Bittersweet Goodbyes

We had the chance to see the folks tonight at my brother's place before they head out tomorrow morning to return home. It was strange, to pull away in the trusty family car and wave goodbye. I was instantly transported back to the day they drove away in the family minivan, waving goodbye to me as they left me at BYU for my freshman year.

In so many ways, that time seems longer ago even than my memories of High School. It's like that time at BYU exists in my memory outside of time.. "the long day's journey into night" if you will. It was a dark time for me, one of loneliness and confusion... but at the same time, it was the beginning of everything else. It was the catalyst that changed my life, opened doors, and eventually led to the freedom to really find myself.

The regret and wistfulness I felt today as we headed down the road towards home was of a totally different sort than that first day in Provo, though. It gave me pause, to realize the distance I have traveled, and just how far I have come from the broken spirit I once was.

Rather than being a lost and frightened girl, unsure of myself and aching for the comfort of the familiar, I felt only a tugging longing for more time... time enough to really get to know my parents and let them get to know me- my children, my life - the woman I am now.

The woman I am now. Deeply flawed, often misguided, sometimes petty and selfish... but also so much stronger, more confident, and infinitely more honest and open to the wonders of the world around me. Steady in a way that skiddish girl never was. Content in a way I never could have imagined possible. Blessed. Infinitely blessed. At peace. Finally, at peace.

Alternative Lifestyles

I've been toying for a while now with the idea of starting another blog - not to replace this one, but in addition to it. Yes, there's just not enough crazy to go around on this one little forum, so I have officially opened AlternaMom!

Go to the site for my Packaged Description, but basically it's where I will be posting links and goodies for items and/or ideas that keep me from going completely nuts (insert "Short Trip" comment here) and help me overcome the little aggravations of life as a Stay At Home.

You know, a sort of shopping-blog-meets-Dear-Abby-meets-cleaning-tips deal. And because I have waaaay too much extra space in my brain (apparently I have been using very little of it lately) I'll even toss out there that if anyone wants to email me questions on any of the above areas, I'll do my best to answer them.

Be forewarned, I don't promise to be coherent and I have absolutely no relevant trainig, but I have been known to give out the odd piece of good advice. (Like don't mix Ameretto and Beer, and Dryer Sheets make excellent car air freshners and will remove the smell of mildew from old fabric. See? Don't you feel smarter already?!?!?)

Also, a picky toddler will eat almost ANYTHING as long as it's dipped in ranch dressing or ketchup. Unless they don't happen to like ranch dressing or ketchup, in which case you should get them into therapy NOW because there is most definitely something wrong there. Amen.

So, click on over and find out where to buy cool funky socks (which are now an established part of my therapy) and find a quick and delicious breakfast idea that my 3 year old adores.

Check Your Head

You may have noticed that the title of the blog, as well as the header, have changed. "Innocent when you dream" no longer seemed to fit my current state of mind, although there is no bad time to listen to Tom Waits. And so, I changed it to "Somewhat Damaged, Holding On", which fit my mental state a bit better. At least, I thought so, but T protested mightily.

He didn't feel it was an accurate representation of where I am at, nor was it an optimistic look at where I am headed. And so, I reconsidered and finally relented.

Staying home with the kids is the basis on which all of my perspectives are currently built, and I am doing my best to salvage some kind of mental stability in this insane role and even more insane world.

And there you have it. Aum... That Hindu ideal, the meditation of reality and the states of consciousness. Because, you know... a mom drifts somewhere between the waking and sleeping state most of the time, and in my case the dreaming is more of a waking thing. And usually the dreams involve a hot beach and a cold margarita. But I digress.

Things evolve, and the metamorphosis continues. If there's anyone out there in the ether, fear not. I won't reach nirvana any time soon, so you can look forward to more of my insane ranting as my scrambled brain attempts to sort itself out. Cheers!

Going Under, Coming Up

Not that I technically went anywhere, but nonetheless I am back. My parents were here for a few days, and got to see the glory that is Toby for the first time, live and in person. They were understandably weak-kneed at the experience, and we spent a few days mostly lounging and chatting about the pleasant things that adults and their parents chat about.

Noticeably absent from the conversation was any mention by me of the fact that I have officially resigned the religion of my upbringing.

In the end, I decided that it was best to just enjoy the rare visit while they were here, and break the news to them later - when they'll have time to deal with their own fallout - without being on the spot and having to figure out what to say to the news. All in all, I think it was for the best.

And so, to anyone still here with me, I say... (and now for something completely different)...

I am totally and completely addicted to "So You Think You Can Dance".

There. I've said it. And I don't care who knows it. Just don't attempt to get me to discuss it in public, because I will deny, deny, deny.

I love the cheesy judges, including Nigel-the-token-brit. I love the overly dramatic tone of the whole thing, the indefensible sentimentality of the video montage for the booted contestants, the ridiculousness of the whole concept of a competition around every conceivable form of dance rolled into one.

I especially love that the "winner" gets a one year contract to be a backup dancer in Celine Dion's Vegas show. It's like winning a job cleaning the cages at the zoo.... useful, and sure you get to hang with the animals, but the whole thing leaves a lingering stink on you...

In the midst of the Entertainment Death Valley that is Summertime television, it's good to know that at least two nights a week I have a reason to tune in to something in prime time.

If I admit that I spend most of the other nights working on crochet and knitting, will it seem that I have TOTALLY lost my edge???? What if I listen to The Killers while I do it... does that help at all??? Or not? ... I guess not. *sigh*

Fame and Infamy...

In the last year or go, our Adelphia cable went digital, which affords us the wonder that is Video On Demand. In addition to saving me the headache of figuring out what time the new movies for the month are starting on HBO, this gets us some cool new channels to watch when we want - 0ne of which is called "Expo TV"... and basically covers big Expos... including E3.

Tonight, while we're sitting around putting off going to bed, T decides to check it out. SO we're watching a special on E3 and there's a segment on a company that T has worked with recently called "WebZen"... guy X interviews guy Z on their new MMOFPS "Huxley".

"Hey!" T calls from the recliner where he is convalescing with the same virus that has had me cursing phlegm in all its forms for a good week. "Check it out, these are the guys we were talking to out there -- in the background, behind these guys..."

I look up from my studious review of Important Things (Okay, so I was surfing the Entertainment section on CNN.com, so sue me) just in time for him to say "Hey! That's ME!"

More accurately, it was first his gesturing hands (which are unimistakably his), then his nose, and finally his entire profile as he gesticulated wildly to emphasize some point about the graphics quality of the game, or some such.

Okay, now seriously. What are the chances???

The Toxic Crusaders...

Reference to a really screwed up 90's cartoon show, by the way.

So the hoodoo virus is back. Or some variation thereof.

Jack spent yesterday morning alternating between puking into a towel and demanding waffles. By noon, after sipping on peppermint herbal tea for about an hour, the vomiting had ceased and we gave in and made him a whole-wheat toaster waffle. And then another. As of today, so far, so good.

What IS it about this time of year? The rain finally stops, the sun comes out, and everyone is too damn sick to get out and enjoy it. You'd think that all the time spent outdoors would clear the system of the germs that festered all winter, but apparently not in our case.

The one bright spot in the past 24 hours? With the exception of one wake-up at around midnight for about ten minutes, Toby slept for EIGHT WHOLE HOURS last night without a feeding!!! My boobies were a'hurtin' this morning, but it was for a good cause. The bags under my eyes lost at least a pound or two, and for the first morning in a long time I didn't wake up looking 80 years old. (I'd say not a day over 50!) HOORAY!

Random Weigh-In Update: 10 pounds down, only 40 to go.. *cough*

Remember When....

...I said I was going to post more regularly? I may not have mentioned before that when it comes to what I think I can accomplish, I am a terminal optimist. But, here I am, so at least I haven't totally slacked off.

Tuesday night I went out to dinner. With the girls. And left both kids at home. With Dad.

This may not seem like a big thing, but it's only the second time in the 8 months since Toby was born that I have been all alone out in the world. It was really, really good to find out that underneath all these layers of "Mom", I'm still just little old me. And a glass of Pinot Noir still tastes better in a restaurant with good friends.

The time away refreshed me for the week with the boys, who I swear have made it a point to be twice as cute as usual this week. Case in point: Jack was running around the living room, burning off a little excess energy and shreaking like a monkey, when I channeled my father and told him to "cool his jets". Without missing a beat he halted his monkey-chatter long enough to chirp "What? You want a piece of me?!" as he ran right past me.

The kid better make me a fortune at stand-up comedy, that's all I can say about that.

Few and Far Between

So my friend Robin says my updates have become too few and far between. In that vein, I'll be updating more regularly. (Headline: Dozens Rejoice. Film at 11.)

It's been a crazy sort of week; life-altering in its way. I've been inactive in the LDS church for about 7 years now. This week, I finally mailed the letter that officially ended my membership. And just like that, life goes on. I'm not sure what the fallout will be, but I feel like I've finally taken a conscious step forward in my life. "No fate but what we make for ourselves" or whatever they said in that Terminator movie, right?

Lockin' Up The Kitty...

Update: Found! Cassie was hiding in a previously unknown hole of sorts underneath the deck. We managed to wrangle her out this evening after dinner. After a bath and a meal, she is returning to her old self.

Apparently the girls had a falling out while they were on their little AWOL adventure. Every time they get within a few feet of each other the hissing starts, followed closely by the growling and the baring of teeth. It's like hanging with Paris and Nicole, except the cats are smarter.

SO, lights out doors locked... and the family all under one roof. All is right with the world again.

My Other Kids.

