouwanttodo because your needs are no longer the priority.

It means thatyourmindbasicallyfeelslikethissentenceallthetimebecauseyouhavesomuchtodoandsomuchgoingonthatyoufeelcrazymostofthetime.

I've always appreciated a little craziness, but I didn't initially care much for the out of control kind of crazy that came with being a brand new, first time mother. I loved my baby. I loved being a mother. But the loss of mind control? The loss of "me" time? Not so much.

I also didn't care much for the extra 50 lbs. I gained while pregnant. So, that being said, my journey towards the yoga way was not me seeking any kind of enlightenment or spiritual calling.

I'll call it what it was: a complete and total vanity mission.

Kickboxing was suddenly unappealing. After cuddling and nursing a baby all day, the idea of beating the shit out of a punching bag felt weird. It seemed inappropriate. I no longer had that pent up aggression inside to drive me to want to physically assault anything.

Having a baby made me feel... I don't even know how to describe it. Babies will blow your mind and change your game in every way, I'll just say that.

Exercise. I needed to get moving, that was for sure. But what to do? I did some running for a bit- but that got super old and super boring. Then I remembered yoga.

I suddenly was intruiged. Seeing my baby sleeping in his crib stirred inside of me a newfound sense of peace (despite all of the craziness- it's funny how that works)- and I was really digging it, so why not try some of that yoga Kool Aid, with all those peaceful hippies I'd chastised in the past?

Sure, why not?

At first it started as a way to drop pregnancy weight- and it did. Fast, once I found Tiffany and her class here in OKC. Which was great, and kept me going back. But then all this other awesome stuff started happening after going to yoga for a couple of weeks...

My mind started feeling clearer. I found myself breathing easier. Unbeknownst to me as it was happening, I was being trained to find stillness in my own thoughts when I was off the yoga mat and outside of class- be it in the car or amidst the chaos of a toddler running circles around me in my house.

I found myself craving my yoga time, two to three days out of the week. No matter how hectic or stressful things got at home (in between all of the love and happiness and joy that comes with motherhood too- don't get me wrong. Isn't all that a given? Shouldn't that go unsaid? Probably, but mommy guilt inevitably makes me reiterate my joy. Part of the package folks!), I knew I had my yoga time to just have me to myself. To concentrate on me and my body and my thoughts and my energy and my physical well-being.

So I continued going and became a yoga addict- hot yoga, specifically. Then I got pregnant again, 10 months later. Gained another 50+ lbs. with Viv. Discovered that it's even harder being pregnant while chasing around a toddler than it is being pregnant the first time.

I could hardly wait to get back in the studio after I had Viv- and the physical challenge of getting back into my yoga groove and guiding my body back into it's normal state has been one of my life's greatest joys and accomplishments- because through pregnancy and motherhood and yoga practice, all three synergizing hand-in-hand with one another, I feel as though I've become the master of my own body.

Call it the control freak in me- but hot damn, it sure does feel good. Feeling comfortable and happy and confident in your own skin is quite possibly one of the best feelings ever. I have yoga to thank for much of that goodness!

From my own experience, yoga has greatly enhanced my life- not just in ways that I expected and hoped for (Get into better shape after having babies! Fit into my damn pants again! Whittle away what was starting to become mommy "bye bye" arms!), but even better, it has enhanced my life in ways that I didn't foresee, which is where I think the real magic of yoga lies (for me at least).

Physically, I've gained improved flexibility and posture, increased strength and range of mobility, a greater awareness of my body and a more conscientious way of carrying myself.

I honestly can't imagine being a mother and chasing around two small children without having a consistent yoga practice.

Picking them up, carrying them around, rough housing with them, chasing them (for play or because they're literally running away from me out of spite), juggling holding them while doing other things simultaneously with my other hand, squatting in front of a bathtub to wash them, squatting to pick up an endless items they drop on the floor while I'm holding them... the list of things that you do as a mother that are easier because of the strength, flexibility, increased range of motion and breath training is endless.

The ability to stop and collect your thoughts and be present in the moments of chaos and craziness that come with having children is not something that we all inherently know how to do. I had to learn to deal with stress in a healthy way, versus the only way I'd ever known how to before- which was running off to take a smoke break.

If pregnancy made me, for the first time in my adult life, fully appreciate having an able, healthy body, then  yoga has taught me how to truly be present in that appreciation- and how to nurture that appreciation and keep it thriving so I don't take my able body for granted and forget how grateful I am to have it.

Mentally, yoga has helped me to develop an ability to be present in my own thoughts and find stillness and peace in my own mind amidst the go-go rush of the every day, and I've learned how to remind myself to accept things I can't control instead of resisting them- which is a daily challenge.

I've found a sense of balance I can apply to every day life- not just when I'm in class. It's aspects like these, beyond the physical, that have truly solidified yoga as something I have incorporated as a staple in my lifestyle, not just my exercise routine.

I think that finding the right kind of class and the right teacher is also crucial to maintaining a practice- since little do most people who aren't familiar with yoga know: there are so many different kinds of yoga classes and teachers out there, so there is bound to be one that fits you just right. One kind of class and teacher might not do it for one person, but that same class might be perfect for someone else. So that being said, yoga really is for EVERYBODY, of EVERY size and EVERY age.

For me personally, although there is craziness in my everyday- there is a very specific routine to the craziness in my everyday. I operate best in routine and structure as best I can- so I need a yoga class that provides me some of the opposite, which is some unpredictability.

Tiffany's classes are never the same. She mixes it up. She keeps me on my toes. Every class is something new- but there is consistency in her tempo and her style, which satisfies my need for routine. She plays music in class- her classes are challenging, always moving and HOT.

I don't even like hot. In fact, out of the hot yoga studio, I quite frankly hate being hot. Or warm even, for that matter. I hate to sweat and I can't stand heat. In the winter, I keep my AC on in my car, if that explains anything.

