You are currently browsing the monthly archive for October, 2005.
Is it even ok to say that? Does that make me a terrible Mormon? I know I am not the first one to think of this or feel this way, but I dread Sunday. Can I still be a faithful saint and love Christ and think Sunday’s suck? Can I even put those words in the same sentence and not be relegated to some lower level of exaltation??
I freely admit that my faith has been stronger than it is right now. This does not make me happy, but I also know that it will pass, as it always has, and I will again feel more sure of things. The thing about Sundays is when I am in a spiritual lull, it is that much harder to be reverent at the 9 a.m. Sacrament. The mornings are not a good time for a pregnant, sick mama like me. Nothing starts a morning off better than barfing in the kitchen sink while trying to cook breakfast. To get to the meeting on time, we have to be out the door by 8:30, and getting all of us presentable and ready is a super-human challenge I am not meeting well these days. Even giving up control of what the kids wear and being ok with mismatched outfits hasn’t really made it easier. Yesterday, Eric had on green pants and a blue plaid shirt, courtesy of his father, Jeffrey had on blue pants, a red shirt and a bulldozer sweatshirt, and I wasn’t about to complain. (Why can’t men match things?)
When we get to church, we usually sit in the folding chairs in the back, since I know we will be exiting at some point. Jeffrey is finally old enough to sit through the entire meeting, usually pretty happy with something to color or a book to read. But Eric, ah, that is another story. I don’t think there has ever been a worse child in church. He screams. I mean really, really screams, and I am usually out in the hallway before the sacrament song is over. We have the bag full of tricks, we have treats and things that are supposed to keep him occupied. Nothing works. I have tried the whole “holding him in my lap” in the foyer so he doesn’t think leaving is fun. He screams more, and everyone inside can hear him. I have gone in a classroom. They can still hear him. He has given me a bloody nose and knocked one of my teeth loose head-butting me while I try and hold him, seriously. His teachers comment on how strong he is… really? I hadn’t noticed. So now I let him walk around and we talk about the pictures on the wall. But I resent it. I wonder why I got dressed and got here, just to miss the entire service. It seems so futile.
By the time Sacrament service is over, I am a sweaty mess, fighting my nausea, and just desperate to get Eric to nursery, where his teachers also say he is a wonderful child who plays very nicely with others. At least he is only sociopathic to me. Usually I manage to make it to Sunday school, which I enjoy with my husband. Then comes Relief Society. Ugh. I used to like it, but lately, I avoid it at all costs. The room is too small for so many ladies, and they will never open the window, and it gets so hot in there I cannot stand it. Then there is usually someone nearby who in wearing too much perfume, and I have to run out to throw up anyway. The foyer couch has been my third-hour spot lately, and I am happy with the quiet and the coolness. This is what I look forward to on Sunday- sitting alone in the foyer for an hour, letting the cold air wash over me any time someone opens the door.
I cannot imagine there is anything out there I have not tried to make Sundays better, but if anyone has any suggestions, I would welcome them. I may end up being an attending angel if I don’t figure this one out!
Last night was the trunk-or-treat at our ward. We got dressed, packed and loaded up in the car and then it just pooped out at the bottom of our driveway. Kaput. Nothing. Would not start to save the day, and the only other vehicle we have is DFM’s pickup-truck; there is no room for two carseats, Daddy and a pregnant Mama in the cab of the truck.
Time to make a decision: who gets to go? Well, it really wasn’t hard, since DFM is on the activities committee (he-he!) and Jeffrey is the only one who really understands what the whole Halloween-candy-sugar-thing is, so Eric and I went back in the house and Dad and Jeff loaded in the truck and took off.
Eric absolutely would not put on his tiger costume- we tried, but he screamed as if we were amputating his legs, so he was in regular clothes with a super-man cape on…an ok costume for a two-year old if you ask me anyway. He walked around the house and down the hall and I dropped two pieces of candy in his little bag, and he was happy as a clam. Initially I was a little ticked about not going; I’m not sure if I was looking forward to seeing some friends and not cooking dinner, or if I am just grumpy because I am pregnant. Both are possible. Eric and I played a game of “Cootie” and then I got him ready for bed. He was super happy and went to bed with no fuss, and I found myself surprisingly content to be at home alone for a few hours.
The Dad and Jeff got home around 9, after cleaning up and cleaning the building on top of that. The Saturday morning crew couldn’t make it, so the activities committee did it after the dinner. Really sorry I missed that! Jeff was in his deshelveled cow suit, still with chocolate milk on it and now with taco soup added in the mix, and with a crazy sugar-buzz. He gets wildly red-faced when over-excited, and he looked like a tomato when they came it. We have to remind him to cool down when he is playing- I think it might just be a red-head thing with the fair skin and all, but he is like a turkey with a pop-up button. We always know when he is done.
They had a good time, and as far as I am concerned, Halloween is over; a few more days and I can almost get out the Bing Crosby Christmas album!
Is it ever ok for a mom to completely flip her wig? I pretty much lost it yesterday with my kids. Not that the backstory matters, but I am so tired of being sick, and not getting any sleep and of barfing. That is definitely not my kids problem, but I kind of made it theirs, and I am feeling pretty guilty.
I had a meeting to register Jeffrey for kindergarten; who knew you had to do it almost a year ahead of time? I was trying to get ready and look somewhat presentable, and I went in the bathroom for about 5 minutes- just long enough to put my crazy hair in a pony-tail clip and put on some mascara and lipstick. Literally, five minutes. When I came out, the boys had gotten the Costco muffins from the kitchen, and had crumbled them up on the living room floor, and were on their hands and knees pretending to be puppy dogs. This is the second time this week they have gotten into the muffins and made a huge mess; the first time, I rolled with it, this time, not so much. I blew a gasket.
