Several weeks or months ago, I started talking about my diagnosis of Depression/PPD and generalized anxiety. My subsequent treatment has included a daily dose of Zoloft and bi-monthly counseling. My therapist, we'll call her "D", is the kind of woman you wish could be your third Grandmother. The kind who is instantly kind and generous of spirit, puts you immediately at ease, and who doesn't judge when you sometimes say things like "I swear to God, one of these days I'm going to sell that kid on eBay." Because sometimes? Moms need to say those things, even though .42 milliseconds later we realize we don't really mean it.
At my most recent session I happened to mention, quite casually, that my mother informed me that one of my sisters is being treated for PPD and another sister for Adult ADD. D asked me if I had considered whether or not I might have ADD. I was dumbstruck for a moment. My only experience has been with ADHD in my 13-year-old niece, who has a host of other complicating factors - not the least of which has been the Hyperactivity. D recommended this book, which I picked up on my way home from the session.
As I got home and started thumbing through the pages, I was riveted. Then I started looking for the hidden cameras because THIS BOOK WAS WRITTEN ABOUT ME. I read a few more pages every chance I could get and felt the lightbulbs going on over my head constantly. My entire life, in a bizarre but very real way, suddenly started making sense. My childhood, my struggles in school in spite of scoring high on intelligence testing, my difficulties in studying and paying attention in class, the drifting off in the middle of conversations... even, to some degree, the depression and anxiety.
T was highly skeptical; he's never been a big believer in ADD and wasn't convinced it really existed until the experiences with our niece. Every so often, I would hand him a page with a description or a check list to read. By the end of the weekend he was seeing things a bit differently. We both agreed I should follow up with D.
I debated whether or not to blog about this at all. I've never put a lot of faith into ADD. I was brought up with the philosophy that a little hard work and determination (and prayer) could overcome almost anything- that a person should heft themselves up by the boot straps, just "buck up", "buckle down", and get over it.
You know - basically all the same arguments that kept me from seeking treatment for depression until I was perpetually in my pajamas, huddling in the Lay-Z-Boy, going days without showering and bursting into hysterical sobbing whenever one of the kids cried.
And so, I embark on a new journey of discovery. The next step is a consultation with a Psychiatrist for a clinical evaluation to see if I do, indeed, meet the technical description for Adult ADD.
At this point? It's a strong possibility.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Naked Blogging?
All this construction behind the house is usually just a sometimes-annoyance... what with the occasional blasting and odd hours of hammering and such. But today? Well, let's just say there's nothing quite like walking into your kitchen in a t-shirt and a pair of panties to discover a gaggle of construction workers just outside your window. With a cement truck.
The epiphany of it all for me, really, was that when the construction workers are done and gone there will be a permanent house there. With neighbors who will live there and be looking out their windows occasionally.
I really need to invest in a few more pairs of pajama pants.
The epiphany of it all for me, really, was that when the construction workers are done and gone there will be a permanent house there. With neighbors who will live there and be looking out their windows occasionally.
I really need to invest in a few more pairs of pajama pants.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Friday, July 28, 2006
Oh. My. God.
So I know I'm sometimes a little mentally slow... like REALLY, HORRIBLY, haven't had a full night's sleep in at least a year, been living on coffee and gummy bears kinda slow... but how did it just now dawn on me that I live within mere hours of both Amy of Amalah and Tracey of Sweetney. And why do I have to realize this now, when they are both far far away at (*sob*) BlogHer, and totally out of range of my charming internet stalking?? How can I lure them to coffee with me if they are on the other side of the continent?!
AND WHY AM I USING ALL THESE PUNCTUATION MARKS?!?!?
*sigh*
I am arriving so late to this "Kickass Women Bloggers" party, I feel like the new kid at school all over again. I refer, of course, to the ethereal "party" in an existential sense, not the actual (*sob*) BlogHer party, which I won't be arriving at this year at all... but next year? Next year I will be there if I have to sell my husband in a time-share to lonely widows to get the cash. (He cooks! And I'll throw in a discount if you can teach him the proper way to fold socks!)
It's like being a kid all over again. We moved every 2 years or so until I was in high school, so one might think this would have made me more adept at quickly getting to know people and making friends. One would, of course, be totally effing wrong.
Somehow or other, I ended up with serious trust issues and a raging case of self-conciousness. Because see this flaw -- right here? I know you see it. Don't you see it?
Okay, so you probably don't see it - but the thought that you might see it could totally consume me for the course of an entire conversation. I sometimes have to smack myself upside the head (mentally, that is) to bring myself back to the present and realize that - that other person? The one I'm talking to? They might actually be interested in what I'm saying. They might not, in fact, have noticed the mole on my jaw or the fact that my eyebrows are not perfectly tweezed today. And if they did? They might even be thinking "Thank God, I'm not the only one". Because I didn't even stop to look at their jawline, or eyebrows, or the pimple on the end of their nose. And if I had, I would not have judged them half as harshly as I imagine they are judging me. In fact, I would probably have thought... "Thank God, I'm not the only one."
Which brings me back to my original line of thought, and helps me formulate a plan.
Step 1: Get Amy and Tracey to check out my rantings here so they can scope me out at a safe distance. How to begin this? Begin commenting on their blogs (both of which I read daily, but due to my general "new people" skiddishness I have not really been an avid commenter on. I'm a little bit "comment constipated", what can I say?
Step 2: Begin operation "Must Be Irresistable and make them wonder where I have been all their lives" wherein I woo these incredibly funny, intelligent, verbose women so they will totally love me and let me mock them as lovingly and mercilessly as I mock all of my friends.
Step 3: Get both of them to meet me for coffee. Or margaritas. Or to fold socks, because really? I don't see how I could possibly fail to have a great time with women like these. As long as I don't have a sudden anxiety attack and develop the dreaded diarrhea of the mouth, wherein I tell them my entire life story and why I don't own any red underwear within the first 5 minutes. (It's an old defense mechanism I developed as a tween to establish the playing field as quickly as possible. Needless to say, I spent a lot of those years holed up with my dog-eared copies of Agatha Christie.)
Step 4: Declare victory and start working on getting Kelly of MochaMomma to come visit so she can lick me, followed immediately by a raid of the Discount Shoe Warehouse. Becuase I suspect, for some reason, that she could stay there as long as I can and would forgive me for trying on 54356 pairs of shoes and buying only 2.
