You Too? I thought I was the only one...

A Jaime CAN cook!

2010-08-23T14:18:00.008-04:00

"We took a look, we saw a Nook. On his head he had a hook.

On the hook, there was a book. On his book was "How to Cook".

We saw him sit and try to cook.

He took a look at the book on the hook

But a Nook can't read, so a Nook can't cook.

SO . . .

What good to a Nook is a hook cook book?"

- Dr. Suess, One Fish Two Fish, Red Fish Blue Fish

I've always felt a special resonance with the Nook, that lowly Dr. Suess character that stares woefully at a book that hangs from a hook on his hat. This poor blue bastard has spent at least forty years studying his cook book, but because he can't actually read it, he hasn't really gained any skill in the kitchen.

This SPEAKS to me, man!

I actually do own cookbooks, I just hate them. I don't understand them. I read a recipe and about halfway through the list of ingredients, I find myself in a different room of the house, working on a totally different project. I just can't seem to follow a recipe, assemble ingredients, apply heat and serve. It just baffled me.

But I can read, so I do have a leg up on a Nook. Not to be outdone by a drawing, I decided to purchase a book about cooking. This, I read somewhere, will help me conquer my fear of the kitchen and help learn me up some crap about cooking. I bought "How to Cook Everything", and waited near the microwave for it to appear.

When it did arrive, I was a little taken aback by the size of the book. When I complained about this on Facebook, a smart mouthed friend of mine commented, "Did you really expect a book about cooking everything to be short?" Well, now that you mention it, I suppose not.

At any rate, the book has been extremely helpful. I've broasted chicken, made a white wine reduction sauce, read about the finer points of pan frying eggs, and can actually say I know what to do now with the piles and piles of raw green beans my neighbor hands over the fence. (I made a green bean gratin, if you're curious.)

This is not to say the journey through this book has been flawless. I burned the crap out of some potatoes one day, and burned the crap out of my arm the next. (St. Nana assured me just this morning that I was going to have one hell of a scar, to which I always reply "No one ever burned themselves ordering pizza.")

Growing in confidence in the kitchen has allowed me to broaden my scope a little. I decided to try my hand at hummus. This decision met with unexpected resistance from Hubs, who is understandably a little guarded about my kitchen abilities. But hummus? I should be able to toss some ingredients into a blender and hit "go".

The following are some excerpts from the Great Hummus Debate of 2010:

To Jaime:
"So….why did you ask nana to buy tahini instead of asking her to buy hummus…I’m just saying…"

To Hubs:
"I already bought the chickpeas."

To Jaime:
"Did you at least ask your mom to buy a small thing of hummus just in case the experiment doesn’t work? No worries, there’s always ice cream and I’m sure there will be lots of other snack stuff too."

To Hubs:
"I must say a few words about your implication that my hummus will not be edible.

1. Thhhhhhhhbt

2. Bite Me.

3. You can't have any.

4. I told you I need a food processor and you said "No you don't." and I said "Yes, I do" and you said "Shut up, who told you that" and I said "You told me to shut up, how am I supposed to tell you who told me if I'm shut up?" and you said "Shut up, for real.'"

Thus I ended another intellectual discussion with my rapier wit.

For the record, my first batch of hummus was excellent. The second, where I substituted paprika for cumin, was not that great. The third batch has yet to be batched.

There is something ELSE wrong with me!

2010-08-22T21:18:00.003-04:00

Dear readers, I owe you an apology. I have been incredibly slackerish in keeping up with this blog, and it has come to my attention that my adoring fan base (hi, Mom!) is unhappy.

This afternoon, St. Nana looked over the lunch table and quietly but sternly said:

"I think you should work on your blog. The last something you wrote said "There is something wrong with me!" and, yes, there is. You haven't written anything in six months."

Busted. Sorry.

Would you care for some excuses? Here we go: I got a new job, Hubs has a new job, there has been some childcare drama, I've been on two actual vacations this year, and giant aliens came down and replaced my regular brain with one that gets headaches if I look at a bit of sugar cross ways.

(Ok, the giant aliens bit was a stretch, but you get the point.)

The real reason, the biggest problem, is my struggle with procrastination and time management. Anyone that has ever had to meet me anywhere or be aware of what time I get to work can attest to the fact that I am always, always, always at least ten minutes late. (It's usually more like 15, sometimes as much as 20.) I just read an article about dealing with "Rude people that are always late..." and I realized that I'm that friend that keeps people waiting.

So I'm owning it. I'm a chronic procrastinator, and chronically late. This dovetails with my inability to stick to a project. So I'm owning that too, and I'm going to do more work on following through on this project and some others.

I'm working on acknowledging my "growing edges" so I can develop those things about me that I don't love. Under the assumption that you can't fix what you don't know is broken, I'm doing some digging to find out what is really bothering me about life, myself, my patterns. My patterns of lateness, procrastination, and inability to complete a project are things that bug me about myself. The things I don't like about myself don't define me, but they are a part of me. Instead of letting those things run me around, I've decided to take them by the tail and swing 'em around a bit.

But don't worry, this blog isn't going to turn into a ranting and raving about my shortcomings. It is important for me, however, to acknowledge why I stopped writing it in the first place. More importantly, for my devoted fans, I wanted to explain why I'm going to start up again.

Sound good?

There IS something wrong with me!

2010-01-30T21:33:00.002-05:00

Faithful readers (hi, Mom!) and dear friends know that I've been struggling with headaches since Thanksgiving-ish. When I say that I've been struggling, know that everyone around me has also been struggling, due to increased levels of grouching, bitching, kvetching, complaining, carping, whining, howling and overall increased sour pessimistic outlook on life.

My internist, after receiving one last tearful phone call from me, threw up his hands and said "You've got to go see a neurologist." Er...isn't that for really sick people? Like, people with, I don't know, unexplainable headaches...that are totally unresponsive to any treatment? FINE. I'll go.

So I told my story to the neurologist, who listened politely to the whole tale of woe. I explained the headaches in detail, along with the tests run and doctors seen. I told him about the drugs I'd taken and got a low whistle at the amount of vicodin I was on.

He thought for a minute, then announced "I know what this is."

Well Hallelujah. It has a name.

I officially have a headache disorder called Hemicrania Continua, which is a fancy phrase that means "headache all the time". It is a rare condition, though it could be more common, just under diagnosed. It can masquerade as migraine, hormonal problems, dental problems, sinus issues, allergies or vision problems.

The great news is that my headaches are responding well to indomethacin. I have almost complete relief on most days. Sunshine makes the headaches worse, so I'm the only person in the great state of Michigan that gets grouchy when the sun comes out. But at least we know what it is, so we can move forward.

Hubs asked the other day if we knew what caused it.

"Sure do," I said.

"Well, what?"

"Being married."

Silence.

Ok, being married doesn't cause it. No one knows why it happens, or if I will always have it. But I do for now, and I'll keep everyone posted.

My Genius Kid

2010-01-12T10:50:00.002-05:00

I know that most mothers probably think their children are brilliant, but I'm slightly concerned that my precocious (almost) four year old has a too-smart problem. This morning, she asked why the car had stopped.

"There is a stop sign, so we stopped to wait our turn."

"Oh."

"You can tell that you have to stop because of the stop sign, which is shaped like a circle, but has edges."

"Oh, you mean, like an octagon?"

Silence. Deep Breath.

"Yes, honey, precisely like an octagon. Where did you learn that?"

"I don't know, Mom. I'm a smart cookie."

Yes you are, darling.

The paradox of pain medicine

2009-12-27T16:19:00.004-05:00

Headaches, blasted headaches. I has them, I hates them.

Six weeks into this whole headaches nonsense, and I've found one thing that makes the pain recede enough so I can accomplish more than rubbing the sides of my head and whimpering. My doctor prescribed some Vicodin, which has the power to dial down the headache from "somebody shoot me" to "I think I'm going to make it".

Vicodin has an "I love you, man..." component that has made me remarkably pleasant to be around for about two weeks. There is also a side effect that makes one a little grumpy if taken for a long period of time. And by grumpy, I mean a bit of "Come here so I can rip off your arm and beat you with it".

So I'm walking a line between headache management and relationship management, which has made for some pretty funny conversations. My sister in law told me to stop whining last night, and a few days prior I told my husband to sit down and shut up his fat face before I pop 'ya one.

But I'm aware of my short fuse, and try to moderate my intake of the magic pain eraser pills so I don't become a raving lunatic. The problem is that my headache also make me a bit snappish, so either way, the primary people in my life are pretty well up a creek right now.

Keep your fingers crossed for them...

I'm a Mom, I can handle it.

2009-12-26T09:18:00.004-05:00

I suppose I should start with an apology. At a Christmas party last weekend, a friend furrowed her brow and said "October 22, Jaime. That was your last post." So, dear and faithful readers, I apologize for being such a slacker. The season has been a hectic one, and by the time I get to review the notes I've jotted down for posts, they seem out of date.

One of the things that has added to my inability get anything done is my constant, chronic headaches. For six or so weeks, I've had a blinding headache every day. Now, before you ask "Have you tried..." let me tell you what I've tried. Advil, Nasonex, Sudaphed, Amoxicillin, Claritan, Zyrtec, sinus washes, Afrin, Excedrin, Tylenol 3, Vicodin, Fiorinol and Medrol. I've had a CT scan and an MRI, the results of which we hope to have next week. I'm getting my eyes checked in a few days...

The point of all that is that the process of addressing these headaches has taken a lot of my time. I've found a hilarious and smart internist, so I'm hopeful that we will eventually figure out why my head is being squished by various vices.

Part of the process has included an MRI, which was preceded by a long list of questions. Are you claustrophobic? Afraid of loud noises? Have any shrapnel in your body? I had to take out my nose ring, and laid awake the night before worrying about wearing an underwire bra.

It wasn't nearly as bad as I had feared. The tech told me it sounded like a construction site, and gave me earplugs to wear. The whole process took about fifteen minutes, which was twice the amount of time it took me to drive to the place. After ten minutes, he needed to inject some dye into my arm so they could see the blood vessels in my head. I'd feel a pinch, he told me, but it would all be over soon.

"I'm a mom," I told him, "I can take it."

"Yeah, that makes you tough on a lot of levels." Then he scampered back to the booth and started the machine again.

As I stared at the blue stripe on the inside of the machine, I thought about how tough being a mom has made me. A friend told me after the birth of her daughter that she had never known real fear until she had become a parent. I didn't really understand that concept until February 10, 2006 when I had to take a tiny baby home from the hospital and try to take care of it by myself.

There was really only one thing that would have made me come unglued at the MRI, and it had nothing to do with me. The worst thing I could imagine would have been to stand by and watch one of my kids have to experience a test like that.

Motherhood has made me infinitely stronger than I ever thought I would be. At the same time, I am infinitely more vulnerable than I thought possible. The paradox of motherhood seems to be that both ends of the spectrum have expanded, so I am equally tougher and more sensitive.

So I'll take the headaches, and whatever else comes along, and be grateful that it is happening to me and not to one of those amazing, beautiful little miracle children.

Sweatshirt vs. Suit Coat

2009-10-22T09:14:00.003-04:00

I pulled into the parking lot at preschool this morning, rocking my stay-at-home-mom uniform. My sweatshirt, purchased 11 years ago in New Jersey, is bright orange. Hunter Safety Orange. Home Depot Orange. Doesn't really go with my new blond hair Orange. The best part about my sweatshirt is that it hides the paint stained, accidentally bleached in spots tee-shirt that is also something of a dinosaur. My super awesome sweatpants aren't a whole lot better, though they are at least from this millennium.

My "natural" makeup look is actually yesterday's mascara in a dusky gray ring around my eyes. I was able to salvage my hairstyle from yesterday by taking off my headband before it crumpled my bangs back enough so that they stick up like stork feathers.

While in the process of hauling my oldest daughter out of the car, I caught the eye of another Mom returning to her car after dropping off a child. This mom, sleekly styled in a business suit and sensible shoes, gave me a sad smile and a slightly envious head-to-the-side look. Wait, was that envy? Or pity? She hopped into a stylish Volvo and bopped away.

Envy? Or pity? I'm reviewing the tape in my head. There are parts of this mom-at-home business that are quite nice, I suppose. We only rush out of the house three days a week, not six. My nine month old sleeps in her crib almost exclusively, not having to be bothered with day care cribs. She doesn't have to fight for attention or share her toys. (My secret anxiety is that she also gets less focused care because I'm also trying to write lists, pay bills, shower, cook meals, etc.)

But there is a flip side. Talking to more than three adults in one day is remarkable. Hubs complains about meetings and emails, but I secretly think it might be fun to have other adults talking around you and have them be interested in your opinion. I miss the camaraderie of community counseling and (gasp) even miss going to class on occasion. Mom-on-the-go styling is not as easy as they make it look on What Not To Wear. You have to be prepared to let your clothes get apple-sauced, dog furred, or ketchuped. Makeup? Not quite as important as it used to be. And yes, I hear you, I know we're supposed to get fancied up and beautiful for our own sake, not for the sake of others, but...the secret is that it feels a bit pathetic to get all glammed up to wrangle the children.

Someone told me, a few days ago, to "Have a great Monday!". Is it Monday? Or Thursday? I told her that as a stay-at-home Mom, every day is Monday. There is no weekend. I said it with a smile, carefully keeping some of the bitterness out of my voice, but my stork hair and yesterday's mascara speak for themselves.

Still, I get to do things that the full-timers can't do. (Like write this out, for example, and ponder the different paths that one's life can take.) I can schedule doctor's appointments for the kids in the middle of the day without worrying about upsetting my boss. I can go to the grocery store during the off hours if I don't mind taking both twerps with me. I can clean the place during naptime if the spirit moves me.

So I don't know, honestly, if I'm to be envied or not. I guess there is good and bad to every situation. Before I get up on my high horse and think I've come up with something super deep and profound, I'd like to remind everyone that the Chinese summed up the whole concept of light and dark, balance and energy with a yin yang. So I'm not exactly treading new ground. But I do feel better about my slouchy outfit and lack of a shower, so that counts for something.

Halloween Costume

2009-10-21T12:56:00.002-04:00

One of my girlfriends was logged on to facebook at the same time I popped in to check Barack Obama's status update. She and I chatted for a little bit, kvetching a bit about children, co-workers and what a bummer it is that she lives in Washington DC and still hasn't bumped into Obama at Five Guys. The conversation turned to Halloween costumes.

Her: "Dude, I have a great costume idea. You should dress all in black and wear a shot glass around your neck. You'd be...A Shot in the Dark!"

Me: "I've already picked out my costume. I'm going as an exhausted mother of two, in desperate need of a shower and a cocktail."

Her: "LOL"

Me: "I'm wearing my costume right now. Gotta make sure it fits."

Her: "You poor thing. I'm off to a glamorous martini party with the glitterati and my fabulous entourage."

Ok, so she doesn't actually say that she is living the glamrous life in the fast lane, but I think she is editing out some of the fabulous details so I don't feel so bad about my twice-a-week shower schedule.

Color Wars

2009-10-20T21:03:00.002-04:00

Hubs and I were having one of our very deep, intellectual conversations. MaeMae started it by announcing that her favorite color is Red. This has been the consistent front runner for several days (practically eternity in the mind of a 3.5 year old) so I am inclined to believe her. She went on to remind us that Mom's favorite color is purple, while Dad's favorite color is blue. Spike, who has yet to speak a language we can understand, has no official position on the subject.

I informed Hubs that blue is an inferior color to purple.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Purple kicked Blue's ass the other day in a street brawl. Blue went crying home to it's momma and hid under the bed for two days."

"Well, if Purple saw Blue in a dark alley, Purple would pee on itself and run away."

"Well, Purple is the color of royalty. Blue is the color of plebeians."

(I'll admit, a comeback loses a bit of it's sting when your word choices clearly reveal a childhood spent watching PBS specials and reading too many books about the middle ages.)

