My Only New Year's Resolution

This year I’m only making one New Year’s Resolution. Broad enough that many things could count toward its progress, yet vague enough that if I miss the mark in some areas, I won’t feel like I’ve failed. My goal for 2012 is simple really;

Live Life On Purpose.

What kind of ridiculous 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 my life on accident. But no longer.

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

Albert Einstein said it best when he said that, Insanity was doing 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’ve been given another chance to get it right. The good news is that everyday I wake 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 better when I go for my walks which clear my mind and help me put things into perspective. I’m going to go walking as much as possible, even when it’s snowing and freezing and I’m swearing under my breath about how damned cold it is. Normally I would stay in bed and relish my warm covers. But now I’m going to pull my sorry ass up, blindly yank on four layers of clothing, and go walking. On Purpose.

I LOVE posting my writing here on this blog, but tend to shelve this desire when life gets busy or stressful. But writing actually frees me, see, and even if I’m tired or stressed, maybe by writing and actually posting, 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 a decision to write. On Purpose.

2011 also made me realize that for far too long I’ve given the reigns of my life to the wrong people. There I’d sit in the passenger seat of my life and order the drivers around, telling them which way to go, yelling when they’d go too fast or when they’d fly by the patch of flowers I wanted to stop 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 and oiling my own leather saddle. It’s taken me a long time to find that joyous part of me again. I’m going to live each day with the joy and excitement I’ve shuttered for years because other people wouldn’t be joyful and excited with me. Or out of fear that they’d think I was crazy. Stupid. So what? So what if I’m the only person dancing in my living room to Lady Gaga while wearing my fuzzy, drawstring pants and sporting morning bed head? So what if no one laughs at my jokes, or acts silly or goofy with me? This year I am resurrecting my authentic 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 more patient. When faced with a decision I’m simply going to ask myself, “What have I done in the past? Did I get the result that I wanted? Did my old actions/behaviors bring me joy? Is that what the REAL me would have done?” And based on those answers, I may make a different 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 Usual Run of Things. Shocking, I know.

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.

Life Lesson Cont’d

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.

Peaks and Potholes: Being 40 with a Sexual Catch-22

I recently celebrated my 40th birthday. I was not worried about turning the big 4-0 as I have never really been that concerned about my age. Through the years I have not been overly anxious about my changing face (what are a few wrinkles?), my sagging skin (so I am not as firm as I used to be), my grey hair (that’s what a salon is for), or my post baby body (which is a whole other blog all together). I am young at heart, still love to have fun and I basically feel like I am in my twenties. I can manage the slight aches (that is what Motrin is for) and the rising blood pressure (fine, I will exercise more), and the increase in doctors appointments for myself (seriously, a mammogram EVERY year?). Overall I am thinking this aging thing is not so bad.

I have been married to Ted for almost 12 years (which is probably encouraging my rising blood pressure). We have 4 children, 8 pets, 2 full time jobs and a house that is never clean enough. We have our struggles and certainly our bad moments, but we are lucky to be a couple who truly like and enjoy each other’s company. Don’t get me wrong, there are many days I would happily throw him off the roof, but still, he is my favorite person on earth. Among this crazy life we have traversed the ups and downs of an intimate relationship, but generally our life between the sheets has been satisfying for both of us, every time (a little shout out of appreciation there to my darling husband for all his efforts). I was cruising happily along through the years (okay, mostly happy), with my husband, my family, my friends, and my house. Unfortunately my hormones had other plans, big plans, just for me. 

As I approached and have now reached my 4th decade of life I have finally hit my sexual peak. What used to take my body half an hour to achieve between the sheets is easily achieved in mere minutes (if that) and is generally more intense and pleasurable. I even have a full appreciation for that elusive myth of “multiple” achievements at one time (maybe there is a GOD). I have heard it before: men peak in their early 20’s and for women it’s a bit later. For me it was the second trimester of each of my pregnancies (thank you hormones!) and around 38 1/2 years old. Finally, something to REALLY appreciate as I age. 

Everything was bumping along smoothly until my hormones drove me straight into a pothole in October of 2009, when I actually hit the big 4-0. Literally in a weekend I changed from being a sex goddess of happiness (my husband is rolling his eyes now, but I can dream) to a raving bitch on a roller coaster of moodiness, cramping and all out grouchiness. The hormones of my 40-year old body are strikingly similar to my pregnancy hormones, and I cringe just remembering any one of the many incidents during those combined 40 months of fun. On top of my delightful personality change, my body (of which I have been oh so proud) began to betray me as well. My cycle changed and the period I have been able to set my watch by for over 25 years is suddenly all out of whack. The PMS and need for feminine hygiene products lasts 3-4 weeks at a time. No more of the simple five day period, oh no, now it is more like there are only 5 days in a month without it!!! The general result of this is that I am hiding Tampax in every spot imaginable and running to the bathroom like a 15-year old girl. Because my hormones are so out of control, I am in a constant state of PMS. Not just your run of the mill, might-be-a-bit-moody-for-a-day-or-two, but all out psycho-bitch PMS. Oh, excellent! 

