Chaos Theory

I have this theory about Matt and I: We are driven to create and then control the maximum amount of chaos possible before we implode into little chaotic bits of sobbing mush on the floor.

It's not that we enjoy chaos. It's that we crave it because it is so satisfying to tame it.

I remember from college, many moons ago, that the universe and all things in it, left to drift in their natural state, decline into chaos. It takes something to create order. Energy. Collective effort. Will. Power. In there somewhere rests my definition of "god." A force that can organize and reverse chaos and create order out of randomness. My personal theology also holds that the energy, will, power, whatever you want to call it that drives the Powerful Force for Order Instead of Chaos in our universe is fed by joy. I like that because I'm simple and it lets me think that I can help. I can fight misery, destruction, randomness and evil simply by living with as joyous a heart as possible.

On the flip side, I like it because it means that there is no bearded omnipotent being out there deciding who is blessed and who is unblessed. Who prayed sufficiently to be rewarded with miracles and who didn't. The universe is just full of randomness and some of it is crappy. I also like it because some of the things that are the scariest for me, death, in particular, are, I am forced by the whole circle of life thing to notice, part of a wider ordering of things. It comforts me to know that a powerful force for joy and order might perceive endings and beginnings differently than I do. Might even see all as rotating and spinning and orbiting and continuing as it should, even in the face of individual pain. That makes the actual pain suck not one iota less, but it's what I've got.

What I am trying to tell you is that the reason I did an unbelievably crazy thing. The reason I caved like a crumbly hillside in a rainstorm. The reason I am standing here shaking my head at my own thick-headed stupidity is not my fault. The universe hurtles toward chaos, I am just along for ride.




Imagine, if I can bring order out of this chaos and hold onto my joy, what an amazing contribution I will be making to the universe as a whole. My insanity is doing the entire universe a favor.

You are all welcome.

Meet the anypuppy. Hampton Noodle.



Wait. It gets worse. I like to go the extra mile for the greater good. Hampton Noodle's Daddy, Tex, weighs 160 pounds.

I really kind of deserve my eleven to twelve year sentence of hair balls and drool, don't I?

Before you judge, look. I'm creating order out of chaos already. I'm starting to see some positives.

Just Do It

(Warning: Ridiculously long, self indulgent post with too many pictures. This is kind of my scrapbook. Sorry. If you skip, don't miss the last picture. Unless you think torturing kids a tiny bit for fun is mean. In that case, sorry. Sort of.)

Mexico was awesome. We had so much fun.


A few people have asked me about traveling with a pod of small kids and I sat down and compiled a list of "dos" and "don'ts." I don't do advice very often. I know we are all intelligent, capable parents who are adept at figuring out what works and doesn't work on our own.

Before you are all, WTH? I don't have to listen to this women natter on about traveling with children. I've traveled to Asia and back with three children three and under. Pregnant. BOTH WAYS. Right? I win. It's like I'm an expert at torturing myself with marathon length airplane rides with children. Why do people not line up to be me?

Here I go, with varying levels of sincerity:

Don't carry on gobs of stuff. It sucks. We've tried it both ways. We've traveled with car seats on the plane and without. With tons of toys and without. Without works better. I take crayons, new coloring books, snacks and water bottles. Not kidding. Even for long trips. Then, I give myself pep talks for days about how I will have to entertain them. Like, actually play with them. Let me repeat. It sucks. The playing with them for hours on a plane, I mean. But, it's easier than screaming at each other about loads of bags/crap that doesn't entertain them anyway.

Don't take car seats on an airplane for toddlers. The straps are nice, yes. But the logistics are hell and THEY CONSTANTLY KICK THE SEAT IN FRONT OF THEM. It's awful. They can't help but kick it, their feet are right there.

Don't overdo it on the sweets. This might be just me, but I'm not a fan of the "anything goes to keep them quiet, bring on the lollipops" theory of traveling. I took huge lollipops with me once on a plane. Never again. They kept the kids quiet for about two milliseconds and we were all sticky and horrid and there was Ebola Zaire harboring airplane fuzz stuck all over the gross lollipops that they wanted me to wash. As if I had a way to do that. Bleh. Now, I take gold fish and cheerios. My standards.