Everyone yells at their kids sometimes, but I feel really bad now for how much yelling there was. I put them both in their rooms, and cleaned up the mess, steaming the whole time. The part where I think I might have really blown it is next. I calmed down, then went to check on Jeffrey. He was on his bed, but he was playing with toys, a big no-no when on a time-out, and he knows it. It ticked me off so much that I grabbed the toys he was playing with and threw them in the garbage.
admittedly, I overreacted. I was so steamed, and now I have to eat crow with my kids and explain that Mama was wrong to yell, grab toys and throw them away. I acted like the two year old, and am suitably embarrassed and chagrined. How does one recover her dignity and authority with her kids after acting like a ticked toddler myself?
(Heather O. over at Mormon Mommy Wars wrote a nice post about my site this morning… It’s so cool when I find out people are actually reading this! I sit and spill my crazy mind between changing diapers, wiping noses and uncontrollable bouts of morning sickness, and someone actually thinks what I say is interesting! Hoo-Ha!)
Today was the Halloween party at Jeffrey’s school, and I think all preschool teachers deserve medals during the holidays. I can’t even handle two sugar-whacked kids, let alone a class of twenty. Today the teachers eyes had that glassy crazed-over look when she brought Jeff out to the car, and I really felt for her. Jeffrey went to school as a cow, courtesy of Costco and their marked-down costumes on Monday, and was disappointed that none of the girls were cowgirls. He had spilled chocolate milk all down the front of the suit, and was unzipped halfway, a-la Elvis, as he buckled himself into his booster. (It really is a happy day when they can get in and out of their seats by themselves.)
We were on the way home from school when I see he is doing the “potty-dance” in his seat, and he starts to squeal that “it’s coming!”, we are no where near a bathroom, and when I think of pee mixed with the chocolate milk, I start to feel ill. So I pull over on a sidestreet, grab an empty McDonald’s cup from the floor, unbuckle him and unzip the Elvis cow suit the rest of the way. He was soooo impressed with my ingenuity, and I am afraid he thinks this is the new cool thing to do, but I was desperate. Does this make me a bad mom? I tried not to think of what was sloshing around in the cup for the rest of the way home. Sometimes being a mom is so gross.
The Hand of the Lord in the Fog:
When we last left our hero, he had listened to my late night revelation about how I belonged with him, and threatened my life with silence if I was not serious. Oh, I was more serious than I had ever been about anything. It was late fall, and we talked some about what we should do. He was living over 1200 miles away from where I was in Northern California, and we agreed that he should come down at Christmas and spend it with my family.
To say that I was a nervous wreak is ridiculous. I could not even function as the day of his arrival came closer. My nerves were shot, I couldn’t sleep, and I was panicked about this giant step I was about to take with my best friend. I know he felt the same way. There was 9 years of history bearing down on us, and we were crumpling under the pressure. When I picked him up at the airport, there was nothing natural about anything. How could two people who had seen each other through so much and love each other so much be so awkward?? We had always been affectionate with one another, but now we were afraid to even touch hands, let alone hug. There was uncomfortable silence, something we had never know. How bad could this suck?
Looking back, we just put way too much pressure on ourselves, not only with deciding to try something that had been simmering on the back burner for almost a decade, but by doing it at the holidays with all the family pressure that ensured too. Christmas night we sat in my living room after being at my mom’s all day, and we both cried our hearts out as we discussed how awful this had been. It was as if our friendship had disappeared and neither of us knew where to. My worst fears were coming true. Early the next morning, I took him to the airport and dropped him off. I didn’t know if I would ever see him again, and I drove to a friends house and sat on her couch and sobbed for two hours. My heart was breaking, I just put the man I thought I belonged with on a flight far away, and I was heartsick with how bad things had gone.
All cried out, I went home and there was a message on my machine. When I had taken him to the airport, it was a little overcast and grey, but nothing unusual. But by the time I got home, the fog was so thick that they had to close the airport. (Let me state: that particular airport had not been closed due to fog in over 20 years, and has not been since.) He had taken a cab to his brother’s house in San Jose, and was going to be staying there that night until he could re-book a flight. If I wanted to call him, I could. This was mythical second chance and I knew it. All I wanted to do was see him. Immediately I called, and went to pick him up. He didn’t belong with his brother, he belonged with me! And all the pressure was gone; we were just friends again, how it should have been all along.
That night we went out to dinner with my cousin Michael, and we had a ball. We were relaxed and easy and comfortable. After dinner we all went back to my house and just hung out and talked in the kitchen until the wee hours. During my dating years, Michael had often been my “date” when going to clubs or to see bands, and he was making some joke about how I liked bald guys (true). DFM looked at me and said if that that was all it took, give him a razor! At the time he had long, beautiful hair- and he promptly cut it all off right there at my kitchen table. We were laughing and having fun, and Michael and I were leaning on the counter while DFM sat in a chair at the table, clean shaven. I leaned over to Michael, and wryly commented about what I should do now. He put his hand on the small of my back, pushed lightly, and said “You are going to marry that man, Tracy”. And with that, DFM and I kissed each other for the very fist time.
That was my third proposal. Thank the good Lord for the fog, and for giving me a second chance. DFM left the next day to go back to Washington; it was December 28th. On February 1st, he was down in California with an apartment two blocks away, a job, and a fat diamond ring in his pocket. You think he was motivated? We were married in September of that year, exactly ten years after we met. I was 27.
It was the first time in my life I was absolutely sure that the hand of the Lord intervened on my behalf. Who waits ten years for some crazy chick to pull her head out? I count my lucky stars that he did. I think it’s a pretty good Love Story, but then it’s mine!
