Do they make flannel teddies?

This morning as we were lying in bed listening to our children, who, despite having woken up barely minutes earlier were already screaming at each other, Hubby says to me:

Are you ever going to wear lingerie again?

As I roll over and yank the seam of my cottony soft men's pajamas bottoms from where it had ridden during the night, I say:

What?

Lingerie, ya know, like you used to.

Oh, yeah. No.

Why not?

Um, OK, well, let's see. A) I would have to still own some. B) I would have to have a body that didn't look like a stretchy garbage bag - with the garbage no longer inside. C) If I wore it, you would assume I was in the mood. You would be wrong. D) I'd have to get a wax. E) We live in Vermont... do you find goosebumps sexy?

Ha. Ha.

No, really. We're not 20-somethings anymore. We're not capable of staying up half the night because we can't get enough of each other.

I know. But that doesn't mean...

[A door slams.]

(LET ME IN! DADDY! SHE WON'T LET ME IN MY ROOM!)

I know, I know. Of course I'm not saying we shouldn't be doing that anymore. I just mean..., well, come on. Can you really see me going through the bedtime battle, dripping with flung bath water and exhaustion, dragging myself into the bedroom and then... d-da! Paris Hilton?

Well, of course not.

And you. You're usually in bed a couple hours before I am, Fabio. Where are your silk boxers?

I'd just like to have a little fun sometimes.

I have one thing to say...

(THAT'S MINE!)

(NO! MINE! AHHHHHHHHHHH! MAMA!)

Hotel.

Conversations in the grocery aisle

As I am trying to find the toothbrush for which I have a coupon while trying to think over the, Mama, Mama, I want the Dora toothpaste! Mama, I want this one. Oooo, watermelon, I don't have watermelon toothpaste. Mama, I need this... what is it?, an old lady approaches me. I think she's going to comment on how cute my kids are or congratulate me on my ability to grab falling tubes while simultaneously remove brightly colored, cartooned products from my children's itchy fingers. Instead she asks me if I know where to find the baby wipes. I tell her the next aisle over. She then proceeds to tell me why she is looking for baby wipes. No, not grandbabies coming to visit. No, not a baby shower. She likes to use them herself, she has Irritable Bowel Syndrome, you know.

Thanks for sharing.

A few aisles on, I run into an acquaintance, an older man I knew from my former job. We say hello and howdy-do and he asks me what I'm doing. I point to my cart crammed with two impatient children and far too much food and reply, Doing the mom thing.

He smiles indulgently and says, I meant, what are you doing with your time?

Oh, yea, nothing, nothing at all. Now, where are those bon-bons?

Let's Keep Talking!

So, as you may have read, this has been a difficult week. I usually hesitate to write down the dreary details of my life because I think, who the hell cares about my little life? My anxieties, my screw-ups, my stressors? But then I get feedback from you and I realize just how important it is to share these things. We are no longer a village society and as a result parents (mothers in particular - and on them I will focus because I can only write what I know) are suffering. I feel guilty even using that word "suffer" - as if I have one micro-ounce of right to say I'm suffering when others around the world and around the corner are living in situations I can't even imagine.

But the truth is we do suffer, we mothers. We live everyday under the burden of the responsibilities and expectations of our societies, our families, and most of all, ourselves. And for the most part, we suffer alone.

How many of us would willingly admit out loud that we yell too loud at our children. That we have smacked them in anger. Have you wondered if this precise moment will be The One that sends your child to therapy in 20 years time? How many times have you called a girlfriend and pleaded for her to come over because if you hear one more time, I diiiiiidn't dooooo it, maaaamaaaaa, you may just put your head in the oven. We don't because we are afraid to be judged, judged to be incompetent at our "job." It's the same reason, I'll warrant, that so many of us don't budget for a housecleaner. Who wants to admit they are a slob?

We know:
1. Being a stay-at-home mom is the equivalent of two full-time jobs.

2. In most times and societies other than our own a woman had domestic help. Only when technology lent us a hand around the house was it decided that a housewife could do it alone.

3. Many other societies around the world know raising children takes community effort. No other culture isolates and puts the pressure on its mothers like we do.

4. Stay-at-home mothers of the 1950s spent the equivalent amount of time with their children as the working mothers of today. Why? From a young age children of that decade (and probably the 60s and 70s also) left the house to go to school or to play in the neighborhood, woods, barn, etc. in the morning and only reappeared for meals and bedtime. (I can't give you a notation on that tid-bit except that I heard it on NPR, so it's gotta be good, eh?)

5. Everyone needs to practice some self-care for their own mental and emotional health.

But we believe:
1. I SHOULD be able to do it all.

2. I SHOULDN'T feel this way about my children, I love them. I have no right to get so angry.

3. ALL other women handle it just fine. I am the ONLY woman who locks herself in the bathroom to cry (while the kids are pounding on the door to come in).

4. I am SUPPOSED to be always available to entertain and educate my children. (And feed them organic local food and not let them watch TV and sleep in my bed and breastfeed until they're eight and ...).

5. I am a FAILURE if I cannot control everything (plus, provide brownies for the bakesale or volunteer at pre-school).

6. I CANNOT leave my children to take of myself, that would be SELFISH and irresponsible.


I don't know how to do away with these self-expectations and beliefs. And our society will practically need a revolution before it completely loosens its vice grip on our self-efficacy. But the conversation has begun. All these mommy-blogs and the social-networks are helping us communicate. Reading our own thoughts, feelings, actions, fears, gripes and joys in other women's words - women from all walks and ways of life - brings us closer to accepting ourselves.

And until we accept ourselves we will continue to suffer.

She can't control her kids

Yesterday I wrote about my bad day. What I didn't tell you was how the day began (which might explain a lot).

As any good mother should, I dress and brush my offspring and we walk to the library for that SAHM staple, Story Hour. There, along with other blandly smiling and dark-circle-eyed mothers, we sing "Twinkle, Twinkle" and "Open, Shut" and listen to the soft-spoken librarian reading King Bidgood's in the Bathtub (really good!). My two sit attentively like the in-public angels they usually are. We do a simple craft before thanking the librarian and her sweet volunteer and go on our way.

