East Coast Musings

My Letter To You

2012-02-02T23:23:00.000-05:00

Dear GrandmaStone,

Last night Istepped out of the shower and grabbed a clean towel from the closet, started todry my face, and stopped. I took a long, sweet, inhale of that towel whichsmelled exactly like the ones I’d pull from beneath your bathroom sink as achild. That wood-soaked, fresh-laundry smell, hinting slightly of shelf linerand extra bars of soap, transported me back into your house, into the hallbathroom, and I was 5, 7, 13 again, stepping out of your shower and onto theyellow carpet. There were the Picasso-esque New Orleans jazz players on thewall at my right, the brass floor rack that held extra towels by the doublesink, the soap dish that cradled mysteriously shaped soaps I was always tooscared to use. I didn’t want to mar them. I used the pump dispenser.

And when I wentto bed last night I couldn’t get you or your house out of my mind. Was itbecause it was your birthday and I hadn’t called? Was my obsession motivated byguilt? I laid in bed for over an hour and walked through your home in my memory.Like a 360-degree video clip I scanned each room; the walls, the contents ofthe cupboards, the index card labels on each box and carton written in black sharpie.Walking into your home always filled me with such a sense of peace; the smells,the quiet jazz station playing from the radio on the counter, the cleanly orderof each room, dusted and sparkling perfection. Your home was one of the fewplaces I felt I could truly escape, even amidst the turmoil of life and workand motherhood, and no matter my age, where I could stretch out my arm for thesoft caress of your fingers. I imagined all this and for a brief, fleetingmoment, felt like things were still as they were. And you still lived there onManhatton Drive and I could still go to you for respite. In your presence Icould always breathe deeply, unencumbered by life.

Dad had taken methrough your home when it was empty and cleaned, the walls sterilized withfresh white paint, the new windows draft and rattle free. Walking in sucked thebreath from my body as if every beautiful thing and all the magic and all ourhistory in those rooms had been wiped clean, existing only in particles oferaser dust on the crisp, virgin carpet. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to thathouse then. I’m not really ready to say goodbye to you now.

Is that why Iimagined your home so vividly last night? Did you know about today somehow, andsend me those beautiful memories to help make today easier for me? It did alittle. I think.

You’d be glad toknow I’m surrounded by you in my home. I go to bed and wake up every morningseeing your painting; the nude you painted in art class hangs in gold frame onmy ice blue bedroom walls. It’s the most perfect place for that piece, the roombringing out the best in the aquamarines and browns. I stare at that paintingand try to imagine what you were like at that age, try to imagine you paintingit, what you might have been wearing, the strokes of your hands as you laid theoils on canvas. Your other painting hangs in my living room, your dishes are inmy kitchen cupboards, I pour tea from the crystal pitcher you gave me, yourbeautiful crèche adorned my holiday mantel. You are everywhere here. And yet, youlive most vibrantly in my memories of plywood play sets and green felt adventtrees, red suitcases filled with special toys, and dolls from faraway lands. Wickerducks and chickens that laid candy once a day, and a closet full of strange andexciting toys I’d never seen and didn’t have at home. The smell of yourlipstick and Bill Blass perfume. Your closet that housed a menagerie ofnecklaces and jewelry. The way you set a beautiful table. Your gift forgracious hostessing. Your bible verses and quotes on the side of yourrefrigerator. Your never ending lists of things to do, to make, to order, tocook, to prepare for.

I was coming tovisit, in three short weeks (now three long weeks), to hold your hand and sitby your bed and keep you company. I would have brought you chocolate coveredginger even if you could have only smelled it. I wanted to show you the book Ijust published, even if I only read you a few pages. In my heart, did I suspectthis might happen? Perhaps. But even when we know what the future holds, it’sstill difficult isn’t it Grandma? And although I know there was rejoicing inheaven today when you got up there and that this day was the best of your life,right at this very moment it doesn’t console me much.

I could waxpoetic forever about the childhood memories you gave me and the endless waysyou made me feel special. But the value of those recollections matter to no onebut my own heart. And now, in heaven you know them all. There is nothing leftto say except I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday.

I love you.

I'll miss you.

Rachel

It's a....BOOK!

2012-01-06T22:30:00.002-05:00

Rachel Vidoni and her new baby, Little Changes.

I just wanted to let you all know,officially here on my blog, that I had my baby. Well, it was a joint laborreally, but the book that Kristi Marsh and I have been working on for the last yearand a half arrived in the mail two days ago, in actual pages. With a binding. Andamazing illustrations. It wascertainly the longest labor of my life; 13,148.7 hours. Not that I wascounting. And while I didn’t need an epidural, there were quite a few hours inthere that required numerous glasses of wine and a lot of sustained breathingexercises.

When I first signed the contract (over margaritas andMexican food) to ghostwrite/edit this book, I had little idea of what it wouldentail, but was excited for an opportunity to actually be part of abook-writing process. Kristi didn’t really know me. I didn’t really know her. Ididn’t know much about the book she wanted to write and I had absolutely noclue how to work on a project of this nature (which I’ve kept a secret untilnow). Honestly, I didn’t know if I was even capable of such a feat, but thebook proposition presented itself, so I pretended I was an expert writer whocould transform anything she handed me into spun gold.

Which of course, I did.

Not very humble sounding, is it? That’sterrible, I know. I’m not a big one to toot my own horn, but after a labor anddelivery like this one, I’m pretty proud of the book we created and I want toshow it off to the world—just like a first-time mom holding up her newbornbaby. “Isn’t she beautiful?” I know.How much more narcissistic can I get?

Well, a little more is alwayspossible apparently.

Little Changes; Tales of a Reluctant Home Eco-Momics Pioneer

That’s my name right there. Thelittle blue one under the big pink one. My name is in print on the cover.

The honest truth is that it’s afabulous story. It’s easy to make a delectable, mouthwatering burger when youare working with 100% grass-fed, free-range, happy meat. LittleChanges has an amazing and important message. Somewhere around the middleof the project Kristi asked me, “Why are you doing this? Why are you working sohard for this book and for me?”

I honestly didn’t have a veryscientific reason for her. The contract I signed notwithstanding, I worked onthis book because I believe in its message. And more than that, as the projectcontinued, I had this gut-feeling that this book was going to be big.

Asin, BIG.

And just so you know, I’m going tobe blogging about this book A LOT. Mostly because our marketing budget is,well, smaller than we had hoped. Which is why I’m relying on my family,friends, and the three other people that read this blog to help me spread theword. And if you are a blogger/writer and would like a copy to read and reviewon your blog, PLEASE leave a comment or send me a message. I’ll make sure youget a copy pronto.

As things have progressed and thebook is in our hands and so many AMAZING opportunities are coming her/our way,all I can say is;

HAVEYOUR ORDERED YOUR COPY YET?

It’snot too late! You can do it HERE.

The First Test

2012-01-03T20:32:00.000-05:00

The forgotten trumpet.

It’s January 3^rd, and Iwas already given an opportunity to put my only New Year’s Resolution into effect.As is typical, this morning my son was late getting out the door, with myhusband waiting for him in the driveway, car running. My son always announcesthat he’s “ready” for school, even though he’s sitting at the table, barefoot,sporting bed head, with cereal milk dripping from his mouth as he says it. The time between the words, “I’m ready,” to his butt actually hitting the passenger seat isabout 10 minutes. At least. Such is the life of pre-teens.

About 20 minutes after he left,the phone rang. I was elbow deep in my daughter's french braid so Ilet the machine get it. I heard:

“Mom. It’s me. Can you bring mytrumpet to school? I need it. Thanks.” Click.

I finished my daughter’s hair andassessed the situation. I was dressed and ready, but my four year old was on thecouch in her pj’s, and another daughter who needed to get to the bus stop in 15minutes, and it was colder than a witch’s….well, it was just really, really, cold outside. We’ll leave it at that.

I flew through the house,grabbing his trumpet from his room, his music folder strewn about his floor,trying to unhook my parka from the closet, mentally checked the fact that Ihad 15 minutes to get there, drop it off, and return home or either my middledaughter was going to miss the bus, or my four year old would be home alone, andit was getting hard to breathe, and I realized…

Hey. I have choices here. Am Imaking this decision On Purpose?

No. I wasn’t. I was trying to be agood mom. You know, that good mom who brings the trumpet to school when herpre-teen son should have been getting his things together but was insteadwatching cartoons on TV at 6:30 a.m. I was doing what I’ve been trained and conditioned to do,which is rescue people/children from situations they get themselves into, andwhile certain circumstances do call for a mom to bring things to school(medication or a project that won’t fit into a bus seat) this was not one ofthose times. So I shelved the instinct to be good, and settled for what I do best, and that is mediocre. I was selfish and chose sanity over saving my son's arse. Sealing my decision with a grain of reality, I also rationalized that band was only the first period of the day. Chances were goodthat even if I got the damned trumpet to school, the class would soon be endingand he wouldn’t be able to play it anyway.

So I made a different decision. Ihung my coat back inside the closet, grabbed a new cup of coffee, and had avery pleasant, non-stressful morning. Making that decision On Purpose was soliberating! I made another decision On Purpose and moved my son’s trumpet andmusic folder to the front door where he would see it when he left for schoolthe next day. You’re welcome son.

The best part about my decision?When my son came home he asked me, “So, did you get my message this morning?”

“Yep,” I replied.

“You just didn’t feel like bringingit?” he asked.

“Nope. I didn’t have time. Did youget in trouble?” I asked, silently hoping for some logical consequences here.

“No. I just changed the subject andmy teacher didn’t say anything else about it.”

Well, no consequences, but overallthe experience was win-win. My son didn’t get into trouble (this time) and I had afabulous, productive, stress-free morning.

On Purpose.

My Only New Year's Resolution

2012-01-01T15:12:00.001-05:00

This year I’m only making one New Year’s Resolution. Broadenough that many things could count toward its progress, yet vague enough thatif I miss the mark in some areas, I won’t feel like I’ve failed. My goal for2012 is simple really;

Live Life On Purpose.

What kind ofridiculous resolution is that? you may be asking. How the heck else do people live life? On accident?

Yes. Exactly my point. For a long time I’ve been living mylife on accident. But no longer.

I’m no philosopher—heck, I’m mediocre across the board—butit occurs to me that many people want results in their lives but don’t actuallywant to change anything. We makeresolutions to lose weight and then refuse to seriously cut out the calories orforgo the pasta and refined sugar. We vow to work out and exercise more, andthen show up at the gym twice a week and only when it doesn’t interfere withour other commitments. We want the payoff without the pay; the prize withoutthe contest rules.

Albert Einstein said it best when he said that, Insanity wasdoing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

2011 showed me I’ve been insane for a long, long time.

But no longer! It’s a new year and I’m a new person and I’vebeen given another chance to get it right. The good news is that everyday Iwake up I get this chance again. It really doesn’t just happen on January 1^st.That’s purely American Marketing talking.

I HATE exercising in the cold, but I know that I feel betterwhen I go for my walks which clear my mind and help me put things intoperspective. I’m going to go walking as much as possible, even when it’ssnowing and freezing and I’m swearing under my breath about how damned cold itis. Normally I would stay in bed and relish my warm covers. But now I’m goingto pull my sorry ass up, blindly yank on four layers of clothing, and gowalking. On Purpose.

I LOVE posting my writing here on this blog, but tend toshelve this desire when life gets busy or stressful. But writing actually freesme, see, and even if I’m tired or stressed, maybe by writing and actuallyposting, I’ll get rid of some of the weight on my shoulders and feel better.Normally I would choose to sleep, but I’m going to resist that urge and make adecision to write. On Purpose.

2011 also made me realize that for far too long I’ve giventhe reigns of my life to the wrong people. There I’d sit in the passenger seatof my life and order the drivers around, telling them which way to go, yellingwhen they’d go too fast or when they’d fly by the patch of flowers I wanted tostop and admire. I’m not sure why I gave up those reigns or what I hoped to gain,but I’m in charge of driving my own buggy and taking care of my own horses andoiling my own leather saddle. It’s taken me a long time to find that joyouspart of me again. I’m going to live each day with the joy and excitement I’veshuttered for years because other people wouldn’t be joyful and excited withme. Or out of fear that they’d think I was crazy. Stupid. So what? So what ifI’m the only person dancing in my living room to Lady Gaga while wearing myfuzzy, drawstring pants and sporting morning bed head? So what if no one laughsat my jokes, or acts silly or goofy with me? This year I am resurrecting myauthentic self, dusting her off, and letting her shine once more. On Purpose.

My resolutions don’t involve doing anything more, or anything less. I’m not counting calories. I’m not striving to be morepatient. When faced with a decision I’m simply going to ask myself, “What have I done in the past? Did I get theresult that I wanted? Did my old actions/behaviors bring me joy? Is that whatthe REAL me would have done?” And based on those answers, I may make adifferent decision.

A decision made On Purpose. Not because I've always done it that way. Not because it's acceptable. Not because that's what other people want me to do.

The only thing I’m giving up this year, is insanity.

Who's in YOUR driver's seat? How are YOU going to live differently in 2012?

The Girl Who Played With Fire in 2011

2011-12-30T16:24:00.000-05:00

I figured it would be well worth my time to take one laststab at posting in 2011. Being December 30, I’m pretty happy that I didn’t waituntil tomorrow to try and write this. While stress and procrastination do tendto help my creativity, it doesn’t exactly make me the nicest mother ever.Feeding my darling children takes a backseat when mom has a deadline and I endup declaring cereal the main course.

2011 hasn’t been a great year. You can tell from how oftenI’ve posted on my blog…when silence hits here on my page of musings, you can besure of one thing: I’m busy. Or stressed. It’s not that I’ve run out of ideas,mind you, or that I’ve stopped coming up with clever things to say or thatnothing important is happening in my life. On the contrary, silence is the biggestindicator of my dysfunction; of life handing me so many things to deal with,think through, and process that I simply cannot fathom sitting still for twohours to write them down. Or that sharing the goings-on would be a breech ofthe marital confidentiality agreement, which I don’t remember signing, butoperate within nonetheless. Very often the cacophonous noise in my head and inmy life leaves me silent. Speechless. Any spare moments I have I use to sleep.Avoidance is my salve.

2011 started in tears. Quite literally, honestly, in tearsand questions and deafening silences. The rug of reality I firmly stood on wasripped from beneath my feet and I fell, hard, onto a cold cement floor andstruggled to get up for months. At the height of this struggle I found myselfsitting on my couch, in the silence of midnight hours, in such a state of shockthat I quite literally felt something inside myself break. It was a tangiblepop or rip or shatter—a noise I can’t define—but I remember that moment asbeing so void of answers and so black and so painful I did the only thing thatcame to my mind, the absolutely only thing I knew to do. I opened my bible andstarted reading.

Whatever broke inside me, started a migraine headache thatdidn’t go away for six weeks. Dr.’s looked, MRI’s were ordered, the audiologistsuggested, the neurologist assessed, and after all the tests were analyzed andthe dots connected; the answer was crystal clear.

Nothing was wrong with me. Healthy as could be.

Must be stress.

They eventually went away, those headaches, but for two months my operational level was barely functional. Ibuprofen became my new best friend.

Those months of learning to stand again were like that scenein The Truman Show, where Jim Carrey’s character rows the boat in the ocean,trying to prove to himself that the life he’s living is real and not aconstruct of another's creating, only to hit the backdrop where the sky meets theocean’s horizon. And he knows. Nothing was what he thought.

That’s pretty much how my 2011 has been.

And yet, this year has been wonderful. I’ve written more andworked harder than ever before. I finally finished a book project I started onwith Kristi Marsh, and now have a tangible product containing a funny,poignant, and inspiring story. I’ve fulfilled my life’s dream of publishing abook, even amidst the broken glass surrounding me. Accomplishing a life dreamis monumental in the best of circumstances, but the fact that I have been ableto complete this during one of the most difficult years of my life leaves mefeeling empowered and strong.

This year I also found something I had lost for a longtime—misplaced really. Myself. And I’ve given up something I held onto dearly,for fear that being without it would leave me vulnerable. Control. And in thatmoment on the couch when I broke—when that tiny plastic piece snapped insideme—and the only thought in my head was readthe bible, that moment set me on the path that has saved me. That has ledme to find the beginnings of peace. That all is well. Even when things areterrible—all is well. I don’t have any more answers than I did before, but I dohave the peace to exist without them.

2011 burned through my life like a forest fire, getting ridof dead wood and allowing the conifers to release seeds into my charred earth,ready to start new life growing. With a little time and rain and sunshine andpatience, a new forest will take its place. It’s not a wishful hope but acertainty. Instead of grieving for the devastation, I search through theblackened remains for tiny, green sprouts. They are already there, thosesprouts. Miniscule trees and bushes waiting to rocket forth in 2012, changingmy landscape in ways I can only imagine. For my last post of this year, I wisheveryone joy and peace in 2012.

Would you share with me? What is your biggest triumph and trial of this year?

Eggs, Cocks, and Peckers

2011-09-18T11:12:00.000-04:00

The first little brown egg of many. Compliments of Julia.

Well hello. I didn’t use an exclamation point there becausethat would imply energy, or excitement even, and since I am just coming out ofmy blogging coma, energy is not what I have.

Yes. Three months is a long time to not post. Summer hit andthe kids were home all the time. I feel like I tripped over a sand bucketsomewhere around mid June and by the time I stood up, the kids were back inschool and September was half over. Or maybe my memory is playing tricks on me.I am getting old. Next month I’ll bealmost 40.

And since I left off in June with chickens, and since somuch has happened in three months, I figure chickens is just as good a topic tostart with as any. Because something really exciting happened a few weeks ago:

A few of my girls started laying.

No, not my daughters. They are only four and ten. My other girls; the feathered, beaked, worm-eating kind.

My husband came into the bedroom one evening and said to me,“Get your shoes on and go check out the coop.”

“Did you find an EGG?” I asked, with childhood excitement.

“Go see for yourself.”

Well, even though I hadalready showered and my hair was still wet, I threw on my mucking boots and ranacross the lawn to the coop. If you know anything about me, you’ll know thatthis is significant for a couple reasons; I do not go anywhere after I showerwhere I might encounter chicken poop, and my hair was wet. I do not go outsideat night when my hair is wet for fear that bugs might fly into my hair and getstuck there. Yes. I understand that I am a tad off. Nonetheless, out inpajamas, wet hair, and mucking boots went I, to see what my husband was talkingabout. There, in the nesting box by the window (those chickens are a littlelike me and no doubt appreciate the peacefulness of a cool breeze) was a littlebrown chicken egg.

And when I say little, I mean little. Like it might takethree of these suckers to equal one Grade A Large egg. Size notwithstanding, myexcitement was something I haven’t experienced in a long time. I wasn’t simplyexcited for the fact that we would now always have some type of food source(breakfast for dinner when groceries run low!), but this egg was a symbol. A sign.Proof that I hadn’t (in some way) screwed up when raising my chicks, that I hadin fact done something right, that clearly all the yogurt, bananas, fruitpeels, and pasta I had given my chickens wasn’t in vain and had actuallyprovided them the nutrients they needed to lay eggs. There is a section in mybrain that understands that chickens the world over lay plenty of eggs withoutthese things and that my role in this process wasn’t needed in any form, (a lotlike a birthing coach, who while he/she feels pretty important in the birth ofsaid baby, is really just a prop in the room because the baby is comingwhether he/she is there or not) but what the hell. I’ll take any type of creditI can to prove I don’t suck. And now I know I do not suck when it comes toraising hens. (The jury is currently out on my role as human mother.)

So now we have eggs. On a normal day we get about threebecause my Auricanas aren’t laying yet, and of course, they lay the blue-greeneggs. Everyday my youngest yells, “What color are the eggs today mom?” When Itell her they are all brown, she smiles and yells, “I’m SO excited for the blueones!”

And while she is excited to gather eggs, freshly laid andstill warm, she is a tad reticent about being around the chickens in flip-flops.

Because chickens are chickens and when the hens see littletiny toes with bright pink toe nails I’m sure they look quite like worms withpink hats on. And being good hunter-scratchers that they are, they want to makesure they aren’t missing a tasty morsel so they go after tiny pink toes withtheir beaks. You can imagine how well this goes over with a four-year-old.

In fact, back at the end of June, we discovered one morningthat one of our hens was in fact, a rooster. “May” was ~~her~~ his name (shortfor Maynard now) and May liked to go after little toes, but also after littlegirls (both the feathered and the human kind). Because we didn’t bargain for arooster, and the last thing I needed was more chicks running around, we foundMay a nice farm out in Middleboro. Really. (Not the proverbial “farm” in thesky, but an actually farm with real people farmers. Promise.)

A few weeks ago, while watching the hens eat bugs andscratch around in the mulch, my youngest said to me, “Mom, you know how we got rid’aMay?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Well, can we get rid’a Blackie and Julia too?” she asked.

“Why would you want to get rid of Blackie and Julia?” Iquestioned.

“Because they are peckers,” she said. “And I hate peckers.”

Ahhhh, yes. It’s a pretty good attitude to have all inall—hating peckers, I mean. Unless they lay eggs. In which case I’m happy tooverlook their peckerness. I’ll get rid of the cocks, but the peckers I’mkeeping. Because I frequently run low on groceries and need to serve breakfast fordinner.

Chicken Update: The Girls in June

2011-06-14T08:23:00.003-04:00

Well, they aren't laying eggs yet, but the girls are getting used to their new digs. I try to let them out to roam around for a few hours each day...although I try to stay outside with them. When we were working outside on Sunday, Molly wandered up the hill behind our house (into the neighbor's back yard) and was chased around by a cat. The sqawking and sound of ruffled feathers alerted me and I went running to her rescue. Needless to say, the rest of the day the group hung out in our own yard.

This is Giraffe. I'm pretty sure that she's my Rhode Island Red.

Still waiting to see what happens to Julia's feathers.

Milly has beautiful blond neck feathers.

Her and Molly are the largest chickens so far,

and the ones who are the slowest learning to fly around.

Blackie is still my curious girl. She's also the one most I hold most of the time because she's not as flighty.

A rare moment when I grabbed hold of Milly.

Remember that little yellow ball of fluff, so stereotypic of baby chicks?
Yep, that's her above. I'm thinking that Julia is my Buff Orphington,
but we'll see. She's pretty good natured and is
another one who will let you hold her.

The girls out for their daily forage. Molly is front and center,
scratching up the leaves looking for worms and bugs.

Thankfully, there are a TON out back.

A side view of Molly. I love her feathers! She is one of my Americauna's,

and should lay blue-green eggs come October.

The inside of the completed coop! My husband did such a fabulous job on their house! They sleep in the nesting boxes every night, and use their chicken door to access their porch. At night, we shut up the porch and close the door to the coop, preventing any predators from access to the inside.

Here's their outside porch. They spend a lot of time on the roost and love

to scratch around for bugs in the dirt out here. I like knowing they always have

access to sun and fresh air, on days when I can't let the roam the yard.

This is a treat I gave them the other day: Greek yogurt, bananas, and arugula. They LOVE bananas and arugula, although the yogurt was new for them. Mostly they just walked around in it, but I'll introduce it again. Yogurt is supposed to be really good for chickens, and you know, it helps keeps those chicken-yeast-infections away.

I know I haven't posted much lately, but I've been busy working on a writing project. I'm trying to be better about posting more often, but it ebbs and flows. I'll post a garden update in a few days; it's raining now (so sick of the rain) and I'll wait to take pictures of the garden when it's sunny. So far, though, I've planted summer squash, zucchini, potatoes, tomatoes, green beans, garlic, cucumbers (slicing and pickling), beets, shelling peas, and sugar snap peas. The blueberries are looking wonderful, and the blackberries are budding out well too. My raspberries as always, are a pain in my ass, and we'll see if I keep them in the garden after this year! Oh, and did I mention 10 pumpkin plants are now taking off in the back yard? Looks like it will be a fun fall!

Fathers, Daughters, & Disco Sticks

2011-05-23T10:15:00.000-04:00

Today's guest blogger is Ted Ten Eyck. He's extraordinarily funny, even more so when you meet him in person. If you enjoy his wry humor you'll love his take on therapy, as well as his feelings about picking zits. Don't read the zit one if you're eating.

When my wife finished watching the coverage of the recent royal wedding, she confessed the following to me: “I’m glad you’re not a prince, because I don’t think I would make for a very good princess.” Having learned a thing or two over the past twelve years of marriage, I knew I had to respond carefully: “Don’t be silly. Of course you would be a good princess.” My wife appreciated my lame attempt to sound supportive. But she went on to explain why she felt she would be a less-than-exemplary princess: “I probably would have just flipped off all of those spectators at my wedding.” Oh. Well in that case, you definitely are not good princess material.

My wife can breathe a sigh of relief because I certainly am not prince-like material. Luckily, I don’t want to be a prince. Hell, I don’t even want to be Prince. (But that is mainly because he is a full sixteen inches shorter than I.) Even though my wife knows she wouldn’t be a good princess, I am sure that doesn’t stop her from still having a desire to be a princess. Because, as far as I am aware, most people born with lady-parts have some yearning at some time in their life to be a princess. (Don’t worry; I make sweeping, stereotypical comments about men later on.) This desire is reinforced with weddings and proms and, as I discovered last year, the beloved Father-Daughter dance.

My understanding is that the dance has its origin in basically forcing fathers to spend time together with their precious daughters. Fatherhood was very different “back in the day.” It was, after all, a time when it was socially acceptable for the likes of Don Draper to get drunk at a bar while his wife was in labor. An awful lot has changed regarding the role of fathers since then. Today, for example, men are expected to not only be (1) present and (2) sober for the birth of their child, but to also (3) pretend that their wife did not just have a bowel movement on the birthing table while awaiting Junior’s arrival into the world. Yet despite all of these changes, year after year, the Father-Daughter dance keeps on happening.

And this is a really special night for the girls. The girls are typically wearing a new dress...and new shoes...and new jewelry. Some go to the hair salon on the day of the big event; some go for a manicure and pedicure. They get flowers from their father. And the girls are absolutely beautiful. They look like little princesses.

