There are songs, classic songs, that you fall in love with the first time you hear them and then no one can ever sing them the same as the original. Do you know the ones I’m talking about? Like when Madonna remade “American Pie.”

No.

It’s just not something you can do.

Especially not in disco/techno form. It’s just scandalous.

But then there are other songs that you can hear and love, and it doesn’t seem to matter who sings them. It’s almost like the song made itself and chose a person to release it to the world, and from that moment on, it just belongs to the world. This song is one of them - I guess Faith Hill did it first, but I hadn’t heard it until Lori McKenna belted it out on the radio one day.  I prefer Lori McKenna’s version, but I think anyone could sing this song and it would tug at me.

I think that everyone wakes up one day and looks at their lives and wonders what the hell happened, how they got where they were; and even if it isn’t a bad place, you think about the pivotal points that got you here. If you had taken a left turn instead of a right turn would you even recognize the person you’ve become?

I listen to this song at least once a day, and my husband has asked me more times than I can count what I’m thinking about. I know I look glazed and far away, especially when she gets to the part about standing outside her high school and whispering to the girls, “Run, run, run,” and I know he wonders if I’m considering doing the same thing.

But this week, over and over and over again, I’m favoring Susan Tedeschi’s version of this song.  It’s an old John Prine song that’s been covered by everyone from Bonnie Raitt to Dave Matthews (and this one by Beth Hart, who is arguably my all time favorite singer/songwriter/musician in general, tied closely with Tori Amos), and it’s another one that I believe was channelled through John Prine so that it could belong to everyone.

I love Susan Tedeschi’s golden and gravelly voice, the violin, and the almost funeral-esque lilt of the organ, but mostly, I just love the melancholy tone of the song. It literally makes me weep, and I’m sure that most of that comes from the place I’m in right now because I’m not a “weep at songs” type of girl.

But when she sings, “just give me one thing that I can hold onto,” I know that there’s someone who understands what it means to be weary. She’s been in that place where you want wings to appear behind you so you can fly away and hand over the reigns to someone else - here, please take over, because I’m tired and I want to go somewhere else, now. No, I’m not sure where I’m going, but I may give you a call when I get there and check-in.

But then again, I may not.

It’s been an exhausting week.

It’s 10:30pm as I write this. We have had one heck of a week.

Tomorrow morning, you will officially start school, and my heart is breaking. Your father assures me that this is all in my head, an “imaginary date”, and by this time next week I will be so appreciative of the few hours’ break each week I will be counting the minutes until school time.

I don’t believe him.

I did my best to enjoy and appreciate every single minute of this week, because I truly believe that some magical transformation will occur at 7:45 tomorrow morning and you will no longer be my baby. I can’t seem to get rid of the lump in my throat.

Monday we went to meet your teachers, and as much as I didn’t want to, I liked them. Their returning students happily launched themselves into their arms and danced around the room as if it were their second home, and while I don’t want you to become that attached,  it made me happy that it’s obviously a comfortable place.

Afterward, we went to Target and bought your school supplies and all I could think was how grown-up you were.  We didn’t argue about anything, I didn’t have to work to keep you corralled, and we had discussions. When did this start? How have I not noticed it before? How many other things am I missing or taking for granted?

After we left Target {new Spiderman backpack and school supplies purchased}, I asked what you wanted for dinner, and you said, “chicken and rice.”

Chicken and rice? Are you kidding? What about happy meals? I’m not complaining, but seriously?

I said, “Chinese? Ok, let’s go get Daddy and we’ll have chinese for dinner.”

“No, Mommy,” you said, “just us.”

So we had chinese. Just us. Then we came home and went to bed with daddy.

Today we hit the bookstore {for some more “us” time}, and then we walked the Plaza after dark. You named every single mannequin in every single store window, and designated the mommy-mannequins, daddy-mannequins, and baby mannequins.

You started running toward the JC Nichols fountain, and the lump in my throat gave way to long, silent tears. Is this where it starts? You claiming your independence and running from me to become your own person?

Because I’m proud of you.. I’m so insanely, ridiculously proud of you and the person you’re turning into, but I don’t like it. I’ve never done anything this hard in my life.

As I put you to bed tonight, I was crying ~ I’m pretty sure I’ve been crying for a week ~ and I was trying not to let you see, but you did.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?”

“I just have an owie.. my tooth that the dentist fixed today hurts a little. It’ll be fine.”