Step 5: Join a support group to learn to stop using so many quotation marks and italics. Yeah, I noticed. But with all the people who won't be blogging until they get back from BlogHer06, we'll just pretend I borrowed their extras. (Just go with me on this.)
AND WHY AM I USING ALL THESE PUNCTUATION MARKS?!?!?
*sigh*
I am arriving so late to this "Kickass Women Bloggers" party, I feel like the new kid at school all over again. I refer, of course, to the ethereal "party" in an existential sense, not the actual (*sob*) BlogHer party, which I won't be arriving at this year at all... but next year? Next year I will be there if I have to sell my husband in a time-share to lonely widows to get the cash. (He cooks! And I'll throw in a discount if you can teach him the proper way to fold socks!)
It's like being a kid all over again. We moved every 2 years or so until I was in high school, so one might think this would have made me more adept at quickly getting to know people and making friends. One would, of course, be totally effing wrong.
Somehow or other, I ended up with serious trust issues and a raging case of self-conciousness. Because see this flaw -- right here? I know you see it. Don't you see it?
Okay, so you probably don't see it - but the thought that you might see it could totally consume me for the course of an entire conversation. I sometimes have to smack myself upside the head (mentally, that is) to bring myself back to the present and realize that - that other person? The one I'm talking to? They might actually be interested in what I'm saying. They might not, in fact, have noticed the mole on my jaw or the fact that my eyebrows are not perfectly tweezed today. And if they did? They might even be thinking "Thank God, I'm not the only one". Because I didn't even stop to look at their jawline, or eyebrows, or the pimple on the end of their nose. And if I had, I would not have judged them half as harshly as I imagine they are judging me. In fact, I would probably have thought... "Thank God, I'm not the only one."
Which brings me back to my original line of thought, and helps me formulate a plan.
Step 1: Get Amy and Tracey to check out my rantings here so they can scope me out at a safe distance. How to begin this? Begin commenting on their blogs (both of which I read daily, but due to my general "new people" skiddishness I have not really been an avid commenter on. I'm a little bit "comment constipated", what can I say?
Step 2: Begin operation "Must Be Irresistable and make them wonder where I have been all their lives" wherein I woo these incredibly funny, intelligent, verbose women so they will totally love me and let me mock them as lovingly and mercilessly as I mock all of my friends.
Step 3: Get both of them to meet me for coffee. Or margaritas. Or to fold socks, because really? I don't see how I could possibly fail to have a great time with women like these. As long as I don't have a sudden anxiety attack and develop the dreaded diarrhea of the mouth, wherein I tell them my entire life story and why I don't own any red underwear within the first 5 minutes. (It's an old defense mechanism I developed as a tween to establish the playing field as quickly as possible. Needless to say, I spent a lot of those years holed up with my dog-eared copies of Agatha Christie.)
Step 4: Declare victory and start working on getting Kelly of MochaMomma to come visit so she can lick me, followed immediately by a raid of the Discount Shoe Warehouse. Becuase I suspect, for some reason, that she could stay there as long as I can and would forgive me for trying on 54356 pairs of shoes and buying only 2.
Step 5: Join a support group to learn to stop using so many quotation marks and italics. Yeah, I noticed. But with all the people who won't be blogging until they get back from BlogHer06, we'll just pretend I borrowed their extras. (Just go with me on this.)
Public Display of Lactation...
Oh Dear. To find out how I ended up on this topic, one has only to check out this cnn article.
At the risk of alienating most of the people who actually read my mental spew, allow me to say that I believe a woman has a right to breastfeed anywhere she is comfortable doing so. I don't believe in the "let it all hang out" philosophy but I, personally, do not use a blanket or napkin or other covering most of the time. I wear loose, blousy shirts that leave plenty of slack to cover anything not already blocked from view by the baby's enormous head. Places I have nursed publicly include coffee shops, restaurants, shopping malls, and movie theaters. Not once has anyone made a negative comment to me. At a mall once, a young businessman (presumably on his lunch hour) did do a triple-take before going wide-eyed and staring dumbly for a moment before politely averting his gaze. What did he see that made him react in this way? 2 inches of my ribcage.
It wasn't that any "indecent" part of me was on display.. it was the mere idea, the suggestion that somewhere? Under that baby's head and the layer of fabric? There was a breast. And that kid whose head he could see? His mouth was touching that breast.
I would submit to you, ladies and gentlemen of the court of public opinion, that it is not, in fact, the actual breastfeeding which persnickety folks take issue with. It is the fact that, in our still somewhat victorian society, many people are more comfortable with a public displayed fire-arm than with the merest hint of mammary flesh.
The magazine cover featured in the CNN article is a perfect example -- it's less revealing than many women's (or men's) magazines I've passed in the grocery store, and the breast is shown in an entirely non-sexual way. And even so, that's more boob for your buck than anyone has seen of me while nursing my baby out on the town.
So, to boil it down, here's my official position: I'm all for the Utah Law (shocking, I know) that says that anywhere a woman is legally entitled to be, she has a legal right to breast feed. I would hope all women would exercise a modicum of decorum and attempt to be as discreet as possible (really, nobody needs to see nipples while they're eating their Cobb Salad), but as long as the woman who is nursing is casual and comfortable with it, more power to her. And if a women is not comfortable nursing in front of God and everybody, there's always the option of a lounge area or (as I've done in extreme moments of need) sitting in the passenger seat of the car with the a/c running. (Mostly because my 3 year old was asleep in the back of the car and I didn't want to have to wake him up until the baby was fed and settled so we could head into whatever store we were at.)
Moms have enough on their plates without having to be embarrassed about the fact that their child needs to eat. Lots of things make people uncomfortable. I've seen people freaked out by obese people in restaurants, by seeing-eye dogs in restaurants, and (especially in Utah) gay couples in restaurants. There will always be people who find something to make them uncomfortable -- SOMETHING to whine about. The crux of the matter is this: their problem? It's THEIR problem.
Something is seriously wrong when it's okay to show a model's boobies on the cover of Cosmo or Maxim with the nipples airbrushed out (because you KNOW they are) but NOT okay to see women's breasts used for their biological purpose. Something is even MORE wrong when there are people who equate the one with the other. One is Sexual, the other is simply Physiology. Get over it, haters. Me and my super milk boobies are here to stay.