Unfortunately, these little princesses don’t have a proper audience who can fully appreciate just how beautiful they look. I paid close attention this year, and discovered that the girls themselves really don’t care what one another look like. As long as they tamed their bed-head and are not still wearing the same Justin Bieber t-shirt they had on at school earlier that day, all is apparently good. And the only other people in attendance at the Father-Daughter dance are, appropriately enough, fathers. The fathers will make a big deal about their daughter’s appearance. They will even throw in a perfunctory, “You look beautiful!” However, all fathers really care about is making sure their daughter is never, ever wearing sweatpants that proudly proclaim “JUICY” across the ass.

So, the only people who will truly appreciate all of these efforts are the only people who will not actually be attending the dance. Yes—the mothers. The same ones who bought the dress and the shoes and dealt with their daughter’s tears because the hair stylist made her hair too curly. So the mothers latch onto what they can; namely, posting the pictures on Facebook for all of the other mothers to appreciate.

Despite the fact that my wife was already sharing her photos with all 252 of her Facebook friends before my daughter and I even entered the event, we still got suckered into paying for the professional pictures at the dance. And then we had to walk past the refreshment table, and another table where they were selling glow sticks. (I refused to buy one just on principle; I don’t need to give my daughter practice for what she might experience when she finally gets to go to her first rave.) Then it is finally time to enter the ballroom (a.k.a. high school cafeteria) where the magic happens. And I have learned from experience that the night will only play out one of two ways: the first scenario happened to me last year, where my then six-year-old daughter clung to me the entire night because she was overwhelmed and over stimulated with the chaos of the event. The second option is what happened this year: we walked in and my precious offspring dropped me like a hot potato. “Dad, I’m gonna go dance with my friends!” Fine by me. At the age of 41, I am pretty sure that I have more than met my lifetime quota of having to dance to “Y.M.C.A.”

That means that I am then on my own to mingle with the other fathers who were also ditched by their dates. So what is created as a result is a cafeteria full of men left to make small talk with other men. And everyone knows that striking-up conversation is not a strong point of people born with dangly-parts. That is why men prefer to get together with a planned activity in mind to give them something to talk about; activities such as playing poker or watching a stripper. So, if the organizers of the Father-Daughter dance really wanted to raise some serious money for the school, they would do more than just sell soda and candy bars; they should offer a full cash bar. Not only would the alcohol provide the much-needed social lubrication, but the sales would bring in enough money for the school to most likely build a new wing. (I can hear it now: “Today’s assembly on scoliosis will be held in the Anheiser-Busch Multi-Purpose Room.”)

Although I have been tempted to bring my own flask to the dance, I have so far used my better judgment. So I have to resort to using my patented conversation starters that are specific to the Father-Daughter dance. Let me give you a few examples:

“Hey, Bob? Doesn’t it seem odd that the kindergarteners are all dancing to Katy Perry going on and on about losing one’s virginity?”

“Am I the only one here who finds it creepy that our seven-year-old daughters are chanting ‘Boys wanna touch my junk’ along with Ke$ha?”

“Good to see you. Nothing like Lady Gaga proclaiming that she ‘wants to take a ride on your disco stick’ to build lasting memories for girls and their dads, eh?”

I really, really wish I was joking about these particular songs being played at the dance. But believe you me, these are the selections. Luckily, the songs that are played for the slow dances are surprisingly free of sexual innuendos. So, I have nothing to carp about regarding what we are dancing to; I do, however, have some things to say about how the dancing actually happens. Some pairings opt for the isn’t-that-cute daughter-standing-on-Dad’s-shoes move. Let me tell you from experience that that is enjoyable for the fathers for approximately seven seconds. Then there is the traditional option where even though the two dancing parties are holding hands, there is enough distance between said parties as to not catch cooties. (I wish that this image did not conjure up for me so many memories of dancing this way with uninterested partners during junior-high mixers while Journey’s “Open Arms” played in the background.)

If I had been cooler in middle-school (or in high school, or in college...), I would have had the chance to dance really close with a girl, with our bodies pressed up against one another and the girl’s head resting on my shoulder. Surprisingly, this is the move that many Father-Daughter pairings resort to. Unfortunately, because of the massive height difference between most adult males and their elementary-school-aged daughters, the girl’s head inevitably ends up resting on her father’s lower abdomen. And that is a sight that you will never see, rightfully so, in any of those Disney princess movies.

So, I can bitch and moan all that I want, but it doesn’t matter. And that is because the Father-Daughter dance is not about me. It’s about my daughter, the princess. And my princess has a magical time at said event, because she feels special on that night. And hopefully later in her life she will find someone who can make her feel that special each and every day. In the meantime, she is stuck with me, her father, who is still closest at being prince-like only when I play the soundtrack to “Purple Rain” on the drive home from the Father-Daughter dance.

Four Year-Old Manipulation

2011-05-19T22:13:00.000-04:00

With enough bows, clips, and saliva, you too can have this look.

My youngest daughter turns four in two weeks, and while she knows exactly how to inflict you-never-play-with-me-guilt, she’s yet to figure out how to use threats appropriately.

I mean, any good mediocre mother worth her weight in wet coffee grinds knows how to threaten a kid and get results, right?

My soon-to-be four year old desperately wants long hair (just like her best friend at school, and Kiki and Mirena on Fresh Beat Band) which is fine with me. The poor girl didn’t inherit any thick, lush hair genetics from my husband or me, consequently her hair is thin and wispy and requires a sufficient amount of saliva to keep it in place. Keeping it ultra short is not only darling on her tiny, pudgy face, but also a great way to make those locks look a bit thicker. Sadly there aren’t too many cartoon characters or TV show personalities that have short hair (unless you count Dora and while you may want to speak Spanish after watching her show, you definitely don’t want to replicate her head) which is why, my daughter now wants to have long hair. Like her best friend. And Kiki and Mirena.

I don't mind if my daughters have long hair, but I do mind them looking like field mice nest in it. My rule is that females in this house can have long hair as long as it’s fixed for school—that is, having some type of comb or brush go through it and making sure it is pulled back out of their eyes.

But my daughter does not particularly like to have her hair fixed. Especially when she is tired and hasn’t had her morning ~~coffee~~ breakfast yet. We had yet another battle of the wills this morning when I finally used my mom threat.

“Fine,” I said to her. “If you don’t want to fix your hair then I’m going to cut it.”

She was silent. I’m thinking that she’s going to finally cooperate.

“Do you want me to cut your hair right now?” I asked, smug smile on my face.

“Yes,” she replied. “Cut it.”

Shit. I hadn’t planned on that response. But it was 8:00 a.m. and I did have my coffee so I quickly switched to plan B and did what all moms do when their threats backfire and said, “Fine. I’m going to get some scissors.”

I searched the kitchen where we keep scissors and the junk drawer where we keep scissors and even my daughter’s craft desk where there are always scissors, but guess what I never found? I had great visions of my marching back into that bathroom with a pair of sharp, pointy cutting utensils and pretending to cut her hair—an effectively loud snip! snip! to startle her into fixed-hair submission, but now I had nothing. Just empty threats. Empty threats can work, mind you, they just aren’t very good for story telling later.

When I walked back into the bathroom, ready to tell her we’d have to wait on our haircut, she said, “I’m ready to fix my hair now.” And we proceeded with two ponytails and a barrette. Easier than I thought but it could have had a more exciting ending.

As parents we know what will motivate our children; what works for some doesn’t always work for others. We figure out exactly what will devastate our kids the most—losing video games, being grounded from friends, no TV extra chores—then dangle it just above their heads or take it away all together to produce the desired behavior, or as sufficient punishment for some misdeed. Parents hone this skill with time so that eventually we can even make it sound like losing the item was the kid’s idea. Those moments are pure parenting joy.

But my youngest doesn’t quite know how to hit below the belt yet. Her threats inevitably still only affect her. Most days if she doesn’t get her way, she threatens:

“FINE! THEN I’M NOT GOING TO PLAY WITH MY FRIENDS OR EAT MY DINNER!” Which is okay with me because that’s one less playdate I have to supervise and meal I have to make. Another one of her more popular threats: “FINE! THEN I WON’T HAVE ANY DESSERT AND I WON’T PLAY WITH YOU!” Again, these are okay with me since we’re trying to cut out needless sweets and I’m off the hook for Polly Pocket pretending.

Tonight I told her she couldn’t have any more snacks which included chewing gum, when she yelled, “FINE!” THEN I WONT BE A PART OF THIS FAMILY!”

This was a threat I hadn’t heard before. I’m pretty impressed that she’s clearly stepping up her game and trying to find the salt for my wound. Sadly, that one didn’t work on me either. I’d miss her if she left, don’t get me wrong. But in the evenings while I’m trying to make dinner, I fantasize about the day when everyone is gone and I don’t have to prepare a meal that is healthful and colorful with the five available items in my pantry, when I can in fact, resort to a bowl of Raisin Nut Bran in front of the TV. So if she’s not a part of the family anymore this time will come much sooner.

Sure. Maybe it’s not a good thing that she’s constantly threatening things when she doesn’t get her way. And I probably should be concerned that she uses the word FINE with such vehemence; I really don’t know where she gets that little tid bit.

Fine. I do know where she gets it. But one thing she hasn’t gotten from me is how to use threats appropriately and then how to follow through with them when they backfire. Maybe she’ll learn those things when she turns four.

The Usual Run of Things. Shocking, I know.

2011-05-16T08:45:00.003-04:00

Todays' Guest Post is from Tara over at Two Hands and a Roadmap. I'm pretty sure that we are twins, separated at birth and raised in two different cities. If you like my humor, you'll love Tara, because she swears and has mediocre goals just like me. Plus she preserves tomatoes and cans fresh peaches. Another reason to love her! I'm guest posting over on her blog today, in case you want to take a read. Enjoy!

I should be offended by this. I should rail against gender stereotypes in general and the use of "Mr. Mom" to refer to a man who nurtures children and keeps house in particular. I should, at the very least, be disdainful of the country twang and cliches.

But I'm not. I enjoy this song. It makes me happy to know there's someone out there as bad at the stay-at-home thing as I was. With a procrastinating nature, a fundamental inability to stay organized, and a phobia of the telephone, I wasn't exactly a natural. Plus multi-tasking is physically painful to me. Make dinner while entertaining toddler? No way, no how; I could do one or the other, period. It all added up to a hot mess of crayon-marked walls and smoke detectors announcing that dinner was done.

Now that both kids are in school full-time and I'm away at work -- leaving my husband in charge of a lot of morning household tasks -- you would think I have limited opportunities to screw stuff up. Yet I manage, over and over.

A classic bonehead maneuver involved an elementary school Christmas party that I volunteered to organize for my younger son. His teacher gave me a list of names and numbers of people who had signed up at the beginning of the year to bring stuff to the party. My job was to call them (uh-oh), and organize all the dishes coming in from different parents (holy crap). Oh, and not to lose the list. Teacher chuckled as she handed it to me; it seems the parent who volunteered to run the Halloween party LOST THE LIST and the whole party had to be run in a most unacceptable way. How ridiculous. We're not letting her do that again. Ha ha, freaking ha.

The smart readers just figured out where this is going.

I shoved the paper, cleverly stapled to thick purple construction paper to make it unlosable (um, ha?) in my van and forgot about it. Plenty of time.

Two weeks later and a mere three days before the event, I decided I'd better remind the people who signed up (in September, remember) to bring stuff. I knew I'd have to apologize for being so scatterbrained and late, but it would be OK.

The paper was gone. Gone. While I sorted various piles of paper in my kitchen and office, I imagined the humiliation of calling the teacher and telling her that another mother has lost a party signup sheet. I saw my picture up in the teachers' lounge, with blacked-out teeth and surrounded by epithets scrawled in Sharpie markers. When I had to move my paperback copy of ADD-Friendly Ways to Organize Your Life to continue searching, I had a private laugh. It sounded like the giggle of a madman.

I finally found the paper. It was on the floor of my van. There were no staples. No thick, purple construction paper. It was a regular printout, on green printer paper. I picked it up and marveled at my ineptitude. There wasn't much time, though, to figure why I had mentally manufactured such a strange and erroneous detail. I made calls; I made apologies; I made recommendations for party contributions. I did not lose the list. My mind is another matter altogether.

So if you need me, I'll be the one folding laundry and laughing like Renfield. It's the only multitasking I can manage.

Chicken Update Part Deux

2011-05-15T13:19:00.001-04:00

Suffice it to say, the chickens are growing rather rapidly and can now eat their weight in chicken mash. I also need to change their water at least twice a day because they insist on pooping in it. They bring the concept of "water with floaties in it" to a whole new level.

Julia, once the cute, fluffy, yellow chick you think of on Easter and color in springtime coloring books is now the epitome of ugly. Her snowy dander is now being replaced by orange tinted feathers and if you didn't know what stage she was in, you might think someone ws plucking her feathers instead of new ones growing in. I'm 70% certain that she's my Buff Orphington, even though that's the chicken my middle daughter wanted. I'm pretty sure that Giraffe (middle daughter's chicken) is in fact, the Rhode Island Red.

Here is Giraffe. She actually has beautiful color and her feathers are gorgeous. I mean, if you can call a chicken in this tween stage gorgeous. It's all relative.

All the pictures I have of Blackie are out of focus. That's because she's nosy and wants to see what the camera is all about. Her feathers are coming in black and white..slightly reminiscent of houndstooth pattern. Poor Blackie seems to get picked on by the other chickens. She's a tiny bit slow, I think, and you know how chickens pick up on things like that. She also always has poop stuck to her butt, which I'm sure is why the other chickens cluck and cackle at her, wondering why the heck she can't poop with dignity like the rest of them. Needless to say, when I hold Blackie, I always have a towel.

May is the flock bitch. I'm sorry to say it, but she's clearly got Napoleon Syndrome, and she throws her weight around acting like she's the chicken in charge. She forces the other chickens out of the food and the water and then waddles her fat butt up to take their place. Blackie is usually the target of most of her scorn, but she's an equal opportunity bee-otch. I'm pretty sure you won't see her sleeping outside during the winter; she'll have the best roost in the chicken coop and she'll let everyone know it. All I have to say is that her eggs better be gorgeous. (They are supposed to be blue-green.)

Here are the girls going after the food I just put in their cage. Mind you, they have food in this thing 24 hours a day, and yet when they run low they squawk like they haven't been fed in years. A lot like my kids, come to think of it. I can't wait to put the chickens outside because it will be six less things-that-breathe complaining that they are hungry.

Yep. The girls still live in this pack n'play, which is now covered with a baby gate so they don't fly out. Much like taking their first baby steps, the tweens can now fly a bit and a couple of them have made it to the edge of the playpen. The last thing I need is to clean up chicken poop from flying chickens, so gated they have become. And here's a toast to not getting rid of all the baby paraphernalia!

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the new door for my chicken coop! Isn't it beautiful? The open part will be covered with chicken wire eventually, and it hinges on the left so the door can open almost all the way around the wall. In theory, this should make it easy to clean the coop. That remains to be seen since the chickens aren't outside yet. But dang the coop is looking good!

Hubby installed the shelf a little differently than planned, but I like it even better. The shelf will stay where it is and the nesting boxes will be removable for easy cleaning. Under the nesting boxes Hubby cut a chicken door that will lead to their outside back porch. We'll be able to open and close this door from the outside.

Here's what the door looks like on the outside. Once cover this area with chicken wire, the girls will have access to outdoor air and sunshine during the fall, spring, and summer. During the winter I think they'll want to avoid the snow.

This is the new sliding door that closes in the coop and the storage. The other door was rotted and warped. Hopefully this new door will also keep out the predators looking for a nice chicken dinner.

Here is the old door. Pretty sorry looking isn't it?

Thoughtful Thursday: Progress

2011-05-13T13:14:00.000-04:00

Photo Credit: Jared White Photography

We spend a lot of time building. Most of life is about building something; a life, a career, a resume, experience, knowledge, an empire. We see building things as a sign of progress, an attempt at making things better, a way to conquer ignorance, or earn more money, or provide a future for children you have or hope to have.

We are all architects and engineers of our own design.

Most of what we spend time building are walls. We construct houses to keep out the elements, reinforce doors and windows to keep out thieves at night. We build fences around our lawns to define what is ours and ensure our privacy. We work in cubicles designed to give us our own “space,” to hang pictures of our children and set our hand painted coffee mugs that hold pencils and pens. These spaces are sacred.

When our hearts break for the first, and second, and third times, we build walls around our heart to protect it from possible trespass. Maybe these walls are little at first, but time adds mortar and experience adds bricks and before you realize what’s happened there’s a six foot wall in front of you and you don’t remember consciously building it but there it is just the same. And you’re not sure how to take it down or if you even want to, so you don’t. That wall feels safe somehow. You come to love that wall and feel safe within its shadow and you spend so much time caring for that wall it becomes one with you and you with it.

We build walls of Coach purses and Jimmy Choo shoes, plastering the gaps in the drywall with labels and dollar signs and rings with many facets; sports cars and boats and flat screen TV’s, man caves and pool tables and high end Italian leather shoes imported from Florence. These walls travel with us protecting us from the negative impressions of others, keeping us safe from the fear that we won’t measure up. Or that we don’t belong. And it’s proof that we’re building something big.

We live our lives and make more money and build more walls to define our space and we sit in our private backyard around private pools and bask in thankfulness that we can’t see our neighbor’s ugly back porch. Because our neighbor doesn’t value space like we do, clearly isn’t building success like us. We toil in cubicles making money for the corporation who signs our paychecks and we hope that making more money for the company will earn us a larger cubicle with more space to call ours. Where we can have more privacy and be even more productive.

And the walls around our heart make us stronger and independent and those are two traits we admire and respect so we search for someone to love us who is also strong and independent. Who doesn’t want to love someone who is strong and independent? We assume this common ground will be ties that bind us together, but all it really means is that someone picked up their wall and set it right next to yours. You chisel away tiny holes in the brick and mortar for communicating and holding hands, but you both keep those walls erect because you remember what it was like when you were 13 or 28 and your heart broke into a million pieces and you were humiliated. But now that you found someone with a wall just like yours who is strong and independent, that can’t possibly happen to you again. And if it does, well, you’re prepared.

The problem is that after awhile you look around your well-planned space, the space you own, the walls you built, the perfectly manicured yard and realize:

You’re all alone.

And you don’t like it.

For all the space, and notoriety, and social class, and money, and stuff you’ve gathered and built over the years the only thing you’ve really earned is loneliness. You couldn’t possibly know that your next door neighbor also struggles with depression like you do, or that your co-worker is battling cancer just like your wife, or that man who lives behind you has a solution to the sump pump in your basement that is never working during a rainstorm. Your basement floods and ruins your precious things because he doesn’t know you need a sump pump and you don’t even know his name.

Because the walls are too high and we’re all too busy toiling behind them trying to keep others out of our personal space and earn more money so we can build more walls so we can point to our products and say, “Look what I did. Isn’t that something?”

But we realize that we need some kind of contact; our loneliness drives us to finally seek company, but because the walls proliferate and they are thick and heavy to move, we refrain from tearing down a wall and meeting the person who’s sitting an arms length away and instead we reach out online. We find people that help fill our emptiness with time which is what we have, but not our space which we don’t have, and besides that these time-people require less effort.

Virtual communities open up before us and there is safety in knowing these millions of people here on the computer because they can’t hurt us and can’t judge us and we don’t feel ashamed of our clothes or our hair or our dirty minivans because they can’t see us and don’t know us anyway. This companionship offers the best of both worlds; convenience and community when we’re seeking company, and peaceful solitude when we’d like to be alone. No guilt. No repercussions. No expectations. The push of a button turns the interaction on and off at our will.

We think we finally have it all! We have the walls we’ve built and the things we own and the space we’ve created and now we’re not lonely anymore because we’ve got virtual relationships and a place to play cards, and forums to join where we can meet people from all over the world just.like.us. In fact, we fall asleep at night feeling like we have hundreds of friends indeed.

But we don’t. Not really. We have words on a screen and an idea in our heads and perhaps an avatar representing someone’s ideals of themselves, but it’s all smoke and mirrors and we know it.

So we drink. Or get high. Or smoke cigarettes. Or eat a gallon of ice cream with a spoon in our sweats in front of the TV night after night. That makes us feel better for awhile. In those moments of painless abandon, we try to figure out where the disconnect is because we’ve built a house and a yard and a life and a career and we have things and our children have things and yet we still feel empty. We are strong and independent, and people who are strong and independent are supposed to be….strong. Right?

And in our attempt to find the peace and answers we seek we go back to the only thing we’ve done with any success:

Building.

Building things is always a sign of progress.

Poetry Tuesday: Many Haiku for reading: It won't take you long

2011-05-10T10:14:00.000-04:00

Thoughtful

The lies we believe

Only keep us safe until

We choose to wake up

The line in the sand

Again washed away by waves

She draws another

On Gardening

Potatoes planted

Refuse to send shoots upward

Where the hell are you?

My nemesis taunts

Choking my efforts at growth

Mother f*#@ing weeds

On Chickens

My fresh free-range eggs

Better be worth all the sh*t

I clean from the pen

I don’t understand

Why they poop in their water

It can’t taste that good

On Children

Peacefully breathing

The rise and fall of their chest

Watching children sleep

Loud obnoxious trolls

Destroy things and ignore me

I call them my kids

Daily Prayers

Thank you for today

Help me use my time wisely

As I seek Your will

Forgive me when I

Fail to help a hurting soul

Open my eyes Lord

Say What?

From my fingers drip

Words onto paper like ink

Meaningful blotches

I shiver though warm

Exhausted and can’t find sleep

Blue is flavorless

Garden Update: So far, so slow.

2011-05-09T21:01:00.002-04:00

The Bleeding Heart in my backyard. I thought this was a weed when I first moved to MA, until I saw the very same plant for sale at Lowes. Who knew?

So far, it's been a slow start to the gardening season. Our cold, wet weather has made it difficult to get much of anything in; not necessarily because the ground can't support it, I simply don't want to be planting things outside when it's cold. As far as cold season veggies go, the only thing I wanted to plant this year was sugar snap and shelling peas. I'm not particularly good at growing lettuces or spinach, and the bunnies and insects seem to eat it faster than I can grow and harvest it. It's also pretty cheap at the farmer's market, so last year I decided to purchase those and grow things like peas, which are a tad more expensive. Especially the shelling peas since you pay per pound and then shuck all that weight off those tiny peas and throw it away.

These are my sugar snap peas. I planted two batches seven days apart to extend the harvest, but as you can see, not many plants came up. This bed probably contained about 200 pea seeds, and this is how many sprouted. Peas can be fickle that way. This year I also put wire over my pea beds because last year we had an abysmal pea turn out. My hypothesis is that birds would eat the pea seeds after we planted them, but my husband thinks that's silly. Needless to say, you can see how many shelling peas came up in the picture below.

Looks like shelling peas will be a good crop this year. Probably not enough to put away in the freezer--I'll have to go to the Farmer's Market for that--but we'll have enough to eat. And we'll be eating them so often it'll force the kids to like them. Ha.

My rhubarb is alive and well and always grows like gangbusters in my garden. This is despite the fact that noone in my family likes to eat it, including my husband who eats just about anything. I've tried to make believers out of them with strawberry rhubarb crisp, rhubarb pecan bread, and strawberry rhubarb jam. Nothing seems to change their mind. I love it mind you, and I'm sad that the one vegetable that grows so well in my garden isn't appreciated by this family. Sorry rhubarb. I'll harvest you and use you best I can, but that's all the love you're going to get.

These lovely little sprouts are not supposed to be there. These are all the raspberry cane suckers that have grown into my mulch area and are formulating plans to stage a red berry coup. This may just be the year that I pull all the raspberry bushes out entirely. We don't harvest enough berries from these ladies to make it worth my while. They mostly serve to keep Maria busy eating right from the canes when I am working in the garden. If I don't get to the berries before she does, she even eats the moldy ones and the berries that the wasps have half eaten. I try not to think about that too much because it makes my stomach hurt. On top of that, these raspberries have sharp, hair-like thorns down the entire stalk of the canes; after weeding or thinning this area, I look like I've gotten into a fight with a bunch of drunk alley cats. And that's WITH the long sleeves. Pretty much, these berries suck.

Ahhhhh. My herbs are back! Well almost all of them anyway. My oregano and thyme have yet to show new growth this year, but I'm holding steady for a few more weeks. This year I bought two rosemary plants (because I use so much of it) and also another parsley. I don't use a ton of parsley, but it grows well and is pretty to look at.

My chives and dill.

Sage and lavender. Don't really know what I'm going to do with the lavender, but it smells amazing and looks pretty hearty. I'll have to find some recipes that use lavender. (Besides shampoos and body soap.)

A Mother's Day for You

2011-05-08T11:30:00.001-04:00

Photo by Debi Stone.

I slept in today and woke up to a hot pot of coffee and a warm mug waiting for me in the microwave. My husband served up my favorite bagel and cream cheese, my 10-year-old planned a scavenger hunt for me to find my Mother’s Day gift. My husband will give me all of today to do what I will, without guilt or worry; a grass-fed beef brisket is currently roasting over hot coals in the kettle grill, dinner is planned, he is playing with the three year old in the back yard.

This morning I started a Novena, dedicated to Beth, a mother who isn’t here to celebrate the day. My day is wonderful and beautiful and supported and I am surrounded by love; and yet, a tiny shadow hangs over my head.

Mother’s Day is a celebration of all the visible things we do for our children; the fact that we birthed them being most important of all. We’re recognized for the cookies we bake for class and the projects we help our children craft the night before a due date; the scratches we bandage, the monsters we chase away, the bed time stories we force ourselves to read when we can barely keep our eyes open. We tickle and we wrestle, we support and encourage, we wave when the school bus leaves and the car for college leaves and the Bride and Groom leave and the grandkids leave. We are always saying hello and goodbye.

But this Mother’s Day I’d like to celebrate the silent struggle of motherhood; the things that go unnoticed save for the spaces in our soul only we know about and rarely speak of, not even to our husbands and possibly not even to best friends. Today I’d like to celebrate that 10-year-old girl that lives within each of us; the one that still hurts when put down, the spirit that continues to dream, the child who’d like to make a wish and blow that fluffy dandelion before she knew that would create a hell-of-a-mess in the yard.

