Holiday spirit

So, we had this little blizzard-y thing, which has it's minuses, but on the plus side, the last 2 days of school got cancelled, so that procrastinating I did when it came to buying the supplies for the craft table I was supposed to run at the 2nd-grade party the last day of school? Heh.

I shoveled the walk yesterday, and it was actually fun because the neighbors were out, too, and we kept cracking each other up and taking "snow lounger" breaks--you know, when you've got 2 or 3 feet of nice, packed snow, you can just fall back on it and it'll hold you up quite nicely. Just make sure you've got your snow pants on. Not your shorts, like my crazy neigbor. Why is it only the chicks dress for the snow? Is it some sort of Guy Pissing Contest? Could be.

The alley still hasn't been plowed, so it isn't like we can go anywhere, but the kids'll be back from their Papa's soon, and I think we'll be baking cookies and cutting snowflakes and tromping around in the 6' drifts. I'm close enough to being done with shopping to not really stress about it, even if we don't get out until Sunday. And I've got enough supplies to make another batch of Chex Mix, so we'll make it through.

I hope every one of you is safe and happy enough to be able to find something on the bright side to hold onto this season. Because really and truly? It's a wonderful life.

Out, out, damn Blogspot

Why is it that I can't comment on anyone's Blogger blog anymore? Because friggin' Blogger won't accept my Blogger sign-in. Oh, it says it will, but it lies.

Bastard.

The Littlest Boss

"You not the boss of me!"
"Excuse me?"
"You. Are. Not. The. Boss. Of. Me."
"Huh. Too true. You're your own boss. However, I'm your BOSS's boss."

It's all good

Just friggin' busy. You know how it goes.

About 10 times a day, I think, Oh! I should blog that!

And then I don't.

But all is well, and I hope for all of you, too.

Smoochies,
PK

Back

But buried. Oy.

When I get half a minute, I'll tell you about the Capone visit, my family's "Gift" (with a Capital Freaky "G"), and all that other stuff.

Smoochies,
PK

Hey all y'all!

Guess where I am? Ah'm back home in the SOUTH!

(Scriv, I suck, cause I didn't set up a get-together, dammit! I'm here until Monday afternoon, but it's been pretty packed full of Crazy Family Stuff.)

Such as!

The best story I heard at my uncle's surprise party last night:

My great-grandfather took him to Al Capone's house when he was 5!!!
I am not shitting you!

And my aunt sang at Capone's funeral.

Man, I kinda miss this family stuff.

I will try to find out more wild tales of criminal fun for your amusement as the weekend goes on.

xo y'all,
PK

Vent

I am trying, really trying, to focus on the positive and not the negative. But sometimes, my friends, a girl just needs to bitch.

You know?

Do you have any idea how aggravating it is to have someone with a diagnosed mental condition, one symptom of which is narcissism, call you, have a perfectly normal conversation, and then call you back two minutes after you hang up to tell you how self-absorbed you are because you didn't ask that person whether he was doing okay? Despite the fact that when you do ask that question--and oh, believe me, you've asked it plenty--the answer is almost always something taciturn along the lines of "I'll live" and "No, you can't do anything to help"--or if it's a particularly bad episode, "What do you care?"

Pretty. Frigging. Aggravating!!!

And then. THEN! THEN!!!!

If you know that I have said no Effing PloyStation at my house because the child throws fits over it and I do not need to deal with that shite, then do NOT tell the child that he can have the EFFING PLOYSTATION at my house "if I say it's okay". And when I say "No" because he has used up his screentime, and he proceeds to have a total meltdown because of it (which, HELLO!, is the reason I won't let him have it here in the first place!), DO. NOT. CALL. ME. back in the middle of dealing with the child's nervous breakdown (and the nervous breakdown of his sister who cannot cope when her brother loses it) and start lecturing me about how I Need To Learn To Choose My Battles! Exclamation Point!!!! And how the child listens to you more than he listens to me and it's because I don't know how to "give a little".

People. You have no idea how PISSED OFF I am right now.

Deep breath. Okay.