“Want me to kiss it for you?”

“Sure baby.”

And then you told me that you were ready for school in the morning.

I’m so glad that one of us is…

Dear Miss Angela,

 I am watching you.

I am aware that it is your job to rip children away from their traumatized parents in order to “teach” and “socialize” them, but I’m not completely convinced yet, so you and me? We’re going to get close.

Yes, you’re adorable and friendly and presumably wonderful with children, and I’m sure that college degree on your wall is very impressive, but you haven’t spent the last four years kissing my son’s owies, cuddling with him until he fell asleep, reading to him, playing with him, crying with frustration over him, and wondering what in the heck you did with your life before he came along.

Let’s get one thing straight before it even becomes an issue, ok?

I’m sure all of these other children are wonderful and special, but not nearly as much so as my son. Yes, I know you’re probably hearing this from their parents too, but they’re lying. My opinion is the one you need to be concerned with, mostly because I have red hair and an official psychiatric diagnosis. Don’t worry, though - all this means is that my level of accuracy and truth is way higher on the “things that should worry you” scale.

Next Thursday, I will release my son to you for four and a half hours. Be prepared for the hysterics {mine, not his}, and do not try to comfort me during this. It will only make me resent you more.

When I pick him up, I expect him to be the same innocent, wild, free spirited little boy that he was when I left him in your care. As long as he remains this way, you and I will be fine. I may even bake cupcakes for you {from a box; I promise not to make them from scratch unless you do something Really Bad}.

I prefer not say what will happen if he is not this same little boy when I arrive that afternoon, but I think you should go ahead and dream up some horrible atrocities and wonder about them. I assure you that I am capable of far worse.

Your Absolute Most Paranoid Basketcase of a Nighmare Mother,

Sara Mabin

We didn’t go to the preschool interview. The proverbial stuff hit the fan, as it is wont to do around here. So we called to reschedule, and we can’t find the person we had the interview with!

So today I started calling around to different Catholic schools in the area, trying to find a part-time program. As the secretaries laughed at me…

{”Why are you looking for part-time only?” ~ “Because I’m a basketcase and I’m not ready for him to be in school at all, but he wants to go so bad, and he finally wore me down!” ~ “This is your first baby, right?” ~ “How did you know?”}

…my heart pounded more and more by the second. After I set up appointments with two more preschools, I hung up the phone, emotionally exhausted. Zion climbed into my lap and said, “Mommy, can I love you?”

“Of course, baby!”

So he laid sideways across my lap and said, “Am I your baby?”

“Yes, you’re my baby. {pause} Are you sure you want to go to school? Don’t you want to stay home and be my baby a little while longer?”

“I *am* your baby, mama. And I’m going to school, too. Babies can go to school.”

“No, Zion, BIG BOYS go to school!”

Then he gazed lovingly up at me from my lap, batted those beautiful long eyelashes and said, “It will be ok, Mama. I love you.”

So this is the part where all of the emotion came out as an uncontrollable sob, and he said, “Here, mommy. Let me pet you.”

And he petted my hair until I stopped crying.

We are seriously SO dysfunctional around here.

It’s 3am, and I feel like there are a bazillion things I should be doing (actually, I KNOW there are), but I can’t think of any of them.

I didn’t go to bed last night. I slept two hours tonight (9pm - 11pm) and then I was WIDE awake, so I got some work done and now I’m stuck. I’m so tired I can’t think straight, but I can’t sleep either.

Zion has an interview at a preschool today. I’m kind of a basketcase about it. He wants to go to school sooooo bad, and I’m just not convinced that’s where he needs to be.

But I’m willing to try it out.

Just two days a week for 3 hours a day. That’s not terrible, right? Six hours a week? Socializing, doing his thing.

Can you tell I’m trying to convince myself?

When did my little boy become old enough for preschool?

It’s no secret that John Mayer and I are involved. This song popped up on Yahoo this morning as I was checking my email, and I can’t decide if I’m impressed or not. I mean, duh, I’m obviously impressed, but I’m not sure it can top the original, right? One of my all time favorite songs {I think it’s one of everyone’s, really}.. good cover, but not better. And there was no “o” face to be had. That man gives the best o-face. I mean, I should know, right? We are involved.

In other news, I’ve mentioned before about my lack-of-communication with my step-father. This is the guy who raised me, the only real father I’ve ever known, you know the one.