The Cliff’s Notes on the Torture Years
After contemplating rehashing a rather lost part of our lives, I have decided to use laser-like precision and just cover the important parts…
DFM had to propose to me three times before I got it. It was obvious to everyone that we belonged together, but I was the last to realize it; I take full responsibility for my stupidity. The first time he asked was shortly after the original b.f. and I split up, just before my 21st birthday. We were walking across a big grassy field near my house at night, and I asked with characteristic tact if he loved me. Per normal, he answered honestly, and told me how he felt about me. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I know I didn’t handle it gracefully or with the tenderness he deserved. Strike one.
Shortly after this, I began to date another friend of DFM’s, who I shall just say was a youthful and folly-struck waste of time. My brothers refer to this particular boyfriend as “Genius-Boy” and for Dumb and Dumber to give someone this moniker speaks volumes. Genius-Boy had problems with honesty, substance abuse and basic humanity, but I thought I could Fix him! Three years later, with DFM pulling me through, I dragged myself from that wreckage, and got into a 12-step program and finally began to figure out who I was. Once again, who was there for me? Could I be any denser? So came proposal #2, in my front yard one night. I freaked out at this one. I was fresh out of a bad place, and just getting it together, living clean and right and taking good care of myself, and I could not fathom getting involved romantically with anyone, let alone someone I loved so much. Call me crazy. Strike two.
DFM moved away. Far away. I don’ blame him. I won’t speak for him or where he was at, but it shocked me that he wasn’t there anymore. I missed him with all of my heart, and he would only sporadically take my calls, so I wrote him letters. It killed me. This was the first time in my life that I was single and alone for a long stretch of time, and it was probably one of the best things that could have happened; I grew up, finally. I learned to have boundaries, to look out for myself, and to take care of me, not always look for fixer-uppers. I highly recommend a period like this for many women. I began to date, but only to date, to keep my morals and to be choosy and selective about who I spent time with. The focus was on my career, my friends, my spirituality and my search for answers. This was new territory.
About this time, I was coming home from a particularly obnoxious date, and an old Bob Dylan song came on the radio. “To Make You Feel My Love”. I started to cry on the off-ramp near my house, and didn’t stop until I was home. It was like the clouds parted, and for the first time in my life, I could see what was right in front of my face. I called him right then. I do vividly remember this conversation. I was shaking, so nervous, because what if I was wrong, or what if he changed his mind, what if I was too late, what if, what if, what if… I told him about the song, and said that maybe the reason I could not find anyone who was right was because no one measured up to him. Everyone I dated I compared to him, and they all fell short, and I have no idea why I never saw that. I felt scathed, and suddenly all of the pain I must have caused him over the years came rushing in on me, and I felt so selfish and scared. He could reject me, it had been 9 years since he fell in love with me, how could I expect him to still be waiting? I had put him through hell. There was a very long silence on the end of the phone line. I waited (probably my first true adult moment in this life) for him to say whatever he wanted, prepared to accept anything. I owed him that.
Know what he said? He said “You better mean what you are saying”. Never in my life have any words carried such weight as those did. I was 26.
Up next, the conclusion, The Hand of the Lord in the Fog.
The Torture Years, Part 1
So DFM and I basically became best friends. We spent a lot of time together, but we were never romantically involved with each other. He lived over at the coast in a little beachside village, and about this time, I had to move out of my mother’s place. He rented a room in an old Victorian house, and I remember loving it the first time I saw it. He painted the entire place white, and then burned incense while the paint was drying, so the room had a warm, spicy scent embedded in the walls.
I found an apartment to rent right across the street from him in a renovated building, and one crazy roommate. I was still dating the guy from the pizza place, but spent a great deal of my time with DFM. We would walk the cold, foggy streets of our little village, talking about everything under the sun and moon. In the summer, the village was a tourist Mecca, but during the winter it was basically deserted, and we had empty streets and quiet beaches to hang out on. There was a railroad tressle that went through town, and we would grab some ice cream or hot falafel in the village, then hike up and sit on the tressle looking out at the ocean and talking. I never did things like that with the b.f., and DFM became more and more dear to me. He moved back to the city, and the b.f moved into the special room in the Victorian, but it was never as special to me.
Looking back, (especially now that we are married, and he never lets me forget it!) I can see how perfect we were for each other, and how much we already loved each other, but for some reason, I could not see it at the time. I am 5 1/2 years younger than DFM, and maybe it was my youth and naivete, but I just did not want to chance messing up the best relationship I had ever had by making it romantic. All of my previous relationships had ended badly, and I was still only 18.
In the spring of that year, I applied for college in Seattle. When I was accepted for the fall term, it was bye-bye beach town, and hello cold, rainy city. The b.f. decided to go with me. We rented a small apartment on Capitol Hill because it was cheap and we didn’t know any better. It was also pretty close to school. I missed DFM with a heartache I had never known- he had stayed in California. We talked on the phone, and wrote some, but in the age of pre-email, I felt very cut-off from him.
On Christmas Eve-eve, the b.f. and I got a call that Dan and DFM were coming up to visit. At least that is what I thought they said. That evening they showed up with DFM’s pickup truck loaded with all their stuff, I learned they were moving in. They were here to stay. So there were four of us living in a little one-bedroom apartment, and I was in heaven, because HE was there, finally. Things were not perfect, but all in all, looking back we both have some pretty good memories of those times.
Dan and DFM managed to rent a studio in the same building after they got jobs. The first time I ever remember looking on him as something other than my best friend happened in that building, and I was so startled by it, I didn’t know what to do. I was coming in from school, per normal, went up to their apartment to see if they were home, and no one was. I headed back downstairs, when Dan and DFM came around the corner, both in winter coats and boots, and DFM had on this old, black bowler hat. My heart stopped in my chest when I saw him, and I ran all the way down the hall and jumped on him. What happened after that, I have no idea, but that memory is burnt in my mind. I was 19.
