How You Like Me Now?

The new hotness. I've been toying with some ideas for a while, but the other night I finally got the bug and felt the need to do an honest-to-goodness overhaul of the site design. So, I fiddled around on the net, found some cool people who give away code so I didn't have to use my brain too much, and then played with graphics until I was content.

I like it.

You want to know what else I like? Lazy afternoons in springtime weather, when the buds are pushing up through the dark soil and the Bradford Pear tree (which doesn't really grow pears at all, or any other fruit for that matter) is in full bloom and the world seems ripe with possibilities. And the flu is almost (but not quite) a thing of the past.

My sister did a guided imagery exercise with me yesterday (which is much less new-agey than it sounds) and I realized that I have been carrying around a lot of needless, useless pain. That sounds more melodramatic than I intended, but the point is that I am making a conscious effort to replace it with Good Things.

So today, the boys and I (phlegmy coughs and all!) went to lunch at the new Panera Bread in town, and then went to the nicer grocery store because, while the prices may be a few cents higher, it is clean and organized and well-lit and was infinitely good for my sanity. The boys' too -- Toby contentedly munched from an economy-size tub of goldfish (yup, I was totally "that" mom, the one who lets her kid eat the snacks before they're even paid for) and Jack drove his imaginary car around in front of the shopping cart while we bought supplies for T to make his specialty Corn Macque Choux with Shrimp this weekend, and all the necessary items for an old-fashioned family burger cookout on the trusty Weber.

Our grill is probably about 10 years old, but it is still fairly new to us. We scored for $20 it at a funky junk shop when we first bought this house. The junk shop (which we spent many many hours wandering) closed down last year, and every time we go by the vacant building I get a little nostalgic for the place. The grill, however, is still going strong and has done all right by us. More than all right, actually.

Maybe it's the change in the weather, or the fact that we are finally starting to put the sickness behind us... maybe it's the good talk with my sister, or the inspirational adventures of Mary at Mom Writes. Whatever the reason, it is finally beginning to feel like spring.

Not a moment too soon. Now go outside and blow a few bubbles. Watch them dance away on the breeze until they are overcome by the freshness of the air and burst with joy. Spring has (finally) sprung.

Once more, with feeling...

So I know that you're just dying to hear the rest of the story about how T and I met. Admit it! You're awake nights, sweating and panting....

Scratch that. It was just a flashback from last night, since T really was awake, sweating and panting. Get your mind out of the gutter, he was also puking. The UberSickness has descended upon our household, and so far Jack and T have been the first victims in the assault.

I'm pretty certain it's the Flu, since the vomit seems to be coming between bouts of sternum-crushing, phlegm projectile coughing. I'm also pretty certain that I'm doomed, since an illness of this magnitude will quite likely spell the end of me after the physical drain of the past few months, but hey! Let's look on the bright side! The Celiac Disease test was negative, and at least I can console myself with mountainous piles of French Baguettes. Mmmm, bread.

Now, rather than attempt to put energy I really don't posess today into continuing the story, I'm going to play along with an old meme that circulated a while back, but which I was too lazy to actually do. (Besides the fact that I never actually got tagged with it, which gives me the sneaking suspiscion that nobody is really that interested in reading my answers. Of course, that's just tough bananas because here I go anyway...)

5 things you probably don't know about me.

1. I am blind without my specs.

I alternate between contact lenses and glasses, but I almost never wear the glasses outside my house. Mostly because my eyes are my best physical feature, and my glasses make them look very small. Technically, it's not truly "legally blind" until the corrected vision in the better eye is worse than 20/200. However, ask my husband what I am like when I wake up and have to paw around blindly for my glasses in the morning, and he will tell you to go find an angry grizzly bear with an eyeful of angry bees.

2. I have no allergies.

At least none that I have found yet. I had a childhood allergy to strawberries that I outgrew (thank goodness!). I always feel vaguely guilty around people with severe food allergies, but then they usually say something about how they've never had a single cavity and I start gorging peanut butter in front of them...from the jar ...with my bare hands ...because I can.

