What. a. week.  Yep.  One of those.

The kids went back to school on the 19th and I don’t feel like I’ve taken a breather since.  No time to breathe when you’ve got orthodontist appointments sandwiched by swim classes times two.

We’ve got homework coming out the wazoo.  Lunch making and meal-planning.  Sports sign-ups and the accompanying physicals.  Endocrinologists, EENT’s, dermatologists and ophthalmologists to visit (chalk those up to bad long-term timing on my part).

My intent of this post, however was not so much to play the pity-me-because-I’m-so-busy card.

I’d rather forget all about the go-go-go’ness for a second.  And focus, instead, on that which I’ve been savoring:

Like just a minute ago when my soon-to-be 4 year-old sought me out–fresh from his bath–to play the tushie game.

Or how instead of waking up to an empty side of the bed, I’ve been stumbling out of bed while it’s still dark so as to join my lovie on his early morning run.

I’m enjoying these last weeks of 15.  Because she’s counting down the days until sweet sixteen, and the dating threshold she’ll cross into.

My absent-too-long monsoon friend has arrived.  The pitter patter makes my soul smile.

These are the moments–sprinkled sparingly throughout my days–that remind me.  Comfort me.  Create space for breathing.

And, believe you me, I’m taking notice.

Cassidy has a school project due tomorrow.  An All About Me poster.

Turned out pretty darn good, even if I do say so myself.

And, um, completely coincidental that I didn’t have time to blog last night.  Ahem.

Last Thursday was a momentous occasion for a certain redhead in our house.  It was the day that two years worth of orthodontist visits culminated with the big event: braces.  Finally.

She’s lucky in that the doctor says she only needs to wear them for a year.

Her older sister, on the other hand, wasn’t as fortunate.  Tomorrow morning will mark the end of Torri’s two year stint as a metal mouth.  She’s counting down the minutes.

For just six days, they’ve had this in common.

It ends tomorrow.

But it was cute while it lasted…

July in Tucson.

It’s when the skies turn the color of tornadoes.  If tornadoes had a color.

The air is ripe but the rain is stubborn–not easily convinced.

The occasional zaps in the distance quite literally send electricity–excitement–coursing through the air.

Even the lizards seem to beg for a storm, puffing their proud chests upward.  Waiting.

All of us.  Just waiting.

Dear Monsoon.  Ready when you are.  No pressure.

Jayce crawled up into my lap this afternoon, curling up under my chin.  He let me smooth his hair, kiss his head.  And then: will you rock me in my rocking chair?

Absolutely.

An anniversary has been weighing on me all week.  The anniversary.

We raced to his room (he insists on racing no matter where we are headed or what we are doing.  We race putting on seat-belts and eating our oatmeal and getting dressed in the morning.  Nothing is exempt from the race).

He won.

He always wins.

We assumed The Position in his rocking chair and we rocked.  And then we read books.  We rocked some more.

My mind wandered to that day.  I remember it well.  Too well: my baby, suspended and lifeless in that blue water.

But the feel of him, solid and heavy in my arms–in that rocking chair–brought me back to the present.  I rubbed my fingers over the chub of his cheeks, against his downy soft, sweet little boy face.  And once again I squeezed tight my eyes and silently–though with the force of all that I am–thanked God for the outcome of that fateful day.

And within that same span of a moment, I pleaded–so desperate–on behalf of another child.  Another mother.  Another family that weighs heavy on my heart today.  That soon they, too, will know the unspeakable peace that comes after walking so tight a rope and making it to the other side.

My Jayce is here at home with me–in my arms.  How I hope and how I pray that this other mother will soon be able to say the same–to know that gift–for years and years to come.

The other morning–amidst a mess of paint rollers and ladders and drop cloths in my bedroom–I sat against the wall, eating a bowl of yogurt for breakfast.  Jeff sat directly across from me, eating his own bowl of yogurt.  Together, we admired the work we’d accomplished while letting out a collective sigh, considering how much there was yet to be done.