I may not have mentioned recently that, in addition to our two small boys, T and I have 2 girls from before we were married. That's right, I was an unwed mother. I tenderly bottle fed my twin girls, stayed up nights with them, comforted them when they were scared. For the past 5 years they have been a constant in my life: cheering me up when I was sad, massaging my back when I was pregnant and miserable, and snuggling with me in my bed when T was out of town or gone overnight.

The fact that they are black and furry doesn't change a thing.

Our girls have an ongoing flirtation with "out of doors". They like to wait until the door is cracked open, then dart out for a brief breath of fresh air. Of course, as they are totally domesticated, pampered princesses, they immediately realize "oh shit, I'm OUTSIDE!" and do a 180 back into the house. Back to where the ground is soft, there is an endless supply of salmon-flavored kibble, little crinkly toys that smell of catnip, and patches of sunshine where one can lounge in air-conditioned comfort.

Yesterday, it seems, they decided they had had enough of our rules. Or maybe they heard me talking about possibly shaving Cassie to get under the knots that have formed under her coat despite sick amounts of grooming.

Whatever the reason, they waited for an opportunity and headed off into the great big world. We didn't even realize they had gone until evening; when we put the kids to bed and they didn't come to reclaim each individual square foot of the house as their own.

I panicked. We searched the house. I wandered outside in my slippers, calling and clicking. T swept the back yard. We took turns hiking through the scrub brush behind the houses, calling and begging... shaking the can of treats.... Nada.

Chloe, usually the most adventurous of the pair, apparently returned in the night and bedded down in the garden shed. (Kind of like the time I ran away from home. I got too scared to actually leave the yard and ended up spending the afternoon in my clubhouse. Which was totally like running away, even if my family never knew I was "gone". )

After a bath and a meal, she was much happier. I was apoplectic; overjoyed to have her back and devestated that the girls weren't together.

Somewhere Cassie, the prissy, long-haired duchess of a kitty, is alone in The Big Blue Room. There's a storm on the way, and she is all alone in the big bad world. And, bless her heart, I'm not sure she's got the brains to find her way home. She's as sweet as can be, it's just that she couldn't figure her way out of a paper bag.

Wherever you are out there, Cassie: Don't worry. Mama's Coming.

Independence Day

I know I'm a few weeks early for the 4th of July, but as I was vacuuming with my Dyson - the Rock Star of Vacuum Cleaners- (Mine is blue and purple with silver glitter and cleans up like dirt is food and it hasn't eaten in a fortnight) I was thinking about how this particular vacuum cleaner is marketed to exactly people like me: young, middle-class, and not so far removed from the days of smearing themselves with body glitter and staying out until sane grown-ups are getting up for their work day.

That was a very run-on sentence, but hopefully I expressed the point.

It seems like each generation pushes their right to break the mold further and further out. The previous generation burned their bras, protested war and inequality, and crafted the art of rock and roll. They asserted themselves as individuals and smashed societal expectations for conformity. Some of it was noble, some of it wasn't, but for better or for worse it made it possible for my generation to have a much wider avenue to explore through our adolescence.

As I pondered this thought, I meandered on to the idea that my generation is launching our own, if somewhat less globe-shaking, rebellion. My generation is redefining what it means to be a mother. I realize that I am a part of a rising tide of mothers who refuse to fit anyone else's model of motherhood; this "new feminism" is an assertion of our right as women to be whatever we want to be. No longer is it a choice between "barefoot and pregnant" or "career-driven". A mom can be anything or everything she wants to be, and accept the beauty of who she is.

I am not afraid to admit to my depression, or to the treatment of it. I am proud to be a twenty-seven year old, stay-at-home mother of two, with a mortgage, a station wagon, and a tattoo. It's okay that my kids favorite tunes are Jimi Hendrix and Dave Matthews. There is no shame in choosing to forego my degree until later in my life; there would be no shame in choosing not to.

A few months after my first son was born, I was talking to my mother near dinner time. I mentioned that I was cooking dinner and still in my pajamas from that morning. A testament to the time she lived in, she said (with barely suppressed horror) "Oh, Honey... I don't think a husband should ever have to come home to a wife still in her pajamas."

I told her, without hesitation, "Mom, he'll just be happy they're not the same pajamas I was wearing yesterday."

To be a Mom today means that it's okay to admit that I am not perfect - as a human being or as a mother. I'm not ashamed that I have been known to slack on the laundry, that the sink is often full of dirty dishes, that I don't manage to get a shower every day. It's even all right to admit that there are days when I seriously consider placing my preschooler out on the sidewalk in front of my house with a sign around his neck that says "Free To Good Home".

I am okay with the fact that my kids' faces are sometimes dirty, that we sometimes go outside in our bare feet, and that I sometimes let my three-year-old have sips off my diet Pepsi (which I just cleaned up a puddle of after he found the half-finished one I left sitting on the coffee table.) I'm not afraid to admit that some days I cry uncontrollably out of joy or frustration - or sometimes both, simultaneously.

Every day is a struggle for a mother; we have to live minute by minute, meal to meal, chore to chore. We don't get to pee alone, to eat hot meals, to talk on the phone without a million interruptions. We have to fight to remind our children, our husbands, that our bodies are our own. We give our children everything with very little in the way of thanks - and their love and happiness is all we desire in return. We struggle to find a way to be everyone we need to be - Wife, Mother, Lover, Cook, Maid, Therapist, Nurse, Secretary. We snatch a minute or two for ourselves when we can, try to remember not to talk baby-talk in adult company, and get way too little sleep.

But to be a mother today comes with a perk my mother never had - the right to be honest about it. We can commiserate with other mothers, demand help from our spouses, and even sometimes complain. We can admit that this strange career of motherhood is not easy, that we are not Wonderwoman. We can say out loud that sometimes we wish we could run away from home, or at least occasionally get a hot cup of coffee and use the bathroom all alone. We can have a tattoo and obsess over "Grey's Anatomy" and occassionally spend way too much on shoes.

And we can hand a very hearty "Fuck You" to anyone who tries to tell us that's not okay.

Rock On, Mamas. Rock On.

Do Not Adjust Your Reception

So.. I lost 7 pounds.

Okay, not in a good way... more in a "so sick and full of mucus that I couldn't eat for about a week" kind of way, but screw it.. the jeans fit better either way. I'll take what I can get.

Potty training continues... we've moved from total nudity to the "underpants only" segment of our program today. Since I put him in the underpants at around noon, Jack has not had an accident. Then again, he hasn't gone to the potty yet, either. Can't declare it a win until he actually pulls the elmo-underoos down and does his business, so the wait continues. I know, I know.. you're dying of anticipation, just ITCHING to hear more about my sons excrementory exploits. But that, my friend, is because you are either (a) sick and demented or (b) a parent who has gone through this and is taking cruel pleasure in my pain. (*insert your pointing and laughing here*)

In other news, my body is finally recovering from this evil hoodoo virus that overtook it nearly a week ago and, other than coughing up things that I am sure will give me nightmares in the days to come, I am feeling almost okay this afternoon.

Toby finally pooped. Daddy got to change it. Some higher deity really MUST love me! I even managed to get a hot shower AND a shot of brandy in my herbal tea, which loosened up my chest long enough for me to fall asleep on Wednesday night. (Mom, if you are reading this, it was totally medicinal. Like NyQuil... only much more satisfying...and with a much higher likelyhood that I'll wake up with someone else's underwear and a bunch of one dollar bills...)

SO today finds us gearing up for an adventure this afternoon. First to HairCuttery to shear off Jack's unruly mop of hair that is starting to make him look undeniably feminine...Then to WalMart so he can pick out a new pack of underoos in the Licensed Character of his choice. Whatever it takes, folks. There is almost nothing I won't do to get the child to use the commode. Seriously.

In fact, when we told him he could basically pick any reward he wants for getting TOTALLY potty trained.. and he picked... a puppy... I even managed to control the tide of overwhelming panic. Only my twitchy eye gave me away. But what can ya do???

The Functions of the Bodily

Some Updates on things not appropriate for casual conversation:

- Potty Training has officially begun in earnest. Jack has been running around sans coulottes for 2 days now, and so far has used the potty a grand total of 6 times. Hooray!

- I woke up Sunday morning with a sore throat, which has progressed into a raging head cold that is slowly consuming my entire body. The mucus. My God The Mucus.

- Toby has not pooped for 2 days now. When this situation resolves itself it will be, you can be sure, an event of volcanic proportions.

- It has officially been 3 days since I had a shower. I thought I was getting the chills, but it turns out my body is just violently rejecting the filmy coating. My one and only goal for the afternoon is to get both boys down for a nap by 2pm so I can stand under a scalding shower until I pass out.

- I need a very strong hot toddy. And a very long nap. And I'm just praying T will get out of the office early so I can get these things before the cold takes over entirely and forms a symbiotic phlegm life form in my chest cavity. It could totally happen.

Work it on out...

I made it to the doc, and we upped the dosage and scheduled a follow-up in another month. It was much less painful than I feared, and the boys were angels. Of course, it didn't hurt that the nurse had the brains to put us in the "Sesame Street" exam room. Big Bird, Elmo, and the rest of the gang gazed down on us from the wall mural. After naming each one of them (which is amazing, considering I don't believe he has ever actually SEEN Sesame Street) Jack settled down with a whole basket of Strange Toys, which everyone knows are better than Your Own Toys.

From the doctor's office, we piled into the Malibu and headed back to town. Somewhere along the road, I made up my mind and made a detour for the local Gym. T and I have been kicking around the idea that I should join a gym, and seeing as how this one also provides childcare while you work out, it was the natural choice. Throw in the "$1 sign up fee" coupon we got in the mail yesterday, and I was hooked.