All's good! We've gotten some fresh air and exercise, some education, I'm feeling confident with my new haircut and push-up bra, and my children have made me proud.

We head downstairs to pick out our weekly DVDs. E.T. and Oliver. Now it's Mommy's turn to choose her visual brain-suck of choice. I find them each a book and some slightly disturbing giant hand chairs on which to sit while I quickly grab something. Little Lady is happyly absorbed in a book on wizards and witches but Tator isn't overly impressed with the polar bear book I offer. I sweetly ask him to give me just one moment. Crawling under the circle of cupped hands is more appealing to him. So, I ask him if he'd like to help Mommy pick out a movie. And I turn to go.

And he's off. I swing back around and he's disappeared. Hoarsely, I whisper-yell for him. But he's nowhere to be seen. Then, over the other side of the reference desk I spot his curly tete.

Tator!

And he's off again. Like a baby elephant he's pounding through the still of the computer-gazing, paper-reading, and book-browsing public. I speed-walk after him, and the game is on. He squeals with joy (or fear at the look on my face?) as he corners bookracks and knees.

Tator, STOP!

Each time I get within reach I miss him by millimeters. Here I am, a grown woman running through the library fuming like the dragon on the wall of the children's reading room. And the imp is having a blast knowing his mother is playing this wonderful game of cat and mouse.

Finally, I have him cornered, and in front of a woman trying to quietly research, I wrestle my screeching child to the ground. The look she gives me is one not of sympathy or empathy, it's more like disdain. And at that point I feel only disdain for myself. I cannot control my child and, like an idiot, I lost my senses to the point that I humiliated myself in this public place. My anger flares.

With captured child held tightly in my arms I grab my bag and instruct Little Lady to leave the movies and come! NOW!

I march out, careful not to catch anyone's eye. I throw Tator in the stroller and power-walk the fifteen minute walk home in half the time. Little Lady is near tears because the movies were left behind. I try to soothe her with the assurance that I am not angry with her.

Tator tearfully says, "you not happy with me, Mama?" He is sent to his bed once home and he has the grace to stay put for a half hour. When he calls to me we talk about why he had been sent to bed and says he's sorry for running away. He is hugged and kissed and sent downstairs to join his sister watching PBS.

I remain on his bed, still trying to disperse the darkness pooled in my chest.

Like Mr McCourt said...

Last week on NPR's On Point, an interview with the recently passed author Frank McCourt (Angela's Ashes) was re-broadcast. One caller was a former student of Mr. McCourt's who commented on the fact that he appeared to be unhappy while teaching. Given his jokes and jovial attitude on the show this did seem surprising. After stumbling over his answer a little, he admitted he was very frustrated during his years of teaching at a New York high school. His hours in the classroom left him very little time or energy to write.

It's 7:12PM. I have walked the kids back to their beds three times in the last 20 minutes, and DAMNIT, here they come again. My glass of red wine is half gone. It has not been a good day in the life of this stay-at-home mother of two.

I am tired. So very, very tired. Not due to lack of sleep - my two monkeys decided to share a bed last night and it worked, thank the lord of all creatures small and sleeping. No, I am bone tired. Crying tired. Want to book a motel closet and not emerge for a whole week tired.

Sunday found Hubby and I, out of desperation and concern for Little Lady (Tator likes to turn the light on as he leaves their room for ours at 2AM), moving out of our beautiful, chaos-free-zone bedroom into the 5AM-sun-blasted office. We took apart our bed and the kids' exorbitantly heavy bunk beds and heaved all the pieces into their respective new locales. At the height of the move when neither room resembled its former or soon-to-be orderly status and the hallway looked like a flea-market, I picked up one end of my small writing desk, took a step backwards, and... oooooweeee! My hip gave way. I spent the remainder of the day on my knees pushing baskets of dress-up clothes and stuffed animals or carrying one book at a time slowly from room to room. For me, who moves furniture and rearranges the house at least once a month, this abrupt halt of activity was incredibly frustrating.

My mother, bless her cotton socks, came to help that afternoon and even took a child away for the night (the one who couldn't quite cope with all the change and took out his unease on his sister's head, multiple times).

Four days later I am walking upright again and I am still organizing the mess created by the move. Or trying to.

1. Move pile of papers from floor, to table, to shelf.
2. Pick up discarded diaper, round up boy who is now running around covered in, well, you know.
3. Transfer one stack (of the 25 stacks) of novels, books on writing, psychology, and who knows what else, from upstairs office to downstairs.
4. Break apart the screaming, thrashing muddle of limbs on the living room carpet that is my children.
5. Go through two months worth of mail, praying no unpaid bill will surface.
6. Make sandwiches, skin apple, make more sandwich, find suitable dessert for staaaarving children.

And in the middle of all this I think, what am I doing? I'm not up to this. I wasn't meant to be a mother. I just want to be writing.

It is so hard trying to squeeze your own needs in between the responsibilities of life. There are days when I am far from happy. I am happiest when alone and I am rarely that. I understand Mr. McCourt's frustration. He was a writer who had to put himself on hold in order to teach and make a living. I am writer who has to put myself on hold for my children and my home (and my hip). Some days I am at peace with this and manage my day-to-day life with ease. Other days I run on suppressed anxiety. And then there are days like today.

I write this as therapy. I write this to fulfill a need I have yearned for all day. I write this while barely able to keep my eyes open or my heart from hurting.

I'll be OK tomorrow.

The Evolution of *my* Friday Nights

I have a friend (M) who makes me laugh.

She also makes me feel the biggest goober alive.

She picks on my choice of radio station (National Public Radio all day long), she can throw down three glasses of wine to my one and still hold a serious conversation (wait a minute, she's never holding a serious conversation), and she successfully sports heels that rival those of the exotic dancers I used to live with (another story for another time) while I slump around in my very flat flats.

Last Friday she wrote this post describing the morphing of her Friday nights throughout her life. It made me laugh (as usual) but not just because of her sense of humor, but because it made me realize how extremely different we are. If we hadn't worked together for almost a year we would never have met; we run in different circles. She is eight years younger, 4 sizes slimmer, and 87% funner than me.