Don't sweat the one horrid person you run into on a plane/at your gate/on the train, etc. So what? I have met so many wonderful people. I've been helped by lovely people from Washington, D.C. to Seattle. People are surprising. Sometimes, the guy in the three piece business suit is a doll and the gray-haired grandma type gripes at you for two hours about your really well behaved, QUIET, toddler playing with the tray table. Until you just want to be like, really, lady, shall I tell him he can't touch it and we'll all listen to him howl for three hours? You tell me.

Do take a stroller. It's easy to gate check a stroller and it's heaven with a tired kid. It's a place to put a baby. It's a way to push your carry on bags if they all insist on walking. Best of all. It's a time out zone with straps.

Do enthusiastically kiss the ass of the angelic stewardess on Frontier Airlines (Thank you Frontier; your planes are awesome and your staff was lovely) that activated our personal TVs at no charge, giving us free access to Dora the Explorer for the entire trip from Border of Idaho, WA to Cancun. Oh.my.god.the.blissful.quiet.

Don't worry too much about your kids getting sick or injured. Try to remember that statistically, your child is at most risk in your car on your local roads. If you are leaving the U.S. and you are unsure of the health care at your destination, do buy evacuation insurance. World Nomad is the company I use. If you or your child is critically ill or injured and the local medical facilities can't help you, they send a helicopter to evacuate you. That peace of mind is well worth $150.00.

"Mine dodonut."


If you can, rent a house or a suite with a kitchen. Life is so much easier if you can offer your kids familiar food and avoid eating out at every meal. Bonus, it saves you from having to yell at your children in front of locals who are just trying to enjoy their meal with their incredibly well behaved, adorable children. You know, the same reason you don't like to eat out at home. We were able to let our kids try plenty of local food from fruit stands in Mexico. We even fried them plantains. After I let Quinn eat two for breakfast, thinking they were bananas. Worldly, I know. Raw plantains are kind of like raw potatoes. Mmmmmm. Raw starch.

Do try to keep the sleeping arrangements similar to your home. Cranky, tired kids are horrid. Cranky tired mom defeats the entire purpose of getting away.

Don't share a room with your kids to save money. Unless you enjoy contemplating suicide.

We rented a house with another family in Akumel about an hour south of Cancun. Amazing. Seriously. Built right on the water. It was jagged and rocky behind our house, but only a brief car ride on a quiet, almost private road, to a gorgeous protected sand beach. Elise and I threw our kiddos in the rear of their rented SUV and two-mile-an-houred our way to the beach each morning. I can not tell you how much our kids loved it. Forget the water. They are still talking about riding in the rear of the car. Funny how novel they find something that my sisters and I did every day as children.
(Yes! I totally let my toddlers ride in the rear of a car! With no USA DOT approved safety devices or strapping of any sort! Yes, I do realize that makes me a child abuser at worst and candidate for worst mother of the millennium at best in some people's books. I can live with that.)

The house was unexpectedly three bedrooms. Fortunately, a huge master suite with a walk-in closet suitable for Elise's youngest made it doable. You do have to go with the flow sometimes.

If you are going to try a little more adventurous travel with little ones (Not talking the Himalayas here, just beyond Disney land), it's going to push you out of your comfort zone at times. You are not going to be able to meet U.S. safety standards at all turns. Ask yourself if you can handle that before you go. I just described our rented house as gorgeous. It was. Here's another way to describe it: Toddler Death Trap. I am not kidding. Three sliding doors at the rear led to a maybe 100 foot walk over treacherous rocks and then an eight foot drop into rough water. Out the front door was the non-fenced, non-alarmed, four-feet deep swimming pool.

The completely open, slippery wooden stairs to the master bedroom turned sharply to the right at a landing half way up. The wall at the rear of the landing ended two feet above the landing floor in a convenient toddler sized hole. The fall was probably eight feet to tile. The fall from the gap between the top two steps was probably ten feet. To tile. The master suite sported two more sliding glass doors that provided a stunning sweeping ocean panorama. Also, access to a balcony with a railing set so far apart that a walrus could squeeze through and fall to it's horrific death on the cement patio below.