I have my first of "3 free" sessions with a trainer scheduled, and now that the money is spent I'm locked in. SO, from now on, I will be hitting the gym as though it were a job. I should be dreading it, but for the first time in while.. I actually feel hopeful on many fronts.

Welcome to the Nation of Procrasti

I'm supposed to be leaving in 15 minutes to go for my follow-up with my doctor and talk about how I am doing with the Zoloft. Apparently not as well as I might have hoped, since I'm sitting here in my PJ's debating the relative merits of crawling back under the covers. Or re-dying my hair, which transformed to a blackish shade of brown yesterday. T swears he loves it. I, on the other hand, remain unconvinced. I looked in the mirror this morning and swore I was looking at a zaftig Morticia Addams....

Okay, I'm going. Throw on a t-shirt and some jeans, change a quick diaper, and haul the kids to the car. This should not be so damn difficult.

Bad Day...

In spite of its overwhelming overexposure, I actually really like the song "Bad Day"... something about the words connects in my strung out brain... And yesterday was a bad day.

I love my kids equally because, well, that is what parents do

The joy of being with Toby, of holding him and playing with him, is unbroken. He's almost never fussy, and loves me beyond all reason or sanity.

And then there is Jack. My amazing, funny, intelligent, totally independent and highly opinionated little mini-man. People have always told me three-year-olds are difficult, and it's not that I didn't believe them; it's that believing and truly understanding are two very different things.

Every single conversation with Jack is a learning experience...for me. I try to also make it a teaching experience, but at the age of "nearly three", he already learns more on his own than I could hope to teach him. And he has an opinion on everything. I mean, literally, Every Single Thing.

Let's take yesterday, the Bad Day, for example. Every morning Jack has a Pediasure shake for breakfast. (and just to prove he has relatives in Utah, he says it "Melk Shake".. usually in a scream about thirty or forty times.) Yesterday, he drank it down in about 10 seconds, then opened the fridge (after first opening the "toddler lock" on the door in record time) and removed a piece of string cheese. After carefully re-locking the fridge (yes, he locks it behind him) he handed me the cheese. I opened it, he ate it. Lather, rinse, repeat.

That makes 2 pieces of string cheese (for anyone keeping track.)

On his third trip to the fridge I told him, in no uncertain terms, that two pieces of mozzarella was plenty and he could move on to something else if he was still hungry. I offered crackers, fruit snacks, strawberries... until he threw himself bodily to the floor and did his best impression of a grand mal seizure. So, I did what any good parent would do... I walked away, counted to ten, grabbed the nearest couch cushion, and screamed into it until my lungs deflated.

While I was practicing my deep breathing (and keeping an eye out the window in case a band of gypsies should happen into my neighborhood and have use for one very gently-used small boy) Jack once again unlocked the fridge, opened the door, removed a piece of string cheese and, very calmly and deliberately, figured out how to open the wrapper himself.

He held it up to the sunlight as though he had pulled Excalibur from the stone, flashed me his biggest triumphant grin, and bit into his prize with satisfaction.

Now, on the one hand, I have just been openly defied by a child who barely reaches my kneecaps. On the other hand, my toddler just mastered the manual dexterity open a peel-down wrapper.

The constant state of simultaneous pride, rage, and exasperation is enough to give a person hives. Or at least a fair share of exhausted "bad days".

1981

Orwell had no idea. We had no Soma, but BOY did we have bad hair a'plenty. And I had FOUR big brothers reporting on my every transgression... not to mention four sisters, too...

That's me in the front. Yes, the one who looks like a sun-starved Jack in drag....

Confessions Of A Dangerous Mind...

When I started this narcissistic journey that is "blogging" I really didn't intend to do anything of the sort. I was keeping an open letter, so to speak, for friends and family to read what we were up to without having to repeat myself 237854 times because, Yes, I do have that many relatives. (See: Mormons)

By the way, I love that it says "Mormons depicted in movies and television are often presented as a stereotype: very religious blond-haired Caucasians, having large families and a focus on genealogy and fundamentalism." The best I can say about that is.. well, not everyone in my family is blond.

So here are some confessions. I'll warn you, this may be long as the caffeine appears to be kicking in and I'm sucking down another cup of Chock Full 'O Nuts as I type this.

Of late, this has been an area for venting my spleen on the highs and lows of motherhood and living in the country. Especially the living in the country part - which I can say with authority because it is 2006 and we are getting our very first Starbucks this summer. Remember, we moved here from the DC area, where I had a choice between going to THIS Starbucks because they have those really good sticky buns, or going to the one across the street because it has a drive-thru window and yes I really am that lazy.

So I cast the chaos in my addled brain out into the ether, and occassionally I hear back from the ether. (which was a bit disconcerting at first, until I realized the voices talking back were distinctly different from the regular voices in my head.)

A few weeks ago I started the day with what I can only call an anxiety attack. Followed by a mini nervous breakdown. Then, I took the kids to a farm and let Jack pet baby goats and eat Cheetos. The goats were cute.

As long as I can remember, I have dealt with issues of depression - even the 23 years before I took "Intro to Psychology" and learned the meaning of the word.

Depression, in my life anyway, means that I have periods of "okayness" broken up by periods where the downs are crippling. At BYU it was crippling. Now that I have kids, it is crippling with the caveat that I have never sunk to the point that I have been unable to care for the basic needs of my kids. They are always fed, diapers changed, periodically bathed, and frequently loved on. For a while, I had myself convinced that that was enough.

I managed to rationalize the piles of laundry, the unwashed dishes in the sink, the strange film on the shower doors. I could shrug off the not leaving the house (except to go for my bi-weekly run) for days or weeks at a time, the insane fear of making phone calls to anyone outside the 4 or 5 people I call all the time.

I even managed to rationalize the compulsive eating. After all, doesn't everyone sometimes eat a bag of popcorn and a box of twinkies after lunch? And the bag of jelly beans was really begging to be polished off. Okay, the banana bread might have been pushing it.. but doesn't everyone go overboard like that from time to time? Or not? I suppose not.

So, after years of firmly deciding to get help followed by equal firmness in talking myself out of it, I am finally getting therapy. Once T was on board, there was no turning back... because I can talk myself out of a lot of things, but he's much more stubborn than I.

And so, Therapy. With a very nice woman who put me at ease enough that I didn't apologize for laughing and crying hysterically and at the same time in front of her. And who didn't make me feel bad for being hesitant to try medication, and also didn't make me feel bad for finally opting to give it a shot. Best of all, she didn't judge me when I confessed that there are days when I contemplate the pros and cons of listing Jack on eBay. What more can a person ask of therapy, really?

So there you are. My confession.

I was always taught that a person should not "air their dirty laundry". That is to say, I am supposed to believe that it's not appropriate for me to share that I have struggled, that my depression has been exacerbated by giving birth and the struggles of motherhood, that everything is not wine and roses over in MeL-Land. To which I say.... Bullshit.

Reading Dooce's experiences helped me immensely... so if writing about my struggles helps even one person, it's worth it. Even if I have to expose to a shocked (very small) public that the sky isn't always blue, and I am not always fine.

Addendum

Orgasmic.

Yes, the food was *THAT* good.

I remember now why I married him.

That and the sex.

Okay, so mostly for the food. But the sex is really, really good, too.

Long Strange Trip...

...this week has been.
But at last it comes to an end. S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y Night!

In front of me sits a pile of seared tuna in a sesame crust with mango salsa.. followed closely by orange-chipotle scallops.

Thank god one person in this house knows how to occassionally whip out their inner gourmet.

Here's a clue: It ain't me.

On Grey's Anatomy...

Watched the 2 hour season finale last night. Sunday nights this summer just won't feel the same.

Pure, syrupy melodrama. And yet it is sooo sweet. Like too much chocolate cake, I hate myself in the morning - but in the moment it is pure heaven.

Race Riot...

So June 3rd is the National Race for the Cure in Washington, DC. I have wanted to participate for years, in honor of my Grandmother (who is a breast cancer survivor) and my Aunt Jean (who passed away a decade ago after breast cancer finally overtook her body.)

I had been toying with the idea of running it this year, but lost track of it with everything else going on.

So now I have a choice to make... Do I go ahead and participate, when I know I'll probably end up walking most of it and there's only 2 weeks left to raise pledges anyway, or do I wait for next year?

Decisions... too many decisions in a day. It's 9:30 and I don't even have pants on yet.

Was that too much information?

Doing My Part...

... To keep America Beautiful...

Loves Cupcakes...

Just Loves...

Mama And Her Day...

Mother's Day started early around here, as I crept out of the house on Saturday evening for a quick haircut. Just a trim, I'm still deluding myself that I can actually grow it out this time without giving in to the periodic urge to chop it down to scalp level.

While I was out, I also popped into the new Home Depot to scope out lawn mowers, since ours finally gave up the ghost. Found a decently priced one, noted it for T, and headed home. T went back out and purchased said mower (after he verified that it was actually a decent one) and brought us home some Burger King. *belch*

Yesterday was a pretty good day. Toby and I slept in until about 8am, then lounged in my bed for another hour or so until T came up to call me to breakfast. A plate of chipped beef on toast and scrambled eggs with hot coffee... stick to your ribs goodness!

I spent the rest of the day in some form of lounging: playing Crazy Taxi with Jack while T mowed the lawn, watching some really awful Jennifer Lopez movie on HBO, and generally taking advantage of the fact that I could be useless for a whole day without guilt. Well, not entirely useless -- the kids got fed, diapers were changed periodically, etc. But it was nice to give my tired brain a rest.

After Jack went to bed, we watched the obligatory Survivor Finale (Terry so got robbed) followed by part 1 of the Grey's Anatomy season finale. So yeah, you really don't need to ask where I'll be tonight. 2 hour season finale. The phone will be off the hook, and I intend to have cup of chamomile tea in my lap because, you know, nothing goes better with cool melodrama than hot chamomile.