Apparently, Thursday morning he was driving his motorcycle to work and someone in a car fell asleep and plowed into him. Of course they won. He landed in the hospital pretty seriously banged up.

So my mom called that morning with what little info she had. When they asked for an emergency contact, he told them to call her. He also had them call his mother in Texas, who in turn called his ex-girlfriend, who hauled ass to the hospital to take charge. At this moment, my mother said, he was going into surgery, and that was all she knew.

My immediate response to this was, “Maybe if he wasn’t such an asshole he would have had someone besides his ex-wife to use as an emergency contact.”

After we both got over the initial horror that a statement like that could even escape my lips in regard to someone else’s pain, we moved on to other topics, like how Shelby {who was, of course, a complete basketcase} was going to get to the hospital.

I’d like to chalk this up to the fact that this conversation was the beginning of my miserable weekend of laying in bed, not being able to speak above a frog-like croak, coughing up more phlegm that I ever imagined a single body could produce, and just in general being sicker than a dog.

However. I’m wondering if the weekend was actually my karma for being such a bitch?

I’m trying to come to terms with the fact that the urge to go running to the hospital as soon as I heard he was hurt was non-existent.  I’ve been known to bake cookies for enemies who were hospitalized. How is it that I have no desire to give comfort to the man who helped make me into the person I am today?

My mother called a few days later and said, “I know you don’t care, but he’s hurt pretty bad, Sara.”

I said, “Mom, it isn’t that I don’t care, it’s that…” and I couldn’t even finish the sentence. Is it that I don’t care? What is it, exactly? How do you work through something like this in your head?

There were a million things I could say. I could say that it’s easy to be the person who responds in a crisis. It’s easy to swoop in and play the hero, pick up the pieces and then go about your business.

But it’s HARD to be the person who calls on Tuesdays to see how you’re doing. It’s hard to remember birthdays and anniversaries.

You know what’s hard? It’s hard to look at your hot new girlfriend - you know, the girlfriend who has her own family - and say, “I’m sorry, I appreciate that this is new and exciting, and I totally want to spend Thanksgiving playing house with you, but I have my own family that needs me.”

So yeah, your parents are dumb and they hurt you and you move on with your life, and you know what? I’m sure I’ve done my fair share of hurting others. But we get over it, and we move on, and we still care for each other..

So why do I feel like I just don’t give a shit? Am I repressing something here? Or am I really that much of an ice queen that I honestly don’t care?

Here we are at day 8. I know, the class is moving a little more quickly than I am, but I’m working on it, ok? I’m a busy girl, you know. {that made me sound all self-important, didn’t it?}

I’m supposed to be listing one of my lifetime achievements and one of my lifetime aspirations…

But here’s the thing. I’ve never really been particularly ambitious.

I went to college for exactly half of a semester before I dropped out. It wasn’t because I was lazy or it was hard - it just felt like a complete waste of money. I didn’t know what the hell I wanted to do. Why should I be going to college when I don’t have any idea what I’m going for?

My doctor told me once that there’s no way anyone under the age of 30 could have any idea what they want to spend the rest of their life doing, and it’s still questionable over the age of 30. I still don’t have any idea.

I have a pretty good idea of what I want to do tomorrow. Does that count? Of course, it’ll change between now and then.

So I think this post will be kind of a cop-out, because I think my biggest achievement was becoming a mother, and I didn’t really have a lot to do with that. It was the best accident I’ve ever had.

I was drifting. I didn’t want to get married, I didn’t want to settle down, I didn’t want to work, or do anything really but just mess around in the world. Zion gave my life purpose, made me realize that there was this really amazing and wonderful man that wanted to spend the rest of his life with me {for whatever reason - I’m thankful, but still confused about that}, and all of a sudden I had something to work for.

Most of the people who knew me didn’t expect that. They thought that I’d have a baby, cuddle with it for a minute and then send it to live with my grandmother while I went right back to the life I was leading before I got pregnant. I think they’re still pleasantly surprised that, four years later, I still enjoy being a mother. The wife thing is a pretty good bonus.

I’m not particularly wonderful at either of them. I kind of take it on a wing and prayer each day, but I love both of those boys like nothing I’ve ever loved before, and I didn’t think I would ever be in that place. That’s an achievement for me - the biggest one. It tops the principal’s honor roll, awards from choir, singing solos in church, the honor of representing my country as a student ambassador - they’re all great achievements, but they’re small in comparison.

