New Year's Revolutions, Part Two

I'm really not in the best frame of mind today, so here's my thoughts in the simplest form.

We are basically a collection of our good and bad habits. Changing a bad habit can be tricky, so a good way to tackle it would be to replace a bad habit with a good one. Hooking tasks to already-existing committments is also effective; for example, if Trash Day is Monday, clean out the fridge on Sunday night or Monday morning. Take a look at your life and see what things happen when every day, every week, every month and find go-along jobs that match the things you are already in the habit of doing.
In order to change the way things are, you actually have to DO something. Do ONE thing. Just one. Then see how you feel, a little powerful, eh? Then do another, then another. Pretty soon you'll be hooked on the high from affecting positive personal change.
As you were.

Parenthood is War

Yes, war.

Of course, I say this with all the love and respect that the role entails- but in the end, it is truly a battle: Us against them (and there are times that I am not sure there is even an US!) They always are working together, plotting… always plotting…

Now, I happen to have some rather good children. Despite the genetic materials that we were working with- they seem to be alright. People complement me all the time about their behavior and manners. This makes me feel better- one little battle won by me.

I’d say my daughter was the leader- but up until this point in time, that was because she was the eldest child. Now that my middle son is getting to an age where he can formulate his own plans and purposely enact his own chaos… the line is rather blurry. And the baby! He’s a rogue child, working with either side in order to create as much trouble as possible.

All of this is my husband’s fault of course. His stubborn and intelligent DNA made up the entirety of his chromosomal contribution. This is why I often find myself laughing at his dumbfoundedness at our children’s actions. Why is he confused- that is him in a nutshell! Of all the people that should expect it to happen, for goodness sake- he’d do the same thing! Except for the look… all of them have it. That came from me. My daughter does it best, but don’t all girls? It really conveys their desire for you to spontaneously combust, right there before their eyes.

What they don’t realize is my love. I really do love them and that is why I shall win the war of parenthood. They will grow up and move out. They will go forth into the world as well mannered, thoughtful adults that care about the world around them. They will succeed at whatever it is they desire- because… I SAID SO! Oh, and because I love them enough to be strong, cruel, gentle and supportive- no matter the situation. I have plans of my own, you know…

Peppermint Precaution

This blog was born out of a physically invigorating, if rather intimate, bathing experience I recently had. The details are not necessarily sordid, however, they may not be suitable for all audiences.

Before I begin, a bit of background is necessary. I was on day 2 1/2 of a 2 1/2 day Presentable Clothing Strike. My Dearest had asked me, late on Christmas morning, if I had any plans to change into real clothes. "You're not going to wear your jammies all day, are you?" I hadn't planned on it, but now that you mention it, it sounds like a fantastic idea! So, what was originally a normal span of time to stay in one's pajamas, turned into an over-extended length of time in them. Not only did I wear them to bed on Christmas Eve and wear them all day on Christmas, but I also wore them to bed on Christmas night, and then proceeded to wear them all day on the 26th. I wore them to bed that night, and only after becoming eye-wateringly aware of my aroma today, did it occur to me that changing my clothes was long overdue.

Right after donning my then-new jammies, I was visited with what would precipitate a crushing blow (no pun intended) to my Dearest's libido. We had been teasing and flirting with eachother all day on the 24th, whispering promises of the things we were going to do to one another after all the stockings had been hung by the chimney with care. He took a trip to the liquor store to buy a bottle of Holiday Cheer (read: tequila), when what to my wondering thighs would appear, but a miniature drop of "At least we're not pregnant this year!" Upon returning and hearing of the news, his... face... fell, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that no amount of Holiday Cheer would get me horny enough to have Period Sex. Nuh-uh. No way, Jose Cuervo.

I don't know about most other women, but the aroma of this menstruating woman is uhhh, unique. It's not awful - it's just the scent of menses, I guess. Well, when you keep that same menstruating woman in the exact same clothes for 2 1/2 days (or if she keeps herself in them), the scent becomes much less like something one would describe as an aroma, and more like a stench. Then, when you add a half a pot of stout coffee to the mix on the last morning of a Presentable Clothing Strike, which really gets things moving, it becomes a malodorous reek that could clear rooms. At least the dogs thought that my company was simply grand!

