Set in Stone

Matt and I bought our dream house four years ago. It's old and drafty and creaky and temperamental. It behaves like a cranky old man, but it has more charm and character than a hundred of those new-fangled models. Its high ceilings, original walnut crown molding and hardwood floors whisper stories. It sits facing a gorgeous tree-lined boulevard in a downtown neighborhood. In the summer, those big 100-year-old maples shade the whole street and draw walkers and bikers and runners from all over town.

It's the first possession I think I have ever loved, but it is a colossal pain in the ass and the original definition of a money pit. It eats money. When we bought it, the original 1920's knob and tube wiring was uninsurable. The floors were ruined. The kitchen was pink plastic (a bad 1970s redo) and the house was still heated with a coal furnace. It was an eyesore from the street. People still shake their heads in amazement four years later and tell us that their kids used to call it the 'witch's house' and avoid it on Halloween. We have worked HARD to get to where we are. The house is far from perfect, but it's ours from the lathe and plaster walls to the original wood windows that let in the winter gales like a thin piece of fabric.

The house sits on a corner and so we have a lot of sidewalk, not just across the front of the house, but also about 100 feet down the south side. On that south side, the same 100-year-old maples that grace the boulevard are crammed into a three-foot-wide curb space. Their roots had wreaked havoc on the sidewalk. I'm not talking about a few cracks or pop ups. I'm talking crevasses where you could lose children and jagged, dangerous peaks of concrete that have their own micro-climates. We've seen some pretty impressive wipe outs on that sidewalk.

Every time someone bit it we held our breath because we are liable. That's right. It's the city's sidewalk, the city's huge ass trees, but our liability, which is a big enough pain when it snows (often) or the leaves fall (annually), but it's down right scary when a skateboarder hits Mt. Sidewalk at fifteen miles an hour.

This fall we finally finished building our garage and had the last enormously heavy construction trucks in the back yard, and we'd saved enough to replace the sidewalk. The concrete contractor had to confer with the city and get a permit, because it's their sidewalk and their trees. The city arborist and the city inspector and several other city people with no immediately obvious function came out to look at the sidewalk and the trees and discuss the permit. All I have to say about that is that the city could afford to fix all the sidewalks within city limits if they had a few less people on the payroll standing around watching concrete pour.

They poured the new sidewalk and it looked great. The contractor warned me before he left that kids sometimes get a kick out of ruining new pours with their bikes. I kept a vigil out the side windows all day. The later it got, the more I relaxed. It was close to dry. I put the kids in front of a movie and started making dinner, periodically checking my email and the sidewalk. On one email/sidewalk peak, I glanced out the window just in time to see some dumb bastard stomp right down the middle of the still soft sidewalk.

I flew out the front door on my broomstick, shrieking for him to stop. He had earphones on and carried on down the block, ignoring me completely. My crazy neighbor heard me yelling obscenities at myself in the front yard and got in on the drama. She chased him down the street and brought him back. He absolutely reeked alcohol.

Him: Is there a problem?
Me: Um, yeah, you just walked down the middle of our new sidewalk. They just poured it. There's caution tape all around it and cones everywhere. What's wrong with you?
Him: Who me? No, I didn't.

My jaw dropped.

Me: I saw you.
Him: Me?

His blank doe-eyed stare and half smile made me see red. I felt hatred well up. Not because of the stupid sidewalk. Because, I could just see it. It was the same dumb ass 'not me' look he would give if he had been driving a car and run over our neighbor's dog, or driven over our sidewalk, through our fence and careened through our yard, killing our kids. The exact same stupefied alcoholic 'not me' stare. HATE. I lost it. I yelled obscenities I haven't yelled outside of rants to my husband in a long time and then I told him to get the hell out of my sight.

Thirty-two freaking footprints, right down the center of the sidewalk. The stone was still soft enough that when I hit the prints hard with a broom, they softened a little and blurred. For almost an hour, I worked my way down the length of the house. About half way through, my crazy neighbor brought me a little white pill and told me I wouldn't care about the sidewalk if I took it. I got to the end. The last three prints. My arms hurt from wielding the broom and I was sweating. That's when I saw that some kid had ridden his bike down the driveway apron, leaving deep and permanent marks in the stone. I sat down on the grass and cried.

I thought about taking the pill. I thought about how I finally had a reason to use another f-word on my blog instead of 'freaking.' Then, I thought, no. (As you can see I am still using freaking. I wonder if I ever will use the other. I say it occasionally. I'm not against it. Whenever I type it, it seems so harsh, all bluster and not really me.) No, I thought, I won't curse over this man. He's not worth it.

I won't take mood altering pills either. I don't need them. I want to feel what I feel. (I am in no way saying people shouldn't take Xanax when it's prescribed. I know some need it to overcome anxiety and depression. I would have taken it only for its mood altering qualities and I have alcohol for that.) I'll work through pissed and sorry for myself. I'll deal with angry and frustrated. I'll ride it right through to grateful and over it. Grateful for this beautiful house and the money to fix it, slowly. Grateful he didn't drive down the street and hit someone I love, or someone I know, or anyone for that matter. Over it because it's just a sidewalk.

So thank you, drunk concrete-stomping idiot. Thank you for leaving a permanent reminder behind you of what's important. Your footprints are stamped forever, literally, in the cement to the south side of my dream home, a 'concrete' reminder of what's truly valuable in my life.




















You etched my heart and the little piece of this earth that we own with the message that things are just things and stone is just stone and sidewalks are just sidewalks.


For that, I thank you, you stupid, vandalizing, oblivious, waste of precious oxygen and space, alcoholic mother fucker.

It had to be done. And yes, it was worth it.

A Few Design Improvements

Two things before I single-handedly redesign female human anatomy. First, thank you. Your comments and stories and supportive thoughts have really helped me. The fact that every single one of you refrained from calling me a crazy hose beast helped me. A lot.

In stacey-speak, you reminded me that my job is to try to find harmony and order in daily life so that I am enhancing the order and harmony of the universe in general. You said (I'm paraphrasing here), Dude, you're not resonating with the universe right now, you're flat, or sharp, or something. Retune. Find the b-flat that those wicked smart scientists hypothesize about and hummmmm it. Resonate. Preferably with the stars and the bees and the galaxies, not at that crazy pitch that caused that bridge in Western Washington to go insane and warp and buck until it collapsed in the 70s. (Have you ever seen that video though? It is terrifying.)

The universe is not out to get me or cause me pain. It just is. I know that wouldn't be of comfort to some people, but it brings me immeasurable comfort. Oh, and it doesn't hurt that I think that all of your positive thoughts and energy and harmonious vibes cancelled out the bad fortune teller ju-ju. Increasing the overall order and harmony of the universe through blogging. That is what we are doing. Spread the word.

Second. (Remember I said two things a long time ago, but I am so wordy and long-winded that you forgot by now.) Your valid complaints in the comments a post ago have been duly noted. I agree. The one who shall not be named but never sleeps is violating the rules of Any. Read on. Shhhhhhh. Keep quiet, he's like the undead, that one, and he senses references to his name like Voldemort in Harry Potter.

Where was I? I'm feeling better. I'm not ready to jump on in yet, but I am working towards peace with all possible outcomes. Last night, I contemplated my fertility fears and thought of some simple biological improvements and updates that would go a long way towards relieving my stress and allowing me to take the plunge. With all the serious harmonizing that has been done here, PFUOIC might owe us a little. At the very least, we might have it tuned in here for a brief moment. I'm not one to miss such an opportunity. I have a few suggestions at the ready that would make it easier for me and women everywhere. Very minor evolutionary tweaking. PFUOIC would barely have to flex it's awesome galactic vocal cords for these trivial design changes.

Here they are in no particular order.