3. I am a pack rat.

My inability to surrender to the need to throw away seemingly-useless items has caused more than one marital spat in our house. I've tried to overcome the compulsion, but the occasions when I find a critical use for some piece of junk I really should have thrown away have given me a primal fear of potentially discarding something useful. That, and I probably watched way too many episodes of MacGuyver as a kid. Who knews when I'll need to turn thirty-year-old silk flowers into a tasteful arrangement for an impromptu wedding reception? I ASK YOU?!

4. I am an exceptionally fast reader.

I blame my mother. As a kid, I spent many a sick-day home from school reading and re-reading the likes of Agatha Christie, Tony Hillerman, and Mary Higgins Clark. Mystery novels were my first love, followed quickly by Fantasy series, and tail-ended by Science Fiction. It's a bit akward at times, trying to find other suburban moms who can have animated conversations about Stranger In A Strange Land or RingWorld. Luckily, I have also found a deep love for stories exploring atypical human experience. The Glass Castle, by Jeannette Walls, is the most recent one that springs to mind. It's brilliant, and emotional, and reading it will change you. In a good way.
I read like I am dying of thirst and each book provides a few drops of water. And I know I'm not the only one.

5. I am abysmally poor at vocalizing my feelings.

I think I get it from my father. I tend to bottle things up, and assess the world in the quiet sanctuary of my internal monologue. I find a bikini wax less painful and scary than asking for help or favors from friends. I am great at giving good advice or analytically discussing a topic or situation, but when my feelings get involved it gets ugly. I flounder, unable or unwilling to bare myself to others. I can easily say "I love you" when I mean it, and those I have said it to usually know me well enough to know how much more I would like to say if I could. I feel pretentious telling someone out loud what I see in them that is extraordinary. It is only in my writing that I am able to articulate those feelings, and a rare moment when I do so.

So there you have it.

Now move it along, nothing more to see here...

No Longer Happier With The Box.

Remember when the best part of Christmas morning for the rugrats was playing with the box their gift came in?

You know you've passed the point of no return when you hear the following:

T: Hey, Buddy! I brought you a present!

Jack: What is it???

T: (in the patient, sing-song voice parents use to let kids know when to be enthusiastic)
It's a pennant! It's a special baseball flag! It says "Washington Nationals"!

Jack: Wow! A pennant!

*pause*

Jack: (in the sing-song voice kids use to let parents know they're humoring them)
... and did you bring me something else? Something to play with????


And thus the child experiences the first of many parental disappointments.

We are so being shipped off to a nursing home some day.

Thursday Doesn't Even Start...

Because I'm over here floating in the ether. Mood swing much? Oh, my dears, you have no idea.

Still happy about Vegas. Still relieved that the carpets were salvaged from yesterday's puke-a-palooza.
Still waiting to hear back on the Celiac results. (3 weeks and counting. JOY!)
Still pretty much a lump of flesh, perpetually exhausted and hating every minute of it. I am fairly exhuberant by nature, and this chronic fatigue stuff is really pissing me off.
Still kicking against the weight of it all, though, and inventing new ways to be amused. Like watching Toby walk around with his brother's underwear on his head like a hat. Because, for at least 30 seconds, that makes it all just a bit more bearable.

I dunno about you, but I am quite thoroughly done with this "tired" business. I'm not sleepy, I'm not hungry... I'm just weary in my bones.

It must be the lingering winter. Or maybe the slow drain of being in one place for too long. Or maybe the lack of fellowship, the remoteness of this place.

Some days? You just want your mom to let you stay home from school and watch her iron and nibble dry toast. You're not really sick, but once in a while a kid just needs a day off.

I haven't been tagged with the "Real Moms..." meme, but this would be my inadvertent contribution.

Real Moms don't get sick days, but they sure could use one once in a while.

Robert Smith never told you that, baby.

Shiny Happy Glamor Mama

I'm cannibalizing most of this post from an email I just wrote to my sister. I know, shamelessly lazy, right?

Blame the cleaning fumes - Toby overdid it with a bagel this morning and threw up all over the living room. Which, of course, made Jack throw up in sympathetic reflex.