At the risk of alienating most of the people who actually read my mental spew, allow me to say that I believe a woman has a right to breastfeed anywhere she is comfortable doing so. I don't believe in the "let it all hang out" philosophy but I, personally, do not use a blanket or napkin or other covering most of the time. I wear loose, blousy shirts that leave plenty of slack to cover anything not already blocked from view by the baby's enormous head. Places I have nursed publicly include coffee shops, restaurants, shopping malls, and movie theaters. Not once has anyone made a negative comment to me. At a mall once, a young businessman (presumably on his lunch hour) did do a triple-take before going wide-eyed and staring dumbly for a moment before politely averting his gaze. What did he see that made him react in this way? 2 inches of my ribcage.
It wasn't that any "indecent" part of me was on display.. it was the mere idea, the suggestion that somewhere? Under that baby's head and the layer of fabric? There was a breast. And that kid whose head he could see? His mouth was touching that breast.
I would submit to you, ladies and gentlemen of the court of public opinion, that it is not, in fact, the actual breastfeeding which persnickety folks take issue with. It is the fact that, in our still somewhat victorian society, many people are more comfortable with a public displayed fire-arm than with the merest hint of mammary flesh.
The magazine cover featured in the CNN article is a perfect example -- it's less revealing than many women's (or men's) magazines I've passed in the grocery store, and the breast is shown in an entirely non-sexual way. And even so, that's more boob for your buck than anyone has seen of me while nursing my baby out on the town.
So, to boil it down, here's my official position: I'm all for the Utah Law (shocking, I know) that says that anywhere a woman is legally entitled to be, she has a legal right to breast feed. I would hope all women would exercise a modicum of decorum and attempt to be as discreet as possible (really, nobody needs to see nipples while they're eating their Cobb Salad), but as long as the woman who is nursing is casual and comfortable with it, more power to her. And if a women is not comfortable nursing in front of God and everybody, there's always the option of a lounge area or (as I've done in extreme moments of need) sitting in the passenger seat of the car with the a/c running. (Mostly because my 3 year old was asleep in the back of the car and I didn't want to have to wake him up until the baby was fed and settled so we could head into whatever store we were at.)
Moms have enough on their plates without having to be embarrassed about the fact that their child needs to eat. Lots of things make people uncomfortable. I've seen people freaked out by obese people in restaurants, by seeing-eye dogs in restaurants, and (especially in Utah) gay couples in restaurants. There will always be people who find something to make them uncomfortable -- SOMETHING to whine about. The crux of the matter is this: their problem? It's THEIR problem.
Something is seriously wrong when it's okay to show a model's boobies on the cover of Cosmo or Maxim with the nipples airbrushed out (because you KNOW they are) but NOT okay to see women's breasts used for their biological purpose. Something is even MORE wrong when there are people who equate the one with the other. One is Sexual, the other is simply Physiology. Get over it, haters. Me and my super milk boobies are here to stay.
tags: Lactivism,Breastfeeding
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Blogher Blues
So while I'm sitting on my sofa this morning, watching Toby figure out how to climb over obstacles (it's my own little baby boot camp of sorts) and reading Sweetney, I'm doing my best to forget that Blogher is only days away and I will be here. Scrubbing toilets, mopping floors, and wiping butts. Instead of lollygagging around California, squealing like a schoolgirl, having mind-altering conversations, and drinking way too much.
There's really nothing to be sad about, though, right? RIGHT?! I mean, it's not like anything terrible is happening this weekend. Just nothing great, either. See? That's not so depressing. ...*sigh*... Or so I will continue to do my level best to convince myself.
On the brighter side? The last week I have been down again, wondering if I need an adjustment of meds or perhaps just an extra session in Therapy. Today, though, I'm feeling a little better and I may even venture out with the boys. Because, ya know, it's just about August and it seems like a pertinent time to actually realize that IT IS SUMMER. Yes, I know... shocking. But that bright stuff? Out in the Big Blue Room? It's Sunshine. Yeah, it was a revelation for me, too. Somehow, I managed to spend 90% of the last 2-3 months indoors. Which explains my total lack of pigmentation, and perhaps also the downward trending of my mood.
Our planned trip to Nag's Head next month could not be more timely. Of course, vacations never go quite as planned, but with an entire week to find relaxation time I'm bound to get at least one hour of total sloth time, relaxing on the sand and listening to the ocean. I haven't heard waves crashing into shore in waaaaay too long.
Random Note Of The Day: I managed to reconnect with one of my nieces of late (Hi Andrea!). It's a little bizarre that the 4 eldest of my nieces are actually closer to my age than any of my sisters. Even more bizarre??? She's married with a snugg-a-licious baby boy of her own. And one of these days, we will have the chance to sit down in person and, over a bottle of Cabernet, talk about the long road to here. That's enough to bring a smile to my face, even if I'm not in California. And that's really saying something.
There's really nothing to be sad about, though, right? RIGHT?! I mean, it's not like anything terrible is happening this weekend. Just nothing great, either. See? That's not so depressing. ...*sigh*... Or so I will continue to do my level best to convince myself.
On the brighter side? The last week I have been down again, wondering if I need an adjustment of meds or perhaps just an extra session in Therapy. Today, though, I'm feeling a little better and I may even venture out with the boys. Because, ya know, it's just about August and it seems like a pertinent time to actually realize that IT IS SUMMER. Yes, I know... shocking. But that bright stuff? Out in the Big Blue Room? It's Sunshine. Yeah, it was a revelation for me, too. Somehow, I managed to spend 90% of the last 2-3 months indoors. Which explains my total lack of pigmentation, and perhaps also the downward trending of my mood.
Our planned trip to Nag's Head next month could not be more timely. Of course, vacations never go quite as planned, but with an entire week to find relaxation time I'm bound to get at least one hour of total sloth time, relaxing on the sand and listening to the ocean. I haven't heard waves crashing into shore in waaaaay too long.
Random Note Of The Day: I managed to reconnect with one of my nieces of late (Hi Andrea!). It's a little bizarre that the 4 eldest of my nieces are actually closer to my age than any of my sisters. Even more bizarre??? She's married with a snugg-a-licious baby boy of her own. And one of these days, we will have the chance to sit down in person and, over a bottle of Cabernet, talk about the long road to here. That's enough to bring a smile to my face, even if I'm not in California. And that's really saying something.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Entirely Useless Information
- I just successfully spilled 3 drops of diet pepsi on my brand new white shirt. First time out of the drawer.
- It just now dawned on me, as I was paying bills, how odd the person at our bank must think it when they process the payment made out to "Weed Man". I took a moment to imagine that the cashier gives the check a discreet sniff, which made me blow air out my nose in a most ungenteel sound of amusement.