"Well, in nature, Purple is an exotic color. There are only a few purple things, like flowers or grapes. Blue, on the other hand, is the color of the most important features in the world." Hubs settled back in his seat, clearly pleased with this response and considering the discussion at an end.

"WHAT? What are you talking about? What in the world is blue that is so important?"

He stared at me, eyes wide. "The. Sky."

Oooh, right. I forgot about that.

"And the OCEAN. Both are blue."

I had lost all traction gained by an obscure word choice and was firmly back in the dunce corner.

"You gotta color your hair back to brown, hon. You're turning into an idiot."

At this point, MaeMae was actually concerned that either Blue or Purple was hurt from their fight, and we had to reassure her that both colors were ok.

Overtraining

2009-10-19T10:39:00.003-04:00

Hubs and I have been working out, together, in the morning. This morning workout hour used to be my time alone, where I would escape in my fantasy land of swinging hammocks, umbrella drinks served by shirtless (and mute) muscle bound men. But now we work out together, prompting many interesting and pointed conversations.

Case in point:

Today, I announced that I have "Overtraining Syndrome". This is something that happens to people that over do it for a period of time, don't get enough sleep, and have to slow down for a little while.

Hubs said, "How can you tell?"

"Well," I answered, "I'm grouchy. That's one of the signs."

With a carefully composed face, he said "You've been grouchy for 11 years. I don't think overtraining is the problem."

He thought about it a little while longer. "And, I thought that working out would make you happier. Instead, you're more dangerous now, because you can punch and kick."

"And I'm a lot faster now, so you better start running."

"Yep, that too."

I was slightly less grouchy for a period of time after that, because at least I'm not overtraining. I'm just grouchy, which we already knew.

Conversations

2009-09-08T15:21:00.004-04:00

"Mom, what are you doing?"

"I'm putting stuff back in the places it belongs."

"Well, it looks like you are organizing."

-
"Mom, what are those guys doing?"

"They are mowing the lawn."

"Why are they doing that?"

"They are helping the people that live there."

"Well, that is really nice of them to help their neighbors."

-
"Mom, what are those guys doing?"

"They are finished mowing the lawns and are putting the mowers away."

"Why are they putting them in there?"

"Those are trailers, so they can put all the mowers in the trailer and drive them home."

"Why are they taking them?"

"So they can put them in the garage."

"What garage?"

"The garage where they put their stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"THE MOWERS!"

"Oh."

-

"Wow, honey, my car looks just like yours."

"What, awesome?"

"No, covered in kid crap. What a mess."

after a family trip to Ohio

Acutally, Mom...

2009-09-01T16:48:00.002-04:00

Since the dawn of time, people have been pretending to "get" the noses of their children by putting the tip of a thumb between the pointer and middle finger and waving it in front of the child with a gleeful cry of "Got Your Nose!" Hilarity ensues.

I just attempted this with MaeMae. I squealed "Got Yer Nose!" and waggled my thumb-between-two-fingers gesture at her.

She cast a disdainful look in my direction. "Actually, Mom, that is your thumb."

Oh. Ok.

Can't you see it? "So tell me, MaeMae, do you think bipartisanship is possible in this lifetime, or shall we all revert to a cluster of small, agrarian societies?"

"Actually, Mom..."

Conversations

2009-08-29T09:30:00.003-04:00

"Daddy, you scared the crap out of me!"

"Mae, 'crap' is not a good word. It's a bad word."

"No, Daddy, 'crap' is a GREAT word!"

-MaeMae vs. Hubs

"You have a stegosaurus brain."

"What?"

"A stegosaurus has a brain the size of a walnut, and I'm implying that you also have a very tiny brain."

"Ooooo, Burn! Nerd Burn!"

-Me vs. Hubs

Confessions of a Dirty Mom

2009-08-20T22:46:00.001-04:00

There are some homes that upon entering, you immediately take off your shoes without being asked. The smell of fresh linen isn't wafting from a Glade plug-in, but from actual fresh linen. The carpets are free of spots, and you can be assured that your white socks will stay white even if you moonwalk all around the kitchen.

This home is not my home. We have "hot lava" floors, meaning that anything that touches the floor will be covered in dirt or fur and rendered unusable, as if incinerated by lava. I typically try to scrub off the darkest spots on the family room carpet once a month, but I have been known to miss a few. We shrug, sheepish, and explain to visitors that we will replace the carpet once the dog has moved on to the big farm in the sky.

I just took laundry lessons from my sister in law, who is a wizard at stain removal. Up to that point, I had accepted that our family would just be a bit splotchy. I don't wipe out the fridge, clean the microwave or rinse out the silverware tray until company threatens to come over for a visit.

Some friends and I get together once a week or so, to drink coffee, complain discreetly about husbands, and let the kids wear themselves out. The host Mom is a clean mom, with sparkling floors, white grout and no crayon on the walls of her basement. We were having a lively conversation, and I didn't notice that one of the kids, a cheerful 14 month old girl, had wandered over to the play-doh table. She was only a few feet away from me, and happily munching away on the bits of colored doh. Play-doh is quite dry, and she began to cough a bit on the chunks. Still no reaction from me.

She coughed enough that the little bits of doh came flying out of her mouth, drawing the attention of the other moms. Gasps flew up from around the room..."She's eating play-doh!" The other moms immediately sprang into action. One, armed with Lysol wipes, charged over to wipe up the spit up. The other scooped up the toddler to pry the remaining bits out of her mouth.

Er....it says "non-toxic" right on the can. While I don't serve play-doh for snack, I certainly don't mind if someone has a bite or two. I let Darling lick her first ball of play-doh to see what it tastes like.

(Her verdict? "Ew." End discussion.)

No one actually accused me of neglect, but it did get me thinking. Perhaps this episode was indicative of a larger issue? Is this one example of a dirty mom vs. a clean one?

For further confirmation of the apple falling not-so-far from the tree, I relayed this story to St. Nana. She shrugged her shoulders and said "It says 'non-toxic' right on the can."

Ss..Ss...Spit it out, Junior!

2009-08-20T06:34:00.002-04:00

I need to apologize to my legion of fans (Hi, Mom!) for being so quiet over the last few months. I plead for mercy, and can point to one concrete event that has totally ruined my once idyllic life...I went back to work. Boo! Hiss!

I'm working at this beautiful, spa-like place a few times a week, getting all strung out on hot chocolate (the kind with the marshmallows) and french vanilla creamer. This place is amazing - it is posh, luxe, uber. It could possibly be where counselors go to die, and I'm having a post-life experience.

Either way, it is shameful the way I've neglected the teeming millions of faithful readers that have tuned in a few times a week to read about the foibles of my crazy life. I humbly apologize. I promise I will do better in the future.

More to come...

Conversations

2009-06-16T08:27:00.003-04:00

To Husby

hey honey -

I was just making dinner and got into the spices - I saw the container of Dill Weed and thought of you.

I hope you're having a good day.

(bwah ha ha ha snort ha ha ha ha)

His Answer:

I saw a homeless lady pushing a cart along the river walk shouting profanities....and I thought of you.

Hope you're having a great day.

(burrrrrrrrrn)

Check the temperature of hell, please...

2009-06-12T22:32:00.007-04:00

Because perhaps it has frozen over?

I find myself in the unbelievable position of agreeing with our erstwhile candidate on the GOP ticket. Sarah Palin, for the first time since her inexplicable arrival on the political scene, has said something that actually makes sense.

I find myself taking her side in the tiff with David Letterman, who sparked a debate by making what even he admits to be a tasteless joke about one of her daughters. It wasn't funny, and probably would have drifted off into the wilderness, except that Sarah was paying attention. (Insert snide remark here - as a big fan of the "gotcha media", I don't have a lot of credibility when it comes to objective analysis of her character.)

Ms. Palin made her argument on the Today show this morning, to an incredulous Matt Lauer who taunted her with raised eyebrows during the interview. He took great pains to insist that Letterman was just joking, geeze, nothing to get your long underwear in a knot over. You slutty flight attendants are so touchy...

Not so fast, buster.

Sarah's argument centers around the idea that our words actually matter. Letterman's joke about her youngest daughter getting "knocked up" by the third baseman for the Yankees wasn't just unfunny, wasn't just rude or in poor taste. This kind of crap, these stupid jokes, these reaffirmed stereotypes of women get slowly burned into the collective, cultural consciousness. Stupid women, stupid girl, stupid blonde. Stupid, slutty, trampy, trashy women.

Now, I recognize that we've come a long way, baby. I see how facial expressions go from interested to flat when I go off on my tangents, get up on one of my soapboxes. Boo, hiss, shut UP already, Jaime. Yeeaaa, no. Sorry.

The words we choose to use represent our thoughts, our feelings, our fears. The words we select out of the vast language options are indicative of what we believe. These words send signals, spoken and unspoken, that communicate the fundamentals of our belief systems.

For example, when I hear someone say "Merry Christmas", I hear the following message: I believe in Jesus, and you should too. If you don't believe in Jesus, you're an outsider and don't belong here. As a result, I say "Happy Holidays" to everyone, even once to my pastor on Christmas Eve. (That got an eyebrow raise, lemme tell ya.) Other phrases, like "Do you work?" send another message. "Are you important? Or do you just sit at home and change diapers all day?" Hell, yes I work. I work inside the home, outside the home, all around the home, and I can kick your ass if you don't get out of my way.

It is my firm believe that our words indicate who we are, what we believe, and how we think. Our words create the relationships between people, and our relationships with people result in our society at large. So our little "jokes" about girls, women, gays, blondes, and even the "stupid husband" characters on sitcoms like Raymond and The King of Queens represent our true societal beliefs.

David Letterman apologized, sincerely this time, for his bad joke. Sarah used his apology as a chance to take one last swing, saying that she hopes men that make sex jokes about women "evolve". I am surprised to hear that word from her, because that word carries other connotations than just to grow and change. But I do agree with her, that it is time for the entertainers in society to rise above the lowest denominator and to quit repeating sexist, unfunny jokes about girls and women. It is time for us to chose our words more carefully, to create a better society, one relationship at a time.

Meet me at the 'Brary...

2009-05-19T16:04:00.004-04:00

A notice popped up in my inbox a few days ago, reminding me that my library materials were due. Silently praising the internets for making my life easier, I clicked "renew materials" on the website. Out of curiosity, I wondered when I had checked out the books in the first place...I've renewed them twice, so they've been in our house for about six weeks. Heh.

I remember that day, six weeks ago, when I gathered up my courage with both hands and loaded Frick and Frack into the car for an adventure to the library. I attempted to fit the baby carrier into the stroller, but found that three years of motherhood have left gaping holes in my memory...I couldn't remember how to put all the pieces together. Add to this MaeMae's howls of injustice, because she realized that I wasn't planning on letting her ride in the stroller. The cold, wet wind was blowing my unwashed hair around, both kids were crying, my shirt was covered in mud from trying to get the stroller into the trunk of the car. I finally put the carrier back in the car, put MaeMae back in her seat, closed all the doors and leaned against the car to reevaluate.

It had been a monumental effort to get everyone out of the house, and it made sense to press on. So I abandoned the idea of putting the baby carrier into the stroller, and grabbed one child per hand. The baby carrier, for those that have blocked it out or have never experienced it, weighs about one zillion pounds and has to be carried at an awkward angle about two feet away from the body. It grows exponentially heavier with each second. A screeching three year old tugging on the other arm should theoretically balance out the weight of the carrier. It doesn't.

So, I'm working my way through the parking lot, explaining to MaeMae why I can't carry her and Spike at the same time. I have to keep hitching up the carrier against my hip so I don't drop it, and then add the corresponding shoulder jerk to get the diaper bag back into place. Hitch, jerk. Hitch, jerk. Marchmarchmarch, No, I can't pick you up and don't make me turn around and leave 'cuz I'll do it don't test me you know I'll do it.

Now, at this point, I was still in maternity pants. The charming elastic panel had begun to break down, and to my horror, had begun to slip down with each hitch of the carrier. Because I was dragging MaeMae with one hand and hitching the baby carrier with the other, I didn't have a free arm to hitch up my pants. Lower and lower the panel rolled, threatening the integrity of my outfit. Seriously? After all that, my freakin' pants were about to fall down? Yeah. Awesome.

I made it, glory be. I was able to get the kids into the kid section before MaeMae could disrupt the grownups with a shouted "Mom, is THIS the library?" I had run the gauntlet of the parking lot and made it to the safety of the kids section. There were people here that understood exactly what it takes to get out of the house. We shared exasperated smiles and heavy sighs.

The Library is a Mom's singles bar. We evaluate each other for signs of similar backgrounds, parenting styles, age of children. If we think there might be enough in common, we might approach someone and ask a generic question..."How old is yours?" That breaks the ice a bit - if Mom is friendly, we might ask something a little more personal.

"Hard to get out of the house, isn't it?" The answer to that question speaks volumes about the individual's Momtra.

"Why, whatever do you mean? It's really easy for us, I'm a very talented and good mom. I make cookies from scratch, have implemented a Montessori curriculum, and am in denial about my addiction to Oprah and diet coke."

Er....on to the next.

"Do you come here often?" Roughly translated, that means...do you come here a lot? Like, if you are friendly, can I count on seeing you here again next Wednesday at 10:00? Do you do storytime? If you don't come here often, what do you do with your kids and can I come too?

If a mom looks appealing, you might strike up a conversation. If the conversation goes well, you might hope to see them again next week, or if you're incredibly bold you might ask for her phone number or give her yours. (To date, I have never been that bold.) Some moms choose to go with a Wing Mom, to lessen the appearance of desperation. I don't need friends, this mom says, because I already have them. Some moms are shy and sit in the corner, some moms are loud and outgoing and are full of bravado.

I personally throw in a few key words to let the Moms know what kind of Mom I am. Yes, I come here when I can, but I'm meeting my friend for a drink tonight. Yeah, a mom I know from church has that problem with her kid. Yes, I love my children but sometimes...(eye roll)...

So the dance goes on. Moms milling around our new version of a night club, scoping out the other moms and wondering if any of them could be "the one". The lights are brighter, it is less smokey, and there are a lot more children than at Boogie Fever, but it is a place to see and be seen nonetheless.

So, really, do you come here often?

Hi, Ya'll

2009-05-19T15:28:00.002-04:00

Or is it y'all?

Some of you might watch Dancing with the Stars...it is a cute little bit of nonsense on ABC a few times a week. It is a Pro-Am dance contest, with really good looking professional dancers and E-list celebrities.

One of the professional dancers is an adorable young gal named Julianna Hough. She has, bless her tiny little blond heart, had a run-in with endometriosis and has had a hell of a time with painful periods and the like. For all accounts, this pain has almost sidelined her on several occasions, but she has enough Texas in her to keep up the good work until the race has been run. ("Texas", for me, sums up a few euphemisms like "suck it up, buttercup" and "cowboy up" and so forth.)

At any rate, the adorable Miss Houghs has quite a resume built up around her singing and dancing abilities. I happened to catch a glimpse of her story on an E(Entertainment NEWS!) special on Celebrity ailments. She discussed her endometriosis at length, explaining how abnormal tissue forms along organs in the abdomen, affecting women of "childbearing years".

Now, I take nothing away from the adorable little Southern gal with amazing legs and a cheerful smile. I applaud her ability to raise awareness for what some would call a "lady disease" and write off as unavoidable. The thing that caught my ear was a snippet of her interview where she discussed her ability to have a family in the future.

Sometimes, she explained, endometriosis signals a future fertility issue. Yucky. She, by grace, has no reason to believe that she will have a problem having a family in the future. (Every red-blooded American male just wheezed a sigh of thanksgiving...) This lovely little Southern gal counts her blessings, saying "I don't care about the dancing, the singing...I still get to have a family, and that is what is important."

Blank Stare, Eyebrow Raise.

Oh? Are you sure? I've been barfed on, screamed at, defied, mocked and ignored today. Someone went along behind me and dug up all the flowers I'd planted. The Stupid Dog killed a bumblebee and barked at me until I came over to identify the remains. (I was so grateful that it wasn't a baby bird or a bunny that I cheerfully granted him permission to eat it.)