Beautiful house. With balcony of death.

Good thing we had SIX children four or younger with us. Right?

Have I mentioned yet that the water from the taps wasn't potable and that my children drank it regularly and with abandon whenever I wasn't specifically ordering them not to do so? Fun.

We had to be on top of them, no question. We checked locks carefully. It wasn't actually that big of a deal. It helps that our kids are sound sleepers and not wanderers. During the day, we had a strict no stairs rule for all the kids and a very enthusiastically enforced "no one goes outside without asking" rule. It helped that Elise and I are a good team and are very comfortable with each other. Could there have been a horrific accident? No question. There could have been. The important thing in my mind is that there could be a horrific accident at home on any ordinary day. I just choose to live my life with adequate care and a positive attitude.

Resident Iguana.

Seriously? I mean, really, dude?

W.T.F is wrong with these people? This thing could eat me. You are aware? Mom?

All right. All right. It is wicked cool. Yo, lizard breath, wassup?

Oh. Do buy a pinata the size of your children. It's hilarious. (Credit where due: totally Jeremy's awesome idea.)



It's not a party until someone wears the pinata.



Oh my god. This never gets old. Someone cut these parents off. The blender is retired.

That's just mean. Where is this kid's mother?

There you go. Bottom line? Just do it. It's hard, but rewarding. It's fun to see the world through your kids' eyes. Trite, but true.

Perceptions

I took all four kids to the grocery store again. Yes, exactly. Nightmare. I don't think I've taken everyone shopping since the infamous stroller-tipping-over-in-Walmart-and-spilling-my-chai-while-endangering-the-lives-of-two-of-my-small children incident. But, you know, I'm a glutton for punishment and also I hadn't written a blog post in almost a week, so ...

Kidding. I took them because I have been trying really hard to add fresher, less processed foods, like, oh, I don't know, vegetables, to our diet and I read somewhere that if you get kids involved in shopping for and preparing foods they are more likely to try them. I know. All parents should stop reading until their kids are approximately thirty. Also, watching the news. Thinking can be detrimental as well.

For the record, MEAN, ANNOYING, OLD LADY WHOM I AM ABOUT TO MEET AT THE GROCERY STORE, my kids like broccoli (with cheese sauce). In fact, my kids like just about any vegetable (with cheese sauce) and we eat a lot of vegetables (with cheese sauce). I had just gotten into a frozen-peas-filled rut and I was trying to be creative and break out. My bad.

I know that my kids and I are a bit of a scene at the best of times. If a woman with a preschool-worth of toddlers sauntered into my quiet Monday afternoon grocery shopping trip, I'd notice too. They all talk at once. They have no volume control. They periodically throw fits that make you think demon possession might not be a myth. I get why people look at us/notice us/overhear what we are saying. Who could miss us? But, for the one billioneneth seventyten millionth time, you can not, under any circumstances, know what kind of mother a woman is by observing her for two minutes at the grocery store with all of her children.

Come on. That's like saying we know what kind of person you are by eavesdropping on the second hour of a conversation with your mother. You're not at your best.

I had assigned them each a vegetable to find at the grocery store. I had written them each a card with their vegetable word and a picture of their vegetable on it. Because I rock the vegetable thing.

Are you following me, MEAN, ANNOYING, OLD LADY WHOM I AM ABOUT TO MEET AT THE GROCERY STORE? Assigned vegetables? Printed cards? It's like I'm Mother Theresa or the Madonna. Or a mother who feeds her children vegetables (with cheese sauce) and uses grocery shopping as a fun-filled teaching tool.

My kids regularly run through an annoying game wherein they ask me about every food they have ever eaten and whether it is good for their bodies. Bananas are good for our bodies, are bananas good for our bodies, mommy? Bagels are good for our bodies, are bagels good for our bodies, mommy? Lollipops aren't good for our bodies, treats are just special, they aren't good for our bodies, mommy? Broccoli is good for our bodies, is broccoli good for our bodies, mommy?