- My now 3-year-old son didn't even start crawling until he was 10 months old. Which was fine by me. His little brother, though? At 9 months has been crawling for over a month and, the last week or so, started pulling up on anything he wants to. Which means he will quite possibly be walking soon. I think I need a hug. And a Xanax.
- Gummy Worms are Good.
- I'm looking around at all the leftover inflated balloons from Jack's birthday and debating whether to pop them one by one or draw faces on them and pretend they are my evil henchmen. And order them matching jumpsuits.
- Note to self: that second cup of coffee might have been a mistake.
- My house is still full of flies from Saturday. There are 6 of them dead on the fly paper (which is disgusting, by the way) and at least that many more still taunting me as they enjoy free reign of my house.
- Flies are Bad.
- I did mention that this would be useless information, didn't I?
Lather, Rinse, and (especially) Repeat.
This morning, Jack was giving Chloe his affections in a suprisingly gentle manner, and she was contentedly allowing him to pet her. Usually, she tolerates his attention for a minute or so before escaping to the basement when he gets too rough. This time, though, he continued gently stroking her fur. Tentatively, hopefully, offering some positive reinforcement, I said "Oh! Look how nice you are being with the kitty!.."
He smiled sweetly up at me and said "I'm pretending to wash her. Hand me the soap, please."
A few minutes later he came up, tapped me on the shoulder (to show me the Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer DVD he was holding) and said, "Hey Mommy, Sweetie? I need to watch this on your laptop."
The child has got to stop watching me so closely. And listening, too, for that matter. His father will never forgive me if he grows up obsessed with celebrity trivia and completely incapable of properly frying an egg.
Then again, this trend could come in handy....If only I could teach him to do laundry.
He smiled sweetly up at me and said "I'm pretending to wash her. Hand me the soap, please."
A few minutes later he came up, tapped me on the shoulder (to show me the Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer DVD he was holding) and said, "Hey Mommy, Sweetie? I need to watch this on your laptop."
The child has got to stop watching me so closely. And listening, too, for that matter. His father will never forgive me if he grows up obsessed with celebrity trivia and completely incapable of properly frying an egg.
Then again, this trend could come in handy....If only I could teach him to do laundry.
Monday, July 24, 2006
3 years or 36,000 miles.....
Happy Birthday Jack! Today, our Big Little Man turns 3. Which is funny, considering I know he was only born about a week ago. Right? Yeah, just go with me on this.
But if he was a car, the warranty would be expiring today. Which is normally when I get ready to trade up for a new model, but in this particular case I think we just might be in it for the long haul...
We celebrated on Saturday with a Pirate Birthday Party (per his request) and I got in touch with my inner Domestic Goddess and made him a Pirate Ship Birthday Cake. And just because it so kicked the ass of the birthday cakes I used to get, I present it here for your inspection.
AND, because I'm a big softie for the Froo-it of my Loy-unz, here is a quick retrospective of the glory to behold that is "The Jack".
And, even though it's Jack's special day, here's one of Toby for the hungry masses...
If the next 3 years pass as quickly as these, I'm in big trouble... Because that means I'll wake up tomorrow and be 30, and Jack will be in 1st grade. And I am SO not ready for that.
But if he was a car, the warranty would be expiring today. Which is normally when I get ready to trade up for a new model, but in this particular case I think we just might be in it for the long haul...
We celebrated on Saturday with a Pirate Birthday Party (per his request) and I got in touch with my inner Domestic Goddess and made him a Pirate Ship Birthday Cake. And just because it so kicked the ass of the birthday cakes I used to get, I present it here for your inspection.
AND, because I'm a big softie for the Froo-it of my Loy-unz, here is a quick retrospective of the glory to behold that is "The Jack".
And, even though it's Jack's special day, here's one of Toby for the hungry masses...
If the next 3 years pass as quickly as these, I'm in big trouble... Because that means I'll wake up tomorrow and be 30, and Jack will be in 1st grade. And I am SO not ready for that.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Keeping Tabs on the Humanity.
I posted some of my thoughts on this war the other day.
Here is a story that spoke to me today. Just looking for the humanity in all of the madness. This story could have come from either side of the battle.
It's days like this I can imagine an alternate reality in which I became a doctor, stayed single, and went into the "Doctors without Borders" program. My admiration for all medical professionals who give all they can without concern to personal glory or even (as in this case) their own lives... knows no borders or bounds, as well.
Here is a story that spoke to me today. Just looking for the humanity in all of the madness. This story could have come from either side of the battle.
It's days like this I can imagine an alternate reality in which I became a doctor, stayed single, and went into the "Doctors without Borders" program. My admiration for all medical professionals who give all they can without concern to personal glory or even (as in this case) their own lives... knows no borders or bounds, as well.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Tattoos and Identity
I posted this comment over on BlogHer today, and I decided to share it here as well. I know, I know.. that's cheating. But other than the fact that I just mowed the back yard for Jack's birthday celebration tomorrow and am currently waiting for the sweat to dry before I take a long, hot shower... well, I have a house to clean, presents to wrap, a cake to bake, and kids to feed. SO this will have to do....
*********************************************
Tattoos are an ancient tradition, a rite of passage in many cultures. I think that, in the US especially, we sometimes struggle to identify "what is my culture" - especially as it gets swallowed up in Wal-Marts and McDonalds as far as the eye can see. Most of us have lost touch with our ancestral roots and the countries of our familial origins. I think that this goes a long way towards explaining why, even though corporate, social, and religious groups put a high premium on fitting a certain mold, many of us put a higher value on our individuality. We attempt to create a "culture of the self".
I actually posted a while ago about my tattoo. I got it when I was 22, before marriage and my two kids. I have very strong feelings about my OWN tattoo, and because it is somewhere discreet people are always surprised to learn I have one after they get to know me. It is symbolic of a life lesson I learned at the time, and continues to be a reminder of where I have been and where I am going.
I'm planning to get a second tattoo after my second baby boy is weaned (sometime the end of this year) and am currently busy designing it.
As a child of devoutly Mormon parents, it was several years before I was able to talk to my mother about it. Once I explained the meaning behind it, I think she was better able to accept that it was something meaningful to me and a positive force in my life, rather than a simple childish act of rebellion. She still doesn't like it, but at least she seems to have come to terms with it.
I'm tentatively planning to get the next one on my ankle, where it will be somewhat more visible to the general public. This one will be no less meaningful and symbolic for me personally, and I am looking forward to the whole experience again.
