Sigh. Another year.

I think I just might cry.

The ghostly roommates go paparazzi.

So my mom and I got silly and decided to get our old point and shoots and take pics late at night in my house to see if we could catch anything. We took a bunch of pictures in all the rooms, but what I expected to see was something weird in Liam's room, since all the weird crap happens at the end of our hallway by the bedrooms and mainly in his room.

well, we went through all the pictures and there was nothing in Liam's room. Zilch. However, apparently the kitchen was rockin' that night because we have at least 20 pictures with these round light orbs floating around. I don't think they are dust or light particles because when I flip through the 100+ pictures in sequence on the computer, the movement of the light balls is really erratic, and they are just a weird color/brightness. I dunno. Plus they moved really fast and left light trails...not all slow and lollygagging like a floating particle of dust. Again, I don't really know...up until a few weeks ago I didn't even believe in this stuff so, yeah.

I've got tons of pics of the same things, but here are a few that basically sum up what we saw. My disclaimer is to ignore my trashed kitchen because I was preparing for Liam's bday party today and also ignore the ugly paint and decor...it's a rental folks. ;)

First, the creepy ass face on the kitchen wall. This is just some horrible paint touch up job that you can't see with the naked eye, only with a camera flash, so nothing paranormal. But it's probably the creepiest thing you'll find in my kitchen. It's like a freaky devil monkey face. Ew. Look right above the phone jack.

Here's some random streak in the living room. We had a moth in the house though so this could have been him flying.

This one was dashing around the kitchen all crazy. I caught several pictures of the streak, along with a bright ball of light near it.

One little light ball thing.

It seemed like the later it got, the more we caught. We took a few pictures at like 10, and got absolutely nothing. Got maybe a few at around 11. By midnight every single picture had something.

So I'm not sure how I feel about all this. But the fact that I didn't see a black figure with fangs, flipping me off with a giant blood dripping dagger is probably a good thing.

But there's still a damn devil monkey on my kitchen wall. :/

The House on Haunted, I mean, Mint Hill.

So I'm convinced there is something in this house. I've never really been a believer in that kind of thing but after months of creepiness, I'm pretty darn sure and pretty darn over it.

Let's start by saying that I didn't notice anything for the first few months living here. After awhile I started getting a general feeling of uneasiness at night, but I'm a total wuss in the dark so I figured it was just me being a dork (and it may have been). But one night I was asleep and our overhead light in our bedroom just turned on by itself. It's a pull chain light on a ceiling fan, and you have to pull it to turn it on obviously. I heard the click of the pull right as the light came on. Freaked me the hell out. Nothing happened for another month or so until one night I woke up randomly. I decided to check Liam's monitor since it has a temperature gauge and when we run the heater it tends to overheat his room. When I flicked it on I noticed he was standing in his crib. Just standing there. Staring towards the door. I couldn't see the door due to the position of the monitor but he was staring at something. He kept drifting off and his head would droop, then it would pop back up. And every once and awhile he would point. It was the creepiest thing ever. I have no idea how long he was standing there before I turned on the monitor. I woke Shaun up and told him to go in there because I sure as hell wasn't. He thought I was ridiculous (he doesn't believe in this stuff) so he went in there and told Liam to go back to sleep. He said the hair stood up on the back of his neck as soon as he walked in there. Liam went back to sleep no problem.

Following that there were a few instances of Liam pointing at a particular corner in the ceiling and chattering, saying "Nana!" and a string of unintelligible toddlerness. He also randomly wakes up during naps or in the night and talks, then says, "NO!!! NO!!!" like he does when I try to make him eat something he doesn't want to. He always goes back to sleep.

I came home from work a few weeks ago and Shaun told me at the dinner table, "I wasn't going to wake you up the other night and tell you because I know you'd freak out and not go back to sleep, but I saw something. I was laying in bed and couldn't sleep, and just happened to glance at our door where it's cracked open. A shadow passed in front of it, like someone walked down our hallway past our door. I thought I was seeing things so I kept watching, and then there was this weird shimmering, kind of like the heat rising from the street, and it stayed there. I kept staring and it didn't go away, so I turned over so I wouldn't have to look at it. When I turned there was this weird black blotchy thing on our ceiling by the fan, but it's too dark in our room for me to really tell what it was." I was like, "well, then what?" He said, "what do you mean, then what? If it's ghosts what the heck am I gonna do about it? I closed my eyes and went to sleep." Sometimes I wonder if something is wrong with the fear section of his brain, because really, who the hell just closes their eyes when there is creepiness outside your door and hovering over your head???