We all left Seattle the following year and headed back to the same area of California. The group of friends we had all kind of played muscial couches, and someone was usually on your couch if you had one. DFM lived with the b.f and I for a while, and at various other place, but we were never far from each other. If friends were looking for him, they often called me, because I almost always knew where he was. The b.f and I split up shortly before my 21st birthday. Which brings me to the true torture years.
Stay tuned to see what happens to our hero… will the dumb damsel ever realize what she has? Only time will tell!
Tonite at the pizza place while picking up dinner, Jeffrey and I were talking about Daddy, and somehow it came up how DFM and I met. My four-year old was incredulous that Daddy and I had not always known each other, and had not always been Mama and Daddy, as I explained that we had met in a pizza place when I was a teenager. It got me thinking about our story, and how it’s not exactly Romeo and Juliet, but it’s a pretty good Love Story…
The pizza place I worked in was my first job, and I was almost 18. I was dating a guy that worked there too who was about 5 years older than me, and who probably should have left me alone, but I won’t go into that. He was a mistake, even I knew that, but my mom hated him, and at the time that was good enough for me. My parents had just divorced less than a year before, and I was running pretty fast and scared.
This particular pizza restaurant was (and is) a very popular place for sports teams and locals to hang out, and was always pretty busy. One night, it was unusually slow, and this big guy comes in and sits at the counter and begins talking with my boyfriend. It was obvious they were friends, but he didn’t look like the other (renegade) friends who regularly visited the boyfriend (b.f.), and I had never seen him before. I was washing glasses at the bar, and the b.f. asks me to come over and meet this guy. DFM and I recall this moment pretty much the same, but if you have ever seen the Godfather and remember when Al Pacino sees Apolonia for the first time… Well, that’s what happened, but I don’t look like Apolonia. DFM says it was love at first sight. For me, it was a little different- I remember all the details of how he looked and especially the look in his eyes and how startling it was to me…I just knew that this was someone very important to me, but I didn’t have the self-awareness to know what to call it. Nothing quite like it had ever happened to me before, and I just wanted to be near him, to breathe him in. It was so strange, but not a physical attraction- I knew how to deal with that- this was something else, something bigger. The b.f was babbling on about how everyone was intimidated by DFM because of how big his stature is, and blah blah blah… I snapped out of it and looked at him with confusion. What? Why would anyone be scared of this man? That is the first thing I said aloud. I could see him, and there was nothing but light drawing me in like an intrigued new moth.
That night the three of us hung out until long after the restaurant closed, and sat on the back steps talking late into the night. DFM had burned a pink candle on the doorstep while the three of us talked, and the wind blew it into crazy shapes. He gave it to me when we all got up to go our separate ways. I still have it, wrapped in a silk scarf in a box on my dresser, 16 years later.
Stay tuned for part 2, The Torture Years.
I’m having a crummy day. My creativity is zapped, I am tired. I am tired of throwing up, I am tired of having a messy house, I am tired of not being able to do anything about it, I am tired of not being able to make my computer do what I want it to do, I am tired of feeling tired.
This morning has really sucked. DFM’s alarm wakes me up every morning at 4:50, then wakes me up every ten minutes for the next 40 minutes. By then, I am really awake, and when I wake up in the morning, my allergy faucet turns on. When the allergy faucet turns on, I end up throwing up because my stomach can’t handle it, and I gag. Nothing grosser, let me tell you. I am tired from that. This morning I took a Bennedryl at 5:30 out of desperation, and then was so zonked that when the kids got up at 6:30, I could not by sheer will open my eyes. I snoozed on the couch, trying desperately to keep an ear and eye cocked for them while they tore the house apart. Thank goodness for the Disney channel, that’s all I can think right now. When I finally came out of my drug induced haze around 8:30, the house looked about like you would expect. They found a Costco pack of muffins and helped themselves to the chocolate ones, and I don’t know if the rug in the living room will ever recover, but they were safe and happy. They also had mixed the gianormous tub on Tinker Toys in with the muffin mess.
I am supposed to work today, even set up a sitter so I can get something accomplished while Jeffrey is at school. But I just tired scanning and uploading some files to save some time, and I can’t for the life of me make this new scanner do what I want it to. All my files are showing up tiny, not the size they are supposed to be, and I have no clue how to make it work. The sitter is late, and the laundry is overflowing the laundry room and climbing up the stairs, as though it is alive and trying to escape it’s final destiny.
My kids have been living on crackers and peanut butter, because I can’t stand the smell of anything else. Last night I made a frozen dinner because it looked good on the package and silly me, I was trying to make things easy, but it smelled so bad I had to put it out on the back porch still in it’s box. DFM asks me what’s with the pile of food on the porch, don’t I know neighborhood animals will get into it? Yup, sure do, don’t care at the moment. Out there is also a batch of from-scratch cream of mushroom soup that sounded good on paper, but once made, I couldn’t even look at it. My back-porch is becoming the reject pile.
Have I mentioned that I am NOT doing this again?
It would appear that my first child got the best of me. Jeffrey got all the glory and attention and devotion any child could want, and the following children, well, I love them just as much, but there is just no record of it. Am I a bad mom?
It is almost the end of October, and I just realized that I never got Eric in for his two-year check up. I made the appointment this morning, and he is going in the first week of November, but I hang my head in shame, because I had Jeffrey’s doctor appointments on the calendar six months ahead of time. I have not even started Eric’s baby book; Jeffrey’s is hand painted and colored and calligraphied. I do have a box full of papers where I have randomly scribbled notes to myself when he did something cute or a milestone was reached, with the intention of using the notes to fill out his baby book someday…Just so I wouldn’t forget.