I decided that my Dearest might well seek medical help for me if he came home from work to find me in the same jammies... still. So, I turned on an almost-too-hot shower, slowly acclimated myself to the scalding temperature by inching my way into the shower's stream with a bunch of "ooh-ing" and "aah-ing". I could literally feel the days of stank melt away. After floating out of my half-trance, I decided that some soap would be a good idea. I perused my cache of perfumy soaps. Vanilla? Nah... too subdued. Lemongrass? Nope... too lemongrassy. Irish Spring? No... too manly. Peppermint? Yes! Just what I need is to feel all tingly and invigorated! Nothing like peppermint to perk you right up and put some pep in your step!

I selected my scratchiest poofy thing, thinking that the added abrasiveness would help the peppermint to really get into my skin. I would soon, and for hours to come, regret that choice. I lathered up my whole body and reveled in the silky soapiness. My skin felt great, and my mind was clearing. I inhaled the minty steam deeply into my lungs and continued to scrub. Just what I wante... whoa! WHOA! WHAT THE HELL?!?! MY PUSSY IS TINGLING!!! A WHOLE LOT! OH GAWD, MAKE IT STOP! WATER!! SHIT, THAT WATER IS HOT! COLD WATER! WHOO! TOO COLD! (Note: Cold water added to a pepperminty bajingo gives the sensation of douching with an icicle.)

After some Cirque du Soleil-worthy contortions and gymnastics, I managed to dull the tic-tac feeling between my legs. I hurriedly washed my hair and turned off the shower. Pep in my step? Yeah, that's exactly what I had as I pulled back the shower curtain and allowed a frosty breeze to waft over my peppermint parts. I grabbed the towel and rubbed aggressively at my wet skin in order to bring some warmth to the situation. The rest of my body felt just fine, refreshed and lively, even. It was just that my hoohoodie was feeling, umm... Listerine Clean. You know that feeling you get in your mouth when swishing with Listerine? That tingle/pain feeling? When the arena is not the upper mouth, but the lower one, it's a whole 'nother experience, lemee tell ya!

Honestly, I think there should be a friggin' warning on the damn bottle! Yeah, for idiots like me who think that while peppermint will make the skin on the majority of one's body all tingly, that it would have a different effect on the more sensitive areas of skin. The only thing that makes me feel better about this experience is knowing that 1.) This tale will save someone else from unwittingly applying peppermint-infused soap to their privates, and 2.) There will undoubtedly be at least one person who, after reading this, will purposely apply peppermint-infused soap to their privates.

The moral of the story? Peppermint is not for pussies.

New Year's Revolutions--Part One

Why do people even try to keep New Year's resolutions? The act is doomed from the outset. Most New Year's resolutions are made a) while drunk, b) in front of loads of family members and c) in a loud tone of voice. Drunk people make bad decisions and everybody knows it, therefore it's much easier to shuck the guilt on January 1st when you can say "I was drunk, so it doesn't count." Many of the family members present at New Year's resolution declarations are teenagers who are most likely not drunk and therefore will remember and repeat ad nauseam everything you said until your resolve collapses in a fit of pique and you light up/chow down/lunge for the remote/consume enough Jagermeister to quell your urge to strangle any teenage wise-ass that dares to quip in your general direction. Anything declared in a loud tone of voice, even when alone, is null and void as soon as the echo is gone--that's just a fact. If one says loudly that one is never going to do a particular thing, like as not one will find oneself doing exactly that on the City Hall steps at high noon. An insidious aspect of this fact is that sometimes it can take years to swing back around to kick you in the ass, sometimes decades, and by the time you find yourself enmeshed in whatever you said you'd never do, you will have forgotten all about it and there will be some former teenage wise-ass right there to remind you.
Some people really do try to keep their resolutions, usually with hilarious results. A few New Years ago my sister-in-law quit smoking at midnight on January 1st. By 10:00am she had washed and folded every item of clothing in the house and she had a nice tic going in her face. By 1:00pm she was soaking already-clean dishes in the bathtub in boiling water and bleach and looking very sweaty about the temples. By 4:00pm she was frantically vacuuming out and Febreeze-ing her SUV in a superhuman effort to keep herself from leaping into it and heading pell-mell for the convenience store, and her eyes were twirling like pinwheels. My husband quit smoking about three years ago, and he did it without any fanfare whatsoever by choosing to extend a period of abstinence brought on by a sinus infection indefinetely. He never said "I quit" or "I'm going to quit" because he never ever EVER says things like that, he just goes ahead and does things and waits for us slowfolks to catch on. It is interesting to note that while I admire the hell out of his ability to just get on with it, it kind of ticks me off that he is so successful at affecting change. I despise change, even when it is inevitable, obviously necessary and/or the only thing between me and death, so there is always a lot of internal mental screaming involved with me making even the smallest change to the status quo.
There are still plenty of farmers living and farming around here and they all get together every year around this time down at the Service Club and plan out how they're going to rotate the crops so that the soil stays healthy, the point being that near-constant change is a natural state and if you don't roll along with it, that seed won't take. So even though the practice of making New Year's Resolutions is pretty much a futile act, the premise behind it is rooted in nature and inexorably tied to personal growth as a human being.
Part Two will appear on December 31st.

