Me and my love. Photo by my little love.

Happy Valentine’s Day, friends!

Walking down my stairs makes me happy. It’s not the walking, it’s not the direction, and it’s most certainly not the stairs that improves my mood. It’s the recently acquired artwork.

A while back I decided that my house needs to represent me better and that it sure could use a splash of color on the walls. As easy as painting appears to be, it’s a challenge for us literally unhandy Tredways (if you don’t get that, I apologize—it’s another blog post for another day). What I wanted was artwork. Made by friends. I know a number of really creative, really talented people and I wanted their handiwork on my walls.

So, from my sister-in-law Kristin, a photograph. Emily, my childhood cat, lived her happiest years with Adam and Kristin. The image is the sweetest composition of Emily, basking happily in the sunlight on top of an armoire, and it sits above my desk, at the base of the stairs, for inspiration.

Then my friend Liz Estudillo Chaffee showed her work before leaving the states for a new job. I had spent the day at the last garage sale I will ever host—really, I mean that—and I ran my weary self over to the gallery with permission to buy an anniversary present for myself. Within minutes of walking by Liz’s paintings, I knew which piece I wanted and Liz even commented that she thought that one was for me. It’s companion piece resides with my friend Christina, which is a little fact that makes me happy. When a friend kindly hung it above our stairs, just opposite the front door, I felt for the first time that my house reflected me.

Kristin’s photo. Liz’s painting. And now, Collin Geldmeier’s work.

We have two very tall friends at church. Collin in the younger tall dude and he is a talented photographer. I’ve enjoyed viewing his work over the last year and I am so glad he answers my photography questions with grace and his characteristic laidback attitude. I was immediately attracted to the work he showed at the Redeemer gallery last summer and was thrilled when those pieces came into my possession. They are photos of winter scenes, from Colorado I believe, and they are perched above the window in our stairwell. Every time I walk past them I think, “Thank you, Collin.” They add quite a bit of elegance to such a small corner of the house.

I walk up and down this staircase a lot. When I do it with my eyes wide open, I find beauty from the handiwork of some awesome folks. Trust me, it’s much better than the blank walls that were there before. Much much better.

**This post is part of a series called January Reflections. It is hosted by Corrin of The Glorious Impossible and I’m doing it because I like to write but sometimes need a bit of prompting to do so.

Yes, we really do live close to our neighbors.

The road to public embarrassment via pajamas is a slippery slope. I used to judge people who went out in public in their jammies. Yeah, I know, it wasn’t kind of me. But I couldn’t fathom how someone would go to the grocery store in their nasty sweatpants without even running a comb through their hair. As we all know, pride goeth before fall. I think I fell this morning.

Getting a kid ready for school is an interesting, somewhat rapid-fire process. I try to squeeze in every last minute of sleep that I can, and then it’s GO GO GO to the finish line at the door to kindergarten. The main objectives are as follows:
1) get kid dressed
2) feed kid
3) brush teeth, brush hair (always making sure to use the appropriate brush)
4) pack lunch
5) get to school on time

You didn’t see anything in that objective list about mom getting dressed or brushing teeth. And that’s where the slippery slope creeps in.

“Dressed” means to cover oneself. Points aren’t given for beauty in the early morning race, so there’s a wide option of how one can dress. And here you can see how I’m sliding already. Fleece jacket over pajama top (uh oh), comfy-pants-that-aren’t-sweats (at least that’s how I define them), shoes (flip flops were best, too cold for those now). I haven’t yet worn my slippers to school but I am tempted to do so EVERY DAY.

The “brush teeth, brush hair” objective seems like common courtesy, doesn’t it? For realz, how long can it take to swish some Colgate around one’s mouth? Too long some days. That ham sandwich isn’t going to make itself and those grapes aren’t just going to jump in the lunch bag. As long as I don’t get too close to the crossing guards, halitosis isn’t too concerning. Gross, but understandable, right? Right?

And so goes my morning five out of seven days a week.

But this morning, after completing the race and triumphantly climbing into the driver’s seat of my car, I glanced into the rearview mirror. And was slightly aghast. I think I brushed my hair, but truth be told, I looked like I had just rolled out of bed. Cow licks like nobody’s business. Mascara remnants under my eyes. The green fleece jacket swallowing all color from my makeup-less face. Yikes. The crossing guard didn’t need to get close to my breath, my physical presence alone could’ve knocked her over!

Clearly I have two options for the days from here on out. I can either start laying my own clothes out the night before and maybe, just maybe, wake up a few minutes early as a public courtesy. OR… I can go the full monty and walk into school in curlers and slippers in a matching pair of Hanes sweats.

