Sarah Reinhart's blog

some other things about our new house

I must apologize for ending the last post as I did.  Sometimes I have nerdy moments.  Sometimes I am so lame.  Making you pinky promise to come along and have fun with me as Mitchell and I design and build a new home, well, that was one such moment.  Scusa me, friends.  Pardon.

And God help you if you really did put your pinky forth.  You are a special one.  You need a pat on the head.

Some things I failed to mention in that post.  Maybe you were left wondering what is that lady thinking moving further into such a cool, OLD, area of town and BUILDING something so, ya know, like this.  Obviously she does not appreciate beautiful craftsmans, lovely dutch colonials, exquisite victorians.  Obviously, she does not appreciate charm.  She must not have ANY taste.   

And to that I say:  Do you enjoy reading this blog?  Do you like reading about my spectacular family?  My fabulous children?  My loving, thoughtful hubby?  Hm?  Do you?

WELL.

If we don't move and build this house--little white whale might up and EXPLODE.  LWW NO MORE. 

The word is compromise.  COMPROMISE.  I am desperate to have a custom, one of a kind, just-right-for-our-family-home.  I'm over the word "character".  OVER IT.  No, I'm not going to DIE if I don't get a new home--it's definitely a WANT.  But still, a girl's allowed to dream, no?  I'd even love to move out further from town, do our own thing.

Mitchell.  Mitchell.  My Mitchell.  Then there's what Mitchell would like.
He'd like nothing more than to stay in the area we are in currently.  In fact, when we were house hunting for our home now--he showed me a map, traced an arc and said I don't want to look at anything beyond that.

Compromise. 

This is what marriage is about!  Isn't it!?  Finding that middle ground.  Quite literally.

So he can skip around his Highlands yard while I cartwheel through our made-to-order master suite.  Mama's happy and Papa's happy too.  (Maybe more importantly Mama's happy--you guys with me on that one, eh?)  

Oh.  And we're going GREEN.  As environmentally friendly as we can feasibly make it.  Reusable materials and all that jazzy, jazzy stuff.

No pinky swearing to end this post.  I won't ask that of you again.  Forgive me.    
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Now.
Some pictures for you that are totally unrelated to our new house because PICTURES ARE FUN and FUNNY.  

Lordy.  We are already to that part of being a toddler where sitting in the cart is no longer boss.  YESSIR.

 

NO fooling.  She did this herself.  Climbed onto the side and white-knuckled it.

Will you be shocked when I say Matilda has discovered all the water features our house has to offer?
Read:  Lego pieces, makeup brushes, a television remote control!  Plunk, Plunk, Plunk 
...all.....in....the....toilet. 

So goes it.  Sort of a rite of passage around here. 

our new house

Last week our neighbor received a new roof.  Real life Bob the Builders a stone's throw away.  My little ones were wide eyed.  Hard hats!  Tools!  Ladders!  Workers!  Trucks!  Thwak, thwak, thawking sounds!  Beep, beep beeping noises!  Not a better way to pass the morning.  No sir.  No ma'am. 

It seems our family is consumed by construction.  Mitchell lives it (his line of work).  My boys play it and pretend it all the high ho cheerio day.  Whether Matilda while gravitate toward hammers and bricks and pieces of wood has yet to be determined.  But as of late the idea of building seems to be coursing through me as well. 

After hours Mitchell and I sit shoulder to shoulder, talking low when our three are asleep--pointing, gesturing, grinning--our cheeks splashed with light off cast from the laptop.  Our.  New.  House.  Oh. 

Our new house is going to be GLORIOUS.  Our new house will be fit for a spread here.  Please don't confuse excitement for arrogance.  It's just--it's just this is so dreamy.  My ideas and Mitchell's ideas have leaped right out of our ears!  They've shimmied right out of our mouths!  And the best part is that they are groovin together.  They're pop locking and dropping it, ya'll.  Shaking their goodies all over Autocad.  Fo real.            

Would you like to know where we are moving? 

