Sarah Reinhart's blog

matilda speaks

We've got LANGUAGE.  FIVE WORDS.

I'm storing the memories from these early days for a future time when my daughter knows WAY TOO many words.  When she can wield them against me!  When she's karate chopping me with them!  HA YA!  When I get a hand or a foot that continues through the wooden plank I'm holding straight into my chest.  OUCH. 

Or maybe, heaven forbid, I'll come running back to this post on a day Matilda and I have reverted once again, to using gestures and body language only.  But instead of cutesy pointing, smiling, nodding it'll be, ya know, rolled eyes and slammed doors--icy silence.  Hopefully, Tills and I will side step that drama altogether. 

Don't smirk.  I can feel your smirk.  It can be done.  I think.       

IN ORDER OF FREQUENCY OF USE: 

Moh = MORE
Good all purpose word.  Used for anything.  More food.  More sippy cup.  More boobie.  That toy that's out of reach.  Pick me up.  Hold me.  I want it.  I want what he's got.  I want THAT.  I want MOH.   

Dah = DOG
Dewey is a best friend of sorts.  Her bestie.  The feeling, however, is not mutual.  Dewey does not enjoy having fistfuls of his fur twisted and manipulated by a small, pudgy clutch.  Can't say I blame him.  Spends most of his day hiding.  She hunts him down.  Finds him.  Points.  Speed walks to him Dah!  Dah!  Dah!  

Mah mah = Mama
That's me.  I do love hearing this one.  Pulls at me like a kitten with a bit of yarn. 

Bah = BALL
We have a lot of these around. 

Dah Dah = Dada
That's Mitchell.  She says it and he responds Yes, my beautiful girl?  Two words.  PINKY and WRAPPED. 

While I'm digging this new beginning for her--I admit--I'm still loving looking into her eyes and knowing, just instinctively knowing--what she wants, without any words being exchanged at all.

anything but idle

Now, I'm sure there are LOTS of things I do that grate on your nerves from time to time.  Like maybe how when I blog I completely disregard the rule that sentences must be complete thoughts.  Subject and verb.  Often I make phrases into sentences.  Sometimes my sentences are merely a word.  For example.  That.  Might.  Annoy you.  What right!  Do I have?  BUTCHERER of the English language.  BAD, BAD GRAMMARIAN.  Sucky linguist.  That's what I am.  How.  Dare.  I.  Do that. 

Fine.  Cool.  Swell sweathearts.   

Because here's a pet peeve I'm going to let you in on that YOU do from time to time.  Tell me how busy you are.  Sorry I haven't blogged in awhile....we've been so busy.....Lately it's been so busy I just haven't had the time to update.....I'm so busy!  Just busy busy busy!

Dude.  We all get it.  We're all running around like crazy muthas.  I get that you must have been doing something else!  You super important somebody!  Hence the lack of posts!  So. 

I'm getting to my point.  YES!  And that is to say....it's been FOUR DAYS since my last little composition.  A lifetime!  I don't have the problem of lacking material for the blog.  Quite the opposite.  Every day there are, like, a hundred stories I could tell--and I have to choose ONE.  I suppose I could always do stream-of-consciousness-type posts--but I happen to consider us friends.  WE'RE PALS!   And good friends should not prattle endlessly on and on about themselves (sometimes, but not always).  Posts should have PURPOSE.  So, it suffices to say--I'VE BEEN BUSY.

Now I've done it.  I said it.  I've broken my own rule.  Not only am I a wretched writer, I'm also a hypocrite.

Groan.

Might as well go for the gusto and give you a stream-of-consciousness post too.  You still with me?  Well.  Okay. 

Now, my stream is numbered.  Keep up. 

ONE.  MY FIRST HYPNOBIRTHING CLASS.  
Was awesome.  A complete success.  It felt so good to share the information I have with other pregnant ladies.  Something special happens when PASSION collides with WORK.  Wanna know?  WORK turns into FUN.  FUN is registered and processed by your heart and your mind as JOY.  Teaching this course makes me O SO HAPPY.  I'm loving my decision to GO FOR IT.  I really hope HypnoBirthing catches on in Louisville.   