I sit at my own booth, the yellow breakfast platter before me is now empty while a mug of coffee sits, full, just to my left. For too long now I’ve read while listening to someone else’s conversation, my mind only half-heartedly focused on the material on the page. The conversation is interesting, but my goal in coming here was not eavesdropping. So I move on and start up my computer, plug in my headphones and start to write. But, wait a minute, I can’t write while listening to Patty Griffin apparently. I thought her music was unfamiliar enough to become background noise, but it’s not. So classical then. Again no, not going to work at all. I’m one of those folks who is way too aware of—and thus distracted by—background music. Shoot. Now I’m listening to the dude on the phone behind me.

Oh, the life of a freelancer at the “office.”

I love it.

You: Hi there, Rebecca! Whatcha doing today?
RT: Oh, just recording some blood sugars, carbs from breakfast/lunch/dinner and how much insulin I gave for each meal.
You: Sounds like fun!
RT: Oh boy, is it!

You: Hey! What are you reading there, Rebecca?
RT: Oh, hi. I’m reading up on the latest continuous glucose monitoring systems and doing internet research to determine which one might be best for me.
You: That sounds like fun! Wish I could do that, too!
RT: Doesn’t it?!

You: Hey, Tredway! What are your plans this week? Want to get coffee?
RT: Howdy. Sorry, no coffee for me. I have exciting plans to call my insurance company and see what kind of coverage they’ll offer me for great diabetes care! And after that, get this, I’m going to make appointments for eye exams and dental care. Woohoo!

Type 1 diabetes has been a constant companion since I was 16 years old. I’ve had years of ups and downs. Ironically perhaps, I cared more for myself when I was first diagnosed as a teenager. I’ve gotten really lazy, really bitter and really annoyed by diabetes in the past ten years or so. I’ve done enough just to get by, but it’s not enough to make the future look bright.

My new slogan is: Diabetes is my hobby.

Like any new challenge, I am going to give my attention to diabetes for awhile, at least long enough to ascertain patterns and carb counts and how much insulin is needed and when. And while those conversations above will never really happen, I need to work hard on caring for myself. It’s going to take time. It’s going to take encouragement. It’s going to take perseverance. But, if I can focus on what really matters, it’ll make all the difference in the longrun.

My friend Joanna runs Ministry of Reality Mondays on her blog, In Search of Lost Time. Another friend, Moriah, as noted in the comments section, runs Fun Mom Fridays. Both are great blogging ideas and I want to feature them here. As it happened, I recently ran a fun idea in the middle of the week and now a moment of reality on a Tuesday. BUT… if I ever do it on the right day, friends, I’ll let you know!

This photo shows my own Moment of Reality after Livia and I went to the zoo on one of the most humid days this month. I felt like a great mom that day: I bought food for the goats! I bought train tickets! I was taking my kid to the zoo on a Saturday even though I hate Saturdays at the zoo! I’m not sure Liv valued my efforts as much as I did, however. She was hot, and sweaty, and tired. So, right outside the zoo gates, she sat down on a bench in the shade and I could. not. move. her. Here it was, a thousand degrees out and my car, my Bastion of Air Conditioning, a mere 50 feet away, and my child quit moving entirely.

My friends, I did not perform well in that moment. I scolded and threatened and eventually moved her bodily onto the sidewalk once more. Inside I was getting more and more worked up. (Let’s just say I can understand the emotions that led to Steven Slater’s dramatic plane exit recently.) My hand propelled her towards the car door and then, get this, she walked away from the car and stubbornly stood in the shade of a nearby tree.

Public setting. Child with an internal tantrum. Mother about to lose it with an external tantrum. Images of myself on the six o’clock news flash before my eyes.

So, with an eye on my daughter, I got into the car, cranked up the A/C, and yelled something like, “Get in the freaking car!” I paused, looked around the car, wondered how to proceed and… picked up my camera. I’ve taken photos for many, many reasons, but this was the first time I snapped a few shots in order to calm myself down. And for the most part, it worked.

I can’t remember when Livia got in the car. I can remember hollering a lecture and issuing discipline at home. I recall the sweetness of air conditioning and how grateful I was to live in a time where air conditioning is possible. I also recall apologies all around, from mama and child alike. Thank God for grace, and photographic evidence.

I plan to pull out this picture when Liv has a rough moment with a stubborn child someday. : )

“Every artist was at first an amateur.” – Ralph W. Emerson

I wanted to poke my eyes out while reading Emerson in high school. Yes, it was that painful an experience. But I felt like kissing Mr. Emerson when reading a few quotes this morning. As I prepare for my first ever gallery showing (!) I feel like amateur hour times a thousand.