Which didn't make me throw up, exactly, but I do believe I might have died just a little on the inside. That's a little like throwing up, except the yucky stuff stays on the inside - where it hunkers down and contentedly gnaws away at the soul.

Thank goodness for the Hoover Steamvac. Otherwise? I'd be typing this on my "personal time" from a mental institution... with a white-coated guy named Bubba watching to make sure I wasn't attempting to send threatening letters to celebrities or something.

Not that I would do that. I prefer to take comfortably benign pot-shots at my celebrities by cursing at them on the telly. Then I rewind it for my hubs so he can agree with me that, yes, Paris Hilton is totally shameless and no, it's not just that I'm insanely jealous of her obscene wealth and thoroughly wasted youth. It's not that at all. I mean, I would never use the equivalent gross national product of a third world nation to dress my dog in one-of-a-kind designer clothing. I might buy myself a very small country, declare myself Empress, and require that all of my royal subjects refer to me as "Domina", after the Roman fashion. Oh, and also? They would be required to constantly tell me that I have great hair, that my jeans totally make my butt look spectacular, and that motherhood is the ultimate expression of glamor.

I'm sorry, what were we talking about again?

Oh, yeah. Puking kids, and the necessity to clean up said emetic explosions before any of the pets tried to make a snack of it. Now just try and tell me that motherhood ain't glamorous, baby.

While you're contemplating your response to that, I'll be over *there* - digging up another bottle of Febreze and attempting to convince my living room to smell more "Mountain Mist" and less "Post-Kegger-Frat-House".

Motherhood Is...

... letting your three-year-old stay up an hour past his bedtime because he's having so much fun playing "let's make soup" with miscellaneous items from the family room junk pile.

... spending another half-hour helping him search for tiny plastic Dora and Boots figures - the ones that have been attached to his little hands for the better part of a week and which have suddenly gone missing.

... finally putting him to bed with only Boots, discovered behind the media cabinet, and with a gentle admonishment to take better care of his things and a promise to search with him again in the morning until Dora is found.

... promising that Dora will be okay on her own for just this one night. She's a tough chick, that Dora.

... going back downstairs and searching on your own for another half-hour or so, until you finally find Dora tucked behind the living room sofa.

... sneaking back upstairs to tuck the tiny figurine into an impossibly soft little fist, and hearing a tiny, sleepy voice whisper, "Dora? Thanks, Mama. I love you."

... knowing that - at that moment? - you could die happy, knowing those would be the last words you heard in this life.

It's A New Dawn, It's A New Day...

Sometimes a single thing can turn the tide and make you see the world with new eyes. Today? It's all about Vegas, baby, Vegas!

You see, in just a few weeks I will be having a birthday. I usually think as little about my birthday as possible, as the closer I get to thirty the more I realize that I missed the boat on the whole college career scanario. Not that I can't go back to school and punch that card, just that I will be doing it as one of those "non-traditional" students -- the mom who talks about her kids and school pageants while the other kids are discussing last night's raging kegger. I knew those moms when I was in school the last time, and they found the casual youth of those around them disconcerting, to say the least.

But I digress.

You see, the thing about this particular birthday is that it brings with it two very cool events. The first is that my sister-in-law, one of my most favoritest people in the whole world, is coming out to DC for her brother's wedding and will, in all likelihood, be spending the evening of my birthday with us at my brother's house. This is a very very cool thing. She also brings with her the third, and newest, of their baby girls. Hi Baby Ava! I can't wait to meet you and shower you with auntly adoration while I secretly pine for a little girl of my own to dress in unholy amounts of pink until she won't let me any more. You'll remember me as the crazy aunt. That's okay, I sorta expect it.

The other thing about this birthday that has me excited? T broke down and told me about my present early, since it requires some coordination effort on my part. You see, I have never been to Las Vegas. Well, there was that one half-hour layover at the airport there on my way to L.A. the time I went home with my friend Natalie for Thanksgiving from college and got sick and spent Thanksgiving day puking in her bathroom but still felt cool because I had shopped at a receord store called "Vinyl Fetish".