Here is a run down of our Friday nights over the years:

When she was eight she and a bunch of other little girls were having slumber parties and watching scary movies. When I was eight once in a long while one friend would sleep over. We didn't even have a TV in the early 80s, let alone a device that allowed for watching movies, and as I wasn't even permitted to watch Star Wars as a child, our entertainment was more likely a re-reading of Anne of Green Gables.

At 16, while my dear friend was secretly getting drunk in some sand pit I was driving to Friendly's with my three best friends and getting "drunk" on silly jokes and piles of Mocha Chip Ice Cream. This was only after I had satisfied the family requirement of the after-dinner Bible readings (I'm not kidding).

21 found M drinking legally and figuring out her love life. I was home in the office off my bedroom researching and writing about the French Revolution, Renaissance costumes, Rousseau, and African agricultural progression. I had yet to get drunk, or even close to it, smoke a cigarette, or have sex. I was, however, also figuring out my love life.

M is now 28, mother to a little boy, a homeowner, and almost wife. She has already lived a very full, exciting life and is consequentially full of life. I'm certain the Hannah Montana party she attended this past Friday night was made even more entertaining due to her presence.

By the time I was 28, the brief episode of going out on a Friday night, drinking (but never to oblivion, just to singing very loudly) and surrounded by "friends" was already over. I was home alone watching TV while my fiance worked the 2nd shift. How pathetic!

I am now two months away from 37. Most Friday nights involve attempting to get the kids to bed before I dissolve into a pile of fried nerves and frazzled patience. If I'm lucky, Friday night sometimes includes a walk downtown to the summer street festival to argue over whether the Dora popsicle or hot dog is the best choice for an evening snack. Sometimes Friday night means a "walk" after work with M - we walk all the way to the back deck to share a much-needed bottle of wine while the kids splash in the pool. Once in a while it means an evening with another couple with whom we share conversation and good food. Other times it is a very rare night out alone to the theatre or a restaurant with Hubby. And other times it is a trip my parent's oasis in the country to join with family to talk, eat, play with the chickens and frogs, and just be.

While I don't regret not ever drinking in a sand pit and running from the cops, I do wish I had had more confidence in my former years to get out and have fun. I would like to be more playful, especially with my children. But thanks to M, I am getting to enjoy life in a less serious way once in a while. My life pales in comparison with her "crazy" life but we balance each other out. While I have got her blogging and considering her true dreams, she has taught me to tolerate more than one glass of wine in one sitting. And most importantly she has given me the best gift - laughter!

Formerly Known As... Me

This week for the first in over seven years I dug out my sewing basket and my sewing machine and actually made something. It wasn't a big project but for me it was a reminder of my former life. I used to sew quite a bit, including a brown Little House on the Prairie-type dress and a hideous all-in-one pant/dress thing in the early 90s... ugh.

For the last seven years I have either been:

• pregnant (i.e. nesting) and working
• a new mom and working
• a new mom and setting up a new home and life in another world (i.e. the deep south)
• a stay-at-home mom and a wannabe writer, journaling instructor (i.e. taking courses, writing, and designing my own workshops)
• a working mother - of two - and setting up a new home and life in another world (i.e. the blue-collar town we went to only if we had to while growing up)
• a working mom and an aspiring freelancer and self-employer...

i.e. no time (or energy or even motivation) for anything other than my roles of that moment.

And then there's today. I'm a stay-at-home mom and a gosh-durnit-making-it-on-my-owner (with enormous thanks to my husband's paycheck, of course). Today I have a few journal workshops under my belt and many more scheduled for the fall. I have two (precious) days a week when Tator is in daycare, and once all those calendar listings, facebook notices, and posters were out there announcing my intentions to the world I actually found myself with nothing to do.

NOTHING?!

OK, not even nearly nothing - I am still a housewife and mother - but nothing pressing, nothing that couldn't wait. No office to report to, no press release to write, no theater program to layout. I could do something completely and utterly... FUN (i.e. without purpose).

So I made a pretty fabric cover for my beloved planner/journal. It's very rough with stray threads here and there, but I'm happy with it. You see, I have been on this quest for a long time - to find the perfect combination of planner and journal that is neither too bulky or too small. It must be full of pockets, refillable, and tell me where, what, and when I must go and must do. And if I find myself sitting in a car or a coffee shop it must have plenty of room in which to write. Such a thing does not exist, and believe me, I have searched!

Now, hallelujah! With the help of DIYplanner.com (where to my joy and relief I discovered others as addicted to time management as me), a Rollabind punch (via eBay), and my rusty sewing skills I have found my solution.

But I digress.

The point is, I am finally where I have wanted to be in life. I am home. I am looking after my children. I am fulfilling my dreams of being a freelance "something." I now have the energy to do the other creative things I love to do.

That is... until Little Lady comes back from camp. She's been staying with my parents for the last two weeks and although I miss her for her, I have not missed for one iddy-biddy moment the constant bickering and fighting that happens between my offspring. In one hour I will be picking her up and from then until she goes back to school my creative yearnings may have to put back on hold.

But that part of me has been revived from its slumber. My sewing machine has been unearthed and sits on the table ready for action. I have an idea for a simple summer shirt I'd like to make. It's in my head and for me that's usually all it takes. It may be winter by the time I get around to it but that's OK.

Maybe I could also get it into my head to finish the baby albums too... before they graduate from college.

The Drink of Silence

... as I gaze out over the suburban yardscape, teacup in hand, half-awake, choosing whether the newspaper or my journal will get my first half hour of waking attention.
Christina Baldwin, Life's Companion: Journal Writing as a Spiritual Quest

When I read a sentence like this I mentally throw in the towel and want to cry out of frustration. I envy the life that allows for early morning gazing and the freedom to choose my next activity rather than have it decided for me by whiny, hungry children and work schedules. I remember the days when I sat every morning with my journal in the silence of my rented room or amongst the morning bustle of a downtown coffee shop. Those days gone and I miss them so much I almost feel angry at my innocent children for stealing them from me.