But being drenched in sweat in the hot yoga studio feels incredible. It's an entirely different world for me in there- away from my comfort zone and day to day.

Yoga makes me a better mother. It makes me a better wife. It has helped make me a happier, more positive person, which in turn I think has helped to make me a better friend and overall citizen and steward of this fine planet we coexist on.

Yeah, I've been drinkin' the yoga Kool-Aid. And you know what? It's super tasty. And healthy. And amazing. And you should try it. And read my story when it comes out in November.

Namaste bitches!

May 2011, 39 weeks pregnant with Vivienne

January 2012, thanks to yoga I found my way back into my own body

Everything I do, I do for these two!

Jude's Warrior III

Vivienne's Downward Dog

Co-Sleeping

I've let Jude sleep with me the past two nights, while Taylor has been out of town. Co-sleeping is not something that Taylor and I have ever included in our parenting style. With the exception of random bleary-eyed nights of co-sleeping with my babies when they were infants, nursing them to sleep because I was too exhausted to sit up and nurse them in a chair (and just because there were nights when I knew I would regret never sleeping with them at all), I don't co-sleep with the kids.

This is for a couple of reasons. A.) Taylor and I like our sleeping space B.) Our pets like their sleeping space and too many bodies in a bed makes for a man/woman overboard situation C.) I'm always secretly afraid one of us is going to crush the baby or suffocate him/her D.) The idea of having to break a kid from sleeping in my bed with me to sleep in his/her own bed sounds like a gigantic, heartbreaking pain in my ass and E.) Babies are bed hogs

Omigod are babies bed hogs. Mine are at least. The picture below is a perfect illustration of what it's like sleeping with one of my kids:

It's funny, but it's true. And this situation is not funny when you wake up the next morning having not gotten a decent night's sleep because your precious little angel spent it tossing and turning, sticking his/her foot in your face or waking up poking you in the eye and wanting to play or talk in the middle of the night. I'm a She-Bear without sleep. Some moms can do it and love it and be perfectly content with their babies in their beds with them- and it took me some self-mommy guilt tripping to convince myself that I wasn't a shitty mom for wanting that space all for me and my husband at the end of the day. We all have our own ways of doing things that work best for us.

I no longer worry about my kids thinking I'm a cold, unloving bitch for making them sleep in their own beds, in their own rooms. A family matriarch said to me once, when over one evening after infant Jude was up in his crib asleep in his room,

"He's up there all by himself? All alone?"

They said it in a way that was a mixture of disbelief and sympathy for my baby, like they couldn't believe I'd let my baby sleep up by himself in his room.

I took it as them really saying,

"What kind of unloving, unfit mother are you?"

Yeah, you get a little sensitive with your first baby.

With your second baby, you think,

"Yeah- fuck off. Whatever."

In so many words, because you've learned not to care what any other mother has to say about your style and how you do what you do. 

My kids got accustomed to their cribs pretty early on in their lives and everyone in the house has happier mornings because of it. 

Anyways- I gave the co-sleep a green light the past two nights with Taylor being out of town. It was the first time he's worked out of town since my beautiful Gretchen died a couple of months ago. Something happens when your amazing security dog dies and you find yourself left alone in your home overnight with your two babies, and without your man there. Once upon a time I was single and lived alone with my cat and couldn't have thought twice about being in my home by myself at night. Now I'm not sure what happened, but a similar apprehension I once had as a kid that kept me afraid of the dark and being home alone has resurfaced into my adulthood. One of the many things that my amazing security dog Gretchen did for me- she always kept me feeling safe. And now she's not here and I feel weirded out and anxious and uneasy while home alone with the kids, without our Man here.

What if an intruder came? What would I do? I mean, I humor myself with fantasies about protecting our household with my samurai swords (Ha ha! No, seriously...), but in the real world, I'm completely freaked out. When Taylor was out of town, Gretchen would always sleep in the bed with me, and I'd sleep like a baby- knowing that if she had the slightest inclination that something was off or awry, she'd be off that bed, hair spiked like a crazy wolf and patrolling the house, grumbling her big scary bear growl.

From snuggle bear to kick ass She-Ra man-eating hell beast- in an instant. A long time ago, Taylor and my house was robbed while Taylor was out of town, and I had come home that night by myself to find it broken into- and with the guy who did it still there (but escaped out a back window).

That experience will mess with your head for the rest of your life- particularly when you're female.

Taylor wanted to get a gun to keep in the house, and I'd always argue (because I'm not a fan of guns. Swords- yes! Guns- no) "Why do we need a gun- we've got Gretchen. No burglar in his right mind will bust in on a house with a big German Shepard going crazy at the door/window!" (because she would have)." Now, without Gretchen, Taylor got his gun and we are armed and gun-having.

*skeptical wrinkling of my nose*

I'd rather have my guard dog a million times over.

Guns make me nervous and my dog was just the most awesome dog of all-time. 

Having Jude in my bed helped these past few nights though. His company helped set me at ease- even though he slept horizontally across the top of the bed on my pillows, diagonally across the bed with his head smushed up against my back while Niles and I periodically had to wake up and reposition him on Taylor's side of the king sized bed that felt more like a twin with Jude in it.

At one point, we had a nice little mommy/baby boy spoon session, before both of us went our separate ways and claimed our respective spaces. Jude is a lot like me- he likes his space- so co-sleeping, although super nice these past few nights, seems to be a mutually-accepted temporary thing. He told me this morning that when daddy comes home, he's going to sleep in his big boy bed- but that he liked sleeping with me and Niles. That makes me happy.

Gretchen's bed is still next to my side of the bed. It'll be quite a milestone and a momentous day when I move it. It's not going to happen for awhile. When I was in bed last night, with Jude asleep next to me on one side, and my cat Niles on my other side, I looked through the dark and studied the doorway to my room, where Gretchen might have been posted up if she would have been there.