If poor, sweet little Eric were to look at the records alone, he would think he wasn’t loved, and that makes me feel soooo guilty. And this next baby….Oh my goodness! People ask me how far along I am, and I have no idea! I mumble something about being in the second trimester, but I am not even sure what my due date is! How sad is that?? When I was pregnant with Jeffrey, I knew to the hour how pregnant I was, and probably came off as the neurotic new mom when asked- “oh, I am 17 weeks, 3 1/2 days along!” I shake my head in embarrassment now. Is there a way for me to convince my children that I dearly love all of them, when looking at the paper trail alone, it would not appear so? Will I even know how old this next baby is? Will I remember to register him for kindergarten or even have the box of scrap paper notes??
I think I understand now why there is such a thing as “middle-child syndrome”, although I wonder if it’s so much a syndrome as just a forgetful mom who’s hands and plate are overflowing.
Today I heard an abomination on the radio. I was in the car on my way to grocery store, and I changed the station, and there was a song on that was immediately familiar, yet somehow so very wrong. Some band, I don’t know who, has covered a Pink Floyd song. Why, oh why, would any impudent young narcissist think they had the cajones or the chops or the whatever, to cover Floyd??
Oh, there are many, many bands over the years that tinker with the idea- that may jam and play around with the sound, but to actually put it to tape and release it as a single?? I don’t even know where to begin with how many reasons that is just wrong! You don’t rewrite a Mozart aria, or a Shakespeare sonnet, or re-blow a Chiluly glass… you just don’t do it! Some art achieves perfection on its own, it stands alone, as a glorious masterpiece of the human soul and of human creativity. For one thing, all Pink Floyd albums are complete works. You cannot pick out a “song”! There aren’t any! They all roll into one another, meant to be taken as a master whole, and listening to one track only to have it end, leaves the mind trailing off into the melody, looking for more, waiting for the next part. Why do you think they have gotten so little radio play over the years, other than The Wall ?? Would you listen to only the 2nd movement from the Jupiter symphony then call it a day? @&*% NO!
I am flabbergasted, and I don’t even know what to say. I am totally disturbed. I even called DFM at work from the car to tell him what I heard, and he laughed, said he heard it too. (He agrees with me, by the way) The sick thing is, DFM said, some people think it’s cool, since it’s more radio-friendly Floyd. I am cringing as I even type the words. Oh hell. This really must be the end times.
Why? why, oh why? And whose bright idea was this anyway? Our local NBC station has opted not to carry Martha Stewart’s new daytime show. They had a slot, at 11 a.m. weekdays, but they opted instead for…Tyra Banks’ Talkshow. Yes folks, you read that right. Just who every stay-at-home mom wants to see and can relate to, Tyra Banks. Yes, talking about boyfriends and clothes and fashion and modeling is just what every tired, weary housewife needs to feel good about herself. So while I wipe my kids noses and get ready for preschool, I can see the hot new designer is whose clothes cost more than my mortgage. Whose brilliant idea was this atrocity?
I actually called the station to ask who had rectal-cranial inversion, and the young, snotty guy who I spoke to told me that Martha does not fit with the image and demographic the station is aiming for. What? Who, exactly, is their target audience anyway? Where I live, trust me, is not a hot bed of fashion forward people. It’t the northwest for heaven’s sake, and while we are over our flannel thing, we are still not the cusp of haute-couture. And the morning spot? Who is home at 11 a.m. besides moms, the unemployed and people who work graveyard and are alseep anyway? The young, fashionable career girls are all at work, so what gives? No one at the local station would listen to me, (even though I was very polite)- evidentially, I don’t fit their demographic. Big ol’ raspberry to NBC.
Ok, I tried three different times to get a picture of a design up, and no bananas. Computers and I have a tenuous relationship, at best. Businesses are starting to ask me about my website now too. Website? What website? I have no idea what to do or how to even begin to make one, other than this blog thing, and I fell into that by accident. Anyone with any suggestions (cheap suggestions) would be most welcome!
I thought we would be going to California for the holidays this year, but I found out from a friend that we are not coming down. How did that go, you wonder? Well, when we left my mom’s last month, I kept saying to everyone that I would see them in December, but it turns out, my mom told her friend who told her daughter, who is my friend, that she is not bringing us down. No biggie, but I wish I had heard it from her instead of through the interminable grapevine.
This afternoon I played renegade mama, and let the kids make a big mud-bog in the backyard flower beds. They wanted to fill the kiddie pool up so badly, and while it’s still warm here, I hardly think 68 degrees warrants a swim. The compromise was the hose. They each had their own hose, and they made sticky, ooey mud for about an hour and a half, while I read the paper in the sun at the picnic table. They were a wet, muddy mess when DFM got home, but they were happy. Jeffrey’s shoes may not recover from this one, or at least it may be easier to just get a new pair.
I had a lovely, humiliating experience at the natural-foods market downtown this week too. My favorite auntie called on my birthday to say that there was a gift certificate waiting for me there, and to go enjoy myself on her and my cousin’s behalf. Cool! It’s a store I love, but really cannot afford to do much shopping at, so I was excited. DFM and I even got a baby-sitter so we could dawdle and enjoy ourselves while we shopped (how depraved is that?). So we are in the store, with our cart, and I ask at the service desk about the gift certificate waiting for me. They don’t know what I am talking about. OK, so what do I do? I am concerned that my aunt paid for this quite generous gift certificate, and they do not have it for me. Plus, we are in the store, cart of food and goodies…so I call my cousin, who is the only one reachable. I catch her at work (where she has to be very professional) and explain the situation. She tells me she never ordered it. I feel like the biggest ass in the universe, not only for trying to convince the store manager that there really is a gift certificate for me, but for essentially calling my cousin at work and asking her for my birthday present. And now my cousin has not returned my phone call. How cool am I? I’m feeling super cool right about now!
Someone once said that if there had been antidepressants 150 years ago, some of the best art the world knows would never have gotten made. It certainly does seem easier to be creative in times of upheaval and strife than in times of placidness and ease.
