The Blue Moon Caffeine-Induced Saga About 2011

I dread writing posts like this.  They wind up being unnecessarily epic and long-winded because I'm no good at consistently keeping up with this thing.  However, it needs to happen, as so much has changed in the last few months.

The dust has settled.  Let's do this.

the only photo i could find that i felt captured the feeling of settled dust

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Months ago, Terry and I made the hard decision to move from our house.  We bought it back in 2005, closing on Neve's due date, which wound up being 3 days after she was actually born.  What were we thinking?  We weren't.  We wanted to buy a house, and nothing would stop us.  Not even a healing episiotomy.

While the house wasn't in the worst shape as-is, and while we weren't in any place (financially speaking) to renovate, we were still determined to make this house 20x better than the condition in which we bought it, using as little money as possible.  (Terry would probably also add that I was eager to meet this goal within a week of closing.  Me and patience, we're still getting to know each other.)

The house, a modest 2 bedroom/1 bathroom was our little labor of love.  (Please read "The Little House" by Virginia Lee Burton if you haven't already.  Aside from the fact that it's a great book, I swear that's our house.  Even now, after having moved, Neve will ask me, "are the window-eyes on the old house still crying since we left?"  Geez.)  We gardened there with good friends, we chased chickens there, we potty-trained 2 kids there, we adopted Banjo there, we celebrated 6 Christmases there (with ornaments getting increasingly lower with every year), we watched the maple tree's leaves turn a fiery red and orange in the front yard every Autumn, and we spent many cozy moments nestled in the close quarters of the house that we would eventually grow out of.

Space (or lack of) was not our reason for leaving, but it helped make the decision easier for sure.  We are still trying to figure out what happens next- foreclosure, short sale, or turning it into a rental.  In this economy, I'm inclined to just let it go, cut our losses, and celebrate the fact that we're not landlords.  But that may not be the smartest move.  In any case, we're thrilled to be in a new house in Atlanta that accommodates our family and all of our particulars- studio space, an entire acre lot, mother-in-law suite, finished basement complete with the kids' new drum kit (thank you, Aunt Rachel and Uncle Josh!), and a separate school room.  We are very grateful.  (But man, do I miss Sarah at sportweasel.  I've said it before, but it's especially appropriate now... "You don't miss yer water, 'til the well runs dry."-the Byrds, Sweetheart of the Rodeo.)

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Our next big change was another thing I was hesitant to post here, but I will anyway.  We went gluten free a month ago, and we love it.  Well, I went gluten free a month ago, and the kids and Terry are gluten free when I'm looking.  Word has it, Terry has been cramming pop tarts into his face hole every morning at work after I make him a big bowl of morning millet.*  The girls?  They don't have a say in what I feed them.  Me?  Cooking has never been this fun and satisfying; international dishes I used to be afraid of are now part of our daily menu- veggie sushi, curries, korean barbeque, roasted vegetables, and lots of stewed meats.  (We've also eliminated the dining-out portion of our budget almost completely, give or take the occasional coffee.)

the occasional coffee

To be fair, I did fall off the wagon a few times over

1. an incident (or 2) with beer
2. New Years Eve (that whole night was a blur of wheat)
3. a slice of pizza, in a moment of weakness when my daughters were having a sleepover.  It was way better than the beer incident, I might add.

I'm happy to report that each of those slides resulted in feeling like crap the following day.  Really.  It was confirmation that I needed to hop back on the wagon immediately.  This GF thing is so real, people.

fruit and kefir salad

I'm always hesitant to vocalize changes in my diet, as I don't have the best track record.  I get super excited about "changing my ways", only to find myself right back at a Chick-fil-A drive-thru window.  And then the shame.  And then medicating the shame with french toast wrapped in flour tortillas, or something desperate like that.  (Not really, but why not?) I needed to reach the one-month-mark before claiming to be officially GF.  I mean, I made it through the holidays!  This isn't about a trend diet, but a lifestyle thing.  It's not about losing weight (although the muffin top does go away), but about feeling better all around.  I have these arthritis issues in my fingers and toes that come and go, and they've been gone COMPLETELY since I went GF.  The carb cravings are gone, my skin is clear, energy levels have tripled, my allergies are not as bad (less sneezing and itchy eyes around the cat), and my mood is better than it's been in a long time.  Seriously, you can even ask Terry.  Hold on one sec... he needs to swallow his pop tart first.


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Also, the holidays were lovely.  Most of my cousins were in town (minus Jackie... next year, cousin!  Next year!)  My brother came down and brought his sweet girlfriend (who I'd never met... I love her).  Nana and Papa are in good health (a gift in and of itself), and we all enjoyed listening to their familiar stories that we all could practically repeat word for word.  And even though I know Christmas is not about receiving (blah blah blah), I gotta say we all got some cool gifts.

Neve wearing my Morrissey scarf from Terry.

Neve opening a beautiful little wooden box from her grandma Lani on Christmas morning.

Uncle Josh and Neve, minutes after she received her new drum kit.

Everyone made out well, except for maybe the one gift from Terry and me to the girls.  They received rip-off "American Girl" dolls, aka "Journey Girl" dolls, despite their very specific requests for "American Girl" lookalikes.  (These dolls look NOTHING like them.)  Even though we were up until 3:00 a.m. on Christmas Eve taking these blasted dolls out of their packages and cutting off the tags under their clothes, then setting them up in their "Journey Girl" ski resort furniture (we saved enough on the bow-legged dolls to afford a ski resort for them), and doing our best to remove all traces of the words JOURNEY GIRL, Fiona managed to find the one lone tag we missed on her doll's, Kat Katterage's, inner thigh.

Fiona, reading from the inner thigh tag, "Journey Girl?  These aren't American Girl dolls, Mom?"

It was not a shining moment for Terry and myself, as we played dumb, shrugged, and offered the explanation that Santa must make his own line of dolls in the North Pole that are, in fact, superior to anything found at a mall.  "I mean, look at her flowing nylon hair, Fiona.  She's a beaut."  When in doubt, blame it on Santa.

(For any frowning grandmas reading this, they love their dolls and are perfectly happy.  Please don't buy them real "American Girl" dolls out of sadness or grandma-guilt.)

Christmas Dad, 2011.

2011 was one of our bumpiest years yet, but I'm seeing the light at the end of the nauseating car ride.  It was up and then down and then up again, but always moving in the right direction.  I have a happy, healthy (and loud) family along for the ride too.  Who could ask for more than that?  2012 is going to be great.

*Morning millet is the worst.