For the dreams you gave up or put aside to raise your children: this day is for you.

For the ways your heartbreaks for your children when they are picked upon, or put down, or picked last, or going through a divorce, or lose a child of their own, or struggle with addictions: this day is for you.

For the pain you fight through because your children still need a mother; the headaches, achy joints, cancer treatments, extreme fatigue, or depression, that can make getting up in the morning a chore you’d rather not perform, yet you do it anyway because someone needs to eat breakfast: this day is for you.

For the single mother who plays two roles, who is lonely and heartbroken and pushed to her max because she is the one holding it all together; for the desire for companionship and love she craves but doesn’t have time to find: this day is for you.

For the women who thought they’d be mothers and aren’t; whether by circumstance or inability to conceive; for the emptiness they feel and the coming-to-terms of a life without children: this day is for you.

For the mothers who feel hopeless; whose pain goes unrecognized until the horrible, awful happens; for the mothers who live in darkness and cannot see light nor hope, whose struggles envelope and suffocate them: this day is for you.

For the mothers who've lost a child, born or unborn; for the space inside of you that died that day, and the tiny ache that never quite goes away; for the tears you wept for your child and the emptiness you feel without them: this day is for you.

For the mothers who are unappreciated by their husbands or children; the ones who are abused or forgotten, and especially the ones who die at the hands of their family: this day is especially for you.

Today I celebrate me; the mom my children see, the girl who whispers within me, the woman I hope to become, my inner secrets, my quiet failings, my disappointments, my mediocrity. My joys. My gifts. My talents. My tears.

Today I celebrate you. I recognize YOU. I see you as you ARE.

Wholly imperfect and perfect.

You are beautiful.

I wish you all a blessed Mothers Day.

The Chicken Picture Diary

2011-05-07T22:03:00.000-04:00

This is the dividing wall my husband built, which separates the chicken coop from the lawnmower storage. Our first compromise was that this space had to still fit the lawnmower. Thanks to hubby's handiwork...done!

Three-year old scoping out the new chicken digs.

Hubby also built these four nesting boxes for the coop. He'll build two more so that everyone has a cozy, warm, bed to lay their eggs. He's also going to rig it so that the nesting boxes hang higher on the wall and come out easily for cleaning.

Right now this is the back of the playhouse. Kids for two generations have jumped off the ledge there and onto that disgusting mattress buried beneath the soil. The former owner piled leaves behind the playhouse and his children would jump off into the leaves, consequently there is fantastic mulch there. Thanks to the chickens, this space will now be their sun porch. We'll enclose it with chicken wire and add a small animal door so the chickens can go in and out.

Thankfully the coop has two windows which we will help ventilate the poop smell.

This is the lawnmower storage. The fact that it's cleaned and swept out makes me want to take a million pictures of it.

I've been taking the girls outside whenever it is warm and sunny. These pictures were taken three or four days ago. They look nothing like this now. They are much larger and have a TON more feathers. We let them run around inside of a baby gate.

Giraffe and Milly.

Giraffe, eating random things on the ground.

Blackie is the most curious of all my girls. She comes up to me easily and is always pecking around trying to figure things out.

May is the smallest in size, but is the most feisty. She's actually kind of a bitch. She flys at the other chickens and pushes a lot of them away from the food and water.

Julia and Molly eating their chicken mash. I can tell you that this is full of roughage for them and very frequently is not absorbed by their bodies, resulting in extremely gritty chicken poop. Which is probably why that poop is so good for gardens.

The fluff from all the chickens is quickly being replaced by feathers. I'm not sure where I thought all this fluff would go...perhaps I was hoping the fluff itself would turn into feathers...but alas, they do not. This means that I have enough chick fluff on the floors of my laundry room to make a toddler sized down pillow. I have used my vacuum more in the last two weeks than in the four years I've lived in my house.

Well, that's the girls in a nutshell. They are still cute, but that cutness is waning a bit as they grow older. They are starting to fly around the bottom of the pack n' play, so I cover the top with a baby gate. I'm getting some serious mileage out of old baby equipment. But now they are also starting to stink, which means I have to change their pen every two or three days. Oh well. I'm not mucking the coop yet so I'm not going to complain.

Expanding Ourselves

2011-05-06T21:51:00.001-04:00

Today I took my oldest two children—Mr. 12 and Miss. 10—to the doctor for their yearly physical.

The Good News

Neither had been to the doctor since their last physical. The doctor likes to think it’s because they’ve been so healthy, but really it’s because I’m a cheap ass and don’t want to pay a twenty buck co-pay so they can tell me my child has a cold and there is nothing they can do about it.
My son and daughter both grew two inches in height this year. Say YEAH! to TWO INCHES!
It looks as if nature is rolling along at a steady pace and they will both, at some point, mature into adults. Whew. Sometimes I think they’ll be stuck at this pupa stage forever, but according to the doc, wings will be in our future. Thank you Jesus.

The Bad News

Both my children exceeded the average weight gain for the year.

Like, by a lot.

Like, by so much that to average out the weight gain they would have had to grow three additional feet taller. (I'm guessing here because you all know how much I suck at numbers.) The doctor told them he didn’t want them to gain anymore weight this year at all. Hang steady. Maintain. (And no, I’m not going to divulge the amounts here. If you’re family, you can call me.) I'm supposing that the doctor doesn't really care that my kids are part Italian and they can easily eat their weight in all products made from white refined flour and pasta sauce. This is probably not helpful information. Or a helpful diet for that matter.

He told the kids to cut out snacks, cut down on the amount they’re eating, and no more soda. That’s when my son passed out. No soda? For a pre-teen? Are you kidding? (But again, I was quiet about the pasta.)

The good news is that now I can institute all kinds of new eating habits and rules (that I was very good about enforcing once upon a time) and I’m not the bad guy. The doctor is. Which is fine with me because we see him once a year. I'm thinking that maybe my kids weren't at the doctor sick this year because they are hearty. Strong. A cold germ comes along and the energy they have stored in their tissue helps fight those cold germs off faster than thin, scrawny kids. I know, I know. Excuses, shmuses.

After the doctor’s office appointment I nixed the idea of taking the kids out for ice cream (which was my original plan, but even I couldn’t have lived with that guilt) and went to Walmart instead. Where my son asked for soda. Of course I didn't buy him one. I bought him Gatorade instead. That's a good compromise, right?

Tonight we had pizza for dinner. And fries.

I’m instituting our new meal rules and rituals tomorrow.

The Middle Place

2011-05-05T23:02:00.001-04:00

Photo by: Jared White Photography
See the original photo here.

Each Thursday I'll be posting my "Thoughtful" writing...it's a change from the usual funny stuff but I hope you'll enjoy it just the same. And I'd love to know what you think about it...if any of you are also in the middle place. And while it might seem bizarre, I'd like to dedicate this to a certain Beth, whose trials in the middle place are now over. I'm sorry I didn't know you better, but I prayed for you just the same.

I’ve lost track of time since I arrived in this middle place; where days seem to disappear in a breath and yet minutes in those days stretch on for eternity. I neither know what I want or who I am any better than I did when I was 12, or 16, or 25. As the days pass I simply know more about who I am not, but this knowledge produces no new answers.

The thing I like least about becoming an adult is witnessing and experiencing the pain in life and understanding that it is now my job to keep that from settling onto my children like caustic volcanic ash—affecting their views, their dreams, the delicate fibers of their safety net constructed by ignorance, illusion, and hope. I sit and lay and dance and sleep with my arms outstretched trying to filter the ugliness from this world, so that for a time, my children can focus on the sunlight streaming in through morning windows or giggle at the ant struggling to carry a crumb twice the size of his miniscule body.

As an adult I know that too much sun will blister their skin. And that ant may be a bird’s next snack.

This middle place in inevitable. When you are young you envision how you’d like your life to be—where you’ll live, the things that will motivate you—you dream and plan and prepare and then you meet Mr. Right. or Miss Perfect.

Together you both dream about a shared union of compromise and compassion, talk of kids and jobs and kitchen colors, promising to always, always keep communication open. You laugh about each other’s iniquities and peccadilloes; the toothpaste tube squeezed from the middle, the urine on the toilet seat, the nail clipping she leaves on the bedside table. In naive earnest you promise each other you won’t let the kids change you, you will always talk through everything, and most importantly—you’ll grow and change together. Forever. Promise. Whatever it takes.

You awake the next morning and ten years have gone by and you find yourself wondering over morning coffee and a sink load of dirty dishes how you ever got to this place and what happened to the goals and dreams you had and the promises you made to yourself, and wait a minute…

just who are you anyway? A glance in the mirror reveals the child you were just yesterday, in fact you’re pretty sure you graduated from high school last week, but suddenly there are more wrinkles and lines, and you don’t recognize the face staring back at you. Where did you go?

This middle place produces casualties; marriages of your friends ending around you because maybe they too woke up one morning and wondered who was lying next to them in bed and it occurs to them they don’t know this person any better than they know themselves. They’ve slept angry for years. The nail clippings and toothpaste tubes and peed on toilet seats become F-5 tornadoes that threaten to destroy the house, ripping out walls and scattering crayon pictures and homemade popsicle stick frames. The storm is always brewing just beneath the how-was-your-days and the peck-on-the-cheeks. All us middle people smile and dance because there are always little eyes watching and tiny ears listening and their dreams at night are scary enough.

The middle place house is not the one you pictured before, in that previous life before children and calendar boxes crammed with fine ball point writing. The leggos and Barbies, school backpacks and homework piles, have all settled in next to your furniture and on the floors and stacked on the kitchen counters. There are bins in the hallways filled with last season’s winter jackets, coats, and scarves that must be put in the attic, adding to the inventory of clothing and baby toys and luggage. And also up in that attic are the boxes of your wedding china that never made it into any china cabinet, let alone got used for a dinner because wedding china isn’t practical. Your life has been about practicality forever. And those crystal vases you loved so much and golf clubs your husband used to take to the course every weekend gather dust up in that attic too, because you’re saving your pennies for summer camp and braces and private school and there just aren’t any more pennies for fresh flowers for that vase or a round of 18 holes. You start wondering if maybe that attic contains more of you than you do anymore, because you’re still not sure who’s staring back at you in the mirror.

The middle place makes you question. Yourself, your choices, your life, your situation. The most important question—and yet the one that could change it all…

Is this it?

Is this life that I’m living right now….it?

And what of the answer?

And there you are an adult again, realizing there are no easy answers, that with each different answer there are deaths: of your dreams, or yourself, or your hopes, or your children’s innocence, or your marriage, or your happiness, or the very family and life you’ve created that has ironically led you to this very question.

Should you continue to sit lay dance sleep with your arms outstretched over your precious children regardless of the price to yourself or your marriage? But how long before your arms fail or your children grow past your reach and the soot of knowledge comes to slowly settle on your children’s heads? Can you protect them forever? And if their learning will eventually come one day, why not tomorrow? Would tomorrow be soon enough to revitalize yourself? Resurrect those old dreams? Find the happiness you think may have escaped you?

Beware of emerald fields viewed from afar. The mirage dissipates only after you’ve made the journey, and you find yourself with the very same body and the very same mind asking the very same questions just with a different zip code or mailing address.

Hindsight is 20/20. The future is unknown. The middle place is filled with What Ifs and Why Nots and If Onlys.

In this middle place I have no answers. I have right now. I have the silence ringing in my ears and the stained couch beneath my body and three sleeping children with sparkling eyes who love to laugh and tickle and wrestle, whose safety nets—for too short a time—still remain delicately held together by ignorance, illusion, and hope.

And I pray I’ll have tomorrow, with the morning sun streaming through my finger-smudged windows and the ants crawling around on our cracked driveway carrying food too big for their tiny bodies.

The ants are always there.

Writing Books? Now There's a Compelling Topic

2011-05-04T21:02:00.000-04:00

Well. Here we are on Day 4 of blogathon and I’ve actually posted everyday. Is there a prize for getting this far? This year I’m patting myself on the back every chance I get.

Today is scheduled for a Theme Writing day: the topic being, “My Top Five Favorite books on Writing Are..”

Seriously?

I know I’m a writer, but that topic just doesn’t make me want to grab a cup of coffee, put my feet on the couch, and snuggle up with my computer. Perhaps the problem is I don’t read a lot of books on writing. Maybe if I did, I’d be making a hell of a lot more money in this career, or at least know how to market myself better. I have grabbed a couple books on writing in the past year, and (though my checking account balance wouldn’t show it) have read them. I did find them very helpful with a lot of great advice. Six Figure Freelancing and Goodbye Byeline, Hello Big Bucks both by Kelly James-Enger were both a wealth of information, even if I’ve yet to see six figures. Or four, for that matter. Or big bucks. I haven't seen those yet either. But that’s less a reflection on the books as it is about my ability and comfort zone with marketing myself. Really selling my work. Cold-calling PR firms and publishing houses, and sending out Letters of Introduction in CitiBank-credit-card-application volume. I know. If you’re one of those writers who make six figures (and chances are you’re not because you certainly wouldn’t have time to waste on this blog, being busy with paid writing gigs and all) then I say, congrats to you. And if your six-figure salary is a direct result of those books, I say, Boo-yah! to you twice.

The other writing book I read and enjoyed was The Renegade Writers Query Letters That Rock. I read that over three years ago. To make use of that book effectively, one has to actually write query letters. Oh, I’ve written them, again, just not in the amount you need to be successful. To illustrate this point: four weeks ago I planted sugar snap peas in my garden. I planted half a package and seven days later planted the other half to extend my harvest. Out of approximately 200 peas, 12 plants sprouted from my first batch and seven plants sprouted from the second. That’s 19 plants out of a possible 200. Maybe some seeds were eaten by birds. Maybe some seeds were duds. That’s approximately a 10% return rate on investment. (And I only know that because I used an online math calculator to figure it out.) But query letters are exactly like that. You must send out 200 to get a few yes’s from editors, but most of those query letters die in the ground.

Which would make sense that I’m not doing very well, seeing as how I’ve sent out a total of seven query letters since January. Statistically speaking, my chances are nil before I’ve even begun and I totally suck at math. But let me tell you, they were great queries. C’est la vie, Important Editors. Your loss. (It’s really more my loss, but saying that makes me feel better.)

No, writing books isn’t what really moves me to read, honestly. I’d rather be reading a great fiction novel, or a book on raising chickens. That’s one bit of non-fiction I’ve been ear marking and reading over and over. Because the chickens in the basement playpen are starting to fly around in there and I'm not exactly sure what to do with them.

But if you are looking for a great fiction read, the latest books I’ve read are:

Running the books; The Adventures of the Accidental Prison Librarian, by Avi Steinberg
This is Where I Leave You, by Jonathan Tropper
The Paris Wife, by Paula McLain

While they were all great, the one I loved the best was This Is Where I Leave You. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed out loud so many times reading a book. There’s even a great scene with a lit birthday cake and a naked man’s butt. Oh and for the bookclub we sat Shiva and dined on bagels and lox. If you need a good read, choose that one. Heads up though; it wont’ tell you how to be a better writer. It won't tell you how to earn six figures, or even how to pay off one credit card. But it will make you want to curl up on the couch with a good cup of coffee and read.

Sorry, folks. Dogs are not people too.

2011-05-03T17:16:00.001-04:00

These ears belong to a dog, not a child. Just to be clear.
Even though they are very, very, cute. (Photo by Debi Stone.)

The other night I was tucking my 10 year-old into bed when she said, “Mom, I’m a lot like a dog.”

I took a deep breath. There were many ways this topic could go. Worst-case scenarios popped into my head as I wondered what I’d be explaining next: Bitch. Doggy-style. You’re a “dog.” Since we’d already discussed the difference between pimps and gangstas, I should have figured this conversation wouldn’t be too far behind. I mentally geared up for a discussion about self-esteem, ready to scold her for thinking so poorly of herself as to liken herself to a dog.

“What are you talking about?” I asked. (Good, non-committal opener, allowing her to explain more.)

“Well,” she replied. “I live here in this house, you feed me, give me water, and love me…just like you would a dog.”

Ahhh. So nice she is only making comparisons. “Well yes, in some respects I suppose. But unlike a dog, I have to feed you more than once a day. If I could figure out how to only feed you in the mornings, I’d be all set.”

“Ha, ha, very funny mom,” she retorted with 10 year-old attitude.

It goes without saying that kids and dogs are not the same, and yet when you think about it, have striking similarities. All of us know people who own dogs they consider to be their “children.” People get dogs to test their pre-parenting skills all the time, figuring if they can love, train, and take care of animal without killing it, perhaps they will have some success at rearing a live human. For some people it’s just the opposite: they own a dog because they can love it, play with it, take it for rides in the car, and kennel them while vacationing in the islands. Those people love dogs because their animals will never talk back, need to have an allowance, or vomit strained peas down their backs. They love their dogs because they do not love children (or perhaps just don’t want children for now)—and again, you only have to feed the animal once a day. I’m pretty sure people that do this to their children are put in jail.

Sometimes people get dogs because their own children are grown and past the point of wanting any nurturing; maybe those kids are out of the house or have children of their own, or are simply teenagers who’d rather get chronic acne than be hugged or snuggled by mom or dad. Dogs come in really handy in these situations because suddenly a tiny, furry, warm body needs you and loves you, and you can fulfill the need to be needed while your very own flesh and blood rebuffs and rejects you. And you never want to beat a puppy which helps dissolve some of your desire to thwack your teenager in the head.

I’ll fully disclose now that I do not own a dog and am a fan of dogs on a case-by-case basis only. I’m not a dog hater per se, I just prefer cats, for reasons that would require another blog entirely. For me dogs are fine, as long as they respect my personal space (which is never), don’t slobber on me (which is never), or make my hands smelly when I pet them (which is never). I’m sure you can see why I’m such a big fan. (Yes, yes, I now own chickens, but again….that’s another blog.)

While hiking with my family in a public reserve a few weeks ago (with three children in tow including my three-year-old) we were approached by no less than five dogs, all of whom were unleashed and running ahead of their owners. While these dogs were sniffing my three-year-old’s face (while we clamored to pick her up as she’s crying nervously), and shoving their heads into our crotches and butts, their owners called out, “IT’S OKAY. SHE’S A REALLY FRIENDLY DOG!” or “DON’T WORRY, HE WON’T BITE, HE LOVES KIDS.” Hear me when I say your excuses do not make me feel less annoyed.

Perhaps if I let my children run up to these people, jump on their backs, beg for a piggy back ride, and then wipe their boogery noses and chocolately hands all over their white t-shirts, while I call out, “DON’T WORRY! MY KIDS ARE NICE, THEY JUST LOVE TO PLAY!” these people would understand how irritating it is to be accosted by a dog you don’t want to know. I don’t care if the dog is nice. Even the “nice” dogs can bite in certain circumstances. Like if my child kicks the dog away out of fear. Not that this has happened, but then whose fault would it be? Mine for not keeping my child from kicking a dog, or the owner’s from letting them run around?

But I can see how it might get confusing. Like my daughter pointed out to me that evening, there are many similarities between dogs and children.

Both children and dogs require food, water, and shelter.
Both require regular grooming, including baths and haircuts.
Both can be trained to perform tricks (snapping the bone from their nose and peeing in the toilet. I’ll let you guess who does what.)
When it comes to males (humans and dogs) they both pee standing up.
When they are small, both require a lot of care, which also includes getting up in the night with them. As they both age, this care decreases. (Hopefully.)
Dog owners and parents always think their “children” are the most beautiful creatures ever.
They both get ticks. Some species more than others, but ticks just the same.
Both like to dig holes.
When they are sick, both vomit and have diarrhea. Both types of owners go out of their mind with worry.
Vet bills and doctor bills are usually both outrageous.
Both children and dogs will love their owners (parents) unconditionally if treated right.
Both dogs and children have smelly farts.
Both can follow basic commands.
Both enjoy a biscuit every now and then.

With so many similarities (and I only listed a handful) I can see why dog owners might have trouble remembering that a dog, is not in fact, a human. I can also see why some parents might be wondering what the hell they were thinking as they look at their children. Pets would have been so much easier.

But dogs are not the same as children. There are quite a few big differences.

You can feed a dog once a day. They will drink water from a bowl on the floor.
Children don’t smell when they get wet.
Children don’t crap in your lawn or pee on your mailbox.
Children don’t shove their noses into your butt or crotch.
Dogs are cheaper. I don’t care how much they eat or how often they have a date with the groomer, dogs will never go to college.
Children don’t eat sundries from the garbage can and drag it all over the house.
A dog can’t reason with you about why they need the car.
And when in the car, children don’t stick their heads out of it.
You never have to shove your child’s nose in a pile of excrement so they don’t poop on the floor again.
Dogs do not get baptized. (Yes I realize some children don’t either. But it’s always an option for them. Not so much with dogs.)
If my child bites another person, or chases something around the yard and then kills it, I do not say it’s because “it’s in her breed.”
Children will not eat your shoes.
You can euthanize your dog for around fifty bucks.

As you can clearly see, dogs are not children, even if it feels like it behind closed doors. Even if you love them all the same. I’m not meaning to pick a fight with dog owners—my sister is one, our neighbors are one, and many of our friends own them. We can keep the peace by making a deal. I’ll keep my children from shoving their heads into your private areas and licking your hands, (even though my kids are cute, friendly, and never bite) but you dog owners need to do the same.

But the next time I’m at your house and your dog starts toward my drawers; be forewarned. I’ve got a pocket full of melted chocolate bars for my children, just in case.

For Your Reading Pleasure

2011-05-02T13:05:00.000-04:00

Last year during the blogathon, there were just over 100 bloggers signed up to write every day for the month of May. This year over 191 bloggers will be swearing, sweating, and stressing about posting everyday. The list is so long, I only included A-K below. I'll post the others tomorrow. The links should take you directly to their page. There were many great blogs last year and I desperatley tried to read everybody's at least once, but I didn't get all the way to the end of the list. With 191 bloggers, I'm sure to fail. But I'm going to try and visit as many as I can. If you click on the links below and find a blog that you loved, please comment and let me know!
A

Ahil Amar - Ahil Amar - Thoughts from Ahil Amar
Alana Mautone - Ramblin’ With AM, Living in upstate New York
Alexandra Grabbe - Chezsven Blog, What it is like to be a green innkeeper and live on Cape Cod year round
Alison Law - Lawthenticity, Personal and professional stories and observations
Alison Preston - LadyMoxie, Relationships with an added pinch of food, music, and bacon in the dish
Amanda Steinhaus - Ms. Panda’s Blog, Writing because I love to write!
Ana Gonzalez Ribelro - Our New Casa, Purchasing and remodeling a home; Live, Love, Laugh, Travel, tales of a traveling family; Ace the Journey, Making decisions about life and money
Andrea Parker - Autism Fundraising Guide, Advice from the trenches
Angela - Baby Hellfire has a Blog, Peace and Tofu Chicken Grease!
Annie Daniels – Aniel Daniel, Random occurrences and my ever-changing interests as college student
Anjuli - Unbirthday Escapades, Blog of memories past and present
Anne Wainscott-Sargent – The Writing Well, Mastering the power of prose in business and in life
Annette Gendler - Memoir, Writing & Life, Writing, teaching and publishing memoir, and creative nonfiction
Anyes - Far Away in the Sunshine, A woman pursuing her creative dreams
Arial - Contrapunto, Happenings in Panama
Ashley Lyon - You know I love You More, Book reviews and fandom excitement!
B
Barb Freda - Babette Feasts, I write about cooking and I stew about writing
Barb G - Never Another Diet, Finding Enough, the Quest for a Diet-Free Life
Bebe Bahnsen - Bebe’s Blog, Politics, religion, life in the South and general musings
Becky Leung - Tummy Time, Fixing digestive issues with a healthy lifestyle and good nutrition and exercise
Betty Draper - BettsDraper, Applying Jack Canfield’s success principles one step at a time
Bill Lascher – Lascher @ Large, Travels of a freelance journalist raised by a pack of lawyers
Billie Noakes - Billie Noakes, General musings (usually light-hearted)
Bree Hays - PenSlave, My move to Guam
C
Cara Law – Cake Me Home, Because life tastes better with cake
Carrie - Random Girl Geek, Reviews of things that catch my eye
Catherine Canaceli - Periwinkle Confessions, Finding God in Everything
Christina Leach – Chris Scraps, A blog about my life and crafts
Christianne - Cyanne99, Inner Thoughts and Ramblings
Christine Calvin - Inspired Life, Current events, women’s issues, randomness, sometimes silliness
Christine Evans - 52 Crafts in 52 Weeks, Exploring a new craft every week for a year
Claudine M. Jalajas - Belle Designs, Jewelry-making resources
Connie - bhulbhulaiyan, Travel and memories
Conrad Zero - Conrad Zero, Tips, tricks and resources for authors of all genres
Craig Motlong - Pacific Writing Company, Writing for writers
Cynthia Rosi - Simply Hug Yourself – Enjoy your whole self in Columbus, Ohio
D
Daisy - Compost Happens, Family, garden, crunchy green eco-writer
Dawndela Webb - Insomniac Imaginings, Musings and rambles of a stay-at-home mother of three; Erotic Images, Erotic fiction
David Allen - Amazing iPad, All things iPad
Dayle Fraschilla - I Shall Be a Toad, Passions, both big and small
Deb Wolf - Counting My Blessings, Gratitude at God’s amazing grace
Denae Darcy - Denae D’Arcy – TV journalist, freelance writer, social media enthusiast living near the Great Smoky Mountains
Don Gonzalez - Gonzo’s Gab, Pontificating on Catholicism, technology, politics, cigars, writing, homerdogs and teaching
Dylan Fogle - DiscordianZen – Dark and it’s different
E F
Elizabeth Humphrey - The Write Elizabeth, Writing. creativity. play. life.
Elizabeth - Amnesia Lane, Journey through the shows, books and characters that inspired my love of writing
Estelle Sobel Erasmus - Musings On Motherhood, Midlife and Other Forms of Madness, A Running Commentary On My Transformative Journey Through Motherhood
Esther Rumfelt - Health and Wellness Coaching, Helping you live well, be healthy and enjoy life
Frances Barker - Felting Needle, City and Guilds felt-making student, textiles and Suffolk living
G
Georgia Fogle - Got P.M.A.? – Positive Mental Attitude. Get Some.
Gerri Curless - 50 Is the New 40 – Wife, mother, grandmother trying blogging, crafting and sharing what I’ve learned with others
Ginnie - Nua Feileacan, 30-something woman on a journey of discovery
Glenneth - Let’s Talk and Walk, Getting healthy through walking, eating better, and having fun
Gloria Marie - GloriaMarie.com, Personal blog, mostly about photography.
H
Haley Shapley - Girl About the World, Travel writer’s tales of wanderlust
Harry Marks - Curious Rat, Chewing on the tech industry’s wires
Heather - Discover Washington State, Life in the Evergreen State
Heather Brooks - Serve One Another in Love, An online ministry for Christians of all ages
Heather Williams - This Blog Will Give You Cancer, Talking about nothing
Holly Green - WithoutAdo, Bible and secular articles
Hope - The Life of a Daydreaming Mommy, Mommy blogger
J
Jackie Dishner - Bike with Jackie, Turn obstacles into opportunities and other self-development lessons
Jan Culpepper - Life and Times of a Preacher Mom, Juggling life, ministry, parenting, a relationship and whatever else life throws my way
Jan Udlock – Imperfect Mom, Professional writer, parenting expert, mom of five
Jane Boursaw - Reel Life with Jane, Home to Jane Boursaw’s syndicated family movie and TV reviews
Janis Price - Whispers & Roars, Life of a writer when your full-time job is not writing
Jenn - Kepkanation, Politics and pop culture
Jenni Derryberry Mann - Mamahhh, Navigating the labyrinth of motherhood one breath at a time
Jennie Phipps - Freelance Success Blog, Freelance Success outtakes
Jennifer Walker - My Morning Chocolate, Delicious inspiration for people who wake up thinking about food
Jennifer Willis - Jennifer Willis, Journalist, writer and editor.
Jennifer Woodard - Wordzopolis, DIY marketing and public relations
Jenny Beikes - Out of My Head, Musings on life events
Jessica Braun - Pink Rose, Blooming in Generation Y, I write about me, my life, my VISTA experience
Joan Lambert Bailey - Popcorn Homestead, Gardening and living in Tokyo
Joanna - My Daily Mooosings, Simplifying life and culture in the Netherlands
Joanne Mason - About English Idioms, What they mean, how we use them, where they came from
John P. Jones - Writing at Gunpoint, When writing is not a comfortable experience.
Jon Bell - On Mount Hood, All things Mount Hood
Judy Downing - Customer Approach, Connect with customers to grow your business
Julia B. - Aunty JuJu’s Perspective, Thoughts on subjects that come up in daily life
Julia Munroe Martin - WordsXO – Words, writing, and life!
Julie – The Write Place to Be, Being a freelance writer
Julie Sturgeon - KnowledgeWebb, Don’t Sweat the Tech, The quirky, fun, interesting and very useful in social media technology.
Julie Tolbert - Culturally Speaking, Through technology the world is getting smaller; Today’s Tea, About tea in 2011
K
Karen Bannan - Natural as Possible Mom, Because being natural isn’t always possible – or easy!
Kari Wolfe - Imperfect Clarity, Literature and the writing and editing life
Kate Megill - Teaching what is Good – Teaching younger women according to the Titus 2 model
Kate Reilly - Polka Dot Suitcase, Family fun through creative living
Kathy Murray - That China Girl, A reluctant teen expat’s life in Beijing
Katie Jett Walls - One/Week, Blogging, finding my voice, and identifying my passions
Katy Manck - Books YA Love, Recommending standout young adult books, especially from first-time authors and small publishers
Kelly Morga - My Little Silly Life, The silly things, situations and people that make my life special
Khadijah M. Britton - BetterBio, Journalism that explores the intimate connection between life and science
Kris Bordessa – Attainable Sustainable, Reviving the lost art of self-sufficiency, one small change at a time
Kristi Bernard - Kristi Bernard, Information for new writers