In no way am I a master artist, and I also have no first hand experience with antidepressants (other than always laughing at the Welbutrin smiling-blob thing and guy who smiles and talks about the low risk of sexual side-effects), but I can relate to having my creativity sapped by a plain and boring life. I am not complaining, mind you! I just find myself with not much to say, since the business is doing well, my designs are out, I don’t have any deadlines, my kids are happy and healthy, DFM is doing great at work, and other than my barfing problem, I am pretty boring. (And I am sick and tired of thinking about my barf problem, so I assume you are tired of reading about it, too)
Fall is settling in, and the yard is beautiful; the leaves are almost thick enough for the kids to jump in, and they can’t wait. I know the season is changing, because I got my knitting out. How is that for exciting? The cooler months are the only time I knit. I can’t stand the thought of knitting when it’s warm out, but it’s totally therapeutic when it’s cold. Tonite I finished a pair of socks for myself, and I have them on right now. Few things make me happier than freshly knitted socks. What can I say? I’m pretty simple. My mom teases me about making socks and makes fun of them, but they are soooo cool, she just wishes I would give her a pair. Hey, this year maybe everyone will get a pair of socks! You should all be so lucky- wish on, family! Wish on!
After having been on a heavy-subject bender this week, I thought this update from my brother was worth sharing. He made me laugh really hard when he told me, and I had a similar experience with my kids too, when they were smaller.
Dumber’s son CJ is almost nine months old, and cute a button (and as my only nephew, I am entitled to think so). Dumber is a totally involved dad, and even if he wasn’t my brother, I would think he is doing a really good job. So he shares all of the childcare and household responsibilities with my sister-in-law since they both work. They have actually managed a good setup with flexibility of their hours and CJ only has to be in daycare two or three days a week.
The other day, Dumber went to change CJ’s stinky diaper, and when he opened it up, he was surprised to find it full of little individual balls of poop. (I think every baby goes through a poop-ball period- my kids sure did) Anyway, like any normal 8 1/2 month old, CJ thinks it’s fun to play and kick and roll around on the changing table. The diaper was unfastened, and Dumber was trying to restrain him when baby’s foot caught on the diaper and sent it flying. Poop-balls everywhere, baby laughing, totally stunned brother. Nice! Now, if you know how totally fastidious and neat Dumber is, this would be even funnier to you. We have caught him rolling his extra shoelaces and storing them in his desk so they would stay neat and clean; his closet is color-coded, and he alphabetizes things. So to imagine him crawling around on the floor of his son’s room looking for poop-balls is just too much fun. Of course, CJ thought it was hilarious, and was laughing on the changing table while dad looked for his scattered…scat!
Dumber calls me to tell me this story, then says a day later, he was in the bedroom, and he found another poop-ball that he missed… His nose led the way. Ah, parenting. Nothing like it!
I don’t understand people. I just don’t.
Confrontation is a yucky thing, I don’t think many people like it, myself included. However, when the situation or circumstance warrants it, confrontation is sometimes necessary. What is the deal with people who freely make comments about something or someone, but when the subject is present and accounted for, they curl up in the corner pretending to be innocuous? If you are going to express yourself about something or someone, have the backbone to stand by your opinion. You don’t have to be callous or cruel to express yourself, and I beleive it is possible to have a contrary opinion without being a contrary person. Just because we have differences of opinion doesn’t mean we cannot be friends and even learn from one another.
One of the things I love the absolute best about my husband is that he is always the same man. In the 16 years I have known him, I have never seen him alter who he is or was due to circumstance or person present. He is kind, he is diplomatic when need be, but he does not ever abandon himself to please others. He never talks about people behind their backs; you always know where you stand with him. Now, he is not some moral superhero, he had many faults like the rest of us, however his lack of artifice and pretense is one of his biggest graces.
Perhaps being married to him and being friends for so long has made me intollerant of people who hide their feelings. Or perhaps my point of view is mitigated by the twelve-step programs I have both seen and taken part in. If there is an elephant in the middle of the room, I know how bad it is to pretend it’s not there, and you better beleive I am going to talk about it! I just don’t get it. The amount of energy required to be two-faced is just way too draining and damaging of an investment. So there. That’s my rant.
I have caught some flak through the grapevine about posting a picture of my kids on my site. What’s the deal, folks? How is posting a pic of my kids any more irresponsible than having a family website? The internet is public domain, and anyone can access any site anytime; I don’t understand how my column is worse or more dangerous than baby pictures on any other domain. I welcome feedback or comments on this subject… Am I missing something here?
Editors Note: It has been…requested…by a member of my family that I no longer write about that particular member. At all. Evidentially, what I thought was a tasteful, fairly handled, loving and appropriate commentary on that particular member of my family, was not. So, there are two columns from the last ten posts that have been permanently deleted, per familial request and my desire to ensure domestic tranquility and peace for the commonwealth. I will leave it to the rest of you to juxtapose and infer the who-what-why-where-and-when.
It is time once again for Enrichment Night, and this morning I have a meeting with a bunch of other ladies where we will sit around while our kids wreak havoc on the room and discuss the service auction we are having tonite. I keep hoping for another calling, but maybe that is exactly why I still have this one. The good thing is my kids wont be the only wild ones at this meeting, but I will be stressed out and haggard by the time we leave anyway.
Two meetings ago, there were eleven kids running around the Relief Society room while we tried to talk about committee things. Jeffrey had to pee and decided that he had to take off all his clothes to do so, including his shoes. So my just-four year old is running down the church halls naked, and Eric ran into the men’s room. After hollering to make sure there were no unsuspecting men in there, I went in and Eric was in the urinal, holding the pink disinfectant cake thing. Never have I been so grossed out in my life; even writing about it makes my skin crawl… I gathered my naked and gross kids up, grabbed my stuff, and yelled down the hall that I was leaving, sorry. The thought of what Eric had on his body just required that I leave and get the child home to a bath immediately. The woman who is in charge of the committee is older, and had ten (yes, egad, ten) children, and I can see the disdain with which she looks at those of us who cannot handle our two kids. Oh well!
