The more things change...

so this is my first attempt at blogging...Chad has been telling me for a while now that I should do this, and then I was reading my friend Lindsay's' blog earlier and was officially inspired enough to act. So here we are.



Today is pretty uneventful. We woke up (Campbell, Jack and I), had breakfast, which satiated Campbell's new addiction to blueberries and started playing. As I write Jack is lying on a blanket surrounded by toys that Campbell has brought to him. I'm almost certain that if it weren't for his wanting to chase after her, as well as human necessity, he would never have to learn to walk because Campbell would bring everything to him. They are so crazy about each other. It's my new favorite thing to watch. Jack listens intently to her voice; follows her every move with his big blue eyes; and when their eyes meet...he gushes giggles that melt your heart. It is by far the cutest thing I have ever seen.



Tear. And about tears. Anyone who knows me knows that yes, I am a crier. I cry at the drop of a hat. I cry when I'm happy, I cry when I laugh, I definitely cry when I am mad or sad. I cry every Christmas when that darned Folgers coffee commercial comes on. You know the one where Peter walks through the door on Christmas morning just as the angelic little blond girl is coming down the stairs wearing a nightgown that I'm pretty sure she stole from the set of Little House on the Prairie (this commercial has been running for many years). Anyway, a cab pulls up to a perfect white colonial,Peter walks in, shakes the snow off, embraces baby sticky-fingers Barbie, and after the rest of the family wakes up and is over come with joy, the all have a nice, hot, steaming cup of Folgers coffee. Complete with plaid Christmas mugs. I'm bawling like a baby as I write this (not really), darn you Folgers and your good-smelling coffee!



So back to me and crying. This one time in college, Southwest Baptist University to be exact (I officially attended 3 schools, but who's counting) I woke up on a sunny fall morning in not so quiet desperation. It was probably about 7am and I had my first Spanish test of the semester at 8am. The problem was I hadn't even cracked the book yet and there was no time to cram since I lived in an apartment with my friend Lindsay which was 45 minutes away from where I went to school. Technically it was Lindsay's apartment. I had my own place in the town I went to school in. I just preferred to sleep on her black leather couch with my bedding, sparse belongings, and Mr. Bunny piled in the corner next to the entertainment center for 2 1/2 years. Anyway, back to the dilemma then at hand. I knew Lindsay was quite the linguist when it came to good ole' Espanol (she spent a lot of time before I met her hanging out in this one Mexican restaurant's bar drinking margaritas and listening to some guy named Alan Ross sing and play guitar, I don't think that's where she learned Spanish, but it helped her polish her skills). So I woke up Linds and begged her to help me study for my test by riding to the university with me and quizzing me during the 45 minute drive. I assured her that the only class I had that day was Spanish so we would go there, I would take my test, and then immediately go back home. I probably also promised her something really awesome like a pack of P-funks and lunch at Ryan's Steakhouse, too. Whatever I said I don't remember, but she agreed to help me, we threw on some clothes, and we were on our way.



For 45 minutes we drove up and down highway 13 from Springfield to Bolivar, Lindsay quizzed me over Spanish vocabulary and we laughed so hard I cried. I still remember that the sun was so bright that morning that even with my sunglasses it was hard to see without being blinded. Once we arrived at the building where my Spanish class was held I showed Lindsay where the ladies restroom was, took off my sunglasses and walked into class just in time to sit down before Senor Goss handed out the test. I don't remember much about that hour in which I took that Spanish test except for two distinct things. The first being that every once in a while everyone in the class would look towards the door and the hallway when they were grossly interrupted by the sounds of what was obviously some girl yacking in the bathroom (and no, it wasn't flu season yet). The second thing I remember and will never forget is the look on my instructors face when I turned my test in to him. He looked sort of puzzled as I handed him my best shot at B.S.-ing in Spanish (if that is even possible) and asked "Ms. Hill (my maiden name) are you okay?" Puzzled by his puzzled look I assured him I was fine, grabbed my backpack and headed towards the ladies room.