It reminded me of how–years before–I’d sat against the wall of an empty house in Colorado Springs, the majority of our belongings still packed up in cardboard moving boxes.  It had been a stressful move, and to compensate, I’d bought a bottle of White Zin (the only wine I’d drink back then).  I sat against a naked wall and drank straight from the bottle, because the box with glassware was either unmarked or missing, it’s hard to say which now.

At the time, I considered it a movie moment.  In the movie of my life, that is.

I watched a movie one time–though now I can’t remember the title or who starred in it–where the lead characters went to some in-between place after dying, and had to watch movies of their lives.  I’m sure there was some plot involved, but it escapes me now.  The movie moments stick though.

We all have movie moments.

How cool would it be if we could edit them, splay them together into one giant tapestry of the best–and some of the worst–moments of our lives.

What are some of the moments that would make yours?

Here are some of mine, in no particular order:

• peeing on a stick while working an after school job at an old-fashioned ice cream store in my hometown.  And the reaction that followed.
• playing an impromptu game of soccer (using an empty two-liter bottle) in a grocery store parking lot, while the rain poured down in sheets and soaked me to the bone.
• riding with my best friend and her boyfriend in his orange VW bus, en route to the hospital after having heard that one of our friends had been injured in an accident on the way to school.  Injured, as it turned out, had been an optimistic report.  It was the first loss I’d ever experienced.
• the first time I kissed my husband
• dropping my first query letter into a mailbox at the Post Office in Paso Robles.  It resulted in my very first published article.
• giving birth.  All four times.
• saying I do
• realizing I didn’t
• the near drowning
• being hunched over the rim of a hospital bathtub in Augusta, Georgia, praying desperately for the strength to go on.
• playing rock tag with my family the first time we camped at Grand Canyon
• countless Memorial Days spent camping at Plaskett Creek
• Grandma’s wheelbarrow rides
• the view from the highest point of the basket toss
• seeing my husband at the end of the aisle
• the day I spent wine tasting with my mom (with grandma and oldest daughter in tow)
• picking up my very first car, and my dad making me drive.  Even though I’d never driven stick before.
• carving pumpkins
• riding the Tea Cups with my Aunt Sharon
• drinking {entirely} too much Schnapps with Monica
• laughing long into the night with Heather and Bret after our first (second?) night of Moms Panel training
• We are the Bearcats, the mighty, mighty Bearcats
• giving the speech at high school graduation
• my friend, Michael, taking me to homecoming during what should have been my senior year
• accidentally finding a hidden brake on the passenger side of my cousin’s car.  Now that was fun.
• breastfeeding
• two rides in an ambulance
• the view from the airplane the first time I moved away from home
• sitting on the floor of our newly built home and eating McDonald’s (GAG!) with my gang
• the first time Jayce saw the Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Party parade

There are more, of course.  Likely enough to fill ten blog posts.  But these spring to mind right now.

How about you?  What are your movie moments?

According to dictionary.com, the word ‘debacle’ is defined as: a complete collapse or failure.

Based on that definition I can confirm that the recent painting of our master bedroom was, in fact, a debacle.

Ah.  Where to begin?

I could go back nearly five years, to the day we closed on this house we built.  The day in which our salesman delivered the keys to us and I rushed right over–three gallons of paint in tow–and painted until the daylight disappeared.  Terra Cotta.  Or, at least that’s what I intended.  It’s tough to say whether it was a gradual paint fade or just a run-of-the-mill change of heart that led to me eventually despising that “p’orange” (pink-orange) color that covered every square inch–ceiling included–of our bedroom.  For five long years.

No matter the reason, really.  The end result was the same: a return to the color the builder originally delivered.  And it wasn’t the first time.

So, too, did I paint every square inch of the second largest bedroom in the house back when we moved in.  It was to be Kennedy and Cassidy’s room and I deemed “silver fawn” (think minty green) as the perfect hue for their space.  It lasted only four years.  These days, it, too, has returned to its original color, with the exception of one accent wall.

Our master bedroom went the same way: we returned it to its original glory, with the exception of one accent wall.

I’m thinking that–for future reference–one accent wall is definitely the way to go.  So as to avoid another Great Paint Debacle.