This might not make a whole lot of sense if you don't actually know me.  But you will see the crazy part.  The part that shows I'm a little nutsy cuckoo as to where we've chosen to move.  It's like this.   

We live in the Highlands.  My inlaws live in the Highlands too.  It's an area of Louisville I'd describe as funky, eclectic, free-spirited, unconventional, and most definitely hip.  Mixture of nightclubs, hodge podge restaurants and local businesses help keep it young and trendy even though it dates back to the 1780s, or so says Wikipedia.  My point in saying all of this is--it's an area that's almost completely built up.  Maxed out.  Empty lots are scarce.  And what's left is either WAY TOO DESIRABLE and EXPENSIVE or WAY TOO SKETCHY and NOT SUITABLE FOR A GROWING FAMILY.

However.

We have found an OH SO affordable, acceptable space. 

We

have

found....

the empty-ready-for-building-lot that is owned by my inlaws and sits right next to my inlaws' house. 

LIVE NEXT TO MY MOTHER AND FATHER IN LAW.  WHAT THE?!!  I REPEAT, WHAT THE?!?
Have I gone off my meds?  Wait.  I don't take meds.  So, no.  OH GOD.  HAVE THEY THOUGHT THIS THROUGH?!  WHAT are MITCHELL and SARAH doing?!?  Who wants to live right next to their parents?  Have you tried to slap me across the face through your screen yet?  Don't!  I don't want you hurting yourself.  Be assured I have made pros and cons lists galore.  Heavy, heavy thoughts that I am now ready to hoist off.  I'm done with them.  THE NEW HOUSE WINS.   

So there it is.  Now you know.  I can joke about this with the world as my audience because I am close to my inlaws.  They know I love them.  They are on board with our idea.  I think in two years' time they'll be ready for new neighbors!  They will be ready for us!  I think. 

Also to note--as residents of our new house we will also be Lakeside certificate members.   YIP!

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Close your mouth.  Stop shaking your head.  Come on.  This will be such FUN!  Hold out your pinky.  Let's seal the deal.  Intertwine it with mine.  Now, swear! 

There. 

not about vanity

 

tillie's pretty dimpled legs

You can roll your eyes and point your finger down your throat all you want to on this one.  Go ahead.  Start now before I say what I'm going to say so that you will be properly prepared.  What?  Can't roll your eyes and read a computer screen at the same time?  Well at least get to gaggin then.  Here:

Childbirth and motherhood, more than anything else, have caused me to appreciate the sheer magnificence, the punch you in the face--POW--pure beauty of my womanly body.  MY GOD, have you seen the people that GREW and LIVED inside me?  The people that CAME FORTH FROM MY BODY?  That are now BREATHING and WALKING AROUND and A PART of this PLANET?  My body!  IT DID THAT!  

Once!  Twice!  Three times!    

Just.  GAH and WOW. 

I admit, I have moments when I look in the mirror and there is a little negative self talk.  Some, LORD, YOU are getting old!  Some close up inspection of fine line formations. BUT!  That sort of commentary has diminshed significantly in the past few years.  I'm working on squelching it altogether.  I'm getting there.  When I see my face, my chest, my stomach, my legs reflected I often say LOOKY AT YOU.  YOU beautiful woman!  You have done SOME PRETTY DAMN AMAZING THINGS.  YOU ARE AMAZING.  And doggone it, people like you.

NO.  I really don't say that last line.  HA.  I really do say the rest of it though.   

 

You know, there's something special about eleven month olds.  They know how to work the dimpled skin.  They delight in their bodies and find pleasure at every turn.  Every twirl!  They don't look in the mirror and say UGH.  FATTY!  Where are your kneecaps?  And what business do you have wearing a pink tutu, besides?  Nope.  They don't do that.  They squish their legs.  They tickle their toes.  They shove their forearms into their mouths.  The point is they love all over themselves without question.          

And Universe help me out here, throw this mother a bone, I want it to stay just so.

Am I asking for too much again?   

 

           

matilda at eleven months

My matills. 

She is eleven months old today. 