Turning Left

The main highway that goes through one of the little towns I live by is a two-lane street. It is also the only way to get through town. There is one stoplight. From 6-9 in the morning and 3-6 in the evening, it is impossible to make a left turn out onto the street. Am I taking the dog to the vet? Need to return a book to the library? Forgot to take something out for dinner this morning, so I have to stop by the grocery store? Well, then I am not going to get home by turning left out of the parking lot. It is like watching a tennis match. I am constantly looking left and right to find the smallest possible gap I might be able to pull out. The speed limit is only 35 mph, how hard can it be?
It seems like a ridiculous thing to get upset about. However, when I have been sitting in the lot of the vet’s office for ten minutes trying to go home, I get pissed. Most of the time, I give up, turn right and wait for a gap so I can pull into another parking lot on the left. Then, I can come back out of that parking lot and turn right to go home.
My reasoning of not doing certain things at certain times of the day confuses the kids sometimes.
“Hey mom, can we go to McDonald’s for dinner tonight?”
“No.”
“How come?”
“Because I have to turn left.”
They look at each other, roll their eyes and I can hear them whispering about how I have lost it as they walk down the hall.
It is time to get an oil change in the truck. I call to make an appointment.
“How about 4:30 Ma’am? Will this work?”
“Is that the only time you have?”
“On Thursday, yes Ma’am.”
“Nah, I have to turn left. What do you have on Friday?”
Silence.
“Well, we have a 1 o’clock on Friday.”
“Perfect. I’ll take it.”

My revenge for having to deal with turning left on a busy street in which no one can bother to ever be nice for once and just let you in? When I am driving, and I see someone trying to turn left out of a parking lot, if there is gap in the oncoming traffic, I stop and let them out. If I am feeling extra annoyed, I will even let the person out behind them too.
*honk honk*

Pass the Christmas Roles.

The tree is lit, and presents are piling up as hubby and I enjoy one more year of Santahood. This year, however, there is another Helper Elf joining the ranks. Our oldest daughter Madison had the Christmas Torch passed to her when she learned the “truth” about Santa Claus earlier this week. Now her role has shifted and she helps us set the stage of Christmas Wonder for her little sisters. She gets to have cookies and milk WAY past her bedtime and help Daddy put the flour boot-print on the carpet by the tree while I type a letter from St. Nick on the computer.

We’ve really gone all out with our Santa folly. The fact that she’s thrilled to be in on the Big Secret tickles me to no end. She’ll have an easy time keeping the magic alive for her sisters…at least until the first really big fight causes the secret to “accidentally” escape.

I thought that this would be a bittersweet holiday because Madison finally questioned the existence of Mr. C., but that’s not how it feels at all. It feels wonderful, believe it or not. She is now a part of creating the enchantment and somehow that makes this Christmas feel so special.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

Even the dog is full of the Christmas Spirit. Unfortunately, THAT leaves a horrible stench in the room and a pathetic look on his face.

When Fashion Attacks

While braving the weather and throngs of my fellow Holiday Procrastinators on Christmas Eve Day, I became aware of an alarming fashion statement: high-heeled snow boots.