While I am a lunatic, I am able to control the rollercoaster of my quickly shifting moods at work, with my friends, and (mostly) with the children. The only person with whom I let my crazy flag fly is my husband. It just so happens he is also the only person I am intimate with. (And he with me, right? Right!) My husband is the type of guy for whom being intimate  is not just about his body, but also about his head. He is always most enthusiastic when we are emotionally connected. He finds romance coupled with intimacy very erotic.  I don’t disagree with this. I am happy to feel the power of our love rush through my head, but currently I’m much more interested in scratching the itch. “Yes, I know I have bitched at you all weekend. Now shut up and take your clothes off!”

This irony of my responsive body and its inevitable hormonal betrayal, reminds me of when I had given birth to our first baby. A couple of days had gone by and my milk had come in. My chest was huge. I mean, I had porn star, rock hard, gorgeously enormous boobs. However, they were too tender to touch and the nipples were not quite what they used to be due to the cracking and bleeding, and  my husband learned it is a cruel, cruel world. Well, here we are again. Suddenly my body is very responsive to his every touch and I would be happy to engage in an afternoon delight every day (seriously honey, 3 of them are at school and the baby is asleep…we have at least a half an hour!). However, I am so crabby he is in fear of getting too close as he is not 100% sure that I’m not part black widow. As a result, he does not want to be intimate with me, which pisses me off, makes me even more crabby (if you can believe it), which in turn makes him  want to be intimate with me even less. And the cycle continues.  

I understand how difficult I can be to live with, truly I do. I work really hard to control it and remain calm, even pleasant. I have learned that my husband does not find it sexy when I eat cookie dough for dinner. If I avoid cleaning the house and all of my daily motherly responsibilities so I can beat another level of Wii: Super Mario Brothers or watch a four-hour marathon of Grey’s Anatomy, Ted does not see this as attractive or cute. He does not find it a turn on to come home and discover that my Facebook status reads something like, “I am unfit for human company,” (as it did recently). I don’t really see why that should diminish his desire to have lots of fun,  fast sex with me. I mean, orgasms feel really good, it would be worth it!

My mother tells me she experienced peri-menopause  from age 40 to 50, and it appears my system is acting suspiciously as hers did. I have not yet mentioned that to Ted though, as our marriage barely survived the four pregnancies. By my calculations, 10 years of this would be 120 months of these rogue hormones, and I am pretty sure my husband may commit a felony to ensure he’d be incarcerated for the next decade. 

Fortunately, at this point in our life together I am not pregnant. I can take medicine or maybe ask for an endometrial ablation (that’s right, I would prefer to sear the crap out of my uterine lining with boiling hot water than continue on this hormonal marathon). I am done with my uterus and I would be quite happy to have it stop all its shedding. The words barren, dried out, and empty have never sounded so good and they cheer me slightly as I dream about returning to my sexual peak of 38 1/2 and the cheery, dynamic housewife that I was—leaving this cranky, miserable bitch behind.

Blogathon Bloggers- The First 60

Whew. Day two of the blogathon and I wanted to give you all a sampling of the blogathon bloggers who are blogging daily like myself. This is the first 60 on the list--I'll post the other 60 somewhere around the middle of May. If you find ones you like, save 'em to your favorites bar..it will be easier than trying to access them from here again. Originally I wanted to post these in the sidebar, but with over 111 bloggers at last count, that sidebar would run pretty long unless I took off some other items. I know you can't live without the daily drink tid-bit or my mulitasking picture, so I put 'em here. Besides, it counts for a blog post on a day when I really should be outside cleaning up the one million beer bottles and plastic cups from out party last night. But you'll read more about that on Cinco de Mayo. (The 5th of May for those monoligual types.) My personal goal is to read and post on each of these blogs at least once during the first two weeks. There are some seriously talented writers out there and I give you permission to like and read them. So long as you read me first.

 

