Blue eyes

We went to an outdoor wedding yesterday.

There was a fountain, classic fall weather, trees and some neat cool steps.

Here we are before the ceremony started.

The reception was at an art gallery, and it was cool.

Did the stroller and the baby fit in? Ah, not really. But I only felt a little out of place. We had a good time.

A Sunday in September

Somehow, it's September already. Nearly mid-September.

Rye picked apples straight from the tree in Nebraska City on Friday. And we're doing a story about just that family activity at work.

I can't believe it's time to pick apples already.

Before I know it, we'll be able to go to pumpkin patches - my favorite fall activity. And it'll be my birthday. And that will mean I'm 30 years old.

And you can imagine how I feel about that.

Today, anyway, we went to a water festival, which really wasn't that spectacular. They billed it as having lots of children's activities, but really they didn't. Instead, it was booth after booth of people with literature to read about their group or pencils or rulers to give away. They did have canoe rides, but I couldn't really take a 4-month-old on a canoe.

It was nice to be out in nature anyway, though. And see the lake shining in the sun through the trees and walk with my kids through grass that scratched our ankles.

And smell the scent of sun-drenched skin when we finally got home.

Here's to the start of fall, my favorite season.

And here's us at the festival:

Girl power

I have a Wonder Woman T-shirt that says "Girl Power" on it.

And this weekend, that's totally how I feel.



It's just me and Paige, doing whatever we want, whenever we want. Without any boy telling us what to do.

We've been shopping. More than once.

We went running.

And we've listened to loud music. Of course.

We've gone on a few walks. We've taken a few naps.

And it's been peaceful and nice. Just the two of us.



I am looking forward to seeing my first baby tomorrow night, though. Boy and all.

Little rocker girl

My baby girl loves music.

Perhaps she will grow up to be a rock and roll star. Or maybe she'll grow up to be a groupie. Maybe she'll be Maria coming from Nashville with a suitcase in her hand. Maybe she'll want to meet a boy who looks like Elvis.

Probably she'll be none of those things.

But her love for music right now is pretty darn sweet.

Sunday afternoon, for example, I knew she was tired. Yet, she wouldn't let herself fall asleep. I put her in the swing, which usually always does the trick. She fussed and squawked for 10 minutes or so in there. I was finally about to take her out when I thought I'd try music.

One minute of Wilco and she was out like a cat in the sunny spot on the carpet.

Most evenings, she and I retreat to the kitchen where I plug my iPod into speakers and turn it up loud. We listen to Wilco and Death Cab and Pink and that one Tilly and the Wall song that's really great. Last night, we put it on shuffle and heard Tracy Chapman and Carly Simon and New Kids (ahem) and Clay Aiken (AHEM) and a few others. It puts her to sleep within minutes. Every single time.

It's great for me. I get a baby that not only stops crying but lays so at peace in my arms that I sort of want to never let her go. And I get to listen to music, loud.

Rock on, baby girl.

First day

Rye started preschool last Monday.



We were nervous and excited for it, and the day went fine. The highlight, I think, was the little mouse game which has a song that goes like this: Little mouse, little mouse, are you in the (insert color here) house? You have to hear Rye sing it. It's very cute.

Here's another picture from the morning, right before we left to go.



The lowlight of the day was the face plant Rye took onto the sidewalk when being picked up from daycare that evening. The fall involved blood all over his face, I'm told, and an hour or so of worrying about whether he needed to go to the ER or some urgent care clinic for stitches.

Here's what he looked like that night before bed. Like he got beat up, right?



He didn't end up going for stitches, and almost a week later, he's doing fine. He still has a gash on the very top of his forehead but for the most part he's all better.

And he's a preschool veteran now, too, with three days under his belt.

A beautiful bouquet

Rye went to get the newspaper from the driveway for me one morning this weekend.

And he came back with these. Picked carefully and held in his little-boy hand just so, these dandelions - to me - were anything but weeds.



And then he went to color, spread out with ease that can only be truly found on a weekend morning.

My children's laughter

Being an adult has hit me hard this year.

I will be 30 years old in about two months. To show for it, I have, first and foremost, two beautiful, healthy, intelligent children that sometimes I can't believe I helped create.

I also have a job that I like, that fits me well, where I feel I am respected and valued.

I have a house and a car. I have a few close friends.

And I have a husband, who I've really messed things up with. I shouldn't write about things like this here, in a public forum like this, but all 10 readers of this blog probably know about our issues anyway. And it just seems, I don't know, less than honest to this blog (which I started nearly two years ago as a chronicle of my family's life) to continue ignoring it.

Neither of us knows what to do exactly - or maybe we do know but don't want that to be the answer.

This whole thing, it's so adult, so raw, so unbecoming. It's made me want to run away, get in the car and drive west and not stop until I get somewhere that feels far enough removed. It's made me want to scream. It's made me want to just throw in the towel on everything. It's made me psychoanalyze myself, my childhood, my parents, my relationships. I've lost friends. I've felt very, very alone.

And I don't know where or when it all ends. Or how we even get to that finish line, or if it's one I even want to cross at all. Isn't the status quo easier after all?

I've come to realize there are things I want in this life that I will most likely never ever have. They just aren't meant to be. They're not possible. And they are, if I let them be, heartbreaking and awful. I know there are things other people want that they will also never ever have. I hate this.

Through this all, my children are here. And I want better for them. But I can't make the world perfect for them. I can't make our problems just go away. I just can't. I am flawed. And I am sorry for that. But I love them just the same. Those kids. Those perfect little ones who have done nothing wrong ever. Who deserve better.

Paige laughed for the first time on Thursday. It was the happiest sound I've heard in a long, long time. She is 12 weeks old on Monday and this laugh Thursday was giggling, little girl giggling, not baby cooing. She was laughing at me and Rye. We were pretend fighting. I was pretending to kick him while holding her and he would pretend to jab me with a toy knife (which was actually a tool from his play toolset) and then roll around on the ground and I would pretend to step on him. And she laughed like it was the funniest thing in the whole wide world.

Rye's laughter - pure, honest little-boy laughter - has always been like magic. How can I not smile when he's so at ease, so full of life? And I felt the same way about that sound coming from Paige. She is so tiny, yet she is still capable of laughing.

And so maybe it is with my children's laughter that I will get through this very adult time in my life. Maybe it's those giggles that I will hold on to forever, despite - and in the midst of - everything else.