If any of my readers happen to be owners of this seemingly perilous footwear, please feel free to explain to me the merit of such a fashion trend.

Now, I readily admit that while I am new to life amid snow and ice, I am not new to good sense. The latter is at complete and total odds to this mind-boggling fashion statement.

I don't presume to think that fashion should makes sense, as historically, fashion does not make sense. The following garment is certainly a stellar example of senseless fashion.

The Hood Thong. This particular piece of apparel makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, unless we are referring to bad sense. With this piece of "clothing" it is now possible to give a wedgie without ever having to catch the edge of one's undies. Just grab a hold of the hood of the next uber-thin, stuck-up tramp you see, and pull hard. My own opinion of a thong is that it is a constant wedgie... but, whatever. I have to wonder what sort of necessity gave birth to this invention. I mean, were there an overwhelming amount of complaints to the manufacturers of hooded-sweaters that the hoods kept falling down and that drawstrings were just not enough to keep them in place? Or maybe it was the very valid complaint that people are sick and tired of being subject to the "thong preview" when women bend over. Maybe this piece is some one's perverted way to address that problem? Either way, I just don't see how this garment is a solution... to anything, really.

Back to the hazards of high-heeled snow boots. I first noticed them being sported by a middle-aged woman wearing three thick layers of foundation, what must have been an entire tube of eyeliner, and a pair of jeans that were at least 3 sizes too small and which, unfortunately for my retinas, gave an ongoing thong preview to all who weren't yet blind. Did I mention that I was at Wal-Mart? I probably didn't have to. Anyhow, for that one woman, they perfectly complimented her fashion sense.

I was shocked to notice them once more when I stopped at the gas station. This time, they were on a young woman who, other than these boots, seemed to be well put-together. There was no evidence of a year's worth of make-up all at once, her pants fit decently, and though my eyesight was still recovering, I do believe that her undergarments were in their appropriate place. She just looked so awkward attempting to maneuver the ice-slicked pavement in these boots, that it completely ruined her otherwise decent fashion sense.

I filled my tank, grabbed my receipt, and left the gas station even more perplexed as to why, oh why, someone would spend money on high-heeled snow boots?!?! I was hoping that I had seen the last of this physically-hazardous fashion statement. But, no... I hadn't.

I observed them once more at the grocery store, displayed on a teenager, who, to be perfectly honest, is the only person with an excuse for the lack of brain-power necessary to wear them. I couldn't take it any more. I just couldn't stop myself from laughing out loud - in amusement or incredulity I don't know. But, a loud laugh came unbidden from my mouth. The moody teen with her ironed, streaked bangs dramatically covering all but one corner of one eye didn't notice as she sulked fashionably behind her Mom in the produce section. I'm guessing that these were her first pair of heels, as she tried desperately to not look too awkward. Instead, she looked like she was walking on stilts and was about to topple over at any moment. Her coolness prevented her from waving her arms in an attempt to balance herself, and while focusing intently on not losing her balance, she walked smack-dab into her Mom who had paused to inspect some vegetables. I had to retreat to the dairy section to hide my tears and utter amusement.

I realize that I am probably coming off as judgmental and petty by ridiculing something so inane as others' shoe choices. I'm sorry, but when one chooses to wear something so contradictory as high-heeled snow boots, they must realize that they are making themselves targets for folks such as myself who prefer to make it through the snow and ice without physical injury, or without having to stop to assist the nincompoop of a woman with a sprained ankle who decided that 22 degree icy, snowy, winter days were the appropriate venue for their fashion show, and who will inevitably be the true victim of a fashion faux pas.

Chrismas eve craziness and death

This year the whole Christmas season has been crazy. My father, who was diagnosed with cancer back in July decided to take a turn for the worse around Thanksgiving. He has been in pain, not eating, and driving everyone around him nuts. For the last couple of weeks it has been a waiting game. He finally passed this morning at 4am. We made the last minute decision to go to Grand lake. Today I had planned to go get the last two things on my list that should have been really easy to pick up. Instead I have been running around like crazy woman. My wonderful husband had out patient surgery yesterday afternoon and can't lift anything so I have been doing laundry, getting packed, wrapping last minute presents, and I still haven't gotten one of the last items I wanted to get for my oldest son. Everything fell to me to get done last minute. At 33 weeks pregnant this was not what I needed. Everything is finally packed we are just waiting for my brother now. We will be loading up in the car in a little bit to go relax and enjoy without any stress. The kids can run and play and there won't be any responsibilities.