That's a feeling I try not to give voice or credence to. A mother should never regret her choice to have children, and definitely not over a little morning writing time. But it's the principal of it; it's not just my journal that I'm no longer allowed time with - it's me. My life as I knew it has been sucked into a vortex of laundry for four, preparing meals, and toy-resettlement... I spin wildly, the pieces of my life battering me from every side. When I finally step out of it for even a moment, I'm too dizzy to even know who or where I am (let alone where my journal may be).

*****

I began this blog entry a few months ago when school, daycare, and work schedules all conspired to make me go mad. It is hard for me now to even read those words. But I believe in writing down everything we feel even if it is painful to acknowledge - and the truth of one day may not be the truth of the next.

I couldn't think of what to write tonight so I dug up this draft thinking it was a good one based on my hectic day. But I'm realizing I can't write these things in true honesty - not today. Maybe tomorrow I will feel the chaos taking over again, but tonight I am calm. I am calm because I got to have a day with me and I actually had the opportunity to, "choos[e] whether the newspaper or my journal [got] my first half hour..."

It did not begin well, however. The kids, who for the last week have been waking up after 9AM (a miracle? No, just too many late nights), decided 5:30 was a good time to jump (literally) into bed with Hubby and me. Although we needed to be out of the house at 7:30AM for the first day of camp, 5:30 was a just little too much lead time. Summer morning sun was blazing through the slightly askew curtains for the first time in days and it apparently shone giggle-juice on my children. As heart-warming as kiddy giggles are, being forced awake by it an hour earlier than desired was more than this mommy could take. So when the cozy covers were ripped off for a game of duvet spelunking, I have to admit I lost it. Ahem.

Two hours later, all was forgiven (I hope) and Little Lady was putting on her name tag ready for a day at camp. I then left for home, minus a son as well as a daughter (thanks, Mum!) and settled at the picnic table with my laptop for a day of work.

I sent out press releases, emailed potential host bookstores, coffee shops and a senior center, I hung out two baskets of laundry, filled out an application form, called various insurance companies (which resulted in some good old fashioned cussin'), and of course, wasted some time on Facebook. A full day. A full productive day.

I needed today. I drank up the silence and absorbed the stillness. I was able to concentrate and focus. I wasn't a mother today, I was Me, and I loved it!

I do long for the days when I will be able to decide my own schedule while gazing out over the rim of my (hot) coffee cup. But for now I will take these rare moments - oases in the desert of motherhood - and try to stockpile the peace for the days when I get caught in the maelstrom of kitty haircuts, lost shoes, exploding diapers, black-marker-eye-shadowed daughters and flower-bed-thrashing sons.

I am not willing to compromise!

Disclaimer: This was written very late at night (for me) when my eyes were beginning to burn and mental acuity melt. I do believe the lack of style and grace (she says as if she usually has some) will prove my very point: I need my sleep.
-----

I believe I have mentioned before that I'm partial to sleep? Sleeping is an occupation I excel at. It's not something I believe should be compromised for the sake of children, work, and definitely not exercise, hell no! I have a great work ethic when it comes to sleepy-eye: in at 10PM, out at 7AM, no exceptions!

Of course, I exaggerate. Just as I was with my "real" jobs, I was a hard worker - once I got there. A start time of 9AM usually meant an arrival time of 9:10, and thankfully, I have had jobs that allowed me this slack. So, my stated bedtime of 10PM actually means that I turn off the TV at 10PM, and after turning off all the lights, letting in cats, glancing in the kitchen long enough to know I don't want to enter because I left the dishes in the sink again, and then ascending to the bathroom to brush, pluck, and fuss, it's usually 10:24 when I collapse in the bed.

From then on it's a guessing game. Guess how many times a child will appear by my side (or climb directly over my face) wanting either new pajamas or multiple bed partners? Guess how many times the cat will meow or scratch the wall (which sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard) in a not-so-subtle attempt to get some human's attention? Guess how many times Hubby will do "The Whale:" his half-asleep, annoyed flopping from side to side which shakes the whole bed and causes my sleeping heart beat to increase to marathon speed? (I seriously need one of those wine-glass-stays-still-when-you-jump-ing beds.) On a given night any (or all) of these events can happen, and yet sometimes I can wake to discover some kind of fairy dust has been sprinkled and I have been allowed to peacefully dream the night away.

One of my greatest joys (before bringing schedule-challenged children into this world) was to rise early (6AM) and write in the silence of a sleeping house. Since having children I have attempted to re-establish this habit countless times and found it be as elusive as sticking to a diet. I blindly stumble out of bed, hit the alarm clock, and strain against the powerful urge to crumble back into the bed. It physically hurts. But I do it for the sake of my writing and my sanity... for about three days. Then I have a bad night and, thank god! an excuse not to get up!

Hubby and I have an on-going fight about my inability to rise in the mornings. He's one of those irritating people who, the second the radio comes on, can get out of bed and into the shower, and even be awake doing it. I, on the hand, have to wake slowly. I set the alarm for 1/2 hour before I need to get up, even if it means listening to stupid djs telling stupid jokes and playing "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" at dawn. If I intend to get up early to write, it means Hubby wakes up sometimes two hours before he needs to and this, rightly, pisses him off. So, I've given up. I just get up when Hubby's out of shower and I've had time to come to my senses.

Do you see a problem here? I do.

Bed at 10PM (OK, 10:24), up at 7AM... when the hell am I supposed to get my work done? I am now officially Self-Employed, but I am also officially Mother. Mother to two, who are awake from 7AM to 7PM and wanting something from me every five minutes of that 12 hours. When they finally go to sleep I can summon up barely enough strength to crawl to the couch and press the power button on the remote. Oh, I know, I could be using that three hours to work instead of watching TV, and sometimes I do, but most of the time I just can't.

I love the quiet of the evenings (Hubby is an early-to-bedder) but they are mostly wasted. Once I am awake, I am a morning person. Give me a day on my own and I start running from the moment I (finally) wake up. But once the sun goes down I'm a gonner (along with, I fear, my ability to form good sentences).

I have a whole summer ahead of me with both kids home, summer camps and swimming lessons to drive back and forth to, a household to run, and workshops to plan and promote. All the while essays and blog topics are banging around in my head begging to be given voice.