 

 

TWO.  MY NAME WAS PICKED FROM A DRAWING AND I WON THIS:

Back in June, we attended a fair called Birth in the Bluegrass.  Lots of booths and vendors and whatnot.  One such whatnot was a company promoting FIRE SAFETY.  I entered to win a trip to Disney World.  A week ago, I got a call saying that we did not win the trip.  WE HAD, HOWEVER, won a free in-home fire safety presentation and a BIKE!

Long story somewhat short.  We geared the kids up for this person's presentation.  Talked it up.  He's going to tell us about FIRE SAFETY!  He's going to show us a video!  It's going to be FUN!  And educational.  I really thought this was about the kids.  FOR THE KIDS.  That it would be fun.

You guys.  It turned out to be a TWO HOUR presentation.  NOT remotely for the kids, but for Mitchell and me.  Yes, it was informative.  BUT NO!  We don't want to buy any FIRE EXTINGUISHERS for our house--though your presentation has left me lots to worry about now in the way of FIRES, since you proved to me statistically it's not a matter of IF, it's a matter of WHEN our home will go up in a furious blaze.  Thank you.  Mitchell and I continuously swapped out of the presentation tending to the various needs of our three--and exchanged some pretty fierce LOOKS with each other--until the end when he brought out that sweet bike.  WORTH IT.

But!  Did you catch the problem in that picture above?  The TINY issue?
If you guessed that there is just ONE BIKE.  Instead of two.  You'd be correct.  TWO boys, ONE bike, HEADACHE. 

 

THREE.  WE'VE BEEN DOING PARKS LIKE NOBODY'S BUSINESS.

Take out dinners and the picnic tables at Seneca are a perfect match.

We've even branched out and tried a new locale.  BERNHEIM FOREST.  It was lovely and we will go back.  Especially this Fall.

 






 

I'm not very good at ending stream-of-consciousness posts.  Maybe because MY STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS DOES NOT END! 

But I am thinking about Fall now...jeans, hoodies, down, down, yellow and brown, the leaves are falling all over town.....

.....and as always I'm sure we will STAY BUSY. 

turkeys....and guinea pigs

What excellent turkeys they make.  Am I right, or am I right?

Silly turkeys. 

I didn't intend to keep repeating the same word--turkey--through the body of this post.  That would be rather dull, I thought.  So I looked up synonyms for the word TURKEY and this is what I got.  I can't refer to my kids using any of those nouns!  Dimwit!  Dope!  Dumb ox!  Come on.  That's not what I meant. 

Therefore we're going to leave it at, um, calling them TURKEYS.  Cause that's the first word that came to my mind when I saw these pictures.   

Tomorrow night I teach my first HypnoBirthing class.  And because I am a the type who likes to have her thangs in order--I asked my mom, my mother-in-law Marianne, and my sister to come and be my little guinea pigs tonight.  NICE!  Now that I've held dress rehearsal--ON WITH THE SHOW.  So thrilling. 

Those three--do you know what they did?  They arrived with their very own baby bumps.  PREGNANT BELLIES.  PILLOWS STUFFED UNDER THEIR TOPS. 

Silly, silly guinea pigs...or should I say, TURKEYS? 

And where o where was my camera? 
Shame on me for not catching that.

poker face

Tonight after books, I tucked Leo into bed and we had the following conversation:

Leo:  (Gently rests hand on my belly)  Is there a baby in there yet?  (I don't know WHERE he gets these IDEAS.)

Me:  Nope.  But maybe one day. 

Leo:  Hmp.

Me:  Would you like another sister or another brother?

Leo:  I want another girl!  No, a boy.  No.  I want a sister.

Me:  Well.....what should we name her?

Leo:  Uh...Baby Toot!  No!  Baby GaGa?  Baby GaGa!  (Giggles hysterically as you can only if you're three.)

Me:  Toot Reinhart?!  Gaga Reinhart?!  That's so silly.

Leo:  (Stops laughing.  Gets serious.  Looks at me.)  And Mom........maybe Mitchell would be the daddy?  Maybe Mitchell could be the Daddy.  He could. 

Me:  Oh yeah.  He could.  If he plays his cards right.

Or maybe, if I play my cards right? 

BAM!  FOUR of a kind, baby.

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.    
*********************************************************************************************************************************************
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!

****************************************************************************************************************************************
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.