So, tiny little blond dancer, be veeerrrry careful what you wish for. You might want to hold on to your singing and dancing career long enough to be able to afford a nanny, lest you end up drinking a bottle of champagne for lunch to drown out the sound of screeching children who just want to help make a peanut butter sandwich.

Sisyphus Shmishaphus

2009-05-10T21:33:00.006-04:00

Sisyphus has been on my mind lately. For those readers who aren't complete and total nerds like myself and haven't read Edith Hamilton's encyclopedia of Greek Mythology, Sisyphus is the poor bastard condemned to an eternity of fruitless labor. He was found to be guilty of having a huge ego and thought himself more clever than Zeus. He was sentenced to an eternity in hell, pushing a massive boulder up a mountain just to watch it roll down to the bottom.

Can you see it? Up the mountain with the boulder, pant pant, whew! Finished! Then...

Wait...stop...someone stop that boulder...oh, crap. Trudge down the mountain, perhaps kicking a few pebbles out of the way while you go, get behind the boulder again and puuuush it up the hill.

Repeat. For all eternity.

Sisyphus has gotten a fair amount of air time since the story broke a jillion years ago. Many scholars with sharper minds than mine have used him to illustrate the finer points of the absurdity of humanity. Some liken him to the sun, which rolls from one side of the sky to the other in an eternal cycle of light and dark.

Personally, I have stormed around the house declaring that Sisyphus has nothing on a mother of young children. My boulders are laundry and mealtimes, toy cleanup and bath time. Grocery store runs, diaper changes, dishes. Repeat. For all eternity.

You want dinner again? Didn't we do that yesterday? Didn't I wash this plate, microwave that bag of frozen vegetables, make you sit in your chair until you finished, and force you to ask politely to be excused from the table?

MaeMae told me yesterday that it wasn't naptime and she didn't need to lay down. I reminded her that she has taken an afternoon nap every day since the dawn of her little baby life. (This is excepting the first six months of her life which we will not get into here.) When I finally did convince her to lay down, I stepped squarely into her laundry basket full of dirties. And then bumped into the dog that needed to be fed, medicated, brushed and yelled at for being a worthless mongrel. Don't forget the poop...

Sisyphus, a regular on the cast of my daily complaints, made a surprise appearance on my spiritual stage this morning. For the last few weeks I have been cheerfully pushing my boulder of skepticism, disbelief, doubt and frustration up to the top of Mt. Spiritual Hangup. I was so hoping I was getting enough momentum to throw the boulder off the top, setting me free from the forked stick of twin desires to be more "Christian" or to be done with the whole mess and go out for a drink.

I was making progress. I...was...almost...over...the tricky spot...

Not so fast, sparky. I'm not sure when I lost my grip on the boulder but it rolled right back down the hill. So today's church service sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher; waa waa waaa. This can also be referred to as the "Ginger Factor", immortalized by Gary Larson's FarSide comic:

Blah blah blah, indeed. I've heard the words, I know the song, I can even do the hand motions. For a few weeks I had this burgeoning seed of hope that maybe this time it would make sense to me and I would break out of this fourth stage crap. Ffft. That seed of hope got smushed by the boulder as it careened down the slope.

I've tossed out expletive filled explanations of why Sisyphus has nothing on a Mom. Now I'm seeing him in other areas of life, and I'm not his biggest fan. He reminds me that laying down in traffic for your children isn't what is required - instead it is a constant stream of "use your inside voice, say please, pick up your toys, you can't talk to me that way and you're getting a time out". Not once, not twice. Always, for eternity. Apparently he is no longer satisfied with illustrating the futility of my domestic agenda. Now he's showing me all the other absurd cycles of growth and destruction.

So there. And don't try and cheer me up, either. I'm obviously quite fond of my spiritual boulder or I wouldn't be dragging it around like a blankie for twenty years. And that, my friends, is a psychoanalytic article of it's own; that will have to wait until my allergy medicine kicks in.

Overheard very early this morning...

2009-04-29T06:57:00.004-04:00

"I think someone woke up on the right side of her big girl bed..."

"ME! Mom, it was ME!"

Yeah, honey, we know.

Life's a bitch...

2009-04-20T23:12:00.003-04:00

For the second time in a week, I found myself in a dead sprint to Rite Aid, in search of the perfect baby formula. I had a brilliant idea last week to switch to generic baby formula, which would save us approximately one jillion dollars per month. Spike appeared to be on board with the Kroger brand for a day or so, then changed her mind. She expressed her displeasure by yarking on me and screaming uncontrollably. Our previously serene existence was no more.

So I raced to Rite Aid, pulling out my hair as only a new mom with jangled nerves can. I got the trusty Blue formula, and Spike returned to her previously calm state. Almost. So I got a bright idea that we should try soy formula to see if that would bring us all the way back to Zen Baby.

Fffft. A full day of soy formula brought us back to barfing, yelling and general mayhem. At the end of my rope, I raced over to Rite Aid again to get more of the Blue Stuff. They were out of the powder Blue, so I bought the liquid Blue, hoping it would be the right kind. The cashier, taking in my ensembe of a ratty t-shirt and pajama pants, astutely observed that I must have a "hungry baby at home, raising all sorts of holy heck." And how.

It's been a rough day, what with Darling breaking out of her crib and me still being too wide in the hips to get into a decent sized pair of pants. Howling Spike was a bit of a last straw. I was keeping a running log of complaints in my head, as if to prove somehow that I've taken my fair share of lumps for one day and deserved a spa vacation as a reward.

I was remembering fondly the days before children. The problem, as devoted fans will remember, is that I'm a bit of a pessimist. The good ole' days weren't all great, you know. Husby and I lived in Colorado for many years, and I remember the exhiliration of having a mountain range in my backyard and the freedom of non-commitment. The endless blue skies, the clean dry air of the high desert, the view from the parking lot at school...I miss all of these things. But I also remember the lonliness, the fear of not knowing what the hell I was going to do with a bachelors in Psych, the co-worker that threw post-it notes at my head. I remember being too far from my family, breaking the coffee pot at work on my first day back from vacation. I remember driving home from campus for lunch becuase I didn't have anyone to sit with.

And so it goes. I remember Michigan State, which was a pretty good time while it lasted. I think about high school, a time of freedom and rent free living. I remember the year I lived in New Jersey, the time I went to community college, the first time I tried to make spagetti. There is a good side and a bad side to everything, a time of growth mixed with the fear of not being prepared to handle the transition. I refuse to be romantic about the past.

So, where does that leave us? Our lives are full of crisis, from infancy to the grave. (I didn't make that up, that comes from Erik Erikson, neo-Freudian at large.) We must resolve these crisis in order to move forward in the game, in order to gain the skills to get to the next level. So I don't look back with glazed longing to be the person I was before, to go back to a time in my life when things were different. At least, I don't do that for very long.

We're faced with the challenges that are appropriate for our develomental level. Darling is faced with figuring out how to sleep in a bed instead of a crib. I'm pretty sure it is very uncomfortable for her not to be penned in on four sides. In five years, she might wish that was her biggest challenge. Spike is learning how to express her needs in a way that her big people can understand. I have no desire to be in her booties - how frustrating it must be to have to lay in one spot and scream until someone figures out that you've pooped yourself? Sure, it seems like a blissful life, to drink yourself silly and fall asleep in the middle of a meal and take another nap...but what if you didn't like what was on the menu?

So I'm back to day one, lesson one. Life, dear readers, is a bitch. No matter what stage you're in, your problems are big and scary. Even if the outside world thinks you've got it made in the shade.

Update: Spike was sound asleep by the time I got back from Rite Aid, and Darling was up wandering around because the baby had "woked" her up.

Smells

2009-04-19T18:36:00.005-04:00

Our house is a brick ranch, built in 1955. I'm pretty sure there has been a cat peeing in the basement every day since the thing went up. We moved in about 18 months ago, and I've been fighting the old person/cat piss smell ever since.

I've tried everything short of fire to alter the smell of the house. I draw the line at scented candles and incense because I have a healthy fear of unattended flames developing a mind of their own and proving the existence of sentient candles by burning down my house. So I'm restricted to those goofy plug-ins which are arguably more dangerous than candles and smell pretty bad anyway. I'm threatening to rip up the carpet in the family room and replace it with laminate flooring, but until our giant mutt goes to the great dog farm in the sky, we're stuck with the stank.

A few days ago, I cooked up an amazing dinner with green, yellow and orange peppers, chicken, cheese and a whole lot of pats-on-the-back. The good part about this combination is the versatility - add green chilies, and you've got a Mexican feast. Take out the cheese, add the soy sauce, and you've got a stir fry. Forget the whole thing and order a pizza, and you've got my dream dinner. But my cooking abilities are increasing, and I didn't burn any of the ingredients during this attempt to feed my family something everyone would eat.

This successful dinner yielded a hidden bonus - it made my house smell great for about a day. It took me a minute to figure it out, but the smell of peppers, chicken and cheese reminds me of our pre-child camping trips to Canyonlands, in Utah. We used to make hoagies on a Coleman stove, drinking beer out of cans labeled "BEER" (love state-run liquor stores). We would play gin rummy, and feel smugly grateful that we had chosen a college in such close proximity to the desert.

I was reminded of the time we constructed a shelter with tarps, using rope and every ounce of Husby's carpentry skills. We dragged a picnic table under the roof in time to escape the torrential rainstorm, and were terribly proud of ourselves. We could see a pair of campers across the sand that didn't fare as well in the storm. They were huddled over two mugs of coffee, drenched and miserable.

I scampered over in the pitch dark to invite them to come and hang out with us under our shelter. They were not expecting me, and I was lucky they were hippies, and not hunters. (Sneaking up on hunters is not a good idea.) I scared the crap out of them, but they were greatly cheered by the prospect of getting out of the rain.

They came over and sat with us under our tarp tent for a few hours, telling us about their adventures in camping across the country. They had their mugs, they explained, and ate most meals out of the mugs. If you make oatmeal in a mug, they told us, everything that you eat from that mug will taste faintly of oatmeal. They seemed good natured enough, despite the fact that rain really was following them around the country like Linus's dirt cloud. This was good news to us, because we thought it was our presence that brought rain to the desert...

For a moment, my kitchen waved out of focus and was replaced with the memory of flaming red rocks against a brilliant blue sky. All it took was a whiff of the peppers/chicken/cheese combination to break out of the brick ranch in the Midwest and go to the desert for a few moments.

Quotes from the gallery

2009-04-19T15:09:00.003-04:00

"I don't think I'm qualified to change this one..."
-Husby, after Spike tested the capabilities of yet another diaper

"You're making me crazy!"
-Mae Mae.

"You're driving me nuts!"
-Mae Mae.

"I don't have time for this."
-Mae Mae.

Whack-A-Mole

2009-04-14T08:15:00.004-04:00

I would have never believed it before there were two. When there was one, I actually was in a sort of control, even if the opposite seemed true at the time. Now I am outnumbered during the day, and any sort of illusion of control has completely disappeared.

I equate it to a game of Whack-A-Mole...as soon as you get one child down, the other pops up. Get one kid started on an art project, daydreaming about a cup of coffee that hasn't formed the thin skin of cream on the top. Then, squawking from the next room reminds you that a fresh cup of coffee is just over the horizon, never to be drunk. The other kid needs a new diaper, a bottle, a face wipe, a burp, help with glue, juice in a cup with a lid, crusts cut off a sandwich...

Something, anything, MOM I NEED IT NOW. Not later, lady, Now.

You mean, before my shower? Oh, please. You mean, before my cup of coffee? Uh, yeah. So you get out your figurative rubber mallet and chase the latest mole back into the hole. (It's a metaphor, don't get all child-protective-services on me.) Whap. Good! Can I shower now?

Oh, silly mommy. No you can NOT shower, now get me my juice.

The only job you'll ever....nevermind.

2009-04-10T21:00:00.006-04:00

Everyone has had a crap week at work, right? Everyone has that co-worker that interrupts you just as you start a project, won't stop talking during lunch, insists on having everything done their way and ignores all of your subtle social signals that say "I'm not interested in what you're saying...".

So, most people come home from work, kick off their shoes, open a nice cold Heineken and start planning a Beaches vacation to Ocho Rios. Maybe play some video games, go to Opening Day at Tiger's Stadium, take in a movie, go out for a cocktail with a buddy...or peacefully read a book that might be more insightful than the latest vampire novel because there might actually be enough gas left in the tank to comprehend something a smidge more complicated. Maybe microwave a Lean Cuisine or go for a walk.

What do you do when that most irritating co-worker is someone to whom you have personally given birth? Or taken a vow in front of God and everybody to love, honor, cherish and not tell to shutthehellupplease just this once? What if your co-worker didn't understand that just this one time, you'd like to go to the bathroom without an audience? What if your co-worker screeched, stomped a foot and flung herself on the floor because you'd had the temerity to fill her water cup to the tippy top instead of just to the regular top?

What if you were bound by state law and biological psychology to wipe your co-worker's butt, play circus penguin on the driveway, and praise every piece of artwork created by putting old address labels on a piece of construction paper?

Some people may complain that they feel like they live at the office. What do you do when you actually do live at the office? When you can't go home? When you are at work, and at home, all at the same time?

Well, if you're me, you daydream about camping in Utah, fitting into your old jeans, and doing the hippy jig dance at a dive bar in Colorado with a super cute carpenter that you met at a block party. (The fact that the super cute carpenter is now the father of the co-workers that are plaguing you is irrelevant in these daydreams.)

If you're me, you count going to the grocery store as "getting out of the house" and wonder if you've sacrificed your brain to those co-workers that are frustrating, adorable, amazing and infuriating. You hope that someday, you will find a hairstyle and sunglasses that make you look as stylish as the mom on Friday Night Lights. (And to be half as good at motherhood as she is, too.) You hope to get a pedicure for your rusty feet before summer and wonder why some moms have nice eyebrows...

And hope that tomorrow, you can go to the bathroom, just once, by yourself.

Surprise? Really?

2009-03-29T21:51:00.003-04:00

We have reached a point in our parenting career where a trip out of town was necessary. Husby's dear grandmother passed away in January, and we were to go to her memorial service in Indiana. St. Nana was called upon to let out our wayward (worthless) mutt, but we were unable to convince ourselves that letting the children out of the house twice a day to poop in the yard would constitute "good parenting". So we packed up the kids and headed out of town.

I made a list of all of the things required for three of us to appear presentable for an hour long function. (Husby, being male, requires no list. He has a bag with deodorant and a toothbrush in it and is good for about a week.) As the bags were filled and items crossed off the list, I began to feel like I was organizing a small army of invaders.

"Look out!" they would cry as the family marched across the state line. "The crazy family with all the wild floral prints is coming to bring an attempt at mid-century fashion to Indiana! Run for your lives!"

In my defense, I didn't realize that all three of us would be kitted out in big floral prints until we were all standing next to each other. I also didn't realize that my floral print raincoat, when paired with my crazy geometric diaper bag, would create such a grinding headache in anyone unfortunate enough to see me. And all that on top of my bright green dress? Oof. Sorry, everyone.

Our trip went very smoothly, meaning that I didn't use a quarter of the clothing I'd brought for the kids. I used only a small fraction of the formula that I'd packed for the baby, though I did deplete our supply of ibuprofen in an attempt to thwart my spring sinus headaches. My over preparation for every possible circumstance did come in handy a few times, so I can at least rest in the knowledge that my new obsession with plastic grocery bags as diaper containers is justified.

But even with my preparation, my amazing children and my ability to sing any number of Barney songs at the request of a tired three year old, 10 hours in the car is a long time. By the end of our journey, I felt a bit grimy and stiff. To combat this feeling, I plopped Fat Baby in a warm bath and used one of the bath toys to pour warm water on her chubby little self.

Husby was scampering about in an attempt to put away all of the supplies I had gathered for our trip. I called out to him from the bathroom to let him know that I wasn't just playing patty-cake with the baby. "I think I'm projecting," I told him.