You CAN go home again...

T got in last night well after good little mamas were in bed, snoozing away. He's safe and sound and not much the worse for wear after his week of unbridled geeking in L.A.

I'll share any pertinent E3 post-mortem later, but for now I was reminded why I am his complete and total love slave tonight when he watched hours of the uninterrupted "America's Next Top Model" marathon with me.

Of course.. uh.. I'm sure it was just an excuse to spend time with me. Or because he likes looking at hot chicks. But definitely not because he was actually interested. *cough* (See, Hon? I've totally got your back.)

Points To Ponder...

* My TiVO missed the last 4 minutes of Lost last night.

* I watched 2 of the 3 hours of Live E3 Coverage on G4 last night attempting to catch sight of T, with no success.

* I have not verified yet, but suspect my husband is guilty of leaving the blog comment equivalent of a drunk dial. Which is not as funny as the time he drunk dialed me from a business trip to Elkins, WV after spending the evening in the company of some locals who taught him how to make something called a "flaming Dr. Pepper". Sweet message, Boo. I miss you, too. Hurry home, and bring me Morgan Webb as a souvenir, k?

* Dora the Explorer is very trippy at 7 in the morning. I'm not awake enough yet to learn how to say "where is the ice cream truck?" in spanish.

*

E is for Envy....

T is once again on the Left Coast, and the boys and I are fending for ourselves. You see, he is busy attending the Electronic Entertainment Expo, aka E3. Video game fanatics have been known to trade body parts for tickets to this event -- it's the Super Bowl of gaming, where all the game companies and console makers unveil the latest and greatest for the future of video games.

My husband is in heaven. He called me yesterday from the balcony of his Four Seasons hotel room overlooking Rodeo Drive to let me know that his coworker saw Hugh Jackman in the hotel lobby (apparently he is filming a scene for a movie there.) Then he told me that Venice Beach was pretty nice, and boy howdy wouldn't I love the shopping there. (Okay, so he didn't say boy howdy, that's my expression. I have relatives in Utah, you'll have to make allowances.)

If my skin is looking a little green today, pay no attention. It's just that I am about to SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST in jealousy.

You see, on Saturday the kids got sick. On Sunday night I was at the Emergency Room with Toby until 3am while they gave him anti-nausea meds so that I could get tylenol and motrin into him to control his raging 103 fever without him instantly puking it back up onto my shirt.

On Monday I went to the doctor at 10am, dropped T off at his car, and then went home and parked my butt on the sofa till bedtime. Which came around midnight, when Toby finally settled down enough to go to sleep.

Yesterday I did my level best not to fall asleep into the cheerios Jack and I ate for dinner at around 4:30. By 10pm everyone was asleep and I could at last crawl into bed and get a few hours uninterrupted slumber.

The hilight of my day today was watching Veronica Mars and eating lunch with my sister-in-law. Now normally that would be a really stellar day - one for the Dear Diary.... but once I heard that they saw Elisha Cuthbert while dining at some fancy french restaurant last night, somehow it seemed a little less spectacular...

So "E" is for Envy. And you can figure out for yourself what the "F" is for...

... and Potty Every Day

Last night we were watching our Tivo'd Survivor episode when Jack announced that he had to go potty. He does this periodically, and we're past the point of paying much attention quite yet since usually when we offer to actually put him ON the potty he quickly changes his mind. But, just in case, we've had the little plastic training potty in the kitchen for a few weeks now.

So, T looked over at him and, with a shrug, said "Okay. Go potty."

So, Jack walked upstairs, pulled down his pull-up, and sat on the potty. Then he peed. And some of it even made it into the potty. The rest may have ended up on the floor due to things being pointed in the wrong direction, but we didn't care.

You would have thought the child had just found the equation for the unified field theory and documented it in his alphabet soup - the way we were cheering and dancing, I'm sure the neighbors will be giving us curious looks for a while.

But there you have it, folks. My kid peed. In the potty.

And so, the rest of our lives begin.

Just A Big Goober

Last week was my mom's 64th birthday. Actually, it was last Thursday. I tell you this because I didn't forget her birthday - well not exactly. I remembered it on Wednesday. I decided to wait and call her on the actual day.

The next time I thought about it was around Monday.

So, okay. I feel like a terrible daughter. So I do the only thing left in my power to do in this internet generation - I send a belated E-card. THIS belated e-card to be exact.

Mom graciously brushed off my forgetting with something along the lines of "at this age, I try to forget them, too." I still feel like crap, but one small ray of sunshine has come out of my mishap.

Jack is obsessed with the card. About 20 times a day, plus any time he sees the laptop, he demands "Wanna see Goooooober!"

Every time I play it, he waves "Hello Goober!" and then talks along with the peanut, word for word.

I can't decide if he's a raging genius, or just finally exhibiting the signs of T's OCD.........

Checking In.

Posting to you live from PK's kitchen. What better way to get over hump day than burgers and beers with good friends? The guys played a little poker, the girls watched a little tv, and now the night is winding down as we prepare to head home for a well-deserved sleep.

T lost at Poker. I ate a fudge brownie with vanilla mouse and caramel and chocolate sauce. Jack played with some toys and ate some pistachios. Toby ate and slept and generally hammed it up.

Definitely an evening for the books.

Thoughts for a Tuesday

Losing my mind. Slowly.

It's the slowness of the speed that is the goal for the day. If I can slow my mental decline waaaay down, hopefully I can stave off total insanity until the age where I'd probably be plopped into a nursing home anyway.

That is if I don't get "The Cancer" first.

See? Something to look forward to.

Who says I'm not an optimist?

This is, of course, what happens when I start looking at available college courses at the nearby university. And then start googling the crazy sister, the one who has managed to combine pathalogical lying and enourmous breasts into an insanely successful career that pays for her McMansion (and the mysterious hospital stay that resulted in even MORE enormous breasts.) And then start thinking about the vacuuming still to be done today, and the toys to be picked up.

It's days like this that I can acutely sympathize with the hamster on the wheel, watching the crazy squirrels outside the window who have all the fun.

Let's file this entry under "brain dump".. or "things in my head that might be better left unsaid".

Family Jewels

For the past few weeks I've been walking that very sharp edge of reason, a hair's breadth away from total nervous breakdown. In that spirit, I thought to myself "you know what would be the icing on this crazy cake? A bathroom remodel!" And so, I started the massively daunting task of fixing up our matchbox-sized master bathroom. I've spackled, I've sanded, I've painted, I've prepped, and I've picked out new light fixtures and a new faucet.

Of course, no home improvement project is complete without a trip to the Home Depot. And, since we're throwing caution and sanity to the wind, it seemed like a great idea to go in the middle of the week with both boys in tow. Which I did. And survived to relay the tale. Not to mention share another reason to love Jack.

Our home depot has shopping carts that look like race cars, complete with upper-deck seating for a toddler that includes dual steering wheels. This is like catnip for Jack, who will usually sit for at least a whole 10 minutes before beginning the arduous process of melting down entirely. On this particular day, he lasted for a whole 15 minutes before deciding he needed to try to climb down into the shopping basket section of the cart.

Don't ask me why he wasn't buckled in - if you have to ask, you don't have a two year old. (the belt lasted about 2 minutes, before he was possessed of demons who would not be chained by such a torture device.) I was busy discussing the relative merits of mold-resistant paint for the bathroom with the twenty-something "paint expert" when Jack decided it would be more fun to ride in the basket section of the cart.

The problem with his brilliant idea was that that basket section was a full 8 inches lower than the upper section he was climbing from, so as he stepped down into the basket with one foot he went considerably further down than he was expecting, thereby giving himself his very first experience with the crushing of his man parts.

There were tears and screams as his two little hands desperately covered his injured bits. I held him and rocked him and did my best to comfort him while the paint guy winced sympathetically at his plight. Bless his heart, the guy disappeared for a moment and reappeared with a Mickey Mouse sticker. He handed it to Jack and said "here you go, buddy. Maybe this will make you feel better."

Jack happily took his prize, peeled the paper backing off, and very gently and deliberately placed it directly on his injured crotch.

I covered my face while I laughed until I was pretty sure I might puke. Paint Guy made his strategic retreat. And, as we beat feet for the checkout line, Jack happily pointed out his Mickey Mouse crotch to anyone he could make eye contact with.

Kids teach you humility, for certain. Of course, I'll get my revenge when he starts bringing the girlfriends home. I only wish I'd had the presence of mind to get photographic evidence. I'm evil like that.

Miles to go....

My good friend and convenient neighbor just gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. They named him Miles. Here he is.

DISCLAIMER: May Cause Mysterious Failure of Your Birth Control


Beyond the fact that I feel like I just got a new nephew, I am ecstatic to finally have someone else in a very special club with me. That would be the "I had a 10 pound baby club."

Okay, so technically Miles was 9 lbs 14 ounces, but after a woman has endured labor and delivery (via the natural exit route) of a baby that size, you give her the 2 extra ounces and damn well call it a 10. She earned it. (For the record, Jack was also an eleventh-hour "gimme", since he weighed in at 9 pounds 15.6 ounces. We called it a 10. I dare you to argue.)

I realized this week that we have officially entered the time of life when it is all about the babies. We got married before any of our friends, got pregnant before any of them, and so for a long while we were somewhat alone on this island. We coped - we made friends with more people a little older than ourselves who were in the same family groove with us. Sometime in the last year, though, people started catching up. And now we have no less than 8 friends and family who have either recently given birth or are now pregnant.

Babies! They're the new black.

Reasons to Love My Husband.

- Uses words like "nefarious" and "esoteric" in casual conversation.