What gives? Sleep? Never!

I'll figure something else out.

Nanny.com?

What I've learned

1. It's a bad sign when 63 minutes into summer vacation you are wishing for fall.

2. Summer vacation is far from it when you have a six-year old who started missing school precisely four minutes after getting off the bus and decides every toy, art supply, and large, outdoor recreational apparatus is boooorrrrring compared to learning to read with her beloved Mrs. Perkins.

3. At 3pm, you unknowingly pass into another time dimension and the next four hours before bed actually last a whole year (and take that much time off your life.) But, conversely, the next three hours before your bedtime will last a total of 16 minutes.

4. Diapers put on inside out produce the same effect as duck feathers.

5. When you drive an hour to attend a festival which - along with your blossoming headache - will require the full cooperation of a well-rested two-year old, he will not nap in the car despite it being his usual nap time. Instead he and his sister will sing Bob the Builder, WE CAN BUILD IT! fifty times in a row.

6. Modeling clay holds the same temptation to a toddler as chewing gum, but not the elasticity, and when spat on the floor tends to splat.

7. Folded laundry on a couch will be jumped on.

8. A two-year old thinks lugging a massive plastic truck full of blocks up a steep Victorian stair- case (while naked and wearing rain boots) is feasible. It is not. And just as the first two times he tried it, gravity and a rather large head are not his friends. However, rubber bones are.

9. And most fascinating of all, I have learned that slugs, when obliterated between little fingers, cannot be removed with a napkin, soap and water, a dish brush, nay, even a power-washer. So, in the interest of science I will be testing the glowing yellow gloop on a plate that needs fixing.

Chinese Buffet Smack Down

I am generally a shy person. I hate conflict. I don't like to complain. Making a scene makes me sweat.... until I'm wronged.

Tonight we went to dinner at a Chinese buffet. I didn't feel like cooking (traumatic day at work - post to follow), the kids love Chinese food, and I always think I do too. That is until I have inhaled my first plate of gooey, sweet, salty leather and my stomach starts to bloat. That's when I remember - oh, yea, I don't.

When we first arrive, the waitress asks how old the children are. I tell her two and six and we go about the business of stuffing our faces.

When we get the check it is listed as:
2 adults $21
2 kids $12

Now, I'm pretty sure we have never had to pay for the youngest before so I question the waitress. She tells me both kids are $5.50. Not convinced I get a menu and read this:

Dinner Buffet $9.50
Sunday Dinner Buffet $9.25 (ooo, a whole .25 savings!)

(and in a bold font separate from the above the price listings:)
Children under 10 1/2 price
Children three and under FREE!

When I point this out to the waitress she says that the bit about the kids only refers to Sundays. I say that can't be the case because Little Lady's meal was discounted; if the children's prices only apply on Sundays then logically all four of us should have been charged $9.50. No, no, only on Sundays. She circles the Sunday listing and walks away.

When another waitress comes by to clear the table I ask her to clarify our bill. Children free only on Sunday. Once again I share my logic that if the six-year was charged 1/2 price then the FREE! had to apply also. She says "I'll be back," and walks away. Never to return.

Four tables away from us is another couple with a toddler - probably a year younger than Tator. Emboldened by a now inflamed sense of justice, I ask the father if they were charged for their baby. No.

Alright then...

I march up to the register and tell the waitress/cashier that she cannot charge me for my baby when that couple was not charged for theirs. Flipping down through the pile of tickets she shows me where the "baby" was charged. Everyone the same, she says, gesturing to the room.

Noooo, that isn't their ticket. Theirs is on top, right there: 2 adults $21. I am NOT paying for the baby. You cannot charge me for my child and not charge another child!

Now, I have never had the desire to learn Chinese, but man! I wish I knew some right then. Out of this young woman's mouth comes this slew of what I can only assume to be Mandarin curses. She takes $3 off the bill. I would have given anything at that moment to be the hero in one of those movies where s/he breaks into Korean or Zulu to the complete surprise and humiliation of the anti-hero. Instead, I stand there acting all tough and menacing and wait while the cashier turns her back to count some money. When she faces my direction again I tell her she needs to take $5.50 off the bill, not just $3. And out comes another volley of verbal assault as she jaggedly changes the bill to "2 adults, 1 kid = $28." (I was not about to argue about the .50.)

I should mention that my husband is also very uncomfortable with conflict and even more so with making a scene. Using the age-old excuse of distracting a restless child, he had disappeared out of the restaurant at that first twitch of indignation on my face. He knows it well - and knows not to mess with it.

When I walked out of the restaurant feeling righteous and vindicated, he was far down the strip mall pretending he did not share my craziness or even my bed. But when I'm right, I'm right, damn it! And as I always say (in my unquestionable wisdom), "It's not $5, it's the principle!" In the name of The Principle, I have gotten us multiple hotel rooms refunded, meals discounted, and fees reversed.

I may now have a belly full of MSG and an ear full of Chinese wrath, but I also have $5 in my wallet and justice in my pocket. (High five!)

P.S. I am sorry (a little) that I caused that girl distress. She was probably just doing what her bosses had told her. BUT I believe the restaurant was trying to save money by being sneaky with their prices. AND she didn't have to be rude. I wasn't - I was just being emphatically logical, and if I hate anything, it's illogical, rude sneaks. So there.

P.P.S. I do know that $5.50 is not actually half of $9.50 but that didn't really seem to be the point at the time...

Silly Mommy, trips are for kids!

Funny how memory works. We swear we will never take both kids to the grocery store right after school, then we do again... and again. Flying with the children is an absolute No-No until they have full responsibility over their own bodily functions and can run the length of Detroit's Terminal C on their own two legs. But then we book that flight. Road trips and hotels were off the list too, but...

We packed the car and headed for a lovely weekend in Maine. But after we had stopped for the 6th bathroom/poopy diaper break in two hours and the Laughing Game ensued (which would be more aptly called the "Let's See How Many Times We Can Say The Word Poop and Scream With Laughter Game"), I began to realize our mistake. This was no vacation, this was the trip to hell.