• Rebecca I. Allen - 356 No More, A journey from couch to fit
• Christa Avampato - Christa in New York, Curating a Creative Life
• Anjuli - bhulbhulaiyan, a complicated entanglement of zigzag pathways
• Joan Lambert Bailey - PopcornHomestead, Gardening, place and my life in Tokyo
• Karen Bannan - Natural as Possible Mom, Because natural isn't always possible — or easy
• t.a. barnhart - Left Coast Foodie, Damn, that's good: a foodie blog by someone who knows what he's doing
• June Bell - Enough is enough! Advice and support
• Athena l. Borozon - The Desert Rat Dialogues
• Jane Boursaw* - Film Gecko, Cool movie news and reviews
• Alisa Bowman - Project Happily Ever After, Marriage advice from a recovering divorce daydreamer
• Carson Brackney - Carson Brackney, Consultant, Copywriter, Content Provider, Factotum
• Ben Bradley, Ben’s (Not Quite) First Ever Presence on the Interweb, Blog of an aspiring human being
• Sheena Brockington – Greenhouse Advertising, Cultivating ideas for small businesses
• Danielle Buffardi* - Horrible Sanity, Going into the mind of a mother and freelancer
• Beverly Burmeier - Going on Adventures, Travel stories from near and far
• Diane Calhoun – Violet is My Color, Life just happens, deal with it
• Danielle Carter – Live and Love Life VA, Helping you do more of what you love, and less of what you don't!
• Fiona Chan - Candy Prison, A typical teenager
• Joy Choquette - One Year. 156 Fears. Life Changing. One woman tackles her fears
• Bernard Chung - Green Tea World, It's more than just a cup of green tea here
• Caroline Clemmons - A Writer's Life, Writing tips, interviews and miscellaneous ramblings
• Shelley Clunie - ShelCluzo’s Blog, Healthy, wealthy and wise at 62
• Cocotte - Leaping into Life, Uncommon stories to nurture body, mind & soul
• Christianne Cook – A Day in My Mind, The world through my eyes
• Sue Dickman – Life Divided, Food, garden, books . . . and India
• Jackie Dishner – Bike with Jackie, Using my special brand of BIKE to teach you how to turn obstacles into opportunities
• Tracy Doerr – Tracy Doerr, A chronicle of ideas and things that inspire me
• Ron S. Doyle* – Blog Salad, All the blog that's fit to eat
• Dana DuGan – Chick with a View, It's good to live on the edge. The view is better.
• Dan Eldridge – Labor Party, A Young Pioneers Media blog for Creative and Alternative Entrepreneurs
• Cindy Elsberry - Doodle9, Paddling down the stream…of consciousness
• Heather Faesy – Blame it on the Full Moon, My kids, writing and reading
• R. Jill Fink – My Opera, Musings about writing, food, weight loss and other hilarious things
• Jennifer Fink – Blogging Bout Boys, All about boys -- raising them, educating them, learning with them
• Damaris Fish – Damaris Fish on Genealogy, Researching my family history and helping others with theirs
• Dylan Fogle – Discordianzen, The map is not the territory
• Katie Foote – Littlefoote’s Lab, A chronicle of what the unemployed girl in NoPo is up to.
• Heather Frendo - Thrifty Knee Socks
• AndreaGenevieve – Andrea Genevieve, Where social medium, technology and higher education meet
• Alexandra Grabbe – Chezsven's Blog, Life as a green innkeeper on Outer Cape Cod
• Elyse Grau – My Garden to Table, Growing what you eat, eating what you grow
• Wendy Korn Heppt – Budget Style on a Shoestring, Budget savvy fashion, beauty and related news and ideas
• Katie Hinderer – Write Beyond the Cubicle, A freelance writer’s thoughts on the industry
• Amanda Hirsch – Tastee Pudding, In the search for creative life, the proof is in the Pudding
• Lisa Jaffe Hubbell – Eat, Read and Be Harried, Making it through life one book at a time
• Nancy Mann Jackson – Growing Food and Kids, Gardening, harvesting, cooking and preserving with kids in tow
• Robert Janelle – Without an Apostrophe, Ottawa freelance tech journalist
• Elizabeth King Humphrey – The Write Elizabeth, Writing. Creativity. Play. Life.
• Walter L. Johnson II – Georgia News Beat, An inside look at what’s happening in the state of Georgia
• B.J. Keeton – Professor Beej, Pop culture commentary with an academic slant
• Amy Kocur – AmyLizK, Maryland/ DC Metro area arts and analysis
• Courtney Koschel – Finding My Muse: A New Writer’s Journey,
• Sara Lancaster – No.2PenBlog Resource for my clients and others interested in marketing communications
• Bill Lascher – Lascher at Large, A contemplative, pondered and unrushed thought banquet.
• Mary Dixon Lebeau – In the Boom Boom Room, Remember staying out until the street lights came on?
• Pooja Lohana – Brown-eyed Mystic, On writing and more!
• Sarah E. Ludwig – Parenting by Trial and Error, The learning curve in raising kids
• Jenny Lynes – Welcome to the Good Life, A student environmentalist exploring responsible, cheap, and fun living
• Su-sieee! Mac – This and That. Here and There. Now, Sometimes Then., Rambling about anything and everything that interests me

Buh-Bye Sasquatch; Until Next Week…

I started this morning with one goal: to clean the master bedroom. For some reason our master bedroom has been the go-to dumping ground for the twelve blissful years I’ve been married. I’m not laying blame anywhere-honestly it’s mostly me. Cleaning rooms in the house is on a priority system:

1. The living room, kitchen, and entryway since this is what anyone who comes to the house will see upon first impression.
2. The hall bathroom since hypothetical guests could potentially use it, however you remember what happened the last time I only cleaned the hall bathroom. That’s right, my son took it over and the guest used the dirty bathroom downstairs. Now it’s on the list, moved in with the hall commode at #2.
3. The kid’s rooms. Mostly because their friends are over playing, we need to find homework, or I’m tired of twisting my ankle on clarinet cases and glitter balls at 10 p.m. when trying to say goodnight to the kids.
4. The office and toy room. I’m not really motivated to clean these rooms, mainly because the toy room always looks like a garage sale gone bad, and the office is attached to it. I figure the kids need at least one room to be messy in, and I work so sporadically from my office desk (preferring to sit upstairs and type on the couch) it’s not a huge motivator. This, and I can blame the entire contents and state of those rooms on my children, not my lack of housekeeping.
5. The master bathroom. I don’t use this and rarely clean it. The master bathroom was the architect’s way of “sticking it to the man” since it is so small we should refer to it as the Toilet Closet. A moment of visualization: when my husband is shaving, his stomach touches the sink while his butt grazes the back wall. It’s a thumbnail of a bathroom if ever I’ve seen one and I quit using it about two weeks after moving in. There is something nice about taking a shower without your elbows hitting the tiles as you wash your hair. Call me a princess. So this reigns unimportant at #5.
6. Master bedroom. Here it is. Finally. This is where I’ve relegated the main sleeping room in our home. Way down here at number six. Now all I need to mention is that in the last 10 months I’ve only ever made it to #4. The reason it's here and not before the master bathroom (which I rarely clean) is that the bathroom tends to stink first. Just so you know what I'm dealing with. If it doesn't stink and noone's going to see it, why bother cleaning it?