Because, ANNOYING, MEAN LADY, we talk about whether or not the SHIT they eat is good for their bodies. OKAY?

Quinn had broccoli. On his card. Stick with me here. So, we were making our loud, obvious way through produce and Quinn had broccoli on his card and then we got to the broccoli and the broccoli was yucky. Like, black on the top of the little tree things yucky. Because I'm brilliant and because I was somewhat terrified that he was going to throw a massive fit when I didn't want to buy any yucky broccoli and because I never ever miss a teaching moment, ANNOYING, MEAN, OLD LADY WHO IS NOW WATCHING ME IN THE PRODUCE AISLE, I made a big show of looking at the broccoli.

"Ew," I exclaimed, "Quinn, look at this broccoli, it's yucky on top, see how it's black there, see how it smells funny (I pulled an "it smells funny" face), this is not nice broccoli. We are going to leave this broccoli here and find some nice, green broccoli at another grocery store."

That's what I said. I swear it to you.

This is what my children heard: "EW. WAHWAHWAHWAH THIS BROCCOLI WAHWAHWAHWAH IS YUCKY WAHWAHWAHWAH."

They thought that was the most hilarious thing in the history of broccoli purchasing and they proceeded to repeat it over and over at the top of their lungs as we plodded out of the produce aisle, laughing hilariously after each pronouncement because my kids crack themselves up.

Saige: EW THIS BROCOLLI IS YUCKY.
All: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAH
Garrett: EW THIS BROCOLLI IS YUCKY BLECH YUCK!!!
All: AHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHHAH
Quinn: EW. BWOCLI IS YUCKY!!! EWWWWWWW!!!
All: AHAHAHAHAHAHHA

I encouraged them a little. It was funny. And, the broccoli was yucky. And, also, excuse me, notice how Quinn was not popping and frying like bacon in a pan, lying on the floor screaming about his "BWOCOLI." Parenting triumph, MEAN, ANNOYING, OLD LADY WHO IS WATCHING US AND APPARENTLY NEEDS TO TURN HER HEARING AID UP LOUDER SO THAT SHE CAN HEAR ALL OF THE CONVERSATION AROUND HER AND NOT JUST SNIPPETS.

We made our way forward, out of produce and towards cream cheese and as we walked away, the mean, annoying old lady behind us announced to all the people in produce, with a judgmental shake of her blue-tinged hair, "And then they wonder why kids don't like broccoli."

Which just goes to show that you should never, ever judge people in grocery stores, because, GAH. Cards. Vegetables. Effort. Four children. Yucky broccoli.

I shall take this away: Even when you think you have the whole picture, you may only be perceiving half the story.

But, this is my blog, and so I get to say this to mean, judgmental, old ladies everywhere: YOU'RE MEAN. MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS. MY KIDS LIKE BROCCOLI (with cheese sauce.)

Up In the Air

Lately, I feel like I'm dropping balls and I don't have all that many balls up in the air, so it's a little pathetic. I have to get everyone dressed and put diapers on the asses that don't deposit themselves on the toilet when they feel so moved, or when things move, or whatever. I have preschool drop off. Nutrition of some sort. Caffeine procurement. That's the day. Throw in my desire to move a bigger writing project forward, a girls' weekend, a funeral, a trip to Mexico, a fundraiser and preschool registration and I can't keep my head above water.

Today, some dear friends are celebrating Renee's very, very close to final adoption of Lion. It's exciting and touching and brings back so many memories for me to watch Renee and her family prepare to travel overseas and bring home their new son and brother. It's taken me all day (and thank all that is holy that I'm on the west coast and my "day" extends a little bit longer than much of the country's "day") to sit down for ten seconds and type these trite but heartfelt words:

Congratulations, Renee. Safe travels. I am SO incredibly excited for you.

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Renee's happy news ties in with another big thing swirling around in my head. If adoption is a part of your life, or interests you, there is a site you should know. Grown in My Heart. The effort made there to look at adoption from many different perspectives is impressive, informative and meaningful.

