Just a quick post from the house o’ fever. Babs was feeling better by the next day, but Zibbit woke up last night with a 104.5 degree fever and has been miserable ever since. I finally shoved some Motrin down her very unwilling throat, and within an hour her brightly flushed cheeks and fever-glazed eyes returned to normal and she went to sleep. I’m spent. I’m actually posting this from my laptop, lying on the floor in the hall. The door to the bedroom just looks too far away, I don’t know if I can make it…

The kids are finally in bed. We collapse on the couch, ready to veg. We are so tired tonight. We vow that nothing short of a life or death situation can call us back up to their rooms. We have Seinfeld on TiVo and ice cream in the freezer. There is nothing more we could ask for in life.

The monitor crackles. We hear Babs’ voice, loud, mostly unintelligible. She is pressing her lips against the monitor on her end. She talks. And talks and talks. Perhaps she is reciting the Gettysburg Address. There is a lot of talking. We’re finally able to pick out a few words:

“MOMMY AND DADDY,” (something muffled) “SCRATCH MY BACK,” (crackle, crackle, something else) “AND I WILL COUNT TO TWENTY…” (long pause) “A-BILLION! TWENTY-A-BILLION!” (muffle, crackle) “…PLEASE.”

We look at each other. She wants us to scratch her back until she counts to twenty-a-billion. She has trumped us with the cute card. Resistance is futile. We go up to her room. We coo, we snuggle, we scratch her back, we count. This child of ours is God-sent, irresistible. There is love all around.

And then she throws up everywhere.

This month’s Self Portrait Challenge is “Pop Art.” I wasn’t really sure what approach to take this week. I’ve always liked the use of eyes in art, it seems like the art piece is looking at you while you look at it. So I decided to start with that. Here it is, my eye:

I’ve always been told over the years that my eyes are my most striking feature. As you can see from the big eye in the center, they are a deep blue rimmed in indigo. Even though the color is what is most commented on, I don’t think that’s the reason that people notice my eyes. I think that it’s because when I look at you, I really see you. I see your body, the way you carry your shoulders and how you present your physical self to the world. I watch your eyes, waiting for them to meet mine so I can look deep inside you and find your soul. I see the laugh lines around your mouth, noticing how they complete the soft beauty of your face. I notice you nervously crack your knuckles or tuck back the stubborn strand of hair that keeps falling across your face. I take you in, fully and completely, because I want to see who you really are.

A lifetime time spent with an uncomfortable awareness of my own body has made me extremely attentive to every minute detail of yours. And though this may catch you off guard, I believe that there is a brief moment of relief that comes when you realize that you’ve met someone who sees you, all of you, and loves you even more for it. My gift to you is ultimate and infinite acceptance and appreciation for the real you, the you that I see.

I’m itching for changes.

I want to paint my living room, or maybe get a dog. I chopped five inches off my hair. I’m thinking about taking up golfing.

It’s not that I’m bored- my life is too chaotic to allow for that. The kids grow too fast, and the days are about ten hours shorter than I need them to be. No, boredom is not the issue. All the years of therapy under my belt are telling me that I’m looking for manageable changes to help me feel less worried about the “big things.” We’ve had a few “big things” come up in our family that have completely derailed us. It’s not like we’re in a crisis of any sort, just suddenly confused and unsure of our place in the world. Are we living in the right house? The right neighborhood? The right state? Is Ammon plugging away at the right job, are we practicing the right faith? Who are we to parent these amazing little creatures? Are we doing right by them, or do they deserve something more from us?

These questions have left me reeling, unable to complete normal, everyday tasks- anything that needs a decision. Skim or 2%? Um… uh… I don’t- Leaded or unleaded? I’m really just not su- Channel four or five? I’m sorry, I really can’t deci- Mild or spicy? Jeans or slacks? Bathorshowerbookormoviewalkorjog? I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know!

Deciding to cut my hair was a simple and manageable task. It was something I could easily control and complete with success. Painting the living room would also be an easy change with a definite finish. Golfing, I’m not so sure. Last night I scored 75 on a par 57 putt putt course, and that’s only because I stopped counting after 6 putts per hole. My husband would rather have Elmo tattooed on his forehead than get a dog, so I doubt that will be happening either. But maybe with each small change I sail through smoothly, I’ll gain the confidence I need to tackle those bigger issues.

Hmmm, speaking of tattoos…

Hello.