That saying “it gets worse before it gets better” never applied more than when cleaning this room. There were seven loads of dirty laundry heaped in the center of the room which I sorted into colorful piles in the hallway. I vacuumed the floors and then dusted and washed them with the Swiffer. I dusted all surfaces in the room which required me to move all the crap from the dresser onto the bed. The sheets need to be changed, but I can’t do that until the floor has dried and I trash/organize/put things back on the dressers not to mention wash all the laundry since we only use one set of sheets. The floors are bare and clean, but my hallway is now inaccessible due to the laundry piles, vacuum, laundry hamper, bag of trash, and bag for the attic. I’m two loads of laundry in and the clean piles are now heaped onto the beloved pool table downstairs that now serves as laundry-folding-central-station.

I’m also battered-dipped head-to-toe in fuzzy, dusty, lint from slaying the Sasquatch under my bed. I think I’ve mentioned him before. He’ll be back all too soon though—no more than a couple weeks—since the weather is nice and the windows are open. I’m wearing a black long sleeved shirt. Note to self: black shirt is  not preferred cleaning wardrobe, unless you are planning on attending a costume party dressed as a used Swiffer pad. Which would probably win you a Most Creative Costume award.

I’m going to clean it right since another 6-8 months will pass before this room feels the soft cloth on it’s hardwoods, or is tickled by the wet mop again.

 

So here it is. The final room. I know, you're asking yourself, "What kind of self-aggrandizing sicko takes pictures of results from cleaning? Isn't that her job as a stay-at-home mother?" Well I'd counter that with "What kind of self-depricating sicko admits to the world that she only cleans her bedroom once annually?" It's not to boast; rather it serves as CYA documentation to child protection agencies who may suspect my children live in filfth and squalor daily, and also as photographic proof that my bedroom at one time in history was clean. Chances are good if you come visit, instead showing you the bedroom during the house tour I'll simply point to the 8x10 glossies on the door and assure you there's nothing illegal going back there. Enjoy it while you can.

Now what?

I bet you are asking yourself that very question, Lent being over and all. Is Rachel going to back to blogging once a month or worse yet, once a quarter? Will I have anything to read with my morning coffee or late at night while I’m at work?

Well, I’m not going to promise to blog every single day, but I will attempt it. I’m going to do my best not to let more than one day go by without a new post. Blogging every other day is the very least I can do for you, since you all were so supportive about my Lenten project. It also gives you a chance to catch up on the reading, since I know it’s not possible for you to tune in every single day. Life is just like that.

This Lenten blog-a-thon has taught me a lot of things however. I have learned to look for blog opportunities all day and just because something seems inane or boring doesn’t mean it won’t make for a good post. There were times these last 40 days when coming up with material made me sweat actual letters: lowercase v’s and s’s, commas and exclamation marks, were draining out of my pores in hopes of finding a home on virtual paper somewhere, leaving me spent and exhausted. I didn’t always come up with something or may have been too tired to move my fingers along the keyboard, but there were times when I was successful. Creativity is a process that requires feeding, just like the pea seedlings in my garden. I can’t always come out to the garden expecting a harvest. There are times I’m really going to have to work on it. I mean I’m good, (sometimes damn near perfect) but I’m still going to have to give it some effort.

I also figured out that writing at night is not the best for me. Ideally my blog should be finished by 4 or 5 p.m. if it’s going to get posted without tears. Mine and my children’s. Once the kids come home and the night wanes on, there are too many things happening in the house to be productive at the keyboard. Plus I like to enjoy a glass of wine or perhaps a cold beer (now that Sam’s Summer is back, Hallelujah!) with dinner, which of course puts my muscles in slow motion and encourages my need for serious butt-time on the couch.

I’ve also come to terms with the fact that every blog can’t be a winner. Not every post will make you pee your pants with laughter or inspire people to comment, and some may be downright puny and uninteresting. But how is that any different from my life? To quote John Denver, “Some days are diamonds and some days are stones.” I can’t expect my blog to be different, especially since it’s a reflection of my life.

So continue to tune in. If you feel so inspired, post this link to your Facebook page and share with your friends. I’m also going to try to increase my readership for the remainder of this year and need your help to do that. Help me. Please, please help me. (Now you know exactly how my therapist feels.)

Thanks for reading.