Then. Last thing, I swear. If the intersection of adoption and other ways to build a family and blogging interests you and you are a member of the BlogHer network, go over to the Room Of Your Own proposals for BlogHer 2010 and vote for this panel put together by the Grown in My Heart team: Adoption, Infertility and Loss: How Much Do You Share Online? And not just because that's me and you love me. Ahem. In my opinion, the more we discuss the tough issues publicly, the less fearful they become.

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Nate. Six months. I bring you the cutest damn baby in the universe. No bias. This photograph belongs to the amazing Nick Follger who can perform the seldom attempted feat of making me look good in a picture. He's superhuman.


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This was waiting for me at my chair at our table on Valentine's Day morning.


Can you see what he wrote? "How's that for timing?" This substitutes for a love note in the anyhousehold. Need I say that Matt did not get his Valentine's Day wish? I think some men just ask for sex. That was more likely than an untrained baby lion/horse/dog.

Closer to Love

I think about this Mat Kearney line a lot.

"I guess we're all one phone call from our knees."

It's a stark truth. Our current reality, whatever it is, is fragile. Happiness rests on mortal things and mortal things are, well, temporary? fleeting? Mortal.

I want to write about Mexico. The tropics. Joy. Vacation. Security with four children, six bags and two strollers, which was nothing short of hilarious, unless you happened to be ME and in charge of moving said circus through TSA's hoops. I want to tell you what I told a friend yesterday. It was fabulous. Exhausted, sandy, dirty-footed children in bed at 6:00 p.m. fabulous. Pina colada in my hand at 6:05 fabulous.

But, there's something else. Isn't there always? That needs to be moved out of whatever part of my brain is forever writing sentences as a way to process and analyze and memorialize my existence. Here it is: Before this vacation, we hadn't talked to our son's parents in a long time. Way too long of a time.

Even that sentence was hard to write. I slogged my way through several versions.

We hadn't talked to the parents of the little boy we adopted in a long time.

We hadn't talked to the parents of the little boy that used to be ours in a long time.

I suppose those are more accurate in some ways. I know from reading comments on articles and posts about disruption that many people object to calling a child that you gave up "yours" or "son." But, he was, however briefly, and, viewed generously, it conveys the right emotions.

We hadn't talked to our son's parents because I couldn't, I physically couldn't, pick up the phone and call them. It's hard to articulate why.

Fear. Yes. But, not the kind you think. I had no doubts that he is fine; that they love him; that he thrives as a part of their family. The fear was for me. For the fragile peace in my heart. For the finally healing scab. The potential for tears in carefully closed boxes. As much as I want him to be perfectly happy and well adjusted, it will hurt forever that it wasn't with me.

Avoidance. Probably. Wrapped clumsily around more fear. That she, his mother, his real mother, would say something from which I would never recover. There's something wrong with you; how could you not love him enough.

A few days after the earthquake in Haiti, the mother of his biological sister - I'll call her Vivienne, she has a different, beautiful French name, but that will do - Vivienne wrote me an email. I had been, not ignoring, I swear. That's too harsh. I had been failing to deal with her emails for months. She couldn't reach his parents. I knew that; Their email wasn't working, I had tried it. She wants to stay in touch. I knew that too. We had updated each other frequently, a broken communication, her gushing in French, me responding to what I could understand and gushing in English. In light of the recent tragedy, she wrote, I thought you might have heard from his parents. She knew we all must be thinking about Haiti at this time and our children's connection there.

Her simple email unparalyzed me. The undeserved generosity. The lack of judgment or accusation, though this was her third email in six months, all without response. I had them in a folder labeled, "wimp." Knowing if I let this opportunity pass, if I let the momentum die, if I let two days become two months, I would never have the courage, I picked up the phone.

It was really hard. My heart hammered and my palms were sweaty. I don't know what horrible thing I possibly thought could happen to me over the phone. Phones can be put down. Stirring rice for dinner, my spark of courage carefully timed to give me the out of my hungry children, I listened to a phone ring many states away.

And then, they answered and it wasn't. I spoke to his mother.