I plan to go back and finish Nursing School once I'm done with this babymaking business, and I know there will be patients who may have pre-judgments about me based on something like a tattoo. The challenge (and a positive one, as I see it) is that it is then my goal to help people learn to reassess their value-judgments. If I am the best nurse I can be, and give the most compassionate and capable care -- how many people, at the end of the day, are going to REALLY care that I happen to have permanent ink?
*********************************************
Tattoos are an ancient tradition, a rite of passage in many cultures. I think that, in the US especially, we sometimes struggle to identify "what is my culture" - especially as it gets swallowed up in Wal-Marts and McDonalds as far as the eye can see. Most of us have lost touch with our ancestral roots and the countries of our familial origins. I think that this goes a long way towards explaining why, even though corporate, social, and religious groups put a high premium on fitting a certain mold, many of us put a higher value on our individuality. We attempt to create a "culture of the self".
I actually posted a while ago about my tattoo. I got it when I was 22, before marriage and my two kids. I have very strong feelings about my OWN tattoo, and because it is somewhere discreet people are always surprised to learn I have one after they get to know me. It is symbolic of a life lesson I learned at the time, and continues to be a reminder of where I have been and where I am going.
I'm planning to get a second tattoo after my second baby boy is weaned (sometime the end of this year) and am currently busy designing it.
As a child of devoutly Mormon parents, it was several years before I was able to talk to my mother about it. Once I explained the meaning behind it, I think she was better able to accept that it was something meaningful to me and a positive force in my life, rather than a simple childish act of rebellion. She still doesn't like it, but at least she seems to have come to terms with it.
I'm tentatively planning to get the next one on my ankle, where it will be somewhat more visible to the general public. This one will be no less meaningful and symbolic for me personally, and I am looking forward to the whole experience again.
I plan to go back and finish Nursing School once I'm done with this babymaking business, and I know there will be patients who may have pre-judgments about me based on something like a tattoo. The challenge (and a positive one, as I see it) is that it is then my goal to help people learn to reassess their value-judgments. If I am the best nurse I can be, and give the most compassionate and capable care -- how many people, at the end of the day, are going to REALLY care that I happen to have permanent ink?
Thursday, July 20, 2006
The Politics of Motherhood
I'm not going to begin to rant on the actual politics of the "conflict" (fuck that, it's a WAR and if CNN and FOX can't call it that, I will) in Israel and Lebanon because I'm just not informed enough about it yet. It's not simple, it's not black and white, and if there was a simple solution to the whole muddle, I have no doubts someone far more intelligent than I would have thought of it already.
One could spend a lifetime trying to understand why the divisions of humanity there hate each other; the wounds are so old and run so deep, it would probably take another lifetime to be able to make sense of it all.
The one thing I can talk about with some authority is the humanity of it all. T posted this video on his blog yesterday. I finally got around to watching it this evening, and I nearly threw up. Be warned, it is graphic. This is not the stuff they're showing you on the major news networks; these are the gritty, bloody photos and many of them are of children. Specifically, one of them is of a tiny, broken body with a face that could be Jack's.
Whatever your politics, whatever your sympathies... the basic truth that sticks in my brain and will not be dislodged is that the innocents caught in the middle (and make no mistake, there are many of those on both sides) will bed down tonight not knowing if they will wake in the morning. I know there is suffering all over the world, but it's a lot easier to marginalize that fact, mentally, when those people have very little in common with you.
Not so in Israel and Lebanon. These people are modern; a photo I saw of a young mother in Lebanon with her baby and small girl could have been of any of the women in my neighborhood - save for her head scarf. I think I own the same pair of jeans. These people, the ones who were simply born into that unfortunate part of the world and of the "wrong" denomination or nation, are intelligent, modern, and very aware of the trap in which they now find themselves.
And tonight, half a world away, they are dying. Some are dying quickly in a rain of fire and ash. Others will die slowly, as public works and supplies of basic necessities are cut off. Mothers will bury children who will die from lack of shelter, clean water, and medical care - as well as from scalding death that pours from the sky.
As the pundits and the talking heads debate the politics of this war, the justifications from both sides, and how this will effect the effing GAS prices, this young mother feels the crushing sadness of the families who have no where to run to and no place to hide from the storm that rages around them.
It's past my bedtime, but I can't lay my head down tonight until I hug and kiss my boys and thank providence that we are all safe under our roof tonight. Our world may be, at times, an uncertain one - but at least tonight I will rest without the fear that at any moment all of our tomorrows could be swallowed up in one instant of white-hot destruction.
One could spend a lifetime trying to understand why the divisions of humanity there hate each other; the wounds are so old and run so deep, it would probably take another lifetime to be able to make sense of it all.
The one thing I can talk about with some authority is the humanity of it all. T posted this video on his blog yesterday. I finally got around to watching it this evening, and I nearly threw up. Be warned, it is graphic. This is not the stuff they're showing you on the major news networks; these are the gritty, bloody photos and many of them are of children. Specifically, one of them is of a tiny, broken body with a face that could be Jack's.
Whatever your politics, whatever your sympathies... the basic truth that sticks in my brain and will not be dislodged is that the innocents caught in the middle (and make no mistake, there are many of those on both sides) will bed down tonight not knowing if they will wake in the morning. I know there is suffering all over the world, but it's a lot easier to marginalize that fact, mentally, when those people have very little in common with you.
Not so in Israel and Lebanon. These people are modern; a photo I saw of a young mother in Lebanon with her baby and small girl could have been of any of the women in my neighborhood - save for her head scarf. I think I own the same pair of jeans. These people, the ones who were simply born into that unfortunate part of the world and of the "wrong" denomination or nation, are intelligent, modern, and very aware of the trap in which they now find themselves.
And tonight, half a world away, they are dying. Some are dying quickly in a rain of fire and ash. Others will die slowly, as public works and supplies of basic necessities are cut off. Mothers will bury children who will die from lack of shelter, clean water, and medical care - as well as from scalding death that pours from the sky.
As the pundits and the talking heads debate the politics of this war, the justifications from both sides, and how this will effect the effing GAS prices, this young mother feels the crushing sadness of the families who have no where to run to and no place to hide from the storm that rages around them.
It's past my bedtime, but I can't lay my head down tonight until I hug and kiss my boys and thank providence that we are all safe under our roof tonight. Our world may be, at times, an uncertain one - but at least tonight I will rest without the fear that at any moment all of our tomorrows could be swallowed up in one instant of white-hot destruction.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
PANIC! At the Doctor
I think I need to trade my brain in for the upgraded model. It's the only way I can begin to explain what occurred yesterday. One of my worst nightmares came true, though with a fortuitous ending, and then I killed my cell phone.
