Hurry Up and Wait

That has been the theme of our lives for the past 6 months since we decided to have Creighton accept a new position with his company back East. We put our house up for sale right after Christmas and began the looong, grueling search for a home. Because Creighton works from home unless he is traveling to meet with clients, we were allowed (at first) to live anywhere east of the Mississippi near a major airport. Try searching with those parameters! Can you say..."take a dart to the map!" Not that we don't have favorite places, or family we could live near, but the more we looked into each of those areas, the less they seemed to be a good fit for us. We literally searched throughout the major east coast cities for three months before settling happily on Michigan. After two house hunting trips there and finding the perfect home at the perfect price in the perfect location and having our offer accepted, we recieved a phone call from Creighton's boss a few weeks ago saying they'd changed their mind and wanted us in the Washington D.C. area (!).

We were literally trying to avoid that area from the beginning. We both love D.C.- we actually met there and have always said we'd love to go back someday, but with our family now, the congestion of that area felt like more than we want to deal with. But alas.....we began our search all over again. I'll spare you the details, but it's been painful and so exhausting trying to find the right home in the right place at the right price. And I'm afraid I have to say this: the homes around D.C. are uuuuuuugly. At least in our price range. But we tried, and tried and tried. Always hurrying...and waiting..for someone or something before we could know whether each home would work out or not. And that's just on the house-hunting end. The sale of our own home has had it's own dramatic twists and turns. A true, never-ending emotional roller coaster ride.

We finally stretched the D.C. boundaries as far as we could, and found the perfect home for us in Richmond, Virginia. I've never been there, but Creighton flew out there for a few hours (yikes) and ultimately gave the okay. At this point, I would live in a cardboard box if I knew that was place for us. So, we're going with it! And we're finally, actually, feeling good, and even excited about our new home! I hear the summers are sweltering, but that Richmond is a beautiful place, steeped in history and...horses! At least all around it. And much to do and see. I love a new opportunity and hope to make the most of this one. We are sad to leave our home and friends...again. But that's another story, for another time.

The worst of the wait is finally over. The moving trucks come in 2 weeks!

Happy Father's Day

Here's a little secret I've never told anyone: I've always felt bad for all the other women in the world who can't be married to Creighton. That's the truth! I'll allow that there might (I say "miiiight") be husbands and fathers who are just as wonderful, but I really truly don't believe there is a better man on Earth. How did I get so lucky?! I'm amazed and grateful every single day.

The Devil Inculinate

Lofthouse Cookies are evil. Evil. Evil. Evil. I hate them. I really do. I don't think I've ever bought a package of them in my life- until the other night. I let the kids choose one treat to share at the store and in a moment of pure insanity, found myself lowering a package of those cancer pills down into my cart. Ohhhh, they look delicious enough, I grant you- all thick and soft and what-not, slathered an inch thick in icing and sprinkles. Sugar Cookies!! Yay!! WRONG! These are not your mom's sugar cookies. No ingredients in my mother's pantry could produce a cookie so soft it's out of this world- after sitting for two weeks on the store shelf. Know why it's out of this world? Because it's from Hell. You put a package of those on your counter and see how long you can resist. I made it one day. And I hate them! All that thickness and softness calls out to you and pretends it's your homey, American friend. And in a moment of munchies, you take one little bite. Just one. mmmm...it's so soft. mmm the icing....it isn't even that sweet....mmmmm....I think I'll have just one more little bite....and another, and another, and.....woops! Ate the whole thing! And suddenly you think you love them! And they're the greatest thing since sliced bread! And who in the world created such a heavenly culinary masterpiece?!

I'll tell you. The Devil. He made them. They are the Devil. Evil. Evil. Evil. Give them 5 minutes in your system and I guarantee you'll have poison oozing out your finger tips.

I whined and ranted about them to Creighton. He looked at me. Said nothing. Calmly walked over to the counter, picked up the package of cookies and tossed them in the trash can.

Go figure.

The Glory Days

Last night, Creighton and I went on a lovely little date to the bookstore and ice cream. But it didn't end there, ohhhh no. We then spent the rest of the evening in our office digging up old 80's tunes online and blasting them with the doors shut. Talk about a trip without leaving your home! Try listening to Bananarama- just see where it takes you! Or Prince, or Level 42, Nick Kershaw, O.M.D., Tears For Fears, R.E.O. Speedwagon..... Those were the glory days, were they not?! I was a tweenie-bop, wrapped up in boys, the mall, laying out, decorating my Trapper Keeper. Life was good and glorious and bright. Creighton was a rock star. He thought. Playing with his band, dreaming with his band, scheming with his band. Music was his life. Some of those songs we dug up last night were almost too painful to listen to. For a moment, you're back. In a time so good it's tangible. And then, just as quickly, you know that time is gone forever, and your heart literally aches for it. Not that you would ever really want to go back. No amount of Bananarama could ever get me to do that. But ohhh, those were the days.