The twenty-eight day thing is a drag. The lag time between conception sex and confirmation of results is too long. There needs to be a mechanism for more immediate information. I suggest a small discrete button that pops out at successful fertilization. It could be located in the woman's belly button. This would eliminate the frustrating fifteen day period of sitting around waiting to see if things took. It would also allow the prospective mother to resume drinking immediately. No pop, back to the bottle. So simple. Don't even try to tell me it's impossible. If eyeballs can evolve, this button thing is doable.

Also, an immediate reset button. This could be built right into the fertilization results button. When no pop occurs after conception sex, the woman would simultaneously push in the FRB while holding down her reset button and that would reset the cycle. She could try again immediately. This one would be an improvement for those trying to prevent pregnancy as well. If there's a scare, the woman could decide not to reset for several months.

Finally, while I have the attention of the cosmos, I would be remiss if I failed to bring up the exit strategy. It's a little flawed, cosmos, wouldn't you agree? Well, how about this, there's room for improvement. An escape hatch would be nice. With an ejection button that is accessible from about thirty-seven weeks gestation. What about that thing kangaroos have going on? With the tiny babies and the pouches?

Okay, I can see where those might be back to the drawing board sort of changes, so how about these simple suggestions. A tad more elasticity in the vaginal wall. Come on, that one only involves a little chromosomal tweaking. Rubber exists in the wild. Import and improvise. What about this - have that pesky tail bone evolve away. Why is that still in there, gumming up the only available exit route?

This is my last suggestion. The cervix is made to stretch. It's a muscle. Why the mind-boggling pain? Why not tickling, tingling, burning even? There are so many options. I can understand why there may need to be a little pain involved. I get that biologically there's good reason for having us think twice before going around again, but the pain is built into the pushing part of the operation. A little break in the 24-36 hours prior to the actual pushing isn't going to cause rampant recidivism. Besides, if you want to discourage repeats, you shouldn't have made the little terrors so darn cute. Give them horns or red eyes or something. I know, let them talk when they're born. That last one might just solve the world's population problem.

I don't think these are too much to ask. In fact, if anyone else can think of anything to add, put it in the comments. We can always negotiate later. PFUOIC, these are our talking points for moving forward. Please have your people get back to my people. My Sundays are wide open. Do you have a nursery?

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Shhhhhhh. Maura, mam, Katy, Andrea, Psychmamma, this is for you. Points. Hidden at the bottom of the post. (Which is also posted early in the day, per your request. I aim to please.) I have a theory. I think the vampire blogger otherwise known as BHJ doesn't read my whole posts. He's a busy man. He gets like eight million hits a day. He doesn't have time to follow all the bloggers that read him. I think he just scans the first paragraphs of my posts to see if there's points that he can swoop in and illegally claim despite clear disqualification. It feeds his anarchist soul. (He continues to write incredible posts though. Go and read Glass. You won't be disappointed. You'll have to find it yourself because if I link to it he'll be drawn to this paragraph like a moth to a flame.) Back to the points. I love quotes. Five points to the first three commenters to tell me their favorite quote(s). Here's two of mine:

Not all who wander are lost. (Author? Five points!)

Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one. (Attributed to? Five points!)

Diving Blind

[If you've experienced infertility, this may not be the post for you. I don't mean to be insensitive or make light of a painful topic. I often face fear with humor. I am writing about something that is a struggle for me right now and I am only capable of writing from one perspective. Mine.]

I've gotten some sad, scary calls lately. A friend having open heart surgery. A friend (really a sister) who lost her Dad. Calls like this leave me pondering for days about life and how it sometimes seems like its happiness is bookended by those calls, those moments. The ones that change everything in an instant with no going back.

I have a weird superstition about scary things happening that I thought was my very own private neurosis. Come to find out that I share it with Jenny the Bloggess. I have always thought that if you think about a terrible thing happening, it can't possibly happen to you. Because what are the odds that it would hit right when you thought about it.

When I used to work late, late nights at a law firm in downtown D.C., I was often one of the last to leave. I had to enter a dark, creepy parking garage under the building by myself. I would pause in the same spot, just outside of the elevator every night, take a deep breath and think, "great, sucky long day and now I'm probably going to get mugged." Exactly the same ritual every single time. It was my talisman. I honestly believed that I would not be mugged if I followed the ritual just right because, come on, who is mugged after thinking about how shitty it would be to be mugged?

Do you know what? I have been mugged. On a brilliantly sunny morning, out in the open, with people all around me on a street in Madrid. Didn't see that coming. Didn't say any talismanic protective charms before I exited that subway. Therein lies the problem. There's a famous quote that hits the problem directly between its proverbial eyes. Something like: It's not the worries that keep you up at night that are the real terrors, it's the ones that blindside you at 10:00 a.m. on a sunny morning. Exactly. You'll never see the really big ones coming.

Lately, my superstitious talismanic soul has been in hyper-alert. A charlatan fortune teller in New Orleans planted the seeds and I've been in a downward spiral ever since. I've decided to write about it. To get it out of my head, so that it writhes on the page in its embarrassing ridiculousness. How could my current fear come true if I've written a blog post about it? Right? Just say yes. Please, no laughing.

I have developed a full-on, obsessive-compulsive, possibly-psychotic neurosis surrounding our inability to have a baby that we haven't tried to have yet.

When Cue was born, barely over a year ago, Matt and I talked about the future and whether or not he should make an appointment of the surgical sort. I am done forever with the crazy pills that prevent pregnancy, so if we are playing defense from here, it's all him. We both smiled a little over the head of our newborn. We knew that we weren't quite ready. That we'd wait. I don't ovulate while I'm breastfeeding anyway.

I told myself that the decision was postponed, but being truthful, I knew right then. My heart latched onto the idea that we were open to a fourth child and it's never let go. The knowledge was fleeting. It retreated to my subconscious. There were sleepless nights to endure, three babies to wrangle, naps to nap, classes to attend, wonders to experience, tantrums to throw and suddenly it was a year later. I had to close my eyes for a moment of dizzy disorientation and blink away tears as I filled my baby's bottle with cow's milk.

Not long after, my cycle started right on cue. My heart fluttered a little. I whispered to Matt late at night. Will we really do nothing? Just let things happen as they will? He nodded. There it was bubbling back to the surface unbidden, the excitement, the possibility, the secret internal snuggliness. Then, I thought of that fortune teller in New Orleans. No more children, he told me. You're finished having babies. My whole body filled with a dark unreasonable terror.

It's dumb. My rational self knows that an impossibly thin, nervous man in a dirty back room of a New Orleans tarot and occult shop has nothing to do with whether Matt and I can have a fourth child. He was trying to pick up on what I wanted to hear. He figured that a woman with three small children wouldn't want more children. The truth is that he hit on a secret fear. Because, underlying our casual 'happen as they will' decision hid an intrinsic problem. How will they happen? What if they won't? Am I really all right either way? I have to admit that in the secret inner boxes of my heart, I am not. By happen as they will, what I mean is happen as they have, quickly, effortlessly, without much time for question or longing.

The fear has settled in to stay. What if we can't? I'm not a young mother. My statistics get worse by the hour. What if it just never happens? What if I go into this thinking six months at most and find myself sobbing in the bathroom over cramps and a stain in my panties two years later? I know that women endure this pain every day. I know I have three beautiful children and yes, they are enough. I just don't want to end my baby years like that. With sadness. With longing that gradually fades. It frightens me so much that I've actually considered having Matt go and get the vasectomy. To take way all possibility that I won't get to have the baby that I'm not even trying to have for fear that I won't be able to have it. C.R.A.Z.Y.

I can't help what I feel, regardless of how irrational it is, and I can't tell you how much I fear this. In part, it stems back to our first pregnancy that ended in miscarriage. I had no idea about pregnancy before that moment. I hadn't yet realized the potential for pain and loss to which I had exposed myself. I got pregnant easily. I still had a bit of an irresponsible, flippant attitude. When the ultrasound technician couldn't find the heartbeat at ten weeks, I suddenly understood. I was crushed by understanding.