- Watches "Gray's Anatomy" with me even though I know he'd rather be scraping his eyeballs out of their sockets with a rusty pocket knife.

- Gets choked up when someone we know announces a pregnancy

- After all he knows about me and my idiosyncracies, he still believes I'm extraordinary in a good way. What more could I ask for??

Secret That I Cannot Explain...

I just discovered my newest obsession. It's a website calledPostSecret. The basic premise is that you design your own original postcard. Your design must incorporate the sharing of a secret - one you have never shared with anyone. The card is mailed anonymously to the site and, voila, you have shared your deepest darkest truth with the world in the complete safety of anonymity.

I'm totally hooked on this idea. I am soooo submitting at least one card.

In the Mood....

Yesterday I got my very first mood ring. It cost just over three dollars at the country store at Frying Pan Park. I went with the boys and my sister-in-law and her 4 kids - we had an outdoor picnic, looked at all the animals, went on a tractor ride, played on the playground, and bought "cows tail" candy and old-fashioned hard candy.

Spring has officially arrived.

I even managed to get some sun on my all-too-pasty face. Not too much, mind you, and only on my face and forearms - I stay covered, baby. Okay, so not really to protect from sun as much as to cover my body until I whip it back into shape, but hey... whatever works, right?..

So, yeah. Mood ring. Yeah, so I'm not thirteen years old, and I don't have patchuli incense in my room or a lava lamp.. but still. Mood ring. It Rocks.

Deep Thoughts.

You know, it's damn near impossible to find a card to appropriately express to a close friend, with love and sincerity, the sentiment "Congratulations On Your Vasectomy!"

Hello, I Have Issues.

Yes, I know it comes as something of a shock. (*cough*)

I'm not entirely ready to discuss everything that's going on right now - I'll just say I know I have been sadly slacking in posting of late, and I promise I will get better. I mean that in several ways. I'll explain later.

In the mean time, to feed the teeming dozens who hunger ravenously for brand-spanking-new details of my sordid life of scandal... here are some tidbits for a Tuesday...

Toby napped in his crib today. For 3 hours. This marks his longest daytime nap (in or out of the crib, but especially in) since... well, since he came home from the hospital.

I bought Jack a big huge cool dragon kite at Costco on Sunday, which we attempted to fly yesterday. We live in a neighborhood called "Crosswinds". Yesterday was, of course, the first day since we MOVED here that there was not a hint of wind. But I ran around and let the kite drag in the air behind me so Jack could chase it, anyway, because I had promised we would fly the kite. See, a Mommy of my word, indeed. It was pure joy to watch him, red and out of breath with running and laughing.

I filed our taxes today, and the healthy little refund that Uncle Sam owes us will go a long way to paying down our balance on the credit card. Team Goal: Get that bad boy paid off by the end of the summer so we can start hoarding cash in our savings account Scrooge McDuck style and one day afford that mini-van. And a new tattoo.

And, just because I can:



Yeah, if I didn't know better, I'd think we created them in a lab, too.

The Birthday Princess.

Totally cheating and back-posting this. Maybe nobody will see it.... heh.

Boo Bands

The last week or two has gone by in a blur. While T was in California we had to learn to cope without him, and once he came back there was the inevitable adjustment to re-including him in our daily lives. Along with that was the not unexpected friction which, thank goodness, we finally appear to have made it through. Things are settling back into a comfortable routine of sorts.

This is, of course, both good and bad. When things are comfortable and routine, I get a sense of accomplishment at how smoothly life can run. On the other hand, I also have ample time to consider just how crazy I actually am. In my defense, though, lately it seems everyone else in the world is crazy, too.

But I digress. Toby had his first rice cereal tonight - marking his first culinary adventure beyond breastmilk.

Jack has become obsessed with bandaids, which he calls "Boo Bands" (I suppose because Bandaids cover boo-boos?) and almost every day finds an "owie" (whether real or imaginary) and demands it be covered with a "boo band". Somewhere in the back of my head, I remember a time when bandaids covered a multitude of ills. There are a lot of times, recently, when I wish things could still be so simple - that a piece of plastic and gauze could mend all of wounds life can inflict. And though I find it totally inconvenient at times (it's difficult to argue with a 2 year old, even if you ARE certain that he originally asked that that bandage go on the OTHER finger five minutes ago) I also find it incredibly charming.

I finally decided that things are in such a bizarre state it is only appropos that we should mark this time with professional photography. In that vein, we now have an appointment with JC Penney portrait studio this weekend.

I am still dealing with the reverberations of this momentous decision. It will take me months to cope with the involuntary self-loathing spawned when I immediately started planning perfectly color coordinated outfits for all of us to wear. Seriously - I even bought the boys matching shirts. I really ought to be flogged in the town square and forced to watch reruns of The Tony Danza Show until my eyes fall out.

Oh, and in just over an hour I will officially be one year closer to 30. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Fracking Sweet!

I have a confession to make. A word of warning, however. Once read, the following cannot be unread or forgotten.

I have converted. I am totally hooked on the new Battlestar Galactica.

T got back from California on Saturday and, so enamored of the show is he, we had to stop on the way home to buy it. Best Buy carried the mini-series (which effectively served as the Pilot episode) and Season 2, but not Season 1.

SO, I have now seen the mini-series, and I am having a jones the size of Texas to see season 1, but so far not a single retailer in our immediate area is carrying it. (Damn you, Wal-Mart!) Every place seems to have season 2, but not season 1. Today, T will be attempting to locate a copy of season 1 by making a strategic sweep of the mall near his office.

If you have not seen this show, I urge you to go out NOW, RIGHT NOW, Do not pass go, do not collect $200, just go buy this show in its entirety and prepare to prostrate yourself in front of the television until summer. It's THAT good.

What? You need further convincing? Well, let me share a few key tidbits:

1) Sexy Robots.

2) Starbuck is a girl. A really hot girl, with serious muscle who smokes cigars and makes wise-ass comments.

3) You need another addiction in your life.

You may not even LIKE Sci-fi, but that's okay, because this is just an awesome story that happens to take place in the middle of an intergalactic war...

Did I mention Sexy Robots?

Jelly Bean, Vermouth... Symbiotic, Patriotic...

Last day on my own, and I can't get "It's the end of the world" by R.E.M. out of my head. I'm not sure of the significance, but I'm pretty sure it can't be good.

Yesterday, I greeted the sitter with a great deal of enthusiasm. I may have frightened her - being 13, I doubt she quite understood the intensity of my desperation to get out of the house after 5 days of uninterrupted child rearing. I put the neurotic energy to good use and upped the number of sprints in my power walk/run cycles, which means that I did about two and a half miles yesterday.

The extra half-mile came in handy as I was rationalizing that second Krispy Kreme this morning. And, of course, the caffeine in my cup of coffee totally cancelled out the effects of that third one. *twitch* Don't tell me I have a problem. *twitch* I can quit any time I want to. *twitch* No, my hands always shake like that.

24 and a half hours to go. Hopefully I can still fit in the car by tomorrow morning, otherwise T will be taking the blue bus home from the airport.

You lose some.. you lose some.

So here's something fun - looks like something went wonky with T's flight schedule. I would swear in court that the return flight was originally scheduled for Friday morning, but the online itinerary is now saying Saturday so looks like I'll be on my own for another night. *sigh* Ah well.

Not so bad, but all this really means is that the box of Entemenn's on my counter will make it to the playgroup tomorrow, but the Krispy Kremes, sadly, will have passed away quietly by then. A curbside memorial service will be held on Tuesday morning (trash pick-up day). Box Of Krispy Kremes will be survived by the extra pounds on my rotund posterior. In lieu of flowers, please send Aerobic Workout DVD's in memorial.

We are thankful for your compassion at this difficult time.

I haven't finished my coffee yet. Yeah, that must be why I'm still registering a 5.0 on the Crazy Richter Scale this morning.

Home Alone, evening 2 of 5

So what did I do with my second evening home alone with the kids? I'm so glad you asked!

Jack didn't nap today so, after spending 2 hours at the grocery store and watching ungodly amounts of television, he went to bed half an hour early - 7:30. This will lead to one of two possible results. Either he was so tired that the early bedtime will spur on his circadian rhythms and he will sleep in until 8am, or he will awake totally refreshed somewhere around dawn and begin his ritual of jumping up and down on my bed shouting "Mommy! waaaaaake UP!" in his trademark sing-song screech. He hates anyone to be asleep while he's in the room. I dozed off for a few seconds during hour 4 of Jimmy Neutron only to have him poke me firmly in the eye and say "Mommy! Lights ON!". Daddy made up a game with him where they pull one ear lobe and say "lights off" and the eyes close, and then repeat on the other side while saying "Lights on" to get the eyes to reopen. Needless to say, daddy can be very thankful he is on the other side of the continent at present, which is the only thing saving him from a smack upside his head. What was he THINKING?!

So, Jack went to bed early and without fanfare. T called a half hour later to say that all is well on the left coast, except that it rained all day. (I was somewhat appeased by this. Does that make me a bad person? Don't answer that.) He had lunch at In'N Out Burger, and had the brass cajones to say that it was less than the Ambrosia of the Gods. I'm sure my memory has embellished the goodness somewhat, but the image of those freshly cut potatoes going into the oil to make fries that are actually made of POTATO... is almost more than I can bear. Don't get me started on the burgers. *drool*

SO, I consoled myself with a bag of gummy bears (Don't worry, hon, I didn't eat the whole thing. Quite.) and ordered "In Her Shoes" on pay-per-view. I even managed to watch the whole thing without crying once - which is totally impressive considering the hormonal mess I have been lately. (I cried all the way home from the airport when we dropped T off on Sunday.) It's definitely not something T would have wanted to watch with me, so I felt totally decadent gnoshing on my gummy bears and deciding that Toni Colette really is more attractive than Cameron Diaz, if only because if you squint and turn your head sideways I kinda look like Toni. Especially if it's a really really dark room.