"Why?"

"I'm pouring all this warm water on the baby, and I don't think she really likes it that much. I, on the other hand, would love a nice warm bath and someone to pour water on my head." I looked at Fat Baby, who actually did have a bit of a smile on her face. Hmm, maybe she did like it?

This gave me an idea. After I finished spoiling the baby, I called Darling Daughter over to the bathroom. "I have a treat for you! A surprise treat!"

"What is it, Momma?" she croaked in her raspy, croupy voice.

"A warm washcloth to wash your hands and face!" I was so proud of my idea.

Darling's face transformed in a heartbeat to one of tearful disbelief. Her bottom lip stuck out, her cheeks got all red, and she sucked in a huge lungful of air to launch a protest. "I want my surprise!"

"This is your surprise, baby! Doesn't that feel better, being clean?" My explanation didn't help at all. Husby was chuckling from the safety of the other room.

"No! NO! I want my surprise! I! Want! My! Surprise!" After voicing her articulate arguments, Darling abandoned reason and wailed wordlessly while I stood there with my damp washcloth.

"You know, that was a pretty crappy surprise," said Husby. "Good luck with that one."

I cast about for a replacement surprise while my tired and grubby daughter expressed her dissatisfaction with my parenting skills with increasing volume. Juice? We'd just brushed her teeth. A Popsicle? Way too late at night, and too messy. Nothing seemed to be a good fit.

Inspiration struck again, though I was a bit insecure about my version of "treats". I raced over to the pantry and poured an assortment of children's vitamins into my palm. I offered to let Darling pick out which one she wanted to eat. She settled on the purple Dino and grumbled quietly to herself as she wandered out of the kitchen. Whew. Saved by the dino.

The razzing continued long after Darling had gone to sleep. My husband wanted to know just what the hell I was thinking, offering a three year old a nice warm washcloth. "Here, dirty child, get clean! Won't that be nice?"

"You know, in first class they give you a warm washcloth to freshen up with after a long flight. It's lovely."

"Unless you are three, in which case you would be horribly disappointed that all you were getting was a modified bath!"

Fine. Whatever. But don't come crying to me when all you get with the next trip is a bag of peanuts!

Tights on a Toddler

2009-03-12T00:10:00.004-04:00

Putting outfits together has never been my strong suit. I have retreated to a safe position of neutral clothes (jeans + t-shirt = happy) and big funky jewelry. Some people have said things like "I wish I could wear a necklace like that, but I don't think I could pull it off." The secret answer is that my big necklaces keep you from noticing that I'm wearing last year's jeans. I go in for a bit of a "hippy/business casual/bohemian/this-was-the-only-clean-sweater-I-could-find" look.

So, styling Darling Daughter for a weekly appearance at church has historically been a bit of a trial for me. Do we go casual to show my disregard for the patriarchal insistence that women must be attractively kitted out from the moment of our birth? Do I let Darling wear her sweatpants to church to illustrate what a forward thinking Mom I am to let her make her own choices? (Sometimes, yes. And mothers everywhere share a slight shrug and an eye roll with me when they see us out in public in our party shoes, paisley pants and a football jersey that is a few sizes too small.) Or do I try, against all my good judgement backed up by three years of experience, to put together an outfit that matches, fits and is event appropriate?

Ambitious Mom took over this weekend, and I put Darling in a planned outfit of a skirt, tights and tunic. She wasn't very keen on the whole idea until I told her she could chose between her cow-boots and her party shoes. Fancy shoes? No, not the fancy shoes, the party shoes. Alright, then, she would do it, but she really did think the fancy shoes would go better than the party shoes.

Everything was going really well, believe it or not. There was even a girl at church that had the same shoes as Darling, though I don't think she was wearing them in a casually ironic way, which is the message I was attempting to send. The tights were a surprisingly big hit, and Darling mentioned to more than one person that she was, in fact, wearing tights that day.

We were enjoying a relativly snarl free Sunday afternoon at my parents house when it became clear to us that someone needed a new diaper. After elucidating the finer points of the being free of diapers and launching into a description of the brave new world of potty training, I changed her diaper and put her outfit back together. I was also telling a not-very-funny anecdote to Husby, St. Nana and Papa while hitching Darling's tights back up under her skirt.

I noticed that all three of my audience members were wearing a similar, odd smirk. I silently reviewed my anecdote in my head to figure out what they thought was so amusing. Finally, Hubsy snickered and asked if I was forgetting something.

Huh?

St. Nana and Papa were clearly holding in serious laughter. I looked around divine the cause of this amusement and came up empty handed.

"Did you forget to do something?" Husby wondered, unhelpfully. St. Nana and Papa were giggling. Nice supportive family I have, don't you know...

"The diaper. You forgot to put a diaper on her."

I looked at Darling, who looked back at me with as much confusion as I felt. Neither of us had noticed that I had completely forgotten to put a new diaper on her after clearing off the first one. I had simply carried on with the business of putting her matching outfit back together without bothering to supply an important, foundational layer.

Oops. I had to redo the whole process with my unsupportive family cackling in the background. At that point, I reminded them that Fat Baby is only eight weeks old and that they still have to be nice to me. It didn't work, though Papa did promise to keep the house stocked with Heineken Light so he, at least, is back in my good graces.

Further Evidence that I need to Watch My Mouth

2009-03-11T21:13:00.002-04:00

The bad news:

- "Mom, these pants are pissing me off."

- "Daddy, my friends are old. They are older than dirt."

- "Mom, I need a new blankie, this one smells really bad and it stinks too. Like you."

The good news:

- "Mom, you're a genius!"

- "The baby looks so cute in her raincoat! She's just darling!"

- "Mom, you're my best friend."

Oh. My. Lord.

2009-03-05T12:20:00.000-05:00

Our morning was progressing along in typical fashion - Darling was prancing about the family room dressed in nothing but a diaper. I was puttering around in the first layer of yesterday's outfit (a white tank with armpit stains and makeup on the front) and a face mask dabbed strategically on my latest spots. The house, as usual, looked a bit like the command center for a baby led mutiny - bottles overturned on the counter, step stools laying lifelessly on their sides or propped up against the pantry door. There were rings of dried formula on the counter, a toaster sprouting crumbs and empty cereal boxes next to last night's dirty bowls of late night ice cream. Toys had been rousted from their sleepy spots in the toy box or under the tv and scattered mercilessly around the room. I had wandered into the baby's room to check my email when a horrible sound pulled me away from my pleasant daydreams about squishy babies and long drives through the Colorado mountains.

The doorbell.

Oh. Crap. I looked around the room in horror. I gathered up my courage with both hands and went to the door to face the judgement of the visitor. I was so hoping it would be AT&T with another plea for me to sign up for their latest internet package, or a meter reader, or the good people from the Veterns for Clean Water group. No such luck. It was my next door neighbor, coming to see the baby.

Darling was delighted and showed off her sweet moves for the neighbor until I hissed at her to go find pants and a shirt to put on. I dashed over to the basket full of clean (praise be) laundry and pulled the first shirt I could find over my head. I glanced into my room to see if things were better organized than I remembered, which they weren't. The bathroom mirror had hand prints all over it, and Fat Baby's poopy outfit in the sink where I'd left it after rinsing off the worst bits.

I hung my head in shame and offered repeated apologies for the state of the house. I'd often thought about having her come over to see how I'd decorated it, because I knew she had seen it when the previous owners were living here in their Brady Bunch splendor. I almost asked if she wanted a tour, because I wanted to show off the murals I've painted in a few rooms. I thought twice, remembering that Fat Baby's room had dirty diapers on the changing table, laundry baskets in the crib, and my dirty outfit from a few days before wadded up in the corner.

Thankfully, my neighbor was gracious and said many times that this is what a house looks like when there are young children in residence. That helped a little. I also knew that I would look back on this and laugh...

But one can't help but feel a little chagrined at getting caught at their least attractive in the middle of the day. And my house, where I spend 27 hours each day, wasn't quite the shining jewel that I like it to be when people wander in.

Oh bother. At least she didn't want to go to the basement, where every item of clothing I own is scattered on the floor in an attempt to find anything that fits. And at least Darling didn't wander out of Fat Baby's room waving my bra, saying "Don't forget your bra, Momma..." because she'd already done that earlier in the morning.

Small miracles.

Speak of the devil...

2009-03-04T20:48:00.002-05:00

Ok, dear readers, show of hands...how many of you saw this one coming?

Yesterday, I was a totally blissed out stay-at-home-mom. Today, I am defeated, demoralized and dumpy. I am wearing yesterdays pajamas because I can't fit into my Mom-Jeans. I smell. I have a headache, a backache, a neck ache. I have stringy hair and acne. My toes haven't seen nail polish in over a year. Husby just cheerfully said that I look "cute" in his baggy sweatpants. I'm pretty sure he is making fun of me.

So, if anyone was planning on using yesterday's post as a blueprint for how to organize their own lives, I highly suggest thinking twice. Sure, Fat Baby is still adorable, despite having pooped so vigorously this evening that it came out of her diaper and extended past her elbow. (Honestly, how does one poop up to their elbow? I suppose I should have seen it coming because I'm the one that has been feeding her for eight consecutive hours with only one or two breaks. All that food had to come out somewhere, I guess.)

Sure, Darling is still precocious and sweet. Sure, Husby is still a great guy. Sure, I still know that this all goes by really fast and I need to cherish each moment.

But honestly, at this moment in time, I am daydreaming about a time when I can wake up, just once, to something other than the sound of someone screeching to be fed.

They are a changin...

2009-03-03T23:26:00.003-05:00

A few things have changed around our house in the last seven weeks or so. The arrival of our second daughter, whom we lovingly call "Fat Baby", has tipped the scales in favor of female dominance in the house. We always knew we would love her as soon as she made an appearance, but some of the changes that she has wrought in the house are completely unexpected.

- I cook now. A lot. Some of it is good, some not so much, but I have dinner on the table almost every night. I also make a big breakfast on Saturday, and have learned how to make cookies. From scratch. This goes against some of the major tenents by which I have lived my life, so I'm trying not to crush this burgeoning enjoyment of serving edible food to my family.

- Personal hygiene has taken a big hit. I am attempting to adhere to a strict "every-other-day" shower schedule to keep the flies at bay. I'm not always successful in getting a shower, and have been known to wear the same outfit for a few days straight. I used to scoff at the moms on makeover shows that claimed they only had time for a five minute beauty routine, but now I realize that having five minutes to scratch on some eyeliner is a rare blessing. I'm grateful if I get to shampoo my hair, much less find the time to research a haircut that will accentuate my best features. Next stop...Mom Jeans.

- I am a one handed wizard. I can do anything with one hand, because Fat Baby requires a lot of cuddling, carrying and feeding. So I cradle her with one arm, prop the bottle up against my chin, and carry on with my day. St. Nana and Husby have both expressed incredulous admiration at my ability to do so many different things with one hand, and I have a new appreciation for people with disabilities. I'm not sure if I can put this on my resume, but I think it will add to the list of things I can do at parties to impress people that have had a few glasses of wine.

- A wise friend of mine told me early on in the pregnancy that having Darling Daughter around was going to make all the difference in my stay-home experience. I thought she was a lunatic. But Darling Daughter is like a mini-adult, so I have someone to talk to and laugh with all day long. Darling also keeps my attitude in check. I am not allowed to wallow in any kind of self pity or depression for very long because she picks up on my mood and echoes it back to me in tantrums and tears.

But the biggest difference Fat Baby has made in my life goes beyond all of these things. For the first time in more years than I care to remember, I am seriously happy. I have this deep, inexplicable contentment that I never expected to experience in my lifetime. There are weeks when I don't leave the house for four or five days straight, and I don't really mind that much. I am actually enjoying being a stay-at-home-mom.

Make no mistake, I am still easily exasperated by Darling's tantrums and insistence on drinking specific beverages out of certain cups. Husby still drives me crazy by putting the dishes next to the dishwasher instead of in it. Fat Baby claims, at the top of her little baby lungs, that she is starving every two hours or so. Nursing didn't quite go as planned. I am still vaguely aware that I need to totally revamp our diet, start an exercise program, and find ways to structure our time so that we remain civilized and socialized. These things cause me no shortage of stress and anxiety, and I'm not too good to use Heineken Light to take the edge off.

But all of that nonsense falls within the average range of experience. I was expecting the apocalypse, and instead found a peace and comfort that I didn't know was possible. Depression is a black dog that lives under my bed - sometimes sleeping, sometimes snarling viciously and disrupting my life. I fully expected the arrival of another baby to wake the beast and unleash another torrent of suffering. Instead, the opposite has happened.

And this, dear readers, is as close to optimistic as I have ever been.

Welcome Home, Nana

2009-02-25T23:49:00.003-05:00

My mom, Saint Nana, comes over to the house a few times a week to prevent a complete structural breakdown. She provides moral support, laundry support, and gives me the chance to get some errands done. This system has worked flawlessly for months, both when I was working outside the home and now that I'm shackled inside it.

Until now. Saint Nana decided (without checking with me, I might add) to go visit my sister in Mississippi. Dedicated readers will remember that my sister is a great cook and that her phone number is 5. What you might not know is that my sister has two boys that are 18 months apart. She managed to wrangle these boys without the benefit of a Nana in close proximity, which is a cross I am delighted not to bear.

For 6 full days, I ran this house with no help from St. Nana. We joked that we would be waiting on the driveway, dirty and hungry, for her to come back and help us. My sister could be heard in the background during these conversations, expressing derisively that she somehow managed to keep her children alive without this help; but as a skinny person, she has no credibility with me.

Today, St. Nana returned to us. Praise be! Now, despite our joking around, I have done quite well in her absence. Everyone has been fed, watered and bathed frequently. The laundry is done for the most part, and I have even managed to learn a new recipe. I was quite looking forward to showing off my abilities as a domestic diva...

Fate intervened. Darling daughter had been entertaining herself by building a castle out of baby bottles and some half full glasses of water. When the castle inevitably met it's watery end, she raced into the room where I was feeding the baby and announced "Mom, I'm all wet!" I helped her peel off her soaked shirt, and she declared that her pants were also too wet to wear. I told her to go pick out a new outfit, but she decided that being naked was much more fun.

Moments later, Nana pulled into the driveway. She was greeted at the door by a naked three year old, a howling dog, a crying baby and a sheepish me. The naked three year old expressed her delight at seeing Nana again by showing off her "sweet moves" and "shaking her booty". So much for my domestic agenda...

An hour or so later, Nana found the broom and was sweeping the remains of last night's project (graham crackers with icing and sprinkles) off the kitchen floor. She explained that the sprinkles were sticking to her feet. I'm still surprised that the sprinkles would bother her when she was covered in dog fur...but I'm grateful, as always, for any help I can get.

We're glad you're back, Nana!

I love you too?

2009-02-24T14:26:00.002-05:00

I said to my darling daughter, as I often do, "I just love you."

She looked over her shoulder at me and said "I know, Mom."

I suppressed a snicker at her perfect imitation of a 13 year old and said "Geeze, kiddo, do I tell you that too often?"

"Yes, Momma, you do."

Well, that's just too stinkin' bad.

:)

Phone Numbers

2009-02-23T23:25:00.002-05:00

Husby came bounding in from work this evening, to find me turning the meatballs over in the pan with one hand, holding our six week old daughter with the other, and feeding her with a bottle propped up against my chin. Our oldest daughter was standing on her step stool in front of the microwave, cheerfully pouring water from one bottle to another with marginal success. (She was "helpering".)

As is his custom, bouncy Husby adds to the cacophony with stories about the latest adventures in corporate finance. He interrupted himself and asked me if I'd heard from my Dad.

"Huh?" I tried to infuse my question with as much distracted irritation as I could to remind him that I was truly doing at least four things at once.

"I sent your Dad a text message and I haven't heard back from him yet. And hey, how do you do all that stuff at once? I can feed the baby and do something else at the same time too, as long as the other thing that I'm doing is watching tv." Hilarious.