Yesterday morning was Toby's 9 month check-up with the pediatrician. He is, of course, beautiful and perfect and developing right along schedule. I greeted this news with cheer and blithely exited the doctor's office and headed out into sweltering 103 degree afternoon.
Being the good mom that I am, I used the remote starter and got the air conditioning running so as not to put the boys into a veritable oven.
Jack, who is totally obsessed with car keys (a genetic trait inherited from his father, who is unreasonably proud of this behavior) threw the beginnings of an ear-shattering tantrum trying to get his hands on mine. So, I tossed them into the front seat and out of his view - which solved the immediate problem.
Once Jack and Toby were both safely buckled in and settled, I closed the rear doors and reached for my door handle. Just in time to realize that I had started the remote-start with one of the doors open. Which meant that as soon as all doors were again closed, the car automatically locked itself.
With my keys inside.
Now, our remote start will run the car (which also means the air conditioning) for 5 minutes before shutting itself off. Which meant I had roughly 5 minutes before the greenhouse effect began warming the interior of the car to a lethal temperature. And just that morning T had sent me a link to this horrible article.
I tried all the door handles again. I tried to open the trunk. I tried to get Jack to let himself out of his seatbelt (which I had just taught him NEVER to do) and unlock the car from the inside. The clock continued ticking down. I checked my cell phone. No signal. I glanced at the office building 50 yards or so away. I could run back to the doctor's office and use their phone, but that would mean leaving the kids all alone while I tried to explain the situation. I started to feel dizzy, like the ground had suddenly moved underneath me and I might fall over.
Just as I felt the bile rising in my throat, a handsome man with an Italian name and an accent to match pulled up in his SUV. He asked if I needed help, and I explained my situation as briefly and coherently as possible. (More the former than the latter, I'm sure.)
He pondered for a moment, then checked his car for something with which to jimmy the lock. When he came up empty-handed, he thought for a minute then ,in a burst of inspiration, unscrewed the antenna from his car and bent a hook into the end of it.
The auto-start finished and, as the engine clicked off, my stomach dropped to somewhere below my navel. Toby was screaming now and Jack, seeing the look on my face as I peered helplessly at him through the window, began to cry and tried again to free himself from his seat harness.
In that moment, I realized exactly how devestating it would be if anything happened to my boys. I knew I would break through the glass of the window with my bare hands if I had to, but I was going to get my babies OUT OF THAT CAR.
I looked at my good samaritan and said "should I call 911?" He handed me his cell phone but said "Not yet.. just give me one more minute."
I watched the sweat beading up on Jack's forehead. I could hear Toby screaming through the door. I put my thumb on the 9, trying to decide whether to dial or pick up a big rock to smash the window.
And as suddenly as my nightmare had begun, it ended. With a click and a sigh of relief, my rescuer popped the lock and opened the door.
I flew to Toby's side and wiped the sweat from his brow. In the 3 or 4 minutes since the air conditioning stopped running the car had heated to a sweltering temperature and both kids were soaked in sweat. I pulled Toby from his seat and held him to me while Jack looked at me expectantly, happy to see I was no longer upset.
Lost in my own little world, I faintly heard a throat clear. It was my Italian, who had just finished reaffixing his bent-beyond-repair antenna to the hood of his SUV. "Okay.. I'm going to head out now."
I turned to him sheepishly, embarrassed to have forgotten my rescuer. "Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU. I can't thank you enough. Thank you for saving us." He waved me off, grabbed his cell phone, climbed into his car, and pulled away. I didn't even get his name.
In the grand scheme of things the fact that, when I finally pulled out of the parking lot, I left my cell phone on top of the car to be thrown violently off and into the road, then run over by half of Purcellville before I realized what had happened and went back to retrieve the sad little pieces... well, it hardly seems worth mentioning. It was merely the doo-doo icing on a horrid sequence of events, and it's easily replaceable.
Not so quickly put aside is my eternal gratitude for the Shining Knight who stopped to assist me, a complete stranger (not to mention a wild-eyed woman pounding desperately on a car window) and reunited me with my babies, safe and sound.
Wherever you are, from the bottom of my heart - Thank You. My Hero.
Yesterday morning was Toby's 9 month check-up with the pediatrician. He is, of course, beautiful and perfect and developing right along schedule. I greeted this news with cheer and blithely exited the doctor's office and headed out into sweltering 103 degree afternoon.
Being the good mom that I am, I used the remote starter and got the air conditioning running so as not to put the boys into a veritable oven.
Jack, who is totally obsessed with car keys (a genetic trait inherited from his father, who is unreasonably proud of this behavior) threw the beginnings of an ear-shattering tantrum trying to get his hands on mine. So, I tossed them into the front seat and out of his view - which solved the immediate problem.
Once Jack and Toby were both safely buckled in and settled, I closed the rear doors and reached for my door handle. Just in time to realize that I had started the remote-start with one of the doors open. Which meant that as soon as all doors were again closed, the car automatically locked itself.
With my keys inside.
Now, our remote start will run the car (which also means the air conditioning) for 5 minutes before shutting itself off. Which meant I had roughly 5 minutes before the greenhouse effect began warming the interior of the car to a lethal temperature. And just that morning T had sent me a link to this horrible article.
I tried all the door handles again. I tried to open the trunk. I tried to get Jack to let himself out of his seatbelt (which I had just taught him NEVER to do) and unlock the car from the inside. The clock continued ticking down. I checked my cell phone. No signal. I glanced at the office building 50 yards or so away. I could run back to the doctor's office and use their phone, but that would mean leaving the kids all alone while I tried to explain the situation. I started to feel dizzy, like the ground had suddenly moved underneath me and I might fall over.
Just as I felt the bile rising in my throat, a handsome man with an Italian name and an accent to match pulled up in his SUV. He asked if I needed help, and I explained my situation as briefly and coherently as possible. (More the former than the latter, I'm sure.)
He pondered for a moment, then checked his car for something with which to jimmy the lock. When he came up empty-handed, he thought for a minute then ,in a burst of inspiration, unscrewed the antenna from his car and bent a hook into the end of it.
The auto-start finished and, as the engine clicked off, my stomach dropped to somewhere below my navel. Toby was screaming now and Jack, seeing the look on my face as I peered helplessly at him through the window, began to cry and tried again to free himself from his seat harness.