BUT! Other than that? I have never been in Vegas. And, until recently, have never had a real reason to want to go. I mean, I know it's supposed to be a blast and all that, but really - have you met me? I'm all in for a good time, but my hedonism these days generally extends as far as checking out the cute waiter at Ruby Tuesday's only after he takes the time to be nice to my kids.

But you see... Dr. Allie, and her other half, the Amazing Wonder Steve? They happen to call a little town, just outside Vegas, their home. Allie and I met when we were both 13 years old. At first, we were mortal enemies. You see, her ex-best-friend Julie claimed me for a friend when I first moved there and so, naturally, since Julie hated her so must I.

The problem was, while it was one thing to go with the party line as the new kid who was just glad to have a friend, it was quite different to dislike one person for the sake of another in the long-term.

Especially since I'm not the type of person to dislike people in general. Oh, I know - I really don't do well with "people", but that has more to do with my lack of ability to pick up on social cues and such. On an individual level, I find something to appreciate in the majority of people who cross my path. I began to get very uncomfortable with this whole "We Hate Allison" thing. My mother, being much wiser and more practical than I, suggested I invite Allison out to a movie and make my own decision about her after actually - you know - like, talking to her and stuff. (Ah Momzer. What an incredible lesson, hard for me to learn then yet so easy to see clearly now.)

That was the beginning of the end for Julie and me. She couldn't forgive me for fraternizing with the enemy, and I had found the most important girlfriend of my life. We were more like sisters. Even the few fights we had were more akin to sisterly squabbles, and usually? Usually they were my fault. She was always more mature than I, more willing to shrug off the judgment of others, more quick to forgive when forgiveness was sought.

We have waxed and waned over the years, sometimes going months without talking and then just as suddenly picking up right where we left off. She was the maid of honor at my wedding. She is perhaps the best listener I have ever met, and one of a very few people in this world that I trust to forgive me my foibles and love me for the person underneath - the one who loves her back and is honored to know her.

She was still nearly a child when she decided she wanted to become a doctor. Today? She is well on her way, making me incredibly proud while she's busting her butt in medical school and refusing to quietly accept injustice she can put right.

And now? Now, in honor of my birthday, T has given me a pass to spend a long weekend in Vegas with my Best Girl. All by my lonesome. I can't think of a birthday present that would have put as much spring in my step and twinkle in my eye as this one.

Break out the Green Boots, Allie. I'm comin' to Vegas, and I fully expect to come home with a second husband, as witnessed by a Korean Elvis Impersonator. (Just kidding, T.)(Mostly.)

....The Way The Fortune Cookie Crumbles

It was ... a week.

T's car broke down. $400 later it was fixed. The next day, it was 70 degrees outside and glorious spring seemed at last on its way. Two days later, we got 6 inches of snow and T's car got a flat tire.

This afternoon? One of our two female cats got into basement storage and managed to get her paw hooked on a fishing lure. $200 later and one seriously exhausted and pissed off cat later, she's doing just fine and we're totally exhausted.

If anyone happens to get the karma gods on the phone in the near future? Let them know we're ready for a little reprieve. And a long vacation somewhere tropical. OO! And a pony. K? Thanks.

Moving on... there's a story I've been meaning to tell, and as it is a fairly long story it will have to come in installments. I realized the other day that I have never properly told the story of how T and I met, and how it is I managed to go from tormented BYU co-ed to progressive, analytical, feminist housewife and mom.

So be on the lookout for installment #1 - Wherein I detail my exploits working after-hours at the dollar movie theater, take an impromptu flight to the East coast, put in a stint as towel girl at a Gym, go on several blind dates, develop a crush on a good friend, and eventually end up delivering paychecks for a company that dealt in some kind of voodoo known as "DSL". (Which, at the time, I had never heard of. I know! Such a luddite. Who would have known what the future would hold?)