The latest episode was last week or so. We were sitting on the couch and I heard this metallic sound behind me. We have a giant oil pan propped up against the wall that Liam uses as a magnet board (classy, I know.). The sound came from that thing, and it sounded like a magnet being dragged across it. I tried to reason that it was a bug that flew into it and slid down, since this place is a freaking insect jungle and they get inside all the time. About 3 minutes later there was 3 loud distinct pounding sounds in the kitchen about 10 feet away. It actually sounded exactly like ice dropping in the ice machine in a freezer. Except we don't have one. And it was LOUD. Really loud. And it was rhythmic, not clattering like something falling. It sounded like a fist being banged on our refrigerator door. I tried to make Shaun check it out but he bailed and went to bed, with the excuse that he didn't want to know what it was. So there I sat, alone in the living room, freaking out that there's something on the other side of the kitchen wall. I pondered for a minute, trying to figure out what the hell to hit a ghost with (my fist? a crucifix? my soul???) then gave up and inspected the kitchen. Nothing was amiss. I still have no idea what the hell it was.

All I have to say is I can't wait to get out of the lease. And most likely have to move into another haunted place since everything here is old. Sigh.

Quick like Shake n' Bake.

There are so many updates I can't get to them all at this moment. I will, but not right now.

Right now it's midnight, and I was sleeping but woke up and needed to say this.

We bedshared/coslept with Liam until about 2 months ago, when he was 16 months. He was getting woken up too easily by one of us getting up to pee. Now he sleeps through the night. It's heaven. I have my body back to myself for awhile since he's not nursing at night anymore. It's obvious he's growing up, because he used to sleep a million times better next to me. Now he's more comfortable in his own space.

But sometimes I miss him. I wake up in the night and don't have that tiny body curled up in the dark next to me. So I sneak in his room and sit in the chair and watch him sleep. I need that moment because during the day it's easy to forget it. When he's screaming and climbing and throwing and hitting and just being a maniac toddler who is such a direct reflection of me it's scary...it's easy to forget the perfection.

Anyway, there is this weird feeling I get. And I don't know if it's just me or if every parent gets this. I got it the second I saw his face when he was born and now it startles me every once and awhile when he looks directly into my eyes and grins. Only just now I got it when he was sleeping and I was sitting in the dark thinking. It hit me randomly, like it always does.

I know him.

Like, other than the fact that he's my kid. Something about him is like deja vu. I remember I saw his face the second he slid out of my body and it hit me like a truck. It's like I'd met him before. It's that awkward moment when you run into someone in public and you know you know them from somewhere but you can't put a name to the face. That's what it was. I recognized him. From somewhere. I mean I know he looks like me, but that's not it. It's something. But I don't know what it is. And I think I notice it more and more now. When we lock eyes I just think in my head,

"Where did you come from? I KNOW you. I recognize you. You aren't new to me."

But I can't grasp it. It's something so fleeting that I lose it too fast to focus and figure it out.

Anyway, I need to go back to bed. But I couldn't sleep without writing this because I always get this weird semi-freaked out feeling afterwards, like I've seen a ghost. Now I'm losing my words because the whole thing is fading like it always does.

My son is my son. But he's something else too. Besides freaking awesome. I just wish I could lay my finger on it.

It's like Russian Roulette with play doh.

Raising your kid is just like that. You try to mold them and shape them to the type of person you want them to be, but at the same time who they are and who they become is really a crapshoot. You can influence them, but they pull the trigger. Am I who I am because of my parents? Yes, because they walked me through the first part of my life and taught me things while holding me to a higher standard than some other parents. But also no, because I am my own person with my own personality and opinions. They are proud of me for my education and decisions I've made in my life, but also my mom comments constantly that she has no clue how the hell she ended up with such a crunchy treehugging daughter.

