Writing in Neutral

I've neglected my blog.  I knew this was going to happen.  That's one reason why it took me so long to start a blog in the first place.  My perfectionist tendencies dictate that if I'm not doing something perfectly (or at least pretty darn close), then I won't do it at all.  I know...it's not a good habit.  That's why my scrapbooks stop when Maddi is a year old, and my closets aren't organized.  I'm working on it. 

I've tried to write for ten days now.  I start with a topic, veer to the left, hit a pothole, cross over into incoming traffic, and ultimately roll off the cliff.  It's not pretty.  When my students faced a similar problem in class, the former English teacher in me would say, "Just write. Just put pen to paper and write.  Even if you're writing about not being able to write, just write."  So here we are. 

I offer to you a short list of blog topics I've talked myself out of this week:

• Why waking up Sunday morning with a hangover, a black eye, and a lost camera was so worth it
• How pouring 10-12 bottles of Bath & Body Works body sprays down the shower can create toxic fumes and set off your explosive gas detector
• Potty training a toddler and a dog at the same time
• Whether I should finish hanging pictures in my home or quit now since we're moving in three months
• The adventures of the Topsy-Turvy upside-down tomato planter
• My children's odd fascination with cleaning windows but leaving trash on the ground
• How the word "help" means something different to everyone
• The creepy guy at Barnes & Noble who has hit on me two separate times, two months apart

Maybe I'll revisit a topic or two another time.  Maybe posting this list is enough to get my mind back in the driver's seat.  Where I'm going from here...hmm...time will only tell.

Maddi at the Bat

My six-year-old started playing softball this spring.  Thankfully, it's working out a lot better than soccer which she seems to have erased from her memory.  I'm not sure if that's because she was only three at the time or if it's because the whole soccer experience was so traumatic that she's blocked it out.  What can I say...she is my daughter.

I was never much for playing team sports.  I played t-ball for two years, and we won one game.  My dad helped coach, and my mom helped run the concession stand.  My mom still has nightmares about sticky sno-cone syrup and popcorn machines.  I think they both were secretly relieved that my interest in softball never really materialized.


Maddi told me last weekend that she really loves softball--as much as she loves gymnastics.  That's saying a lot.  Her favorite part? The sno-cones.  I guess some things never change. 

I put together this short video for her dad.  I know it's killing him to miss seeing her cross home plate.  I know he wants to be the one to teach her to catch pop flies and run the bases.  Unfortunately, missing out on the little things is part of the life we've chosen to lead.  There's always next year. \

Click the link below to see the video (and if you've never played with Animoto, it's super fun!):
Maddi at the Bat

Seven years. No itch.

My husband and I celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary this week.  Well, we didn't exactly celebrate it since he's currently 7,000 miles from home, but you get the idea.  Wow.  Seven years.  One of my best friends asked me this week if it seemed like seven years.  She seemed to think time had flown by, and my husband tends to agree.  Not me.  For me, our seven years feels like so many more--but in a good way.

You have to admit, we've had a busy seven years.  We've lived in three states (four if you count a brief stint in Altus, Oklahoma) and endured our fair share of deployments and TDY's.  We've transitioned from my sexy little Supra through three other vehicles more suited for family life.  Then there are the children.  We have filled our family with three little ones that continue to amuse, amaze, and annoy us.  Like I said, we've been busy.

So when I say it seems like we've been married much longer, you can see why.  Many husbands and wives stay in one place, space their children 3-4 years apart, and only spend an occasional night away from each other.  I like to think that our marriage has already survived what some might consider a lifetime of adventures, and we're only seven years into it.  And I like to think that's a good thing. 

Maybe one day the years will seem to pass quickly.  Maybe our lives will slow down, and we'll plant roots for awhile.  Maybe not.  But there's one thing I'm confident will remain the same...ours will continue to be a marriage strengthened by our experiences, strengthened by time, strengthened by each other.

I'm okay. Really.

We've been a little busy this week.  There were Easter egg hunts, Easter bonnets to make, and luncheons to attend.  Throw in an early morning home invasion, and we'll call it complete. 

Um...back up.  What was that?  Home invasion? Care to elaborate?

That's the usual response, especially given my standard laidback delivery of those words.  So here's what happened early last Tuesday morning:

2:00 AM--I turn out the lights, turn on the alarm, and go to bed.  Two in the morning is pretty normal for me, in case you're wondering why I was up so late.

2:45ish AM--I start hearing noises in the house.  Nothing earth-shattering, just a few floor creaks here and there.  I tell myself it's just the boys getting up, and I prepare myself for their arrival.  The floor continues to creak (my floors are original hardwood...they are not quiet).  A shuffling and rummaging noise adds to the mix.  I keep waiting for the pitter-patter of toddler feet down my hall and into my room, but it never comes.  So I lie in bed and listen, wondering what on earth the boys are up to? 

Then it hits me...this is not the boys.  These are not the sounds of little boys looking for their mommy in the middle of the night.  These are the sounds of someone trying not to make a sound.  These are the sounds of feet shuffling across my floor, creaking the wood, and standing still to make sure no one noticed.  Then they shuffle again. 

That's when my door begins to open.  I should tell you that my door makes an obnoxious squeaking noise that's been on my list for some time.  I am facing away from my door, paralyzed in fear, but I can hear every little thing happening around me.  My door squeaks--and stops.  Squeaks a little more--and stops.  Squeaks a little more--and stops.  You get the picture.

I peek over my sheets and stay perfectly still.  Shuffle, creak, shuffle, creak.  Then I see him (I assume it's a him).  A figure at the foot of my bed moves toward my chest of drawers.  He's wearing some kind of hat or hoodie.  That's all I see before closing my eyes and pretend to be asleep.

I'm living on adrenaline and prayer at this point.  I pray that this person cannot hear my heart as it beats louder than I thought possible.  I pray that he takes whatever he wants but leaves us all alone.  I pray that, if he does want to hurt someone, he chooses me and that my kids sleep through everything.  I pray that my boys will not wake up and run down the hall to my room right now.  I pray and I pray and I pray.

My best guess is that two or three minutes pass.  I start to think that maybe I'm being too still, too quiet.  Maybe he'll know I'm not really asleep.  (Yes, even during crises, my mind continues to over-analyze.)  I move my feet and shoulders a bit, and he stops.  I hear a drawer close, and he leaves the room.  He kicks part of my boys' toy airport across the floor.  There is no creaking or shuffling now...just footsteps. 

I open my eyes and wait until I hear nothing.  I listen to the silence for close to ten minutes before I get out of bed and call 911.  I flip on lights, and the kids start to come out of their rooms.  My middle son asks me why the refrigerator door is open (I later learn burglars use it for light).  My daughter asks why I'm turning on the lights.  My youngest son asks for chocolate milk.  I hold them all tightly and push back tears.  We are all okay.  We are all safe.