Mediocre as usual

2011-05-01T22:44:00.000-04:00

So. This year I joined the blogathon again, vowing to post everyday for the month of May. Today I woke up and realized it was the first day of May.

Damn. It's been a busy weekend. Wasn't it just April, like, yesterday?

So here I am, posting at the eleventh hour om my iPad of all stupid things, because my husband is sitting here in be next to me with my computer writing emails. This handy little gadget isn't exactly a productive tool for lengthy typing..unless you have the additional keyboard attachment, which I don't.

But I was extremely busy today, even if it wasn't writing a hysterical first blog, or adding to the family income with my labor, or cleaning my house, or doing laundry. Here's just a snapshot of the last 15 hours of my life.

Things I did today:
-went to 8:30 am mass
-took my son to baseball pictures
-frosted cookies for my daughter's bake sale in front of our house
-helped set up bake sale for daughter
-helped my son with his school project
-went to Lowes with my neighbor and bought herbs for my planters and a really cool ornamental grass. I have no idea where I'm going to plant it, but I bought it anyway.
-took my son to his baseball game. Even brought my daughters so my husband could have a few hours to work on the chicken coop. I am so selfless.
-forced my son to finish his school project
-bathed my youngest and told my middle daughter to get in the shower
-argued some more with son about his school project
-went to my monthly book club, where we discussed "The Paris Wife." Loved the book and had a very enlightening discussion at book club.
-came home, showered, put away all the remaining baked goods fromearlieer sale, still sitting on the counter
-got in bed and wrote a log on the iPad after having three (small) glasses of wine at book club

If you ever decide to tune back in after reading this pathetic first blogathon post, I promise it will be worth your time. Unless you don't like reading about chickens. I plan on posting a lot about them.

Decidedly, The Chick Came First

2011-04-26T16:02:00.001-04:00

Meet Julia. She belongs to my three-year-old.

Last week while the kids were on vacation, I picked up six new chicks and brought them home.

No, not that kind of chick. (My husband would have reacted much differently if I brought home those kind of chicks.) Chick, as in baby chicken. Six of ‘em. Cute as can be.

Currently these little balls of fluff are living next to my washing machine in an old Pack n’ Play on loan from my chicken-owning-guru-and-friend, Kristi. We’re into week one of chicken ownership and I must say, it’s been enlightening.

I’ve been wanting my own laying hens for over a year now and started working on my husband long ago because I knew that having chickens catapulted me into a different category altogether. No longer content to grow my own vegetables or make jam from my own blackberries, now I wanted food producing animals. What was I anyway? A closet farmer? And what would I ask for next? A milking cow or grass grazing goat?

His first response over a year ago was, “Hell no.” (Or something to that effect.)

Next came, “We are NOT having chickens in the yard.” (Again, I’m paraphrasing.)

I’d make a comment to him and let it simmer. Try again a few weeks or months later. Finally one night after more chicken talk, he tried a different tactic and said, “When you publish your book you can get chickens.” I know he meant it to motivate me to get off my arse and publish my book (or at least work on it) but the comment felt more like what we say to our children about their grades… “You can get a cell phone when you earn all A’s…”

“Look,” I said to my husband. “I’m a grown woman with a Masters degree. If I want to get chickens, then I’m going to get chickens. I’m asking you out of respect. I’d like you to be on board with me.” I knew I would need his help with the coop and set-up, in addition to how much easier it would be to have his support. After that we shelved the chicken conversation for quite some time.

Fast forward a few months and while he may not be all the way on board (as in, I’ll never ask or expect him to clean or muck the coop) he is being extremely supportive. He’s already built me four nesting boxes and is going to trick-out the coop for me, even making sure the thing has a sun porch. Gosh I love that man.

I’ve also gotten a pretty mixed review from my neighbors, who think I’ve all but gone mad and perhaps over-the-top with this sustainable-eating-fresh-food thing. Worried that I’m going to turn this neighborhood into a live-action set from “Beverly Hillbillies,” the comments I’ve gotten are:

“You’re what?”

“Why?”

“Have you ever been around chickens?” (This is coupled with an incredulous, dumbfounded look.)

“Do you know how much they poop?” (Add curled lip in disgust.)

“Tell me why you’re doing this again?” (Tilt head, add above.)

“Are they going to be just roaming around your yard, or what’s the deal?” (Peer at me over bifocals.)

And the best from my sister-in-law: “Rachel wants chickens? Is this the same Rachel that doesn’t like germs? Is this my sister-in-law we’re talking about?”

While their response doesn’t shock me much, it certainly isn’t the egg-colored-glasses perspective that I’ve been reading about in my chicken bible. Yes, while Jesus is present in this one, albeit omnisciently (seriously, how does chicken mash and a worm turn into something I eat for breakfast with toast? Amazing!) Mathew, Mark, Luke, and John have nothing to say about the matter. My chicken bible, The Joy of Keeping Chickens, by Jennifer Megyesi was a gift from a neighbor’s daughter who knew I was interested in having laying hens. Her mother (my neighbor)—while she admires my chickens currently because they are palm sized and therefore not loud or smelly—can’t quite be labeled “enthusiastic” yet about my new adventure, and I secretly wonder if she’d like to kick her daughter for getting me my poultry bible to begin with. But that’s all water under the feeder now.

Everything I’ve read online and in my book (and I’ve done a lot of research) paints this lovely, picturesque painting of hen owning, one that is not only filled with emerald green meadows, bird chirp, and a fresh spring breeze, but also touts the myriad benefits of owning chickens. They eat ticks. They eat worms. They are fabulous for your garden. Their poop is great fertilizer. They are docile, loving, and smarter than people give them credit for. They are easy to maintain. They are maternal. Oh, and their eggs are pretty good too. Full of vitamins and nutrients. With yolks the color of the setting sun. You’ll never find a yolk like that in the grocery store.

And then there were my neighbors and anyone who ever owned a chicken or lived near people who owned chickens who cock their head to the side (much like a chicken, I might add) and inquire as to what exactly I’ve been drinking or smoking lately to make me want chickens. For a moment I was confused that there seemed to be two completely opposite camps: haters and lovers. Haters were real people. Lovers were published. Hmmm.

I suppose a book titled, “Why Keeping Chickens is a Pain in the Ass,” wouldn’t sell very well. Or, “Shit That Makes You Gag: 1001 Reasons Not to Own Chickens.” That probably wouldn’t be a very good title either.

In fact, this epiphany reminds me a lot of a conversation I had with my priest-friend some years back on the subject of birth control, specifically vasectomies. “Most of the married people I talk to say that having a vasectomy was the worse thing that happened to their marriage,” he told me. It didn’t occur to me until later that people who invited vasectomy into their marriage and loved it wouldn’t exactly go running to their neighborhood priest to tell him about it, would they? “Hey Father, just so you know, you were wrong about the vasectomy thing. We should’a done it years ago.”

It’s all about the audience really.

So the truth about owning chickens resides somewhere in the middle grey area of my happy-go-lucky book and my neighbors’ aghast astonishment. While I’m not regretting my decision, it would have been good for me to have this awakening before I actually bought the chicks.

But there they are, regardless. Six little balls of molting fluff and feathers living in a Pack n’ Play in my laundry room. My neighbors ask me frequently how it’s going and how the chicks are. I know that silently they are biding their time, knowing at some point I’m going to complain about the chicken poop smell, the frequent cage cleaning, the messy, grossness of it all, which will open the doors for them to nod their head with that I-told-you-so look on their face. I say bring it. Of course I’m going to complain. What’s a good blog without complaining? But I also have the final product in mind: fresh eggs, with deep sunny yolks, from chickens who lived a happy life.

And while I promise my intention isn’t to ruin the neighborhood with my bohemian tendencies and free-range birds (c’mon; my children are almost always clothed and we don’t hang our underwear on a clothesline yet), I am keeping chickens and a garden in the south part of Easton; once known for its peasant and archaic traditions such as farming food and raising animals. I mean, it’s not like I’m out of my element or anything.

And you, my dear readers, get to be with me all the way. You can live vicariously through my foibles. Lucky ~~ducks~~ chickens.

Meet the girls! From Top to bottom, clockwise: Molly, Giraffe, May, Blackie, Milly, and Julia.

Coming out of the fog

2011-04-19T20:02:00.001-04:00

I'm finally coming out of a long winter's fog;
the sunrise slowly lighting the road ahead of me.
My cousin Jared White took this picture. He's a brilliant photographer. Check out more of his stuff on his blog, Photology: Project 365.

Fortunately & Unfortunately…March pretty much sucked.

Quit looking at me like that. Rolling your eyes in disappointed-mother fashion. I know you tune in here for your daily (well, maybe monthly) laugh and I’ve been absent. Well, if you don’t know by now that us humorists are really just normal, occasionally depressed people who may have trouble dealing with crap in their lives from time to time, wearing clown costumes and face paint to make you laugh, well then, you’ve never heard of Richard Lewis. Or Richard Jeni. Or Richard Pryor. Or any comedian that’s had a stint on SNL. Two things you clearly want to avoid: naming your child Richard or having them work on SNL. My name’s not Richard, but it starts with R. Close enough.

To recap my life since my last post in….February (has it really been that long?), I’m going to do it in child-story format. We’ll ease back into this blog writing/reading thing together in 10-15 minute increments.

My Life Since February

Unfortunately, after a really long winter, a huge snowstorm, and a few issues with my husband, I woke up one morning at the beginning of March with a headache.

Fortunately, I was still breathing and I had plenty of Ibuprofen in the house.

Unfortunately, the Ibuprofen didn’t work.

Fortunately, I had made plans to go to Arizona (and escape the grey New England winter) to visit my grandparents and family. Unfortunately my original flight was cancelled because of snow, but fortunately I rescheduled my trip for the beginning of March.

Unfortunately, my grandfather died before I got to Arizona. Fortunately, I was able to attend his service during my rescheduled trip as well as visit with my two grandmothers.

Unfortunately, my headaches continued during my trip, despite good weather, supportive family, and lack of snow.

Fortunately, I returned back home safely.

Unfortunately, my headaches decided to hang out with me twenty-four hours a day. And ibuprofen wasn’t working.

Fortunately, I went to see my Primary Care doctor, who was concerned about my specific head pain and told me to get an MRI.

Unfortunately, I have a problem feeling trapped, but fortunately my husband came with me. Using the black eye mask I made it through the hour and a half MRI without freaking out. Bonus.

Unfortunately, I was expecting the worse possible outcome. MS. Brain tumor. Acoustic Neuroma. (I looked that one up online. It’s amazing what you can find when you google “head pain.”)

Fortunately, my MRI was clear. I had nothing wrong with my brain. No lesions. No tumor. I was normal, normal, normal. “Are you under any stress?” my PC asked me. “Yes,” I replied. “A tad.” Hmmmmm, she said, jotting down notes in her notepad.

Unfortunately, the headaches, ear ringing, pain, and general malaise continued. I didn’t clean. I didn’t do errands. I didn’t do anything but want to stay in my pajamas and sleep, sleep, sleep.

Fortunately, I made an appointment with an ENT to have a hearing test and figure out what the ringing in my ears was all about.

Unfortunately, I was worried that my hearing test would hurt my already hurting ears.

Fortunately, my hearing tests were normal. My ears were not infected. They looked beautiful. My inner ear was fine. I was pronounced, normal, normal, normal. “Are you under any stress?” the ENT asked me. “Well, yes,” I replied. “A bit.” His professional suggestion was to do nothing. Wait it out. But just in case, I should see a neurologist because of all my headaches.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t see the neurologist for two weeks. I made the appointment anyway.

Fortunately, I woke up one Saturday morning two weeks ago and my headache was gone. Gone, just like that. As quick as a sneeze or a fart, they were gone. Five weeks of wanting to sever my head vanished like an apparition.

Unfortunately, I still didn’t know what caused them. What triggered them. What cheapy-plastic part in my brain snapped to make them last so long.

Fortunately, I still had my appointment with the neurologist who I hoped would have some answers.

Unfortunately, my appointment with the neurologist lasted two hours, during school vacation, and my children were home alone. Thankfully the doctor’s office wasn’t far away.

Fortunately, he gave me a complete exam. I answered a million questions about the life of my headaches. When they started (in college). Do I feel nauseous? (yes). Do I have urinary track problems? (what?)

Unfortunately, after reading my file and visiting with me, the neurologist told me...wait for it….that I was normal, normal, normal. Yes, I had migraines. I also had tension headaches caused by….tension. Was I under any stress lately? Ummmm,.... Try acupuncture, he said. Take magnesium oxide (but don’t confuse it with magnesium hydroxide, which is used to treat constipation. These are not interchangeable). Use a heating pad on your neck for 35-40 minutes to try and release the knots that are your shoulder and neck muscles. And stretch.

Fortunately, I am normal, normal, normal.

Unfortunately, the five weeks of headaches were apparently triggered by stress. Stress, that abstract noun without form or personality—you can’t feel it, touch, taste it, or put it in a paper sack, and yet, it can make you feel like a tumor is growing in your head. It tightens your muscles and fills your feet with cement. Covers your eyes so you stumble.

Fortunately, I’m in a better place now. The sun has actually come out (literally) and I’ve been able to prune my fruit trees, plant my sugar snap and shelling peas, and rake up the lawn debris from the winter. I’m back to doing laundry and picking up the house and occasionally preparing a meal. (Or ordering pizza.)

Unfortunately, there is a part of me that worries I’m going to wake up with another five weeks of headaches; or that the tiny headaches I feel everyday will morph into something larger. And of course I worry that all those many specialists missed something. But my husband would tell me that’s my worse-case-scenario-personality talking. Our counselor would agree.

Fortunately, I’m back. And not only am I back, but I also just signed up to do the monthly blogathon again this year, starting in May. And spring is here. Mostly.

That’s been my life in a nutshell, at least as much as I’m willing to divulge on the internet. I hope I haven’t lost you and you join me back here on Musings. I have a lot of stories to tell you when you return. Like I’m getting chickens. And my three-year-old told me she likes to eat boogers. And my son brought home THREE C’s on his last report card. And my husband built and installed a bat house. You’ll have to tune back in to get the juicy scoop on everything.

Happy spring!

Signs that you know winter has gone on too damed long.

2011-02-24T11:36:00.002-05:00

Sleeping in a snow hat is now part of your nighttime wardrobe.
When you witness the ever-so-small patch of green beneath the snow you think its mold.
You tell the kids they don’t really need their jackets because it’s over 40 degrees outside.
Hauling wood from the wood pile has become a daily chore for your children.
Chopping wood will now be a daily spring, summer, and fall chore for your children.
You consider selling your lawnmower on eBay because you don’t think you’ll need it anymore.
The thought of stew, soup, and anything from a crock pot makes your family want to hurl.
No one wants to drink hot chocolate anymore. Even with extra marshmallows.
When you see more snow in the forecast, you get emotional and angry.
You can’t remember ever having experienced a time when you weren’t cold.
You start googling recipes where the main ingredient is snow.
You begin to cut down greet trees in your backyard because you’ve already used the seasoned firewood. And it’s only February.
Somehow you ended up homeschooling the kids because they don’t seem to be in public school that often anymore.
But unfortunately, though you are homeschooling your children, they will in fact be legally obliged to keep attending school past July 4^th to make up for days when they were being homeschooled.
You consider knocking off that huge icicle hanging from the ice dam in your gutter and stabbing Mother Nature with it.
You ran out of heating oil twice in one month.
You begin any sentence about the weather, ice, or snow with the “F” word.
You send away for “Make your Own Mukluk” kits.
You decide that being pen pals with a family living on the Arctic tundra might be a good idea.
You have a layer of permafrost in your living room; mostly from the soot and grit from the bottom of everyone’s snow boots. And the fact that you are out of heating oil. Again.
You’ve lost four snow shovels this season and there is a good chance that each one is buried in a different layer of ice and snow within five feet of your front door.
You start rationalizing the weight you’ve put on by claiming you’re working on your insulation.
You got the idea to insulate yourself with body fat by watching March of the Penguins.
You have the girls at your daughter's sleep over fill sandbags as an activity--in preparation for the flooding you anticipate if the snow ever melts come spring.
You actually make a list of signs when you know that winter has gone on too damned long.

Can you think of anything else? Please add to my list!

Picking Battles

2011-02-07T11:30:00.001-05:00

I decided to break my almost-two-month silence here with a guest post from Ted. After reading this you'll be laughing too hard to be mad at me for my ridiculously long hiatus. When you're finished, leave a comment letting us know if you are or aren't one. I can tell you right now, I'm a card carrying member of this club, right along with Ted's wife.

Shortly after graduating from college, my friends and I were nursing our hangovers in the front yard of my parents’ house. While we were busily recounting the antics of the previous evening, my father pulled up in his freshly washed and vacuumed Mercury Marquis and immediately asked me in front of my friends: “What happened to the lawn?”

“I mowed it.” I replied. “Doesn’t it look good?” Even if I didn’t have wet-brain, I should have known that there was 0% chance my father would have answered in the affirmative.

No, he did not think the lawn looked good. Perhaps that was because one of the wheels on the mower was apparently at a different setting than the other three while I mowed the entire lawn. As a result, each strip of the lawn was cut at an ever-so-slight angle that only the most obsessive of obsessive lawn owners would ever notice. Unfortunately for me, my father just happens to be one of these individuals. Not believing him initially, my father then requested that I join him on all fours so that we could both gain a better view of my horticultural faux pas. Please keep in mind that my friends were present for this entire exchange. Luckily, my recently-earned undergraduate degree was in neither landscape architecture or pride.

I do not bring up this story just so I can poke fun at my father’s anal-retentive lawn care tendencies. (But if that were indeed my intention, I would inevitably use that as the lead-in to the story of my father standing on the roof of our two-story house using the electric leaf blower to rid the roof of all debris. I am pretty sure he must have had to plug two extension cords together to be able to gingerly operate the equipment that far removed from anything resembling an electrical outlet.) Rather, I bring up this anecdote to illustrate how some people have an amazing ability to see things that most other (read: normal) people are completely oblivious to. With that, I resort to the analogy section of the SAT’s to drive home my main point:

Lawn imperfections are to my father as pimples are to my wife.

Just as I would most likely not have noticed if my father’s lawn mower’s blade was temporarily replaced with two plastic knives lifted from Dairy Queen, I am not someone who really pays attention to pimples, either mine or those of others. Yes, I will pop my own pimples; I consider it to be good hygiene, just like making sure I don’t have any stray nose hairs or kale stuck in my teeth. However, I don’t get enjoyment out of any of these acts. They are just things I do if I want to have people willingly interact with me.

This is all very different for my wife. (Let’s call her Pam, which seems pretty appropriate considering that is indeed her name) For Pam, the act of picking satisfies a burning need that one usually only sees when watching a tweeker light up on an episode of “Intervention.” And without the aide of rehab or twelve step programs, Pam has learned how to effectively manage most of her impulses to pick. Impressive, eh?

Pam is not alone in this obsession; by my unofficial count, approximately half of all Americans are “pickers.” My non-scientific studies have further concluded that there is absolutely no grey area between the two camps; either you’re a picker or you aren’t. That’s it. Just as you either love the show “Glee” or you despise it. (I am in the latter camp. So for those of you keeping track, that makes me a “Glee”-hating-non-picker.) And my doctoral thesis in the psychology of picking concluded that although it is satisfying for a picker to pick something on their own body, it is that much more satisfying to pick something on someone else’s body. And whose body is better to pick (and more socially appropriate) than your spouse’s.

If Pam were actually a junkie and in need of a fix, I would do what all good enabling spouses do, which is pawn the baby’s crib and score her some dope. Done and done. If only my life were that easy. Unfortunately for me, my wife is not hooked on crack or meth; her vice is white-heads. And on those occasions where she gives in to her temptations, I can’t just go out and score Pam something to pick; rather, I have to organically grow something that will satisfy her burning need. And considering that I am six foot six, there is a pretty good potential at any given moment that there is something somewhere on my body that is in need of picking. (I now question if she married me because I am truly her soul-mate or because I provide more surface area than all of her other prospective suitors.)

But here’s the kicker: I am not a fan of her picking my pimples. I enjoy her picking at my skin about as much as I enjoy her picking on my character flaws. After twelve years of marriage, Pam is now usually able to overlook most of my numerous shortcomings as a husband. However, she has a more difficult time attempting to overlook the tiniest of pimples growing on my forehead. And I know the moment when she spots something new on my skin. She tries to be really discreet about it. But I know her all too well. And I know what I am in for when I see her gaze shift ever-so-slightly from my piercing hazel eyes to my forehead. That is when my own version of homeland-security-against-unwanted-picking escalates to the dreaded “code red” level.

“Stop it.”

“What???”

“You know what you’re doing. Stop it.”

“But I’m not doing anything.”

Both Pam and I know to what I am referring, and we both know that she is trying not to be obvious in her quest to pinpoint the black head she just spotted on my skin. She is like a four year old with her mouth covered in chocolate desperately trying to convince me that she didn’t sneak a piece of left-over Halloween candy. But she will eventually confess to seeing something. And then I can see her having an internal debate as to whether or not she should proceed by asking if she can pick away.

She inevitably has a far more difficult time gaining my permission to pick when the pimple is on my back. Mainly because it’s on my back, and I know that nobody is ever going to see it. Hell, Pam doesn’t even see my back. And if she knows that there is something on my back to pick, that means that she discovered it when we were enjoying a little “adult time” together. What usually happens is she will be gingerly stroking my back, and then she will pause ever so slightly. And I know that that means that she felt something. “Pam, stop it!” And once again, she knows exactly what I’m talking about.

At times, Pam will ask me to pop something for her, and that is only because she is not able to reach said offender. I then attempt to muster up a modicum of enthusiasm for the task. This amount is equivalent to how much I would have if someone asked me to be a groomsman in their Star-Trek themed wedding party. I fumble around for a minute, pretending like I’m doing something substantial. But I’m not. And she knows it. She eventually walks away with her original not-popped pimple, and although she won’t admit, I know that she is judging me. Harshly. Judging me the way she did (rightfully so) when I flailed my arms and screeched like a little girl when the vacuum that I was using caught on fire.