She would have accepted Jude in her place, which was Taylor's place, on my bed- and she would have slept in the doorway of my bedroom all night instead, ready and waiting to protect us if she needed to. Just imaging her there helped me go to sleep. I think this is how dogs stay with us after they are gone- and I'm not one to venture so far as to say, "She's always with me," because I don't know if she is or not, but I like to to think she is, and times like last night when it was all quiet and still in my house, and thoughts of her set me at ease when I'd be otherwise on edge, makes me feel like it's a possibility.

And that sure is nice.

Bully

So I got a new feature story assignment to work on, and it is by far the most important story that I have yet to write. It's for the Magazine's upcoming annual education issue, and it's on the topic of bullying in the Oklahoma school system. I am both excited and nervous about having the responsibility of tackling such an important subject.

There's so much to learn and think about!

First off, I'm disappointed and astonished that the documentary film "Bully," which actually features the stories of 2 Oklahoma children and their families, is not playing any place in the state. One of the families is that of an Oklahoma boy who killed himself after enduring years of torment by his peers, and the other is of a lesbian student and her family who was shunned and taunted by neighbors, former friends and even teachers and educational "professionals" after coming out.

I'd like to see the subject of bullying brought into a further reaching light by having this film offered and available more expansively here- AKA have it screened some place and featured in a forum that reaches as many parents, kids, educators and others as possible- this based solely on the fact that the consequences of bullying has finally found its way into mainstream concern and awareness after a growing number of high profile cases have made national attention.

Perhaps and hopefully this might help cause a ripple effect and leak into the consciousness of more college-aged people and other adults, and have an influence over how people treat other people that they view as different- because there are just as many adult bullies as there are children who are bullies.

I haven't seen "Bully" yet, but for this feature story I feel like I need to- and I'm going to find a way to somehow. Addressing the subject and being proactive about it just seems to me to be something that must become more of a social responsibility.

It's a real social problem- it always has been. But I think it's always been overlooked or swept under the rug as, "Kids just being kids."

Kids just being kids only goes so far. Allowing children to be hateful, mean-spirited assholes to one another- or to anyone for that matter- shouldn't be socially acceptable. Some people say getting teased and picked on makes kids tough, and that kids should suck it up and not be pansies and stick up for themselves (particularly with boys)- but if you really think about it, that's bullshit. And it's lazy on the parents/adults part.

Getting bullied and picked on can indeed make a kid tougher. But not all kids are wired to gain strength from cruelty. They're all individuals, and we're all affected differently. Schoolyard politics and social "rules" are far more complicated and messy and confusing than we give them credit for. I think as adults, parents have a tendency to forget what it's like to be in grade school.

We were all school students once upon a time. We know how cruel children can be to one another. If you've never been a victim of bullying, then maybe you don't know- but it fucking sucks. Yes- I got bullied when I was younger. By boys, not so much girls, which to me made it worse. I got cornered by boys and called a Gook and a Chink and ugly. Boys pulling back the corners of their eyes and talking to me in "fortune cookie" accented voices. I got followed home from school with boys harassing me with racial slurs. I had kids telling me my mother was a Jap (I mean, really- where do 11 year-olds even learn what Japs are? Do we detect a little racist parental influence here? Hello...) and telling me that I must have been adopted at birth because my dad was too white.

Did it mess with my head? My self-confidence and my self-esteem? You betch'ya.

Did it make me tougher? Most def. But I can't lie and deny the fact that it fucked me up in high school. Some kids recover and move on with their lives after bullying. Some don't though.

So maybe that's why this story hits home. I'm excited to finally have the opportunity to write a serious story on such a serious subject. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy everything I get the opportunity to write for the magazine- but this is my first feature story that has the tone for all the kinds of social awareness bringing things that I was hungry to write about and focused my papers on in college.

This subject reaches beyond simply the subject of bullying as well- which makes it all the more interesting. It touches on race, it touches on homosexuality, it touches on class and the American cast system, it touches on the nature of violence and cruelty and discrimination that is rooted in the ugliest dark corners of our culture.

Exciting stuff, folks!

Both the victims and the bullies need to be put under microscopes. You have to wonder what the hell is going on with a kid who bullies and torments other children. Kids like that obviously have their own problems to make them that way. I wonder about the parents of kids who bully. I wonder about school administrators and teachers and other adults in influential and powerful positions who have the responsibility to address the issue and take action. I wonder what it is that prevents students from taking action and sticking up for their bullied peers- and I wonder what we can do as parents to help our kids become the kind of people who have the courage to take stands against behavior that they witness and recognize as mean-spirited and wrong.

How much of our own actions and behavior influence and affect the way a child behaves and treats his/her fellow man/woman? After all- isn't it our responsibility to instill the very values in them that we wish to see them take out into the world? By refraining from addressing the subject of bullying and discussing it with them, because it hasn't yet seemed to rear its ugly head first-hand, are we telling them that it's not a big deal?

When they hear us making negative commentary or badmouthing someone for WHATEVER reason (physical appearance like weight or the way someone dresses, racial/gender/sexual orientational stereotypes, etc.), how much of that do our kids absorb and how much are we programming their brains to believe it's acceptable to be MEAN?

As a parent now, this subject is especially concerning to me. I don't want my children to ever be bullied. I also don't want my kids to ever be bullies either. I want to know all about bullying.

The research I am finding is fascinating. I love the feeling of gears turning in my head.

"BE NICE OR LEAVE"

Catching Up

Vegas is a vicious beast and I'm happy to be home. I'm always over the moon excited to go, but always just as over the moon excited to come back home. Although it's still a place I love and crave from time to time, since having kids, Vegas has become a reminder of the things I don't miss about not having kids. It's nice to have a taste of being "free adults," doing things as I please- indulging in everything from alcohol to staying up too late to sleeping in too long to gambling to smoking and using foul language as liberally as I feel so compelled.