I think about this a lot when it comes to Liam and it's kind of scary. There are all these things I want him to do, see, and be, but I know there are going to be tons of hard times and pain in his life too. Things out of my control. Situations where I won't be there to help him. Situations where he will have to make his own decision based on what he thinks is right and good. And I hope I lay a sturdy enough foundation that he can build on to make those decisions. Problem is, I've always been a very shitty handyperson and my organization skills suck. At night I lay in the pitch black, on my side with my knees drawn up, with him balled up against my stomach, one hand under his cheek and the other thrown over me in a sleepy hug while he nurses in his sleep. My hand is always on the same spot of his back, and I always think to myself how perfect it all is and how I wish we could just stay there forever before I drift back into unconsciousness and he rolls away into his little space to sleep sprawled out with his butt in the air.

What do I want for him? I can't even think of it all. And I can't find right words for most of the things.

I want him to be happy, obviously. But not the ignorant, blissful kind of happy. I want the happiness that is a rarity when a person KNOWS all the negatives and sadness and awfulness, but also knows all the goodness and beauty in life and chooses to be happy because of it. I struggle with this a lot and I wish I knew how to raise him so he won't have to. That it will just come naturally.

I want him to give. I figured this out early on, and I wish I knew how I did. That nothing is more important in this world than reaching out for other people and holding them. Giving them what they need. That is the only way we will survive anything, and I believe it's the purpose of life. To give. The earth is constantly giving to us. If it wasn't, we wouldn't be here. There is no need to worry about yourself because if others are giving and have the same mentality as you, then you will be taken care of. I want him to feel the joy of taking what you have and giving it to someone else. How it really does come back to you tenfold. I want him to reach out not with rose colored glasses, but with clear ones so he can see things for what they are but choose to give anyway. And I want others to give to him.

I want him to believe and be humble. I don't want him to be brainwashed by people who believe they are of God, or by literature, or by flapping mouths. I want him to look at a leaf and see the tiny veins and intricacies that no one notices unless they study it. I want him to feel wind blowing onto his face and marvel that his body knows to breathe it in even when he's not thinking about it. I want him to look at an elderly person's hand and see the withering and thin skin. Feel awe and wonder at the fact that it has touched things in the past that he will never know, and that it is nature's jacket housing a soul that will never be duplicated. I want him to look into a baby's eyes and see how wide open and unmarred they are. That the pure newness is a gift to humanity and enough to make you cry with gratefulness. I want him to know he is special and loved and unique in every way and that he is the only one on the entire planet that is HIM. But I also want him to know that goes for everyone else as well. That we are all that way. And sometimes we look at another person with disgust and forget that. That we were all nonexistent at some point, but then were put together and now are here. I want him to feel pure awe that I made something from nothing, knit him together inside my own body. Every capillary and hair follicle was grown from nothing at all, and made into the most perfect baby boy I have ever seen in my life. That in and of itself should make anyone humble, because we all know it happens without us doing anything. We don't actively build that life. And I want him to wonder who does. And know that whoever does form these lives, they have to be good. I want him to BELIEVE this. I don't care whether he calls it God, Nature, or Bill Nye the Science Guy. I just want him to feel that awe and that belonging and that feeling that there is something bigger than we are and we are safe.

I want him to understand how much I love him. I want him to experience that same ferocity that makes you say, "screw all the niceness and the fact that everyone is special and equal and all that bullshit. You hurt my baby and I will rip out your throat with my bare hands". The joy that makes your chest ache when you see their smile. The tears that fall either out of feeling physical pain when they do, or out of feeling awestruck at their existence. The urge to keep them balled up against your stomach in the dark, wishing time would stop so you never have to leave that safe place.

I want him to laugh. All the time. Because life happens regardless of whether you are cracking up or scowling. And it's much easier to get through if you laugh.

I want him to have a connection with animals. There is something about staying connected to that raw innocence and purity that keeps you from getting swept up in humankind and all it's crap. I want him to realize that sometimes just laying on your stomach in the dirt next to a dog and watching the sky is more worthwhile than shopping or driving around or buying things. That they will teach you things if you let them. They have no flaws, and people mistake their meekness for inferiority. I want him to learn respect, devotion, loyalty, and humbleness and I can think of no better way than to spend time with animals.