Tiny Little Dancer

Abby's dance recital was tonight. She's such a pretty little dancer. I'm sure every mother feels this way- after all, it's obvious that recitals are just video ops for oogling parents. Who cares how they dance. At least at this age. There's something about seeing little girls in tutus, tights and little pink slippers that swells the heart. Am I wrong? Abby's suddenly growing up so fast. I can't seem to hold on tight enough to these sweet years with her. She's a breath of fresh air. I remember the moment she was born- I was instantly filled with joy- very literally. She's been my joyful little Abby ever since. And to see all that joy and fresh air wrapped up in a tutu, tights and little pink slippers........[smile].

After the show, it was clear I didn't get the memo about bringing a massive bouquet of roses for my dancing daughter and Abby quickly picked up on it too. So....we stopped at the grocery store on the way home and let Abby pick out some flowers. She gleefully chose the most beautiful, sweet smelling, perfect hot pink roses I've ever seen. And I'm not a fan of hot pink.

Sunday Evenings

So, did I mention we love Sundays at our house? Not just Sunday nights- although that's like the cherry on top of the Sundae (no pun intended), the whipped cream on top of the shake, the icing on top of the...okay, you get it. Sunday evenings are lovely, too. After I spend about 5 hours in the kitchen (I'm not kidding. Sort of. Okay, I'm kidding.), making and cleaning up a fabulous (if I do say so myself) Sunday dinner for the kidlets (who, even in their young age, have now come to expect such spreads and hold me to it) and for one good man (who tends to the needs of said kidlets while I slave away in the kitchen to prepare said spread), we finally, tummies warm and full, kitchen clean, retire to the outdoors for our lezurrrrly walk. It's leisurely because we usually have some straggler on a tricycle who must stop to climb on every rock, or stare at every beatle, or simply experiment with slow motion and inertia (ever seen a drunk on a tricycle?) And we usually walk for a very. long. time. And we actually stop and talk to neighbors and friends (unbelievable, huh- people do that here.) And I love it.

Sunday Nights

We've developed this ritual over the past few years, Craig and I. On Sunday nights, we're especially punctual about getting the kids in bed, so...we...can....partay with Masterpiece Classics!! I sometimes have to laugh that Creighton loves watching them as much as I do (if not more.) It's by far our favorite night of the week. It's all about yummy treats, meaty plots and witty dialogue for us. And don't try to get in the way! I guarantee you won't see us anywhere else on a Sunday evening past 8pm if we can possibly help it. Unless, of course, it's Masterpiece Mysteries,... which we're not so much in to....aaand which is why I'm sitting here writing this blog past 8pm on a Sunday evening.

He Drives an Old Truck

Yep. It's a '67 Ford. I have a story about me and old trucks. I used to think, back in the day, how great it would be to find a guy who drove an old beat up truck. I had dated too many guys who were obsessed with appearances. Eventually, I couldn't help but think how refreshing it would be to find one who just didn't care about all that. I mean, what kind of ego can a guy have who drives a rusted old truck? On purpose! Creighton has gone through probably a dozen cars since the time we met- cars of all shapes, sizes, makes and models. It's been a sort of hobby for him. I never told him about my rusted old truck theory, but one day, shortly after we were married, he mentioned his dream of buying an old Ford pickup- just because. And four years ago, he bought one. We've held on to it, like a cherished pet, through four moves- to the point that it is now the sole car that Creighton drives. Impractical, Gas Guzzling, Rusted, Rattling, Hot As Sin In The Summer, Old Ford Truck-- and he doesn't care one whit!

I'm a Choir Geek

It's true. I sang in my High School Concert Choir and then in the Vocal Ensemble (Show Choir) my Senior Year. But it wasn't geeky to be in choir- or maybe I'm just delusional. The truth is- I didn't want to join the chior. I really fought it. My two older sisters sang in the choir, my parents are life long singers and sang in the Tabernacle Choir for a long time. I felt like it was expected that I would follow suit. For that reason, I resisted. I'm all about free agency, see. I'm sure I was a fierce defender in heaven and no less stubborn about it here. LET ME CHOOSE! Don't force me to do anything whether or not it's for my own good. No one was forcing me, but I felt the pressure of silent expectations and I bucked them....until I gave in. What a monumental decision that turned out to be.

Not that joining the choir is monumental for everyone- ours just happened to be directed by one genius of a man, Mr. Bentley (now "Dr. Bentley") The night before last, Mr. Bentley directed his last Pops Concert. He's retiring this year, so his wife organized a surprise Vocal Ensemble alumni choir to perform for him at the end of the show. What a memorable experience. As some 300 of us, from over 20 years, stood on the stage singing "For Good" from Wicked, I was reminded of what I have known and appreciated for the past 20 years- of what a profound influence this man has had in my life. The principles and ethics I practiced because of, and through, and for this man have resonated through everything worthwhile that I've done since. Dedication, Commitment, Loyalty, Respect, Unity, Punctuality (okay, I'm still working on that one), Sacrifice, Endurance, Vision, Diligence, and above all, HARD WORK. Principles that my parents taught me at home, but which were fine tuned and applied in the fiery furnace of choral affliction!

And so I say Thank You to Mr. Bentley, who helped shape not only my character, but that of thousands of other students over the past 20 years.

Because I knew you,
I have been changed for good.