Not that you ever knew he was gone.  Seems I have an aversion to announcing to the wide internets that my husband is out of town on business.  You know, inviting the crazies and all.

He’s back now.  After four long days away, in Dublin, Georgia.  Which has nothing on Dublin, Ireland, I’d venture to guess.

We welcomed him back to the madness with a spaghetti dinner–the mess from which likely rivals that from a full-fledged food fight.

I missed him.

No. Not just because there were eight-legged creepie crawlies to extinguish and smelly trash receptacles to lug to the curb.

I miss him when he’s gone.  I don’t sleep right–awaking to every little bump in the night.

We’re one of those couples that go to bed together (I mean literally people, don’t let your minds wander) every single night.  We brush our teeth side by side before methodically stripping the decorative pillows from the bed and pulling back the comforter.  Every night, we crawl under the sheets simultaneously, both of us exhaling the second our heads hit our respective pillows.

And then we talk.  Sometimes for just a moment or two, and sometimes long into the night.  Either way, it’s a ritual I’ve come to require, in order to drift slowly to dreamland.  We’ve taken a stab at the ritual via phone, but it just isn’t the same.

Tonight, though?  I’ve got the real thing.  And after three virtually sleepless nights, something tells me I’ll sleep like a baby.

I’m curious, though.  Am I a wimp and a wuss all rolled into one?  Do you lose sleep when/if your spouse has to pick up and go for a day or two?  I’ve heard tell that some wives actually enjoy the time alone.  Is it thoroughly disgusting that we lie in bed talking every night?  Or is that a pretty standard thing for married folk?  On which side do you fall?

September has long been a favorite of mine.  Though no month could ever oust my October.  September, though, still garners my favor.

Especially this September.

Why?

September ushers in our vacation season.  And this year’s vacation season is a doozie; we’ve got Disney trips coming up that practically piggyback one another!  {More on those soon}.

As if that weren’t enough…we have a sweet sixteen to celebrate in the very near future.  {More on that soon, too}.

September is also anniversary month for my lovie and I.

AND it’s the month when I can start opening the windows again after a too-long, too-hot desert summer.  Don’t get me wrong, we’re not exactly pulling out the winter coats just yet.  But there’s definitely a change in the air–the tease of crisp mornings and brisk nights to come.  I can’t help but look at the hot tub through eager eyes.

Pumpkin bread and chili and baked ziti and iced chai cookies: these will have to wait.  One more flip of the calendar page, though, and these, too, will be mine.  All mine.

I wouldn’t dream of rushing September though.

Come on in.  Stay awhile.

Ticket, as in moving traffic violation.

This, my friends, is a first for me.  The first blemish on my spotless 16-year driving record.  And I’m none too happy.

Technically, I was cited for “wasting finite resources.”  Which, in my case, meant that the officer who cited me was under the impression that I was speeding.  Either that, or she was just shy of making her ticketing quota for the month of August and I was a wrongplacewrongtime casualty.

She claimed that her radar “strongly” lit me up speeding.

I’m far from convinced.  But that, apparently, is beside the point.  Or at least it is for now.  We’ll see what the judge has to say though.

The kicker?

The kicker was that this highway patrolwoman had the nerve to approach my car and explain to me that I was being cited for “wasting finite resources” while her patrol car idled behind us.

Um?  Finite resources.  Ahem.

She proceeded to take my license and registration.

Her car idled.

She walked back to her car and radioed in to check for warrants (because, you know in my spare time I have this pesky habit of knocking off banks and stuff).

Her car idled.

She came back and argued with me about the validity of her claim.

Her car idled.

The gas it was a guzzlin’ friends.  I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if her AC was blaring all the while.  And yet still, she ticketed me for “wasting finite resources.”  As I sat in my parked minivan with the engine turned off, our reusable shopping bags laying on the seat next to me.

Finite resources.  Uh-huh.

It took everything I had to zip my lip.  Because I had plenty to say about finite resources.  Like the fossil fuels that were burning their way through her gas tank.  Or the triplicate paper she used to write me a bogus ticket.  And that’s saying nothing of the tax dollars wasted on ticketing a homemaker in a minivan, on her way home from a visit to the park with her four-year-old gangsta preschooler.