Exactly one year ago at this time I was deciding that I hadn't lost my mind after all.  I was busy checking off to-do's and counting down the weeks left until her birth.     

The other night Mitchell and I sat back and watched her toddling after her brothers, following them room to room on our second floor and he remarked You know, she's not really a baby anymore.  Not a baby baby.  Kind of makes me sad.

Tis true.  She doesn't act much like a baby at all.  No bottles (ever).  No pacifiers (ever).  Walking (rarely crawling).  Pointing at objects and trying to imitate the words she sees our lips forming.  Scooting down off beds.  Climbing up onto couches.  Napping just once a day.  Eating all table foods (and drinking breastmilk) (six teeth total).  Big girl.  Our big girl. 

I know what Mitchell means.  He doesn't really mean sad.  He isn't heartbroken or gloomy or glum.  He isn't downcast.  Or bitter.  Or forlorn.  No.  But. 

He might be one part wistful.  A smidge sentimental.  He could be longingly remembering that day eleven months ago when he was holding my hands and whispering into my ear Relax.  You are doing this.  Keep breathing.  You're doing great.  I love you.  She's coming soon.  We're going to meet her soon...

Yes.  I know what he means.
And how could eleven whole months stand between that day and this one? 

Over and over this girl gets me to grinning with certain overt displays of her might.  She finds a toy.  And guards it.  DON'T THINK ABOUT GETTING NEAR THIS CAR.  DON'T. 

NOT UNTIL SHE DECIDES SHE'S OVER IT.  Not unless you'd like to know what a pissed off harpy sounds like.  Not very pleasant, I'll tell you.  SCREACH!   

She will not back down.  She will not get pushed.  She finds her way into the mix.  She mixes it up well.

My Matillie is eleven months old.  She isn't a baby baby anymore.  And I'm overjoyed.  I am elated.  I am jubilant. 

It goes without saying, but I'll say it.  I am so very, very blessed. 

I've got a boo boo

I've told you this, I think, that I've begun writing fiction.  A YA novel of sorts.  Where my middle school peeps at?  Where they at ya'll?  Where they at?  Holla.  I promise I really don't speak that obnoxiously EVER in real life.  I save it all for you here on the blog.  Lucky.     

And it is work, fiction writing.  Poetry?  Cake compared to this new venture.  Though my little main character is coming around.  She was shy at first, but now she's talking to me.  It was like I had to take her out to lunch and shopping before she really opened up.  She is twelve after all.  I ended up buying her a Coke and a cute little Vera Bradley backpack.  Now she loves me.  We are friends.   

So I'm learning about her.  I need to know her like I know myself.  Because it's her story not mine.  Because if, for one second, YOU READER, don't believe me--you slip out of the story world--the magic is lost.  The novel is a dud.  Flarp.

For me beginnings are most difficult.  The writing process feels something like this:

Like having an older cousin bang on your head and pull your hair a little.

Like minding your own business sucking a pacifier when SLURP.  It's unexpectedly stolen right from your own mouth.  Damn.

Like eating dirt.  At first you appreciate the different texture.  Then it just makes you queasy.  UGH.

Like maneuvering across objects of randomly selected different heights.  Who designed this?

Like getting your sweet tuckus stuck.

Or caught on your belly.  

Like needing some distance from the crowd, preferably in the shade.   

I love writing.  I love the beating, the hair pulling, the sucking, the loss, the maneuvering, the getting stuck, and the solitude.  What can I say? 

It hurts so good. 

hand grenade

INCOMING!!!!!!  Grab a mask!  Duck and cover!  Protect yourself from the shrapnel!!!!!!

Pardon me.....

But I've been holding this little pomegranite-shaped anti-personnel weapon for a bit now.  I'm grippin it.  And I'm rippin it.  I'm throwing into your lap NOW.  NOW.  NOW!!!

Mitchell says I have done the impossible.  Do not be confused by the cupcake picture.  No, this matter has little to do with baked goods. 