In the craziness I almost forgot one of the most important thing we have to take with us. I almost forgot 'Twas The Night Before Christmas. This will be the ninth year we will be reading it on Christmas eve. Being at different relatives over the years for Christmas has made having any sort of tradition very hard, but I make sure I take my book with me every year.

This year we will again read the story and share with family and remember my father in peace. Maybe we will even conference call with our other brother and include his family in the reading of the story. We have done it before.

I hope that everyone has a very merry day tomorrow whether they be celebrating Christmas or some other holiday. May the day be happy and family be close.

Aqua Net and Laundry

In my quest to improve myself as a Mom and a wife, I have found that I seem to unerringly revert back to those old habits - the ones I'm trying to replace with new and better habits.

For example, I hate laundry with a fervid passion. I hate every aspect of it - from the hamper, to the sorting, to the loading, to the flipping of loads - all of it - most especially the folding and putting away.

*shudder*

The only part that I have ever remotely enjoyed is taking warm, clean laundry out of the dryer, shoving my face into it and smelling the aroma of fabric softener. I've ruined that little joy for myself, however. I went and found out about the chemicals included in that neat little laundry additive and how they are an environmental evil that I can easily alleviate by not using fabric softener. So now, any hope that I ever had of being that MomWife who dutifully attends to the the laundering as soon as there is enough soiled clothing to justify a load was vaporized when Downy became an environmental no-no.

When we moved from Arizona to Colorado this last Spring, I decided to turn over a new leaf in my housekeeping habits. Instead of waiting until the dirty laundry could almost literally march itself to the washing machine, I promised myself that I would set aside two days per week to do laundry. After all, I'm now a Stay-at-Home Mom. That yearned-for acronym that is laden with images of ruffled aprons, perfectly prepared pot roasts, and Aqua Net. Two days per week of laundry really shouldn't be THAT hard... right?

Well, it wasn't too hard at first. For the first three months after we moved into the house, I was suffused with that New Home Nesting feeling. My imaginary ruffled apron was in place, dinner was perfectly prepared every night, and the toilets were all swished once daily. Dirty laundry never sat in a hamper for more than 24 hours, and I even began to enjoy the vinegar/essential oil combination that replaced Downy. Once all the boxes were unpacked and I could really see what that kind of uber-organization and attention to detail produces, I was proud of myself. After all, it really IS much easier to clean things when you have good cleaning habits to begin with. Doing things like stripping all the beds in order to hang the blankets outside - airing them out, I think my Great Grandmother would have called it - wasn't that big of a deal. Taking a half hour to wipe down the floor boards wasn't a big deal because I had already swept, mopped and vacuumed all the floors according to my Cleaver-like schedule. Taking half of an afternoon to bake homemade bread was fun, because I didn't have to wade through the kitchen to find the counter tops, much less all of the ingredients and tools necessary. In a nutshell, I was wallowing and reveling in my June Cleaver-ness!

Fast-forward to today.

I am seriously debating loading all the dirty laundry up and going to a laundromat. I don't know what the hell happened to my cleaning schedule, my un-dusty floorboards and the homemade bread. Once I ran out of essential oil, the thought of adding plain ol' vinegar to the laundry lost its "green" appeal. My blankets haven't been "aired out", nor my floorboards dusted, nor the bread baked since I hung up my ruffled apron, so to speak. I don't even know when that was, exactly. It sort of happened gradually. I thought I was still doing a good job at this cleaning thing, when all of a sudden, I took a good look around and - nope.

Don't get me wrong, the house is certainly not a pig sty, and it is much more organized and clean than I have ever kept a home - but my original Betty Crocker dreams of a spotless home have dissolved. The Aqua Net haze has cleared out of my post-feminist era brain and I have returned to reality.

Reality.