The kick in the head, a friend called it. I'd been kicked all right, by a Clydesdale aiming with both back hooves. How much I wanted that baby. How much I'd lost. It crushed me. The pain that millions of women have endured squeezed my heart in it's vice grip. I realized how blissfully ignorant I had been. For the three months that it took to get pregnant again, I hated my obsessive, fixated brain. I just wanted to turn it off and wake up when I was back to my blissfully ignorant pre-I-know-let's-have-a-baby-I-think-we're-ready self. Back to that girl-woman who never knew where she was in her cycle and was always a little surprised by the start of her period. I didn't want to be this woman who woke up every morning and knew, before any other conscious thought, what number was assigned to this day. Like so many things in parenting, there isn't any going back, not wholly, not completely. You will never be who you once were.

After stewing in my nuttiness for a few weeks, I decided to see our midwife and ask her some questions about my fertility. I broached the subject with Matt in bed one night.

Me: I think I'm going to make a doctor's appointment.
Him: Why?
Me: I don't know. I want to talk to my midwife before we start, you know, having sex the right week.
Him: Okay. Why?
Me: I have some questions about my, you know.
Him: Imaginary infertility? Brought on by a charlatan fortune-teller in New Orleans?
Me: (Bit lower lip, flared nostrils and crinkled brow in displeasure because GAH, he's so blunt and to the point. And right.)
Me: Yes.
Him: Okay. Call her please. Take your crazy to her.

One week later. I hung on the verge of tears.

Me: I can't find a sitter. I need you to stay home.
Him: You're just asking her questions. Can't you just take them with you.
Me: NO.
Him: I don't see why not. I don't have enough days, I can't take off for this.
Me: I just can't.
Him: You're not getting an exam or anything.
Me: I know.
Him: So, what's the problem?
Me: I don't want to take them.
Him: It doesn't seem like any big deal, you've taken them before.
Me: It's a big deal to me. I don't want to take them this time.
Him: WHY?
Me: I can't take three children under three to the gynecologist to ask about how best to procure another baby. Who will be under three. Making the tally four. Capiche? I just can't do it.
Him: Yeah. Because taking the kids will make you seem crazy.
Me: Right.
Him: Whereas, without the kids, totally sane.
Me: (Silence. I have nothing.)

After contemplating my craziness some more, I thought, I can't be the only woman in the history of child bearing to feel this way. Surely others have felt this fear. Have you? Will you share because I am immobilized?

Because, here I stand. At the edge of the platform. Toes tense. Heart pounding. My midwife can't help me (you have to try, dear, I can't help with a problem we don't have yet). No one can help me. I just have to dive. I honestly don't know if I can. I love the thrill of the free fall. I long for the feel of the sweet water on my face. But, I'm older and wiser than before. This time, I know the pain of a flop. The crushing pressure, the inability to catch my breath. The terrible sting. My fear of that pain may outweigh all else, even the possible joy of that last tiny child. I am so happy where I am right now. We are so happy. Is it worth the risk? Maybe I should just climb down the ladder and find my fluffy towel.

Blog and Marriage, Blog and Marriage

This weekend I noticed that this blog has developed a fairly strong personality. It has become a third party to our marriage. A force to be reckoned with when we have our, very rare and oh so loving, disagreements. (Song and artist that this post's title is based on for five points and a place on the list of fame over there. If that's too hard, one actor/actress from the sitcom of the same name.)

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Matt is in the dining room, sitting with the children while they eat P&J sandwiches. I'm cleaning up the kitchen.

Gee: Yook, Daddy, we're eating peanut butter and jelly.
Matt: Is it good?
Gee: I like it. It's my favorite.
Ess: It's MY favorite.
Matt: It's everybody's favorite. Momma knew that. She sent me to the store last night to get the jelly.
Ess: You went to the store?
Gee: Because the jelly was all gone?
Matt: Right. And, she loves you so much, momma made sure to tell me to get the good jelly. Smucker's, she said. In the glass jar. None of that yucky Welsh's jelly in the plastic jar. It has a funny consistency.
Gee: Smucker's? Jelly?
Matt: That's what momma says.
Gee and Ess: .....
Matt: So, do you know what that is? Do you?

I pause in the kitchen, with narrowed eyes. I can here the glee in his voice. I smell trouble.

Gee: No, I don't know.
Ess: I don't know.
Matt: That's your Mother's Smuckers.
Ess and Gee: Mother Smuckers. Mother Smuckers? Mothers Smuckers!
Me: (Strangled noise of ire.)
Matt: (Uncontrollable laughter.)

I stand in the doorway of the dining room for a few minutes, glaring at him as the Mother Smucker chorus continues and he fails to control himself.

Me: I'm glad you find yourself so amusing.
Him: (He can't speak.)
Me: What exactly are we going to do when they say that at toddler school in two weeks? Because, you know they will.
Him: (Choking on mirth.) I don't know, I won't be there.
Me: Grrrrrrrr.
Him: Oh, you love me, think of the blog post you can write.

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On Saturday, we went to the Lentil Festival in a small town about an hour away. There was a parade. A lentil parade. Are you picturing it? Where do little towns come up with their festival themes? Is there a registry somewhere that doesn't allow repeats because lentils seem like a reach to me. The kids loved it. Horses. Firetrucks. Police cars. Police driving four wheelers. Lentil princesses. Candy. A bouncy castle. I did not make them eat lentils and instead they had pizza. They very nearly died of joy.

None of this is important. Here is the important moment of the day: I was right about a driving technique and Matt was wrong. Let me repeat that. I was RIGHT about a driving technique and Matt was WRONG. Ahhhh. I nearly died of joy.

We had to park almost at the top of an enormous hill because we were late, as usual, and all the good Lentil Festival parking was taken. So, he parks facing uphill and I tell him, because I distinctly remember this from Driver's Ed sophomore year of high school, "make sure to turn your front wheels towards the street."

Him: That's not what you do.
Me: Yes. Yes, it totally is. On an uphill, you turn your front wheels toward the street, so that when you roll backwards, they are angled into the curb and your minivan doesn't careen down a very large hill and kill Lentil Festival goers. When you are parked downhill, your turn them into the curb, so when it rolls, it hits the curb again.
Him: (Turning his wheels the wrong way, into the curb.) That's not right. If I turn the front wheels into the curb, then if the car rolls, the front wheels will roll out towards the street, but they will push the back wheels into the curb.
Me: You are wrong. I remember this from Driver's Ed. You are supposed to turn the front wheels into the street.
Him: How does that work?
Me: I don't know. I just memorized it.
Him: I'm not listening to you. You've driven completely through our garage door. You fail to understand why ferris wheel compartments don't turn upside down at the top of the ferris wheel.

Why don't ferris wheel compartments turn upside down at the top of the ferris wheel? It doesn't make any sense.

Me: Fine. Whatever. Cause a Lentil Festival tragedy. See if I care.
Him: How about if I just set the parking brake?
Me: This is for if that fails, Lentil Festival goer killer.

We walk down the hill passing car after car after car after car with their front wheels turned into the street, because I am RIGHT. Which makes my ham-eating, almost-always-right-husband, WRONG.

Him: Hmmmm. It looks like some of these hill parkers agree with you.
Me: ALL! ALL OF THE HILL PARKERS AGREE WITH ME BECAUSE I AM RIGHT!!
Him: I guess I better go back and fix the wheels.
Me: After you bow to me, goddess of hill parking.
Him: (Unpleasant snort in my direction.)
Me: (Shouting up the hill at his back.) I am so blogging about this. About how I was RIGHT on a car-related issue.

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Happy Lentil Festival goers, who were neither crushed by an out of control minivan nor choked by a hard candy death pellet. Thanks, entirely, to my diligence. You're welcome, grandmas!





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The Lentil parade was a typical small town parade complete with buses from the local retirement homes, Ronald McDonald and, a highlight for my toddlers, Clifford the Big Red Dog. Also, plenty of candy-pelting occurred because it's not a good home town parade unless you fling choking hazards at toddlers at the speed of candy bullets. I am a freak about hard candy. It's just sweetened toddler death pellets as far as I am concerned. I couldn't get it away from them fast enough. They would scramble to pick it up and I would scramble to beat them to it or pry it out of their sweaty little hands. Matt thought my candy policing was hilarious.