For now, I will leave you with this lead-in:

I stood resigned in my pink-and-yellow checkered vinyl apron, grease-spattered black polyester pants, and pink rubber visor. The attractive guy on the other side of the counter stared absently at the passing crowds. His date, a tiny blonde with an impossibly large chest, delicately picked her nose with one perfectly french-manicured fingernail and ordered a small buttered popcorn. I found myself loathing these people, resenting the casualness with which they enjoyed a free Friday night.

To be continued.....

Giving Birth Control A Run For The Money.

In case you missed the most jaw-dropping characteristic of my life (or at least the one most people find the most memorable), I happen to be one of ten kids. That's ten natural kids. No adoptions, no multiple births. 10 individual, opinionated, and very loud children. It was a sort of controlled chaos at our house, and looking back I realize that (at least in the group I came up with) there was more order in our house then than there probably is in mine now.

The point, though, is that I am most comfortable in a crowd. Stopping at 2 kids has never been, for me, a serious consideration. I don't want to have 10, mind you, or even half that number. But the 3-4 range? Sure, I'm on board - so long as there is access to plenty of therapy, because my kids deserve a mom who is on the "fun" side of crazy. Without the proper tools to keep myself in check, I would run a very real risk of turning into more of the "No wire hangers! EVER!" flavor of crazy mother, and nobody wants that -- least of all me.

It's the spacing, the readiness for the next one, that is the burning question of the era. I'm not ready to open that can quite yet -- there are still too many issues to work out health-wise, and a few other life twists to get settled before we will be ready to see what our combined genes can create on the next try.

I have to say, though... with the first two results like this? Some days... it's hard to stay reasonable and rational about it all....


Thank heaven for the occasional reality check. Like when Jack decides to try out "biting" as a punitive measure against his parents, or Tobin's recent decision that every morning MUST begin with "The Upside Down Show", even if he wakes up at 5am and has to scream at full volume for 30 minutes in order to communicate this to Mama.

It is on those days that I remember to check the supply levels of the Anti-Pregnancy-Arsenal.

So we are currently stocked through about 2010. And as a bonus? In case some sort of post-apocalyptic nightmare should ensue? No chance I'll have to fend off the invading Zombie armies with a bun in this here oven. Talk about a win-win.

Denial Intersection

Conversation with myself:

ME: That blog post? The one about BlogHer '07? You DO know you completely avoided even mentioning SXSW, which would have included body-rocking music and enough creative geniuses to make your head explode, right?

MYSELF: Yeah, I'm aware. But really, did I need to even mention it? Because, that's like telling a kid you're thinking they can have a can of spinach for their birthday, and then mentioning that Christmas? It is also cancelled. Why mention SXSW, when there was never any doubt that 1) I am not nearly well-informed nor trendy enough to be comfortable there and 2) There is no way I could fly myself to Austin, all alone, let alone stay long enough to actually see a fraction of the sights.

I: She has a point, there. Plus? She'd be the weird one, gawking at people she recognizes only from the internet, and would probably be escorted out by security before she found anything really good to see, anyway.

ME: What? Sorry, I missed what you said, I was busy fantasizing about that parade scene in Ferris Beuller. That would be really fun, don't you think?

MYSELF: And she wonders why I hesitate to talk about places I'm not socially equipped to go to...

Wrapped Around His Chubby Little Finger

Jack has been begging for the movie "Flushed Away" for weeks now, and we finally picked it up at Wal-Mart last night.

I also threw away all our old sippy cups and have been getting one specific (discount) kind, mostly for Toby. So I got Jack a "Cars" cup with a straw, to be his "special cup" that he doesn't have to share. Because that's important when you're three and you're constantly hearing "share it with your baby brother".

We were standing in the checkout line to get those items and a few other things, and Jack said "Mama, I think I need to get a toy." I patiently explained that he was getting a movie and a cup, and that was quite enough, really. He considered me for a moment, then said "But, Mommy? I really do need just one more thing..."

"Oh, reeeeally? And what might that be?"

"I need a kiss!"

I admit it, I cracked up. "That," I giggled, "I think I can do." And I did. And then? I gave him an extra one for being too precious by half.