As for aspirations, I want to inspire people. I don’t even necessarily want to be remembered. It’s not an immortality thing. I just want to make the people around me happy. I want to say things and do things that make peoples’ lives better, even if it’s just for a minute. They don’t have to go away thinking, “That Sara Mabin really made me think about this.. boy, is she inspirational.” They don’t even have to know my name. They just have to smile for a minute, and I’ll consider my goal accomplished.

It’s cheesy, huh?

But that’s it. That’s all I’ve got.

Inspirational websites. That’s what today’s blog exercise is about. Is there enough room here to share my favorite inspirational websites?!? Here’s what I’ve been doing lately..

 A Magical Childhood - “Imagination is more important than knowledge.” ~ Albert Einstein

Inspiration Factor: awesome ideas for hangin’ with your kiddos.

The Happy Hippie - a site I found YEARS ago and frequent. It has all kinds of good stuff, from environmentally friend shopping with coupons and great deals, to articles about different eco and political happenings around the globe. Plus their clothes are comfy.

Inspiration Factor: frequent reminder that we have a responsibility to the world around us.

Dooce - this girl is hugely inspirational. As a mom who questions everything I do on a daily basis, it sucks to read blogs of other moms who really seem to have it all and know it all. This chick has openly addressed issues like post-partum depression, marital troubles, general doubts about child-rearing, and anything and everything in between. She’s totally open and honest about her life, and it’s so, so refreshing.

Inspiration Factor: helps me realize that I need to focus more on the positive things I do than dwell on the negative.

 Freecycle - Love to see what people are looking for and getting rid of. It always gives me new ideas for stuff I’m doing.

Inspiration Factor: sometimes just the descriptions of things people are looking for or giving away make you go, “wait! I could do ______ with that!” Opens up a whole new world of possibilities.

I’m not even going there with the scrapbooking sites. There are just too many. Hope I’ve “inspired” someone to try something new today.

“How do you prefer the pace of life? Do you wish things would speed up or slow down? Illustrate with something that has been on your mind or on your calendar or share your preference between working slowly or quickly on a crafting project.”

Someone told me a long time ago that I live “balls to the wall.” I actually looked this phrase up to see exactly what it meant, and according to this, it’s the “airplane” equivalent of “pedal to the metal.” It means to push the controls all the way forward {the control stick-thingies are usually topped with a “ball”}.

Over the last few years, I’ve tried several times to slow down the pace of my life in general, but I’ve always managed to find something else to throw things right back into the chaos I shut down.

Once again, I’ve learned over the last few months that this particular brand of chaos is necessary to my survival. It’s just the way my brain works. The problems comes in learning how to organize the chaos. You can be busy without being a disaster, right?

So I guess the answer to these questions would be that I actually need to live a fast-paced life, but I get in over my head very, very easily because of my lack of organization. Instead of wishing that life would slow down, my wish is to be one of those “naturally organized” people {Dana and Michele, I’m specifically referring to you.}.

My crafting process is really a sight to behold. Most of you know that I craft at work, and there’s no rhyme or reason to any of it. I usually grab anything and everything I can carry before I leave home - as in, this may or may not go with my project, so I’ll take it with me just in case - and when I get to work I dump the whole mess on the floor.

As I work my way into the project, I work my way into the pile, and pretty soon the contents of the floor are on the desk, keyboards, camera controls, phone, and whatever else happens to be in my way.

It’s a common event for me to switch gears mid-project and start something completely different right on top of what I’ve already been working on {people have been known to break out in hives just watching this exciting process!}.

If I’m working on a project for myself, it’s usually quick and simply. The layouts I do for Zion’s books are light on embellishments and usually based on a sketch. If I’m making a gift, though, which I do far more of than stuff for myself, it has to be embellished to the nines {to learn about this phrase, click here!}.

The gift projects take quite a bit longer than the ones I keep. The need to impress, I guess? I dunno.

Either way, I stay busy, and I think I’m ok with it.

Aren’t they cute? I love these kids. Little Miss is coming to visit again next week, and I can’t wait. I love to snuggle her.

*ETA: This is a gift that Mike’s mom “requested” {something with BOTH of her grandbabies on it!}, so I brought it home this morning to show Mike. He and Z were laying in bed all snuggled, and I said, “What do you think, baby?”

“I like it,” Mike said.

“Will you mom like it, too?” I asked.

“Of course she will.”

An itty bitty voice beside him said, “I like it too, Mommy.”

{melt}