I'm learning that too much freedom now quickly feels self-indulgent and boring after a couple of days. I am learning that I actually enjoy my busy, toys-everywhere, constantly tending to the needs of my children, make-upless, hair-in-a-ponytail, low-key day to day more than I think I do sometimes.

This being said, 5 days in Vegas is too long a stint to be there. For us at least. By the last night, Tay and I were back in our room ready to crash by 11 p.m., and found our inner developing old Geezers coming out after having to call and complain to the front desk that the lounge 30 floors above us was bumping their club music too loudly and we couldn't sleep- this after calling to complain that the room next door to us was blasting their awful Guido, fist-pumping music too loudly and we couldn't sleep. This had probably been happening since the first night we got there- in fact we have vivid memories of hearing similar ruckus before, but it had been around 3 a.m. when we'd returned to the room far too intoxicated to really notice or care. 

The concierge brought us earplugs and comped our room for the night. I finally got to sleep and Taylor of course ended up back down at the craps table- but only until about 3ish a.m. instead of his usual 6 or 7 a.m. mind you. His stamina for gambling is far better than his stamina for drinking, let's just say. 

This trip made me realize that something is happening, something is changing and something will never be the same again- and this is my desire to go out, get wild and my tolerance for the environment in which to do it in. I wouldn't say that it is a dramatic change, but I definitely felt a drop in gusto for it all. But all in all- fun was had and everything I wanted to get out of my system got out. 

The dressing up to go out part is probably my favorite part about Vegas. I don't get to do it much- I find no reason to and very VERY rare occasions to do so at home- but when I get to, it sure does feel nice to feel a little glamorous and, well, dare I say it? Hot and sexxxxxy. Yup! My feet don't like it, but that's what Fast Flats are for, God bless 'em. 

I don't make it outside much in Vegas during the day. Even with a fantastic pool at The Hotel at the Mandalay, where we stayed, I turn into a vampire- hiding from the sun as much as possible. I've stopped caring about being tan because the looming fear of getting skin cancer has become more prevalent on my list of "Things to Be Afraid of About Aging'- which is stupid to think and speak of considering how many cigarettes I smoked while there. But Vegas is a place to be stupid and throw caution to the wind. 

Hangovers are just so much worse under direct sunlight, surrounded by loud tourists and bad music at a casino resort. That's just my opinion. 

Returning home has been fun. I was craving my children like something fierce. It's amazing how much time and energy you can spend talking about your children even while on vacation. I spent 80% of my shopping excursions on them and countless buzzes chattering away about them with Taylor. Fist-pumping club music sparked new dorky songs that incorporated their names and silly new dance moves were invented to teach them once we got home. 

"That's it!" we declared one night after too many Vodka and Red Bulls. "We are reinstating after-dinner dance hour when we get back! Even if they don't dance with us, they will watch us and learn to LOVE it!"

Well- watch Taylor at least. He's got the moves, whereas it takes too many Vodka and Red Bulls for me, and since I don't drink at home, it looks like I'll just have to get out my pom poms and cheer them all on from the sidelines. 

Getting home late Monday night-1 a.m.ish- was hard. It was our first return back to the house after vacation without Gretchen at the door about to piss herself with excitement because we were home. 

It's been a little over a month since we lost her and I still think about her countless times throughout my days. I can't cry anymore- I literally cried every tear I had in me the week she first left- but my heart still hurts every day. She's Angel Bear now. Taylor and I talk about her at least once or twice a day. Jude brings her up at least once a day. 

Our big fat cat D'Arcy has started coming around more- following Jude around and sleeping in his bed at night. She was always putting her toe in the social water at home when Gretchen was alive, wanting to hang out (we call her Hostess Kitty- she loves people)- but Gretchen would always chase her away or pester her to the point of having to leave the room out of sheer frustration. Now that she is gone, D'Arcy is reveling in the attention, letting Jude roughhouse with her as much as any cat can handle. 

The first night she slept on Gretchen's spot on Jude's bed, Jude was excited initially- then burst into tears and begged for Gretchen- bawling that he missed her and loved her and that if he went outside and yelled loud enough for her, she'd come home. 

KNIFE IN MY HEART. Omigod moments like that murder my insides. 

Later before bed, I went up to his room like I always do before I crash- and found D'Arcy sleeping up next to him by his pillow. I instinctively expected to see Gretchen's head perk up from her spot at the end of the bed, her pointy bat ears all alert and sleepy at the same time. But it was fat D'Arcy and it was bittersweet and I loved that cat even more since then and missed my dog even worse, if that makes any sense at all. 

I can't bring myself to move Gretchen's bed still. From time to time, I curl up in it (it's huge) and I can feel her. Her collar has been transferred from her bed to hanging in my closet on my jewelry tree, where I keep my most cherished accessories. Her biggest happiest open-dog-mouthed photo is on the wall in the laundry room where we can see it right when we walk in, next to where she would be waiting for us. She had been playing a killer game of ball at Lake Hefner that day and is the poster-dog for happy Dog Day in it. It brings me joy on the upteenth level.

Over time, the remnants of her fur is being vacuumed from carpets and it's causing the house to smell different. The air is different since she's been gone. I refuse still to Windex her nose and paw prints off the glass on the back sliding glass door- although I know someday it must be done. We've had several get togethers in the backyard since her death and the vibe is not the same, of course. Being in the backyard for anything will never be the same, but this warm sunny weather is the hardest. Summertime will be the hardest, without her swimming laps in the pool or pacing around the gates surrounding it with her ball in her mouth, itching to get back in.

