Wedding Bells for Stevie

In less than a month, my little sister, Stevie, will become Mrs. Stephanie Arias-Anderson. By the way, don't you dare call her Stevie, she's liable to tear your throat out, unless you're an immediate family member, who she's completely given up on the "Stephanie Movement" with. In fact, I think I'm the only one who consistently calls her that, and, well, I always will. When we're shriveled old grannies, I'll still be chanting, "Stevie's a Fartknocker!" and making faces at her in church...you can mark my words on that one!

When Stevie was a baby, she had the most beautiful face. She had a porcelain complexion and the biggest, most gorgeous eyes you've ever seen. I still remember her laying in a pastel afghan that she received as a baby gift, and wriggling around while my dad, changed her diaper...gagging and grimacing through the whole event.

As a toddler, Stevie's love for the pacifier, which she dubbed, "the ciggy" was completely outrageous. My mother would attach brightly colored ribbons to each ciggy, in the hopes that we would be able to find them, but without fail, ciggy would get lost in the abyss and dad would be driving from Aurora to Naperville in search of a store that was open at midnight AND carried the right style of pacifier.

As a small child, Stevie was to say the least, entertaining. She developed a passion for music early, it's an Arias thing, and could be seen sitting at the kitchen table with a gigantic pair of headphones on, singing her heart out into an old microphone (which wasn't attached to anything), and making rock star faces that she learned by watching our older brother, Joe.

We grew up on a small farm, filled with random animals from ducks to horses. She would run around the farm with a pair of ridiculously tame goat kids (literally), named Whitney and Madonna. They would frolic around the farm for hours. Stevie would stop and let them eat mom's flowers, and on occasion, invite them into the house to play on mom's bed (note: mom was not happy).

When she was naughty all we had to do was tell her that the "Weyoo Weyoo's" (that was what she called cops because of the sound of the siren) were coming for her, and she would immediately stop what she was doing and start crying. Is it wrong that Joe and I laughed every time? No, no it's not.

Joe would sometimes be given the gruesome job of butchering rabbits. Not his idea of fun, but what the dad says, goes. That's life on the farm. Stevie was always curious about everything and one day decided she would see what Joe was up to. The maniacal pair, decided to gang up on the Jessi, which by the way, happened a lot. I'm sorry to be graphic, but the fact of the matter is, when you pop a rabbit over the head with a hammer (which was how we released them of their Earthly bodies) their eyes will occasionally, well, pop out. On this particular day, the eyes popped out. So sadistic Thing One gave rotten Thing Two a pair of said eyeballs to "share" with me. I was in the house, watching tv, when my sweet, innocent, little Stevie runs in, extends her hand, and reveals two eyeballs shouting, "Snake Eyes!" She then chases a screaming me around the table and back out the door. Nice, guys, nice.

As Stevie slipped into the "tween" years, she developed a nasty habit. We'll call it "Hanson". Hanson cursed the Arias clan for years. She plastered their freakish mugs all over her room, her text book covers, everything. We frequently endured long, drawn out Hanson related stories and were immersed in all the Taylor facts you never wanted to know. By the way, "Tay", happy freakin' birthday on March, 14th. See Stevie, I WAS listening. That's a piece of wasted brain space I'll never get back! I think the one that got the worst end of the Hanson obsession was dad. That poor guy had to chaperon more than one Hanson concert. It's a wonder he wasn't trampled by a herd of MMM...Bopping rabid 12 year old girls.

Teenager Stevie was a fantastic artist, had an incredible set of vocal pipes and developed a deep sense of faith and balanced it all with a quirky sense of humor and an appreciation for emo. You could hear her upstairs singing away to some thick eye-linered, 15 year old's lament about how life isn't fair as she got ready for the youth group that she was very active in.

The Stevie College Edition was a bright teaching student, with a flair for the dramatic (i.e. the Vagina Monologues). BTW, while Stevie's performance was great, the best part was watching my dad sit through it...he's not exactly comfortable with the word vagina, much less anything that any of those young women were discussing.

Stevie graduated college (woot) and became a school teacher. She's had a few interesting boyfriends over the years, but she's landed on a real winner. We're so happy that she found Erik. Not only does he look normal :) but he's got a brilliant mind and he truly loves my sister.

Now, Bride Stevie is preparing to take her vows and replace her Ms. with Mrs. I'm absolutely astonished at how time has flown by and that beautiful baby has become an even more beautiful bride.

It makes me think about my parents and my own children. My youngest isn't even 1 yet, and I know, someday I will be watching him marry the woman of his dreams, no matter how much I want to believe that I will always be the most important woman in his life.

At the end of the month, my parents are going to watch their baby take a new last name and start a totally new life as a married woman. I can't imagine what they're feeling and I can certainly wait to find out.

Stevie, I love you, but you're a fartknocker!

Good Morning, Sunshine!

When I was younger, I hated the morning. I am a night owl by nature. I worked second shift and it was nothing to be up until 3 or 4 in the morning watching tv or talking to the hubz. There wasn't really a need to go to bed at a "reasonable" time.

Somewhere along the line, I got older and my life shifted to a sunshine friendly sort of lifestyle. It was somewhere around the fall of 2003 when I found out that I was expecting and traded in my cushy, hourly 3-11 job for a salaried managerial position. I made my own schedule with the exception that I had to come in at 7AM twice a week.

It didn't take long before I adjusted to seeing the sun rise, and 3AM seemed more like a punishment than a privilege. After Kyan came in 2005, life changed again, and I became Zombie Mom. I was up around 20 hours a day (not in a cool way like college). I remember long hours, sitting cross-legged ("Indian-style" is out these days) with Ky in my lap. I would sing everything my sleep deprived brain could think of from Mary Had a Little Lamb to The Night Chicago Died (Paper Lace, look into it).