And now I'm going to head to bed and, after checking the kids one more time and setting the house alarm, I'm going to curl up on T's side of the bed and snuggle up to his pillow. It still smells like him.

Wherever you are tonight, Babe, I miss you.

Ka Lee For Nee Yah!

T headed out last night for California and the Game Developer's Conference. But I'm not at all bitter. Not at all. I swear. I mean, sure, he'll get to meet Will Wright - creator of Sim City and, more importantly, the brains behind The Sims, which is possibly the most addictive game in history (Or at least a close second to World of Warcraft) and he'll get to drive around in the California sunshine and eat subs on REAL sourdough bread and... but I'm not at all bitter. Really.

I'm really not a "gamer". I didn't grow up with computers - I wasn't allowed to touch our family IBM 386 until I was in high school, and even then it was only for word processing purposes. While my brothers were getting nintendos and segas and playstations I usually got books or clothes. I can only assume it was because I am a girl, and therefore would have no use for the possible career opportunities involved with computers because I was *supposed* to be married by 19 and making babies. SO, I got a late start in the computer arena and had to teach myself html from books and website tutorials at age 21 (because, to the great disappointment of my 432785743826 relatives, I remained unmarried until the ripe old age of 23.)

But I digress. I got into gaming after meeting T, starting really with Diablo 2 (which was totally a gateway drug to WoW.) And now I don't have much time for it, but I still the over-the-top culture of it all. And sure, GDC is more about hard-core game building than about Lara Croft lookalikes in tight leather (see E3 ) but just to sit in a room with some of those creative brains would be like catnip for me. I find a lot of similarities between the creation of some of the game storylines and the creation of a good book. Many of them create totally inclusive worlds with histories and storylines that rival many epic book series currently in print.

Besides the fact that T will be hanging in San Jose, near my old Walnut Creek stomping grounds in the SF Bay area. I've been trying to get back to Cali for about 8 years now. I'm still working on it. Unfortunately, he found me when I tried to hide in his suitcase and informed me I would never make it through security that way and didn't I realize the children might get hungry before Friday. To which I replied "Children? We have Children? I'm sorry, I was distracted by that shiny thing over *there* - on the west coast. Yes, that - see? It's called Sunshine."

Candy In My Heels Tonight, Baybee

Tuesday night was a watershed in motherhood for me. It was my first night out without ANY kids since before Toby was born. (5 months and 2 days, but who's counting?) I drove T's car (the blue batmobile) out to Melissa's house for drinks with the girls.

Turns out, Melissa's house USED to be our friends Dave & Tracy's house. Totally bizarre - two couples we know who don't know each other, but one bought the house from the other over a year ago and I just found this out. The world suddenly felt very, very small.

T had both boys all to himself. I felt a mild terror as I pulled out of the driveway in a car without car seats. As I cranked up the radio, though (to many many decibels over child-safe volumes for the first time in eons) my apprehension gave way to a feeling suspiciously close to that time I "borrowed" my mom's minivan to take my friends out for milkshakes at 2am. "So THIS is what freedom feels like!"

As it turns out, Toby cried for over an hour while I was gone but T, bless his heart, decided not to call me in a panic. Which totally saved my night, because I would not have been able to enjoy the evening as much as I did had I felt I really needed to be home to comfort my little cherub. So, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding at home, I settled into Melissa's comfy sofa and engaged in deliciously frivolous conversation with the girls over a glass of Rum Punch.

For a few glorious hours I felt like my old self -- not Mel the wife or homemaker or the mama, just plain Mel... who is still just crazy enough to entertain a room full of women by shaking her groove thing to the Napoleon Dynamite soundtrack.

Don't bother searching for Flickr photos of THAT particular adventure, I made everyone sign an NDA. Suffice it to say you would, indeed, have known this boogie was for real...

Control Issues

I'm creating a new category for OCD. It won't have any medical credibility, but it's the only way I can think of to explain my own little mental-trap.

I create mental checklists obsessively. Laundry. Dishes. Vacuum. Pick up Toys. Make Beds. Feed Kids. Change Diapers.

The caring for the kids stuff takes priority, especially the whole feeding and changing thing. But I've found that no matter what I'm doing, or how heavily I am sweating in the midst of some back-braking chore, I feel like I'm somehow failing in my duties. If I'm bathing the kids, I feel like I should be doing laundry. If I'm doing laundry I feel like I should be entertaining the kids. When I'm entertaining the kids I feel like I should really be vacuuming.

I know that SuperNanny Jo Frost would say I just need to make up a strict schedule and stick to it - that the kids and I both need the benefit and security of a routine. The problem is, when I get into a routine I start to freak out too. PK described it the other day as that feeling where you know that you were not cut out to work on an assembly line -- the not knowing exactly how the day is going to go is the only thing that keeps the repetetive quality of the tasks from driving you insane. (This is the part where I again mention that PK has to get out of my brain because IT'S BEGINNING TO SCARE ME. Seriously - she is the only other person I have ever met who absolutely cannot stand White Noise.)

But back to topic. This morning I am so overwhelmed by all the chores we left undone when we headed out for a weekend at a mountain cabin, I don't know where to begin. I keep starting and stopping, getting halfway through one task before getting sidetracked by another. In the mean time, Toby was napping in 10 minute increments because I hadn't gotten around to putting him down in his crib until now (where he is presently screaming his head off at the indignity).

I never watch Desperate Housewives - I just couldn't get into it, too campy, too snarky or something - but I got the last few minutes of it when I recorded Grey's Anatomy last night, and I suddenly felt an uncomfortable kinship to Bree Van De Kamp. Here is a woman who is a total control freak with a life that is totally out of control. For a show that I consider way too over the top to be relatable, I felt a squirmy sense of recognition at the concept.

I can't help but feel that on some level, my inner control freak has become so overwhelmed by all the variables I am unable to control (and my innate resistance to hyper-scheduling) that I am paralyzed to the point of near-total inability to act.

Poison Control

Mental Subtitle: Ode to the Mr Yuck Moron Who Completely Ruined My Thursday.

Toby is in the opening stages of the teething game. Basically, he gnaws on everything in sight, gets cranky for no apparent reason, and uses my juggies as human chew toys. This is all lead-up to explain why we had the homeopathic teething tablets out on Wednesday night. It also explains why, after that sleepless night, I was slow-moving and cranky on Thursday morning.

I popped downstairs to check email and order a (very belated) wedding gift for my brother and his new wife. Jack was contentedly absorbed in the Backyardigans. As I finished up in the office, I heard him heading up the stairs. I clicked "submit order", gathered up Toby and my coffee, and headed upstairs after him.

I entered my bedroom just in time to see him taking the bottle of pills from his mouth. 'Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. What does he have?' is the only thing I remember thinking. I set Toby in the bassinet and was to him in 2 strides, doing my level best not to scare the shit out of him, but hell bent on getting that bottle out of his hands.

For anyone unfamiliar, the teething tablets to which I am referring are tiny white tabs about the size of the birth control pill. They are powdery and soft, and dissolve instantly on contact with liquid or with the tongue of a 2 year old. The bottle holds 250 of the pills, and had been about half full the night before. As I took it from Jack's hand, it held about 20 tablets.

Having some rudimentary medical training, I scanned the contents of the bottle for the ingredients... sugar, mostly, coffee (okay, so he'd be hyper for a while)... nothing that caught my eye until "uh-oh" BellaDonna.

All I know about BellaDonna is from reading some Agatha Christie novel where some country squire or other poisoned his cheating mistress with it or something along those lines. Poison being the operative word here.

I read further along the bottle and found the warning right there on the side "In case of accidental overdose contact the poison control center immediately." And, as luck would have it (and long experience, from that time he tried to drink tire cleaner, and that other time when he got hold of the Febreeze) we have a Mr. Yuck magnet on the fridge. I grabbed the clueless Jack and the cordless phone, left Toby screaming in his bed, and ran for the kitchen. I silently thanked God for all that dialing practice I got over the years trying to win concert tickets from radio stations. I got a bored sounding female voice on the other end of the line.

I quickly explained the situation as calmly as I could, told her what he'd taken and about how many, and waited. She sounded confused as to what exactly it was Jack had swallowed. I explained again and offered to read her the NDC number from the side of the bottle. She declined and said "no no, that's okay. How long ago did he take this?"

Tick. Tock. "About 2 minutes ago."

"You need to take him into the nearest Emergency Room immediately. They're going to need to give him charcoal and he'll require observation."

Tick. Tock. "Okay thank you."

A panicked phone call to my neighbor later (she decreed that she was following me to the ER and would take Toby in the waiting room while I went with Jack) and we were on the road. Jack seemed unbothered by mommy barely keeping a lid on her TOTALLY BLOWN MIND until we got in the car and pulled out of the driveway with me muttering under my breath. "Mommy. You scaring me." Crap. "Don't worry baby, there's nothing to be scared of. Everything is going to be okay."

The receptionist at the ER looked at the bottle of pills I handed her. "My son just swallowed half of these. Poison Control said to come straight over." They rushed us back. Doctors and nurses came in and out, took the mostly-empty bottle, made phone calls, had hushed conversations. Our assigned doc patted my hand and said "how are YOU doing?" and it was all I could do to keep from sobbing into his scrubs and screaming "I am a TERRIBLE mother and how did this happen to my baby?! is how I'm doing." I stripped Jack down to his diaper and he was examined. More hushed conversations.