Mitchell says I have shown him that the house we own now might not necessarily be THE ONE and ONLY.  Mitchell says I have convinced him that it is possible he might fall in love with another home.  HE will MOVE.  In fact, HE HAS fallen in love with another house. 

TWO-TIMER!

He's a two-timer.  I'm a two-timer too.  The fact of the matter is we have both fallen in love with the idea of another house.  A house built from the ground up with much thought and love put into it from the both of us. 

We have the property all picked out.  Plans are in the works.  Wispy dreams sketched out.  Elevation maps in place.  3D renderings are a go. 

Spring 2012 is when our current abode will go on the market, fingers crossed.  Though I'm not ready to make it known where exactly we are building--I already know your reaction.  I KNOW WHAT YOU WILL DO WHEN YOU KNOW.  You will take your computer screen and shake it.  NOT LIKE A POLAROID.  No.  You will say.  IS SHE BONKERS?  THEY ARE MOVING WHERE?!  Does she have a parasite problem inside her BRAIN?  That's got to be it.  Something is GOBBLING UP the white matter and the poor woman literally CANNOT THINK.  Bless her heart.  Someone needs to intervene!  YES!  Let's plan an intervention!  She needs a SPECIALIST! 

That's how my mom reacted anyway.  ANYWAYS.

You guys ready for this?  Yeah buddy.

Apologies for any shrapnel, my shell-shocked lovelies. 

houston we have a toddler

Well, hi.
Matilda here.  HuHummm.  I have an announcement to make. 

Hard to believe Mom hasn't mentioned my latest achievement.  So allow me:  I'M WALKING.  Forwards.  Not backwards.  But pivoting.  Rounding corners.  Stopping, starting again.  The whole bit.  I keep saying MOoom.  Get video of this!  You better!  Come on, self-professed family historian.  Quit slackin'.  You'll be Soorrry. 

But I understand she's busy--starting up Our Labor of Love.  Did she tell you she has her first client?!  She does!  Attempting a manuscript for a YA novel.  Working towards deadlines for that.  Then there's us.  The three amigos.  Planning fun stuff for Leo, Gus, and cute little me.  Playing with us.  Hanging out with us.  And cleaning.  And grocery shopping.  And cooking (or buying takeout, whatever).  And laundry.  And laundry.  And laundry.  Sometimes she even gets to have a conversation with Dad. 

Then there's the laundry, of course. 

Really, I'm just glad she's still all sane and normal.  She's still got it.  I think.  Wait.   Is it common for people to talk to ketchup bottles?  Or pour milk over the dog food in Dewey's dish?  No?  You mean your mom doesn't leave the house with mascara on just one eye?

Oh. 
Nevermind.   

But HEY!  Another mobile kid!  GO ME!

we did not watch Toy Story 3 today

I figured I could write about our family outing today in various ways. 

Version 1:

Okay.  We're settled.  Everyone have their snacks?  Sippies?  Who's not happy?  What!  What's going on?  Get off his drink.  Don't eat that!  It fell on the floor!  Does anyone need to go potty?  No?  We're good.  Gah, shouldn't there be something on the screen?  Previews?  Why aren't there previews?  Wow, the theater really filled up.  What time is it?  Shouldn't the lights be going down?  Why aren't the lights off already?  What time is it?  It's what?  The movie should have started twenty minutes ago?!  Matilda needs a nap!  Matilda needs a nap!  If the lights would dim I know she'll find my chest and take.  A.  Nap!......Wait....

You say there's a problem with the projector?  A problem that can't be fixed in a reasonable amount of time?  You say we need to leave the theater?  We need to leave?  All OF US?  That's nice.  Very nice.  And we can hop into another crowded theater that's already started?  Fantastic.  Or wait in a very long line and get vouchers for the next showing of this particular movie which is in two hours.  Two hours from now?  Or wait in a very long line to get our money back?  Yeah, we can get our money back?  Thank you.  Thank you so much.  Yes, let's pack up.  Yes, let's explain this to all the children going HUH?  WHAT'S HAPPENING MOM?  WHAT'S GOING ON MOM?  WHEN'S THE MOVIE STARTING MOM?  WHAT'S THE PROBLEM MOM?  MOM?  MOM!.....Dad?