I haven't gone on a walk since our last walk together. I just don't think I can do it yet. Her ghost is everywhere in this neighborhood- I see it when I drive through it. I see myself walking her and pushing Jude as an infant in a stroller around in it. I see myself walking her and pushing Viv around in a stroller in it. I see my big beautiful German Shepherd pulling me down the street with such intense joy and enthusiasm to be outside and with me and the babies- to be alive and breathing and appreciating her dog life- and I just can't bring myself to walk the streets again without her with me.

We briefly toyed with the idea of getting another puppy before we left for Vegas. At the time, this vulnerable, desperate part of me was anxious and thought it might be a good idea. Then I realized that not only am I not ready- but my family isn't ready. A puppy would only be a flimsy band-aid to a gaping wound in our collective hearts right now. We all have our vulnerable moments, and even the slightest hint of animal drama has sent me reeling back into the safety of my own apprehension of loving another canine again for awhile. Maybe Christmastime. Who knows. 

Closure comes in spurts. I plan on getting a very small black diamond tattoo on the outside of my left foot, up in the soft spot between my ankle bone and the ridge, in tribute to her. To some that might sound silly- I may have thought the idea was a little wacky before I lost my dog- but I'm excited to do it. Gretchen had a perfectly shaped black diamond on the top of her head. We loved that diamond. We called her Diamond Head Dog (amongst an endless list of other names). It's the spot I used to give her countless kisses. It's a tiny scrap of priceless closure that I feel in my bones I need. 

On a happier note (lighter note?), Mochi is walking. Mochi is weened. Mochi is one year old. I wonder to myself daily what I ever did without her in my life before. I think the same about Jude. I think about them both and wonder how I ever lived without them? Then I realize that everything in my life prior to them was all just build up and preparation and anticipation for their arrival and existence in my life.

I think the same thing about Taylor. Our Vegas trip was exactly what we needed to reconnect- because becoming parents is the hardest thing in the world, especially to your relationship with your spouse. Vegas is our ideal outlet to reconnect- where we can be the crazy, carefree, drinking/smoking/gambling/dancing/super fun couple we were when we first met. Then by the end of the trip we realize who we've become and all of this wonderful gratefulness and acceptance and harmonious reconnecting happens, and we come home as better parents and spouses. 

So Thank You Las Vegas. See you again- probably not for a nice chunk of time- but we'll see you again, in a room further away from the fist-pumping Guido music-playing nightclub at the top of the hotel. 

Tornado

I think I've convinced Taylor to get a storm shelter put into the floor of our garage. I've always freaked out during tornado season, but now with the babies, my freakedoutedness is amplified by a billion watts. I remember being a little kid and hauling all of my favorite toys and hamsters and cats and clothes and prized possessions down into our family's basement and just sitting there terrified, waiting to be blown away by a tornado.

Not a whole lot has changed, except now I don't have basement to hide in, but I do now have a husband to drive a little crazy with my neurosis- although he's admitted to being pretty terrified of them himself, he hides it a whole lot better than I do.

Our house is pretty much terrible in regards to having any safe spaces if a tornado should come through. No interior closets- all rooms have exterior walls- and the only decent space in the closet within the closet under the staircase is directly adjacent to a giant Westward facing window- making it all but useless. I remember the first time I dealt with tornado sirens after becoming a mother, when Jude was about 4 months old. We were home alone, with Taylor working out in BFE Oklahoma at the time. Anxiety running a mile minute and my heart about to burst out of my chest, I packed Jude up in his car seat and all but buried him under pillows in the closet under the staircase, realizing in the process that the location of our "shelter" was worthless as the storm at hand blasted wind and rain and at the window across from us.

Since then, I've abandoned all hopes of finding refuge in that closet. Jude and I put together our tornado shelter in Taylor's closet in our room- stuffing it with pillows and a huge industrial flashlight- oh, and Hot Wheels and leftover Easter candy, should he get bored and need a snack while we are in hiding. 

I can feel myself giving my son a tornado complex more and more for every tornado season he experiences. He went to bed both Friday and Saturday chattering away about tornados, up until the lights were out and he was laying down, both hands tucked under the side of his cheek on his pillow, whispering, "We need to be quiet incase the 'nado sirens go off mommy."

After the kids were in bed, Taylor and I watched The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo- and it was not the best choice in late night movie vibes while the weather outside screamed potential for imminent disaster and danger. We later wound up staying up until 3 a.m. with the weather on, cracked out on Rick Mitchell, deliriously discussing what we would do if a tornado came through, ready to pluck our babies out of bed if we had to.

Of course, nothing wound up happening in the Metro, and we wound up exhausted the next morning when the kids woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed, unaware that their parents had lost valuable sleep that night over their safety. 

Storm shelter installation- definitely on our agenda. SOON.

Yesterday while in Norman, Taylor and I went to Andrew's Park, which got pummeled by Friday's tornado. Many of the beautiful trees that adorn the park looked to have been effortlessly ripped out of the ground by the tornado, like we would rip a band aid off of our arm. Both gigantic and old and younger and still maturing lay on their sides with their roots exposed and people walking around surveying the wreckage, taking pictures and marveling the damage.

I gotta admit- it broke my heart a little. I played under those trees as a kid down in Norman at Andrew's Park- as I know that countless children had before me and have since then. We've all brought our own children their to play under their shade- play chase, picnic, hide behind and enjoy their glory. 

They've witnessed generations of families and children at that park. Imagine the stories they could tell if they could talk? 

Not to sound like a total tree hugging hippie, but I swear I could feel their pain a little. If you held still long enough and listened, you could hear them groaning. 

Some people had their kids climbing all over some of the larger, older side-lying trees, and at first it pissed me off. How disrespectful! Can't you see they're dying? Can't you see they're in pain? 