The Mother of Reinvention

I know I know. I’ve neglected you lately. Yes, for months, I know. I get it. You’re angry. If it makes you feel any better I’ve been neglecting myself as well, letting myself go, so to speak. I’ve been really really busy trying to find a job you see. What I’d prefer to find is someone to just give me sums of money every few weeks for no reason at all, but that hasn’t happened yet. Figured getting a job would be easier. Well, needless to say, both options are equally viable at this point. Apparently no one wants to pay me for actual work either.

But I digress. I’m in the middle of my annual re-invention phase, a not so pleasant phase to witness. That moment when you feel like your life, your home, your looks, are a stagnant, lifeless pool of fetid water. My home feels disastrous, my hair style dated and unflattering, my clothing a walking advertisement for Salvation Army. I’ve mentioned this phase I’m in to a few friends and my sister, who all retort with something along the lines of, “Puh-leease. You don’t ever look frumpy. Your hair looks amazing! You’re so thin. What do you have to complain about?” To which I want to retort, “Put a sock in it.” I am not trying to collect compliments door-to-door with my self-esteem bucket held high. I’m not even looking for my friends to agree with me. What I’m looking for is to hear someone say, “I sooo know what you mean. I’ve felt like an ugly, outdated bitch before too.”

My husband really hates this phase. I announced to him the other morning while reading the paper, “Just so you know, I’ve had it with my hair.”

“You going to cut it?” he asked.

“I’m going to do something,” I replied. “Oh, and I was thinking about giving away the dining table and moving in the plastic table from the back porch…”

“Why don’t you just go buy a convertible?” he asked.

“If I thought that would do it, I probably would.”

In times like these the poor man doesn’t know what he’s going to come home to. Honestly, I’m never quite sure what I’m going to do next either. The living room might be pink. The furniture could be reorganized. I may have renamed one of the children, or perhaps chosen another tattoo or gotten a body part pierced. I’m needing something drastic, some way to redefine how I look and feel, to regain the joie de vivre that seems to have evaporated. Like someone sucked all the color out of my life and left me with shades of grey. I’m living in Un-Pleasantville.

Deciding that changing myself would be easier (and let’s face it, a little cheaper) in the run, than say, remodeling the house, or the long paper-work hassle of a name change, I went browsing through some stores the other day looking for a new outfit. Buying new clothing for myself is such a rare occurrence.

I have a few gift cards burning a hole in my purse, and I really was hoping to find something,….well, that didn’t belong to my mother. I typically shop once a year through my mother and sister’s cast-off bags, the last stop they make before being donated to those more needy than myself. In fact, the last time I went through my sister’s Good Will bags, (who gave away more clothes than I actually own) I had a nice tidy pile of sweaters and shirts, sprinkled with a couple pairs of pants. I was feeling pretty good about myself since my middle sister is younger, trendier, and thinner than I, and actually employed with a fab job—and maybe, just maybe, wearing her old clothes, would give me some type of cool mojo I lack. As she was loading her pilfered donations back into her car, she glanced at my piles. “Just so you know, everything you picked out of my pile was originally from mom.”

Fan-tastic.

So now I’m wearing cast-off-cast-offs.

But I digress again. My apologies. The first store I hit on my cotton-convertible shopping trip was Chicos. I never heard much about Chicos when I lived in the west, but out here on the East Coast Chicos is HOT. How many racks of clothing a store has, is usually a good indicator to the type and price of clothing (think many racks=Target, vs. fewer racks=Burberry). The second I walked in, I was pretty sure that Chicos wasn’t going to be my thing. Don’t get me wrong, the clothes were beautiful. Vibrant shades of purple, silver metallic dress shirts, pants with an actual crease down the front, and necklaces that would weigh down Cleopatra herself, adorned the mannequins. Clearly, these outfits would be perfect for the employed version of myself, something I could wear to a board meeting, or an editorial department meeting, or even a faculty meeting, if I had any of those jobs. I didn’t see anything that made the statement “freelance-writer-desperate-for-work-and-a-break-from-two-year-old-screaming”. I took long strides in, around the display, and out the shop door. On to store #2.

Coldwater Creek. I have to say, if there is any version of how I’d like to see myself, it’s in a Coldwater Creek catalog. I do like their clothes; colorful jackets, beautiful long skirts that hide un-shaven legs. Clothing fitted to accentuate a waist I still have (thankfully) but not so tight they give me gas. Their style leans towards a Southwest flair-something I’d normally avoid-but it’s not turquoise-and-kokopeli-obnoxious. In my Coldwater Creek version of myself, I live on a sprawling mountain ranch in Montana somewhere, and watch my horses roam in the vast empty acres of my homestead, while drinking hot coffee from a wooden rocker on my rustic front porch. I’m dressed like the woman in the picture, and what I do before or after my coffee on the porch is of no concern because Coldwater Creek is all about living in the moment. What I don’t like about Coldwater Creek are the prices, because this starving writer can’t bring herself to pay $90.00 for a jacket she drinks coffee in. As I breeze through Coldwater Creek, I realize I just don’t see anything on a mannequin that says, “shleping-two-kids-to-the-bus-stop-in-the-pouring-rain,” so I leave. Store #3.