What I learned this weekend:

a) You don't need to buy a jungle gym or trampoline when you can just book a hotel room.
b) The number of times a child can ask if she can go swimming increases in direct relation to the lateness of the hour.
c) If there is an alarm clock in your hotel room, it is best to unplug it before bed because it has undoubtedly been messed with by little hands and set to blast you awake at 12:00AM. In the ensuing hitting of said clock you will inadvertently turn the radio on, set to the loudest, heaviest metal available to the listening public.
d) Once you have just drifted off to sleep again, your child will awake just enough to discover "Pappi-dog" has wandered off and alert you at the top of his lungs of this emergency.
e) The air-conditioner will whir loudly back to life the moment you have entered dream-land again.
f) The fact that hotel bed bouncing did not end until after 10PM, 5:30AM is a perfectly acceptable time of day to wake your mother by placing your mouth directly by her ear and announcing you're bored and need to go swimming NOW!
g) No matter how many outfits you pack, they will all get wet, sandy and/or ketchup-stained and you will have to buy something extra.
h) On the journey home you will be so exhausted you won't realize you drove north instead of south until you are arriving in downtown Portland.
i) There is not enough Dunkin' Donuts iced-coffee in the world to make the drive home (which is now an hour longer) go by fast enough.
j) Home and your own bed are the best places on earth.
k) Happy, sand-encrusted, swam-out kids make it all worthwhile... maybe.

My Lazy Ass

OK, I admit it - I'm lazy.

Lazy, lazy, lazy.

If it wasn't for the 68 things I cram into my seven hour day off (the one with only one child at my ankles), I would be sitting on the couch. Oh yea, I'd be lounging with my coffee watching Tyra and Rachel and Whoopi and, you know what, even Martha, because I'm that lazy.

If it wasn't for the inner drive pushing me to take classes and then actually want to put them to use, I'd be still be a bank teller wearing sweaty, organ-restricting nylons and closed-toed shoes and offering extra services to customers who don't want or need them. I'd be miserable but what can you expect when you're lazy?

If it wasn't for the DJ who suddenly blurts out of my radio at 6:10AM reminding me not so subtly to get my lazy ass out of bed, I'd still be there, right now. Snoring. Happily. If a sleep-saturated toddler snuggled under my chin at 3AM every night and who, when the snuggling turns to pro-wrestling, I heft back to his own bed, maybe then I'd have an excuse to hit "snooze" one more time but no, I'm just lazy.

If it wasn't for the eight sheets of paper and four crafts that come home in my daughter's folder every single day, I would never have a mountain of dead trees sliding all across the kitchen counter, but I do because, yes, I'm lazy.

If the dust-bunnies would quit having dust-bunny sex and multiplying like, well, dust-bunnies, I'd have a perfectly clean floor and my broom wouldn't look like a member of ZZ Top, but I don't and it does - lazy is as lazy does.

If I wasn't so damn lazy this post would be longer and better written but, ya know what.... Whatever.

And then I started thinking...

I wrote last time about needing to leave my job. I was ready to walk into my boss's office and give the word. So ready. But then Ding Dong! this annoying little thing called Responsibility rang the door bell.

• The CEO created my position especially for me.
• I told my boss I was committed (should be committed??)
  
• No one else (with my qualifications) would work for so little pay.
• No other boss would be so incredibly flexible with my hours.
• I get discounted child care.
• I can teach my journal workshops through them.
• I can network within the human services/non-profit world for my own purposes through them.
• I am learning a valuable skill.
• I get to gossip with all the "girls" over coffee and free donuts.
• I have a reason to put on make up and wear something other than jeans.
• It gets me out of the house and away from Facebook.
• I can justify buying another pair of shoes because I earned it.
• With two days off and most of the summer free, I have NO excuse not to keep my house clean, write or market the journal workshops.

Responsibility? Egoism? No-brainer? Dream-sabotage?

They don't NEED me, I'm not irreplaceable. But she gave me a chance when I needed a job - is it now fair to run out just because I don't need them? Am I wasting precious energy that could be spent pursuing my personal goals? I like being needed. Do I also "like" having an excuse for not succeeding in other areas of my life???

Damn. I need to give this some more thought.

Just add it to the pile

No, not the laundry pile or the pile of bills; the guilt pile. We all know about the mother of all guilt - mother's guilt. It's an all invasive emotion that rob us of our self-confidence, self-esteem, and "selfish" sojourns in the bathtub when we should be watching them watch a movie, shouldn't we? Well, now I have added another source of funding to my guilt account... my blog and, damn it, your blog too.

I haven't fallen in love with too many blogs out there. I'm afraid to go out and look, frankly. It's too overwhelming to know just how many fish there are in that sea. I have found a few and I am happy with my little collection of blogs who live on the bottom of this page faithfully updating every few days or so. Problem is, I can't give even these few my full attention. My first love, this blog, is even feeling my the effects of my distraction... and the guilt, oh, the guilt!

I had a new year's goal of updating this blog at least twice a week and having a blog-reading session once a week. Well, haha. I feel that I have a responsibility to those I have added to my blogroll. I'd want them to keep up with my blog (I'd really feel bad if they missed out on one of my daily, um, I mean tri-weekly gems) and it only seems right to reciprocate, especially when some have even openly expressed their blog-love to me. What right do I have to spurn them?

But I have to admit, I have filled my little black book too full. Trying to start a business while working part-time, mothering full-time and writing in-between-time is more than this cassanov-ette can handle.

This blog was my refuge in the beginning, where I'd come for some self-indulgent me-love. But now, six months on, it's seeming a little needy, pulling on my time like everything and one else in my life.

And the rest of you... staring at me from my blogroll, with your big, tempting titles, making me wish I could click on you... I resist! For now, my hamper is the only place you're going to get dirty laundry on me. But I still feel guilty and I promise to come visit real soon.

The irony is killing me, literally

Well, my back, anyway.

I can't afford to go to the chiropractor. Why?

Because my health insurance premiums are too high.

Let me repeat that.

I can't afford to get my health taken care of because the health insurance premium I pay each month to keep me and my family healthy is so out-of-the-park expensive compared to our income that I can't pay the out-of-the-park expensive co-pays.