Then I thought of The Giving Tree- a favorite book of mine and now Jude's- and it made me relax and be more positive (a skill that I'm getting better at with age, but still takes a conscious effort much of the time).

My irritation was such a grown up thing. Such an adult thing. Sometimes we need to all take a moment and go back to thinking more like children.

I switched gears and imagined that those trees were enjoying the children climbing all over their fallen trunks. They found joy in hearing the children's laughter and feeling the families congregating around them for what will be their last days- because all they've ever known is how to be a tree in a family park and won't be long before the trees are hauled away from their home to face their next phase in this life- hopefully turned into something cool like furniture for families to sit on? Fire to keep them warm? Who knows, but The Giving Tree keeps coming back to me and has me hoping that they'll be able to live on somehow!

A 'Lil Update

                                                                              JUDE

Since Jude has been in Montessori school, his language has really taken off. Last night while they were rough housing around before bed, he told Taylor that he was going to kick him in the nuts. Taylor immediately raised an eyebrow (after we did a really terrible job of stifling our laughter) and looked at ME.

WHAT? Must I pay for the "Asshole" incident for forever? Geez.

"I didn't teach him that!" I squeaked, but still had to run through my memory to check and see if I did say that in front of him in the past. I may have thought in my head that I'd like to kick Taylor in the nuts before (although HELLO- I would never actually do it! Tell me you've never been so annoyed with your spouse that you've briefly considered giving him a swift kick to his guys down South?), I know for a fact that I've never used the phrase "kick you in the nuts" in front of our son.

He asked Jude who taught him that, and Jude laughed and said, "Mommy!"

He lies! My son lies. I'm raising a liar. Just kidding- about the liar part. I don't think he's a liar. I think he's 3 and doesn't know what he's talking about. So I forgive him.

Where he learned about kicking people in the nuts is still a mystery- although we have clarified, after he told me that he was going to kick me in the nuts too, that mommies don't have nuts. Only boys have nuts.

You could almost see the lightbulb go off in his head. He nodded and said seriously,

"Mommies have baginas." (vaginas)

Yes!

"I'm gonna kick you in the bagina!" followed by hysterical laughing.

No, no, no.

~sigh~

I will admit to accidentally making reference to his "balls" one night last week when I was trying to explain to him why he needs to keep his hands out of his pants. He's gotten into the habit of not only sticking his hands down his pants to mess with himself, but sometimes he pulls out his junk and starts laughing, exclaiming,

"I'm grabbing mine wee-wee!" followed by hysterical laughter.

What is it with guys and their junk? I didn't realize the obsession starts so early. We're working on this. It doesn't help that I have now given him reason to think that saying the word "balls" is funny- because as soon as I said it (immediately thinking, "D'oh! Damn it! I shouldn't have said that!"), his face lit up and he started giggling- proclaiming,

"Balls!" followed by gut busting, cackle-laughter. How did he instinctively know how funny that one little word can be? And how did I not have the will power to NOT join him in gut busting laughter? Why is it so funny to hear the tiny little voices of children say such inappropriate things?

After what became a 15 minute ordeal of me pleading with him through giggles to stop saying the word "balls!"- which he only repeated and began to shout and laugh harder about- I finally put on my serious face and said,

"Ok- we don't say that anymore. And Shhhhh. You're going to wake baby Mochi!"

He shot me a wicked smile, leaned in close, right in my face and whispered, "BALLS."

Except when he says it, he says it with a slight lisp- making it sound more like, "Ballths."

This is "Pukes" the spider. "Pukes" as in like the vomit. Don't ask me where he got the name- I'm not quite sure. I'm guessing it may have come to be such a popular thing to say for two reasons: A.) I use it a lot. More than I should- in reference to gross things making me want to puke, politicians and Fox "news" casters who make me want to puke and feeling so full of food that I could puke. B.) Taylor and Jude have a new thing where they say funny words to each other and die laughing about it, like "pukes," "fart," "nipples" and, well, I guess we can add "balls" to the list, although we are working on weeding that one out of the vocabulary. 

"Pukes" joins Jude for all of his meals now, sitting on his place mat, seated on a little pink reuseable silicone cupcake holder and eats Mochi's baby puffs out of a sushi soy sauce ramekin. 

Jude has yet to have that traumatizing experience with an actual living spider that will make him terrified or squeamish of them for the rest of his life. For now, Pukes the tiny $10-in-tokens plastic spider that he won with his tickets after a strenuous go at skee-ball at Chuckie Cheese stays in Jude's car seat to wait for his return after I pick him up from school every day.

Here is Jude doing yoga while eating corn on the cobb. He likes to show me his yoga moves while he eats. This makes me very happy.

Here is the contract for his summer school session. He got ahold of it and let me know what he thinks of the idea of summer school. Red ink! I'm impressed with the color selection. Really drives the point, you know? I would've used red ink too.

Passed out from playing, 2 nights in a row over the weekend. This is documented because it really has only happened in the past when he wasn't feeling well. These two crashes were simply the result of hard core playing. I can't lie- Taylor and I were pretty pleased with this. We work hard to wear our little pistol out. It almost becomes a contest- who can wear who out first. Jude almost always wins. These two early evenings, he was passed out by 7 p.m. 

We finally won a couple of rounds.

Victory!

A little weekend bonus!

MOCHI

Vivienne is 10 months old. WTH? How can this be? Amber sent me this photo of Viv from our kick ass Friday at the zoo last week and it made my jaw drop when I realized how big she is getting. I see her every day, all day- so I don't notice her growth sometimes. Then you get a photo from someone else and it's like they capture this whole crazy new aspect of your baby and you are just floored.