Lately, it seems like DFM and I are not even barely in control of the bedlam that is our home. Ever since Jeffrey started school, we have a new, strange and alien child on our hands. All of the sudden, there are powerful influences in his life that don’t come from home or carefully chosen exposure by us, and this has certainly thrown our house into chaos. To be fair, we were far, far from regimented and organized before, and even when I try very very hard, sticking to a routine is supremely difficult for me, so I seldom expected my kids to stick to one.
Several things have changed now. Namely, I now have to be aware of routine, lest I forget to get him to school on time, or forget to pick him up (I never forget about him, just the clock). I have just never been very aware of the time, I do not wear a watch, and tend to do things as inspiration strikes. That is just irresponsible now. As I look back I see what a luxury the last four years have been, having no schedules and no children that were required to be anywhere at any time. As long as we had fun, they were fed and warm and loved, we could do whatever we wanted. So this new time-watching thing has been hard for me, definitely harder for me than for the kids.
The next new and exciting thing is the sassy and impudent mouth Jeffrey has brought home from school. Again, not that things were perfect before- he has always been a strong-willed kid with a temper and a mind of his own, but the mouth? Holy cow! He is so full of backtalk and smartness, DFM actually had to threaten him with a bar of Ivory last night. It doesn’t matter what we say or ask him to do, he smarts off. He is four! Frankly, I wasn’t expecting this for at least a few more years; am I naive?
So, my job is to tame my whimsey gene, and to get my son’s mouth back in the neighborhood of civility. Wish me luck, and any tidbits of advice would be appreciated!
I totally bailed on going to church this morning. Completely gave up, threw in the towel, put the kids back in their jammies, and turned on Connie the Cow. Church is so important to me, but this morning I just couldn’t hack it. Anyone who has ever gone to church with little kids has had a morning like I am having, and while all my reasons are good for not going, I wish things had gone differently.
Jeffrey was up last night (a lot) complaining his ear hurt, and ended up in bed with DFM and I around 5 this morning. That was the end of my sleep; he is a flippy, floppy, alligator in bed, and another human cannot fall asleep next to him. By 6:30 Eric was up too, because Jeffrey was making so much noise about a toy he saw at Walmart yesterday that he cannot go on living unless he gets it today. (Not going to happen!) Within fifteen minutes they were fighting over an empty laundry basket (why?) and DFM was in the bathroom hacking and making gross noises that did not help a morning-sick mama. Sweet husband comes back in the bedroom where I am pretending it is possible to get a few more minutes of sleep, and tells me that he has an ear infection. (probably true- he gets them easily, and we have all had colds). Great. I know he is not going to church now.
In the kitchen, my head wars with my body over who is going to win the barf battle this morning and I fix breakfast for the kids while I chew dry saltine crackers. The kids both turn their noses up at the food, Eric flat doesn’t eat anything, and Jeffrey picks at the eggs and complains, even though he gobbled the same meal yesterday and said it was his favorite. I win the barf battle for now, and get Jeffreys church clothes out, but cannot find any clean underwear for him. There are three laundry baskets of clean clothes in the family room, but of course, his undies are in the bottom of the third basket; now there is laundry all over the room, and the kids decide now is a good time to play “laundry-wars”. First loss of composure on my part ensued. Poor kids. Eric goes to his room, and I get Jeffrey dressed, accompanied by much complaining about the socks I chose for him. I ask DFM if he is going, and he says he doesn’t know (that means no). Ok, so do I go with both kids and my barf-bag, or just Jeffrey and my barf-bag? I never actually got to the point of making that decision…
Every mom know that as soon as she goes in the bathroom, chaos breaks loose. Not only was there kid chaos, but when went to get my hairbrush out of my drawer, the whole drawer came out, and the bottom fell off of it. Hair stuff everywhere, broken drawer, and I will not talk about how I asked DFM to fix the drawer two weeks ago. When I went to clean up the floor, the stray snarls of hair and stuff made me start gagging, and my body won the battle over my mind. Ok, so I clean myself up and look in the mirror for the first time today. Oh, lovely! Swollen face, big pregnancy zit on my chin, watery eyes from barfing, and I went to bed with wet hair last night. Indescribable. At this point I begin to question my sanity, and wonder if its worth it. I actually got as far as trying to comb my hair, but when the brush kept snagging on snarls and making my eyes water even more, I threw the brush in the tub, and it broke into three pieces. The kids are banging on the bathroom door, and Eric has both hands shoved under it so I can see his little wiggly fingers, while he hollers for me to come out.
I give. I am done. When I fling open the bathroom door, I am sure I look like a crazy woman. Big, wild fuzzy hair, red teary eyes and disheveled jammies. Second loss of composure of the morning (not even 8:00 yet- good for me!) Jeffrey looks confused when I tell him to go put his jammies back on, and I announce that I am finished, done, not going, giving up, caput. Everyone have a nice day, mom is done.
It’s quiet here now. I am hiding downstairs, and except for DFM coming down to put his arm gingerly around my shoulders, then leave without a word, no one has come near me….I think the kids are scared of me! Big, wild, crazy-eyed, crazy-haired mama? Who can blame them? Maybe next week will be better… It can’t get worse; can it?
Today was the first day of the Pacific northwest quilt and textile show at the convention center downtown. A friend of mine and her teenage daughter picked me up and took me out to lunch for my birthday, and then we went to the show. Lunch was really nice, not something I get to do very often without kids.
Now, I am not really into conventional quilts, but I appreciate the skill and craft that goes into some of these beauties. Six of my new designs were shown to the public for the first time today. (This had nothing to do with me or machinations on my part; rather, I have a very good client here in town who really promotes my work, and she chose to display them in her booth) It is really wired walking through a crowded convention center, all anonymous, coming upon some of your work, then watching how people respond to it. I felt really strange, and kind of like geeking out. In my client’s store the other day, two women actually asked me for my autograph, which is completely bizarre and unnerving. My friends are starting to tease me, and ask me to sign things…Ridiculous!