 

lunch in the theater

Version 2:

Boo YA!  We're here early!  Time to set up shop.  Look at this lunch!  Haha!  Isn't this neat to eat in the theater.  Tillie your first movie, girl!  What do you think Lady?  THIS IS SO FUN BOYS, isn't it?  Is your seat a little bouncy? Mine is!  That screen is so big!  OH WOW!  Can you wait to see Woody and Buzz?  It should be coming on any minute now....in the meantime let's play a game  RIDDLY RIDDLY REE, I SEE SOMETHING YOU DON'T SEE AND THE COLOR IS......Wait......

You say there's a problem with the projector.  Oh, okay.  No bother.  Boys grab your cups.  Let's roll.  Hold hands down the steps.  Let's talk for a minute.  Are you guys okay with coming back another day?  We'll head home and make a special theater in the basement!  We get to come back here next Sunday and do this all over again!  We'll pack a special lunch, and drinks, and Woody and Buzz will be here waiting for us.  Okay?  OKAY!   

 

So how did it really play out?  Version three, ya'll.  Version three.  A mix of ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  QUIT FARTIN AROUND BACK THERE AND PLAY THE BLASTED MOVIE that gradually faded to--YOU KNOW, WE HAD A PLEASANT LUNCH, IN A NEW, COOL LOCATION.  So, let's smile about this.  Let's go home.  We'll just go home.  Naps.  Lazy afternoon.  Dinner on the grill.  Happy day. 

Oh happy day.  Really.  

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I know you're not supposed to bring your own treats, let alone LUNCH and BEVERAGES--but, dang you guys.  It saved us OODLES.  And these days, I'm head over heels in love with saving when we can.             

 

   

   

 

     

from the vault

Two things. 

First:  Recently I was invited to join a little writing group, an online community of sorts. (Crazy great!) 

Second: Recently, more recently that is, Mitchell was cleaning out a storage room in the basement and stumbled upon a poem I wrote a few years back when I was still teaching.   

The connection between these two things?  Currently I am attempting the leap from poetry to fiction.  When I say leap, do not picture me in cute froggy boots skipping lightheartedly over a puddle, twirling my umbrella, ella, ella.  No!  Picture instead me, a dirt bike, a ramp....and the Grand Canyon.  The word challenge doesn't really sum up how it feels.  GROWL.  ROAR.  HISS.   

This poem from the past, appropriately so, is about that wicked thang called "writer's block."    So, I share it with you now.

Also, I include a picture just because.  Apparently I look this awkward while pushing a swing.  WEIRD.  Mr. Roboto swing pusher is what this is.  Maybe you feel a little better about yourself now?  About how awkward you probably DON'T look while doing normal activities?  Anyway, the poem.  It's called COUNT TODAY.

 

mother robot

I tell my students to write just write

whatever comes to mind, from that you

might find the start, some pearl.  But,

 

That is not what works for me.  I am slow

going.  I must sit and wait awhile before

there is a movement.  Before my eyes

 

shift from the white crescents cradling

the pen to any black text or scratchy idea.

Stepping out of the bath I tucked a towel

 

around my middle and lay down sideways

on the bed to write.  It seemed easier when

I was soaking, one cheek pressed against

 

the porcelain providing just enough contrast

of fire to ice.  Thoughts skittered through my

mind like mice, like my dog when he learns

 

of a car ride to somewhere.  But now I am

looking at the frayed terrycloth loosening

at my chest, feeling the arm propping up

 

my head go numb.  As if an angry swarm

of honey bees found my limb in its way. 

Perhaps I should once again seek out the

 

water.  Hold my breath while I am

under and count today instead of write. 

 

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Positive "YOU CAN DO IT" type comments are very welcome.  Maybe I will dedicate my first novel to you?  Hm? 