It started when I visited the Home Depot paint counter and had two gallons of interior satin paint matched to the original color.

Easy peasie lemon squeezie.

Or not.

All was well.  Jeff and I painted our little hearts out and happily finished over half the job (having dipped into that second gallon of paint) by lunch break on that first day.  It looked fabulous.

Until.  Until we returned to our painting posts after lunch.

It didn’t take that keen of an eye to notice that two distinctly different hues of beige covered our walls.  The differentiation, of course, due to a mistaken smidgen of red paint having been added to that second gallon of color matched paint.

Not such a big deal.  Or, at least, it wouldn’t have been if were closer to town.

But we’re not.  We’re in BDE (butt-dessert-Egypt).

Fast forward two hours.  Second gallon of paint mixed, shaken and freshly rolled onto the walls.

SCREEEEEEEECH.

Oops.  It seems as though we’ve got a third beige hue festooned upon our walls.

Trip number three to the paint counter finds us being not-so-friendly with the paint guys.

There is a sleep.  A fresh set of morning eyes.  And yet another coat of paint applied to the walls.

SCREEEEEEECH.

You guessed it.

I’m rambling, and I hate to ramble.  Suffice it to say that when all was said and done, it took us THREE days, five different gallons of paint, three trips to the Home Depot and countless rollers to paint our bedroom.  Not counting tantrums.  Ahem.

The best part, though?  The best part is that, in certain slants of light, those with a keen eye for detail will notice a slight color differentiation on the walls of our bedroom.  Yes, still.  I’m not telling where, though.  You can’t make me.

I promised pictures of this grand master bedroom makeover of ours and I will deliver.  I’m waiting on the funds to purchase the pièce de résistance.

Once I acquire that piece you can bet your sweet patootie that I’ll be proudly posting pictures.

Moral of the story: when purchasing two gallons of paint to apply side-by-side, pre-mix them.  You’ll be glad you did. *And thank you, Heather, for that handy dandy (day-late-and-a-dollar-short) tip.

Five weeks.

Five weeks of sleeping in and picnic dinners and bathrooms that stayed clean.

Five weeks of no slamming doors or sticky handprints or dishes left in the sink.

Five weeks of quiet.  Peace.  Calm.

Tomorrow it comes to a close.

And–dare I say–bring it on.

I’m craving a little bit ‘o’ chaos.  Voices raised in competition to be heard.  Laughter.  Tales of the places they went and the things they saw.

Every year when they leave I lug out the hypothetical boards and hammer and nails and I get to work, sealing off an entire chamber of my heart, like when a ski lodge closes for lack of snow.  There’s even a little sign temporarily hung: Do Not Enter.

For as long as they’re away, that part of me remains void–untouchable.  A little piece of me, holding vigil.

Five weeks.

They come home and only when they’re each accounted for–only then–can I tear down the barricades.  Only then can I breathe easy.

My pulse escalates just thinking about it.  My arms tingle from phantom hugs.  My eyes crave the sight of them, with their newly sun-kissed shoulders and longer hair and ever-so-slightly older smiles.

It won’t be long now.

But these final moments?  Torture.

There was painting.  Still with the never-ending painting.

There was music.  I’m proud to be an American.  Because I am.  We are.

There was a little boy, decked out in his red, white and blue.  {And a dirty face to boot}.

There was a bbq, just the three of us.

There were old-fashioned bottles of root beer.

There were sore {painting} muscles, loosened in the hot tub.

There was a crackling fire.  ‘Smores with peanut butter cups instead of chocolate bars.

There were three faces missing.  The ache of missing them.

But there was happiness.  Gratitude.  Patriotism.

Happy Independence Day, friends.  Cheers!

Guess what I spent the better half of the day doing.

Go ahead.  Guess.

Here’s a hint:  It’s an activity I’ve grown to hate.  Doing this activity left me feeling lightheaded, and dirty from head to toe.

It was utterly miserable.

But it’ll be worth it in the end.  I hope so, anyway.

Photos to come soon.