Where laundry does pile up and even occasionally has to be hauled to a laundromat despite the presence of a working washer and dryer at home. Where dishes, too, pile up, and the left over experiment of a casserole from last night never made it into the fridge, so the cats helped themselves to the layer of cheese I piled on top of it to mask the horrendous combination of spices used therein. The kids' bathroom is allowed to get not-quite hazardous at times. I almost needed a jackhammer to remove the toothpaste from the sink this morning!

Yeah, THAT reality.

I'm trying really hard to not beat myself up over it. I'm trying to convince myself that it's perfectly normal for the household chores to get out-of-hand on occasion. I'm still gun-shy that it will get as bad as it did in Arizona. I find some solace in the fact that underneath the thin layer of mess, there is a real sense of organization that I've never had before. I can thank Aqua Net, Betty Crocker, and my imaginary ruffled apron for that.

Somehow, the braless child of a hippie inside of me, and the coiffed perfectionist also inside me, will meet somewhere in the middle rather than constantly cat-fighting. There is one thing that both extremes of my personality can and do agree on - the chores will always be there, but the kids are growing up fast - so, take every opportunity to cuddle and hug and tickle and kiss and more than anything - love. Those opportunities are gone in the wink of an eye. While June Cleaver was mending Ward's socks, Wally and The Beav grew up and moved out.

Not me. So, on that note, I'm going to ignore the buzzing of the dryer for a few more moments and go tickle my boys until they beg me to stop. Then, I'll kiss their sweaty little foreheads and hug them.

I'll catch up with you later, June.

Procrastination is Dangerous

Procrastination can be dangerous to your health. Not really in this case, but I suppose it could be under certain circumstances. Today is the Nineteenth of December. I have yet to mail my Christmas cards. So it is likely that many of my dear friends will get them after the holiday - Nice Job, Me!

I don't actively procrastinate, if that makes any sense. I do not seek alternative things to do when there is other more pressing stuff that needs to get done first. Well, at least not usually. I get distracted. A good amount of my distraction goes along with being the mother of an active Toddler.

Connor keeps me on my toes. He really does. Always learning new things... like how if he hits the Christmas tree, the needles fall off. Or how Mommy makes funny noises if he slaps her boobs. Or chomps on her shoulder. Let me just say that it is never uneventful in my household. I can't fathom how anyone can handle having more than one kiddo, especially at this stage in the game.

Some days I swear I could pull my hair out! What keeps me from grabbing a handful and yanking? I would look rather awful with bald patches.

Also, procrastination is why this blog is so short - because now I have to run off to work before the snow starts falling.

When Mama Is Sick

I'm hauling around a fat case of what seems to be the flu, if the emissions I'm producing fairly regularly are any indication of The Disease Within. The kids were sick for about 15 minutes before their tiny muscular immune systems soundly kicked any and all virus asses present and now they have begun the process of tearing the house apart around my supine, heavily medicated form.
It always seems as though the small oversights we all make from time to time all come screaming to the forefront when Mama's temperature cruises over 101 degrees. All of a sudden, we're out of toilet paper, yogurt, crayons and Scooby-Doo episodes that haven't been seen one thousand times. Every kid stomach is magically and eternally empty and the cats decide to stage a coup over the ultra-cheap food I make them eat by rattling the bag as soon as my fevered brain hits REM sleep. The Boy somehow manages to find and watch several episodes of Deranged on Discovery I.D. and then comes to ask me a bazillion questions like "Mom, what's 'ligature strangulation'?" The Girl decides it's a Clothing Optional Day and then answers the door for the Fed-Ex guy. All the real food I bought last week has mysteriously vanished, leaving me to try and create a palatable kid-friendly meal out of mayonnaise, macaroni and frozen spinach. What do I care? It's not going to stay down anyway. I'm not exactly sure how the kitchen floor got to look as though Salvador Dali threw up on it sometime between midnight and six in the morning, but I strongly suspect cats were involved. All the annoying toys I've been hiding in the back of the closet crawled out and parked themselves in easy-to-reach places so that I could be awakened by a cacophonous melange of annoying-toy sound effects, accompanied by a symphony of sibling argument. Apparently, all the towels are out back smoking a blunt and laughing at my stupidity for not checking to make sure at least one of them was sober and available to dry my butt. I can't tell if the dishes in the dishwasher are clean or dirty or somewhere in between. The bed is calling me and it has a voice like Barry White. Every telemarketer in the nation has gotten the message that I'm 'Quilled up beyond logical thought and have been attempting to get me to buy everything from trash bags to airline tickets. Too bad I don't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, or I could go and listen to a forty-hour presentation on investing in Florida swampland.