Finite resources.

I’d love to tell you more but yo, some homey in the hood just blew powder and now I gotz to blow ‘for the PoPo come light us up and send us ovah.  Yo.

Or something like that. :)

Honestly, I didn’t have preschool in mind for him.  He’s my baby, after all.  I feared preschool would–and I know this might sound silly–but I feared preschool would “mean him up.”

I don’t want him meaned up.  I like him as is.

He comes to me in his t-shirt and spidey undies every morning–sleep still heavy on his breath–and asks me to rock him.  Only he can’t make the “k” sound so it goes more like will you rott me?

And then I hold out my hand and wait for him to grab tight.  Together we walk to the four-year-old brown velour rocker in the corner of his bedroom.

He excitedly curls up into the same position on my lap every single time, knowing precisely how to bend and tuck so as to fit just right.  We rock.  Sometimes we read books.  Mostly, though, we talk.

He tells me that my earrings are beautiful, and that they make me look like a beautiful princess (his daddy taught him the fine art of flattery).  He gives me smoochie boochies and asks if they are the best four-year-old smoochie boochies ever.  We talk about when he “popped out of my tummy” and how even if I could have picked any baby in all the world I still would have chosen him.

I’m afraid that if he goes off to preschool, he’ll come home each day with his edges just a touch grittier than they were when he left.

And also?  The very reason he’s going to school is so as to correct an articulation delay.

An articulation delay that, for the time being, I happen to find irresistible.

Come fourth grade, it might not be as cute.

So I’m letting go.

But only a little.

And only because I have to.

Wish us luck.

A certain someone is of this belief because I’ve always told this certain someone to “work first, play later.”

A certain someone seems to have misunderstood that to mean work when you’re young, play when you’re old.

When in reality, what I meant is work {every day} until work is through and play with the time you’ve got left over {most likely dusk to sundown.  Ish}.

Work every day.  Play every day.

Whether that is a popular belief or not, I can’t say.  But it works for me.

A certain someone witnesses my days at home–witnesses the suds and the soiled behinds and the lunch-making–and that certain someone sees boredom.  Redundancy.  Hopelessness.

Whereas I?  I look at the splay of domesticity and I see the stuff that dreams are made of.

It’s not that I don’t tire of the soiled behinds and the call from the bathroom: “Mom, I’m dooooooooooone.”  I actually tire of that part rather quickly thankyouverymuch.

But whereas a certain someone dreams of coming and going at will and spending every. single. night. out on the town?  I don’t share that definition of fun.  At least not anymore.  Not in my old age.

Truth be told, I’m quite the homebody.  Nights on the town are overrated, if you ask me.

My idea of fun is a Friday night, spent making dinner in the kitchen while Disney tunes roll out, one after another, from my annoyingly cheerful playlist.  Pollyanna.

The pull of the people here at home isn’t a burden, but a blessing–they root me.

I love being needed.  And I need to be loved.

My certain someone has yet to become a parent.

I wonder if my certain someone ever will.  And if so, how that perspective might change.

Months ago, I read a blog post in which the author said something to the effect of, “it’s so refreshing to see young parents who didn’t let the birth of their child change their lives.”

A photo accompanied the post, and in it, this young couple was pictured with their brand new baby.  The backdrop?  A neon beer sign, typical of those found in bars across America.  Their newborn baby sat between them, in a car-seat carrier.  In a bar.

In a bar!

Refreshing to see young parents who don’t let the birth of their child change their lives?  Refreshing to see young parents who don’t let the birth of their child impose on their fun?

Eh.  I’m not so sure about that.

I’m not nearly as “fun” as I once was.

And I hope that one day, in the not-too-distant future, a certain someone will appreciate my idea of fun as much as I understand hers.

Have I mentioned that we live in the desert?  And, um, AC?  Powered by electricity.  Of which we had none.  For twelve. hours.