More than one of those nights ended in my crying, asking my little man why he hated me and if he was trying to kill me. On those nights, a groggy Brock would scoop him up and let me pass out, or I'd take Ky downstairs and call my mom. My mom keeps a crazy schedule and is usually awake drinking coffee and journaling around 3 or 4AM. I would cry and ask her how she survived 3 babies and we'd always end up laughing. It always made me feel better.

Fast forward to March 1, 2010 (Happy Birthday, Jensen Ackles (YUM)), and I am a stay-at-home mom to a 4-year-old, hyperactive preschooler, a 2-year-old who is obsessed with He-Man and pouring things on the floor, and a 10-month-old who's trademarked hair-pull head-butt combo would put any pro-wrestler to shame.

Days are a blur when you're chasing Alvin, Simon and Theodore around the house. Evenings are comprised of dinner, library books, super-splashy bathtimes and a sometimes not-so-pleasant bedtime routine.

But, oh, the mornings. 5AM is as quiet and deliciously peaceful as a snowfall. I creep around finishing up dishes or laundry, usually both, sipping my coffee, and cherishing the solitude. Some mornings, I call my mom and we trade funny stories or offer each other a slice of encouragement when it's needed. We still end up laughing. On the rare occasion, Brock will get up (usually with a fussy Devi's help) and we will sit and chat, uninterrupted until it's time to start our day.

Now that I'm older, I love the morning. I've turned into a full-on daywalker (man, I love the movie Blade). My whole world has changed. I suppose you could say it's as different as night and day.

The Contents of a Blueberry

Kyan just has a way about him.
He has confidence.
He has charisma.
He has authority.
He has no clue he's only 4 years old.

This morning Kyan chose to have blueberries for breakfast.
No cereal.
No toast.
No strawberries.
Blueberries.

So anyway, I'm going along minding my own, washing that pot I just couldn't bring myself to tackle last night when Kyan asks, "Mom, what's in a blueberry?"

My first response, "Good stuff".

He objects with a simple "no". After a few moments, he continues through gritted teeth, "Mom, it's squishy. See? I pinch it like this." His nose is wrinkled like he's lifting a boulder.

I don't know if you've ever looked inside a blueberry, until today I hadn't. For those of you who are curious, the inside of Kyan's blueberry looked like that boogery gunk inside a grape.

I decide to respond with something that might be a little educational. "That's where the blueberry keeps all it's nutrients so you stay healthy."

"No," he responds, matter-of-factly. Now he's rubbing the contents of his blueberry between his thumb and index finger.

Deflated, I simply answer, "It's blueberry goop, Ky."

He looks at me, shaking his head as if I'm completely ignorant, and ends the exchange, "No. No mom, it's not. It's just... goop," and runs away.

So there you have it, kids, the contents of a blueberry...goop.

heartsick

It's been a long time since I've written. Life with the 3 little monkeys is always hectic.

A new year has begun. We rang in the new year by watching a TERRIBLE streetfighter movie, foregoing champagne for popcorn and just being together. The holidays were nice, different, but nice, and I'm glad they're over.

As I was going through this year's calendar, I noticed my birthday is on a Monday this year. For most, this would be an insignificant detail, but for me it stings. It means that this year is an exact calendar match to 2004, the year that I had Aiden and lost him. He would be turning six on Monday, March 15, our shared birthday.

His loss still pains me everyday. I think about him. I fantasize about what he'd be like. I don't think this will ever change.

Every year I go through this sorrowful time. I remember everything...vividly...down to the days of the week. The whole series of confusing, joyful, painful events of that year stream through my head. Having them fall on the same days of the week make it so much worse somehow.

Grief is strange. Grievers are stranger. Why is it that someone who truly has something to mourn tries so hard to hide her feelings from the outside world? What is this need to wear a facade that everything is alright when it couldn't be more wrong? Is someone truly brave or strong because she bottles her pain and shelves it where those that love her will never see?
Why is it so easy to hop on facebook and say, "I'm having a crappy day. My car won't start and I have a runny nose," but not to simply say, "I'm sad because I miss my son."?

I think most mourners keep it to themselves for the sake of those around them. Take funerals for example. When you pay your respects to the people who are grieving the most, 9 times out of 10, they are saying things to make you feel better. "He's in a better place." "She had a good life." They say these things and you accept them, because it is easier than hearing the truth. A part of that person has just died, too. You know it, they know it, but its just easier not to say or hear. Its easier to nod, give a hug and walk away from their pain.

I was taught to hide the pain by one simple exchange in the mall. When Aiden died, I took a couple weeks off of work. During that time, I went to get my hair cut. As I was walking through the center of the mall, I ran into an aquaintance from work. She asked how I was doing. Then she proceded to tell me that I shouldn't feel bad if people are quiet around work, because no one knows what to say to me or how I would react. After that, I made the choice to bottle the feelings so I wouldn't make others feel awkward. How messed up is that? Looking back I should have been disgusted, but instead I took it as a cue not to be too revealing about what was going on with me, because, frankly, no one wanted to know. Ignorance is bliss afterall and no one wants to be around Sally Sobstory.

So here I am, 6 years later, riding that virtual tragedy rollercoaster in my mind. I've become very skilled at hiding myself from most everyone. I only give snip-its to those closest to me. I'm tired of that. Ironically, I still can't put it all out there. My intent was to just say all the things here that I've been keeping to myself for so long, but I just can't.

Maybe next year.