She's growing- that's for sure. Crawling every where, pulling up on everything- up the stairs, around the house and straight towards everything she's not supposed to be messing with. She doesn't seem too interested in walking yet, and that's just fine with me. I'm trying to mentally prepare myself for what it's going to be like chasing two children who are on foot. With Jude, we were always encouraging him to "go go go," advance to the next level! With Mochi, I'm happy to let her take her time. 

I love shopping with a little girl. She's already much more tolerant and patient when it comes to letting me fart around in stores than Jude was. Even as just a baby, Jude would get whiney and antsy and annoyed when I would take too long to shop and look around. Unless a Hot Wheel or some toy vehicle was involved, he was ready to go A-Wall from the store. Typical guy. With Mochi, she's happy to look with me- touch things and check stuff out. Happy as can be. She also has taken a liking to jewelry. I've been letting her dig around in my costume jewelry box and take stuff out. She LOVES it. She gets all excited and will hold stuff up for me to look at and get excited about too.

I was gushing about this to Taylor one day, showing him our baby girl sitting in my closet, having a blast digging around in my jewelry box.

"Look babe! She loves jewelry!"

He smiled, then thought for a minute.

"Great. This is going to get expensive."

Ha! 

I have no shame...

in being that mom...

in the middle of a store...

who acts a fool to make her baby do cute things for me to take pictures of with my camera phone.

"How big is Mochi???? SO BIG!"

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaay! 

This teeny tiny pair of jellies... oh man. I just can't get enough of them. I never thought a tiny pair of baby shoes could make me so retarded giddy- but these sure do. I don't get retarded giddy often. I'm not really the retarded giddy type of girl. But of all my few retarded giddy moments, I'd have to say that slipping these tiny jellies onto Mochi's tiny baby feet for the first time, on one of our first real spring-like days this season, was definitely in the top 5- right up there with the day I got to pick out my very first kitten when I was 12, the first time the biggest crush of my life (up until that point at least) held my hand at a Bush concert when I was 16, and when Taylor busted out an engagement ring after a night of New Years Eve drinking and asked me to marry him.

Retarded giddy moments. Priceless.

She's gotten really expressive over the past week. She giggles all the time. I'm learning that baby girl giggles could solve all the world's problems if we could just put them all collectively in a jar and release them out into the atmosphere. Mochi and I play a game where I make a serious face at her and she cracks up, giggling at me. It's my new current most favorite thing ever, although I can't help but think that this game is not going to be so funny when she's 13 or 14 and my serious face isn't meant to make her laugh at me anymore.

RANDOM

I'v been seeing these super creepy headless, armless, Tim Burton-eque, demented Barbie-bodied jewelry holders all over the place. They kind of freak me out. What freaks me out even more, is that a lot of them are dressed in super cute fashions. I see them and start overanalyzing them to death and the sheer capacity of my thoughts overwhelm me.

What does this represent? What does the popularity of this kind of weirdness represent? 

Fashion and the slender form of the female figure minus the head (brains and face!) of the female...

Why not have a head and make the jewelry hooks like Medusa hair? Why cut off the head?

This says something to me about our culture's obsession with the shallow and superficial.

It makes me fear for my baby girl- thinking about the kind of culture she is going to grow up in as a female.

Yikes. All of my women's studies courses start to come back to me and I get really annoyed with those ridiculous jewelry holders.

I think these things and must push my baby in my shopping cart away in a hurry...

to the next aisle...

get out my camera phone...

"How big is Mochi? SO BIG!"

Yaaaaaaaay!

Sometimes baby brains are a blessing.

I'm considering turning my cat Niles into a catskin hat. I haven't thought about this since he puked on my bed awhile back, but he's been eating my fucking orchid and I could KILL the little shit. Notice how the pretty yellow centers of the bottom two flowers are missing.

My camera phone wouldn't pick up the tiny teeth marks punctured all over the petals, but they're there.

Needless to say, Niles and I currently are not on speaking terms. 

What an asshole.

Back on the Paleo diet- 70/30 at least. This leaves me room for Orange Leaf from time to time- where I am now a frequent-flyer card holding customer, thank you very much.

It's almost swim suit season! And even though I'm graduating to a "mom" bathing suit this year- AKA one piece that is small-child-clinging-to-me-in-a-pool friendly- that doesn't mean that I'm not concerned about how I fit into it. 

The photo above is one of my very favorite sides: Okinawan eggplant with green onions, mushrooms and spinach (from Peach Crest farms right here in Oklahoma, which makes it even yummier!). It's a dish my grandma makes, and my mom makes, and now I make, and I will teach Mochi to make.

We eat it with tuna sashimi and Nori  (seaweed paper)- minus the white rice.

Paleo pizza. I made this tonight and it was happy food dance good. Instead of the sausage version that I usually make, I used chicken thighs, artichoke hearts, kale, fresh diced garlic, diced tomatoes, diced yellow peppers and sun dried tomato pesto sauce. It's not PIZZA pizza by any means, but it's a very satisfying substitute for this diet. The crust is made of almond meal and is soooooo good.

Here are the loves of my life watching Little Einsteins. It's Jude's favorite show- and now Mochi's favorite show. Mochi doesn't really have much to go off of, in regards to favorite television shows, since I don't turn the TV on until the 6 o'clock news in the evenings on the weekdays and she doesn't get TV time until Jude gets home and he gets to watch his one show- but she already recognizes the intro music when Jude watches it, and already does a bouncy dance and claps her hands and gets all excited. 

Watching the 3 of them on the couch together, when Jude is actually holding still and being quiet for 20 minutes, is a little slice of happiness in my world. 

Makes me a little retarded giddy.

Which makes me think that maybe I've evolved into more of the retarded giddy type than I like to think I am...

And that's what's up!

Cohabitation

I always write about my babies, but today I want to write about my husband. Because he's the most awesome guy that I've ever known and sometimes as a young mother, it's easy to be so enamored with your babies that you forget to brag about the wonderful guy who helped make your babies happen in the first place.