But mostly I want him to stay little. Every milestone makes me smile and breaks my heart at the same time. I clapped my hands for him today while smiling and telling him how good he was when he pulled himself to his feet for the first time while holding onto the couch. As his toes curled into the carpet for balance, I thought about how his grip on life will take him away from me and out on his own little by little. And how he is my little ball of play doh, so I'll do my best to not make him too lumpy and uneven. Then I took his picture and smiled because I'm so lucky to be the chosen one for him.

A goodbye tribute to an old friend.

The Truck was adopted into our family in 1989. I was 4 years old and we were trading in our Jeep Cherokee for a truck for my dad. I remember driving through the winding New Hampshire roads to the dealership, which was forever away since we apparently didn't live near civilization.

I remember when we picked him out. To me he was the prettiest truck on the lot. A big shiny gold and black 1989 Chevy Silverado. I thought the name of the truck in and of itself was so cool. Apparently when you're 4 years old Chevrolet is such a fancy word, because I named about half of my My Little Ponies Chevrolet after that.

My booster seat fit perfectly in the back seat and I just thought I was the coolest kid in the planet riding in this huge (to me) pick up truck.

The Truck has many memories that stick with me.

About 6 months later we got our dog Bridgette, and I remember riding home with her sleeping in a little ball of puppiness on my lap in the backseat. She threw up all over me and the new interior. About 5 years later, when we were living in Arizona, we made a road trip to Arkansas to visit family. We stopped in Texas and Bridgette apparently picked up a million pin sized ticks that flooded the entire back seat. I looked down from my book and the seat looked alive. I screamed and we spent the next 2 hours at a gas station vacuuming the dog and the Truck. That truck was also Bridgette's truck, as she spent hundreds of times sitting proudly next to my dad in the front seat, muddy and exhausted after her hunting trips with him. She rode on a soft blanket in the same spot when they took her to be put down when she was too old and tired and sick to live her life many years later.

He took us deep in the woods for many many family camping trips and my dad's hunting trips. It was gutted once by my dad when he drove directly over a tall stump. He also managed to back him into a hole (the only hole in their entire 1/2 acre backyard by the way) when doing yard work and messed up the axel. He had the Truck's engine replaced, as well as his transmission several times over 20+ years.

Once when riding with my dad when I was 6 or so, I was rolling a marble sized ball bearing in the track where the window goes down. If you haven't noticed, there is a hole where the track ends and the side panel meets. The ball bearing went down into that hole and into the hollow of the door. My dad could never get it out and ever since then, whenever he turns a corner it bounces around like a pinball machine and he shakes his head. He says he thinks of me every time. A few years later I found a tube of touch up paint in the glove box and decided to surprise my dad by touching up all the scratches and dings. I didn't know that the tube came with the Truck, was over 3 years old, and dries up after awhile. I also didn't know that touch up paint is not water soluble, so adding water and shaking it does not make it liquid again. I apparently thought globs of paint would just smooth out because when my dad came home from work he found his truck covered in lumpy patches of darker gold paint and me standing proudly next to my handiwork. He didn't have the heart to yell.

When I was 16 I learned to drive with the Truck. My dad's reasoning was if I could handle driving the beast with tough steering and crappy brakes, I could drive most anything. We had some close calls, the Truck and I. He overheated on me many times, but since the speedometer quit working I got to be pretty good at guessing my speed. The cops helped with that too.

The Truck spent many summer nights driving us out to the desert so we could lay on his roof and watch the meteor showers.

He hauled my stuff to my dorm my first year of college. He then moved me to various houses and apartments all throughout my years at ASU and Grand Canyon. He pulled the trailer that held our furniture and my son's crib to our first house.

For you fellow CPSTs, there truly is a niche for the Coccoro. It's in the center front seat of an 89 Chevy Silverado.

295,000 miles later, the transmission bit the dust again. The cost to repair it was too great. The Truck was tired, and could no longer pull trailers or go up the winding mountains to go camping. So he was donated to a veteran's organization to be auctioned off for charity last week. My dad sent me a cell phone picture of the Truck being loaded up.

I know in the end it's just a piece of metal. But that piece of metal held a LOT of memories. That funny black and gold pick up truck will be missed. See ya Truck. Thanks for everything. <3

And again. Sigh.

Too, too fast. And I'm late to the game too. It's almost 5 month time. :( Also, I really hate how blogger crops the edge of my videos out. If anyone knows how to change that please tell me.