It's magic, pal. That's how I do it. Tons of fairy dust and duct tape, Coors Light and moxie, that's what is holding this whole thing together. Instead of sharing this thought, I smiled beatifically and raised my eyebrows at him to indicate that he should continue with his bewildering line of questioning.

"Did you watch the news today?"

I had, but not since the morning.

"Well, Slumdog Millionaire took home a ton of Oscars. And something tremendous happened in the financial market that I wonder if your Dad knows about."

I knew about the Oscars, hadn't I been watching all day to see the "hits and misses" of Oscar fashion? I had no idea what tremendous thing happened in the business world, so I waited for him to tell me with a sense of trepidation. No gnus is good gnus in the market these days...

"So and so bought Such and Such, isn't that amazing?" He now had his phone out, to check if Dad had answered his text. I reminded him that Dad was visiting my sister, who lives in Mississippi. Cell phone reception is spotty in her neck of the woods. He could call my sister and reach them that way.

"What's your sister's phone number?"

"Seriously, I have no idea. Go get my phone. She's speed dial #5."

He was still flipping through his contact list. "Is her area code 614?"

"I have no idea. She's speed dial #5."

"Uhm...is her area code 312?"

"Honey. Listen. I have absolutely no idea what her phone number is. She is speed dial #5. As far as I'm concerned, her phone number is 5. I push the number 5, and she answers. Her phone number is 5."

Sheesh. He finally found my phone, pushed the number 5, and got a hold of the gang in Mississpi. Eureka.

(for the record, Dad did know about the market thing, and the meatballs I made for dinner turned out quite well. Those details don't really impact my story, I'm really just bragging about cooking a dinner that didn't turn out like the bottom of my shoe.)

Four things Husby said that would make me mad if I didn't know he was kidding

2009-01-29T09:36:00.002-05:00

1. "Move it, fat-ass." (I was 9 months pregnant)

2. "You know, sometimes the baby makes a 'Jaime' face at me. She scowls, frowns, yells at me, cries and nags..." (holding our 15 day old baby)

3. "Give me a call if you need a ride home from the hospital." (After I told him we were pregnant with our second child)

4. "Marriage isn't about true love at all, at least not in that stupid 'Sex-In-The-City' chick way." (during our discussion about our relationship)

Funny Things Dearest Daughter Said

2009-01-06T16:43:00.002-05:00

-Baby Girl wandered out of her room the other morning, looking like a sleepy, rumpled lion with her huge, tangled hair. "Where's Daddy?" she croaked, still hoarse. I told her that Daddy was at work, because his vacation was over. "Well," she tried again, "Where is my Father? Father? Father?!?"

-Baby Girl pranced into the kitchen to announce "Mom! I put away all of my crap!"

-Baby Girl asked for another glass of milk, which I countered with an offer of water or juice. She looked straight across the table to Nana and said in the most serious of tones "Milk makes me poop."

-After a full hour of wailing at her wonderful parents to come and get her out of her crib (at 10:30 pm, a full 1.5 hours past her bedtime) she finally resorted to a tried and true form of manipulation. "Dad!" she hollered. "Dad! Dy! I forgot! I forgot to tell you something!" It is a testament to our wonderful parenting skills that we didn't go in to her room to hear what she had forgotten to say.

Water on a Circuit Board

2009-01-06T16:27:00.003-05:00

It has been a fair amount of time since I've posted anything, much to the outrage of my devoted fan base. (Hi, Mom!) There are a few reasons, some of which are actually quite good.

1. I haven't had anything good to say. About anything.
2. I'm stupid now, and getting dumber by the day.

Reason #2 is related to a condition known as "pregnancy brain". It is one of those things that starts off like a joke, and quickly escalates into a lifestyle problem. I can't remember anything (like my pin number for my ATM card, where the HELL I put my keys, what day it is, and what the HELL I came into this room for).

For example - I was on the phone with my Mom the other day, and Husby wandered in to ask me a question. This, in itself, is not an unusual set of circumstances. I'm usually able to multi-task well enough to facilitate two or even three conversations at the same time. This time, however, it was like someone poured water on my circuit board. I stopped, mid-sentence, and stared at the wall. Completely dumbfounded. I couldn't refocus enough to figure out what either one of them was talking about, or what my response should be.

And seriously, I have no idea what my pin number is.

Thankfully, my doctor says that we should be meeting the new stinker sometime in the next few days. I can't wait to see her, and to have her get her big butt off my kidneys. This will also hopefully resolve (at least mediate) the effects of pregnancy brain. I'll keep you all in the loop.

Analysis of Character

2008-12-09T12:02:00.002-05:00

As the mother of a two year old, I spend a significant amount of time reading the same books over and over and over and then one more time, pleeeeeease mooooooom. I am also subjected to the same television shows for months at a time, before one is cast to the side to make room for the next. Barney was replaced by Angelina the Ballerina (who brought us an unshakable, illogical fear of cats), who was ousted by Caillou. Books have the same rotational pattern, and can be an obsession one week and discarded the next.

Most of the TV shows and books that get the toddler seal of repeating approval are not the newest or flashiest choices on the market. Sponge Bob Square Pants, for example, will catch Darling Daughter's attention, but she has never requested it specifically. But Curious George, who has been around since dirt was new, is a permanent resident in our house.

So I've been pondering what it is about the enduring characters that each generation of children continues to find so appealing. Husby was startled a few months ago when I put down our battered and torn copy of "Harry the Dirty Dog" and announced that the book was not about dogs at all. Harry, a white dog with black spots that got so dirty he became a black dog with white spots, is not really a dog. He represents a young boy, probably between 5 and 7 years old, that runs away from home and plays tag with his friends, hangs out at the railroad station, and slides down coal chutes. He then returns home to a family that doesn't recognize him until they give him a bath and he becomes, once again, a white dog with black spots.

The story is a fantasy that kids can totally relate to. Who wouldn't want to run away from home and do some super fun crazy things that your parents usually don't let do? But what if your family doesn't know who you are when you get back? Yikes. But then, the family realizes that what appears to be a stranger is actually a beloved family member, and everything is just fine at the end. Kid goes free, kid has tons of fun, kid gets home to unexpected rejection but eventually finds recognition. Sounds good, right? The fear of getting separated from your parents is something every child can empathize with, so reading about it happening to a dog allows them the opportunity to experience it from a safe distance. So the story works, and endures. And gets re-read five times a day for months on end. Mystery solved.

Onto Baby Bop, the incredibly irritating green dinosaur that follows Barney around. She is the whiniest incarnation of a three year old girl that could ever be represented on TV, but Darling Child adores her. She will pretend to be Baby Bop for ages, and is transfixed when the little green monster appears on TV. Of course! Baby Bop is just slightly older than Darling Girl, and represents the next stage in the developmental process. Who wouldn't want to watch someone who is playing on the next level up? It shows Darling Girl what is coming up next. The fact that Baby Bop is a green dinosaur and not a human girl is totally irrelevant.

So, what is the deal with Curious George? How old is he supposed to be? Sometimes, he is mature enough to solve sophisticated puzzles like a 10 year old, and sometimes he demonstrates attributes of a much younger child. But he sleeps in a full size bed, can be left alone all day in an apartment by himself and has free access to the entire city like a teenager. And who is The Man in the Yellow Hat? That guy creeps me out. Is he supposed to be the Dad? Confusing. And what about all the supporting characters in the stories that treat George like an adult?

I brought up my concerns about George and The Man at work a week ago or so, to see if anyone else had any insight into exactly what George was supposed to be. My co-workers collectively turned their heads to one side and raised eyebrows at me.

"He's a monkey, Jaime. That's what he is supposed to be."

"Yeah, but that doesn't make sense. Is he a ten year old, a teenager, an orphan or an adopted son?" I was thinking that I hadn't made myself clear.

"No, Jaime, he's a monkey. Just. A. Monkey."

I could tell that I hadn't been able to make my point about enduring characters and how they must appeal to children at a certain level, so I let it go. I recognize the combination of a head tilt, wide eyes and raised eyebrows, and I know it means that people have just added one more thing to the list of crazy things I've said.

But I'm sticking to my argument, that characters that endure resonate with us at a specific level that can cross generations. I'll just be quieter about reasoning it out, that's all.

Update on Today

2008-12-05T00:19:00.002-05:00

Regarding my post about The Today Show, I was expecting a wave of laughter from the teeming millions of readers that hang on my every word. The reaction has been much more "me too!" and less "what the hell is wrong with you?" than I had anticipated.

Husby thinks that the anchors on the show are snobs and think they are better than everyone else. Others have mentioned being aware that Matt doesn't like Merideth for awhile. One reader remarked that she has felt sorry for Merideth for some time.

Another particularly astute reader told me to change the damn channel and find something else to watch. But then, I ask, how will I know how to decorate my holiday table on a budget or how to survive a plane crash? This is very important information, and I'm not sure I can trust the bastards at CBS to keep me updated.

Wrapped Around The Axle

2008-12-02T14:51:00.003-05:00

We put up "Christmas" the other day, much to the delight/anguish of Baby Girl. Some stuff she is allowed to touch, some stuff is strictly off limits. Guess which things are more appealing? She claps with joy when we turn the Christmas lights on, and wails when we turn Christmas off.

There were some fallen soldiers in this year's installation of Christmas. A few wires fell off ornaments, a few random bits of glitter sprinkled the floor. So, being the dutiful wife that I am, I immediately vacuumed up the stray bits of cheer. I learned what an AMAZING noise one bit of wire can make when it gets wrapped around the bar of the vacuum. Good Times!

My original plan was to continue to chase the vacuum around until the room was all striped with cleanliness, but the racket caused by this little tiny wire was really quite distracting. So I turned it off, turned it over, and removed the offending bit of metal. All was well until I ran over another wire and had to repeat the process.

I'd quite forgotten about this whole episode until a few minutes ago. I've been wrestling with some spiritual questions for the last month or so, and continue to pester my fearless Dad for his perspective. In his latest message, Dad commented that he too has questions to ask God when the opportunity arises, but that he doesn't get so "wrapped around the axle" that he can't move forward. (He also mentioned going for a run and eating an apple, so we take what he says with a grain of salt.)

I immediately thought of the wire in the vacuum, wrapped around the axle and causing a huge commotion. I'm currently trying to sort out the cosmos while cooking a person, throwing off the shackles of religious dogma, and trying to figure out how to maintain some sort of identity whilst two children clamor for my attention. I've got fifty wires wrapped around my mental vacuum cleaner and the noise is truly astonishing.

It has been bothering me that I can't solve the problems I'm working on, and bogging me down in my daily shuffle. (It used to be a daily grind, but I go much slower now.) These lofty questions have gotten me wrapped around the axle, and I find myself getting stuck a few times a day.

Imagine a dog tied to a tree. Dog sees something interesting, walks over to investigate, and wraps another loop of leash around the tree. Dog walks over here, over there, sniff this, sniff that. Suddenly, Dog has three inches of leash left. How did this happen? Ruh roh, indeed.

The only solution is to sit down and stop winding, right? Flip the vacuum over or bark until someone comes to unclip the leash. I'm not sure I know how to do that right now, but it is nice to know that I'm not the only one.

Hey, that has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

What are you trying to say?

2008-12-01T11:21:00.003-05:00

Every morning since the dawn of time, I have gotten up and watched the Today show with my cup of coffee. The anchors on the show have become a part of my extended family, even though they have no idea who I am.

This phenomenon is not without psychological merit, so all ye who are laughing at me can just knock it off. The human brain is theoretically not capable of distinguishing between people we see on TV every day and people we see in real life every day. In earlier days, survival depended on knowing what was happening in the tribe, so humans have developed a knack for watching other people and developing relationships. This quality is also partly responsible for our goofiness over celebrities and royal figures. The "leaders" of our tribe required extra attention to ensure our standing in the tribe. But I digress...

My friends Matt Lauer, Merideth Viera, Al Roker and Ann Curry and I sit down every morning to chat about the weather, current events, politics and how to choose a shade of lipstick that will compliment my skin tone during the winter months.

Recently, I have noticed a troubling undercurrent in the relationship between Matt and Merideth. It seems to me that Matt doesn't really like Merideth all that much, and can sometimes go so far as to be rude to her. Ever since she replaced Katie Couric a few years ago, Matt has been slightly contemptuous of her, but now it seems like their relationship is getting even more strained than it has been in the past.

Now, I realize that these people are professionals and Matt has certainly never said anything on air that would indicate that all is not well on the Today show set. There are very subtle cues, like a sideways glance that is almost an eye-roll, or an intro with one word drawn out, like "And now, baaaack to Merideth" that implies a secret 'yeah, and good luck with that'. Merideth appears to not notice any of this, though she does exude a bit of puppy-like energy that has a slight tail-wagging plea to be liked and accepted by the rest of the pack. It occasionally seems that Matt is responding to Merideth's eagerness be in the club by quietly reaffirming the fact that she isn't in the club.

This undercurrent is starting to affect the way I look at my dear friends. I'm getting angry with Matt, who is clearly just being mean, and feeling sad for Merideth, who just wants to be liked. I'm annoyed that Al and Ann haven't stepped in to make peace, or support Merideth against the titan of morning talk shows.

I realize that this whole thought process poses a few questions, like "How much time do you spend thinking about this stuff?" and "Seriously, have you ever had a life?" (Answers: Lots, and no.) This also raises the question about being sensitive, perhaps overly so, to the way people move around this world.

How do you know when someone is annoyed with you? When someone is secretly trying to tell you something? When does a random comment like "Wow, the trash cans are always empty at my Mom's house" from Husby really mean "I wish you were better at taking out the trash"? Or perhaps a casual remark about co-worker's weight loss really means "Wow, you've gained a lot of weight recently, hon."

Husby says that what he says NEVER means anything. He certainly never means to imply that I'm fat, a poor housekeeper, or a lousy cook. But I still say that we subconsiously communicate our true feelings to each other, and it is one of our jobs as members of society to dilligently decode those feelings.

As for Matt and Merideth, I'm thinking about writing them a letter so I can get some closure on this problem. They would write back, don't you think?

Out Of Order

2008-11-24T14:39:00.002-05:00

I realized (after it was pointed out to me by a sharp eyed member of the audience) that I have spoken a bit out of order. My only excuse is related to my grief at having to say goodbye to Diet Coke, which for now is off limits due to it's incredible heartburn inducing capabilities. Sniff...

My initial intention was to explain what the nine letters after my name actually mean. The hidden agenda with that explanation is to explain why the letters need explanation and why that makes my profession pretty silly. Shall I explain?

The title MA, LLPC, NCC means that I am a Masters Level, Limited License Professional Counselor, and a Nationally Certified Counselor. This means I am certified to provide psychotherapy for individuals, couples, adolescents, kids, substance abusers, and so on. The NCC means that I am certified to do this in 38 states. (Missouri, here we come!)

What this actually means is that I owe the Department of Education a small fortune, and am part of a not-very-elite group of crackpots that have the complicated world of psychotherapy "all figured out". Most of us seem to have pretty high opinions of ourselves and a barely concealed disdain for other members of the social services field. (Sorry, MSWs, we secretly think you stink at therapy but are very glad you are there to help us find community resources.)

What I've come to realize is that all of these letters after my name do not add up to the towering authority that I'd been hoping for. My subordinates (i.e. Husby, Dog and Darling Child) still have limited respect for my commands. I still can't get into the VIP room at the bar or get my meals paid for by my fans. They still won't put me through to George Clooney's personal voice mail, and no one has bothered to listen to my diatribe about why I need a Secret Service agent of my own.

So it has occurred to me that the more letters one has after their name, the less authority one actually has. If some is an MD, for example, you know exactly what that means. Even a PhD is a pretty good indicator of social rank. But an MALLPCNCC? Meaningless, and disregarded. Oh, wait! I could sit through another 12 credit hours and get an LMFT (licensed marriage and family therapist), would I be cool then?

No.