So, in between checking in with NPR, I've been listening to Jack and Ron on KISS FM lately on my drive home from dropping Jude off at school in the mornings. I used to listen to them when I would get ready for work, way back when I was managing Sunglass Hut in Sooner Mall in Norman. I first heard of the first plane that hit the first Tower on 9/11 from Jack and Ron. I picked out work outfits in styles that you couldn't pay me to wear now while listening to Jack and Ron. I nursed too many hangovers while cursing the mall in my head when brushing my teeth in the mornings before work, listening to Jack and Ron. They were part of a soundtrack to an entirely differently existence that was very significant in my young adult life.

But over the years I lost touch with Jack and Ron, replacing them with NPR entirely as I've gotten older.

I've kind of come full circle I guess- needing breaks from the news and NPR. Maybe it's my age, and the country and world's issues weigh heavier on my mind- whereas before I couldn't have really given a half a shit about much beyond what I would be doing after being released from the prison of my full-time job and out into my life as a single 21 year-old. I don't know- but it's nostalgic and kind of refreshing to hear those jackasses voices again. Old familiarity is nice to help keep you feeling ageless.

This morning Jack and Ron were discussing some of the posts that listeners had put on their Facebook page, responding to a cue of, "What makes your marriage successful?" Some of the responses were hilarious. Some were thought-provoking. Some made me gag, they were so cheesy. They collectively made me think about my relationship with Taylor Hines- because how can you hear such things without reflecting on your own situation?

As I was running through some of our strong points (best friends! great team! make each other laugh!) and not so strong points (overkill on the bantering! overkill on the dominant "who's the boss?"issues! arguing about stupid shit!)- I realized that this week being Spring Break and all, marks the 10 year anniversary of our making the abrupt decision to move in together and see what the future would hold for us as a couple.

10 years! It just seems crazy to me. It's as monumental to me as a wedding anniversary, because we lived together for so long as just a co-habitating couple that being married hasn't seemed a whole lot different. Just an extension of what we had already been doing. But with kids and a family house and stuff.

After 3 months of dating, we made the decision to live together. I was 22, he was two months short of turning 21. He still had a fake i.d. I smoked a pack of Dunhill menthol lights a day. He had long hair and earrings. I had a belly button ring and 10 holes punctured in my ears. He was at OU, a year out of graduating with a finance degree (with honors. One of the most admirable things about him, to this day, has always been his big sexy brain). I was managing Sunglass Hut in the mall and was prolonging a return to college to finish my degree.

When you move in with someone at such a young age, during that early-twenty phase in life- you have no idea if it's going to work. But when you are young and in that "OMG I'm so in love!" retarded-over each other, think about you all the time can't get enough of one another, we hardly know one another but we're going to get along and be happy for forever because we are so happy together crazy in love- do you care? Of course not.

The odds are against you in my opinion. You have skeptical parents wondering what in the hell you are thinking- whether they voice their concerns or choose to keep it to themselves, whether their your parents or your girlfriend's/boyfriend's. You have friends in all sorts of different places in their own lives who are skeptical or happy for you or jealous or doubtful or whatever. You have opinions and judgement coming at you from all directions. You have two separate lifestyles that you are accustomed to that suddenly have to fuse and mesh and co-mingle. You know where you'd like to see things go, but who knows if it will really go that way? Especially once you pass the point where your dating "representatives" bow out and the real people move in.

You know, the real people that you are. The ones with faults. The people who either make or break it for you. The people who either make the decision to break up and go separate ways, or stay together for the long haul.

Long haul, right here! (raising my hand!)

I called Taylor when I realized that this Spring Break is our 10-year-move-in-iversary (I love insert-special occasion-iversaries. I make them up all the time for us because it's important to celebrate US!), and told him that moving in with "Iced-T" (the nickname my friends came up with to tease my then-new boyfriend behind his back... which he knows about and thinks is funny... now) is the best thing I ever did.

It was a sweet, make you want to gag it was so cheesy exchange. We don't have those moments often- because we aren't that kind of couple- but when they happen, it's super nice.

We mused briefly over that first Spring Break, when I moved in to the house he shared with his best friend Dustin. How exciting it was to get all my stuff in there. How my then-kitten Niles had to live in our bedroom for the first few months because Dustin was allergic to cats (then shortly after, how Niles just came to be the 4th roommate who went where he wanted... usually straight to Dustin on the couch, of course). How after Taylor and Dustin left that week to go snowboarding in Tahoe, I came home from work to find a dead cat in our driveway and how freaked out I was about it. How my dad had helped me move in, but Taylor had not yet told his parents about us living together because he was scared (which is funny now but at the time hurt my feelings! *sad face*). How I had to get used to sharing my boyfriend with seemingly endless marathon video game sessions. The homie traffic that comes with living with college guys that would run through our household at all hours of the day. How he had to get used to me going out and partying with my friends without him on the often-occasion that he didn't feel like leaving the house. Our first big fight, when we first realized that living together means that fighting while living in the same house means that sometimes someone sleeps in the other room.

I think that living together was great training for being married, to a certain degree of course. For Taylor and I. I can't speak for anyone else. Would I recommend it to my kids, should they come to me someday and say, "Mom! This girl/guy I've been dating for 5 minutes and I are going to move into together!"?

Yes. I would. My parents have always been supportive of me and (most of) my choices in life- without raining their judgement down on me- and that's what I want to do. They've always encouraged me in experiencing life for myself- getting beat up and bruised along the way, paying consequences but also enjoying the benefits and rewards of sticking my neck out and taking risks- allowing me to reap what I choose to sow.

I can only hope that by doing the same, I can help my kids find the same kind of happiness and security and friendship and love that I found with that long-haired, earring-having 20-year old finance major who bumped rap music way too loud in his jacked up Tahoe.