I'm sorry, I know it's been too long, so long it's embarrassing. It's not because we don't care. Your email wasn't working and I didn't want to intrude. How is he doing?

He's great. He still plays soccer, but he loves baseball. He's adjusted. They have a new email; they are so sorry. I can give all of their contact information to Vivienne. Of course I can. I can call any time. They love to share about him.

Okay. Well. Thank you. For everything. For your time. For...everything.

How do you tell someone you barely know except on paper you are so unbelievably thankful that they exist, that they are who they are?

It was over. I still lived.

Okay, I said again, intending to say good bye.

He completes our family, she told me abruptly, as if she'd been trying to get it out too, as if she also lacked words for this sharp, awkward, fragile connection we had. We'll be forever grateful to you and your husband for bringing him to us.

I hung up and cried. They will be grateful to us. I don't share that because I think we deserve it, or because I think you should think we are noble in some way. We don't think so. I share it because sometimes, there is more generosity in the world than you deserve.

Sometimes, you are one phone call from your knees. One phone call from resolution. One phone call from comfort. One phone call from unexpected understanding. One phone call closer to love, maybe even of yourself.

********

Dear Vivienne,

Thank you for not giving up on me. I know I haven't responded to you as I should have. Their email had changed and calling was so hard for me. I spoke with his parents this evening. He's doing so well. Here is all of their contact information. Please write to them, they would love to hear from you. I hope you will write me if you need anything.

Stacey

Can I Bitch Now?

Saturday, 10:30 a.m.

Seated in the fifth row of carefully aligned chairs at a funeral home in Sandusky, Ohio, surrounded by my cousins and my mother's family, contemplating my grandmother's still form, i held tight the only one of my babies that she ever met. The serene gray-haired minister raised her hands at her sides in a beseeching "w," turned her face to heaven and began gravely, her eyes falling to meet my mother's eyes, "we are here today to commit Helen to peace ever-lasting."

My grandmother's name was Beth. The woman committed to peace everlasting on the previous day was Helen. Surely, a higher power has it all straight.

Sunday 12:30 a.m.

In a classic, unfortunate lapse in judgement, I was still drinking with my cousins in a dungeon-like side room of an ancient Sandusky restaurant called the Rathskellar. They taught me the word "fupa." If you would like to make a classic, unfortunate lapse in judgment of your own, you could google that.

Sunday, 5:00 p.m.

After several hours with Nate in the Akron airport with little to do but eat and stare at each other, we visited the restroom one last time before our flight home. I wheeled him into the larger stall, finished, flushed, washed my hands, fixed my hair, felt like I was forgetting something. I had my backpack. Still felt like my hands were too free, looked around, realized I left my baby in the handicap stall, retrieved stroller and baby, tucked tail between my legs and busted my ass out of there.

Monday, 1:00 a.m.

After a long day of travel alone with Nate, nearly abandoning him in a small airport restroom, unloading our tired butts from the last airplane, hauling ourselves out to the car, loading the car, driving home, unloading the car, and putting Nate to bed, I had to clean the kitchen and the dining room.

No, there's nothing funny about that. Matt.

Matt cleaned out my entire filthy minivan. I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere about differing priorities and men v. women, mars, venus, blah, blah. I'm not to the humor in this one yet.

Monday, 9:00 a.m.

Preschool. With all four children. It was a laugh a minute, let me tell you.

Monday, 10:30 a.m. (while at preschool with all four children while I'm supposed to be working)

My cell phone rang which never, ever happens because everyone who knows me knows that I never have my cell phone with me; if I do have it with me, it's dead or I don't hear it; if I do hear it I don't realize it's mine; if I do hear it and realize it's mine I'm dealing with my 101 dalchildren and I don't feel like answering it. It wad Cruella De Ville wanting to buy a child or two and I gladly...no wait, it was the local news! They wanted to cover hArt for Haiti on their morning show from 5-7 Tuesday morning. Could I please be at Kid Sports at 4:45 a.m., ready to be interviewed every 25 minutes or so for two hours?