Things shut down right around 3 pm yesterday afternoon.  It started with the midnight blue sky that I’ve come to love.  And then there was the rumble of distant thunder–the flash of lightning bolts in the distance.  The trees whipped to life in response to wild, monsoon winds.

Jayce and I sat by the window awaiting Cassidy’s bus.

“It’s windy out there, mommy.”

“Yes, it is.  A storm is blowing in.”

“Yes,” he answered, having liked the sound of the words, “a storm is blowing in.”

As if on cue, the lights flickered.  And then again once more.

Cassidy made it home just as the first fistful of plops fell from the sky.  She made a run for the front door, hollering her daily “thank you!” to Mr. Lou, the bus driver, as she ran.

With her safely inside, the sky let loose an angry summer rain–gigantic pellets beating down.

What it was that claimed the pole I can’t say.  But claimed it was–one massive power pole reduced to splinters.

Clearly, I couldn’t make dinner.  So Mexican it was.  As it always is.  {Because I could eat Mexican 7 nights a week if need be}.

We came home to find our neighbors cloaked by the black of night.  Luckily we’d thought ahead and left a candle in the garage.  We had to scavenge the house for them.  Summer time–it seems–isn’t candle burning season ’round these parts.  Eventually though, we found enough nubs from last year’s fall stash to maneuver through our bedtime routine.

And so–with the house infused with the scent of pumpkin and maple–we made our way to bed {minus the covers}.  It was so hot that I peeled off even my shirt, and slept in nothing but my skivvies.  {I’m not really a skivvy sleeping kind of girl}.

I heard the AC groan to life at 3 am.  Hallelujah.

There were casualties: some chicken breasts, the milk, and possibly the yoghurt (too soon to tell).

But it was an adventure nonetheless.  One that gave Jayce the opportunity to come to the rescue with his Buzz flashlight–the only working flashlight in the house, believe it or not.

I’ll be shopping for both candles and batteries this weekend.   ;)

Of course, there are also sheets to wash and meals to prepare and toilets to scrub.  These are the less glamorous of my duties.  But having eagerly accepted this role, I learned to take the bad with the good.

And then somewhere along the way, I got confused.

Somewhere along the way the laundry and shiny mirrors and crumb-less floors took priority over the tummy tickling.  Storytime was put off until the dishes were washed, dried and put away.  Impromptu chasing games had to wait until the bills had been paid and the checkbook had been balanced.

It wasn’t an intentional shift, but a shift nonetheless.

And then, to further complicate things, I got sidetracked by blogging and tweeting and status updating.

Not long ago I realized that all of this busyness had slowly but surely inched out my real responsibility: being a perpetually available mommy.

So here I am at a crossroad–wondering whether I should stay or go.

Selfishly I want to stay.  But–in all honesty–the inability to read and comment on your blog leaves me feeling icky.  I brought this site to life in order to establish a virtual community, not a soapbox.

I know that there must surely be a happy medium.  It’s just a matter of me finding it.

I hope you’ll bear with me over the next month or so – as I attempt to do just that.  And if–at the end of that month–I still can’t find it…well, then I might be slipping out the back door.

But let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. :)

What do you think?  Do you struggle with the same issues?

It was an event that would normally have warranted a birthday post on the pages of this here blog.  BUT.  But I haven’t been feeling the bloggy bug lately, in case you hadn’t noticed.  I’m not entirely sure of the future of Such The Spot.  But that’s beside the point.

Today, I’m here to show off share some pictures.  Mostly because Miss Kelly (Jayce’s godmother) requested that I do so. :)

It was a super great day – one that perfectly suited our four-year-old Buzz Lightyear fan.  His special treatment started early–on Wednesday–when Grandma Kiss Poke (long story) flew in for the occasion.  That event was followed up by not one, but two days worth of lunch dates in town.  By the time his birthday actually rolled around, Jayce was already drunk off the attention and affection his grandma had been showering on him for two days.

Come Saturday morning, the fun continued.  He awoke to the sound of Mickey Mouse singing the happy birthday song (courtesy of Daddy’s iPod).  He got dressed quickly and headed downtown with Daddy for early members-only hours at the zoo.  Meanwhile, us girls were here at home, hard at work on a cake and decorating.