American Eagle Outfitters. Quit laughing. I know I don’t fit the target market for AEO, which is pre-pubescent to college binge drinkers, but perhaps I’ll find some kind of basic t-shirt I can layer with my marmy sweaters in extra-extra-large, because the base size for this store is 0. Quick glance at mannequins: transparent gold sequined tank with frayed seams layered under an AEO jersey-knit hoody with fur trimmed collar. Uh, I don’t think so. Somehow I can’t picture myself doing dishes in this outfit, and sequined anything kills the skin under your arms. Trust me. Next mannequin? V-neck lace cami layered under black tuxedo vest, paired with skinny-crack-showing-acid-washed jeans. Seriously, I’d need to drag my child-bearing hips in a wagon behind me, ‘cause there ain’t no room for them in those pants. Not only do I leave the store—quickly, lest I be mistaken for a mom shopping for a teenager I don’t have—I vow not to ever let my children shop there either. Tank tops in Massachusetts? It’s winter for crying-out-loud.

Store #4. Ann Taylor Loft. I love Ann Taylor Loft. I love the tailored clothing, the sophisticated style, the amazing a-line swing sweaters with a single button front. I adore the way they pair ripped jeans with a button-down and scarf, and you could show up for dinner at the Phoenician. I love the way I feel important when I walk into an Ann Taylor store. My possibilities are endless. If I wore clothes like this everyday, I could do anything. Start my own company. Do book tours. Rule the world. In my head I’m capable of all these things, but my clothes are holding me back. Ann Taylor Loft is like dream-crack; a whiff of new-clothes air, a brushing of the soft fabrics beneath my fingers and I’m suddenly trying to rationalize feeding my family potatoes and rice for the next two months so I can buy one complete outfit. No Christmas for you this year, kids. Doesn’t mommy look TERRIFIC? But that’s not my reality. A glance in the mirror keeps me real. I’m wearing eight-year-old faded jeans coupled with a yellow zip sweater (from my mother) that hits directly at my waist (sooo passé), my hair is slicked back into a ponytail, faded leather mules (from my mother) and socks that don’t match. Yes they show. Sigh. I stand up taller trying to pull off the I-really-wear-Ann-Taylor-clothes-most-days-today-I’m-just-slumming-it, and slink out of the store, too rich to purchase anything today. As if.

That was seriously not a good shopping day. Those happen. It’s like shopping for jeans, bras, or swimsuits. You either come away with everything, or want to sign up for an extreme makeover, body edition.

Decidedly, I am cotton. I am stretchy fabrics that don’t pinch my crotch. I am cozy, warm sweaters, thick socks, and old jeans. I am Target, TJ Maxx, and Department-Store-Sale. As I type this I am wearing post-pregnancy pants two sizes too big, a faded navy blue maternity shirt (one of the few I kept because it’s comfy) and a button front navy blue cardigan that used to belong to my mother, to be followed up with pilling navy blue socks, and yes, navy blue slippers that also once belonged to the woman who gave me life. The rain apparently influenced my clothing decisions today. Deep sigh. I am drinking coffee, but not on a rustic front porch over-looking a meadowland vista, but toys and papers and office mess strewn about, like the settled remnants after a tornado. I’m writing, of course, but it’s not like this blog is paying me.

Well, revamping myself via the clothing route isn’t going to happen. No worries. Today I have a haircut appointment at 1:00. Maybe I’ll go pink. Or Sinead. A bob? Layered locks with bangs? There are so many possibilities that say “yearly-identity-crisis-for-underemployed-overeducated-stay-at-home-mom-of-three.” I’ll let you know how it goes.

My Kids; Junkies?

My nine-year-old son has a problem. He thinks about it constantly, asks for it incessantly. Begs for it during the week, makes deals to use it, thrashes and sobs when we take it away. No, not alcohol as one might suspect, or drugs as one might fear. No, my son is addicted to his Nintendo DS.

I do not say addicted lightly. This $140 dollar metal poptart has stolen my sweet son, who used to have other interests and cared about his family. But wielding his DS, our family could be perishing in a fiery inferno, and my son would look up long enough to say, “I just beat level three mom and dad! It was so much easier than I thought!”

My son has also dragged his sister into this sick and twisted gaming world. My seven-year-old was oblivious to video games until about six months ago. It started innocently enough, with that gateway-game on the XBOX 360, Cloning Cycle. He showed her how to play it. How to get ahead. How to make the little guy jump and dive. How to score points. Suddenly video games were on her Christmas list. Her birthday list. My video-dealing son got her hooked and moved in for the kill: he introduced her to the big-time DS.

Although my daughter does not have her own DS system, she wants one. She plays her brother’s and they fight over who gets to play it first or who played it longer. Their thumbs are starting to dislodge from their joint sockets, allowing for 360 degree thumb rotation. So much better for multi-tasking those buttons, but those same kids can’t pick their socks off the floor.

Our family has a no-tv-or-video-games-during-the-school-week-policy. We do let our son use the DS when he is in the bathroom, for a variety of really good reasons that I won’t mention here. But to keep things fair, we figured we also had to allow our daughter to play it while on the commode, but no more than 10 minutes at a time. There has been an amazing spike in the number of times my children need to use the restroom now. They must be eating and drinking machines at school, because they announce they need to use the restroom about 50 times a day. They grab the DS on their way to the bathroom. “Wait a minute! You can only use it to go #2!” I yell. “I better see some poop in that toilet!”