Blog Like Ninja, Eat Like Sumo!

I'm not sure what happened last night. I made and ate a perfectly normal dinner around 6pm. I was happy, had a full belly, and Shawn took care of the dishes afterward. Yay!

And then, about 7-ish or so, I realized I was hungry again. Three hours later, I looked up from the couch where I was seated, and realize that in the past 180 minutes I had consumed (with slight assistance from Shawn and Killian):

A box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, a pouch of instant mashed potatoes with butter added, a box of Stove Top stuffing slathered with turkey gravy, a quarter of a (big) bag of M&M Darks, a banana, several grapes, and half a casserole dish of green bean casserole.

Somewhere in the course of this, Shawn mentioned getting a second serving of stuffing for himself. I have a vague memory of growling at him, like a protective kitten hoarding a Q-Tip. I'm fairly positive that I had gravy running down my chin at the time.

Total calorie consumption in those three hours? Somewhere in the 2,000 range. Grams of fat? Even I am not masochistic enough to want to read the damage I've just done to my cholesterol levels. I don't have a fetus, I've got a tapeworm with legs.

And don't even tell me to put down the fork. I'll probably stab you with it and then dine on your carcass.

The Writing on the Wall…

I’m writing this in the event that I am discovered by another of my kind.

I must warn you now: Flee. Do everything in your power to leave now. I fear you will be finding my dried up remains on the windowsill. I have tried to escape repeatedly, but there seems to be no opening. After many attempts to penetrate the transparent barricade I have finally given up. My entire body hurts.

In the short time I’ve been trapped here I’ve seen and heard such disturbing things:

The Tall Man sits in the next room howling at the flashing rectangular box and then walks by every fifteen minutes and says things to the Woman that make absolutely no sense. Why, just moments ago he passed by her and said, “Smells like teen spirit!”
What does that even mean?!

The Tall Man and the Woman have three pupae developing here as well. I believe the humans refer to their offspring as “kids”. These Kids run through the house as if they were being pursued by one of their very large animals. They tear screaming past me and then stop suddenly to listen to the Tall Man’s bellowing. As soon as Tall Man leaves to redirect his yelling toward that bright rectangular thing in the living room, the Kids take their game (“tag”, they called it) upstairs, where they cause the walls to shake and the chandelier in this room to flicker. Good heavens.

Even the Woman, who has a decent voice, is a bit on the odd side. She has not left the smaller rectangular screen in the “office” in simply AGES. I hear her humming and singing little ditties to herself. The songs are beautiful, really, but strange…something about a “love boat”. Now what on earth do you suppose that is?

The smallest Pupa has just run into the “office” to yell information at the Woman. “If you go to sleep for NINE YEARS then Santa Claus will climb up a chimney and leave toys in your socks!”

That settles it. The humans who live here are insane. Authorities should really be notified. After I rest a while, I will make another go of my escape.

_____________________________________________________________________

I’m feeling a bit better now. I might be able to find a point closer to the window just in case the force field has been lifted. I really must get back to the outside world.

____________________________________________________________________

It’s me again. The Large Feline spotted me and gave chase. I somehow managed to escape, but my left wing was damaged in the process. Large Feline knocked over a plant in her attempt to devour me and now it will not stop looking at me. That blasted Feline gives me the heebie-jeebies.

And what’s this? It seems that the Woman is searching for something. Ah, a newspaper circular. Perhaps she will use it to thwart the Large Feline’s next attempt to murder me.

I fear that Large Feline has given away my location to the Woman. She is approaching with the newspaper held above her head. What can I do?! I no longer have the strength to fly. Perhaps if I sit very still, she will not see me. Alas, I am overwhelmed by this sense of impending doom. I don’t think the Woman is very nice after all. I think she – hey, what’s that say? “Now thru Thursday, Milk $2.69 per ga-

Concentratio...