There was actually one time when I went at one of her pimples with genuine vigor and vim. I knew this would be my chance to prove to her that I was a man of honor, and not just a man who was incapable of thinking on my own to unplug a smoking vacuum. I discovered the pimple in the middle of the night. I rolled over, put my hand on Pam’s back, and felt something. Something big. Something big enough that it woke me from my sleep. So I poked and prodded over and over, trying to fully wrap my mind around this crazy growth on her back. And then Pam, herself half asleep, barked: “Ow! What are you doing to my nipple???”

Dear Santa (2010) Part I:

2010-12-17T10:52:00.002-05:00

Finally, a Santa after my own heart.

Must be the mediocre version.

I know it’s a little late to be writing you, but I figure with all your magic you won’t have any problem getting this by December 24^th—your busiest workday of the year (unlike my life, which is hectic everyday). I want you to know that I do love you, in all your happy splendor, even if we do have a slightly contentious relationship.

Honestly, Santa, I’m a little annoyed with you. Every year my children sit down to write their Christmas wish list, with their biggest, most expensive request going to you. Why is this? Because you are Santa and you have no budget constraints since your ~~indentured servants~~ elves make all your toys (and electronic gadgets) there in your toasty ~~sweatshop~~ workshop.

This is a problem for me fat man, because my husband and I don’t get to take credit for scrimping and saving for the “big gifts.” After ripping open their American Girl Dolls, or Nintendo Game Systems, or POOL TABLES for heaven’s sake, our children are shouting, “Thanks Santa!” into the air, (like you can even hear them) while we take credit for the underwear, socks, and functionally warm Christmas sweatshirts. It’s like thanking a Unicorn for knocking out the mortgage. I’m getting tired of letting you take all the credit for my husband’s paycheck and my shopping efforts. Thankfully, you don’t wrap your presents (at least at our house) so I don’t have to do that for you too. (Because finding a wrapping paper that only you have, is getting to be a little difficult too.)

But worse than that Santa, I find myself doing all kinds of things to keep my children believing in you and the magic of the season. How’s that for crazy? I want my children to believe the impossibility that all things are possible. That anything can happen. Paper gingerbread men really can turn into REAL gingerbread cookies on Christmas morning, simply because you willed it. That you can always find us, even if we travel on Christmas Eve, lock all the doors and window tight, or have a fire raging in the fireplace. I perpetuate the myths of the season because seeing that sparkle of hope in my children’s eyes is worth not getting credit for having to take a second mortgage out on the house to pay for “your” gifts. Because Santa…

I lost two believers this year. I know my son knows because now he always refers to you in “air quotes” when others aren’t around. My middle daughter knows too, but she hasn’t come right out and admitted it. We dance around the topic with our usual lies; she’s waiting for me to slip and out you as a farce. But I won’t do it. I won’t say those words until she asks me point blank, and even then I’ll give her another chance by asking, “Are you sure you really want to know?” Of course by that time, they already do know. It’s a little sad for me to know my kids are getting older and skeptical now; a step away from the jaded adults we all become when we know how Christmas really works.

The good news is that I still have one believer left in the house…my three-year-old daughter who barely understands your story and shtick. We’re all starting to fill her in now on how you work, and I can see the excitement budding in her eyes. So when I asked her what she wanted you to bring her, do you know what she said?

“Coloring books. The big kind.”

Yes. Isn’t that beautiful!? She hasn’t figured out to ask for a TV or a cell phone or a convertible Volkswagen Bug yet (the newly designed 2012 version), taking cues from her big brother and sister. She asked for floor-sized coloring books. And do you know what you are bringing her? Well, of course you do. You’re Santa. I’m betting you’re going to throw in a pack of her own mini markers too, because you are good like that and think of everything.

So I’m focusing on that this year Santa. That my youngest believer-in-you still wants the little things, and is happy with big white pages with dark black lines that she can color. I’m happy to let you take credit for this one. I didn’t have to get a holiday paper route to pay for this gift.

What do my son and daughter want for Christmas, you ask? Or me or my husband? Well, it’s not a very long list Santa, but the items are pricey. I’ll be getting back to you with those items in the next day or two. Right now I have to work on writing more website copy so I can invoice my client and have money to make the higher payments on my credit card. Until you get my next installment letter, continue enjoying your steaming lattes and packing on the pounds while Mrs. Clause waits on you hand and foot. One of these days I'm going to have to write her a letter too...

Sincerely,

Rachel G.

Making the Grade. Or Not.

2010-12-13T10:22:00.000-05:00

Some of you have mentioned that I left you hanging about my son’s grade status and the consequences my husband and I imposed after he brought home his report card. I apologize. Some info I write here, some info I post on Facebook, and some info I’ve written for Good Enough Mother. I don’t want to go around being redundant (I do that enough here in my mediocre mother life), but I also don’t want to leave my readers in a lurch. The bigger message in all this of course, is that all of you should be following me in all venues of my writing, wherever the hell it happens to appear. Yeah yeah, I know, you all have day jobs. (Most of you anyway.) But I bet you take bathroom breaks don’t you? Well put on a pair of Depends and read me during that precious time. It’ll be worth it. And those Depends really can hold a vast amount of liquid I’m told.

But the long and short of it is, yes, my son had one C on his report card. And yes, in the interest of following through on promised consequences, he lost all TV, video games, and recreational computer for four and a half weeks.

Quit feeling sorry for him. It’s not as if the boy was locked in his room this whole time, and trust me, he got plenty of TV watching in by default. He’s been hungrier these past few weeks than I’ve ever seen him, as he eats snacks at the table where he happens to be able to watch the TV while it’s on in the living room. He has been the best big brother to our youngest, and loves to snuggle with her and keep her company while she is watching movies on her little video player. He has been super cold lately and has needed to stand in front of the fire in the morning before school while I’m simultaneously viewing Morning Express with Robin Meade. He’s found very creative ways to endure his consequences.

It hasn’t been easy for any of us, let me tell you. It’s exhausting trying to enforce consequences of this nature, especially when the long and short of it is—he’s a great kid.

He’s not into drugs. He doesn’t ditch school. He is respectful to authority and does what we ask (occasionally with a complaint, but he does it). In the scope of life and what is important, he is on the right track and we are proud of him.

So, how are his grades now, you ask? Has all this time that’s opened up for him to complete his homework and focus on his studies paved the way to better grades and improved school performance?

Umm, no.

On his last report card the boy brought home, (1A), (3 B-‘s), and (1C+). As of this morning, he has (1 A) and (4Cs).

Sigh.

This is despite OUR working on his homework with him for over two hours every night. I say our, because I am grading and double checking everything he does, putting it into a pile for his backpack, and making sure he has all components of ANY rubric on ALL projects. His teachers say he is focused in class and not goofing around or off-task. This was the year I was supposed to sit in the backseat and let him drive his educational bus for once. What the hell is happening?

Is this typical boy growing/learning pains? Is it an organizational issue? I’m honestly out of answers. Is his life so meaningless without technology that he is doing worse in school instead of better? Should we just leave well enough alone, since he performed better during the first grading period when he was in charge and played video games? Should I just shut he hell up and see what happens, instead of getting all freaky about grades, which we all know are arbitrary?

Yes. I said that. Grades are arbitrary. I can make that statement because I used to be a teacher. And even though I understand that, it’s still important to me (and my husband) that our kids always strive to do their personal best.

And in the last few weeks, I really feel like our oldest IS doing his personal best, even though his grades continue to tank.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not blaming anyone here. But I honestly can’t figure out the disconnect. I have my suspicions as to why we are in this place currently, but it’s only a hunch. I’m trying to be proactive and have open communication with the teachers, without becoming THAT parent who emails and complains constantly. (Because I’ve had my share of those when I taught as well and it’s no fun.) I must say that his teachers have been uber-prompt at responding to my inquiries and extremely helpful in suggesting solutions. I know it’s a thankless, difficult job, which is why I don’t do it anymore. They have enough to handle with oversized classes, relatively little prep time, and more and more “requirements” and pressure coming from our educational system. I get it.

And my son? What’s his take on all this? He’s frustrated, but surprisingly upbeat. His biggest concern of course, is what happens when he gets his progress report and he still has C’s. Will he still lose TV, video games, and computer over the Christmas break? Would we do that to him just to prove a point? Even I know that would be pushing the enforcement too far. I mean, we’re definitely mediocre, but we’re not downright mean. We’ve always said it was about effort, not the printed letters on school issued paper. Since he’s been giving his best effort (and his teachers confirm this), that’s all we ask. After all, it’s effort, attitude, and fortitude that get you places in life, not necessarily grades.

But I’m open to suggestions. If you have older boys, I’d love to hear if you’ve gone through any of this and how you handled it. If you say you just drank your way through middle school and high school, I’ve got that covered. Just so you know.

And The Winner Is....

2010-11-22T11:06:00.000-05:00

Yes! I picked a winner this morning using the random number generator at Random.org. The chances of winning this thing were pretty good, seeing as how I only had 12 people enter! Awesome for you all! I didn't break my goal of 22 (and that was a pretty mediocre goal if you ask me) but I did get to meet some new people here on Musings, and for that I'm grateful.

So the winner was Jen McCarthy! If you live here on the East Coast, beware of a blonde woman with caffeine in her eyes on Black Friday morning. This is the same woman who husband signed her up to bring napkins to her son's Halloween party. You know what lengths she went to finding the PERFECT napkins, so I'm sure she's downright hell-on-wheels when shopping for Christmas. Congratulations Jen!

And thanks to all of you who decided to follow me. I hope you don't "unfollow" me now that you haven't won. I'll post a longer blog later, but until then, read my latest recap of last year's Thanksgiving travels on Good Enough Mother. If you've ever driven a four ton minivan loaded with three children and crap for any length of time, I know you'll be able to relate.

My First Give Away!

2010-11-17T21:04:00.000-05:00

Yeah I know. I don't do give aways at all really. They're just not my thing. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE reading blogs that give away cool stuff, or let you know about cool stuff, like my most favorite one Fun Finds For Mom. That really is a great website to read about fun stuff to do with your kids, or the latest and greatest in non-plastic-non-toxic-earth-friendly-lunch containers (among many other things of course).

And while I don't do this very often, I figured right before Thanksgiving would be a great time to give away a $25.00 gift card to Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts (you pick) so that come Black Friday you will be sufficiently caffeinated-up to stand in line at 3:30 a.m. to purchase toys you won't even get to take credit for. I hate Santa for that. But I digress.

What do you have to do to enter this fabulous drawing? Well, dear readers, you must subscribe to me. You know that silly little half rainbow looking thing over there in the right-hand sidebar? The one that says, "Never Miss a Post?" Yeah, that one. Click on that and subscribe to my blog, which means you will become: A Follower. Not in a creepy, Jonestown or Branch Dividian kind of way, but a follower of my mediocre musings. Right now I only have 13 of them. But I would like to give a shout out to the bold people that they are for being ahead of the curve and being a fan before there was even a prize!! However, they're getting lonely and need friends. Hell, I need friends. And honestly, I need a little motivation to blog more frequently than I have been. You subscribe to my blog which allows you to laugh till you pee, and I get to count my followers in the sidebar. It's win-win.

So, bring it on! You have until Sunday the 21st at midnight to subscribe to my blog. Then, please leave a comment below with your name and email. I'll pick a winner (from an online randomization tool) Monday morning and ship off the gift card just in time for the Black Friday Morning!

Tell your friends! All are welcome! Let's see if I can crack 20 followers! No, make it 22!

Life Lesson Cont’d

2010-11-15T12:44:00.000-05:00

This past weekend was one of the few weekends in November (or December) that didn’t have tiny writing in the calendar boxes, meaning my husband and I had two full days to do what we damn well pleased. You know, yard work, chores, laundry, and grocery shopping were able to be completed totally unencumbered by sports games, karate, sleepovers, or birthday parties. Which turned out to be a really good thing since the vast amount of our energy, patience, and emotions were sucked dry simply by trying to deal with our son, who has officially morphed into a sad-morose-glass-always-empty-pre-teen.

Since his birth we knew it was coming.

For those who need to catch up a little bit, I guest blogged on the website Good Enough Mother yesterday, about our son’s impending report card status and what is going to happen when he brings home any grade below a “B.” Which I’m praying will happen because if he manages to eeeekkkk his way into all “Bs” it means one thing: that he’ll never change. He’ll think he can half-ass his way right into college with the same amount of effort he gives to picking up his room and folding his clothes into tight, neat piles. I’m sure you can imagine what that looks like.

Last week he mistakenly thought report cards would come home on Friday, but no, it’s actually Monday. Which meant of course, he had one more weekend of video games, TV, and computer, or to be more precise, three more days to breathe easily before he started flopping around, gasping for air like a fish out of water because he has lost technology. Which he tried to work to his advantage.

Every request this past weekend started with: “Since I’m going to lose video games next week, can I…” or “This is the last weekend I have to watch TV, so can I…” which we went ahead and let him do. We’re not as cruel as he makes us sound. We’re happy to give the kid on death-row a few tasty meals of his choosing. He stayed up late Friday night watching a movie. He spent the night at a friend’s house on Saturday, his last tribute to Halo and bonding with his buddy. Sunday morning came, and he was a tired, moody, mess, and angry I called him home from his sleep over so he could attend Sunday morning mass. Apparently the I-need-to-be-thankful-perspective is a few years off.

Sunday was choppy for us all, and I asked him, “Do you have any homework you need to complete today?” He wasn’t sure. He thought he might have a little.

“Don’t you have quite a few tests coming up this week?” I ask. Maybe he does. He thinks so. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the study guides he needs to study effectively. Besides, he tells me, he can always study Monday night.

At which point I send him off to his room to bring me his backpack and folder, while I walked to the nearest wall and banged my head against it a couple times in a repetitive why me motion. Dealing with my son and his homework habits is a little like picking up a drunk relative from the police station after being arrested for a DUI, only to have that relative ask you to stop at the liquor store on the way home so he can buy more beer. And I’m thinking in alcoholic metaphors these days because dealing with a pre-teen has increased my desire to throw a few back. At the end of this year there’s a good chance I’ll have sclerosis of the liver.

My son brings me his backpack, and I proceed to rifle through it just to make sure he was indeed telling me the truth. That he had no homework. That he was all caught up, almost. That the life lesson he was currently swimming through had pushed his little head out of the water long enough for him to gain perspective of the shore. Surely, SURELY, someone who was going to lose four and a half weeks of technology (anything with a cord for heaven’s sake) would MAKE SURE their assignments were completed, wouldn’t they? Faced with the thought of being holed up in our house with only his books and model rockets to keep him company, wouldn’t that encourage him to make SURE he started the new grading period off with completed assignments and good grades?

Do you see where this is going?

I found the weekly letter in his backpack. The one I’m supposed to read on Thursday when it comes home and not on Sunday, three days later. But I’m mediocre and didn’t ask him for his folder on Thursday—or all weekend for that matter—because I decided to be selfish and organize my daughter’s closet and wash the outside of the windows with the 10-foot stepladder.

In this little note home, I discover that my son has a one and a half page essay due on Monday. That he has a graphic organizer “to help with the assignment” and to “please ask your child about this.” So, per teacher’s instructions I say, “Son? What is this about an essay due tomorrow?”

“A what?” he asks. “An essay?”

“Yes,” I reply. “An essay. And you have some type of graphic organizer to help you? Where is that?”

“An essay?” he keeps repeating, like I’m suddenly speaking in tongues and he can’t quite make out what I mean, but maybe if he looks all confused and mopey it will buy him some time to come up with another feeble excuse. He rifles through his backpack and drags out a piece of crumpled paper, a notebook with about seven sentences written down, and he says to me, “You mean, my personal narrative?”

At which point I grabbed the edges of my stained couch and prayed, Lord, please help me not kill my son who is deciding to take this moment to dicker with me over the semantics of his assignment. Is he seriously getting into a pissing contest with me over lexicon? Jesus, hold me back.

“Yes.” I reply, sociopathically. “Your personal narrative. When is it due?”

“I don’t know,” he tells me.

“It says here it is due tomorrow. How much do you have written?”

He holds up his notebook and shows me his 1/8 of a page of chicken scratch and I reply, “Well. Looks like you have a busy day.”

The best part of this emotion-suck-lesson however, was when our son’s best friends pulled into the driveway in their van, hoping to take our son back to their house to hang out and have dinner. His rant suddenly stopped, his smile returned, and he looked at me with hopeful, doe-y eyes. Surely, not even I would say no to this outing! There they were in our driveway, just waiting for him, and it would be rude to say no! But I declined on behalf of my son, thanked them for being salt in his wound, and sent them on their way. Our boy needed to finish his essay. And while it would have been so much easier to let him go play—while the thought of not having to deal with his passive-aggressive harumpfs and deep sighs would have made my day easier, I thought about that cold beer in the fridge, and I held my ground.

He managed to finish writing his assignment, and his father and I forced him to type it up, even though he swore up and down that only the rough draft was due Monday and not the final draft. He was worried he’d get in trouble by completing so much of it ahead of time. I assured him, I would be happy to write a note apologizing to his teacher that he went above and beyond and that his father and I forced him to do it. Blame us for having expectations for our son’s behavior, we can take it. He’s just our minion.

Incredibly, he eeeekkkkked out his assignment at the eleventh hour once again. It took about that long too. There was a lot of crying and nose blowing and used tissue on the floor. And although he told me he was “finished” about five times (each time asking if he could now go be with his friends),we kindly pointed out the other things he needed to complete: picking up his room, studying for his test, working on his math, and doing a final proofing and edit of his essay. Excuse me, personal narrative.

He’s my first child, my only son, and I had no brother’s growing up. I get that I’m new to this adolescent game, especially when it comes to dealing with boys. I naively thought the report card status would be enough to change his behavior in one swift motion. Looks like it’s going to be more of a year-long process. Me, my husband, and my bottle of Merlot are ready for the challenge.

Blast from the Past

2010-11-08T00:24:00.001-05:00

I’m not sure why I’m feeling so nostalgic this evening—what exactly is motivating me to be writing this at 11:24 p.m. instead of being in bed, beneath my feather tic, listening to the rain drum on my cheap ass single pane windows. I watched my three favorite shows tonight; my old Sunday night ritual. The first time I’ve watched them all since their premiers this fall. Seems like every Sunday night the past two months has been filled with something.

I can’t blame it on my birthday, having been almost a month ago, or the fact that my 20^th high school reunion was on Halloween weekend. I didn’t attend, instead figuring I’d start saving for the many plane tickets we may have to purchase in the next year to bury loved ones. Hopefully not. But you never know.

I can’t even say that it’s the rain, although rain has always made me pensive—made me want to light candles and sip hot beverages in thick mugs while ensconced in my warm fuzzy robe and slipper socks. I lead quite the exciting life. Maybe it was the other night, celebrating with my neighbors over red wine and Chinese take out. That relationship where I can be me and funny and relaxed and family and a guest all at the same time when I’m in their house. Maybe I’m just tired. Or going to start my period.

Maybe it's the fact that my son is 11 and he’s edging his way into his first big life lesson which will officially hit sometime in the next week or so, rendering the next four and a half weeks of my life a living nightmare. And though I’m lamenting the nightmare, I’m mourning the gradual loss of my baby boy and my influence over him while at the same time being so excited he’s finally going to learn to fly. Well, at least he’s taking the leap. This first drop is going to be a doosie. But in all actually it just feels high from where I'm sitting. It's a new perch for me too.

I’ve been known to get sappy at times like these. Late at night when I’m tired. I’d probably write an effing amazing novel if I could channel my words to explode between the hours of 11 p.m. and 3 in the morning. That’s probably one of the reasons I’ve yet to write this novel (to be honest, I’m 1,300 words in but it hasn’t really progressed past the ovulation stage…my novel that is) because I’m sleeping away my creative genius hours.

But these came to me tonight so I thought I’d make a blog post about them. Things I miss about being a kid. Being young. now that I'm waxing nostalgic, I may have actually posted a blog like this before. It feels a little familiar, though I can't truly remember. Oh, there are plenty of things I adore about being OLD, don’t get me wrong. But that’s another blog post. I have to eek out my ideas when I get them. You know as well as I, these essays have seen more prolific seasons. (What am I averaging these days…two posts a month?) Crap.

Anyway. Here’s my list. In no particular order. I miss:

Being able to eat a fast food hamburger, fries, and a coke without indigestion and gas.
My memory.
My metabolism.
Sleeping through the night without having to get up to pee four times. I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night.
Sitting down to a table full of food I didn’t have to cook. Every single evening.
Being able to stay up until 2 a.m. and still be not only functional the next day, but downright chipper.
Believing in Santa.
Being able to pick something off the floor without bending my knees.
Being able to sit on the floor at all without pain.
Not having migraines.
Waking up on December 26^th to a Christmas tree surrounded by wrapped presents; not being the one who put (and wrapped) them there.
Thinking my grandparents would live forever.
The simplicity that comes before knowledge.
My size four arse. Only occasionally though.
Being a self-assured, confident, loud, ignorant teenager. And I wish I could have bottled that chutzpah and sold it, becoming a millionaire.
Designing new outfits to wear each day. More than that, the time I had to devote to such creative endeavors.
Journaling by hand with a medium point blue ball tip pen.
Reading all the V.C. Andrews books thinking those were the worst things that could ever befall humans. How little I knew!
Listening to my father play the piano in the evening while I was in bed.
Talking to my mother while she sat at the end of my bed every night flossing her teeth.

There are so many more. But age has caught up with me once again. It’s after midnight and my eyes are closing, even if my mind is still racing. I miss that too. I miss being able to sleep when I go to bed, instead of lying awake thinking about to-do lists, paying bills, marketing myself, or finishing projects. And there is a three year old waiting for me in that bed, who’s been up the past four nights coughing and generally being miserable.

So I’m going to go to bed now and snuggle with that hacking child, just so I don’t end up writing about missing moments with my children. You know, when I’m old and looking back on being younger.

Weigh in here. Tell me I'm not alone. What things do you miss from your younger days?

Just In: Work At Home Productivity Down 95%

2010-10-27T11:08:00.000-04:00

Every night when my husband comes home from work, we exchange our daily routine banter. He asks, “So, how was your day? What did you do?” I regale him with stories about the past 10 hours, which no doubt include way too many details for him, and after me talking for about 15 minutes solid his eyes are a little glassy and he’s already onto his second beer, and he wraps it up with, “So. You wrote the table of contents for your book. That’s great.”

When I stop to think about what I accomplished, which is to say, what I actually wrote down or edited or drafted, it occurs to me that it never really sounds like much at all.

But I always feel so busy! I didn’t even leave the house, not even to check the mail or take the kids to the bus, instead telling them to “walk in the rain; it gives you character. I’ve got to get some work done.” I felt like my ass was strapped to my chair for eight hours, my brain working on overdrive for about 10. How had I only accomplished one little blog? Or one small article? Or one little Letter of Introduction? Do I have multiple personalities that black out sections of time, while my second persona goes shopping, has lunch out, and gets her nails done? Where the hell is my day going?

Well, as I type this I realize now where it’s going. My day is going to that three-year old time-vacuum. The one sitting in the other room right now watching Curious George and eating her breakfast on the couch, no doubt smearing banana hands on my furniture.

When we were finishing the lower level in our house, it was my brilliant idea to create the playroom right off the office space. That way, thought I, my youngest can happily play with her fabulous toys while I sit at my drafting table and write feverishly, churning out loads of novels, websites, blogs, and essays that are thoroughly researched and highly entertaining. She will be happy. And I will be happy. And I’ll have mastered the stay-at-home-work-at-home conundrum.

Yeah. That happened.

My daughter has no desire to play with her toys for more than 10 minutes at most, and then she’s at my drafting table opening the drawers so she can scale my desk and try to sit on my lap while I work. Which if you’ve seen how much clearance I have behind my desk, or know that my chair is a bar stool whose legs we sawed off to fit the height of the drafting table rendering my chair ineffective for moving in and out, you’d understand that what she’s trying to accomplish is a little bit like a circus elephant trying to sit on the shoulders of a tight rope walker without her falling to her death.

Here was my morning; aka, a typical writing day for me when my daughter is home:

Sit down at computer. Open email, begin reading email. Spend 10 minutes reading and responding to email.
Daughter wakes up. Must comfort and love on daughter so she’s not in a bad mood. Lop her onto the couch and put on Curious George which buys about 10 minutes.
Go back to computer. Close email and go over list of things I need to accomplish today; 1. Finish an article, 2. Continue editing book project, 3. blog.
“Mom! I’m hungry! Can I have bwekfast?” child yells from TV room.
Get up from computer to make toaster waffle with cream cheese, half a banana, and glass of orange juice. While I’m in kitchen I pull out crock pot and cans of beans to make chili for dinner. Serve child breakfast in front of TV like bad American Mother.
Sit back down at computer, open up article to work on. Read through article to figure out where I’m going to add information in and begin to think. Yes, I actually need time to think about stuff.
“Mom! Look look!” “WHAT?” I yell from office. “Look! I finished my bwekfast! Can I have more?” “More of what?” I yell. “More bwekfast! Come here!” she yells back.
Get up again, gather child’s plate, get her another waffle another banana, deliver food, and head back to computer.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Thinking. Thinking about my article and trying to be creative. I have about five minutes.
“Mom! I hafta go to the bathroom!” “Then GO!” I yell. “WHAT?” she yells back. “GO! TO THE BATHROOM!” I yell again. Note that we’re not yelling in anger just for distance, because Curious George is loud and getting out of my office seat eats up time
“Mom! I’m done going to the bathroom! I need help!”
Swivel-tilt-my chair back, climb out of my creative corner (that hasn’t seen a creative thing yet today) and help child in bathroom.
“Do you have to poop? I ask. “No.” She answers. “ARE YOU SURE?” I inquire again. She nods yes. Fine. She must wash her own hands. With lots of soap. She must rinse her own hands. One finger at a time. She must turn off the water, grab the towel, and hit the light switch with no help from me, but I must be physically present.
Swivel-Tilt-Adjust myself back in corner. Re-read article for the third time. Okay. Think. Start writing. Feel a groove coming on, a hint at productivity, silence from the other room propels me forward, and dare I say I’m feeling like I might be able to…
“Mom! I hafta go to the bathroom!” my daughter yells. “You JUST WENT!” I yell back. “No! I hafta go POOP!” she retorts. “I ASKED IF YOU HAD TO GO POOP BUT YOU TOLD ME NO!” I quip loudly.
Passive-Aggressively leave desk and bruise hip and thigh on corner, a good Karmic sign that I need to not be passive-aggressive with my three-year-old. Because peeing and pooping are clearly two separate activities and must not be performed at the same time, when one is already on the pot doing the other, even if convenience and logic tells you otherwise. Different exit areas, different results, different activities. Duh.