Sure, I could. Matt would absolutely love to cover everything all day Tuesday while I pretended I was a real person with things to do and stuff.

Monday, 11:30 a.m.

Errands. With all four children. The hilarity continued.

Monday, 3:00 p.m.

Waxing of bakini area and brows. Otherwise known as ripping hair from delicate regions with tape. Seriously? This is the shit I pay a babysitter for?

Monday, 6:00 p.m.

Preschool board meeting. The fate of the new blinds in the Rainbow Room hung in the balance. You want my life. Admit it.

Monday, 8:30 p.m.

My friend, Elise, who has been trained in TV appearances for real purposes, because she is an expert in protecting women in refugee camps, and because she is awesome and because I am an absolute basket case because OMIGOD did I just agree to be on TV at 5:00 in the morning? turned her expertise on my "three point message" for hArt for Haiti. 1) Come 2) to Kid Sports 3) for Haiti. We practiced. I was capable of spitting out my three word message.

Monday, 11:00 p.m.

I finished all the stuff I had to do and took a shower.

Tuesday, 12:00 a.m. - 4:00 a.m.

I failed to sleep.

Tuesday, 4:00 a.m.

Alarm. I may have fallen asleep five minutes ago. With heart pounding, I dressed and primped for my TV debut.

Tuesday, 4:40 a.m.

As I grabbed my keys, the phone rang. There had been a stabbing. Could we make it 6:00?

Tuesday, 4:50 a.m.

The stabbing was nothing, could I be there by 5:30?

Tuesday, 5:30 a.m.

I was there. I may pass out from nervousness and hunger.

Tuesday, 6:00 a.m.

The were finally about to cut to us. I stood on the fake grass of the indoor playing field with a huge bouncy castle behind me, a very, very sweet, supportive reporter standing inches from my face, and a blinding light in my eyes. I felt kind of dizzy. I croaked out that I wad really nervous. Erik told me not to worry, no one watches the morning show. No, really, he assured me, we have tons of stats on it, alot of people listen to it, but they're busy getting ready for their day and they aren't watching. I felt strangely better.

I spat out my message. I didn't pass out.

Tuesday, 6:30 a.m.

This is actually kind of fun.

Tuesday, 7:00 a.m.

I am rocking the two minute interviews.

Tuesday, 7:30 a.m.

I should have been a TV reporter.

Tuesday, 7:45 a.m.

At home, helping with breakfast. Could it really possibly be only 8 o'clock in the morning?

Tuesday, 9:25 a.m. - 2:30 p.m.

hArt for Haiti. It was amazing.

Tuesday, 3:00 p.m.

Total quadruple children melt down. I put on a movie and collapsed on the couch. I should be packing.

Tuesday, 5:00 p.m.

Saw myself on the evening news. I wad pale. I moved my head funnily when I talked. Strike all above regarding my new career in broadcasting. Saige looked adorable. Brat.

Tuesday, 6:30 p.m.

All children in bed. I should be packing, but I'm playing on line.

Tuesday, 8:55 p.m.

Chocolate chip mint ice cream with hot fudge sauce. I should be packing, but I'm playing on line.

Wednesday, 7:00 p.m.

Children in bed. Finally packing.

Thursday, 4:00 a.m.

Woke children and head for airport. O. N. E. Checked bag. Six people. Four children. One checked bag. Am most awesome packer in the universe.

Thursday, 5:30 a.m.

Security. Four children. Deep regret of one checked bag has set in.

Thursday, 6:30 a.m.

Boarding plane to mexico. Six hours and two planes of entertaining my children. Someone kill me now.

Thursday, 7:30 a.m.

Frontier airlines stewardess activated our t v s for free. She was angel on earth. Commence Dora marathon.

Thursday, 9:30 a.m.

There is no Starbucks in the Denver airport. THERE IS NO STARBUCKS IN THE DENVER AIRPORT! Alert the media. Mother of four goes insane in Denver airport from chai withdrawal.

Thursday, 3:00 p.m.

The warmth. The sun. The breeze. The two hour drive with four exhausted cranky children.

Thursday, 6:00 p.m. - ??