In that moment, I realized exactly how devestating it would be if anything happened to my boys. I knew I would break through the glass of the window with my bare hands if I had to, but I was going to get my babies OUT OF THAT CAR.
I looked at my good samaritan and said "should I call 911?" He handed me his cell phone but said "Not yet.. just give me one more minute."
I watched the sweat beading up on Jack's forehead. I could hear Toby screaming through the door. I put my thumb on the 9, trying to decide whether to dial or pick up a big rock to smash the window.
And as suddenly as my nightmare had begun, it ended. With a click and a sigh of relief, my rescuer popped the lock and opened the door.
I flew to Toby's side and wiped the sweat from his brow. In the 3 or 4 minutes since the air conditioning stopped running the car had heated to a sweltering temperature and both kids were soaked in sweat. I pulled Toby from his seat and held him to me while Jack looked at me expectantly, happy to see I was no longer upset.
Lost in my own little world, I faintly heard a throat clear. It was my Italian, who had just finished reaffixing his bent-beyond-repair antenna to the hood of his SUV. "Okay.. I'm going to head out now."
I turned to him sheepishly, embarrassed to have forgotten my rescuer. "Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU. I can't thank you enough. Thank you for saving us." He waved me off, grabbed his cell phone, climbed into his car, and pulled away. I didn't even get his name.
In the grand scheme of things the fact that, when I finally pulled out of the parking lot, I left my cell phone on top of the car to be thrown violently off and into the road, then run over by half of Purcellville before I realized what had happened and went back to retrieve the sad little pieces... well, it hardly seems worth mentioning. It was merely the doo-doo icing on a horrid sequence of events, and it's easily replaceable.
Not so quickly put aside is my eternal gratitude for the Shining Knight who stopped to assist me, a complete stranger (not to mention a wild-eyed woman pounding desperately on a car window) and reunited me with my babies, safe and sound.
Wherever you are, from the bottom of my heart - Thank You. My Hero.
tags: motherhood,life
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Choking On The Splinters
You may remember that several weeks ago I had a cold. A bad one. It got worse before it got better...before getting worse again.
As of today, I am coughing up things that look like small parts of an alien race. I've decided that an extra-terrestrial must have formed its egg sac in my chest. The little baby aliens are now in their larval stage and working their way up my bronchial tubes. Eventually, a slimy green alien will emerge, full-grown, from my gorge and say something to the effect of "we come to destroy your race and harvest your spleens, which are a delicacy in our culture - best enjoyed with a spicy Pinot Noir and fried potatoes."
This theory gives me something to ponder while I lay awake at night with the coughing. It also helps distract me from the vague impulse to perhaps go to the doctor and be cured of the new species now incubating in my chest cavity.
I'm wondering, as I sip the delectable tea I'm sharing on AlternaMom today, what lengths others have gone to in convincing themselves to put off going to the doctor. Tea is my favorite home remedy, but I've also been known to load up on chicken soup, coffee and, in extreme cases, Krispy Kreme Donuts.
Because the calories totally don't count if they're medicinal.
I recognize this tendency may be genetic. My 67-year-old father mentioned, during his recent visit (and while eating his nightly bowl of ice cream), that he hasn't been to a doctor in over a decade. I could only stare at him in amazement, silently pondering the likely size of the man's prostate. Which, considering he is my father, is really going to give me something new to discuss in therapy.
As of today, I am coughing up things that look like small parts of an alien race. I've decided that an extra-terrestrial must have formed its egg sac in my chest. The little baby aliens are now in their larval stage and working their way up my bronchial tubes. Eventually, a slimy green alien will emerge, full-grown, from my gorge and say something to the effect of "we come to destroy your race and harvest your spleens, which are a delicacy in our culture - best enjoyed with a spicy Pinot Noir and fried potatoes."
This theory gives me something to ponder while I lay awake at night with the coughing. It also helps distract me from the vague impulse to perhaps go to the doctor and be cured of the new species now incubating in my chest cavity.
I'm wondering, as I sip the delectable tea I'm sharing on AlternaMom today, what lengths others have gone to in convincing themselves to put off going to the doctor. Tea is my favorite home remedy, but I've also been known to load up on chicken soup, coffee and, in extreme cases, Krispy Kreme Donuts.
Because the calories totally don't count if they're medicinal.
I recognize this tendency may be genetic. My 67-year-old father mentioned, during his recent visit (and while eating his nightly bowl of ice cream), that he hasn't been to a doctor in over a decade. I could only stare at him in amazement, silently pondering the likely size of the man's prostate. Which, considering he is my father, is really going to give me something new to discuss in therapy.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Blog Me, Baby...One More Time. (Long)
So BlogHer '06 Conference is just under 2 weeks away, and I'm not going to be able to make it this year. BUT, that isn't going to stop me from joining in where I can, which means that for today I am subjecting others to an interview with.. Myself. Because I'm lame, and feeling too shy at the moment to approach another BlogHer to interview them. So Sue Me.
SO, here it is. In all the shining glory. I have too much time on my hands today, so I answered way too many questions. Which makes this inexcusably long. Feel free to skip to the part where I talk about my spectacular breasts.
1. When did you start blogging and why? Or Talk about your blog. What can I learn about you in under 5 minutes?
This is best answered by pointing to my Bio. In under 5 minutes you can find out all that is there. Here's a few more tidbits: I don't know what my natural hair color looks like any more, and my eyes were once coffee brown.. (*mmm coffee*) but are now mostly green. Yeah, it confuses me, too.
2. How do you use blogging to build friendships?
It keeps me in touch with old friends who live far away. Because I have this phobia of the phone. No, SERIOUSLY. Making phone calls freaks me out, so I avoid it as much as possible. Apparently meds can only take the edge off this particular neurosis, they can't cure it completely. And anyway, I'm much more articulate in writing than in person. Especially after a few margaritas... in both cases.
3. Who do you read every day, rain or shine?
Dooce of course. And I loves me some MochaMomma. For the rest, it's a hodge-podge, and I like to check 2 or 3 of my favorites every day rather than checking them all at once. Since some folks seem to be a little wonky on posting frequency, it lets me keep something to look forward to. You know, rather than hitting refresh 20 or 30 times a day in the hopes that someone updated and can give me a reason to crack a smile.