Matt: Could you snatch candy from babies any faster?
Me: These are really dangerous. They could choke. Kids die.
Matt: If I had a blog, I would blog about you scurrying around like a cockroach trying to get to the candy faster than our kids can.
Me: Silent death glare.

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Blogging has enhanced our marital bliss. It has become the ultimate argument ender. Once you've played the "I'd blog that" card, the discussion is over.

I'm Going Insane. GOING INSANE??

I think my two oldest children are driving me insane. My daughter has a scratch in her disk. She's unable to come up with an original thought. She just repeats what I say, only louder and in question form. It is perhaps the most annoying thing I have ever experienced. Remember back in elementary school when some mean boy would declare it was 'copy Stacey day' or something horrendous like that and then would parrot every word you said in an annoying voice. It's like that, only worse, because I feel like I should be able to outsmart the mean toddler. I have 33 years of experience and 19 years of education on her toddler ass. How am I losing?

Yesterday, trying to get ready to go to the store.
Me: Time to get our shoes on.
Ess: GET OUR SHOES ON??
Me: Yep, we're going to the store.
Ess: GOING TO THE STORE??
Me: Sit down on your bottom, please.
Ess: ON MY BOTTOM??
Me: Right here on the carpet.
Ess: ON THE CARPET??
Me: I am going to kill you.
Ess: GOING TO KILL ME??
Me: And hide the evidence in the basement.
Ess: IN THE BASEMENT???

You can see my point here? SEE MY POINT HERE?? It really wears on the psyche. ON THE PSYCHE?? I find myself yelling and screaming. YELLING AND SCREAMING?? Like a maniac. A MANIAC?? I have told her not to talk, please. DON'T TALK PLEASE?? She lasts five minutes and then it's "MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY."
Yes, Ess.
CAN I TALK TO YOU??
Yes, Ess of course, if you can use your little voice.
USE MY LITTLE VOICE???

I used to have pretty hair before I ripped it all out. I use to have a fairly attractive face before I jammed this fork into my eye. To stop the pain. In my brain. Does she know? Is she intentionally and systematically driving me whole freaking hog crazy or is it just a phase? Please tell me it's just a phase because if she is a maniacal, manipulative genius I will not survive. Save me.

Meanwhile, my other two-year-old (technically, Ess is three now, but I'm claiming two two-year-olds until Gee turns three) is also a maniacal, evil genius. There are two of them. Send reinforcements.

We have this stock phrase I've taught them to use if they don't like something another child is doing. I learned it from the book Siblings Without Rivalry and from our preschool teacher, who has dealt with more three-year-old squabbles than anyone ever should in one lifetime. Ideally, instead of screaming like someone stuck a fork in their eye, they say, "no, thank you," to the offending child (usually a sibling).

It works, sort of, like a fork in your eye works to distract from your throbbing headache. Ess snatches a toy and Gee screams like someone stuck a fork in his eye. I say, "use your words Gee, tell her how you feel." He says, "No thank you Ess, I don't like it when you snatch my toy." Ess ignores him. Gee shrieks at the top of his maniacal voice "NO THANK YOU ESS!! I DON'T LIKE IT WHEN YOU SNATCH MY TOY!!" Ess ignores him. Gee throws himself on the ground and writhes and makes like bacon frying while screaming "NO THANK YOU NO THANK YOU!!"

Me: Ess, he said no thank you, it makes him sad when you take the toy.
Ess throws the toy on top of his sizzling, popping self.
Gee clobbers Ess on the side of the head for touching his toy.
Ess screams as if someone just jammed an ice pick into her ear, open-mouthed with drool running down her front.
Me: Use your words, Ess, tell Gee how you feel.
Ess: NOTHANKYOUGEEITHURTSMEWHENYOUHITMYHEAD. Perfect. Except for the pitch and tone which are identical to the open-mouthed drooling scream pitch and tone. A pitch and tone so excruciating that dogs three miles away are looking for forks to jam into their eyes.

So, yeah, yet another parenting technique that works like clockwork, every time, just like the book tells you. Thank you parenting experts.

Today, we've reached a new level of parenting nightmare. Gee has turned my parenting technique back on me. The conversation this morning, trying to get ready to go to the playground for a play date.

Me: Time to put our shoes on.
Ess: PUT OUR SHOES ON??
Gee: No thank you, momma.
Me: We're going to the playground.
Ess: GOING TO THE PLAYGROUND??
Gee: NO THANK YOU MOMMA, I DON'T LIKE IT WHEN WE GO TO THE PLAYGROUND.
Me: Well, I'm still the boss and we are going to meet our friends.
Ess: MEET OUR FRIENDS??
Me: Sit down on your bottoms please.
Ess: ON OUR BOTTOMS???
Gee: NOTHANKYOUMOMMA. I DON'T WANT TO GO TO THE PLAYGROUND.
Me: We are not choosing. We are going. If you can't get your shoes on nicely, you will go to your crib for ten minutes.
Ess: GO TO YOUR CRIB??? GEE GO TO YOUR CRIB???
Gee: NOTHANKYOU MOMMA!!!! I DON'T WANT TO GO TO MY CRIB.
Me: I'm going to count to five and then you need to sit on the carpet.
Ess: ON THE CARPET???
Gee: NO. NO! NO THANK YOU MOMMA!
Me: ESS NO MORE TALKING!! NONE. ONE MORE WORD AND YOU GO TO YOUR CRIB.
Ess: Open mouth, drooling scream.
Gee: Writhing, bacon-frying flopping and sobbing.
Me: ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. FIVE. THAT'S IT. CRIBS. NOW.

Children deposited in cribs. Deep cleansing breath.

Me: I will come and get you when you are quiet for five minutes. No screaming.
Ess: FOR FIVE MINUTES????
Gee: No thank you momma, I don't like it when you say five minutes.

What you are witnessing is a quiet descent into madness. Thank you Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish for your brilliant parenting techniques. I have one question for you. What do you do when they are smarter than your stupid, simplistic, same solution for every child and every situation parenting books???? And the answer is.....

Drink and I don't mean water.

Let Them Eat Cake

It's birthday season around here. I'm feeling behind. Perpetually behind. Also, a little despondent. Sometimes, it seems like the only way to stay one step ahead of the game is to stay up way too late or get up way to early, or both. I'm tired. Yes, I would like a little cheese with my whine, thank you very much. Actually, I'd like a little cake. With wine. (Notice, I dropped the 'h.')

Because cake makes us happy.


Really happy. (I don't want this cake, blech, baby slobber.)


There wasn't any of this cake left.


Don't worry, I got my share. I've killed for chocolate. (Not really, but I've contemplated it.) (No children were harmed in the making of this post or the eating of the cake. My ham-eating husband was maimed a little, maybe, but only because he bought the wrong cake mix. Devil's Food. DOUBLE BLECH! The right cake mix always has two chocolates in the title. Double chocolate fudge. Chocolate Supreme Fudge. Ooey Gooey Chocolate, Chocolate Fudge. Not Devil's Food. That doesn't even mention chocolate. Ham-eaters. Honestly.)


Peace out. I'm going to bed.

Struck By Lightning

More Than A Minivan Mom gently called me out a couple of days ago. She suspected that my meme rule bucking had as much to do with diplomacy as rebellion. In the case of my last post, I'm going to stick by my rebellious guns because I really couldn't pick just ten blogging women to invite to a party. I am in love with way more of you than that and when it comes to parties, the more the merrier. But, in general, she's got me pegged. I am a stay-between-the lines, people-pleasing, fearing-of-authority, rule-follower-of-the-rule-followiest sort. Suggesting that I am a rebel was, ah, one might say untrue, but I like to think of it as artistic license.