Of course, if my child is peaking a fever of 104.7 then $30 is a small expense compared to her well-being. If I am doubled over with a spine as crooked as a Chicago politician, then OK, $30 it is. But if Mama is feeling a little stiff, it hurts when I move my neck like this, and there are knots the size of walnuts across my shoulders, then $30 is a bottle of milk, a loaf of good bread, and an afternoon at the skating rink with my children. I can keep my neck immobile while performing a perfect pirouette, no problem.

Now, some could say, stop yer gripin', at least you have insurance. I know, I know... don't get me started on that subject. I think it is despicable that families are having to decide if that fever of 104.7 is worth a trip to the ER or if they can just ride it out with some Tylenol and a bath. But that's not my topic today. The bottom line is, this insurance business is a bunch of rotten broccoli: touted as an essential anti-acci-dant but not worth one penny of what you actually get, and leaves a really bad taste in your mouth.

I went back to work for the sole reason we needed health insurance. My husband's employer offered it at an insanely high rate. My place of work offers a more reasonable premium (and when I say reasonable, I mean, are you freakin' kidding me?). I don't want to be working but I also don't want my children (or my junk-food lovin' husband) to be without insurance in the case of an emergency. So everyday I tear myself away from my writing to go sit in a dank office with a office mate who talks into the phone as if the person on the other end is actually at the end of a can and string in Alaska just so I can, after paying the insurance and daycare costs, bring home approximately $3.53 a week. Does that make ANY sense?

Stuck. I have to stay at work in order to get "affordable" health insurance which we don't use on a month-to-month basis because we are essentially healthy, can't use because we don't have $30 for the co-pays, but can't lose because it is insurance for an unknown future.

So, today I am eagerly awaiting the "crowning" of our new leader. I am not expecting miracles from him, just a little more judicious policy-making... and a nice deep muscle massage for me achin' back.

Can't I poop in peace?

Yes, actually I can... and that was exactly the problem. I should have known. It was too quiet.

"Yay-eee!" From the other side of the bathroom door I hear his cute little sing-songy voice. While I manage to flush the toilet I don't give myself the time to do up my pants - I have a feeling this is going to be a bad one...

"Look, Mama, look."

He holds up this blackness that I can't distinguish as anything familiar. And then I realize it's dripping. Dripping black. A bottle. And it's empty.

Ink.

I grab the bottle and then him, not knowing what to do with either. I plop him on the sink. My hands are now covered in ink... and my pants are still undone.

He stands up, his feet bleeding black down the drain. When I ask him to sit down he grabs my arm for support, leaving a long smudge on my sleeve - thank goodness I'm a drab dresser and always wear chocolate brown. I'm trying to figure out what to clean first and with what. I don't want to ruin my towels. I'm also aware that when presented to me the bottle was empty, which means the contents (that aren't all over Tator, me, or the sink) are somewhere else.

I finally get my hands sufficiently clean to do up my pants and I venture out into the hall. Little black footprints lead me to the scene of the crime. There I am presented with an oil spill of toddler proportions... and a cat... about to walk through it. I grab him, but not before his front paws hit the puddle. I shoo him away and he skitters off leaving a trail of kitty prints along side the human ones.

My house was built in 1870. The floors are oak with cherry inlays. Beautiful. They're one of the reasons I fell in love with this house. 139 year-old floors in almost perfect condition and in less than one minute - big black splat. And I discovered I don't own a bucket. A mop, yes; bucket, no.

All this happens at 8:48AM, two minutes before I am supposed to leave for work... and then I discover T has pooped in his clean diaper...

Honestly, I'd be surprised if he hadn't.

1991 called

I think I have mentioned before that I am addicted to planners. Not a bad addiction when you consider the options. But I fear I am woefully out of date (pun intended).

I watched the movie 27 Dresses where the main character Jane, played by Katherine Heigl, is a perpetual bridesmaid and wedding planner for her friends. She scribbles all her bridesmaidenly tasks in a dayplanner, which, when left in a cab is the cause of much distress and missed appointments. I relate... I would sit on my rump, head cocked sideways staring at the floor not having a clue what to do next if I mislaid my planner. My daughter has a book about some creature who makes a list of what he has to do that day but when it blows away in a wind gust he is helpless. When his friend suggests they look for the list he refuses because that wasn't on his list of things to do. I'm not quite that bad but if I accomplish something that wasn't on my to-do list I will write it down just so I can experience the pleasure of checking it off - a far more healthy obessesive trait, I believe.

Anyway, back to the movie... when the love interest in the movie finds Jane's planner, making fun of her, he says something about 1990-something wanting its planner back. At the end of the movie when they are all kissy-kissy and she has thrown out her closet-full of dresses (and symbolically, her past), he gives her some electronic, very 21st century, planning gizmo.

Now, before watching this movie I had no feelings of inferiority surrounding my complete dedication to the paper and pen method of time-management. In fact, I wondered why these very-berry thingy-ma-jigs were so popular - what was the point? But suddenly, I am questioning my whole life and its so-called efficiency. Why exactly do I carry around a 5lb tome when I could have a slick, clicky thing that fits in my pocket... and it's a phone too! Now, there's true efficiency for ya.

But I don't have a blackberry, or even a strawberry for that matter, and I probably won't have for a very long time (well. maybe I will in 2038 when everyone else has their daily schedule implanted behind their eyelids).

But continue to plan I must.

So, it was with resignation I ordered a Franklin-Covey designed especially for busy mothers. But when it arrived, its pink and brown mommy-ness and unmarked pages laying flat and shiny waiting for my life to fill its lines, reminded me why I love them. Yes, it's heavy and not as fun or multi-taskerific as a handheld computer/phone/camera/music player/kitchen sink but until 2038 when my grandaughter's discarded device is passed on to me, my planner and I will continue to make plans the good old fashioned way.

------

As an addendum to this story - when I opened my new planner and inhaled its scent in true addict fashion, my husband, who in true male fashion hates gift shopping, says to me, you better wrap that thing up and put it under the tree, it might the only thing you get. I think I deserve a blackberry after that comment... or at least a new cuddly sweater.

Just asking

Why is it...