Tick. Tock. Minutes pass. The doctor walked into the room and said again "how are YOU doing?.. because the good news is, he is going to be totally fine."

As it turns out, they called poison control themselves and talked to SOMEONE WITH A CLUE who informed them that Jack would have had to swallow about 3 bottles of the tablets before there would be enough BellaDonna to actually have an effect.

The guy they talked to said "Next time, tell her to call us first. We could have saved her the trip." And bless his heart, the doctor (who I now love so much I may let him father my next child) informed him that, indeed, I HAD called and somebody over there is a total asshat for scaring me unnecessarily and not bothering to actually look up what it was Jack had swallowed.

And so ended my horrific adventure. Jack was fine, and basically I paid 75 bucks for a cup of apple juice. (Which is what the nurse gave him, then said to push fluids on him the rest of the day just to be sure.)

And of course, OCD Mommy that I am, the kid peed like a racehorse from all the water, juice, and milk I was shoving at him for the next 12 hours.

Inflammation Of The Mast.

Hello. My name is MeL, and today I manually cleared a clogged milk duct in my breast.

Not something I ever thought I would say.

But, yeah, I was coming down with the beginning symptoms of mastitis (inflammation of the breast due to infection from a clogged milk duct). This whole babymaking business is just one adventure after another, I tell ya. I felt like I was coming down with the flu over the past few days, and today I realized there was a hard knot on the left side. Massaging and nursing didn't fix it, but after reading Ask Dr. Sears and finding that I did, indeed, have the little white blister indicating a clog, I followed the directions and Voila! I am feeling much better already. The knot is gone, and hopefully I will be feeling all better by tomorrow.

I refuse to feel ill this weekend. I get to go to Bryce and party with T, PK, JK, and co. for an entire weekend. This may or may not involve me attempting to get on skis once again, depending on how the kids do and if T feels up to handling them alone for a while. Also on the up side, 3 days of opportunities to smack PK on the ass. If you've never had the joy of doing so yourself, you so totally don't know what you are missing.

A Trip To The Woodshed...

"A trip to the woodshed" was my dad's euphemism for a spanking. It wasn't totally inaccurate, as a spanking in our house usually involved picking out which 2x4 from the toy block box you were going to get a swat on the behind with. Before anyone goes calling CPS let me say that, first of all, you are twenty years too late. Secondly, it was never a violent spanking and really the whole process of choosing the block was by far the worse punishment than the actual pat on the backside with it.

Of course, my brother Andy - always the comedian of the family - is the only to actually manage to make my dad laugh so hard he got out of the spanking altogether. He did this by coming back to Dad with a 1x2 block that was about 3 inches long. But that has always been Andy. This is the guy who, after getting married as a 30-year-old mormon, emailed from the honeymoon cruise to say:

"This is AWESOME. Oh, and the boat is nice too."

... All of which has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the jazz band playing at brunch on Sunday at Beans In The Belfry was a fantastic group called The Woodshedders.

Their website describes them as "an acoustic Hot Club *Gypsy Jazz style quintet". I would say that pretty much covers it, but if you still aren't sure what the hell I'm talking about check out some >Django Reinhardt.

Now Listening To: Hungaria. Django Reinhardt with Stephane Grapelli. Sheer genius.

In Absentia

In the small break since I last sat down to ponder my existence in written form (a fancy way of saying "think out loud in print") I realized how addicted I am to venting my spleen on here. All the thoughts seem to build up in my head, like so many buzzing insects, until I sit down and release the pressure valve. Then, I move on with a little more quiet in my brain.

Well, except for the voices in my head. But since I was told that they're loud enough for other people to hear them, too, I don't worry so much about them any more.

*cough*

T's Mom came down on Friday to spend the weekend. It was like having the Mommy Mafia roll into town; she came armed with a cooler full of food to make all the meals for the weekend. I'm not talking hamburger helper, either. We gorged ourselves on orzo with fresh chopped veggies and shrimp, broiled salmon filets, and a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and (pause for dramatic effect) Home. Made. Hashbrowns. Not those grated, deep fried, heart attacks you get at the drive through. Sliced potatoes sauteed and browned with onions. You'll have to excuse me for a moment while I wipe the drool from my chin.

Mama S also arrived with an unexpected surprise for me: a brand-spankin-new Coffee Pot that really looks more like something you'd find in the back room of an experimental NASA workshop.

This coffee machine is to the old machine as HDTV is to the old black and white wooden box tv's. It has a pre-set timer so I can have coffee brewing up before I'm even out of bed the next morning. It beeps when it's done. It lets me choose strength, hot plate temperature, and I can pause it while it's brewing to pour myself a cup without any of those annoying drippies. We're talking twenty-third century coffee technology here, people! As I type this, I am sipping a cup of heavenly brew which is also missing that funky 'je ne sais quois' flavor we got from our old and overly-used carafe. It's a delicious extravagance, for which I am supremely grateful.

Add in brunch at my favorite spot, Beans In The Belfry, and it was a flawless weekend... all the way up to last night. I watched the Oscars out of mild curiousity; mostly I wanted to see how John Stuart would do with hosting. (I think he did great, but it was funny to see how akward it got at times when folks couldn't laugh at themselves. Hollywood types take themselves WAAAY too seriously.) But I digress.

Finally wrapping up the weekend and heading to bed after the Oscars, we stumbled upstairs around midnight to find that Jack was sound asleep in a puddle of his own vomit. The next 40 minutes was a blur of waking him up and stripping down both him and his bed; he got his second bath of the night, a clean pair of pajamas, and a lot of soothing. It became clear that he wasn't actually feeling sick, and most likely just ate something that disagreed with his little tummy. Of course, by then he was wide awake and asking to watch TV. This meant that I ended up in the recliner with him for another half hour watching recorded episodes of Jimmy Neutron.

When I finally stumbled back upstairs around 1am, got him back to sleep in his room, and climbed into my own bed... well, let's just say that I vaguely remember brushing my teeth and I still haven't figured out what I did with my pants.

Just a typical weekend of ups and downs in the bizarre universe that is our life.

Grey Skies, Sunny Disposition

In lieu of anything really interesting to post today, I'll share that my husband just called to prepare me in advance for the fact that he purchased THIS today.


Great, now I need a box of depends and a liter of Malibu...

Rollin'.. Rollin'...Rollin'...

Be it here noted that on this 28th day of February, 2006... TM rolled over. I was afraid that the second time around all these firsts wouldn't be as exciting as they were with JT... today, I finally put those fears to rest.

I squealed like a schoolgirl, and spent the next 20 minutes trying to get him to pull out a repeat performance so I could record it in quicktime with the digital camera. He finally did it again (once I put the camera away) so it's not recorded in easily shared digital format... but it is permanently burned into my brain.

My Baby Is Mobile!!!

Wait.

My Baby Is Mobile???

Dear God. Why was I happy about this again?????

Chaos and Cosmos

I had a moment this evening to ponder a past life.

We live out in what is colloquially referred to as "the country". We're on the down side of a mountain and between us and what I like to call "civilization" is a narrow but dense wilderness, consisting of a large river, lots of trees, a few stretches of farm land, and a couple of vineyards. There's not much out here in the way of shopping; if I want anything less than 20 minutes away my choices boil down to a couple of grocery stores and the local Wal-Mart. Oh, and there's a Dollar General, but I quit going there after a very very drunk man, still reeking of yesterday's urine, attempted to pick up my terrified 2-year-old. I'm sure he didn't mean any harm - he really seemed like he just wanted to continue the one-sided conversation he'd been having with JT - but when it comes to my kids I'm just a teensy but overprotective and paranoid. There are a couple of coffee shops and one very awesome kids' consignment store, but beyond that the pickings are pretty slim.

In a previous life, more often than not, I crashed with T (who was then my boyfriend) at his very cosmopolitan apartment in downtown D.C. Their were more local haunts than you could shake a stick at; we could walk out the front door of his complex and go across the street to this great little Italian restaurant that had a fantastic house chianti and these incredible little crusty bread rolls. We could catch a cab up to Cleveland Park and spend an evening drinking heavy beer and hard cider while we gnoshed on Irish soda bread and chips with malt vinegar at Ireland's Four Provinces. We could take a quick drive to Arlington Cinema Drafhouse and watch a movie with a pitcher and some nachos, or catch the metro to the museum district and spend an afternoon wandering the various Smithsonian buildings. Before I ever watched an episode of "Sex and the City" or even knew what it was, I felt like the Carrie Bradshaw of D.C. (minus the outrageous shoe collection.)

In my heart, I have to admit I'm a city girl. I prefer the hustle and bustle, the car horns on the street below and the ability to get a decent cup of coffee at any time of day or night. I miss wandering anonymously through a crowd and taking a mall for granted. I miss the million strangers all around and bagel sandwiches from Pumpernickel's Bagelry.

But, as fate would have it, for the time being I am a city girl out here in the country. I don't regret our move out here; it's done wonders for JT and he and TM have a real yard to play in. There's enough room to put up a playground or maybe even get them a dog one day (if I can feel up to attempting that adventure again.)

And, even though it gets awfully quiet out here in the sticks, I have to admit that there is something at once wistful and comforting about hearing the lonely sound of the whistle as the trains barrel through town in the middle of the night. I can hear them thundering over the tracks with the soft rumble of a fading storm, unmuffled in the cold night air. Reminding me that I am a long way from the city. Reminding me that I am home.

Proof.

Proof #452 that I am his mother -- He loves pizza as much as I do.


Okay, so there's also those cheeks. But we'll pretend he didn't get those from me.

F this, that, and the other thing...

F for Food, Friends, and Frickin' Fantastic Fun. Good times, indeed.