While I do not think there is any danger of my becoming famous, the very idea is freaky to me. I started this company last year to try and help my husband and I get out of a financial hole. (Note to self: starting company? It takes money, not pays, for quite a while!) Purposely I did not put my name prominently on my logo, rather drawing attention to the design and the name of the company (Eye of the Needle) , not to me. The last thing I want is to be recognized. Don’t get me wrong, I do want people to like and buy my work, and I so want to be financially viable, however I want folks to recognize the company name, not mine.
Updates. Many envelopes went out this morning containing pictures of the kids, so fear not, family and friends- they are on the way. The chimney guys were here again today. They have seen me in my jammies twice this week…it’s getting to be a thing! Nothing hotter than a mama with two little kids and a pregnant belly, eh? To say nothing of how lovely my maternity jammies are! Anyway, the chimney (knock on wood) is all better, and they fixed it for free since it was their fault, and they reimbursed us for the heater-guy coming out. Not too bad; it certainly could have gone worse. I had a pleasant conversation with my mom last night, which means she hasn’t read the pollywog post yet. And, I made it all day, until after dinner, without barfing. It was a good day at our place!
Just got these pics back yesterday… they are the ones we took on the fly on Eric’s birthday before we went to the fair. I am never going to stress about pictures again; these are the best portraits of the kids I have ever gotten. Usually they are screaming, or doing back-dives off the back of the carpet thing. I am so happy they are even smiling! Jeffrey even went through a phase where he was terrified of having his picture made, so we have no pictures of him from his first birthday until he was three. Oh well!
If its not one thing, its another. Yesterday the furnace-guy came to see why out heater keeps shutting itself off, and he said the problem is with the flue. We had the main chimney rebuilt in the spring, and the furnace hasn’t been on since then, so today the chimney guys are coming out to see if they left mortar in the flue. Its so much fun! I see money flying out the window, or more accurately, up the flue! And its starting to get cold here at night, so we really need to get it fixed. Chim-chiminy, chim chiminey, chim chim cher-oooh. Oh -I see the mon-ey go-ing uuu-up the flue!
Yesterday I had my first ultrasound to check the dates for Baby #3. All is well, things look fine, and there is only one baby in there- not that twins run in our family, but even the thought frightens me. It is truly amazing how much you can see on one of those things. I didn’t have one with Jeffrey; I was still thinking I was organic-mom and under control of how things go.. Ha ha. Even at 11 weeks, this tiny little thing already is totally recognizable as a person. Little face, teeny arms waving and legs kicking. Even little toes and fingers. Wow.
ETA is in April, which seems like an eternity from now, especially after a day like today. I will spare the graphic details, but much barfing ensued, as well as two sick kids, two visiting teachers, a pee-pee mess on the kitchen floor, a furnace repair-man that was late, and my Relief Society President stopping by to ask me to teach a class next month for our Holiday Fair. Joy. April…six and a half loooong months away. Heeeeelllllp meeeeeeee…..
This morning I has to stop and think about how old I am. I honestly couldn’t remember if I was turning 33 or 34, until my mom reminded me. It’s amazing how little birthdays mean as you get older. When I was too little to understand, I remember my grandma talking bout how time flies and how your birthday is just another day…Well, turns out she was right. She was right about a lot of things, but that’s another post on another day.
My children greeted me with hugs and kisses and lots of love this morning, and a sweet card was on the kitchen counter from DFM. My brother Dumber called already and sang the most horrendous rendition of Happy Birthday you can imagine, but it made me smile. Jeffrey called my mom to tell her he wants to go to “Cana-forn-ya” , and then passed the phone to me, so she didn’t actually call me, but we talked anyway. My best girlfriend from California called and filled me in on her weekend, and what her “stalker” is doing (another story for another day), but she forgot it was my birthday. I razzed her about it, but it doesn’t really matter.
Everyone keeps asking what we are doing tonight. Tonight? Well, going out to eat when you are barfing as much as I am is really not fun, so, no, we aren’t going to dinner. DFM is working all day, Jeffrey is sick, and Eric is a monster in restaurants. We’ll have family night, per normal for Monday, and maybe a special treat. We are going to count our food-storage for our family-night activity, and figure out what we need and what we have plenty of.
Whoo-hooo! Party! Happy Birthday to me.
Somewhere in the blogosphere I lost a post or two this weekend… There was some maintenance being done on the site, and *pop* things just disappeared… oh well!
One of the things I mused upon what a post I read, on another website I really like, about Sensitive Topics and issues that offend. I contemplated that for a while, and came to the conclusion that I really don’t have anything that is off-limits. Sure, there are opinions that I don’t agree with or take issue over, but off-limits? Nope.
It seems it’s more likely that I have offended over the years, rather than taken offense. I know I have lost at least one person over the years, but I still don’t know what I said, so what can I do? There are certainly things that are not appropriate to discuss in all places at all times, but a little decorum and some privacy, and you’ve got my ear. Yes, I have things that I am careful about, and personal things that need to be treated with some degree of tenderness, but if a person is genuinely interested and not looking for a whipping post, I am open. And I hope I give my friends and acquaintances the same courtesy. The older I get, the more I am aware of the log in my own eye, and less likely to point out the speck in my neighbors.
Perhaps it is because of the…er…colorful… life that DFM and both lived prior to our calm and domestic life now, that we both find it difficult to be shocked by people. It is not humanly possible to shock or offend my husband. Trust me. It’s not.
How about you? Has anyone trounced on your personal boundaries? What are your sensitive topics, and how do you deal with them?
What You Said