By way of apology for painting myself in a slightly false light, I'm going to confess a sin (pun totally intended) that's been on my mind a bit lately. I do fear and respect authority. I have a deep attachment to the order that the state and its necessary governmental institutions provide. I find it hard to question things presented as official, although I force myself to do it. I'm not a natural doubter. Except in the highest sense of it all. The ultimate authority. The cosmic rules, as some have laid them down, don't appeal to me. Those, I question, I find lacking and I reject. I do not believe in God in the traditional Western sense.

I have spiritual beliefs. I accept the existence of a higher power, for lack of a better term, that some call God. I prefer to think of it as the Powerful Force in the Universe for Order Instead of Chaos (PFUOIC). I don't have any belief in the rules humans ascribe to it. I don't believe it smites or bestows. I simply cannot live in a reality where a supreme force targets people for good and bad. I think it just is and we just are. I also believe that if you focus on order and harmony instead of chaos and disharmony, you can occasionally get things aligned just right, so that you are emitting the same note as the stars and the galaxies and the bees. That rightness resonates with PFUOIC somehow and strengthens it.

I'm at peace with my own conclusions on this question. My husband views religion and God through a far more traditional Christian lens and I am at peace with that too. Every once in a while, though, my marginally Christian ham-eating husband wants to go to church. Normally, I'm too lazy to make such effort, because I strongly believe that PFUOIC has no preference for where I sit as I work on greater harmony. Church, the kitchen table without a bra, it's all the same to PFUOIC.

I go to church when Matt wants to go. I don't mind going as a family. I will certainly talk openly with my children about my own beliefs when they are ready, but hopefully not in a way that disparages others' beliefs. When we step over the threshold, my rule-following guilt-secreting glands kick in and I feel insanely criminal for being there, hugging the sweeter-than-sweet pastor and nodding and smiling, all the while lying. If my mere presence somewhere can constitute lying. I don't pretend to believe, I'm just rarely asked.

The truth is, my guilt is deeper than that. I love church. My reasons just aren't exactly pure. Want to know why? (Let me climb under my desk and whisper just in case I am wrong, which would cosmically SUCK for me because my universal karma is then really, really off.) The nursery. At church, there is a nursery filled with lovely toys, run by a delightful, nurturing, earth-mother-kind woman. The church people not only allow me to leave my three children there, they encourage it. For two hours. For free. They are eager for me to do it and consider watching my children a small price for getting my unrepentant, damned-to-eternal-unhappiness soul into a pew. All I have to do in return is sit quietly BY MYSELF on a bench and contemplate how to be a better person and how to align myself more harmoniously with PFUOIC, whom they call G-O-D or sometimes the son of G-O-D.

It seems too good to be true. Of course, it is. My fear of authority spoils it for me a little. I spend some time contemplating a judgmental lightning bolt from the blue as I exit. But overall, it's a little piece of heaven, which is a pretty funny coincidence. If they would allow Starbucks chai tea inside the sanctuary, I would go every Sunday. Confession over. Anyone offering absolution?

Cake Walk

I'm not one of those people that wins things. You know the ones? They are always standing on the cake spot in the cake walk of life. Their number gets picked in the first round and they get their choice of cakes. They get to pick the three layer chocolate cake with chocolate fudge icing. That's not me. I'm in the damn thing to the bitter end. It's down to two people and I still don't get picked. I get the pity cake. The flourescent pink job with coconut sprinkles. Gross. I hate coconut. It's cake desecration.

I did win twenty dollars once at a racetrack with my mom. I bet on a horse named Stacy's Socks. That was fun. I also had a pretty good run at the roulette wheel in Vegas betting my birthday and red fourteen. (I have a deep emotional attachment to the number fourteen.) But, I gambled it all away again. There's only so many times that the wheel is going to land on red fourteen.

I'm not likely to win the lottery in this lifetime, is what I'm trying to tell you. Not that I play because I think it's a dumb waste of chai tea money and because I never win anything. Matt plays, but he has some complicated system of higher math for knowing when is the time to buy a ticket. It involves odds and the payoff to cost ratio and absurd words like that. Words that would never factor into my lottery ticket purchasing decisions. I would buy based on whether it was the fourteenth day of the month and whether a bird chirped or pooped outside my window that morning, how the store front looked. Much like I pick wine, according to the pretty label factor. All of this could explain why I don't win things much. Then again, Matt hasn't won the lottery yet either, last I checked.

*****************

This is where you're probably expecting me to switch gears and tell you that in the lottery that counts, the lottery of life, I'm a winner. I have an incredible husband, three beautiful, healthy children and that is all that matters, but no, I'm going to tell you about HAM.

I do not like ham, Sam-I-Am. Perhaps its's my hidden Jewish roots. Maybe it stems from my mother, a convert to Judaism at marriage who exhibited subversive Christian tendancies thoughout my childhood. She loves Christmas and ham. She served ham often. Every single time my middle sister would puke. Turns out she was allegic to iodine. (Used to cure ham, that's your mini-lesson of the day.)

Ham always reminds me of a community Seder dinner my family attended when my sisters and I were little. My youngest sister attended a Christian school at the time. Mid-Seder, after about the third ritual sip of wine, she stood up on her chair and announced to the room full of one hundred or so Jewish(ish) people, "I get it, this is the blood and body of Christ." Which was hilarious enough, but then the little boy across from her complained loudly and often that he wanted ham for dinner. (In case you are lost, pig is not a kosher animal and pork is forbidden for many orthodox Jews. It would never be served at a Passover Seder.)

Which brings me to last night in the kitchen. It's late. The lights are dim. The Olympics filter in from the TV in the living room. Matt stands at the kitchen island, eating ham slices directly from the package. I bustle around, finishing the nightly clean up, occasionally stopping to watch him in horror.

SPLAT!! A large, wet ham cold cut slice lands on the clean floor.
Me: I just spent forty-five minutes cleaning this kitchen.
Him: Good. Then it won't be gross when I do this.
He retrieves the ham slice and stuffs it, whole, into his mouth. It's still gross. For many reasons. Which is apropos of nothing except perhaps that I haven't so much won the life lottery as exhibited astonishing patience and fortitude in the face of overwhelming provocation for untold years.

***********************

Back to winning, and my lack thereof. In the blog world, an amazing thing has occurred. It seems my bloggy cosmic karma is on track because in blogworld, I AM A WINNER, I'M WINNING, I WIN! (Movie? Actor? Go! For five points and a place on that sweet list of fame over there ->.) A receiver of sweet and thoughtful awards. TWO of them. (Actually, SIX of them, because I received one award five different times.)

First, there's this one. I am cosmically fond of it because it says 'ass.' Bestowed on my by That Girl at Hey You! Remember Me? I'm honored because she's fabulous and I adore her. I am supposed to increase karma by passing it on. So, without further ado, I do, to Meghan at AMomTwoBoys for her awesome success with All Mediocre. She is kicking ass and taking names all over the blogosphere.


This shiny bauble came my way not once, not twice, but five times! From these lovely ladies, Renee at But Why Mommy, Jennifer at Thursday Drive, Wfbdoglover, Kmommy at Poopie Patrol and Down-to-Earth Mama. (Amazing and probably due to my incredible slowness and rudeness for not posting these thank yous promptly. Forgive me.) There are rules, but I am poor at following rules. They specify seven recipients, which would be like 35 blogs. Then, they would have to multiply by seven, requiring higher math and resulting in a number in the hundreds. I'm going to stop the madness and play a game.

The dinner party game. In this game, I pick ten bloggers that I would invite to a dinner party. Again with the rules. I throw off these shackles. I'm going to pick bloggers that I would invite over to my living room for a long evening of wine drinking and talking. I want to meet them and hear the intimate details of their lives until the wee hours of the morning. I want to sit in a circle on the floor as they tell all of their stories. There will be cheese and chocolate cupcakes, but mostly wine.