T had his annual review this week and, hallelujah, he got a promotion!!! We decided to go out and celebrate with crab legs at a local hole-in-the-wall, but quickly changed our plans after an invitation to party like rock stars with some of the coolest people you could ever hope to meet.

When I say "party like rock stars" I mean, of course, that we stayed up past our bedtime, consumed mass quantities of adult beverages, and talked until our voices gave out. And everyone who reads this is incredibly jealous that I got to spend the evening in the company of this gorgeous woman:See? Told you she's a babe. If I could create the perfect amiga in a lab, she'd be exactly like PK. (But a little less hot because, really, no mother of 3 should be allowed to look that good.) Admit it - you want to lick your monitor, don't you?

PK also happens to be married to T's bizarrely identical non-twin, JK. The four of us mesh so well, I sometimes get the sneaking suspicion I've stumbled into a John Hughes movie. Animated discussion, copious laughs, and no akward lulls in the conversation. What more could a person need in life, really? Well, maybe good food -- which was also had in abundant supply. I think I'm still full from yesterday, but that may be because I about half a cow and a generous portion of snow crab legs.

The kids were harder to please in the food arena, but I ended the night feeling like super-parent when JT consumed half a loaf of zucchini bread he gaffled from the counter. Hey, he stole food with veggies in it -- we called it a nutritious main course and moved on. TM finally settled down after a long evening of watching the big people party and actually slept for about 8 hours. All in all, a win-win of an evening. CONGRATS! to T and THANKS! to the K's for their unprecendented hospitality.

These Shoes Were Made for Walkin...

The Costco that we go to is part of a trifecta. Costco, Target, and Kohl's department store share one giant parking lot. This entails a very tricky situation, as any of these 3 stores alone is enough to put us in the poor house; together they mean instant death.

Before going on the aforementioned Costco excursion, I stopped into Target with no real list or aim, but a vague notion that JT could use a new pair of jeans and some new shoes. He's been wearing the same "Plaza Sesamo" sneakers for about 6 months now. (he picked them out himself, and they didn't have any english language version ones with Elmo on them. So, no Sesame Street... Plaza Sesamo.)

Target had english language Elmo shoes but JT, being older and more discerning now, shunned those in favor of a pair of shiny new Thomas and Friends sneakers. He immediately realized, to his horror, that he was wearing the toddler equivalent of Last Year's Manolo's and DEAR GOD he had to get them off NOW RIGHT NOW THEY BURN!

I ran distraction while I paid for the new shoes, and before we set off on our Costco adventure he was safely ensconced in his new pair of size 7 and a half sneakers. He wore them in Costco. When we got home, he wouldn't let me take them off.. so he wore them around the house.

When bedtime came, T removed JT's shoes, pulled off his courderoy pants, and changed his diaper. At which point JT went into apoplexy because the shoes were no longer on his feet. So T, being a daddy and somewhat more inclined to sympathy in these situations than I would probably be, put the shoes back on him. At which point JT promptly went to sleep.

I removed the shoes from the sleeping child before going to bed myself, only to be awoken at 6:30 the next morning to wails of "CHOO CHOO SHOES! I NEED CHOO CHOO SHOES! ONNA FEET!"

So he spent the rest of the morning in his shirt, a diaper, and his shoes and socks. I think we got pants on him eventually. At least we've managed to scale down to not actually wearing the shoes in bed... now, they just rest comfortably in a place of honor next to his pillow while he sleeps.

I'm thinking it's safe to say he has his daddy's sense of sentimentality, eh?


Unrelated TM Update: Last night the little angel went back to his old self, at least temporarily. Put him down at 11:30, he woke up at 4am to nurse, went back to sleep and stayed there until 7:30. I actually feel almost human today.

This will hurt.

If you put a frog in a pot of hot water, it will jump right out. If you put it in cold water and slowly crank up the heat, the frog will sit there until it dies. So I've been told, anyway. I would never perform such an experiment, myself. But the concept is there.

My kids are great sleepers. JT slept in his crib, in his own room, from the first night home from the hospital. This time around, I wanted TM close to me. He was so tiny, so defenseless - not to mention so noisy I was afraid he would wake his older brother if put in the nursery next door. But by 5 or 6 weeks old, TM was sleeping 8 hours at night, broken up with just one feeding after 4 hours, after which he would go right back to sleep. For anyone without kids, let me tell you that this is a new parent's dream.

So what happened? Well, like the poor frog, he slowly began to turn up the heat on me. As close as a week ago, I still would have told you "My baby really is a good sleeper, he just has a bad night here and there."

In the last few days, however, it has dawned on me. Not only does he not sleep long stretches well any more, but by the time I wake up in the morning he has somehow migrated to a spot next to me in the bed. He starts out in his bassinet, but wakes every few hours and settles back down only after I replace his pacifier and give him my hand to hold. Eventually, in my zombie-like state of exhaustion, I move him next to me in bed - where he snuggles up to me and finally falls asleep for a stretch of more than 2 hours. And then I get some sleep.

He is a very clingy baby by nature, something JT never has been. If one of my hands get anywhere near him, he grabs for it, pressing it to his chest with both tiny pink hands as though I might snatch it away. It's simultaneously heart-melting and terrifying.

Today I realized he hasn't taken a daytime nap longer than an hour or so in at least a week. He may take only 2 or 3 of these naps all day. My baby is exhausted, and his mommy is not far behind. So, after I got JT down for his "quiet time" (which may or may not involve sleep, it depends on the day) I nursed TM until his tummy was full and his eyes were half-closed. I laid him down in his bassinet and covered him with his favorite blanket. And then I walked out of the room.

After 4 minutes he started screaming. By 10 minutes he was at a full-fledged wail. By 20 minutes I was headed upstairs. I got halfway up when he suddenly went quiet. I waited. Counted to 30. Tiptoed into the room. He startled a little, opened his eyes, then slowly closed them again and drifted off as I watched him.

Progress. Or so I thought until he woke up about 2 minutes ago. He started crying in a sad, half-hearted kind of way. It has built to another scream.

He's safe, he's not hungry, his diaper is clean, and he doesn't have gas. Suddenly, my 2 and a half years of parenting experience leave me totally unprepared to deal with a baby who WILL NOT SLEEP.

I've decided to give him 5 minutes more to try to fall back asleep on his own. This may be a good time to start looking for a book on what kind of therapy will help him deal with the abandonment issues I am currently giving him.

But I'll probably use the time to tear the house apart in search of something with lots of sugar and no nutritional value.

I really need to locate a more constructive coping mechanism.

TP or not TP

The big adventure of yesterday was my periodic excursion to Costco. Some women? They spend a day at the spa, or wander the aisles at Bloomingdales. For me, the true extravagance in life comes from looking at 5 gallon cans of tomato sauce and industrial-sized packs of underwear.

I never leave that store without being at least a hundred bucks poorer, and utterly confused about where the money went. Case in point: My primary purchases yesterday were a 40 pound bag of Cat Litter (you're welcome, honey!), a few bags of frozen necessities (you know, health foods like potstickers and chicken nuggets), diapers, baby wipes, and jumbo-sized packages of paper towels and toilet paper.

I know the size of the items, the sheer quantity, is massive in scale compared to what I would be getting if I purchased the same items at the grocery store. And yet that total on the receipt still boggles me. And, being prone to oversimplification as I am, I can't help but boil it down to one simple question for my self.

How the hell did I spend a hundred and fifty bucks on toilet paper??

Unrelated Aside: The caterpillar is gone. I no longer have to fear waking in the night to find I am in bed with Morgan Spurlock. He did keep the pointy sideburns, but only because I insisted. They're right sexy, those are.

The Wrong Side Of The Bed.

Yesterday I looked at T and said, with no trace of irony at the time, "As long as you don't tease, torment, or otherwise cajole me, today has the potential to be a very good day."

It was still morning, and I knew that, mentally, I was in a place to have a good day. I then asked him if he thought it was at all weird that I could wake up and know right away if I was going to be unable to have a "good" day that day. He shook his head and said, with his trademark shrug "there's an expression for that 'woke up on the wrong side of the bed' - it's totally normal."

That's reassuring -- in a bizarro kind of way. Today I feel pretty numb. I'm finding it difficult to figure out what I should be doing, or what I want to be doing.

I'm a very single-minded person -- I tend to go into tunnel vision when I'm working on something. If I start a painting, pick up a book, or turn on a movie I will get absorbed in it to the exclusion of all else. I don't hear people when they talk to me, I don't see things happening around me. Basically, any senses unnecessary to the task at hand get filtered out in my brain.

When I was working in an office, this was actually an asset, as I could crank out a very intensive project in record time and with no mistakes. Now that I'm a mother, I find that I am so far unable to focus on the role of motherhood and homemaker with that intensity. I am also afraid to focus on anything else because, as a mom, you CAN'T filter out your children and their needs for any period of time. They have to eat. They need diapers changed. They need love, affection, attention. You can't ignore them, it's not fair to them.

Even so, I always feel like there's something else I should be doing. I have a burning need to express myself in some way, to have an intellectual goal of some kind that I'm working towards with the oversight of a boss, a professor, an Auditor of some kind.

You would think 2 gorgeous sons would proivide a total sense of fulfillment. It's not that I don't adore motherhood, because I do. I love going out with the boys and seeing strangers smile at their incredible cuteness. I cherish every "first", and my heart melts at each indication of proof that they love me in return. I enjoy washing dirty faces, and I don't even hate changing diapers.

So what is it that is lacking? Is it something innate within myself? Or is it okay for me to feel like I need something more? Am I a terrible mother because there are days when I think "I'd really like to go back to a regular job now?" or that I'd like to go back to school, and waiting until my kids are all in school themselves seems entirely too far off and in the distance?

Is this why I ate a gallon of rice pudding last night?