1. After you spend 20 minutes stuffing your children into their five layers of winter clothing, hats, mittens, and boots, they stay outside for exactly 2.2 minutes? And then after peeling them back out of it all, leaving a puddle of melted snow and ice on the rug (in which you step in your socked feet), they ask to go back out?

2. Your husband unexpectedly brings home a cheesy, gooey, yummy, pepperoni-free (miracles can happen) pizza half an hour before you leave for a Christmas party that includes food for which you have already (over)paid?

3. Daughter could be playing with anything, let's say something as uninteresting as the can opener, and Son will scream that it is his, so you try to distract him with, say, a wooden spoon; dropping the can opener, Daughter will yell that no, the spoon is hers, making Son once again focus on the spoon; so, you give them both wooden spoons, which they immediately crack over each other's head?

4. A Christmas ornament that somehow did not make it into the storage box last January 6th and has been hanging around all year, its location known even through a move, is no where to be found when you put up the tree? And with 100% certainty you know it will magically reappear once the Christmas box is back in storage, thus starting the process all over again?

5. In the same mail as you receive a surprise Christmas check from your grandmother, you get a surprise bill for the exact same amount?

6. Son's colon decides to empty itself in the most pungent, leak-potential way after you have just wrestled him into a clean diaper, clothes, snowpants, jacket, and boots, and you are already running 10-minutes late?

7. Children sleep like the dead through 1/2 hour of an eee-eee-eeeing alarm clock on school mornings but are awake and bouncing at 6AM on the weekend?

8. Children begin the I-really-need-a-nap-whine three hours earlier than usual on the very morning you were psyched up to go Christmas shopping, leaving you adrift and in denial that you could use the time to finish cleaning the kitchen (and so you write a pointless blog instead)?

Just asking...

The Sob Fest

Two days ago I had a sob fest. Ya know, the kind that hits a woman once in a while when every day life becomes so overwhelming and so unfair that the pressure building since the last meltdown finally blows open the gates. The kind that makes your husband want to run for cover until his calm wife who usually handles everything with goddess-like power returns.

Now, before I rant on about my so-called hard life, I must throw in a disclaimer. I work at a non-profit in a town that has its unfair share of drug addicts, homeless people, and teen mothers. I spent most of Thursday morning sorting out coats and snowsuits that were to be given away to those who don't even have the ability to clothe their children (or themselves) adequately for winter's brutal hand. I receive phone calls asking where a mother can get diapers because she doesn't have the $10 to buy a pack. I see children down in our childcare center who are dirty, disheveled, ramen-noodled, and most likely not walking at 18 months due to a mother who drank in her pregnancy.

I, therefore, write this post with the knowledge that I am fortunate, very very fortunate and blessed to even have a house that needs cleaning, to have enough money for the groceries that need buying, and to have the healthy children who can demand food and receive it.

Until 3 months ago, I was leisurely (haha) at home with my children, grocery shopping whenever we ran out of even just one item, putting away laundry while watching Project Runway, and making nutritious meals for when my husband came home. We all sat around the table together and discussed our day. When I had a few hours alone, due to naps and/or preschool, I was either writing or working on my journal instructor certification.

Of course, it wasn't remotely that easy. Life is hard as a stay-at-home mom but I have to say that life as a working mom is HELL.

I have already bemoaned this fact in this post but now I have to add the stresses of work itself. I work 24 hours a week; six hours a day for four days. I do not have enough time to do everything that gets thrown at me in that time. And I can't work overtime; I have to leave at 3:30 on the dot to get my son from daycare and my daughter off the bus. My job is starting to keep me awake at night. Three grants due by the time we close down for two weeks for Christmas... I don't know how I will ever pull it off. I try not to care quite so much, but I don't handle failing so well.

So, that's one part of the sob. Another: Groceries.

Over the summer I devised a wonderful system where I got a healthy menu together for the week and using a pre-printed shopping list I found on the internet, I would get all the ingredients I would need for the whole week. I didn't have to think about food (I hate cooking) and it made my husband happy to be greeted at the door with a steaming hot plate of sauteed tofu (I'm not kidding, I actually converted him!) But those days are gone. There is ZERO time to grocery shop. If you recall my grocery-shopping tale, you'll know why I can no longer shop with my children. And definitely not after school. Little Lady practically falls off the bus and onto the couch with only enough energy left to whine for a snack. And Tater Tot no longer appreciates the fun of sitting high in the front of the cart when he knows the potential of running full-speed through the aisles with mom hot on his tail. He has recently discovered his spoiled brat cry which he only employs in public; the one that goes, "IIIIEEEEEEEEE WAAAAAA CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANDYEEEEEEE!'

No, grocery shopping needs to be done on the weekend using the buddy-system (Buddy=Daddy)immediately following a long nap (mine). Which means we frequently run out of meals - not food, meals. There is always a can of something starchy and sodium-filled in the back of the cupboard, but the greens don't hold up quite so well in the back of the fridge. The kids don't care, but I do, and it makes me feel that I am failing in one of my duties - filling my family with nutritious fodder. And so I sobbed about that.

And then there's the never-ending housework. I, who loves a well put-together house, does not appreciate the overflowing baskets of laundry on the chair and the randomly tossed toys that have replaced the perfectly placed, beautifully tasteful antiques. Sob, sob, sob.

And then there's my writing, journalling, and coursework. By the time the kids are finally bathed and ensconced in their beds, I, following my daughter's lead of a few hours earlier, crawl to the couch and whine. It is at this time that I pay the bills, check email, and maybe write this blog. Beyond that I'm useless, completely useless.

By the time Friday rolls around - which I scheduled off from work in order to write and study - my to-do list is longer than the day itself. They are so full of errands, chiropractor appointments, and housework I don't even have a chance to get to my favorite coffee shop for a sip of latte. Major sob.

I'm not even going to mention Christmas. Any woman knows the insanity of Christmas. We know there would not even be Christmas if it was not for us. No pressure.

Finally, I think my body is giving up on me. My back is always stiff, my sinuses are perpetually stuffed, and my lungs are sore. Sob, sob, cough, cough, sob.

This stress is unhealthy and something's gotta give.