And on continues my day, in two and three minute increments. I write in between picking up the toy room so she can find the accessories to her ponies, getting out paint, brushes, and water so she can decorate little wooden hearts and bird houses, throwing a load of laundry in because the other children who live here are out of underwear…. (“Mom!! Mommy! Mah-Mah!” She just yelled. “Are you almost done?? You said you would come check on me!” Do you see what I mean?) and not that I even have time to put it in the dryer let a lone fold it because suddenly it’s lunch time, and I must go scrape together something halfway healthy for her noon meal, which is particularly difficult because we need to go shopping today as we have no food, but we don’t get paid until tomorrow. Mother Sucker.

When I die I have decided to have the following epitaph inscribed on my tombstone:

Here Lies Rachel Vidoni

Tired Dead Mother But Never an Author

She Hopes Her Children Are Happy

Now She Has Time To Think

I’ve been sitting at this computer for an hour and a half, and this is what I’ve got? It could have been better readers. But I must move onto to my next task. Just so I have something to tell my husband when he comes home.

Party Politics

2010-10-19T16:14:00.001-04:00

This is a treat any kid would be proud of. (From Parents Magazine)

This one, not so much.

One of the things I’m constantly being reminded of is that reading the calendars that get sent home from school is important. It’s not that I don’t instinctually know this being a former teacher and all, but life tends to get away from me on an hourly basis which means my children show up to school without the red shirt on, the much needed paper sack, or the five items that begin with the letter “W” in a plastic zip lock.

Now that my youngest is in preschool, I’m having to re-learn all the rules—spoken, unspoken, and whispered in hushed tones—and quite honestly I’m a little annoyed at my learning curve because I was under the impression that navigating preschool would be akin to the old adage about riding a bike or smoking; you never forget how to do it. In reality it’s more akin to breastfeeding. No matter how many times you’ve done it, you wonder why the hell it’s so painful and difficult each and every moment.

I dropped my daughter off September 30^th and made sure to find the snack sign up calendar for October, so I could scribble down my John Hancock in a tiny box since I had missed the opportunity to bring in snack in September. As of 9:00 a.m. that morning, the October calendar hadn’t been put up, so I figured I’d sign up for it when I came back at 1 p.m.

Imagine my surprise when (at 1 p.m.) I noticed that not only had the October calendar been tacked to the wall, but that every single snack slot for the month was already taken. How had I missed this? Were the good parents lined up behind the trees and bushes outside ready to steal the slots from me the moment I left? No, logically most children leave at 11:30 and those lucky parents happened to sign up for October. The very nice and gracious teachers told me they’d hang up the Halloween party calendar after 11:30 pick up, so I’d have a chance to sign up for something. I’m a good mom, really I am, they reassured me. They wiped my nose and sent me on my way with a little pat, pat, pat on the back.

It’s not that I’m pouting. I just understand how these things go. I know because I was a teacher when I didn’t have kids and now I’m a parent who doesn’t teach, and I’ve heard first hand the implications of parents who don’t bring in snack. Or a cool item for a class party. You’re labeled:

· a busy working mom who doesn’t have time for her kids, or

· a lazy stay-at-home mom who doesn’t have time for her kids, or

· cheap, or

· a user

Trust me. It’s not spoken. It’s one of those quiet things you just feel. I was walking with my friend the other morning who was also commiserating with me on party politics. She says:

“And since I was out of town, I told my husband, ‘Husband, make sure you sign us up to bring something for the Halloween party.’ And so when I got home I asked him, ‘What did you sign us up to bring?’ And do you know what he says? He says, ‘Napkins.’ Napkins! ‘You signed us up to bring NAPKINS?’ I asked him. ‘You don’t sign us up to bring napkins! Napkins aren’t fun! When you sign us up, you sign us up for something good, like cupcakes. Or cookies. You do not sign us up to bring napkins.’ So now I’ve been online and looking in the stores for the best damned napkins I can find.”

Napkins just aren’t sexy, along with the other drab party necessities like paper plates, cups, and plastic utensils. The only thing that would make bringing in napkins cool, is if she hand cut 8” squares out of harvest colored flannel and monogrammed each child’s initial in the corner, which would then make it suitable for a party favor as well. That would be something every 3 to 5 year-old could brag about.

Moms want to bring in something their child can be proud of, show off and boast about, like cupcakes with glittery frosting, or cookies with gummy lifesaver eyeballs, or little bags of candy tied with curly orange ribbon. We want to try out all those food crafting projects we see in Family Fun and Martha Stewart because really good moms make chocolate pudding cemeteries with oreo earth and their children love them forever. Those items speak volumes about how much your love your child, care about their preschool psyche, how dedicated you are to domestic service and hence, what a wonderful woman you must be.

Truth be told, perhaps that extra effort of making colorful cupcakes is a silent offering to our children, a way to make up for the million ways we slight them, yell at them, ignore them, or look past them while we worry about schedules and bills and homework and housecleaning and laundry. If we’re lucky maybe our children will remember the hours we spent decorating 50 sugar cookies with candy corn and black licorice, and not the 15 minutes before bed when we refused to read a story because we were so completely exhausted the very thought of reading Good Night Moon brought on a migraine. I mean, any idiot with five bucks in their pocket can bring in napkins and plates. Bringing in party ware must mean you aren’t sorry for anything, right? That your kids should be happy with the mediocre parent you turned out to be?

Regardless of the emotional baggage and implied meaning us parents bring to the party table, kids only see the glittery. The colorful. The sugar coated. And trust me, when the little kids are out on the playground having a pissing contest over what they brought in, you do NOT want to imagine your child, hands shoved in pockets, eyes cast downward while the cupcake kids taunt:
“Suzie’s mom brought napkins. My mom brought in the cupcakes that say, ‘Trick or’ Treat!’ when you take a bite.”

Because isn’t that our worst fear? Having our kids be embarrassed of us the way we were embarrassed of our parents? Don’t the embellishments and colorful gift bags make us cool?

Well, the good news is that I got to the sign up sheet before the 11:30 pick up parents, but the bad news is that mini cupcakes and all the food items were already taken. My choice? Non-edible treat. Fine. I signed my name. Perhaps I’ll buy each child their own Barbie house or Star Wars leggo set. I can do something cool with a non-edible treat.

What did they end up with? Well, a little cello bag with a friendly ghost on it, filled with a mini play dough, bouncy ball, and spider ring. I filled a shoebox with the little packages of delight, and they are ready and waiting for the infamous party day.

I know. I sold out. I over did the “non-edible treat” and bought into the politics of the holiday. The good news is that I closed the baggies with the enclosed twist ties and did not use any sort of curling ribbon to make them cuter. I thought about it, but refrained. I mean, I’m sorry at times…

But not that sorry.

It’s a mediocre thing.

Nature Vs. Nurture

2010-10-04T09:54:00.001-04:00

The other night my three-year old was shrieking in the bath. Mr. Musings arrived seconds before me to find our daughter holding up a piece of my long, black hair that had stuck to her skin. “Hair! Hair! HAIR!” she wailed.
“What’s she yelling for?” Mr. Musings asked me.
“She gets freaked out when hair gets stuck to her,” I replied.
“Is there any way to change that?” he asked.
“What, her genetic code or the hair in the bathtub?” I inquired.
“Her genetic code.”
“I suppose we could medicate her early,” I retorted.

It’s true. My youngest daughter has this gifted ability to find the smallest hairs-stuck to her in the bath, on her sweaters, on the table, and bring them to me pinched tightly between her index finger and thumb, arm outstretched like she’s holding toxic waste. She’s not content until I’ve thrown it away in the garbage and assured her that “everything is fine. It’s just hair.”

The fact that my hair falls out in clumps to rival a molting Persian cat contributes largely to this problem (and is actually enough material for an entire blog), but there’s not much I can do about it. Most days I wear my hair up in a ponytail or twist to keep the suckers from falling out, and my doctors have assured me that nothing is wrong with my thyroid, so unless I decide to go Sinead on my family, we’ll need to figure out a way to deal with the hair. And yes, I’m sure I could vacuum more than I do. Still, I have no idea why she freaks out over little things like clingy hair. (Or messy hands.) No idea at all.

This little peccadillo of my daughters does not stand alone, however. Lately I’m noticing things that seem a little a-typical of three-year old behavior, or at least what they told me was “typical” back in my childhood development classes in college. Granted, it was back when 90210 was popular, so I get that it might not be the most recent information to go on.

My daughter is starting to shows signs of being freakishly organized. Coming in to take her out of the bath one evening I found this:

Wouldn’t most three-year olds have them scattered all over the shower walls? Be pretending to drive the cars over the people and sticking the trees on the roof tops? Not my girl. She’s already creating Stepfordville. Is this an example of nurture or nature? How much is my youngest picking up on my own neuroses, and is this a sign of her neuroses to come?

But perhaps that was just a fluke I think. Until I notice her playing with her puzzles:

And her pegs:

And when she colors:

Yes. Her picture is on the right. Now I’m starting to suspect that my daughter is a little abnormal. The little girl she colored with in the picture above is also three years old and is also the third child. Their pictures look a little different, don’t they?

My youngest even wants to get in on the calendar action; making sure to stay organized by placing important events on each day:

Well sure. We need to work on the writing a little bit, but the big picture is she understands how important it is to write things down on the calendar. Schedule her time. Stay organized.

Even at school one of her teachers commented on her abilities. When I went to pick her up one afternoon her teacher remarked, “You know, I’m really impressed that she could work all those buttons on her sweater. She spent most of the day buttoning and unbuttoning, buttoning and unbuttoning that sweater. That’s really a higher level skill, and not usually age appropriate for a three year old.” We were both glancing down at my daughter during this little tribute, when my daughter reached into her nose, picked a huge booger, and wiped it on her sweater with the big buttons she knows how to work.

“What about wiping boogers on her sweater?” I asked. “Is that age appropriate?”
“Totally,” the teacher laughed. “All three-year olds do that one.”

Whew. Perhaps I don't have anything to worry about. I'm not so naieve to think she wasn't going to get any of my personality, but with each child I keep hoping that it's some redeeming part, not the parts that put people into therapy or on the road to drug warranted anxiety. My oldest is glass-half-empty just like me, my middle daughter is anxiety-ridden just like me, and now my three-year old is turning into Type-A-organized just like me. Oh they have many good qualities, don't get me wrong. For example, they obviously all got my fabulous good looks and winning personality. But I still question how much of their characters are genetically encoded and beyond their control, and how much of it they pick up by living with me as their mediocre mother.

"Is there any way to change that?" I remember my husband asking.
Sigh.
I suppose not. I'll just embrace the years of therapy to come and line up the bottles of Paxil.

Wanted: Cat With an Effective Mother

2010-09-02T14:08:00.002-04:00

This is what I'm going for.

Not this.

Last night I was just finishing dinner—chicken pot pie, salad, and apple slices—when I heard scratching and gnawing inside one of my cupboards. The cupboard I keep my Starbucks coffee and Wildflower iced tea in.

Now they’re trying to screw with my caffeine intake. Bastards.

Listening to the little scratchy-scratchy sounds gave me a stomach ache and I didn't want to open the cupboard to inspect it, lest a mice might dive bomb me right at face level, and you all know what that would do to me.

Put me right in the asylum. Just hand me my straight jacket now.

I tried to call my husband who was supposedly on his way home, but he didn’t answer. Twice. I finally called my neighbor to come check it out since I couldn’t take the anxiety anymore. He did some inspecting and the long and the short of it is, found no mice. But they are still alive and well in my kitchen walls somewhere, probably with a paw full of poo to throw at me given the opportunity.

I can’t tell you how many people have suggested we get a cat. Just today my mother even brought it up.

“Well, what you need is a cat,” she said.

“I’ve considered that, but how do I know I’m going to get a mouser and not just a cat who likes to tinker around with them like stuffed toys?” I replied.

“You know, cats learn those things from their mother. If the mother cat teaches the kittens how to do it, then they’ll chase the mice,” she added helpfully. It always comes back to the mother doesn't it?

Fabulous. So she’s saying I need to scour the alleys looking for a street cat with street smarts, whose mother showed them the finer points of catching and killing rodents? Do you think the people at the MSPCA have the vitaes for the strays in their shelter, filed by personality habits and specialized skills? I’m pretty sure that most cats these days are from the genetic line of the washing-mittens-and-eating-pie type. Meow meow meow.

Perhaps I should just purchase a mouse at the pet store and secretly release it in various cat cages and see what the felines do. A little like an interview or performance evaluation. Chases mouse? Check. Catches mouse? Check. Kills mouse? Nope. Just bats it with paw and licks it. Move on to cat option #2. It’s times like these when it would be helpful if animals could talk, or if those space-age dog collars from the movie UP! were a reality. Then assessing whether a cat was up to the job would simply be a matter of questions.

“So, Tom, tell me about your past work experience.”

Tom: “Well, I used to work down on the west side of town,” he drawls with thick Italian accent, “right behind Jim’s Big Barbeque. To date I’ve captured, killed and disposed of (glances at slash marks on his furry forearm) 253 rodents of all sizes.”

I’d hire him on the spot, that Tom. Even if he was a chain smoker and had a penchant for licking himself.

But you can’t know until you’ve taken the cat home, got the darned thing acclimated to your home, and seen him in action. It’s a huge risk. That, and my husband and I are in a pretty good place. We get along well. We're jovial (mostly). We even have conversations. That this coincides with the death of my other cat two years ago is pure coincidence I'm sure. But I'm a little worried that bringing a new cat into the home would turn our topics of conversation towards, "Did you notice it smells like cat piss downstairs?" or "When's the last time you changed that litter box?" or "There's cat hair all over my workshirts." Am I ready to potentially sacrifice my spousal relationship to appease my germ-a-phobic, controlling, type-A nature?

If I find a new piece of mouse poo I am.

If anyone out there knows of a cat whose mother did her due diligence to the breed and taught the thing how to be a mouser, feel free to contact me. If I like the cat and it works out, I promise to reward you with a special treat: probably something I baked in my kitchen.

Mouse Tales Part Deux

2010-09-01T10:51:00.000-04:00

[If you’re just tuning in, I highly recommend reading the blog below first. (The Clock Struck One.) You don’t have to, but the story is funnier from the beginning. Just sayin’.]

I wake up on day two of my Germ Nightmare, (after having spent the night dreaming that I moved into a dorm room at ASU only to find that I had to slay a Troll, kill the snake that was wrapped around my legs and in my shoes—while I was wearing them—and fight off other hideous monstrosities in order to live there…honestly I have no idea what made me dream about that…) and I gently check in the cupboard to see if there are any rodent carcasses lying about.

Nope. But the bait is gone on one of them. Dammit.

Which gives me no amount of pleasure or comfort knowing that the mice are still running through my cupboards and pilfering the bait off the traps while giving me the finger.

I continue to clean the kitchen, pulling out the oven, disinfecting the sides of the stove where all the food spills, vacuuming behind the appliances checking for more mouse poop, and generally dismantling the kitchen area while trying to purge it of mouse feces. It was a beautiful day.

My husband got home later that evening, checked the traps that were in the cupboard, and we crossed our fingers and said a little prayer that the traps would work this time. (Maybe I was the only one praying come to think of it.)

Around 11:00 p.m. my SIL, BIL, and I were in the kitchen/living room talking when my BIL, who is leaning against the counter and facing the fireplace, starts pointing and shrieking at the wall behind me.

“AHHHHH!! Ahhhhhh!!!” he yells. He’s yelling and pointing and gagging a little I think, and I’m starting to freak out because I’m not sure what he’s looking at behind me—a couple of glances didn’t reveal anything—and I’m wondering if he’s seeing an otherworldly specter, the grim reaper or maybe Jesus himself, and while he’s still yelling and pointing, I turn around long enough to see it…..

…a mouse that has popped out of a tiny hole between our mantel and the slate bricks of our fireplace and is now running along the fireplace, down onto the floor and into the floorboard heaters in the living room. I’d have rather seen Jesus.

I’m not sure at what point I found myself sitting on the edge of my hutch with my feet ontop of the couch, but I do recall that I also started yelling for my husband, repeatedly calling his name with terror and immediacy in my voice, and I keep calling and calling and calling him, and I think “Where the hell is that husband of mine…is he outside?” because aren’t husbands supposed to come running when they hear their wife is in distress and screaming their name? Where’s my knight in cotton shorts when I need him?

But no, he isn’t outside, and he comes sauntering, sauntering I tell you, up the stairs and into the living room, like I always yell his name in fits of shock and panic and it’s no big deal that screaming wife who is sitting on the hutch with her feet on the back of the couch because she frequently has fits similar to these and why hurry.

“Did you see a mouse?” he says all casual-like; tones reminiscent of “did you get the mail,” or “pass the salt,” or “have you seen my wallet?” Like we see mice in our house every day. No. Big. Deal.

My husband is not an alarmist by the same measures that I am a germ-a-phobe, which is probably a good checks-and-balances system in our union, but I was kind of hoping that he’d locate the sucker, look for it, capture it, dispose of it, in front of me and before I decided to go to bed that night, just so I could rest peacefully and with the budding illusion that perhaps the only mouse responsible for all that crap in the cupboards was dead. But he didn’t.

He nonchalantly got another mouse trap, baited it with peanut butter, and placed it on the floor in the living room near the baseboard heater where the thing disappeared.

“Aren’t you going to look for it any more than that?” I asked incredulously.

“Nope,” was his reply.

To say I was crestfallen is an understatement…but whatever I was feeling (a mixture of horror, anger, helplessness to name a few) one thing was certain: you can be damned sure I wasn’t going to be sleeping on the couch—where I had slept the night before because of snoring and company. I took the master bed. If my husband wasn’t going to find the mouse then he could sleep in the same room with it, a few feet away from it, and listen to the trap snap in the middle of the night all by his lonesome. Not me folks.

The next morning I awoke to whispers of good news. My SIL asked me, “Did you hear that we had caught the mouse?”

“Which one?” I asked.

“The one in the cupboard,” she said. “We heard the trap go off while we were talking. I cleaned out your cupboards with bleach and everything.”

“What about the one in the living room?” I inquired.

“I think the mouse we caught in the cupboards was the same one. I think he ran down the heaters and around to the kitchen. I’m sure that’s the only one.”

Now, I think I’d like to marry my SIL. Here is a woman who knows exactly how to lie to me, what illusions to feed me, so I can carry on with living in my house and cooking in my kitchen without fear and panic. She knows that I know there is more than one mouse, and that clearly it wasn’t the one in the living room; she knows I’m no idiot, and yet, she doesn’t make me feel stupid for my phobias, she just lies to me in order to help keep the pathways in my brain moving and not frozen. That, and she cleaned the cupboards with bleach. Because using a flame thrower to get rid of dead mouse germs is just too dangerous and pure acid is simply too strong; but she understands me enough (and she is such a good housekeeper herself) to know that bleach will do the trick and make me feel better. She is a smart, smart woman. My husband could really stand to take a pointer or two from her on how to handle me. Bless her bless her bless her.

I approach the living room couch, where my husband is curled up in blankets, and glance over at the trap that was set on the floor—and there lies dead mouse #2. Feet straight up in the air and still. That’s just how I like my mice….four legs in the air and on their backs. PETA people best stand back, because I’ll argue this with you till my death.

A check of the traps in the garage reveal another dead rodent—to bring the death total to three. And a few days ago, another trap in the garage caught mouse #4. Four dead within four days. There is still a baited trap in the cupboard which hasn’t seen any more action since its first body, but we’re leaving it there (along with a few more in the garage) to make sure we’ve caught all the pooping culprits before boarding up the cupboards and sealing holes. Nothing’s worse than mouse carcass in the walls I’ve been told. I’m happy to take their word for it.

And now? Well, the kitchen is really, really clean. During this event I purged many cupboard items I didn’t need, didn’t use, and simply served to collect rodent crap. I’ve cleaned behind my stove as well as the sides of the stove. I’ve vacuumed above my oven, and next to my fridge. Oh, and I get to buy a new toaster. Whoop Whoop. I may never store my cookie sheets and baking pans under the stove again (you can’t properly seal up a stove drawer) and there is a good chance that the plastic bin that currently houses those objects will become our newest piece of kitchen furniture. I’m okay with that. All I know is that the next mouse I see better be dead, or on TV being chased by an idiot cat.

The Clock Struck One...

2010-08-31T09:55:00.000-04:00

Isn't he cute?

I’m curious why in our folkloric past we fondly sing of rodents. Three blind mice, Three blind mice…Hickory Dickory Dock, The mouse ran up the clock… And who can forget the adorable Jerry, constantly trying to escape that idiot cat Tom? Why he’s so cute it makes every child yearn for pet mouse, one that can slam doors and throw frying pans. More recently, Disney Pixar comes out with a fabulous animated flick of a rat trying to make a living in the fancy kitchens of France. (I think.) Rats are just mice on steroids, and you’ll forgive me for lumping them together. A rodent is a rodent is a rodent, especially one in the kitchen. I honestly can’t say I’ve seen Ratatouille start to finish because I can’t get past the idea that there is a warm blooded, hairy beast in a kitchen, who sits inside some nerd’s sweaty chef hat yanking on his hair. All I’m thinking is that it must really smell in that hat, that gross greasy head smell, and that now there’s rat poop all on top that guy's head, because honestly that rat is up there cooking up “specialties” for hours. We all know that rodents poop as often and profusely as their whiskers twitch, and well, while Pixar is nice enough to leave out these realistic tidbits, my mind won’t let them go. I’m a realist and a germaphobe. You can’t fool me. I will not be deceived.

But there’s nothing cute about rodents in the kitchen, nothing funny about it whatsoever and I can tell you how I know.

Last Thursday night, my family, my in-laws, my sister-in law, my brother in-law, (yes that’s all of them) and my son’s friend, arrived home at 9:30 p.m. after five days at a cabin in Maine. We were all exhausted, the house was filled with suitcases, bins of kitchen items, dirty beach towels, wet water toys,…you name it, it was littering all rooms of the house and down the hallway. A few of the adults were in the kitchen, emptying the clean dishwasher, when my BIL pulls down a canning jar that I keep in my lower cabinets next to the toaster.

It had a tiny piece of mouse poop on it.

He shows it to me and my husband, and we go, “Hmmm. That’s interesting. I wonder how that got there.”

And then my BIL pulls out more canning jars. And we find more poop. And now I’m not going, “Hmmm,” but “WTH?....”

And then he pulls out the toaster.

(You may want to put down any food you may be eating right now.)

And we look inside the toaster. And the bottom of the toaster is covered in mouse poop.

Covered. Like twenty five mice sat inside my toaster and had a pooping contest, seeing how much excrement they could push out and high fiving each other while doing the deed. And now I’m thinking:

“When’s the last time I made toast?”

Seriously, how many of you look inside the toaster each time you plunk bread in it? You just take it for granted that the toaster is clean. I know I did. But I'm staring at what seems like four tablespoons of crap and I'm wondering: Is all this poop the result of days or months of rodent activity, or did the mice know we were on vacation in Maine and suddenly run through my cupboards with wild abandon? Is it possible for mice to poop that much in five days? I sure as hell hope it is. Because if it isn’t, my whole family has been eating Ego waffles and bagels smoked with fecal matter.

(Hang on a minute…my mouth is salivating and I think I may lose it…)

Well, needless to say the next hour or so was spent emptying out cupboards and searching for small, black, rodent droppings. Yep, found in three cupboards. Above the stove. In the stove drawer. No doubt behind the stove and in the lazy susan I refuse to use, and now for good reason.

I’m tired. At this point in my day I’m barely keeping it together, lest I cry and sob right in front of all my inlaws. Not that they’d be shocked or anything, it’s just not a very adult thing to do. I put on my victim hat and wondered why these things always happen to me. Because these events do nothing to assuage my psychological germ-baggage and instead fuel them like lighter fluid on a barbeque. You thought I was crazy before? Honey, I’ll never toast another piece of bread anywhere without inspecting the insides of the device I’m using. You were embarrassed of me ordering at a restaurant previously? Wait till I ask them if there is mice defecation inside their toaster. These episodes continue to make living with me a brand new experience every day.

So what did we do? We laid traps of course. Little cheap, wooden mice traps in my kitchen cupboards and in the stove. Did we catch anything?

Well. Yes and no. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow for the rest of the story. It gets better. Trust me.

No, I haven't been arrested.

2010-08-30T22:54:00.000-04:00

I know you're missing me. I'm missing you quite frankly. I've been lazy you see, and I can't keep the kids quiet long enough to even create a pathway in my brain for logical thought, let alone to try and be funny. There just isn't room right now. This is what is currently taking up space in my grey matter:
-the mice that are living in my kitchen cupboards (yes, you know you'll be reading the details very soon)
-the trip to Maine I still haven't recovered from
-two school supplies still MIA because all the stores were raped bare by everyone else but me
-laundrylaundrylaundrylaundrylaundrylaundrylaundry
-school is starting in two days for two of my children. I vacillate between weeping for joy and weeping because I'm so damned tired of getting them ready for school. Notice I am not weeping because I will miss them.
-billsbillsbillsbillsbillsbillsbillsbills
-working on my website/business cards/etc. so I can feel like I have a real job. Sorta.
-spending as much time as possible by my neighbor's pool drinking beer. After 10 a.m. of course.
-sleeping in. Especially since my son will now have to be at the bus by 6:40 in the morning. This may prove very difficult for both of us. How young can you start kids on coffee?
-haircuts. Everyone needs one. As usual I have made no appointments and so my children will attend the first day of school looking like backwoods hicks.