Mexico. Waves crashing. Breeze blowing. Drunk blogging.

See you soon, but not too soon.

XOXO, stacey

hArt for Haiti; The Day After

They say community is important. Cultivate a community. Give to your community.

I was always pretty happy with Matt and our little family.

Now, I know differently.

The community that we have built in this small town that I mock so mercilessly on the border of Idaho helped us raise $1474.03 for God's Littlest Angels Orphanage in Haiti. (Make that 1499.03, thank you, Casey!!)

Communities really do give back what you put into them and more.

The astonishing community of Manito Cooperative Preschool turned up in mass to play and show their support and donate to our cause.

The tight community of close friends that I have somehow been lucky enough to find circled around us and helped us with every detail.

Meggan turned beautiful hand prints into works of art.



Elise handled details for the day and thought of things that I didn't even know I needed.

Amy and Kristina arranged for donations of treats and snacks.



Then, they all paid and/or begged someone else to deal with their kids so that they could be there with me for the entire four hours.

New friends gave their talents freely.

Meghan M. poured her endless energy into leading the dancing and music for the entire day.

Lisa M. made stunning cards with a heart theme for us to sell.

Brenda B. made pretzel rods dipped in chocolate with hearts on them.

Marietta E., our preschool teacher, designed and carried out the gorgeous art project that the kids did especially for our event.



Max and Ben L. donated all of the change in their piggy bank - $12.03 - to GLA.

Christy F., a blog reader, sent a donation from Colorado.

Lisa G. drove to my house to drop off a grocery gift card so that we could buy snacks and water.

Laurie C. helped so much, donated to GLA, and donated five dozen gorgeous pink heart-shaped cookies.

The wider community responded to hArt for Haiti, to God's Littlest Angels, and to Saige with generosity. Great Harvest Bread Company, Costco, Safeway, and Albertson's donated food and drinks to our event. Kid Sports donated time and expertise and helped us get the word out. Erik Loney and KXLY News featured the event and told our story.



Theresa, the general manager of Kid Sports got up at 4:00 in the morning to open the facility and let them film the interviews. She stayed all day, she put our event on their web page and sent emails to all of their contact list.















Friends and friends of friends and family of friends and strangers who are now friends came with their kids and donated to GLA. They jumped. They danced. We had a blast.

Margaret F., Ben L., Richard & Virginia B., Max L., Randi & Cody F.

Megan R., Basil & Gail L., Amy & Kathleen & Leo S., Jarod & Rachel D.

Elise R., Hayden & Zeni G., Kassio & Dylan & William S.

Patrick & Meghan M., Paula & Andrew A., Steven & Jane & Luke S.

Betsy P., Ivory & Ella & Alice C., Lynn T. of Premonitions

Jennifer T., Lisa M., Kerry & Justin & Liam R., K. Thomas & Laurie C.

Christi, Lucas & Mikey, Leigh B., RaeAnn & Faith & Aaron N.

Noah & Yvette M., Pamela G., Kristina M., Linnea & Ty & Nari K.

James & Patricia C., Ann & Perry & Reese C., Christy S.,

Thyra & Teagan & Grayden, Amy & Brian & Kendal & Kai W.

Janet F., Heidi & Wilson H., Nancy & Dr. Robert B., Rich & Jacob W.

Michele D., Rachel D., Action Moving Services, Ashley B., Daniel H.

Jenny & Emilia D., Maureen & Sam S., John, Sara, Lily & Kylie J.

Amy & Abby K., Melissa & Abby G., Mark B., Randi & Ty F.

Lisa & Isabella & Sophia R., Marietta E., Teri T., Hayden & Owen A.

Lukas & Erik L., Meggan & Ralph & River H., Lisa & Paige G.

Northwest Business Development Assoc.

Thank you to everyone who helped. To everyone who came. Thank you for all your donations, for your time, for your enthusiasm. I realized yesterday that we don't just have a community in Sp****e, we have an extended family. I am so grateful to be a part of it.

Tight hugs, many kisses, with tears in my eyes,
Stacey, Matt, Saige, Garrett, Quinn & Nate