Ooooh, what if I got an LLP(limited license psychologist)? Then I could be MALLPCNCCLMFTLLP and boy, does THAT roll right off the tongue. An even lengthier explanation of that moniker would be required, as well as a much longer payback period on my student loans. Little career opportunities in any of these fields make the joke even funnier.

And the sad fact is that most of us, LLPs, LMFTs, MSWs, LLPCs and so on, do approximately the same thing. We can all be hired for the same jobs, make the same crap salaries, and garner little respect from the doctors. (Whom we often mock but secretly aspire to be.)

So, to answer the question of my sharp eyed reader, the letters after my name apparently don't mean diddly-squat. But they are mine, by jove, and I have a big blue piece of paper from the State Department of Mental Health that says I am authorized to screw with people's minds. Now if I could just find someone to pay me to do it....

What is in a name?

2008-11-24T10:04:00.007-05:00

Or, more importantly, what is written after a name?

I have recently been awarded nine letters after my name to signify just incredibly important and smart I am. I am officially Jaime ____, MA, LLPC, NCC. Impressive, aren't I? Yes, I am. Very. I will be available to sign autographs later.

I am also using them as a weapon in my power struggle with Husby, who is struggling to understand my genius. He continues to challenge my authority, despite repeated warnings and reminders that I have nine letters after my name.

"How many letters do you have after your name?" I asked him after he showed casual disregard for my list of things he needed to do around the house.

"Lets see." He counts them on his fingers. "T.h.e. K.i.n.g. O.f. T.h.e. W.o.r.l.d. I count 17, which is way more than nine."

(I'm absolutely certain that Barack Obama does not have to deal with this kind of impertinence with the members of his cabinet.)

One of our intellectually stimulating debates promptly followed, as illustrated succinctly by Calvin and Hobbes:

(Husby is totally like "Gakka Wakka Wakka", and for the record, he started it first.)

All Calvin and Hobbes images are copyright © Universal Press Syndicate and the original artwork of Bill Watterson.

Taking Turns

2008-11-18T10:21:00.002-05:00

- Awesome Wife: "I'm not going to let you have the last piece of pie ever again if you don't bother to wash the pie plate after you're done."

- Husby: "It's your turn to do the dishes."

My turn? I didn't know we were taking turns. It is now his turn to clean the bathroom, bear a child, pay the bills and give the dog his medication. And it is my turn to do whatever I feel like all the time.

(In his defense, I reluctantly admit that it would be also be my turn to mow the lawn, lift heavy things, install light fixtures and endure life with an obnoxious pregnant wife.)

Oh, how far we've come...

2008-11-16T15:35:00.002-05:00

It has finally occurred to Husby and I that we are to be parents again in rather short order. (I say six weeks from now, most likely. Anyone care to make a wager?) We have decided to re-decorate the room donated to the dog and make it into a baby-friendly nursery. The feelings of the displaced dog have been noted and disregarded. Sorry, Murph.

Part of the redecorating process has included the removal of the previous owner's curious choice in carpet, a rust colored eyesore with yellow spots. The removal of this carpet, courageously undertaken by Husby alone, has left us with a bit of repair work to do on the baseboard trim.

For this, Husby needed some different nails than we have in our collection. Having been stuck in the house for an eternity, I volunteered quite happily to go to Home Depot all by myself and pick up the nails. (There is also a craft store next to Home Depot that I wanted to go into all by myself.)

For the better part of an hour, I wandered up and down each aisle in Home Depot. I looked at tiles, wood floors, sinks, toilets, light fixtures, power tools, lumber and cabinetry. I walked past a display of bar stools and had a funny mental image of me sitting on the bar stools and waiting patiently.

"Uh, can I ...help you?" Imagine how uncomfortable the employee would be, asking what should be a pretty routine question.

"Yes, I'd like a tall Labatt's and an order of potato skins," I would reply.

"Um....ma'am, this is Home Depot."

"It says very clearly that these are BAR STOOLS. I would like a beer and some potato skins, if it isn't too much to ask. I've been waiting for a long time." They insisted that there was no beer in the entire building.

So I settled for a box of nails and two packages of lawn/leaf bags and left the store. On to the next adventure - The Craft Store.

I love craft stores. I would cheerfully spend hundreds of dollars each week at the craft store if I could, buying tons and tons of projects and being totally proud of myself and my outrageous creativity. Actually completing these projects is an entirely different prospect altogether, and completely irrelevant to this conversation.

Up and down the rows I walked, looking at each and every item in the store. I was going to milk this adventure for everything I possibly could. I finally had the freedom to listen to my own inner self asking if I could have this or that. No toddler was going to out-selfish me this time! This was All About Me.

About halfway around the store, I realized anew how much my life had changed. I had volunteered to go get nails? That can't be good.

The Children

2008-11-15T08:17:00.002-05:00

A short time ago, Husby was cheerfully musing about the impending arrival of another baby.

"We're going to have two! We're going to say things like 'I have to go pick up the children' and 'I have two children' and things like that."

I put on my most patient expression. "Who is going to take care of all of these children?" I asked. "Who is going to make sure that they have seasonally appropriate clothes that fit, that their fingernails are trimmed, that they have snow boots and snow pants and wear sunscreen? Who is going to feed them nutritionally sound but interesting and creative meals three times a day?"

"Momma!" he crowed, pleased with himself.

"Who is going to get them vaccinated on time, get their pictures professionally taken at appropriate intervals, find affordable but quality daycare, nurture a love of music, reading and learning, teach them not to swear or spit or kick their friends, not to burp at the table?"

"Momma!" he shouted.

"Who is going to know without looking where the bandaids are, which child likes chicken nuggets and which one likes mac 'n cheese, when was the last time this one pooped or that one puked, how long it has been since that one ate a peice of fruit? WHO will do that for all of these CHILDREN?"

"Momma!" he raved. "But who is going to play with them?"

At the same time, in two very different tones of voice, we shouted "Daddy!"

No wonder he's so chipper about the whole thing. I'm making him a new playmate.

Toddlerhood

2008-11-15T07:35:00.002-05:00

I have recently cut back my hours at work from three to two days per week, and the impact on my lifestyle has been surprisingly intense. I'm now spending five days straight with Baby Girl, who has responded to this increase in attention with an exponential rise in interrogation.

On Tuesday night, after I pick her up from daycare, I think that her voice is the sweetest thing in the world. The most innocent question, i.e. "What doing, Momma?" sounds so cute coming from that tiny little voice and that tiny little person.

By Friday, things sound a bit different. "What doing, Momma?" is now answered with "Walking a thin line between sanity and calling social services on myself, dear child."

I've realized this week that toddlers are a combination of two things; curiosity and greed. What is it? Can I have it? What is that, what are you doing, what is he doing, what is she doing, what are they doing....and can I have it? I need that, Momma, can I have it? The first question is occasionally difficult to answer, but the response to the second question is typically NO.

The problem with toddlers is that explaining what it is and that no, you can't have it, does not end the conversation. The question will be repeated, like a song stuck in her head, until something else comes along to grab her attention.

My sister passed on a great bit of wisdom when she theorized that explaining things to a toddler can be like reasoning with the unreasonable. I know from my training as a therapist that Baby Girl doesn't have the brain structure to process all of the information that she is receiving. I imagine her brain is sort of like a mail room for a huge office...tons of information comes in all the time and she is furiously sorting through it to figure out where it goes. It must be frustrating to have a letter jammed in the system, or come across stuff that doesn't fit in to her current filing system.

(But seriously, don't take it out on me! I just work here!)

I realize that some of my growing sense of alarm is tied to the fact that there is another child set to make her debut in the very near future. When difficulties arise, the question in the back of my head is not "Can I have it?" but "How am I going to do this with two kids?". Followed quickly, of course, by "What was I thinking?"

Hubsy, one of those irritatingly optimistic people I've discussed in previous posts, had some interesting insight. He started off by saying something along the lines of "I think there is..." before I cut him off.

"Let me guess," I said with no small measure of sarcasm. "You think there is a way of looking at the bright side that is going to make all the difference?"

He looked a bit hurt at my seemingly random attack on his positivity, but forged fearlessly ahead with his idea. "I think that in three years, the two of them will play together like puppies and take some of the heat off you."

A part of me knows that he is right, but most of me got stuck on the "...in three years..." part. I'm only promising good behavior on an afternoon-by-afternoon basis. Talking about three years from now is assuming a lot.

Hubsy, seeing the look of dismay on my face, tried a different approach. "Well, at least you'll be able to go to the bar soon!"

Now, that's more like it.

Er...

2008-11-12T15:16:00.004-05:00

It has come to my attention that I have been less than direct about marketing my new outlet for self expression. I've had a few people recently say "Why didn't you tell me you were writing?"

Er...um...because someone might READ IT? Eeep!

So, I just stood on a virtual rooftop and shouted "Hey, World! I'm writing a blog! Wanna read it?"

And now I feel a little exposed. Sort of how one would feel if one took off one's pants in the produce section at the grocery store.

What if it is too much "mommy blog" and not enough "science blog"? Too much "churchy blog" and not enough "tattoo blog"? What if they really see me, really hear me, and figure out who I really am?

Well, isn't that the point? This whole thing has been in part about self discovery and acceptance. It is about consciously examining the journey through life. It is about recognizing the fact that we all have the right to be here on this planet, and that my voice is worth using.

It is also about documenting the really funny stuff that Husby and Darling Child say, so they have appropriate ammo for their future therapists. I strive for accuracy in reporting, folks.

So here I am, world, sans pants at the grocery store. And I'm alright with that.

A Brick Through My Window

2008-11-12T08:16:00.003-05:00

"The significant problems we face cannot be solved by the same level of thinking that created them." - Albert Einstein

My last post about Fowler's fourth stage and my permanent residency there sparked a comment from a pal that has triggered an avalanche of thought. Her point on approaching the Bible from a different perspective is something I've heard before and rejected because it doesn't fit with my current struggle. It is not up to me, I reasoned, to debate the interpretation of the Bible. I believed, until yesterday, that the current interpretation of the Bible by my more educated elders was the only possible option.

To the current administration, challenging their interpretation is frowned upon using this line of reasoning:
1. We can't cherry-pick what parts of the Bible we believe based on our own discomfort.
2. The Bible is the infallible word of God and is not up for debate.
3. We know more than you because of years of extensive education and study.
4. Because I said so.
5. Sit down, Jaime, and shut up. Please.

It finally occurred to me that I don't actually know precisely what the Bible says about the things I struggle against. For an example, what specific Bible verses condemn homosexuality? I have heard the rhetoric, but have I ever read the source? Like a brick through a window, my old perception of my problem shattered and a new perception appeared.

No. I hadn't read it. I had sat like a dumb sheep and let them tell me what they thought the Bible said. Surely they have all the books, they've done the Bible studies, attended classes and learned to translate stuff from the Greek and Hebrew and came up with this stuff. But WHO are they?

This is where my buddy's comment about appreciating the source of the information triggered a new line of thinking. They are, and have ALWAYS been, both male and in the racial majority. Of course they, the current and past interpreters of the sacred text, have an agenda. It doesn't make them bad, but it doesn't make them automatically right either. How would I know if they are right, if I don't read the books and make my own conclusion?

Because, seriously, this is a group of people that likes McCain. (I know.) In jest, I argue that obviously they have a deplorable lack of decision making skills to fall for the blurge that came out of the conservative right wing this time around the track. In earnest, I argue that their very interpretation of reality is different than mine.

And yet, I hear the argument that the Bible is not current political posturing and cannot be evaluated at a situational level. You can't decide what the Bible says because it isn't convenient for you to go with the current level of thinking. Also, just because our current (evil) culture is telling you that it is ok to live with your partner before marriage, support gay rights, read books and listen to Obama doesn't give you the right to change the Bible. The Bible, as the infallible word of God, is not to be manipulated to say what matches any one personal agenda. (Oh no? Isn't that what they have been doing this whole time?)

That is the argument that I used to bash my head against when trying to reconcile the two, seemingly opposed, belief structures I have. That is how I used to tell myself that I would be stuck in stage four forever because I couldn't reason my way past the arguments against both things that I know to be true.

But Einstein tells us that we cannot solve our problems at the same level we were using when we created them. So a new level of thinking is required. And so here it is:

The Bible is the infallible word of God. The interpretation of the Bible into political beliefs and cultural prejeduces is the fallible word of People.

This is huge. This concept is probably not earth shattering to some, but to experience it myself has really been a shock. That is a key part too - I experienced this change instead of just thinking about it at an academic level.

A few things stand in my way:

1. Studying the Bible myself isn't going to be easy. I don't read Greek or Hebrew, but I will have to apply as much to this process as to any other academic pursuit.
2. I'm part of an establishment that doesn't particularly respond well to being confronted, especially by uppity, educated women.
3. I could be wrong.
(4. Super secret hidden reason: I could disappoint my parents.)

But this, more than anything, represents a primary struggle in my life. Why wouldn't I devote the time and energy to this, what could turn out to be the most important crisis resolution I've ever tackled?

And, seriously, what else do I have going on right now to occupy my enfeebled brain?

- Thanks go out to Colleen, who kicked me in the head with her comment.

Fowler's Fourth Stage

2008-11-10T11:38:00.002-05:00

I first ran into Dr. James Fowler, PhD, (developmental psychologist, Methodist, Director of Faith Development at Emory University) in my first class in graduate school. He has written the book, quite literally, on the stages of human faith development. He outlines six stages in how humans develop faith in a higher power. It struck a chord with me then, and it continues to echo in my daily struggle to resolve this spiritual crisis.

Check it out:

"The fourth stage is known as Individuative-Reflective. This is primarily a stage of angst and struggle, in which one must face difficult questions regarding identity and belief. Those that pass into stage four usually do so in their mid-thirties to early forties. At this time, the personality gradually detaches from the defining group from which it formerly drew its identity. The person is aware of him or herself as an individual and must--perhaps for the first time--take personal responsibility for his/her beliefs and feelings. This is a stage of de-mythologizing, where what was once unquestioned is now subjected to critical scrutiny. Stage four is heavily existential, where nothing is certain but one's own existence, and disillusionment reigns. This stage is not a comfortable place to be and, although it can last for a long time, those who stay in it do so in danger of becoming bitter, suspicious characters who trust nothing and no one. But most, after entering this stage, sense that not only is the world far more complex than his or her stage three mentality would allow for, it is still more complex and numinous than the agnostic rationality of stage four allows."

from: http://jmm.aaa.net.au/articles/2219.htm

Nice, right? I especially like the parts about disillusionment, and becoming a bitter, suspicious character. Oh, and the bit about this stage being particularly uncomfortable and lasting for years and years? Sweeeet.

I'm quite firmly entrenched in stage four, and struggle every day to make sense of two diametrically opposed belief systems. On the one hand, I believe in the essentials of Christianity and consider myself to be a Christian.

On the other hand, I support gay rights, a pro-choice platform, Kid Rock, tattoo parlors, beer, smoking, liberal use of the F word, co-habitation before marriage, Democrats, critical thinking, and women's rights.

My non-churchy friends say "God loves us. He wants us to be happy. Don't sweat it. You're a good person". Ok, but the Bible says three out of those four tenants are dead wrong. God does love us, true, but our happiness is not guaranteed. We should be sweating it, and I'm technically not a good person at all. My churchy friends don't say much because I don't think they really know about my divided belief structure (except the tattoo part, which is sort of obvious.)

I would sincerely, truly love to "get over" one of the branches in my belief tree. It would make things a hell of a lot easier for me if I could just look past the dissonance between my Christianity and every other belief that I hold. I've even tried ignoring the conflict for years, in the hopes that some spontaneous resolution would appear. (It didn't.) But to forsake either side of the dichotomy would be like deciding suddenly that something that profoundly guides us, like education, is just no longer something to believe in. There is no choice in the matter - education, Christianity and equal rights for all people are all fundamental and essential parts of my interpretation of this world.

So, seriously, what does one do with this? I've begun to read about Fowler's stage 5 in case there are any tips for making the jump out of this treacherous and irritating stage. Can't stop going to church, can't stop believing that women are equal to men and that missionaries are a bad idea. I can't believe that either part of this belief structure is wrong, despite the fact that they represent oppositional ideologies.

