Seashells...

We recently took our annual family trip to the beach. Yes, we go in February...it's usually still a little cold, but this year was fantastic. Wonderful weather, warm sunny days, and a new little girl to experience the joys of sand for the first time.

On our way down to the Gulf, there was a pretty significant storm which churned up the water a bit, which meant the seashells were plentiful. This is an especially fun thing for a two-and-a-half-year-old. Seashells are just magical to kids, and the beach was littered with them.

The problem was, because the storm was pretty violent, only the smallest of the shells were unharmed. Most of them were gorgeous, but missing parts...a little battered, splintered, and not quite whole.

I remember as a young girl (heck, even a young adult) searching for seashells on the beach and only choosing the whole, perfect beautiful specimens for my bucket. The broken ones were...well...broken. I only wanted the pretty seashells that looked like they were supposed to look for my collection.

It's funny how age and wisdom, and the trials of life change our perspective. I realized this time that I really loved the battered, broken seashells on the beach. The big beautiful orange fans of shells that were missing the top half of their glorious curve. The dark grey and maroon twirly shells with the tips missing. The sand dollars that were cracked open, showing the intricate maze inside. I found myself wondering where these shells had come from, and what they had been through to end up at my feet. What magnificant wave crashed on top of them to give them the scars they carried. I wondered if it is necessary to go through the storms and waves in life to see the beauty of something that has been broken.

I found myself pointing out shells to Harrisen with my sandy big toe, and watching him squeal and gasp at how shiny, how bright, how big, how small each and every one was. I wondered what he would go through in his life before he recognized the beauty of broken-ness. I wanted to protect him from it, knowing all the while that I can't.

I now know this. Nothing is perfect. Nobody that has truly lived life goes without being hurt. Nobody that has experienced great joy has done so without great pain, and scars can sometimes make us beautiful. Just like the seashells.

Each time we visit a beach on our travels, I bring back some shells and sand to save in a little glass bottle, labeled with the name of the beach and the date we visited it. I usually look for perfect little shells to sit atop the miniature beach in a bottle.

Not this time. Orange Beach, Alabama. February, 2008. Beauty out of broken-ness. The shells sitting atop the sand in this little glass jar will be beautiful. But they won't be perfect.

S-M-I-T-H

Good Lord in Heaven.

First, let me preface this by saying, this might not be exactly P.C. I have the utmost respect for people trying to get by in a language other than their native tongue. I'm the gal who asked a Senegalese holy man to "Sleep with a Slave" while living in West Africa. Did you know that in Wolof, "Sleep with Peace" is very very very similar to "Sleep with a Slave"?

That being said. Sheesh. The Indian out-sourcing of every.single.company is driving me totally batty.

I call Brother because I have lost the install disc to some very expensive software for my embroidery machine. The call goes something like this:

Them: Hello. May I have your name?
Me: Katie Smith

Them: Can you spell that please?

Me: Smith? S-M-I-T-H.

Them: Ok, that's Haiti. H-as in....

Me: No. Katie. K-A-T-I-E

Them: Thank you Mrs. Smith, for that information. What is your street address?

Me: 805 Cobblestone Drive. One word.

Them: That's Cuble, C-U-B-L-E

Me: No, Cobblestone. C-O-B-B-L-E-S-T-O....

You get the picture. She didn't do very well with Shreveport, either. Or my email address, which is uber long.

Then we get to the problem. My missing software disc.

Them: What is the name of the product?

Me: PED-Basic.

Them: TED-Basic? T as in....

Me: No. PED. P-E-D. It's your product. PED-Basic. It's a Brother software product.

Them: Thank you for that information, Mrs. Smith. What is the model number of your equipment.

Me: It's not equipment. It's software. A disc. I lost it.

Them: Which disc did you lose?

Me: PED-Basic. The software. The install disc.

Them: Thank you for that information, Mrs. Smith. May I put you on hold while I research your problem?

Me: What the fuck? (I didn't actually say this part out loud.)

When she comes back on the line she tells me that she cannot help me with my problem and she was transferring me to someone in "that department".

I thanked her and waited patiently.

When the person in "that department"....(what department is it? The department that deals specifically with morons who need to embroider their baby's easter dress and have lost their disc in a pile of sewing rubble?) answers the line, I have never been happier to hear a whiney nasal midwest accent in all my life.

Turns out I can download the software right on the website. *sigh*

Bless that poor Indian woman's sweet heart. I can't imagine spending all day every day on the phone talking to people I can't understand. And I imagine I was probably the kindest customer she spoke to all day.

Are Americans really too spoiled to take jobs like that anymore?

Dr. Phil

Sooo...we are in the middle of potty training purgatory with Harrisen. This morning, I asked him, "Harrisen, are you needing to sit on the potty? Do you need to poop?" "nooooo....mommmmmy." Ok.

2 minutes later, and ONE minute before we need to leave, he's pooped in his diaper. GAH!

I guess I was obviously irritated when I was changing him...this is our conversation....

H: What's wrong, Mommy?
K: I'm just having a bad day.

H: This could be a changing day in your life! Goooooooo Dr. Phil!



Oh. My. I think I watch too much Tivo. But I must say, it made me smile!

The Joy of Multiplication.

Wow.

You always hear it...that when you have another child, the love doesn't divide, it multiplies. You nod...sure that they wouldn't lie to you...but unsure how it's possible.

Well, get ready to nod.

It's all true. It's true that after months and months of waiting, and hours and hours of labor, when they put that wet, screaming little human that you created right on your chest, your heart just swells and fills and the love really does multiply. And somehow, God recreates the most miraculous moment of your life, all over again.

Welcome to the world, Baby Girl.


Evangeline Kate
7/18/07
4:24 pm
7lbs, 12oz
20 inches
absolutely gorgeous

I Happy.

Man, we can learn so much from kids.

I am sooooo type A, it's not even funny. I'm always pushing, searching, trying, changing...never quite content to just rest and enjoy. I have hoped not to strap my kids with that sort of internal pressure, and so far, so good.

This week, we have been doing some destructo work at the new house, preparing for the tile to be installed on Saturday. After the hard sweaty part is finished, we get in the new pool and cool off.

Harrisen's favorite thing is to play on the steps, going in and out and in and out over and over...occasionally stopping to take a swim with us. But if we ask him to "jump to Mommy" or "swim to Daddy"....he folds his arms in a huff over his chest and says, "I HAPPY". He is living in his little moment. So precious.

I'm going to try to keep that "I HAPPY" spirit today. It's tough. Babies don't have to worry about carpet contractors, painters who show up late, tile guys that need the toilets ripped up by tomorrow.....or the fact that 4 weeks early they are 40% effaced and a centimeter dilated....but I'm still going to try. Because no matter how hard I try to make my world work the way I want it to, I would be infinitely better off crossing my arms and saying "I HAPPY". Que Sera, right?