I have been sitting at this computer on and off all morning attempting to string cohesive thoughts together, only to be incessantly interrupted by my 4-year old. My original plan for the blogs I intend to write is to focus on reclaiming one's identity and passion in the midst of Motherhood.

After unsuccessfully writing all morning, I have decided to portray just how difficult concentrating on one single personal interest really is while trying to still be a good Mom.

On that note, I will write some gibberish for a bit just to see how long it takes to be interrupted by the boy-child. This phenomenon also occurs any time that a Mom is on the phone for more than, say, 30 seconds. All of a sudden, the child who was perfectly content while munching on fish-shaped crackers and coloring at the kitchen table desperately needs your undivided attention... NOW. As I sit here, I am also reminded that although they may not always verbally assault any lone time you may find, they have other ways of derailing your attention. Bangs and squeals from the other side of the house will draw your focus away from whatever non-child-related activity you are engaged in just as quickly as, "Mom, mom, mom, mom, maaahhhhm!" will.

I'll be right back. I have to find out what he's banging on...

It was just the dog's dish. Poor Moki.

From here on, I will insert the verbal intrusions of my dear, sweet child as they occur. I'm trying to ignore him becau * Mom, look, it's a sword and a gun! kpew! kpew! kPOW! * se I feel that it's important that he learn that Mommy really does need some time to herself. * Mom? Mom. See? it can do dis!* * I can do dis with the sword and dis with the dog! kpew!* Note that I did not have a moment to think in between his last two statements.

Okay, he's quiet for a moment again. Where was I? Oh yeah, mommy alone time. So, though I don't think that Moms should exclude their children * The sword said whack-a-mole, so I whacked it and it said BUTT! * from the activities which they like to engage in , I do feel that it's important that, at around age 4, kids begin to learn that Moms do need some priv * Mom! look! the tongue is sticking out! * ate time. I try to instill a love for alone time in my sons. I suggest some quiet reading * Hey, is somebody out there? Whaaa! Mom, come look it's gross! * time or even some sort of art project that they can do by themselves. It's important for anyone, child or adult, * Mom, look, my sword said it's a drumstick! * to be able to soothe and amuse themselves. If a child is not given the opportunity * dum-diddy-dum-de-dum-de-dum-BUTT! * to amuse themselves, they will grow up becoming a very emotionally needy adult. I don't want that for *I'm coming hero fighter! Mom, look, I'm a hero! * either of my boys.

Speaking of alone time, the young, sweet one has gone downstairs and though I appreciate the alone time I have been granted by said child, I am very worried about the state of my living room, because as I recall, he had something in his hand which he referred to as drumstick... he also mentioned whacking things... I'll be right back.

Well, isn't that nice? He is sitting on the floor petting the dog nicely. Just when I think that he's nothing but a chubby-cheeked ball of destruction, he goes and does something sweet like that. Now, I can't remember what point I was going to try and make. God! Have I become so accustomed to interruptions and multi-tasking that I can't think straight otherwise? I'd like to think that my mental capacity is resilient enough to weather the intellectual strains of Motherhood... but, I'm afraid that's not true.

Okay, it's coming back to me... reclaiming identity and passion. Ummm. Honestly, I have no advice to give on this subject. I suppose that anything I write will only reflect the difficulties that I hope I'm not the only one to struggle * Mom, can you move your coffee? * with. When this topic first came up, all I could do was to comapare the Mom Me to the pre-Mom Me. I used to be spontaneous, creative, carefree and daring. Not so much anymore. It occurred to me that comparing my Mom-self to my pre-Mom self was defeating. Rather, I should try * Hey Mom, are we gunna go yet? * to envision what I want to be , what I'd like to * I wanna go, so BUTT! * accomplish, not outside of Motherhood, but in conjunction with Motherh * Can we go nowwww? * ood.

Okay, there goes my train of thought again. Simple as that. A few high-pitched words * MOM! The cat pooped orange!! * from the littlest of my spawn and I've completely lost the point of what I was saying. Actually, I suppose that loss perf * It's slimy and eewwy! Come look, Mom! * ectly illustrates the point that I think I was making.

I think.