I would invite all six ladies mentioned already. I would invite, Michelle (Honest and Truly!), Shannon (Overflowing), Meghan and her sister Quart, my sister Dee, iMommy, Robin, Amy in Ohio, MamaGingerTree, Marinka, Insta-mom, MoreThanaMinivanMom, Awake and Tracey (JustAnotherMommyBlog), Z, Jen (Coconut Belly) and Maura (OnePingOnly). And SusieO. And Pam. And DysFUNctionalMom. Wait, that's like thirty. It's a full blown bash. Come on over! We are trashed. We are dancing in my living room. We have taken off our shirts (I don't know why, but that's what women do when they get crazy) and moved on to tequila shots.

We are dancing out the door. We are dancing in the street. Jealous daddy bloggers everywhere are begging for an evite. They can't have one. My husband wouldn't like it. I'm in my bra. It's ladies only and it rocks. It's brilliante.

Tummy Mommy

We have started to talk about it recently and it inspires in me a dark, deep-down fear. Your brother looks at the picture on this blog and chirps brightly, with grave knowledge, "That Darrett. That's Darrett in Momma's tummy."

"And Saige," you chitter, "and Saige in your tummy."

Garrett nods gravely. You do every thing together. It is all you know. You are far too innocent and unsullied by our boring world to look at each other's skin and question that it was not always so. That the bond does not stretch back to that quiet water-filled place. Unlike those we meet every day, the jaded masses who know in a glance that you didn't sip from the same uterine cup.


"No babies," I correct again, "not Saige. Saige grew in her tummy mommy's belly, in Haiti." I wish to just say yes, to keep it simple for you for a short time, while you are simple, but I'll never lie to you about this for my own comfort. Not even once. As I speak, my heart clenches in dread for the questions that will follow. Not today. Not yet. But someday. Soon.

Where is she now? I don't know. Why did she take me to an orphanage? She didn't have any way to feed you and she loved you beyond words and thought, way too much to let you starve.

It's my birthday! Tell me my birth story. I don't know your birth story, my daughter. I wish I had been there, holding your birth mother's young hand. I can weave it for you, if you can understand the difference between lies and conjecture. If you will accept it as myth, born of love.

I think she could see the stars, as she tended the open fire in front of her parent's shanty. She felt the first pains low in her back and she closed her eyes and whispered to patron saints in her lilting Creole tongue. Hours later, sweat drenched and immersed in pain, I think she clenched her teeth and remained silent, the neighbors too close for the luxury of screams, already alerted by the iron smell of blood as they tended their own small fires. Some gruff but kind older woman, a relative or neighbor mopped her brow and dribbled the dirty, disease-ridden water hauled from the nearest stream into her mouth. You arrived onto rags on a floor, my coddled love, a dirt floor. Don't you fret, baby, there's no shame in that. You were handled no less lovingly than any other newborn girl. Women in this silly, pampered country pay people to teach them to labor as your birth momma did, teeth clenched, thoughts focused inward and downward.

She named you, your tummy mommy. She gave you the name Mirlandy, your middle name. She held you, for a few days, and whispered her love into your ear. But, she knew. She's never read a paper. She's never watched CNN. Her knowledge is the worst kind, the knowledge of experience. She lives in Cite Soleil, one of the largest shanty towns in the world. One of the worst slums in the world. A place where babies die every single day. A world without the calories to produce breast milk, where formula costs more than a month's wages.

Cite Soleil. The City of the Sun. A beautiful name for a terrible place. Here, in our world, a place with that name would conjure pleasant images. A resort beach town, surf and sand. There it means sun in its cruelest, harshest sense. Beating down on people without respite, without hope of respite, without running water or electricity. Punishing, scorching sun. Baking them. Sun that brings flies and disease and death. Unforgiving. Brutal.

She started to walk, with a male relative for safety. She made the long, dusty trek up the mountain to the little creche that women whisper from lip to lip in the City Soleil. Madam John's. Allez Madam John. She reached it on your tenth day and that is when our story begins. That is the picture we received of you, ten days old, held in your birth mother's arms. To be so happy in the face of another woman's worst pain is a complicated gift.

There are things that I know too. I know you could have had a very different story, if your Haiti momma had less strength. An unknown story. A tragic story. Just another little soul among multitudes, born to destitution, who died too soon of dehydration and hunger. I can't breathe when I consider your might have beens. Few women ever get the chance to be so brave as your tummy mommy was.

You are a gift. On your third birthday, you blow out the candles and wish for princess dolls and ponies, stickers and pretties for your hair. You wish for every single silly thing that American girls wish for. You earned that. Your birth mother earned that. Every child on this earth ought to have the right to have so few needs that they wish for silly things and dream about the stars.

I'll take the hard wishes for now. I'll wish for your Haiti momma. I wish her plenty.
Plenty of clean water.
Plentiful beans and rice.
Plenty of safety from gangs and violence and political turmoil and riots.
Plenty of health in a world without 911 or doctors.

Who knew plenty could be so little? I'm honored to have learned this from your tummy mommy.

Let's Play a New Game - Poop or Bread?

I didn't think potty training could get any worse than Gee peeing on the baby or answering the door in my bra. Tempt fates much? I'm still recovering from a Messter Map incident of catastrophic proportions.

The recipe for disaster went like this. Saige pooped in the Elmo potty. She does it all the time. She's a rock star. I wiped and put her back in the playroom. Between that moment and clean up, I got distracted, possibly by email but I'm not confessing to anything. I plead the fifth and insanity.

I may or may not, while I was possibly checking email, have forgotten about the baby for a few minutes, while perhaps, hypothetically speaking, leaving the gate open to the hall. Wherein resides the Elmo potty. A very few nanoseconds later, I heard a happy baby squeal, indicating a very happy baby. Only two things make Cue that happy. The Elmo potty and free access to dangerous electronics. My mind focused and my heart thumped. I high tailed it to the hall and found the baby joyfully climbing up the hardwood stairs. Phew!! Nothing more serious than imminent brain damage via totally preventable stair related accident.

As I scooped him up, I noticed, simultaneously, that he had a nasty odor and that there was mooshy bread scattered all over the hall floor.

My Brain: Mooshy bread???? Pourquoi mooshy bread??
Cue: Ah-ah-ah-ah aeeeeiiiii.
My Brain: Where did he get bread? Soggy from what?? His mouth? So much bread. He can't reach the bread.
Cue: Nah! Gah! Nah! aeeeeeiiiii.
Me: (to Cue) Do you have a poopy diaper? What's in your mouth? Are you eating brea.....

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!! NOT BREAD. TOILET PAPER. DIRTY URINE SOAKED TOILET PAPER WITH POOP ON IT!!! (Whispering in shame and horror: From the Elmo potty. Which I neglected to dump, post poop.)

No. No. No. Say it isn't true. Please let me not have allowed my year old baby to eat dirty toilet paper and make paper mache projects with it across my hall floor.

I peeked gingerly into the Elmo potty. Empty.

Cue continued smiling unperturbed by eating dirty toilet paper. I dry heaved for several moments before I could get a hold of myself.

What to do? Dunk the baby in bleach? Probably not. Wash the baby's mouth out with hand sanitizer? Again, probably not the best choice. In the end, I stripped him and washed him in soapy water, and then I washed the floor and then me. I gave him a bottle because there just had to be a nasty taste in his happy, little mouth. He ate dirty toilet paper. I thought about putting a little rum in the milk, for germ killing purposes only, but I restrained myself from giving rum to the baby. I didn't restrain myself at all from giving it to me. Medicinal. Shock recovery.


For all my stress, he suffered zero ill effects as far as I can tell. Which teaches a valuable lesson. The expression EAT SHIT AND DIE. Not true. It should be revised to read: EAT SHIT AND WATCH YOUR MOTHER DIE. Of horror. The end.