Things hit a real low for my son the other day, when my husband and I discovered for the second time (gasp), that he has been sneaking his game-heroin at night. Playing it in his bed while we think he’s sleeping. So that’s why he wakes up in the morning, groggy, miserable and bag-eyed. And I thought his pillow was too stiff.

My husband and I staged an intervention. Their 20-month-old sister was there to attest to the turmoil these games have caused in her life. More than once she has fallen down the stairs or ate some foreign object from beneath the baseboard heaters, because her siblings were too absorbed in the DS to look after her. We would have called in our pet guinea pig to testify that he too was ignored and abandoned due to the children’s obsession with gaming. But we got rid of Shadow a while back because….you guessed it….the kids couldn’t be bothered to look after another living being in the house. My husband and I each fought back tears as we choked out how much we loved them (our children) and how scared we were for their future, should this addiction continue. “Your grades will suffer!” we chanted. “Your eyes will pop right out of your head!” we cautioned. “You’re becoming kids we don’t even recognize! We can’t take it anymore!” we bellowed.

We threatened to send our son to Amsterdam, where there is a video-game detox program, ready to help and lend a hand. My son wasn’t quite ready to move across the country. We researched the contact information for On-line Gamers Anonymous, and read the signs and symptoms of game-addiction. My husband and I have wracked our brains trying to figure out where all our strict parenting went wrong…is it us? Is my son predisposed to addictive activities? Or perhaps is it a brain disorder like some claim?

I’m sure we’re not the only parents dealing with this childhood sickness. You may be thinking I’m over-reacting. I suppose you could be right. In fact, my good friend Pam actually plays video games with her sons; helps them beat the tough levels, helps them kill those virtual foes who simply throw the fireballs too quickly for a seven-year-old thumb to react. Apparently she is one of those “cool moms” that embraces things her children do; one of those parents who enjoy partaking in their children’s fun. She claims she teaches them such novel childhood lessons as being a good sport, taking turns, handling disappointment when they lose. She’s even been known to get so lost in the DS games herself (trying to help my son and her sons beat a level) that she actually told my son to shut up. I don't blame her. I’ve no doubt my addicted son was jones-ing for the DS-bong, nervously tapping his foot on the floor, waiting his turn to try and beat the level, repeating the phrases, “IcandoitletmetrynoIcandoityoudiditwrongletme-tryletmetryletmetrynorealyIbetIcandoit..” in eerie monastic monotones over her shoulder, and she snapped. I suppose the thrill of the video-kill could do that to a person. Or worse.

Have you heard about the 17 year-old teen in Ohio, who killed his mother and shot his father in the head, because they wouldn’t let him play Halo3? I know, it sounds too far fetched to be true. But the kicker is that the only thing he took from the house after the incident, was the Halo3 game. Okay, so not all video-game-playing kids are this sick. It only takes one jack-ass to upturn the apple cart and spoil it for the rest. But I have to admit, after reading this article, I might be peeking through my hands when my son says to me, “Close your eyes mom, I have surprise for you.”

Halo is also a game my son wants to play. He keeps asking when he can play games that are rated “M.” I keep telling him that when his is an “M” I’ll let him play M games. “What does that mean?” he asks me. I paused. Thought. And replied:

“You can play “M” games when you can explain to me in significant detail what ‘the dignity of the human person’ means.” This has stumped him for awhile, and he keeps insisting, “It just means be respectful to others, right?” Well, there’s more to it than that. I figure by the time he’s 15 or 16 he might understand it, and then we can revisit those “M” games. Right after his volunteer hours with the food pantry, homeless facilities, and battered women shelters.

And if you were all still concerned about the state of our economy, apparently not all businesses are going under. According to the Wednesday edition of the Wall Street Journal, Gamestop Corp. is alive and well, thanks to their sales of new and used video games. Sales from games are expected to reach $2 billion dollars, up from $1.6 billion dollars last year at this same time. If you are unemployed, you might want to apply at Gamestop, because apparently, in these tough times, what us American's need to fight off the recession and get our minds off the cost of groceries and our late mortgage payments, is a little gaming distraction. And I'm pretty sure they are an equal-opportunity employer, although a skater t-shirt and a body piercing probably wouldn't hurt your interview image.

Well, as a concerned parent, I'm trying. Trying to put the focus of life back where it belongs; in school, family, faith, and friends. (Not necessarily in that order.) I'm glad to know that my husband and I are on the same page, dedicated to protecting our children and helping them aquire some perspective.

The other day my son was looking for his DS, couldn’t find it anywhere. It wasn’t where he put it. It wasn’t charging. It was a weekend, and he needed to use the restroom. He was beside himself. I walked into my bedroom to help my son look, and find: my husband playing the Nintendo DS in our bed. “Have you been in here playing this the whole time?” I asked. “What kind of lesson does this teach the kids?” I grumbled.

“I don’t know..” he replied. “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em?”

Need a Spa Day?

I know this posting will seem a bit unorthodox...you haven't seen anything like it from me, and are unlikely to again. That is, unless I find another good cause to support.