So. You can see my mind has been a little busy. I'm coming back, don't you worry. My apologies for my lack of blogging. I'm hoping your summer was fabulous and you'll be tuning in for the prime time season of Musings.

R.M.A.O? I Don’t Think So.

2010-08-09T12:42:00.000-04:00

Imagine running with two of these; one of which is leaking.

While in AZ this summer, I had the great opportunity to have lunch with the fine folks of School Webmasters (SWM), the company I freelance for on a regular basis. I’m proud to say that I ate some fine Italian food with the CEO, the Art Director, the Lead Copy Editor, and the Office/Project Manager. And then there was me. The freelancer. Notice how I didn’t capitalize that. I don't make enough money for a capital letter yet, but I'm working on it.

It’s an amazingly powerful group of women, considering they established, run and operate a pretty large business, and employ freelancers who can work from home and thereby stay close to their kids. Which also allows them to keep their office pretty small and local with not a lot of pesky overhead. Nicely planned.

There are many things I love about working for SWM, the biggest one being that these ladies are really funny. They also read my blog (perhaps to be supportive but more likely to make sure I’m not leaking company secrets) and find that funny too. I suggested that if they found me so hilarious I probably should get a raise, to which the Art Director responded, “Well, you’re not that funny. You’re just LOL funny. Probably not LMAO funny, and definetly not LMFAO funny. Nope. You’re LOL funny and I’m pretty sure that’s just about where your pay is at.” Well, needless to say, I LMAO at that one. Touche.

One of the things I do not like about these women however, is that they exercise. They talk about exercising. They even run, ride bikes, join races where you run for miles and miles in a Godforsaken desert, and try odd diets like taking GPS…no, wait, HGTV…sorry wrong again…hCG? I think that may be it. Weird. But they do like to run.

I hate riding bikes.

I hate running even more.

And generally, I look at people who do run with a mix of fascination, jealousy, and disdain.

Oh, I’ve tried to run, don’t get me wrong. I even trained with my father for a half marathon a few years back. I did the half marathon, but I’m pretty sure that my father could have lapped me twice at the rate I plodded and bounced down the street like a hard boiled egg all off balance and out of whack. He stuck with me to be supportive and chalked it up to QT with his eldest daughter while my middle sister ran past us, completing the full marathon. She’s run two of them. I felt a little betrayed by the fact that she never hinted at her closet running personality growing up—instead shocking us all with the ability to run and run and run like Forest Gump once the leg braces were removed. And even though I made fun of her style—her legs tend to splay out a bit when running—I’m really just jealous. Who am I to mock her when she can do it and I can’t? Run, sister, run!!

I’ve come to accept the fact that there are significant factors that hold me back in the running department. One of them is my arse.

Yes, as my grandmother used to like to say to me, “Rachie, you have yourself an onion butt, but don’t worry, guys like onion butts.” Not to be outdone of course by the other comment she made while I was in college as she was measuring my posterior for some clothes, “Welp, Rachie. You’re not a young woman any more.” Which is to say, that my pearl onion butt had morphed into large Vidalia onion butt, which currently looks like rotting onion butt, with pockets of soft tissue hidden beneath flaky scaling skin. Layers and layers of 37 year-old onion deliciousness. Yum.

The problem with having an onion butt (besides fighting men off with a stick all those years) is that it makes running a tad uncomfortable for me. When I run my arse jiggles like two sagging water balloons are attached to my lower back and I’m always a little embarrassed that the residual effects will leave me bruised. Wearing a sports bra helps keep the chest jiggle to a minimum (honestly, it’s already pretty minimum) but I’ve yet to find a pair of sports underwear that will keep by arse in check. Duct tape doesn’t seem very functional. Wrapping it with an ace bandage seems moot. I suppose I could wear some Spanx under my running gear, but I’m worried it would be too hot.

Even if I did solve the ass-jiggle conundrum, there’s also not much I can do about the fact that running isn’t very good for my bladder or uterus. According to the anatomy books I’ve read and all the illustrated cross-sections of women I’ve seen, the bladder and uterus are supposed to remain inside the woman’s body—a location I can’t guarantee if I were to run on a regular basis. With each pound-pound-pound of my feet running on the sidewalk, I envision my uterus slip-slip-slipping out of place. Not to mention the drip-drip-dripping of my bladder with each step. I’m not in a hurry to be on a first-name basis with my uterus or bladder, obliged to say hello to them when I use the restroom. While genetics may force this “meeting of the organs” on me in the future, for now I’m happy having them reside safely and quietly in my internal darkness. I’m starting to suspect that when God was making me He ran out of Liquid Nails and patched me together using Scotch tape. A great substitution for construction paper, doilies, and maybe even Popsicle sticks, but certainly not for a bladder and a uterus. Those suckers are slippery. Clear tape just isn’t going to cut it.

But I have to do something because I’m realizing I’m starting to feel creaky. Achy. I’m not huffing up the five steps in my house, but I’m probably not far away from that moment. The last two mornings I walked with a couple friends on the street. I actually dragged my sorry-onion-ass out of bed at 6:30 a.m. and walked for an hour each day. It’s a step in the right direction I suppose, even if my shins feel like Tanya Harding’s ex-boyfriend took a bat to them. But thankfully, neither woman is running yet, although there was brief talk about it. I’ll walk fast. I’ll even sway my hips and pump my arms in speed-walking fashion just to keep up if it means I can keep my panties dry and my organs where they belong. Don’t get me wrong. There a few instances where running is absolutely necessary: like from a burning building. Or to protect my kids from a wayward vehicle or a busy street. Or if someone fell into the pool and hit their head. Those are running times and while I’d miss my bladder and uterus, I’d live without them because it’s the right thing to do. But certainly not just to exercise. Not for my heart. Not for no damned marathon. And absolutely not for the fun of it. As if.

To recap: I don’t like to run because I jiggle, fall apart, and pee myself. Hey, if you can run and not leave body parts behind you while you do it, bully for you. Keep it up. Stuff the ear plugs in your ears and turn up "Eye of the Tiger" to 45 decibels and run like Stallone. The women at SWM can do it. My sister can do it. I’m pretty sure my neighbor friends can do it. Not me. I’d rather LMAO than RMAO any day and twice on Sunday.

One of Those Days

2010-07-15T15:22:00.000-04:00

Finally home. Monday’s trip was…an emotion suck of vast proportions which was pretty much in keeping with my 26 days in Arizona. Par for the course, as they say.

I’d like to publicly thank the gentleman at the Southwest curbside check in, who made it so easy and painless to check four large, heavy suitcases and a carseat onto our flight, and who not only took care of my luggage, but also printed out the family’s boarding passes while we waited. In times like these I’m more than happy to tip way more than humanly necessary just to easy a little of my travel burden. And he did it without rolling his eyes at the weight of all my suitcases or asking me if I was moving.

We arrived at the airport at 5:30 am AZ time, and proceeded to the first Paradise Bakery I found to load everyone up on carbs and caffeine. (Well, the caffeine was for me.) The first flight was booked solid, and while I was in the B boarding group for Southwest, it proved not very helpful. They board the families with small children between the A and B boarding groups which is usually just fine because I always seem to be one of the few idiotic mothers who travels alone with three children, allowing me a queen like status as I waltz past the other ‘normal’ travelers with my children, backpacks, food bags, and a stroller following along behind me like Pig Pen’s cloud. It’s a proud moment.

Monday’s flight to Baltimore however was loaded down with so many families that it looked strangely reminiscent of a Little People’s Convention, the little people here being children under the age of 10 and not people of short stature. I was so caught off guard at not being the only mom with kids that I didn’t get in line when I should have and ended up at the very back of the proliferating-adults-accompanied-by-fruits-of-their-womb line.

A quick glance around the plane as we boarded confirmed what I feared; all the families before me scored the connecting seats, while every other ‘normal’ traveler coveted the isle seats, leaving me bits and pieces to choose from on where to place my kids. I did consider sprinkling them throughout the plane in the center seats just to be pissy and sit alone at the back of the plane where I might possibly be able to shut my eyes for a second, or throw back a nip or two of Dewars scotch, but I felt that people might complain. I kindly said to the male Southwest flight attendant:

“Excuse me, Could you please help me find a row together so I can sit with my kids?”

At which he replied without looking at me:

“All the seats together are in the back,” and then dismissed me. It doesn’t take a degree in engineering to notice that there were no empty rows, having all been dotted with isle-seat sitters and a few window grabbers, leaving me slim pickins. Now I’m slightly agitated, which is unfortunate for the two gentlemen I spoke to next.

I spotted two rows where the window and middle seats were open, whilst two isle-squatting gentlemen sat trying to avoid my gaze.

“Excuse me gentlemen,” I voiced loudly, which forced them to acknowledge me. “Are those seats taken?”

They each shook their heads as fear and terror crept into their eyes as they realized what I was going to do.

“Thank you! Kid #1 and Kid #2, you sit here. Sit now. Put your backpacks under your seat. Buckle up. Do it. Do it now. Thank you.” I command while shoving them into a row next to one man. The baby and I slid past the other guy right behind my older two, situated ourselves and prepared for the flight.

This seating arrangement unnerved my middle daughter who feels anxious sitting next to “strangers” and who whispered between the seats to me the whole flight, “Please mom. Please can I come sit with you?” I assured her she was fine and to take up any anger she may have with the male flight attendant who refused to help us.

Flight was going along swimmingly, until we hit a patch of turbulence. It’s important to note that among my many idiosyncrasies and neuroses is a fear of turbulence- something that I’m always sure will result in a wing breaking off sending the plane plummeting to the ground and I’ll have exactly 2.5 minutes of ensuing horror while I wait for darkness to come and for my guardian angel to reveal him or herself. I pray mightily for no turbulence and generally when we fly the flights are smooth and I’m relatively peaceful, but the second that first bump comes, I’m white knuckle gripping the seat in front of me and saying a rosary. It’s a fear so intense that I’m trying to make deals with God and myself, like, “I’ll lick a toilet seat. I’ll eat my food off the floor. I’ll overcome ALL my other fears. PLEASE PLEASE JUST LET THE TURBULENCE END!” While the plane is bump, bump, bumping along my older two are looking back at me, saying things like, “Mom! Isn’t this fun! It’s like a fair ride! Whoooooo, Wheeeeee!!” and waving their hands in the air like a roller coaster at Disneyland. Then we hit an air pocket and the plane falls a bit which means that all the passengers on the plane let out the unconscious gasp and whoo, and the guy sitting with my kids looks back at me, as if to say, “What do you want me to do about this,” and I shoot him a “good luck take care of my kids I hope you’re a nice man” look right back at him. Serves him right, that isle-squatter.

But I manage to keep it together, not cry or vomit, which is pretty good considering that I’m about ready to morph into a panic attack and there’s nobody who will hold my hand or tell me we aren’t going to die. My husband comes in handy in times like these. I think of how he’ll feel living without us. Would he keep living in Massachusetts? Move back to Arizona? Become so overwrought with grief that he drinks too much, loses his job, and starts living on the street? Imagining life without me would be devastating I’m sure of it. Oh, and the kids too of course.

We finally land in Baltimore, me praying in tongues of thanksgiving like an old Jewish woman speaking Yiddish. The Baltimore tarmac was a beautiful, beautiful sight. And the flight was even early. Yippee.

It’s 1:15 p.m. Our next flight is scheduled to take off at 3:20, which gives me almost two hours to feed my offspring, start breathing, and mentally gear up for getting on another plane. Which is when I look out the window at the runway.

The sky is grey and oddly silent, but what unnerves me a bit is the low-lying black clouds that are moving towards the window directly over the airport. I’ve seen my share of dark rain clouds, but these are spooky clouds and they’re black. In a matter of moment as we sit watching the runway, the clouds move over us, the rain begins to plummet and there’s lightning. Not high-in-the-sky lightening like someone’s flicking the light switch on and off, but bolts of lightning. Single bolts of bright lightning and they are actually striking the ground.

I’m thinking this is a bad time to be on a plane. To expedite the narrative of the next few hours, I’ll highlight the important events in bullets:

They closed the runways. Any lightning strike within a three-mile radius automatically closes the runways and all activity outside. Trucks pull in. Baggage handlers scatter. Silently I’m breathing a little easier since I’m inside on terra firma and not stuck in a plane trying to take off.
The aircraft for our flight is circling in the sky above the storm waiting for the green light to land.
The storm passes briefly allowing a few planes to take off and land. Our flight is not one of them.
The storm picks up force and there are more lightning strikes, which closes the airport again. Our flight has been circling too long and is now forced to land in Norfolk, Va. Three other flights are also diverted because they had been circling too long.
At 5:00 p.m. our flight still hasn’t left Norfolk, VA but the airport is open and the 5:55 flight to Boston is scheduled to be on-time. I put our names on the stand-by list figuring it’s a fat chance in hell, but at least it’s an option.
At 5:15 the Southwest gate attendant announces for stand-by passengers to come see her at the desk. While I’m waiting to talk to her, she also announces that our Providence flight has left Norfolk, and should be arriving around 6:45 and they’ll get everyone on board and shipped off as quickly as possible. What to do? Take the Boston flight that is boarding now, or wait for another hour for the Providence flight and hope nothing else goes wrong?
I took the one bird in my hand instead of the two in the bush, and yelled at the kids to gather their belongings; we were shipping out to Boston. Even if it meant that all our luggage would still end up in Providence. I needed to be home and free of this day.
We board the plane; me sticking my children in a row together, while I sat across the isle from them by myself. It was actually a beautiful set up.

It’s 6:10. The plane hasn’t started its taxi yet. I’m wondering what’s up when a flight attendant comes on the PA system and says,
“Hello ladies and gentlemen. Our co-pilot just got here, and well… he noticed that one of the tires on the plane is flat. So it’ll be just a minute as we jack-up the plane and change that tire. Thanks for your patience folks.”

I’m sorry. Did he just say the plane has a flat tire? And that it went unnoticed by all the ground crew? And that our co-pilot, before taxiing, noticed that it needed to be changed?

I really have a problem with this kind of honesty. After my turbulence in the sky and averting the electrical storm in a big flying piece of metal, I now am wondering if when we try to take off or land a tire is going to blow, causing the plane to spin out of control and end up in a firey heap alongside the tarmac. I would have preferred a lie like, “Well ladies and gentlemen, we’re almost ready to take off, but the pilot needs to finish his last box of Suduko. He’s almost figured out where those last numbers go, and then we’ll be off towards your destination. Everything is perfectly fine. There are nooooo problems with the aircraft at all. It’s just that pilot Jim has such an attention to detail he must finish this puzzle so he can concentrate on flying the plane with the same amount of precision and focus. Thanks so much for your patience.” That’s an excuse I could embrace.

We landed in Boston around 8 p.m. safely with no additional blowing of tires. After sucking down a glass of wine on the plane I was feeling a little better. The sight of my husband after 26 days was a little bit like seeing him waiting for me at the altar; only this time not only were there tears of love, but exhaustion and anxious release as well. And the knowledge that I’m no longer the only parent for these three kids.

The good news about having all our luggage go to Providence was that we were able to head straight to the van for home. Once again, not only am I glad to be home, but I’m also glad that I don’t travel like that more than once a year. At my old age, my mediocre emotions can barely handle it.

Good Bye Arizona. I’m sorry we stayed so damned long.

2010-07-11T19:28:00.001-04:00

We leave for home tomorrow. It’s safe to say the kids and I are ready to be in our own beds. It’s been a good trip, don’t get me wrong. We weren’t abused in any way. We didn’t stay in a filthy, germ ridden hotel. We didn’t fall on any cactus or get stung by scorpions. We were able to see many old friends and most importantly, spend a lot of time with family. A lot. Of time.

Here are some Arizona trip statistics for you:

We stayed in Chandler for 26 days. That’s 624 hours or 37,440 minutes or 2,246,400 seconds, not that I was counting. 98% of that time we were hot. (The other 2% we were in Flagstaff just feeling warmish.) It rained a total of 5 minutes, which equates to .000133547% of the time. That’s so insignificant it’s like it didn’t really happen. Now that I think about it, maybe those drips were a figment of my very hot and tired imagination yearning for home.

We didn’t really intend to stay this long, it’s just when my husband happened to purchase the tickets. He saw the cheaper price and hit the “book now” button and realized a little late that it meant we’d be gone for almost a month. Oops. But we’ve made the best of it, even if this 26 day trip was about 16 days too long. How do I know we’ve stayed too long? Well, let me tell you:

10 Signs That You’ve Been On Vacation Too Long

10. The kids cry when you tell them there are 5 more days until you leave for home.

9. Your children start crying when you talk about Daddy and ask why he can’t come here.

8. The kid’s grandparents start conversations off with, “You know, your mother and I were thinking how nice it would be if each one of your kids came out separately for a week at a time next summer. It would really allow us to get to know them better.”

7. The kids start reminiscing about even the bad memories of home. As my middle daughter said to me, “Mom, I miss waking up at home and asking you to make chocolate chip pancakes and you saying no.” Thank God she hasn’t started waxing poetic about the yelling yet.

6. You check to see if you can change your reservations to an earlier flight home.

5. You are surprised to find that changing your tickets would only be $350.00 and it doesn’t sound like a bad price.

4. The kids cry when you tell them that you leave for home the day after tomorrow, with the youngest responding, “But I want to go home NOW.”

3. Every day the kids ask to call their friends in Massachusetts at least twice.

2. I start thinking that if I didn’t see any family or any of my children for 24 hours, it’d be the best 24 hours of my entire life.

1. Everyone starts feeling not only annoyed, but angry that every single room in the house contains a person who is doing something, leaving absolutely no place for alone time. And it’s too hot to take a walk even at 9:30 at night.

Don’t get me wrong, we did have a good time. And for the rest of July I’ll be blogging everyday about the trip, the things we did, events we witnessed, and things that made me laugh. Best of all we spent time with family; parents, sisters, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, friends, and grandparents. That part was worth it. I’m pretty sure I could see all those people in a two-week span however. That saying that fish and company both stink after three days wasn’t entirely incorrect. This stinky fish and her three loud, complaining minnows are swimming upstream toward home.

We can’t wait.

Arizona Pros and Cons

2010-06-28T02:13:00.000-04:00

I’ll cut to the chase and just start off by asking you to forgive me for not posting in 10 days. I understand that it’s a really long time and you have all come to rely on me for your only source of humor and levity in this crazy busy (sometimes not-too-nice) world. I’m right about at the middle of my “vacation” here in Arizona, the term vacation being used rather loosely. Vacations bring to mind reading piles of books by the pool, sipping frozen girly drinks through pineapple shaped straws, sleeping in, and having people serve you (or at least ordering food out) a majority of the time. While I have had some time by the pool, and I do admit to sucking down a pina colada in my sister-in-law’s fab personal fully stocked bar, the majority of my time has been pretty scheduled, packed full, and ordered according to priority: 1) spend time with grandparents as much as possible 2) spend time with sisters/parents/nieces & nephews as much as possible, and 3) see friends. That’s the honest truth of it, because who knows what tomorrow is going to bring or when I’ll be coming back to the valley and under what circumstances. I’m trying to Carpe Diem. Even though right now the thought of getting hit by a bus sounds really good, if only for the fact that I could sleep in a bed for about a week. It’d have to be a mini bus of course.

While I’m here I figured I’ve give you a little list of the benefits and drawbacks of Arizona through my eyes, and while I generally tend to regard Arizona with some dislike, there are some benefits that I’m reminded of now that I’m here. In no particular order, here you are:

Pros of AZ in June

1. No mosquitos. Ever. Not enough water for much of anything to live on, especially flying insects.

2. Warm summer evenings not requiring even a light jacket.

3. Beautiful sunsets.

4. They sell liquor in the grocery stores. I forgot how much I love one stop shopping.

5. More than two choices of restaurants to eat at.

6. Sweet Tomatoes restaurant. A soup, salad, bread, and pasta bar that the East Coast really needs to try to incorporate.

7. Family.

8. Grandparents. I know they are technically family, but they deserve their own line.

9. Wildflower Café iced tea.

10. Good Mexican food twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.

11. Shopping with my mom and sisters.

12. Being able to go to a mall that isn’t 30 minutes away.

13. Driving my parents Highlander, which I LOVE.

14. Having all three kids spend an entire weekend with my sister-in-law.

15. More than one place to get ice cream.

16. Spending time in Flagstaff.

Cons about AZ in June

1. Sewer roaches. Although I must admit I haven’t seen that many, thank God.

2. The possibility of scorpions in the house.

3. Swoobies. That’s slang for “sweaty boobies” for those who don’t know. While I’d love to take credit for this fabulous wordsmithing, I must give credit to my friend Liz for using it. Unfortunately, it’s so hot here that you get swoobies on your way out the door.

4. It’s hotter than shit. Which I said to my grandmother today right before I took her home today and we were both melting in the blasted car. It made her laugh pretty hard, so chalk one up for swearing in front of grandma. She agreed, by the way.

5. Everything is brown. Everything. Landscaping, walls, houses, buildings, pool decking, dirt, sand, horizon, you name it. Life here is beige.

6. Burning your feet if you forget to wear shoes outside. Think it’ll take you “just a second” to get your mail so you forgo the shoes? Fine. Sign up for some foot skin grafts after you hobble back to the house.

7. Hectic pace to life.

8. No farmstands.

9. No rain. I’ve been here 10 days and not only has there not been even one tiny drop of rain, but there are also no clouds in the sky and no forecast for rain anytime soon.

10. It’s hotter than shit. Have I mentioned that yet?

11. Because it’s so warm here, my morning coffee has lost it’s appeal. I’m back to craving iced tea instead, which is no doubt much better for my arse.

12. Dry skin. If the heat wasn’t enough to suck the moisture right from your pores, adding pool chlorine to the mix nails the coffin shut. I’m pretty sure that as we walk we leave a trail of human shaped skin carcasses behind us.

13. Sunburn. Not that you can’t get sunburned in MA, but you usually don’t get one walking to the car or getting the newspaper from the driveway.

14. Swarse. Or swotch. Take your pick. Similar to sweaty boobies, but with your southern hemisphere. This usually causes your underwear to stick to places it’s not supposed to stick to.

15. It’s not home. Even though I fully realize that when I get home the novelty of it will wear off about 5 hours after walking through the door and I’ll be back to missing my family.

There you have it ladies and gentlemen. An little pro and con action for those who may be considering relocating to this fabulously sunny state. Sure you can get ice cream on almost every block, but you’ll pay in swoobies and swotch. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Excuses

2010-06-15T13:25:00.001-04:00

It’s currently 12:30 p.m. I have exactly one hour to write this blog before I pick up my children from school and our dear neighbor drives us to the airport to catch our 4:45 flight to Phoenix. That is of course, if my youngest stays glued to the TV and doesn’t need anything, whine, or have to pee while I write this. I figure I owe you some explanation of why I dropped off the planet, but if you’re even half as mediocre as me and you have children nearing the end of school, you probably haven’t had time to read my blog anyway. We’ve almost hit the finish line for the end of the year dash, and quite honestly, I’m out of breath.

Top 10 Reasons I Haven’t Blogged Lately

10. I volunteered at Field Day.

Field Day is an enormous event that includes the entire 3^rd, 4^th, and 5^th grade participating in events from field sports to face painting, free lemonade slushes, and bouncy obstacle courses. Parent Volunteers (read parents trying to get in their “school time” with the kids before school lets out) run and organize all the events. I traded a friend for face painting, which I have to say, I’m fairly good at, assuming that you have good paints to work with. Which I didn’t. I think it may have been easier to use Elmers glue, food coloring, and a stick than the paints I was given, but whatever. Next time I’ll just wear a shirt that says, “I don’t suck, the paints do.” Highlights from the event: It was really cold. I had my youngest with me in a tiny tank top and no sweatshirt. Thankfully, due to the amount of crap in our van, someone left a blanket. My youngest was no longer purple, but I was. Another interesting point is that there was one bathroom with two stalls. There were approximately 250 little girls sucking down lemonade slushes like water in the Sahara, and get this…NO LINE in the bathroom. Not one little girl was waiting to go pee. That has to be a statistical anomaly and made me realize I need to frequent events with more young children, and less with grown women who have bladder incontinence. In fact, the only person I passed on my way out was, you guessed it, another mom. Freaky.

9. I had to take my daughter to Karate later that evening and instead of blogging in the car like I occasionally do I, I worked on an essay for an on line class I’m taking.

8. I’m three lessons and four revisions behind in my essay class.

(I’m currently fighting with my three year old because she sniffed out my carbon dioxide like a mosquito and is now BOTHERING ME. Gotta get to 10, gotta get to 10….)

7. I took three kids and walked in the Relay for Life in Mansfield, MA.

This is the third year I’ve walked with a group called “Playgroup Pals,” in the Relay for Life to raise funds for the American Cancer Society. Oddly enough, this group of women had a playgroup many years ago when our children were small and we had time to do fun things, like play together. Our team raised over $5300 (I think) which is a pretty good job all in all. The kids even walked thanks to one of the moms and her idea to use bracelent reinforcements, with the kids earning one plastic foot charm for each lap walked. The two kids who walked the most laps could win a $10 gift certificate to Target. You have never seen my children walk harder and faster than trying to earn 10 bucks to Target. Neither ended up winning, but a good time was had by all. We made it home around 11 p.m. and

my calves and thighs have ached ever since. I’m pretty sure that means I’m out of shape or something.

6. I’ve been trying to prep the garden for my trip.

There are sooo many things to do with that garden, namely pull weeds and stake the peas and tomatoes, thin the corn and green beans and fill in the potato patch. Don’t you worry, I’ve left a long to-do list for my husband so that when he returns from Phoenix and has three weeks all to himself, he doesn’t get lonely or bored because of all the chores I’ve kindly asked him to do. In fact, even this morning I was out in the garden begging the food not to die while I’m gone. Pretty, pretty please.

5. I’ve been making a garden to-do list for my husband while I’m gone.

It’s taken quite a bit of time. It’s a long list.