Breakfast In The Spin Zone

It is safe to say we eat eggs at a rate that very nearly justifies investing in our own chicken farm. I finally gave in and started buying the packs of 3 dozen ("Fresh from Amish Country!") at our local grocer.

I love eggs. They are filling, a great source of protein, and I don't find myself starving an hour after eating them. Cereal generally leaves me tearing through the cupboards within an hour, grunting like a wild boar as I hunt for something to fill the aching void in my stomach. But Eggs? They keep me comfortably hunger-free until at least lunch time.

I suspect, however, that my family may be tiring of eating the same breakfast at least 3 mornings a week.

The tip-off came this morning, as Jack surveyed his plate of twice backed potato cubes and 2 neatly cut eggs over easy.

"This is too much eggs, Mama."

"Really? It's the same amount you ate last time."

"But too much eggs is not good for me. It makes me pee."

"..."

I find myself awed by his evil genius. Not only has he learned, before the age of 4, to make excuses to avoid my cooking... the next time he gets overly absorbed in "The Upside Down Show" and forgets to head for the bathroom in time? I have a sneaking suspicion I will hear "Uh-oh... I had uh accident. But it wasn't my fault, Mama. It was the eggs."

Adrift Again... But I Digress.

Ah internet. When I started taking this blogging deal a bit more seriously, and posting away with zest and zeal on a regular basis, I had no thought of the future. It was fun, pure and simple. It was a place to vent my spleen, a forum to show photos of these little boys who make every day intense - and intensely joyous.

And so here we are. Time has passed, children have grown and learned to back-sass their mother and point out various parts of their male anatomy when they remove their diapers at random..(Hi Tobin! Mama would like to point out that running nude through the living room is not, in fact, an acceptable way to tell me it's bath time.) I find myself wondering if there is supposed to be some larger purpose to all this.

Last year, at just about this time, I was in a dark and dismal place and finally seeking professional help to get through post-partum depression that paralyzed my life for so many months. I was exploring the blogosphere and finding out that there was a sisterhood out there. All these women, they were living disparate lives and still finding a way to bond and make connections of varying strengths. I was gobsmacked -- I wanted in. I wanted to meet people and find myself a chair at the table of this newfangled coffee klatsch.

Many months, many posts, and many experiences later... I find that I have, indeed, drawn from the experiences and strength of these women.

The untempered, always hilarious honesty of Dooce made me realize there are others who look at the world a lot like I do - but with infinitely more wit.

The unsinkable MochaMomma unwittingly became one of my inspirations, and my internet fairy-godmother.

The classy-sassy CrankMama made me laugh, made me think, and got me to confess to the world that I'm a lot kinkier than you might think.

The intelligent and eloquent AgnosticMom helped me to, at last, find the words to articulate my view of life, the universe, and everything.

And Dr. Allie. She is my lifeline to a past I am finally learning to assess without the rose-colored lenses of denial- and without the icy tang of bitterness. She is the one who has known me the longest and the one who truly saw me long before I saw myself.

There are others... they are there on the blogroll for any who want to find them.

And now? Now I find myself pondering. Last year at this time I was hell-bent and determined to attend the BlogHer conference this year. I wanted to sit with these women. I wanted to bask in their company and discuss motherhood and business and global politics and really great shoes.

But as the time approaches, and as I find myself enmeshed in home improvement projects and the nitty-gritty of raising two incredibly active little boys -- not to mention the two cats, boxer puppy, and one Beta Fish named "Ultra" -- I find that a year has gone by and I have not really found a niche for myself. I'm wondering what I would gain from going to the conference and, more intimidating, what others could possibly gain from me. And then I'm wondering if it would be worth the expense and sacrifice for the hubs and kids for what I would get out of it.

And my shoe collection is shamefully sparse these days.

I find myself stuck at an impasse on this one, wishing my rantings had more relevance to anything beyond these four walls.

Oh, and totally restraining myself from cleaning out the brand spankin' new Kohls (SHOPPING IN THE STICKS! Head for the hills, my friends... hell freezeth over.)