I know. There is a cause and a group for just about everything. Diabetes. Heart Association. March of Dimes. Cystic Fibrosis. Women-who-suck-at-housecleaning.

Oh wait. That's just a group I'd like to start.

Many of you know I walked for the MS society to support my good friend Dawn. While I do occasionally benefit from her handicap placard when we shop, I would rather she not be dealing with MS, and trying to figure out what this means for her future and the future of her husband and three small children. So I walked to support this amazing cause. For those who supported me in that endeavor, THANK YOU!!

My second cause is the Relay for Life. I'm part of a team walking to support another good friend, Claire. She has battled and beat breast cancer! Yeah for Claire! She also has a husband and three small children who have had to deal with the questions that arise when confronted with a life changing event of this nature; the what if's, if only's, and what now's.

So I had an idea to raise funds for the Relay for Life walk coming up in June.

I'm going to raffle off a $50 gift certificate for Spa Finder.

It's good in just about any state, and you can go to the website to find the specific spa locations that accept it. Just imagine; you can support cancer research while getting a mani and a pedi. What an offer!

Here's how it works: For every $10 donation you make to my Relay for Life fund, you'll get entered into the drawing for the certificate. If you donate $20, you get two chances, and so on. My goal is $300, but I'd love to surpass it. And honestly, a $50 gift certificate for $20 is a pretty good deal.

The links below will take you to the Spa Finder website where you can get more info, or my personal page for Relay for Life.

I'm going to support these two causes because these two friends welcomed and helped me when I first moved to MA back in 2000. That neighborhood playgroup where I met many of my friends (my only friends at the time) saved me and provided me an opportunity to get out of my small condo with my two small children. If it weren't for these ladies, I'd probably be supporting AA, (since wine seems like a good solution when you're stressed) or Mother's-who-have-had-it.

Oh wait. That's another group I'd like to start. Sorry.

But I'm also going to support them because so far I've been blessed with good health. And so far, I haven't had to face those If Only thoughts and Why Me questions. They have. And that's reason enough for me.

My personal page:

http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/RelayForLife/RelayForLifeNewEnglandDivision?px=6406142&pg=personal&fr_id=7195

Spa Finder:

http://www.spafinder.com/Catalog/spagiftcertificates.jsp?code=DEC07&cmpID=AFC-MV5304863502

Prized Possessions

For the past few nights now I have dreamt that I witness the formation of a huge tornado and have only seconds to find the kids and alert the people around me. I'm suddenly crawling down into a septic-system-esque tunnel, white subway tile walls and floors, waiting for my husband to pass me the baby, only to get to the bottom and realize there is nowhere to go and it is filling up with water. Not a surprising dream given the devastation happening in California and the 24-hour coverage on the news. As a general rule I try to avoid the news as much as possible because detailed information about the latest murders, rapings, school shootings, embezzlement's and wars does not lend itself to making me feel good about my world. However, having been to San Diego a fair bit and living in Arizona during similar circumstances, I have been watching the news stories about the California wildfires with much interest. And of course, cameras rolling, the whole world can watch a family return to the previous site of their old home, watch them break down as the parents and children sift through the holocaust of their former life.

I'm not one of those who has had long term memories of living in a house; bringing home all the children fresh from the hospital, the place where we got our first pet, or the memories of a multitude of anniversaries spent with my husband. We've lived in four houses in 9 years of marriage and each of my children has spent their first year and a half crawling and drooling on a different living room floor. Each house has held different types of memories, but certainly not all of them. That said, losing the place we live would still be devastating nonetheless. For me it would be more about losing the small corner of the world where I go; (the noun, not the verb)my place on the library shelf. The place my van heads after a shopping trip or dropping the kids off at school. The place where I return after visiting family where I can exhale, throw my clothes on the floor and not make the bed. The only place (really) where I make the rules outside the conventions of life.

Watching the news last night, people who were being evacuated from the area were being interviewed. They were given 10 minutes to take whatever was important to them and be ready to leave the house. Most people were done in less than five minutes. So I wondered, What would I take if in the same situation? What would you take? Lets assume for the sake of argument that your spouse, children, and the family pet(s) were already safe in the car with the engine running. Yes, we all know that those are the most important things in life and everything else is purely material. But if you could choose five things to save from destruction, what would they be and why? For myself:
1) My children's photo albums. For posterity if nothing else, and many memories are wrapped up in those anyway.
2) My Bible and My Book House books collection-because as far as I'm concerned you always need to have some spiritual direction in times like these, and the Book House Books have deep personal sentiment for me.
3) The engraved pocket watch I gave my husband for our wedding, and the opal ring he gave me after a particularly difficult patch-to give the children when they get older.
) My lap top, not because I'm attached to the technology or playing solitaire, but because it has photos and my writings on it, both of which are precious to me.
5) The framed collage of photos of my husband and me, as well as the journals we kept for each other when he lived in Russia. Again, these are for the kids later in life.

Could live without these? Certainly. Could they be replaced? Most of them, yes. But if I had 10 minutes these are the items I'd grab. With the spouse, the kids and our cat waiting in the car for me of course.

What would you take?