4. My husband and I got a babysitter and actually went out on a date.

This was to celebrate his new job, even though he’s going on week four. The girl? Young woman? that used to babysit for us is now back from college so she came to sit for the kids while hubby and I drove out to Sudbury and ate at Bullfinches. Always great food, great drinks, great service. Not inexpensive, but worth the occasional splurge. It’s also always a good idea to have a date night and pay for a babysitter right before you go on a long vacation, have many things to do, and plan on forking over a pretty penny for the next four weeks. We so live on the edge.

3. I’ve been cleaning the house like I’m never coming back to it.

While I’m excited about our trip to Phoenix, one thing has me a little stressed. We have company coming to stay with us a day before I get back with the kids. Yep, that’s right, my husband will now have to make sure the house is clean and the toilet isn’t pee speckled when they arrive. I’ve done my best to make sure the guest room and downstairs are good to go, but there will be last minute things he’ll still have to do: a basic dusting and making sure that the little spiders that live in all corners of our house have been booted out. The sheets are clean. The floors are clean (at least in the guest room). Don’t worry, I’ve left a list of household to-do chores for my better half as well. The good news is that our guests are very gracious people and will not judge us based on how our house looks (or at least that I’ll ever find out about) but still, you hope to make a good impression, if for no other reason than maybe two more people will think you don’t live in filth and squalor. It’s an illusion, I know. But don’t tell them.

2. I’ve been making a to-do list of household chores for my husband.

1. I’ve been doing laundry for five days and there is still crap in the hampers.

The last time I washed this many loads of laundry in consecutive cycles was when we were dealing with the “L” word. I can’t even type it outloud, lest those little buggars hear me and attach themselves to my children’s heads again. I’ve washed clothes. I’ve washed bedding. I’ve changed sheets, because I can’t remember the last time I changed the sheets and four weeks seems like a long time to let those delicious smells lay in the beds. I’ve washed jackets and scarves that go in the attic, I’ve washed towels and bath mats and blankets. In addition to all the washing, I packed the suitcases with all the clean clothes. I mention this because I had actually contemplated packing dirty clothes and just washing them when I got to my parent’s house, but that felt a little user-ish. Not that I’m above using my parents occasionally, but not right at the beginning of the trip. I’ll give it a couple days.

It’s 1:17 now and my daughter has arrived (again) to climb on my back while I finish this up. It’s my intention to blog while I’m on vacation, but it probably won’t be every day and maybe not even every other day. But I’ll still be here so tune in occasionally to see how my trip is going. Triple digit heat and three kids for four weeks should provide me with lots to talk about.

Potty Paper Pile

2010-06-09T22:00:00.002-04:00

This is what I found in the bathroom last night after I came home from a meeting. It’s an innovative new take on leaving the toilet paper off the roll. Normally, I’d find the brand new roll sitting behind the pot, next to the pot, or on the floor in front of the pot. But in all of those cases the toilet paper was still attached to the cardboard tube.

Unrolling the toilet paper from the tube and leaving in it a big pile within stretching distance of the toilet is creative. I hadn’t thought of this. While unsightly and inviting of germs, hair, and bits of debris that live on our floor, reaching out to grab some from the pile on the floor is a lot easier. I’m guessing that it’s my three-year old who decided to make modern art out of butt-tissue, because if it’s anyone else, I need to have a serious talk with him or her.

Sadly, I did not re-roll the toilet paper onto the tube. It’s still sitting in the pile on the floor, although the pile is shrinking a little with each visit. I have tried to have the talk with my youngest about how much toilet paper is appropriate to use for wiping. I don’t think much in sinking in.

I remember my mother having the same talk with me. Many, many years ago.

“Rachie. You are using too much toilet paper. You do NOT need to use THIS much to wipe your little bo-bo. (Bo-bo was my mother’s word for our private area, and generally bo-bo worked unless you were having trouble with your bo-bo and needed to clarify the 'front bo-bo' or 'back bo-bo.) If you go pee-pee you only need two squares.”

“But what if I go poop?” I remember asking.

“Then you can use a little more,” she conceded. “But you girls are wasting toilet paper because you’re scared of getting a little pee or poop on your fingers.”

Well, duh, mom. Pee and poop on your fingers is just gross when you're a kid.

And two squares? Was there some scientific reasoning that helped come up with that number? Was three way too many and one simply too difficult to hold onto? I know we lived paycheck to paycheck, but were we rationing the butt paper too?

As fate would have it, in a beautifully illustrated case of what comes around goes around, I’m now having the same discussion with my little one. While she is extremely adept and using the toilet ALL BY HERSELF, she is also quite skilled at filling the toilet with mounds and mounds of tissue. I've come in after she's finished, to find a toilet bowl with no water, but a white soggy mass overtaking the bowl. Kind of how the kids cereal looks in the morning after they've left it to go to school. No milk, only a bowl of soggy mush. With trepidation I flush while holding the plunger just in case the water level should start to rise threatening my safety on the floor. Like tonight. After I flushed and the bowl overflowed again. I hate to admit this happens quite often at our house. I called for my husband to come and fix the issue. This is one of those times it really pays off to have a husband. The other bit of good news is that the large pile of toilet paper on the floor helped soak up some of the sewage water. Mmmmm. Brownies, anyone?

I did illustrate how many squares Child C was supposed to use to wipe her bo-bo. We counted them together. One. Two. Three. Four. I'm doubling my mother's offer and letting her have four squares to wipe with .

I don’t want her getting pee on her fingers.

Sticking it to my garden

2010-06-07T21:27:00.001-04:00

This isn't the brand I used. But it is organic.

One of my many, many faults is that not only am I stubborn, but I can also be spiteful. Just a little. But don’t talk to my husband about this because I’m betting he’d be pushing that level more towards “completely.”

I’m going to blame this on my therapist from some years back, who did such a good job convincing me not to be a door mat, he pushed me to not only stick up for myself, but also to stick it to them. Them being whoever is annoying me or angering me at the time. Maybe he didn't really teach me that per se; maybe it was just one tiny side effect of very effective counseling. Whatever. It’s a terrible cross to carry, truly it is.

But carry this cross I do, because as any good Catholic knows, life is not worth living unless you have many, many crosses to carry, and lots and lots of baggage to go with it. Not only does this give you things to write about, but also a reason to get up in the morning just to prove to people for the rest of the day that you don’t suck. That, and the priests need someone to talk with every Saturday at 4 p.m. during confession.

The latest root of my anger is my garden.

A few days back I walked out to check on the status of my organic seedling transplants, only to discover that three more tomato plants died. Two out of 20 corn seeds came up. Three of my 15 Italian beans sprouted, and are currently being eaten by an evil chipmunk. All my cucumbers died, and one of my healthy looking pickling cuckes just ate it as well. This on top of the devil ants that are consuming an entire bed, pushed me to the max.

I’m pissed. I’ve never lost so many plants before, for reasons I cannot explain. What’s a spiteful gardener to do?

I understand that a garden isn’t a live being, capable of plotting growing failure just to push my buttons, but that’s how it feels to irrational people like myself. That my garden is out to get me. Thumb it’s leaf at me and snicker as if to say, “Oh, yeah? You thought you were doing something right? Ha! Looks like you’ll be spending twice the money at the farmer’s market this summer, cackle, cackle, cackle. Organic-shmanic.”

Well, it just so happens that I have saved all my extra seeds from last year, CONVENTIONAL seeds purchased at Ocean State Job Lot for about a buck each. Not the fancy pants organic seeds I got sucked into buying this year because the catalog was shiny and colorful and full of optimistic potential. I also payed a visit to my local nursery and purchased four different types of tomato plants, already strong and tall. I went home and grabbed those seedy-low-class-unused packages, my new transplants, and headed to my garden. Come hell or high water, I’m going to get something to grow.

In one of my empty beds I planted an entire package of romanesco cauliflower. 8 inches apart in rows 3 feet apart like they suggested? Hell no. In three rows, right next to each other, so the seeds don’t get lonely. And crammed in next to that I planted an entire package of brussel sprouts. Close together. Willy nilly.

I headed over to the defunct corn that never surfaced and reseeded the entire bed with my cheap-ass corn seeds from the bump-and-dent-store. Three to a hole, so I can thin them as they grow? Absolutely not. I stuck five or six corn in every single dirt pocket. I figure at my rate of losing things this year, if one comes up from each plant, I’m doing well.

I also planted an entire package of green beans, four to a hole; two rows of spinach seeds, two rows of butter lettuce, and also a row of romaine starters, just to be pissy. As luck would have it, yesterday I went to check on the garden, and some creature has already dug up some of my lettuce seeds. Looks like the garden is going to be pissy right back.

I’m curious how my organic seeds and plants will feel growing next to such low-life genetically modified (no doubt) seeds. I’m thinking that socio-economically mixing the seeds and plants is probably a really good thing, and may encourage those hoity-toity organic ones to start producing something, if just to be competitive and snarky. Maybe the organic seeds smelled the mediocre middle-class status on my hands and refuse to grow just to put me back in my place. Who am I to require such non-tainted, pure food? Please.

Right now it’s the waiting game. By the time I leave for Arizona in a week, those seedling should have germinated, and hopefully will be peeking their little red necks, excuse me, green necks out of the soil. I’m curious if I’ll have better luck with conventional seeds versus the organic…you know how hearty salt-of-the-earth things are. And if that’s the case, if my conventional seeds grow like weeds and provide me pesticide free food all summer, while my organic seed lay on their garden beds complaining how hot it is, while pooping out one or two things to eat, I know what I’m purchasing next year.

Mediocre seeds and plants. Ones that sing the same song I do.

All Monkeys are Not Created Equal

2010-06-05T14:49:00.001-04:00

It’s really true that the last kid gets the short end of the stick when it comes to….well, almost everything. Our first born children get the best of us, the middle children get the rest of us, and the last children get what’s left of us. And usually, it ain’t much.

Child C’s birthday (as in A, B, C is my third) was last week and we are celebrating the big day tomorrow. I did not send out cute Smilebox cards with music-I sent out a generic email invite. I did not give people 4 weeks notice-I gave them about two. I am not having it at a park, indoor gym, or Chucky Cheese-we are having it in the back yard if it doesn’t rain. Depending upon how clean the house gets by tomorrow, we may have it outside even if it does rain.

To add insult to injury, Child C has never had a party with kids before. Last year doesn’t really count because I’m quite sure she doesn’t remember it, and the kids who came were the same ones who are at my house almost everyday and very often the weekends. Same ol’ same ol’. Last week on her actual birthday we didn’t even have a cake. We wished her happy birthday a lot, but that’s about it. Sadly, my goal for tomorrow’s birthday is get ‘em in, feed ‘em cake, and move ‘em out. Break out the slip n’ slide, some water balls, two hours start to finish, done.

It’s terrible I know. I recall very fondly my son’s three-year birthday when I invited the entire family to a huge park in Chandler, Arizona, everything themed Elmo, replete with a huge Elmo shaped cake I baked from scratch, including the red-dyed coconut I used to make Elmo look hairy. I’m old now. I just don’t have that kind of energy (or time) anymore. I suck, suck, suck.

And though I suck, I’m not particularly mad at myself, because I’m reasoning that she’s only three and the chances of her remembering her mediocre birthday party are slim. I could be wrong about this, but fortunately for me I won’t find out if this damages her for at least 10 or so years. And by that time you can be damn sure I won’t remember a thing about this party. By then I can play the senility card.

But something is bothering me quite a lot. The girl loves Curious George, so at the very least I wanted to have a few things that represented the darling monkey; plates, ineffective cute napkins, maybe a cheapy plastic table covering. Curious George is pretty popular so I’m thinking it shouldn’t be too hard.

Well, Michael’s craft store has nothing George. Nothing monkey. Nothing even banana. Besides getting some frosting bags, frosting tips, and a tube of black icing, the entire trip was a bust.

I know that if I headed to iParty I could find an entire section devoted to Curious George, with little plastic tumblers, party favors, monkey masks, and maybe even some banana flavored candy. Artificial banana flavor, yummm.

But iParty is a 15-minute drive from my house and in the course of the last few days, I did not have the time to spare. At all. I headed to Target to get what I could, crossing my fingers that some corporate buyer also had a child who adores George.

Well, guess what. No George. No banana stuff either. But wait! They do have some monkey things but nothing resembling the cuteness of the curious one.

This is that creepy looking Paul Franco monkey design that seems to be all the rage these days. This is a George monkey knock off. I’m thrown back to my childhood when my mother forced me to wear Lee brand jeans instead of Levi’s because they were cheaper, and they “look just the same.” No one wore Lee jeans. Everyone wore Levi’s. Just because they both use denim doesn’t make them interchangeable. Turns out, a monkey isn’t just a monkey either.

What bothers me most about the Target monkey—and I’d hold onto your seats because I’m going to get a little inappropriate—is that the mouth really bothers me.

A lot. It’s just too…vaginal for me. Labial if you will. I know Freud would have a field day psychoanalyzing why I must turn that stupid monkey’s mouth into a vagina, but I’ve said it. It’s clearly the same part of me that thinks Muno looks like a big, bumpy, one-eyed dildo. Judge me if you will.

I know Child C will not think that anything is wrong with knock-off monkey, but it bothers me that over 10 little children are going to be eating chocolate cake off labial-monkey faces. It’s just gross. And even though I have a problem with this monkey face, do you think it encourages me to get my ass in the van and drive the 15 extra minutes to get REAL Curious George monkey paraphernalia?

Of course not. Because I do not have the time. Because she is my third child and this is what’s left of me. So tomorrow while the kids are inhaling cake off inappropriate plates and wiping their little innocent mouths with primate porn, I’ll just have to grin and bear it. I suppose it could be worse. That funky monkey could be eating a banana.

Blogathon Brilliance: Things I've learned

2010-06-03T16:15:00.000-04:00

Well, two days after the blogathon is over, and I’ve finally had time to process what I learned and have given my fingers a break. And my mind. My creative mind was becoming soggy cereal mush trying to come up with things to write about. Yes, even when I wrote about nothing. That takes energy too.

During the blogathon I tried to visit all the bloggers who were participating in the ‘thon, and I’ve almost made it. I’ve promised myself that I’m going to get to each one. Even if the blogathon is over.

But there are many lessons to be learned from this experience, little nuggets of take away wisdom that helps people like me gain perspective about my own blog, effort, writing skills, et al. And after which I have determined: I am appropriately mediocre. I’m right there in the middle. I’ve determined the middle place is a good place to be. So- things I’ve learned:

There are people out there who have fabulously designed blogs.

Reading many other blogs is a little like window shopping: you get to admire all the goods and then go home and try to replicate them yourself. I now know there are many different places to get blog designs, like The Cutest Blog on the Block, and many bloggers who are just really good at designing their own stuff. I love the look of Blogging About Boys, and Parenting By Trial and Error. Very homey and scrapbook-y, which I find darling. I also ran across Western Gardeners.com, which has to be one the most beautiful sites I’ve ever seen. From a design perspective, it’s easy to use, the photos and graphics aid the reader and don’t hinder it, and everything from the colors to the fonts are cohesive. Looking at these beautiful blogs and then going to visit my own, leaves me feeling a little bit like I’m wearing baggy, faded, plain, straight-cut jeans, while those around me are sporting low waisted, butt-affirming, boot-cut, rhinestone studded, embroidered pockets, haute couture denim, but my content is good, so I’ll focus on that. I can always get butt-affirming designs later.

There are blogs on just about anything. And everything.

One of the things that us bloggers fear, is not having a community with whom to share our passion. Having no readers feels like failure, and makes you ask the question about whether falling trees make a sound in the forest if no one is around to hear it. But blogging classes (and famous bloggers as well) stand by the rule that to be successful, you must blog about what you love. The readers will find you. Three blogs I found interesting and unique (and just go to show you that you can find a blog on just about everything) are: The Boom Boom Room, a blog about folk music and the hippie generation, that also include some fabulous clips of old tv commercials; About English Idioms, a blog dedicated to the history of idioms and why we’ve come to coin terms like “Takes the Cake,” or “The Cat’s Meow.” And lastly, there’s even a blog for people who’d like more information on how to get stoned correctly, and possibly even make money by selling marijuana to people who medically need it, on the blog Stonerprenuer.com. Her mission statement reads, “Do you want to be a healthier, happier, more productive stoner? You’ve come to the right place. Let me show you how…” Oddly enough, Sami (admittedly) had trouble blogging every day in May, mainly because she is “extremely forgetful” and subscribes to the “less is more” view of communication (which includes blogging), and she’s not going to “beat herself up about it.” (All those quotes are her words, not mine.) I’m thinking that maybe she should take the “more productive stoner” line out of her mission statement and hit the hash pipe again. But like I said, there’s truly a blog out there for everyone.

I really like the three column layout and need to try and put that into my site.

Another thing I discovered is that I really like the three-column layout for blogs. I’m liking Blog Salad and Lost in the View, the latter actually being a blogspot blog. Which means it’s possible for me to do this, event though Heather warned me that it took her “4 hours and 10 beers” to figure it out. It’s always bothered me that my blog has a ton of wasted space in the sidebars, which makes my blogs run super long (not that I tend to ramble on about things) forcing people to scroll to read my stuff. I’d also like to include more links, and other interesting things in that wasted space, eventually even (possibly) trying to monetize my blog. Could you imagine making like, $5.32 cents a month just because people clicked through to see advertising? That’s one free latte. Or one day of late-fees for my library books. Or five things from the dollar store, which keeps my kids busy for 30 minutes while they peruse the crappy, chemical-laden products. Regardless, I must get myself three-columns.

Everyone has days when they are too tired-so we repost, ask questions, and link like crazy.

At the beginning of the blogathon, Michelle Rafter, host and organizer of this fabulous event, blogged about “10 Sure Cures for Blogger Burnout,” which include, reposting old blogs, having people guest post, and also using photos and You Tube clips as postings for a day. I hated having to post lame blogs about how tired I was or how I didn’t have anything to say, but that’s honestly how those days were. Even pro-blogger and parenting author Jen Singer has days when she just can’t get out a long blog. So you can imagine how happy I was to read her post entitled, “I Got Nothin.” Yeah Jen! Thank you for having nothing. If for no other reason than I feel better about myself when I have nothing. During this thon I used all the aforementioned tricks and they can be lifesavers. I’m always left wondering though, would people rather read my blogs about nothing, than nothing itself?

There are people who make me laugh. Out Loud.

Probably the best thing about this whole blogathon, was that I found my alter ego living in Ohio and blogging at Two Hands and a Roadmap. I love that she’s slightly embarrassed of living in the town known for it’s Polka Hall of Fame, and that she swears more than me in print. I swear plenty in person but not as often in print, and Tara swears plenty in the written word. And she’s funny. She hides cookies in the oatmeal container in her freezer. Her husband also does not read her blog. It’s truly freaky how similar I feel we are. And her pic on Facebook makes her look a little edgy and neurotic. I love that even more. She also has a gift for being really funny within a really short blog post, which I need to learn to do. Perhaps writing a thesis-length blog posting every time is not necessary, and I could swear a couple times and get the same effect. I’ll have to practice being short. To the point. Concise. Without losing the funny. Tara does this brilliantly. Thanks Tara!

All in all, it’s been a great month. Sure there were other teeny, tiny bits of blogging information that I picked up, like the differences between Wordpress and Blogger; the importance of having your very own domain name, and the necessity of marketing and cross linking yourself between Twitter, Facebook, your blog, your email, your personal website, Digg, and Stumble, which for the most part, wafted over my head like a thick, heavy, breeze on humid July afternoon, leaving me feeling sticky and confused. Everything in it's time. The biggest lesson for me was that making blogging a priority makes all the difference. Taking the time every day to write a post has done wonders for my dedication and self-discipline. I’ve gotten a lot of feedback from readers and friends who like reading the posts everyday, and are actually tuning in pretty regularly. Now all I need to do is transfer that skill set over into other areas of my life: writing my novel, cleaning the house, staying organized, and making dinner to name a few. And speaking of the latter, the kids need to eat. Dangit.

Sunrise, Sunset

2010-05-31T22:54:00.005-04:00

Photo by Debi Stone: Deb's Creative Images

Yesterday was my baby’s third birthday. I suppose that officially classifies her as toddler now, although since she’s my last, I’ll always consider her the baby. Which she’ll hate me for at some point no doubt.

I always kind of balk when people talk about enjoying every minute of the tiny years because "they grow up so fast." I can tell you that there are times when each day feels like a damned eternity.

But the adage is right. It does go by fast. If I close my eyes I can remember being pregnant with her (without the cervical pressure of course), remember bringing her home from the hospital, remember her big, blue eyes, and pillow cheeks. I also can remember all the stress, the fear, and worry that accompanied my pregnancy.

We had just relocated back to the East Coast and had moved into our house in August of 2006. My husband was in Texas on a business trip and I was home with our 7 and 5 year olds. I couldn’t even tell you what made me think to take a pregnancy test…I may have been late—but more likely I was moody, miserable (even more so than normal if you can imagine that) and looking for a reason why I might be irrational. Even I know when I’ve maxed my limits.

I’m not one of those women who planned all her pregnancies with the lunar calendar, kindergarten entrance dates, and how old they’d be on their soccer team, in mind. My life seemed to mimic the pre-birth control era, where my responses to the news of each pregnancy was, “Oh Shit!” “Are You Kidding?” and “What??” respectively. The good news is that by the second and third kid I was no longer swearing, and the last time I didn’t cry. I’d say overall things improved.

But I came across a journal entry I wrote right after I found out I was going to have our youngest daughter. Three years ago, pre-baby, this is what I wrote (on the computer of course).

October 9, 2006

I am without words and yet words are flying through my brain; jammed, cluttered trying to all get out the same door and finding themselves stuck. I should have known that as soon as I had my life planned out and finally going in the direction that I WANTED, that life would throw me another little curve ball and I would again be reminded that it is, in fact,

Not about me.

Damn.

Terrified. Excited. Ashamed to be excited, actually. Mostly terrified. I don’t really feel all that confident about the job I’m doing with the two I have, let alone add a third to the mix. And what of my neurosis? What about the mood swings, the depression and the anger… all of that could come back now, again.

Looking around, I’ll have to baby proof everything once more. All those cute picture frames and magazines I left low will have to be put in a box for the attic—for years—and I’m back to scrubbing food off the walls and out of hair and cleaning puke and diapers. Up all night again, no sleep, you know how bad I am with no sleep, no sleep for a long, long, time.

And all my worries are back. The What If’s are already popping into my head, as if they knew they would be needed soon. Apparently they don’t go away, they just lie dormant in your head until you’re vulnerable again. Now I’m fighting them off with the bat of reason, of age, of experience, but those What If’s are formidable. No amount of logic will rid me of their grip.

How difficult it is for me to understand that the perfect life I live in my head, is not the perfect life I am meant to lead. The life in my head always works out so well. It always has a good ending, a sunny day, a fresh ripe crop of sweet raspberries, a published story in the end. That utopia is filled with cookie dough steam, creative crafts at the table, a constant pleasant smile for my children, a patient response to life’s complexities. The life I am meant to lead sometimes feels like the antithesis to this perfection. It’s messy and difficult. It’s filled with exasperation and exhaustion. There always seems to be a hill to climb, and just when I reach the apex and think my climb is over, there is another fucking hill looming before me. Bowels, allergies, rashes, stomach aches and I-don’t-knows seem to fill most of my days.

I just got to where I wanted to be. Where I thought I would stay. Where I thought God wanted me. Where I thought my dreams finally merged with my reality.

Did they? I’m here again…a place I didn’t think I’d be. Truth is, I don’t really know how to feel about it. I only know that at no time, did this outcome play out in my head.

Three years later, I appreciate this perspective for the fear it revealed, the honesty I felt at being scared I was going to mess up yet another kid. And how’s it been so far? You ask. Did any of those fears come true?

Well, yes and no. I did not experience the same depression, mood wings, and general life-hatred with baby #3. This was perhaps my largest fear of all, and it turns out that I handled things this time around rather well, but it’s better not to ask my other two kids or husband, just in case they disagree with me. My other two children were older this go-round, I was only needing to take care of one baby, and though I didn’t have any of my family here for support, I did have a great network of friends from when we lived in Massachusetts previously. And while I may still be screwing up my kids (and giving many therapists job security), after 11 years of watching other people with their kids, I’m not any worse than many parents I see around me. I’m not perfect, but I’m not on the CPS call list, so I figure mediocre is a good place to be.

I did go through the phase of cleaning up puke, changing the heinous diapers, and honestly, I’m still cleaning food off the walls and scraping it up from the floors, but I think that’s mostly my other children and my husband. That’s simply a life sentence.

But there are a few things I can tell you with absolute certainty—with the clarity that comes from hindsight.

She’s perfect in every way, even if she throws a mean tantrum.

She makes me laugh everyday, especially when she pouts or tilts her head when she wants something.

Like all my other children, she came along at exactly the right time. Even if it wasn’t the right time in my head.

She’s the best gift I never knew I always wanted.

Happy third birthday baby girl.

And thank you Lord, for all my three perfect presents.

Even when they make me need that wine you're so famous for.

I'm Tired and This is What You're Getting

2010-05-30T21:57:00.000-04:00

Happy Memorial Day! I've been to church, the grocery store, two barbeques, had one Dark and Stormy and one beer, three plates of food, another plate of dessert, and I'm tired. Now you know how my kids feel when I'm exhausted: neglected. Ignored. Starved for attention. I'll tell you what I tell them, "Suck it up. Tomorrow will be a brand new day." One kid is sleeping, one kid is playing video games, and one kid is still down the street at the neighbors house with my husband. I probably need to call down there to make sure mosquitoes haven't carried her off. Or that she hasn't gotten eaten by a fisher cat (because I saw one in our backyard the other morning, so I know they're out there.) But I'm tired and I don't have the energy to make sure she's not being chewed up by various insects or mammals. I don't have a blog planned, and I just spent over 30 minutes on You Tube looking for a funny clip to share with you, but didn't find anything worth posting here. I thought about reposting another blog, but I've done that a couple times this month and I don't want to do it again. Tomorrow is that last day of the blogathon so I can't give up now, so this is the blog I'm posting for tonight. I'm going to bed now. Did I mention I'm tired?

But here's a shout out to all the people in our military and all the people who served out Country at some point: Thank You. Thank you a million times for all you do and have done for our country.