Pajamas Momma

A while ago, Imommy did a post on the moment when she knew she was a parent. She asked if any one else had a similar story. I'm not sure I have one defining moment like that, where I caught puke in my hands and thought, and now I am officially a mother and isn't it disgusting. I have many puke moments, but most involve screaming for Matt because, while I do poop, I just do not do puke. If a kid pukes while he's not home, any puke contaminated clothing gets thrown away and we go elsewhere until he gets back. If he refused to clean up puke for me, I think I would just put the house up for sale, with a puke cleaning allowance, and buy a new one.

On reflection, though, an incident a year ago did make me starkly aware of myself as the parent of a little boy. I had two sisters and Matt and I met at fifteen. We didn't finally get things forever right until well into college, but still my sum total boy knowledge is scanty. (Scanty, as in sparse, not skanky as in nasty. This is a post about parenting, get your minds out of the gutter.)

Ess and Gee were eighteen months old and I was five months pregnant with Cue. I took a long hot shower while they napped one afternoon, in all honesty because they weren't really sleeping and I was tired and grumpy and pregnant and I couldn't hear them in the shower. When I finally turned off the running water, Gee was screaming hysterically.

Certain that I was the worst mother in the history of the universe, I threw a towel around my dripping hair and bolted down the hall to the nursery. I fully expected to find him hanging by his ankle from the crib, or on the floor with blood running from his head, or something equally disastrous. Social services would surely come and take them both away from me because what kind of incredibly irresponsible, selfish idiot of a mother TAKES A SHOWER while her children are safely locked in their cages, uh, I mean ensconced lovingly in their cribs. Any mother worth her salt hasn't showered in months or at least showers with the baby monitor.

The trip down the hall to the nursery seemed endless. I stood over his crib, panting, trying to find the severed limb or at the very least a red mark. From his mattress, he ceased his massive, causeless tantrum and surveyed me up and down. From my turbaned head, past my boobs, huge protruding belly and uncovered private parts. His gorgeous green eyes widened in dismay and horror. I swear he shook his head in disbelieving shame.
"Pajamas Momma," he admonished me.
"Are you okay? Where is the owie?" My brain hadn't quite caught up with the situation. I still thought there must be a source for such drama.
"Momma," he reiterated more forcefully, "PAJAMAS."

It gradually penetrated my consciousness. My naked self was absolutely horrifying to my not even two year old son. This child that I had spent a year nurturing with only my long-suffering boobs. He couldn't even remember what part of him had been dismembered, he was so overcome with embarrassment that I would burst into his room sans clothes.

It made me laugh and cry a little, as I dressed in my room, having ditched his boy-who-cried-wolf, hot-shower-high-ruining, judgemental ass in his crib. It also made me think for the first time about my boy child as a - well, as a boy. Does that sound awful? It's true. I understand that they are human and that they think and feel, but at first, babies are just extensions of you, or at least, mine were. They don't change your internal perceptions much because they don't view you with an external perception. Maybe I am not perceptive enough (okay, definitely), but until that moment, I didn't sense any unique perspective on me as a person. I had become a mother to a baby boy and then a baby girl, but only my own understanding of who I was changed. I hadn't yet seen myself reflected in the mirror of their understanding.

That afternoon, I saw my son see me. It was my first glimpse of who I was from where he lay. A mother, not in the sense that I understood it, a fairly young mother, a new mother, a girl who loves books and travel and writing, who went to law school and still calls her own mother when things go wrong, who got married and became a mother. Rather, in the sense of a boy growing little by little, inch by inch, into a man, I was a woman and an old one at that. I don't mean that I think that I look old or that motherhood aged me, what I mean is that when I think of my mother growing up, I don't think of a young woman trying to learn and doing the best she can. It took my own adulthood, my own motherhood, to perceive her that way.

I shot into the future in my mind and pictured Gee, a gangly red-headed teenager sitting on the couch relating to me as a mom, an older lady, asexual, someone you did not, for any reason, want to see naked. I hope he'll see me in other ways, as a secure anchor when he needs one, a confident if he's in trouble. He won't understand for a long time that others have viewed me differently, as something other than 'mother.' It will take his own adult reflection to comprehend that I have been and am a daughter, a pretty girl, a lover, a friend, a sister.

It made me a little dizzy because not all that long ago I sat on a couch next to a teenage boy that looked exactly like Gee is going to look, only this teenager wasn't a child to me. I saw a man. A crush. I can't believe that in thirteen years a girl could sit right there on that couch and see my baby that way. A girl who is two years old right now. At that time, it would never have occurred to me that my fifteen-year-old husband was somebody's baby. I know now that he was, still, always, at fifteen and at thirty-five, his mother's baby because I know thirteen years won't be long enough to pry my mind from the idea that Gee is my baby.

Most of the time, we look at ourselves and our lives through our own lens. Every once in a while we get a chance to peek into some one else's view finder and take a snap shot of some other facet of who we are. And then, we have to retreat into our own heads and recover from the shock.

I can't believe I'm going to do this. There are so many things wrong with this picture. The skinny tie. The shiny pants. The puffy dress. The Ohio hair. The dyed shoes. Be kind, it was the late eighties.


Our first date. We thought we were so grown up. We were such babies.

Building Bridges

I took a break and did a little R&R this week. On Monday, I finally used a gift certificate that I got for my birthday in MARCH and enjoyed a ninety minute massage. Heaven. In my wildest dreams, I begin every day that way. Today, we did a little water park time with the small fry(ies?). Heaven for them, I survived. There was a pool-closing contamination incident that we were not the cause of, so overall, a good day.

Later in the week, I plan to post some stories. I had to get the Messter map back out for one of them. Oh yes, it involves poop AND a new symbol. Good times. Right now, I just want to mention two quick things.

After a two week delay, we are traveling the blogosphere again at All Mediocre. Stop by and visit Anastasia at The Gift.

I am really excited about a new site - It's called Bridges and it's the incredibly smart project of Mel at Stirrup Queens and Sperm Palace Jesters.

There's an amazing variation of experiences across the internet, but they don't always come together easily. Sometimes, we are so caught up in our own worlds, that we don't have time to step into someone else's world. Walking in another person's shoes is always worth the time. It nurtures the best in human nature, compassion, empathy and understanding. This site is all about building bridges between experiences and perspectives. Here's the concept in their words.

There are contributing editors on a variety of different subjects and a new post every day. Take a peek, read a post or two, consider life from another person's point of view. I'm one of the international adoption contributing editors (blush) and I am so excited to be part of the project. I'll also be looking for guest posts with interesting perspectives on international adoption and transracial parenting issues. If you have something you'd like to share, email me!

The Obligatory Blog Post About Blogging

I've been blogging for a little over eight months. I started with one post a month, so really only four months. It's official. I'm addicted. I'm reading, um yeah, a lot of blogs now. Just ask Matt. He'll tell you that it's too many. He'll also tell you that he needs his own computer. Imagine it with much eye rolling and you'll get the picture.

(Matt is my husband. I'm leaving the HSSH nickname behind. It's annoying because it's hard to type. It requires shift. Matt is his real name, although I call him Tom. Matt is too biblical. [What movie for five points? Here's the tally. Aunt Dee - 10 points, Ryan - 5 points, Megan, Renee and Insta-mom - 2 points, rest of the universe - O points.])

Every thing bloggy still seems shaded in a warm, rosy red. I know that's not how it is all the time. Even with the rose-colored shades, I suffer from my share of blog-related angst that I stress about in the wee hours of the morning. Stressing at other times leads to pointless relationship strife. He has two answers. "Um, don't do it," and, "oh, wait, I can solve this problem, um, DON'T DO IT." I'm going to share here, where I might find a mediocum of sympathy.

A few weeks ago, Nissa, an interfriend (new word) of a friend (also, my top nomination for most needs to start her own blog award) left a really sweet comment. I reply-commented (another new word, urban dictionary here I come) that she was giving me a big head. At 2:00 a.m. the next morning, suffering from insomnia, I thought of her comment and my response and I broke out in a cold sweat. I had never said what was utterly obvious to me, "uh, no. No. Not me. I've never been smart or funny, let alone smarter or funnier than someone else." I stressed as only I can stress at 2:00 a.m. I sounded horrific! What a twit.