The last four years of weekly church attendance have left me more conflicted than ever on this topic. Now, more than ever, I can't walk away from either side. My training as a therapist has convinced me that ignoring the problem will most likely result in substance abuse or neurosis, so that isn't the answer either.

Either way, stage four is getting a little old. I'd like to get a free level up to stage five, but I'm pretty sure that isn't how it works. Dammit.

Binkies

2008-11-10T10:51:00.002-05:00

"mom."

"Mom."

"Moooooom."

"Moooooom!"

"MOM!"

"Yes, dear?"

"I want my binkie."

"What?"

"I. Want. My. Bink. Kee."

"I can't reach it honey, I'm driving."

"Yes you can, Mom, you can reach it."

"No, honey, I really can't."

"Just try, Momma. I want my binkie."

The answer was still No. I probably could reach the binkie, and it really is a small thing for someone to ask for. It really was no skin off my beak for her to have it, and it wouldn't have cost me that much energy to get it for her. In fact, it caused much grief, belly aching and cries of "I want my DADDY!".

But still, I persisted. Can't reach it, I told her. Can't find it. Can't have it. Nope. Sorry. Why? Because if I gave her the binkie in the car, she would go to sleep for the twenty minutes it would take us to get home. That power nap would have ruined all chances of a proper crib nap, resulting in a bad combo of cranky mom/cranky toddler. And so the most simple of requests went unanswered.

What she was asking for was actually so much less than what I had planned for her. She wanted a binkie and a power nap, buckeled into a five point harness and a guaranteed stiff neck. I wanted her to have a long leisurely nap, stretched out in a crib with all the accoutrements (stuffed dog, two blankies, Baby and Other Baby).

I'm reminded, as I so often am, of the relationship between us and God. Why, we squawk, can't you just give me what I ask for? I thought we were friends, Lord, why can't I just have this one thing, this small thing, Just This One Time? If you really love me the way that you say you do, then Give Me My Binkie!

Case in point: John Kerry vs. G.W. Bush in 2004. Weeping and wailing, I wondered why we would have to put up with four more years of an incompetent boob when we could have had something new? Why would we have to wait while they drove the country into the ground?

The answer came, in 2008, in the form of a charasmatic candidate that happens to be black, and have an unusual middle name. In any other circumstances, Barack Obama might not have made it past the first hurdle. In any other time, against any other opponent, he might have faced so many other challenges that he wouldn't have the opportunity to present his plan for change.

But now, against this Republican at this time, in this financial crisis, the country was able to look past what have historically been insurmountable cultural hurdles. And with a resounding yell, we called out for real change. And this time, we didn't have to settle for anything less than a revolution.

I still want my binkie, Lord, but I'm willing to believe that there might be something better out there than what I think I want. And please, Lord, stop using my toddler to show me my own immaturity. It is getting embarrasing.

If you can't say something nice...

2008-11-04T09:42:00.002-05:00

Then come sit next to me.

I will readily admit that I'm a "glass half empty" person. Optimism is just not my strong suit, my style, or my default posture. I'm a grouch, a scrooge, a Negative Nancy. (I also answer to "Sally Sensitive", but that is a different conversation for a different time.)

This is not to say that I'm horribly negative, really it isn't. I'm actually quite fun to be around, especially if there is wine or chocolate. And there are times when I get tired of listening to myself complain and make a real effort to join the "sunny side up" people.

The problem with those shiny-happy bastards is the subtle, yet quite tangible, insistence that they are better people than those of us with a slightly darker temperament. There is a smugness associated with optimism. We are encouraged to stay positive, look on the bright side, see the good in everything. The implication is that a positive outlook is right and good, while the sourpuss perception is lazy and undisciplined. It's easy to see the bad stuff, they say. The hard part is to look beyond it and see the good in everything. And then they bask in their own goodness of scoring higher on some imagined scale, and pat themselves on the back for being such a great person.

The Negative Nancies will say that we are just being realistic, which isn't exactly accurate either. Realistically, good things happen just as frequently as annoying things. The problem, as always, is perception. It is what we focus on that defines our world view. Both positive and negative perceptions of the world are most likely distortions.

So, say the naturally optimistic, start focusing on the positive. I sarcastically (and figuratively) smack myself on the forehead and shout "Duh! Why didn't I think of that before?" and then kick one of those optimists in the shin.

Now, I realize that having a genetic disposition for being a grouch is no excuse for mental laziness. I realize that Ireallyshouldtrytolookonthebrightsideandseethesunnysideoflife and blah blah blah. Whatever. It is also important to recognize and accept oneself for how they truly are. I am not going to allow optimists to convince me that I am a bad person, and that they are better off for having a sunny disposition.

I say it again: Like Popeye, I yam what I yam. I'm a grouch, and I'm ok with that.

Strange Things are Afoot

2008-10-30T08:28:00.004-04:00

In addition to the general oddities that come with this whole person-cooking process, some really strange behaviors are starting to break through my previous rational and logical schedule.

When my skin feels itchy and dry, I water the plants. Because if I'm dry, the plants must be too? (Last pregnancy, I repotted all my plants because they looked 'confined' in their pots.) I am unbearably warm all the time, so my darling child is prancing about in a tee shirt and shorts. My poor fish have been issued a warning - it is their responsibility to stay alive with minimal assistance from me. Apparently my mothering instinct doesn't apply to fish....

But the weirdest thing that is happening this week is the continuous presence of earworms. EW! No, not actual worms. Earworms are songs that get stuck in your head and repeat until your subconscious is somehow distracted by something more important. (Oh, look! Something shiny!)

I've been listening to the same CD for four months, because the CD player in the basement is frightfully old and will only play Chris Isaak and Pink Floyd. Until this week, none of the Chris Isaak songs have stuck with me past breakfast. Now I run through the entire CD at least once a day. Not just one song over and over, but one song and then the next one, and the next one...

And they don't go away. I am now permanently haunted by songs in my head, whether it be Chris Isaak, Barney or a stupid commercial jingle. (Five dollar foot looooong, anyone?)

Sometimes, this new form of torment produces some funny results. I was singing along with the song in my head, which happened to be the Sarah Palin rap from SNL. (By the way, props to Amy Poehler for going on with the show at the very end of the third trimester!) I happened to be in the same room with Darling Child at the time, and said "All the mavericks in the house, put your hands up!"

Baby Girl put down her crayon, put her hands in the air and said "What what!" and then went back to coloring.

I've never laughed so hard in my life.

Holiday Ideas

2008-10-27T13:08:00.002-04:00

Husby and I were discussing possible gift ideas for the Darling Child, who has recently shown an increase in imagination (see previous post). He had observed how much she had enjoyed playing with the Fischer Price playhouse at her Nana/Papa's house, and suggested we look into something along those lines.

"Lets get her a kitchen playset!" he enthused, delighted with his new idea.

"Honey," I reasoned, "who is going to show her how to use it?" He got quiet for a minute, pondering the reality of such a troublesome glitch.

"When is your sister coming into town?" he asked.

"February, probably."

"Oh. Good. One of these girls is going to have to learn how to cook. Seriously - where are we going to go for Thanksgiving in twenty years?"

Oooh, another sticky wicket. We fell silent for a moment, again pondering the bleak future of a Microwave Thanksgiving. Then inspiration struck...

"We'll go to my sister's house! She can totally cook Thanksgiving."

And so our holiday plans for 2028 are set, we are going to Aunt Lissa's house.

My OTHER Daddy

2008-10-27T12:50:00.002-04:00

I was at the doctor's office with Darling Daughter (whose gastro-intestinial escapades will not be recorded for posterity). I had already gotten the stink-eye from some of the staff, who thought I qualified for "Crappy Mom of the Year" because I hadn't brought her in at the first sign of trouble. Knowing full well that I would have gotten nominated for "Over protective, get-her-off-the-internet Mom of the Year" if I had brought her in earlier, I mentally flipped them all the bird and carried on my merry way.

Until...

Darling Daughter, dressed in butterfly wings and paisley pants, sat patiently through most of the exam. After tolerating my meaningless conversation with the doctor about her health and well being, she chirped "Momma, I want to go see my other daddy."

Uh....what? I couldn't help myself. I looked at her and asked "Who?" She repeated, several times, that she wanted to see the OTHER daddy today. The doctor had politely averted his eyes at this point, to avoid embarrassing me if my 2.5 year old was really ratting me out for some illicit affair.

Apparently frustrated that I wasn't getting the message, Darling Child escalates her request. "Momma, I want to see my other daddy, you know, the Black Daddy." I swear I heard the doctor laughing at me as he added "adulterer, most likely with multiple partners" to my list of mom-crimes.

I decided that the worst thing I could do was attend to this random request, thereby validating her warped little reality. So I ignored her, and tried to continue my conversation about her diet with the doctor.

The doctor, whom I now suspect is horrified by my affairs with so many different people as to have to identify them according to their race, issued some perscriptions with a bit of a chuckle. As far as I know, the suspicious staff has not yet notified the authorities. I'm hoping I didn't make the list on the doctor's nightly recap to his family..."You'll never believe what this toddler said to her Mom today..."

Husby, to his credit, laughed at the idea that I have multiple Baby Daddies to manage. He merely inquired if the Black Daddy was rich, or could cook...

Funny things Husby Said

2008-10-21T13:13:00.002-04:00

"Oh, honey, don't worry. You don't make it look easy at all."
-In response to my assertion that people think I've got it made because from the outside, everything I do looks effortless.

"Oh yeah? What kind of car do you drive?"
-In response to my assertion that I'm not stubborn or defiant and that Darling Child probably got those traits from him.

"Well, you need to take a class in 'Nice'."
-In response to my assertion that he needs to take a class in how-to-set-an-alarm.

"We need to think about maybe painting the baby's room."
-Oblivious to the fact that I've shown him the can of paint I bought to paint the baby's room.

"What are you going to do, get a tattoo and dye your hair?"
-In response to my assertion that being 45 years old will be more liberating than 30.

Cooking A Person

2008-10-16T15:40:00.003-04:00

Last night Husby made some crack about how he has to do everything around the house...so I was obligated to remind him of all the things that I have to do.

My tirade, said occasionally in earnest but this time in jest, finally wound to it's inevitable conclusion. "And," I barked, "I already cooked you one person, and then you asked for another person, and I'm cooking that one too!"

The mood changed, and Husby got very serious. He said "You cooked my favorite person. You're really good at cooking people, and I can't wait to meet the new person."

:)

Overruled

2008-10-16T14:30:00.002-04:00

Overruled!

I suggested Taco Bell for lunch. I believe I got something akin to an eye roll from my unborn child, but she seemed willing to go along with the plan. I told one of the other therapists that I was going to go get some lunch, and I wasn't going to eat salad one more time this week. As soon as I mentioned the "s" word, it suddenly sounded like the most delicious thing I could possibly eat.

Now, I'm not a total carnivore, I do eat salad on occasion. But this week, I've had three. THREE. And instead of using that guilty "you'll feel better and your pants won't squeeze you so much" logic, I actually wanted to eat each them. Each salad has been a feast, almost like a brownie sundae.

Now, seriously. What kind of baby craves salad? Is this someone I really want to have in the house? Can't you just hear it..."Mom, we're out of fresh vegetables AGAIN. When are you going to the store?" or "Mom, there is too much junk food in this house. Why can't we ever eat the good stuff?"

I've already got one kid that prefers salty foods to sweet, and really doesn't care for chocolate. Am I going to be totally outnumbered by these freakish children?

(I also want pineapple and lemonade. What the hell is going on here?)

The Way I See It

2008-10-14T14:56:00.003-04:00

Upon arriving home from work yesterday, I flung open the door to the bedroom to allow for maximum air circulation. It was ghastly hot that day, and we could have used the cross breeze, but we have to keep our door closed to keep our renegade dog off of our bed.

(this is the same dog who allegedly has such bad hips that he can't climb the stairs, but is quite capable of getting on and off my bed at a moments notice. More to follow on that subject, you can be sure.)

In addition to the ghastly heat, there was a distinct odor in the room. I soon discovered the offending source of the odor, and resolved to temporarily suspend my vow to not nag Husby. Just this one time, right?

Husby, whom we all know and love, is an avid sailor. And avid sailors have extra bags for their sailing accoutrement, like spare shorts, socks, shoes, sun screen and Labatt's Light. After a full day of sailing on Sunday, this extra bag smelled EXTRA bad. I've previously admonished him in my gentle, dulcet tones to get that stink bag off my bed before I throw it out. The bag wasn't on my bed this time, but was offensive enough just sitting in the corner.

I lovingly gestured to his corner of the room which is stacked up knee high with assorted piles of clothes and said "Whatever is in that pile that stinks, move it." He sniffed the air and reluctantly agreed that something in that general area didn't smell great.

Now, if it had been my pile of stuff that stunk, and this fact had been brought to my attention, I would have acted promptly and removed the offending odor causing item. Right? (I do have a pile o' crap of my own, you see. I am not a germ-a-phobe or a neat-nik. It is just that my piles of junk are much, much smaller. And considerably less stinky.)

You don't need me to finish the story but I'm going to anyway - of course, the offending bag is still in the corner of the room, happily stinking up the joint. I might as well have let the dog into the room.

On the other hand, an offhand comment from him along the lines of "these rooms look un-finished. Should we finish them?" has resulted in a flurry of activity. In two months, we have new blinds, window treatments in three rooms, paint colors picked and plants perched cheerfully on tables. I have new pictures hung all around and a new light fixture coming in the mail.

My question is this: How is it that one comment from Mr. Male Privilege results in all sorts of productivity, while a simple request from Ms. Amazing Wife gets a nose wrinkle and a nap?

Hard Work

2008-10-12T00:02:00.003-04:00

My birthday was this Friday, and one of my oldest and dearest friends treated me to a spa facial. (To clarify: by "oldest friend" I mean that we have been friends for over 20 years, not that she is chronologically old.)

The amazing woman that did the facial asked me about my skin care routine, and I described the years of potions and harsh chemicals and gnarly exfoliating scrubs. Very kindly, she offered a bit of insight. Perhaps I was trying too hard? She had a few suggestions, all gently pointing to the fact that working too hard can actually worsen the problem instead of solving it.

Perhaps this principle can be expanded upon. Things are a bit out-of-kilter these days - a new baby, graduation, huge elevation in social status following meteoric rise to the top of the academic heap. (Alright, I made up that last bit.) Throw in a dash of political uncertainty, a big scoop of stock market crash, and shake until well blended. Congratulations - we now have a tall glass of "What the hell do I do now?"

(those who aren't pregnant can mix in a preferred alcoholic beverage to take the edge off.)

My first instinct is to relieve this discord by problem solving. By working harder, planning more, getting a new calendar or a bankers box or something tidy, the future might become clear. I've even gotten out my feng shui books to see if perhaps we should move our bed to the southwest corner of the room. (Husby loves this crap, he really does. Isn't he lucky to be married to me?)

Perhaps there is another way to approach the situation. Perhaps more of the hard work, the same tools and skills that have gotten me this far, would actually be detrimental in this situation. I'm wondering if there is a different solution, a different strategy, to achieving peace in the face of turmoil. Perhaps struggling harder against turmoil to get to peace is actually counter productive.

If that is the case, how do we achieve "not struggling"? I'm guessing it isn't as easy as switching to a new face wash, but perhaps it is even more important than refined skin tone.

Of course, what the hell do I know about any of it? It is 12:30 and I don't have the sense God gave to a goat, or I would have gone to bed an hour ago.

John McCain's speech writer

2008-10-11T07:58:00.002-04:00

I don't normally cop to following Perez Hilton, but I've been awake since 6:30 this morning with heartburn, a headache, and no one to play with.

So I stumbled over this clip from the Late Late Show:

http://perezhilton.com/2008-10-10-betty-white-sarah-palin-is-one-crazy-bitch

I laughed almost loud enough to wake up the lazy sleepers upstairs. Almost...they are pretty heavy sleepers.