 

 

   

little sparkles everywhere

The morning of the Fourth I awoke in a nasty kind of mood.  What a Fourth.  No parties.  No plans.  No cutesie fartsie matchy matchy red, white and blue outfits for the kids.  No big nothing.  No big deal. 

Way to make some memories for your kids, Sarah.  Way to go, awesome mom.  I was feeling down down down.  Way, way down in a dumpster full of rotting table scraps and God only knows.   I stunk.  I told my mood to SHUT THE bleep UP.  And JUST BE HAPPY already.  Bitch wasn't listening, though.   

So. 

So we decided to do what we Reinharts know best.  It's almost instinctual.  We get in the car and the Universe guides us.  We:

HAD LUNCH AT SALSARITA'S, naturally.

It was here at Salsie's where my nasty mood ROSE UP and DELUGED out my mouth.  My eyes may have faded black before rolling back in their sockets, and my hair temporarily turned serpentine.  HISSSSSSSS!  I don't know for sure, but that's how Mitchell remembers it.  That is what he tells me.

I spewed:  

I WANTED TODAY TO BE FUN!  WE'RE NOT DOING ANYTHING!  DAMMIT WE DON'T EVEN HAVE FIREWORKS!  WE'RE WASTING THIS SUMMER.  NO TRIPS.  NO VACATIONS.  NOTHING!  I WANTED US TO HAVE FUN TODAY.  AND DID I MENTION, DAMMIT, THAT WE DON'T EVEN HAVE ANY FIREWORKS.  ROAAARRRRRRRRR.  GROWWWWLLLLL.  HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

Funny how sometimes when a little something is bothering you--suddenly the worlds begins to implode.  Like no Fourth of July plans equals complete sucky summer?  Totally and completely false equation.  But, yeah, that was me yesterday.   

I shit you not friends.  It was then that Leo, my little sage, laid his hands upon my arms and softly said,

Mom.  Just be happy.  Are you happy?  I want you to be HAPPY.   BE HAPPY OK?

All at once it was as if the rooftop of the restaurant blew off   AND SMACK.  Demon be gone!  THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU.  OUT!   AWWWW.  Long fingers of sunshine. Heavenly choirs.  JESUS WAS THERE.  I saw the FACE of GOD.  Haha.  No not really.  I did not see God at Salsarita's.  No. 

Sorry.  This post is becoming quite melodramatic.   

Seriously.  I blinked and realized how utterly ridiculous I sounded.  Enough wah, wah, wahing.  With each passing second no matter WHAT, I either choose happiness or something else.  Why waste precious time feeling anything but H to the A to the P P Y.  Hhmm? 

And I felt it then.  REALLY FELT the JOY spread from my chest all the way up to my scalp and down to the bottoms of my feet.  I fell in love all over again with the ordinary.  The GLORIOUS ORDINARY moments of my life.  It's happening more and more so WATCH IT!  I'm cannon balling it off the diving board into the gratitude pool.  Aw, did I splash you?  I'm telling you it's better in here.         

From then on I wrapped my arms around our ordinary Fourth.  It was on to THE HOME DEPOT to pick up a few items for a home renovation project that I'll elaborate upon another day.

And BUST my BUTTONS, kids.   Before finally heading home we stopped at a sidewalk fireworks display and bought as much as twenty bucks would get us.

 

Inflated the little pool.  Caught some late afternoon shine.  Cavorted around the backyard.  And ate leftovers for dinner.

 

 

Baths and jammies.  Ra!  Ra!  Ra!  Firecracker, firecracker.  Sis.  Boom.  Ba.

 

 

Light it up.  Party hardy.  Love this moment.  Sparkle everywhere.  Happy Fourth.  Happy summer to you.

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If you noticed, Leo has two black eyes.  Do not call social services.  His right was blackened from diving into a footstool.  As for the left, he was on the receiving end of a fallen tree branch--wielded by a little girl his age at a party we attended Saturday evening.  Poor guy.  Not the first injuries to his face and surely not the last. 

Also--just got a call on Sat. from Eyeglass World.  The boys' new lenses have arrived.