Well you don't have to be Dick Tracy to figure out that yes it was Lindsay who was making all of the noise, and that we had gone out to the clubs the night before hence the lack of studying, and hence the puking. However, unless you are Paul Harvey you are probably still wondering "why the funny look from the professor?"



Well, if you knew us back in our "Dirty Pop" days, as I like to call them, you would know that going to a club for us was more than hanging out and dancing. It was an evening full of such ritual and glamour that I am pretty sure Hollywood back in the day was crazy jealous of our rock star lives, Franzia and all. It took us hours to apply tons of make-up (the black cat-eye was especially popular with us) and glitter the likes of which would rival any show on the Vegas strip; perfect hair like you would not believe, I could style my hair so that it wouldn't move for 3 days (true story, just ask Lindsay) no dance could disturb my indestructible coif; and as for clothes...Bob Mackie would have been proud.



So on that gorgeous, sunny fall morning as we were rushing to get me to class, hangovers and all, Lindsay and I just threw on our clothes and donned sunglasses over our still too-made-up faces from the night before. And un-beknownced to me as I was laughing so hard I was crying (ah, the crying) my black-cat-eyed make-up was melting and pooling under my sleep-deprived eyes. So when I took my sunglasses off as I entered the classroom right before the test there was no time for anyone to clue me in on the fact that I looked like a Gene Simmons ready to rock out at a Kiss concert...tragic. And that my friends is why Senor Goss was so concerned, bless his heart he probably thought I was just really upset about something, "she was probably worried about her Spanish test..."



When I walked into the bathroom to collect Lindsay and finally looked in the mirror we had quite the laugh. We still do. Fortunately, or unfortunately if you don't think like me, I was too young to be embarrassed. I still am (too young to be embarrassed), or I wouldn't be telling this story.



Well the more things change, the more they stay the same--it really is true. I still haven't learned some lessons, take yesterday. Yesterday afternoon I found out that my friend Jess was moving to Kansas City for work. I was selfishly devastated for about an hour, put the kids down for a nap, went to my room and cried until I starting thinking about what a great opportunity this was for Jess and how proud I was of her. Then I perked up, got up, let the kids out of their rooms because neither one was sleeping, and decided it was time for a dance marathon at the Crabb house. Just as Rusted Root was sending us on our way the door bell rang, I grabbed Jack in mid moon-walk (just kidding, Jack's not a big fan of Michael Jackson) and headed for the door. I peeked out the window and saw that it was the Fed-Ex guy. Knowing that he came bearing Billy Joel/Elton John concert tickets I opened the door with more enthusiasm than a Miss America contestant talking about world peace. I was all smiles rocking Jack on my hip while signing the electronic pen pad...so excited to open my package. It's been really cold here so I made it a point to tell him to stay warm as I flashed him one more smile of gratitude for being so kind as to brave the cold to deliver me awesome concert tickets (hello, it's his job!).



And then as he was walking away I realized he was giving me a strange look. I had seen this look before...Oh, no! It was the same look Senor Goss had given me that morning of my Spanish test many moons ago. I plopped Jack in the pack n' play and headed strait for the bathroom. Sure enough, it was Gene Simmons all over again, I was Gene Simmons all over again. After my boo-hoo fest over Jess moving I had failed to look in a mirror, and had no knowledge of the fact that my mascara was everywhere on my face but my eyelashes.



So what have I finally learned from all of this? Well, I have learned that I cannot count on a two-year old and a newborn to tell me that my make-up is smeared or that there are boogers hanging out of my nose. I have learned that waterproof mascara may be the way to go, although I have never found one that I am in love with. And I have also learned that if I am going to remain as sensitive as I have been for the rest of my life, and the odds of that are pretty good, then I really should make it a point to look in a mirror once in a while.



Whew! One down, many more to come...