Pizza Guy

2008-10-10T10:45:00.004-04:00

I have a thing about bankers boxes. They are tidy, organized, surprisingly sturdy, and oh so conveniently stackable. Aaah, organization....

Anyway, I was folding up the lids for my newest bankers boxes, and my darling daughter wandered by to see what I was doing. She picked up one of the lids and yelled "Pizza Box! Pizza Guy!". They do look remarkably like pizza boxes, but still...

(She has also embarrassed the crap out of her loving parents by exclaming "Pizza Car!" when a delivery car drives by with one of those angular signs on the roof.)

I made some "pizza" out of wooden blocks, put it on the lid, and she happily pretended to take it to her Daddy who apparently sometimes sits in the corner of the basement and needs pizza and milk.

Just an example for those of you that don't believe me when I say I don't cook.

Heartburn

2008-10-09T14:48:00.002-04:00

I have heartburn more often than not, which is supposedly pretty common for a woman growing another person. In fact, I think Baby Blarney is going to be born with dreadlocks, as heartburn is supposed to indicate hair growth. Of course, this comes from the same information sources that claim parenthood will bring this glowing sense of contentment and fulfillment. Riiight.

This weekend I was decidedly uncomfortable and decided that there was a chance that I was having pre-term labor. I brought the list of symptoms up to Husby, who patiently went through each line item.

1. Pressure? Check.
2. Discomfort? Double check.
3. Increased back pain? Well, now that you mention it, yeah...
4. Grouchy? How did you know??
5. Vague sense that something is wrong? Wow, now you're reading my mind!

I've mentioned that Husby is a smart man, and this time he said "Honey, you ALWAYS have a vague sense that something is wrong." Ooooh. Yeah, you're right. I do.

Examples:
-Even though the political polls (and, lets be honest, all of popular media) are hopeful and encouraging that Obama is going to win, I am still queasy at the thought of another McIdiot as president.

-Even though I have no proof that the coffee pot is a renegade that will turn on us and burn down the house if I don't check on it, I'm still suspicious and watchful. Ditto the dishwasher, clothes dryer, any plug in air fresheners, and random arsonists. Don't EVEN get me started on the curling iron, which I rarely use due to my total lack of trust that it will turn off even if unplugged and put into the sink.

-Even though I've only been rear ended once in my life, I still frown and shake my finger at all drivers that come up behind me too fast.

-(this is the funny one) I worried, when completing my paperwork to turn in for my final graduation authorization, that the words were going to fall off the page with the required signatures on it, and that I would have to wait until December to apply for a professional counselor license.

So, my persistent heartburn could be related to my newest child having a mohawk, or it could be due to my subconscious belief that something really bad is about to happen. Either way, I'm hoping I remembered to check on the coffee pot one last time before leaving the house this morning.

Heavy Stuff

2008-10-06T13:04:00.002-04:00

Check it out:

"To be free people we must assume total responsibility for ourselves, but in doing so must possess the capacity to reject responsibility that is not truly ours." M. Scott Peck, The Road Less Traveled.

Whew.

1. Assume total responsibility for ourselves.
2. Reject responsibility that is not truly ours.

Sounds simple, doesn't it?

Rocky Mountain High

2008-10-04T10:04:00.004-04:00

There are a few John Denver songs on my MP3 player, and they sometimes sneak up on me. I only keep a few on hand, not because (as some falsely believe) it is cheesy or irrelevant music, but because it strikes a distinct and occassionally painful chord in me.

I am suddenly struck with an overwhelming sorrow for Colorado. I can smell the trees, the fall air. I can see the blue sky and the bear that jumped on our dumpster until the lid caved in so it could have a snack.

Mancos is a little town, halfway between Durango and Cortez. There is a gas station and not much else, despite a cheerful little sign hopefully boasting "Business District" with an arrow pointing off to the left. Drive straight on 160 past Mancos and go through Cortez, turn right three times and go back through Mancos, Hesperus, D-West, and eventually back to Durango.

The whole loop takes about two hours. Be sure to pack at least one regular coke and a water, a carefully selected assortment of mix tapes, and some cigarettes. The existential angst is the fuel that pushes us over the mountains, and it was packed in the car long before anything else.

There are sheep, cows, the Sleeping Ute in the distance. There is a small ski area, one of the loneliest National Parks in the country, and a place to rent VHS tapes. There is self discovery and experience. There is something there that sets it above most places in the country.

I have no idea what to call it. I just know that I miss it, and want to go back there with a desire that is occasionally so fierce that it hurts. Right now is one of those times, when the opening bars of a John Denver song brings tears to my eyes and I can almost smell the mountains.

A happy little game

2008-10-02T22:18:00.002-04:00

Need a break? Had enough Half Baked Alaska to tide you over for awhile?

This is a simple but seriously fun game to play. And quite soothing to listen to, what with the waves and all.

http://www.leversgame.com/

Silly Mommy

2008-10-02T14:16:00.002-04:00

Do you ever have those moments where you realize what a bad idea it was to talk just after you opened your mouth? Good insight, but bad timing?

This morning, I was writing a note to my Mom on the back of an envelope on the kitchen counter. My darling child, ever present and watchful, saw my pen and said "Momma, I have that? I need that. I NEED that, Momma."

Genius that I am, I said back to her "Then why don't you get your step stool and climb up here and get it?" Her eyes got really big. She said "Thep thool?" Oh, crap. Was it too late? I said "No, never mind." She said "Thep Thool!" and took off at a gallop.

Back into the kitchen she comes with the stool in hand. I watch, shaking my head at my own stupidity, as she hops up and reaches the pen on the counter. I watched as she reached past the sharp knives, the half empty cups of water and a pile of bills. She was able to reach all the way to the back of the counter, isn't that something?

Yeah, it is something. Something that just made my life exponentially more difficult. Not only did I just erase any hope I had of keeping anything of value on my kitchen counter, but do we really think it would stop there? I increased her reach, universally, by twelve inches straight up.

Silly, silly mommy. I'm going to spend the whole weekend moving everything in my house two feet higher, and have no one to blame but myself.

Not that one, this one.

2008-10-01T21:06:00.002-04:00

For what seemed to be the thousandth time that hour, my dear child told me "Not that one, mommy, this one!" when I did something in her service. Not that cup, this one. Not that shirt, not those pants, not those shoes, not that fork, cup, spoon, plate, juice, stroller, phone, book, pyjamas, step stool, toothbrush, socks or toy, but THIS ONE. No, no NO, Mommy! No!

I finally handed her the cup and told her that I'm the boss, and she has to do what I say. She said "No, Mommy, I'm the boss." I stared down at her from what I hope to be an intimidating height and said "I'm the boss, and I will be the boss until you are the Mommy and then you'll be the boss." She said "No, Mommy."

So I stepped up my game. I told her that once she was the Mommy, she would learn the cruel irony of what "being the boss" really means. She cocked her head at me in that baby bird way that she has, and I continued to explain the concepts of sacrifice, perseverance and delayed gratification. (It keeps me going to think about her being a cool 25 year old that finally realizes how amazing I really am.)

Who is the boss, really? Did I want to go to Babies R Us today and make a complete fool out of myself while praising her to the sky for picking out a potty seat? Not really. I would much rather be at the Blarney Stone, drinking beer and smoking. And that, as any parent will tell you, is the most basic of examples.

I do things All The Time that I'd really prefer not to. At the swimming pool, I'd love to be one of those perky breasted young women or even one of those paunchy older men that can sit in cheerful isolation with a book and a glass of water. No, I'm waist deep in the water, staring off into space while darling child splashes around and shouts "Look at ME! LOOK at ME, Mommy!" Arg.

Of course I love her, of course I would lie down in traffic, chop off my arm, give every last dime for her. But I didn't do my homework - I didn't realize that it would be like this, a constant exhortation to Use Your Inside Voice, Say Please, and Because I Said So.

I told husby the other day that I couldn't wait until I was fifty and could have my life back. I admitted that I would most likely be old, crusty and grouchy at that point in my life and would not know what I wanted to do with myself. He said fifty wasn't old, and didn't argue about my disposition. (He's not just pretty, folks, he's smart too.)

Needless to say, darling child did not give a crap about my explanation about the finer points of irony. She hollered at me through dinner, told me it was my birthday and I should eat a hot dog and that she was very dirty and needed a bath. Bath time brought more hollers - not this crayon, that one, this one is wet I need a new one, I'm NOT done yet and it ISN'T time to get out!

sigh. I'm sure there is a message in here about looking back on this and laughing. There is always the insidious, grim reminder that I'm going to MISS this when it is gone. Then there is the "wait until she is a teenager, then you'll know what real pain is" message that is so utterly infuriating. I'll get to all that in a minute, right after I clean up the dishes and make the coffee.

Right now I'm just accepting that having a toddler is a pain in the ass.

It was supposed to be COLD today

2008-09-30T13:00:00.002-04:00

It was supposed to be a high of 54 degrees, with clouds and thunder. It isn't. It is much, much hotter than that.

Historically, I have always had problems staying cool at work. It has been an issue at every office that I can remember, and is particularly gnarly at my current offices. I work with people that are reptilian in their ability to regulate their own body temperature. This building is known to reach 85 degrees in the afternoon, and I'm the only one that complains.

Now, I realize that having a bun in the oven directly translates to an increase in overall temperature. Fine. Whatever. It also increases the likelihood of my drinking glasses of milk, which for some reason taste better than the finest of wines this time around. I'm ok with that too. One of the many blessings, right?

But now, at the end of September, when it is supposed to be sweater weather, I'd like the option of wearing jeans without suffering from heat stroke. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently, yes. Fine - I'll bend on this one, as long as I get my way on November 4.

An Annoyance

2008-09-29T09:53:00.003-04:00

I have been accused in the past of being a bit of a ...nerd... when it comes to grammar. The term "Up North", ubiquitous in Michigan, refers to any place north of Detroit. (which, technically, qualifies my parent's house as our cottage up north...ha.) For years, I railed against the use of the phrase because "Up" suggests an increase in elevation, not direction.

Recently, a phrase has caught my ear that bothers me even more than Up North. No, not "irregardless" or even "supposably", but something more sinister because it is quietly offensive. It annoys on a subconsious level, and actually took quite some time to get under my skin. But now that I'm aware of how it sounds, my ears hurt a little bit every time I hear it.

The phrase is "my degree". As in, "I'm going to graduate school to get my masters degree" or "I went to college and got my bachelors" or "I completed clown college and got my certification". ARG. My degree? Are there degrees laying about, and we just have to go pick ours up? Are we predestined to get a degree, and are simply fulfilling our destiny by slogging our way through college?

I'm going to the grocery store to get my oranges. I'm going to Dairy Queen to get my blizzard. I'm just going to run out real quick and get my earplugs so I don't have to listen to this crap anymore, ok?

Using the word "my" to describe a degree suggests ownership. My dry cleaning, my dog, my car, my ugly shoes. Do we own a degree? Or perhaps it is something different because it isn't a physical object.

I realize that there is still that pesky issue of world hunger and rampant illiteracy in the rural populations in India and I should probably stop wasting my time getting annoyed by silly turns of phrase. But, like Popeye always says, I yam what I yam.

And right now I'm easily annoyed.

Fish Tank Revenge

2008-09-26T09:34:00.003-04:00

Today we learned a very important lesson about routine fish tank maintenance. That lesson is:

DO IT

Sorry, fishies. I have been properly punished, and promise to be much more diligent about keeping your house clean. I would imagine that swimming in your own poo is probably unpleasant.

On the bright side, the laundry room floor was very thoroughly cleaned! My tank cleaning gadget exacted it's revenge by detaching itself from the faucet, causing water to shoot across the room. I didn't know it could do that....

So I guess I learned two lessons this morning.

Stroke of Insight

2008-09-25T14:50:00.002-04:00

This twenty minute lecture by neurosurgeon Jill Taylor discusses her experience of her stroke as it was happening. It is twenty minutes well spent...

http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/jill_bolte_taylor_s_powerful_stroke_of_insight.html

Turn on the Pink Floyd

2008-09-25T14:44:00.002-04:00

This quote blows my mind. That Einstein fella was one smart cat.

"A human being is a part of the whole that we call the universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest - a kind of optical illusion of his consciousness. This illusion is a prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for only the few people nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living beings and all of nature." Albert Einstein

So: 1. I love the realization that our consciousness is fraught with optical illusions that fool us into believing things about reality that might not be true.

2. We experience ourselves as separate in our thoughts and feelings because I can't hear your thoughts and you can't feel my feelings. But we are all the same, all a part of the universe, not separate at all.

3. This illusion is a prison for us.

Whew...turn on the Pink Floyd, light some incense, and go to your happy place. I love this stuff.

Throw out your pens!

2008-09-23T09:47:00.000-04:00

Ah, pens. Some prefer blue ink, some black, but most of us have a cup of pens somewhere. I noticed recently that I kept pulling the same pens out the cup, assessing the appropriateness of the pen, and putting it back in the cup. I don't like pens that have barrels that are too wide, too skinny, pens that write with glops or require several circles on a scrap piece of paper to convince them to work. Every job requires the proper tool, and my cup of pens was filled with tools that didn't quite cut the mustard.

I grant you, I am picky when it comes to my pens. Perhaps you are similarly afflicted, or perhaps you have chosen other things to be neurotic about. (Fold towels in thirds? Load the dishwasher a certain way? There has to be something...) So, pens are one of my "things".

One day, in a fit of pique, I decided that I deserved to have a cup full of pens that I like. Pens I enjoy writing with. A solid collection of pens so that every cup would have tons of writing options, all fit for immediate use. What a gift to give myself!

Oh, but how wasteful! To throw away pens with metal barrels simply because I don't like the way they feel in my hand? What would it mean to throw out a pen whose only sin was the occasional ink blob on the paper? Could I be that selfish?

Hell yes, I can be that selfish. I ruthlessly tossed away piles of pens, apologizing to them if I felt like I had hurt their feelings. It was hard, it took courage, but I threw out all the pens that didn't match my favorite pen criteria.

How Liberating! What a difference, to be able to reach into a pen cup at any given time, at any given day, and pull out a pen that would be up to the challenge of the moment. How much had those little moments of frustration and irritation built up over the course of a day? Not only was it an energy zapper, but confirmation of my secret belief that the world is out to piss me off.

I went to Target and bought a few boxes of my favorite pens. (Grand total: $8.47) I put them neatly in the pen cup, where they bristled importantly with the potential of writing great things. And now, whenever I need to write a grocery list (shut up, it happens sometimes) or jot a nag note, write a check, whatever...I can rely on my pen cup to have the right type of pen.

The message: Throw out your Pens! Get pens you actually like, instead of having a drawer or cup full of pens that annoy! It may seem selfish to give yourself this kind of gift, but you too deserve a cup of pens that meet your needs. You are allowed, you are worthy, you are entitled to chose your own pens.

Things The Baby Did Today, June 23

2008-09-22T15:04:00.000-04:00

To Josh:

1. Grew arms

2. Required so many Twizzlers that now Mom feels like crap

3. Ordered "The Last Unicorn" DVD and soundtrack

4. Decided against sushi for lunch after convincing Mom to buy it

5. Took a nap

To Emily:

"I must tell you! I was driving Maeve to daycare this morning when we pulled up next to another Wolfsburg. I said "Maeve! It's another Wolfsburg, like Momma's car." She said "Woof sherg?" So we covered the pronunciation a few times, and she had a pretty good grip on the two parts of the word. Then, she busts out with "Dat car FIERCE." I almost fell out of the car, laughing! She's totally right, but how did she know?"

Things the Baby did Today, July 3

2008-09-22T15:02:00.000-04:00

1. Asked for cereal for the third meal in a row.

2. Decided after the last bowl that it didn't want cereal after all.

3. Proceeded to blame me for eating cereal.

4. Expressed displeasure by kicking me and causing nausea.

5. Now refuses to tell me what it wants to eat for lunch.