Before they headed home, Daddy stopped by the party store to let Jayce pick out a special birthday balloon.  Betcha can’t guess what he picked…

When they got home later on that morning Jayce was surprised to walk into a room full of balloons.  Our “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” shouts took him back a bit; he was a touch shocked by our enthusiasm I think.

It wore off quickly though.

We spent the day playing his favorite games, opening presents, and eating the meal he requested (chicken and broccoli).  Grandma Kiss Poke even made her famous potato salad and it was thoroughly enjoyed by all.

There was cake.  Homemade vanilla ice cream.  And we closed out the evening all crowded onto the couch, watching Tarzan.

Little mister could barely keep his eyes open come bedtime.  But he couldn’t pass on the birthday sleepover he and his daddy had been planning for a week.  The two of them dug out sleeping bags and flashlights and took to the floor, falling asleep only after the very last shadow puppet had been identified.

All in all, a perfect day.  See for yourself.

Yours probably does, too.

We had this house built from the ground up.  For weeks (that lingered into months) I labored over decisions and agonized over choices that–in the grand scheme of things–don’t matter much: corian or granite, maple or cherry, Plush or Berber.

At the time, I couldn’t help but focus on the semi-permanent outcome of my decisions.  This was to be our home–forever.

Five years later I’m not quite as convinced on the forever part.  Still though, it is our home.  I’m still living with the choices I made back then.  And goshdarnit, they matter!

Or do they?

This house (for which I practically signed my life away) started out flawless.  The walls were coated only with perfect texture and paint.  The concrete floors shined pristine.  The cabinets and carpet were unmarked–brand spankin’ new.  Even the furniture came straight from the warehouse.

Much has changed.

See for yourself…

Scars.

Lots of ‘em.

Many a wooden surface in our house has fallen victim to a cotton ball, soaked in nail polish remover.

The once shiny concrete floors have been scratched and marred by a little boy’s toys.

There was the soap dish in the shower that was waylaid when a certain young lady attempted to prop her leg up for a better shaving angle.

A bathroom counter that remains forever smeared True Berry Red.  {I ought to outlaw nail polish and its associated products}.

The crop circle-esque marking on our kitchen cabinetry.  Now when he uses a drill, the phrase, “measure twice, cut once” will forever echo in my husband’s head.

Oh yes.  And then there is our lovely gap-toothed chair.  Somehow Jayce managed that one before he could even walk.  He taught me early the differences between girls and boys.

Scars.

Each with a story.  A memory.  A little something to laugh about now.

For a long while I held out hope for a house that wouldn’t get “messed up.”  And while you won’t find me inviting destruction anytime soon, I can honestly say that these little scars no longer leave me needing to count to ten.  Each scar is sort of like a lasting impression of a time gone by, never to pass again.

Little hands.  Chubby, accident-prone fingers.  Minds that knew no better.

Scars: an unavoidable part of turning a house into home.

The never-ending birth of characters and the twists and turns of their puppet lives sometimes leaves me exhausted.  Spent.

{Falling behind my} self-imposed writing goals and deadlines leaves me knotty inside.  Which would be easily remedied, of course, were it not for the insistent here and now.

The here and now beckons constant: bills to pay, the unbalanced checkbook, appointments to schedule, vacations to plan, chores that need doing, ohandthelistgoeson.

And then there is the gravity of my first-and-foremost.  My little people.  My big one.

Jayce–with his wide ocean eyes–so patient, just needing my focus.  Wanting to paint.  Exploring the garden.  Questioning how to spell his sister’s name.  Always wondering something.

The wondering gets me.

The sound of his baby voice–the knowledge that his is the last that will echo here–stops me.  Catapults me to the present.  Freeze-frames the characters I’m busy puppeteering.  There they stay, eager to hear the conflicts I’m planting, the stakes I’ve dreamed up.

One more year.  Just one.  And then he’s off to kinder.

Just one.

So many moments to savor in the meantime.

Oh, but the tug!  The urge.  The drive.

There is no question as to which way this scale tips.  But that doesn’t make it any easier.