By the light of day, I went into the comments to re-respond and then I thought, "you dork, get over yourself. NO ONE CARES. No one is going back to old comments to see if you are a twit or not. They already know you are a twit." (As long as we're here, Nissa, I'm absolutely not any of those 'ers' except the one about having more children than you, which you know, some would not exactly call a badge of honor. Some might even suggest that if I were smarter, I might be able to prevent their continued appearance.)

My stress did make my twit self think about my blog vibe. People I've never met read about me here and form a picture of my me-ness. Do I seem friendly, cold, warm, obnoxious, sweet? When I tease my sister Dee or my brother-in-law Ryan, does it read as fun snark, or just meanness? (Wait. You do know that Ryan is completely serious when he calls me Internetgeniusmommy. Because, I am.) Some blogs I read are so warm and welcoming. I've visited a blog and been instantly drawn into the writer's story and personality. I wondered what initial vibe I give.

Then, I read something that made my blood run cold again. A blogger mentioned that she feels obligated to comment on some blogs because they comment on her blog. Another sleepless night. Seriously? I'm a commenter. I figure, I took the time to read the post, I at least want to say that I was there. At times, I have nothing to say or I'm in a hurry, but I comment often. Obviously, because every thing applies to me, I thought, "oh, for the love of god, here I was enjoying the feedback on my writing and thinking I was part of a community with interfriends and I'll be bushwacked if it doesn't turn out that I'm just inadvertently guilting people into coming here with my free-commenting ways."

Here it is, your official absolution. Do Not Do That. I don't mind. (Gulp. She says with fear of never receiving another comment.) I'll still comment. I like it. It's what makes me part of something instead of just yapping to my own damn self. Plus, I feel silly reading someone's thoughts and then just leaving. I'll comment when I want to comment and you do the same. Deal? Pinky swear?

I truly enjoy the blogs I visit for tons of different reasons. (Disclaimer! These categories overlap and are not mutually exclusive.) Some, like Cribcronicles, Hey You! Remember Me?!, Citizen of the Month, Thursday Drive, and While the Baby Sleeps have particularly beautiful and insightful writing. Some of my favorites mix great writing and sarcastic humor - The Bloggess, Black Hockey Jesus (although, I still think he rode the fast train to fame clinging to Backpacking Dad's coattails. Way to capitalize on name recognition. BHJ - BPD, black, back, you see what I mean.), Baby on Bored, Motherhood in NYC. Some inspire fascinating discussion like More Than a Minivan Mom. Others, like Harvard to Homemaker and I'm A Smart One have particularly compelling stories. Penny Carnival and The Z Life are soothing to visit, like a professionally decorated house or a relaxing trip to the spa. Funny Girl, But Why Mommy and You're Gonna Miss This are adoptive moms that make me feel less alone. Some, like AMomTwoBoys and Mama Ginger Tree are just fun and make me laugh out loud. So many are becoming friends. (Disclaimer #2! This is not even close to all of the blogs I read, or love. I'm just overwhelmed and weary of linking.)

On the other hand, blogging is supposed to be a break from my small children, not an excuse to let them be raised by wolves. (Or television. I would actually prefer a wolf to TV - nature, diversity, ecological awareness, survival instinct.) There is a limit to the amount of blogs I can follow, which makes me sad. On a marginally related rant, it bothers me that blogger doesn't save the email of everyone who comments. I've read that there's a "plug in" that requires an email to comment, but that's over my head. To me, "plug in" is what you do to make your vacuum cleaner run. And I'm Internetgeniusmommy, so if I can't figure it out, it can't be done.

Speaking of comments, I suffer from another bloggy angst related affliction. Commenter's remorse. It's relentless and it can strike at any time. I was so glad when Robin posted two comments in one day because she was afraid the first one might be taken wrong. Then, Marinka emailed me to see if a tweet (if you don't know you don't want to know) had offended. I heart you girls. I felt so validated in my commenter's remorse.

Want to know a secret? There is a very popular blog that I will not go back to because I left this asinine comment that made me sound like I was twelve. It wasn't mean or even rude, it was just dumb. Cringing right now dumb. I read her blog in my reader and I plan to keep it that way. It's too bad because she's an excellent writer and her comments often have interesting discussions. I'd like to follow her on twitter because most twitterers do and I read a lot of one-sided conversations not following her, but I won't. I don't want to give her a reason to remember my existence.

My final source of angst is blogrolls (for non-bloggers, those lists of blogs that you read in the sidebar.) I can't do it. Don't get me wrong, I like them. It's so much fun to visit a blog that I enjoy reading and see my name listed. I feel all warm and fuzzy to know that someone I've never met enjoys reading what I write. I've started one several times, but if I list everyone I read, it's way too long and if I don't, well, I just feel icky. Which is silly. While it's fun to see myself listed, it doesn't stop me from reading a blog if I'm not. It doesn't even make me feel bad - I respect that a lot of you just say, this is who I recommend, period. I wish I could be like that. But, I'm not. The idea of listing some and not others, even with valid reasons, bugs me. Can't do it. It's a wishy washy aspect of my personality that I'm not fond of, but there it is.

That's why I started the post of the week, to link to writing that I love, or that struck me as insightful, or funny. Perfect. Problem is, it's up for a week, and then it's gone. Too quick. I want something more.

We've been playing a movie quote game for a while in Anyland. I throw a marginally relevant movie quote (or song) into a post and the first one to identity it gets five points. Towards what you ask? Towards nothing, wiseass. This is not Delta Airlines. You're not working towards a free round trip ticket any where we fly on Tuesdays when the moon is blue and no one else wants to travel, so long as you sit by the bathroom and pay $100 in miscellaneous fees and agree to change planes in Chicago and Atlanta on your way from Seattle to Los Angeles. NO. You get nothing but the pleasure of beating out any other readers I might have and showing me your breathtaking trivia knowledge.

But, I hear you protest, you need recognition. Fame. Glory. Your hard earned points up in lights. Look hither, my trivia spouting friends. It was all worth it now, wasn't it? (Hint, quote game tally, in the sidebar ------>)

(Points will be awarded completely arbitrarily and without regard to any rules whatsoever on Tuesdays when the moon is full. Play is voluntary. The operator of the Movie Trivia Game accepts no liability for any damages, real or virtual, sustained in your participation in this game. The operator reserves the right to ban any one from play at any time without valid reason. Play at your own risk. All rights reserved. Not valid where prohibited. Must be 21 or older to play. Complaints can be registered with customer service and they will be responded to most likely never in Hindi or Bangladeshi. For English, press ten. [This one goes to eleven. Movie?])

The game tally is a thing of beauty because it solves my blogroll problem while giving credit where credit is due. Brilliant. Genius, your other name is Anymommy. Plus, I don't control it. How beautiful is that? I make no value judgments, follow no moral compass, nothing can be pinned back to me. It's all on you and your quick commenting and your trivia retention. It's like I'm a politician. It's fun. Maybe I'll run for president so I can appear on the cover of the New Yorker with a yellow Star of David tattooed on my forehead. Digression.

So, come on, bloggers of my heart. Get guessing so that I can add you to my blogroll, uh I mean movie quote contest. There's a new one way up there in the first paragraph of this ridiculously long and self-indulgent post and another just two paragraphs up. But listen, Black Hockey Jesus, Jenny the Bloggess, Citizen Neil and Stefanie (Baby on Bored). Don't even bother. I declare you disqualified. You can correctly identify movies until the cows come home and I won't add you. Why? You sob. The cruelty. Do you hate our blogs? Have we wronged you? Oh no, like the rest of the blogging world, I read your blogs with the fanaticism of a stalker. It's because you have enough hero worship for one lifetime. But mostly, its because you are funnier than me, you are smarter than me and worst of all, you write better than I do. So, no points. None. Childish and petty enough for you? What can I say, it's my world, you're all just reading about it.