4. Why did you choose to share that piece of yourself in a photograph?
That would imply that I actually had a good reason. Or any reason at all, really. I dunno, I always fixate on my eyes because they're my one really striking feature and I've always thought I have a small mouth, not really worthy of attention. So why not be fair and play to the underdog? I mean, small or not, these lips put up with a lot. I've been known to chew them till they bleed when I'm nervous or deeply engrossed. And I've got them totally addicted to Carmex and Burt's Bees Lip Balm. The level of dependency is truly astounding. My lips need a twelve-step program.
5. How would you describe your writing style?
Ecclectic at best, disjointed and nauseating at worst. I used to write a lot more, and the words came much easier then. I suspect it's because I used to also READ a lot more, and reading prolifically seems to be the key (for me anyway) to coherent writing. I'd rather hear someone else describe my writing style; it's always fun to see myself through someone else's eyes.
6. What don’t you write about? Anything considered a no-no in your book?
I don't complain about my husband (at least not in any serious way) or talk about a fight we've had or reveal anything about him that is overtly personal for him. I don't give out too much specific information about where we are, etc, because my kids are insanely cute and there are psychos out there. I don't talk about things that family members would consider a breach of trust or privacy. There's a lot going on in our lives that it would be wrong to discuss until the dust has finished settling, but some day I will open that can of worms and vent it all out into the ether.
7. So soon we’re going to meet each other at BlogHer. Important question. How do you party?
*SOB* Alas, I will be missing the event this year. Next year, however. Is it wrong that I'm actually planning my next pregnancy around BlogHer 2007 so that I can drink everyone under the table and hopefully leave a bra hanging from the rafters in a bar somewhere?
8. What is your favorite thing that you wrote? What got a strong reaction from readers? Links please?
Love my Tattoo Story ("Permanent Ink")It's probably my favorite blog entry to date, even though it's not the most articulate or artistic one.
See the link over there ---->
9. Are you and your blogging persona the same person?
They each represent several parts of the whole puzzle which is "Me". I think the blog gives you a pretty good idea of what I am like in person. Except in person, I'm a good bit more hyperactive and my breasts are much more spectacular.
10. If you had a super power, what would it be?
The ability to totally change my hair just by thinking about it. Today would be short and red, tomorrow long and blonde, and maybe Wednesday would be a kick ass pink mohawk.
SO, here it is. In all the shining glory. I have too much time on my hands today, so I answered way too many questions. Which makes this inexcusably long. Feel free to skip to the part where I talk about my spectacular breasts.
1. When did you start blogging and why? Or Talk about your blog. What can I learn about you in under 5 minutes?
This is best answered by pointing to my Bio. In under 5 minutes you can find out all that is there. Here's a few more tidbits: I don't know what my natural hair color looks like any more, and my eyes were once coffee brown.. (*mmm coffee*) but are now mostly green. Yeah, it confuses me, too.
2. How do you use blogging to build friendships?
It keeps me in touch with old friends who live far away. Because I have this phobia of the phone. No, SERIOUSLY. Making phone calls freaks me out, so I avoid it as much as possible. Apparently meds can only take the edge off this particular neurosis, they can't cure it completely. And anyway, I'm much more articulate in writing than in person. Especially after a few margaritas... in both cases.
3. Who do you read every day, rain or shine?
Dooce of course. And I loves me some MochaMomma. For the rest, it's a hodge-podge, and I like to check 2 or 3 of my favorites every day rather than checking them all at once. Since some folks seem to be a little wonky on posting frequency, it lets me keep something to look forward to. You know, rather than hitting refresh 20 or 30 times a day in the hopes that someone updated and can give me a reason to crack a smile.
4. Why did you choose to share that piece of yourself in a photograph?
That would imply that I actually had a good reason. Or any reason at all, really. I dunno, I always fixate on my eyes because they're my one really striking feature and I've always thought I have a small mouth, not really worthy of attention. So why not be fair and play to the underdog? I mean, small or not, these lips put up with a lot. I've been known to chew them till they bleed when I'm nervous or deeply engrossed. And I've got them totally addicted to Carmex and Burt's Bees Lip Balm. The level of dependency is truly astounding. My lips need a twelve-step program.
5. How would you describe your writing style?
Ecclectic at best, disjointed and nauseating at worst. I used to write a lot more, and the words came much easier then. I suspect it's because I used to also READ a lot more, and reading prolifically seems to be the key (for me anyway) to coherent writing. I'd rather hear someone else describe my writing style; it's always fun to see myself through someone else's eyes.
6. What don’t you write about? Anything considered a no-no in your book?
I don't complain about my husband (at least not in any serious way) or talk about a fight we've had or reveal anything about him that is overtly personal for him. I don't give out too much specific information about where we are, etc, because my kids are insanely cute and there are psychos out there. I don't talk about things that family members would consider a breach of trust or privacy. There's a lot going on in our lives that it would be wrong to discuss until the dust has finished settling, but some day I will open that can of worms and vent it all out into the ether.
7. So soon we’re going to meet each other at BlogHer. Important question. How do you party?
*SOB* Alas, I will be missing the event this year. Next year, however. Is it wrong that I'm actually planning my next pregnancy around BlogHer 2007 so that I can drink everyone under the table and hopefully leave a bra hanging from the rafters in a bar somewhere?
8. What is your favorite thing that you wrote? What got a strong reaction from readers? Links please?
Love my Tattoo Story ("Permanent Ink")It's probably my favorite blog entry to date, even though it's not the most articulate or artistic one.
See the link over there ---->
9. Are you and your blogging persona the same person?
They each represent several parts of the whole puzzle which is "Me". I think the blog gives you a pretty good idea of what I am like in person. Except in person, I'm a good bit more hyperactive and my breasts are much more spectacular.
10. If you had a super power, what would it be?
The ability to totally change my hair just by thinking about it. Today would be short and red, tomorrow long and blonde, and maybe Wednesday would be a kick ass pink mohawk.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, July 14, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
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!
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*
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*
Thursday, July 06, 2006
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???
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???
Monday, July 03, 2006
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*
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*
Thursday, June 29, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
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?
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?
Monday, June 19, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, June 09, 2006
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???
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???
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
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.
- 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.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Friday, May 26, 2006
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".
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".
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
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.
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?
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?
Monday, May 15, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
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.)
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.)
Thursday, May 11, 2006
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.
*
* 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.
*
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
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...
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...
Saturday, May 06, 2006
... 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.
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.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
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.........
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.........
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
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".
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".
Sunday, April 30, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, April 24, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
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??
- 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??
Sunday, April 16, 2006
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.
I'm totally hooked on this idea. I am soooo submitting at least one card.
Friday, April 14, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Monday, April 03, 2006
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.
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.
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