And now I'm going to let that go. Thanks for listening.

Manifest destiny

Me: Oh my God! I manifested a CAR ACCIDENT!
Chica: What?!
Me: I kept telling the author that as he's the only one turning his stuff in on time, and every time I settle one issue with one author, another one freaks out on me and drops out, my greatest fear is that he'll get hit by a bus or something. And then he emailed us and said he was okay, but...HE GOT HIT BY A BUS!
Chica: NO!
Me: Well, no. It was a car. That rear ended him, and he's okay, but still! Crap!
Chica: That is kinda freaky.
Me: What I want to know is, I can manifest some guy getting hit by a bus, but I can't manifest a friggin' boyfriend? That just sucks.
Chica: If only you could use your powers for good!
Me: I know! Wait. I know what the problem is. I don't have anyone real to focus on, so I just wind up lusting after, like, Hugh Jackman or whatever, so my Jedi Powers are totally wasted. Somewhere in Australia, Hugh Jackman is saying, "I have this feeling that I need to be somewhere else..."
Chica: "...but I don't know why!"
Me: Exactly. I tell you what I'm going to do, I'm going to manifest a bottle of vodka on my friggin' doorstep, is what I'm going to do. Otherwise, it's just a waste.
--------
And then she snuck by on her way to a dinner in town and left one on the front mat. Which is why she is the. best. friend. ever.

If your best friend leaves vodka on your doorstep because she knows you're trying to use the power of your mind to make one appear, does that still count?

Futuristic

Scene: Tucking the Girl into bed.

G: Mommy! Just ONE more hug and kiss!
Me: Okay, sweetie, one more.
G [draping herself around my neck]: I'm gonna give you hugs AWL the time! I will hug you at the mornin', an I will hug you at the night, an I will hug you downstairs, an I will hug you in the cawr, hugs all the time, for all the life!
Me: That would be great. Do you promise?
G: Yep!
Me: Even when you're a teenager?
G [thinking for a moment]: Only at the night.

Discovery

Dear Discover Card:

Um. I'm sure you worked awfully hard on your new ad campaign. But.

Flocks of jumping, snipping scissors do not make me happy. In fact, they make me feel distinctly UNhappy. Bordering on freaked out.

Where are you trying to go with this? Because if I walked outside and saw all those effing scissors? I would not be feeding them my credit cards. I would be hiding under my effing bed.

Please stop. Now.

-PK

Kind of on point...

Exactly my point. More or less.

Battles

Imagine that someone has dropped you--plop!--into the middle of us. Here's what you'll probably think:

My lord. Those children are riding roughshod over that woman!

At least, that's what I imagine people think, in my slightly embarassed and defensive imaginings. And uh, I guess it's sorta true. But when I start hearing you say that, in my head, then I end up acting like the Mama I don't like. The one who expects her children to be the Textbook Children Who Behave, In A Vaccum, And Are Just Like Little Grownups.

I'm really, really trying to keep remembering that those Children don't exist.

It's hard, because I think what happened is that people used to be able to pretend they existed, because back in the days when you'd get your hide tanned if you stepped out of line, kids were smarter about putting on the Nice Kid Skin around the grownups, and then doing the crazy stuff once they were alone with other kids. Which actually happened Back When--you actually had lots of time when you were just around the other kids, and could cut loose, and run around like maniacs and get all that energy out, and if you did something nutty, well, that's what kids did, and you might get a wupping but you wouldn't get sued by some other kid's parents or labeled a danger to society. But somewhere along the line, everything got all crazy. Now kids don't get smacked anymore (not that that's a bad thing, I'm kinda against the whole smacking thing myself) but they also don't get let out of an adult's sight for fear that they'll all be snatched away within the first 5 seconds that they're unsupervised. And if they mess up, well, there are worse things than getting spanked, and frankly I think the disdain of adults when you're just acting like a friggin' kid is one of them.

So. Yeah, my kids are pretty wild. Okay, they are SERIOUSLY wild. They have more energy than a nuclear power plant. Sometimes, they even (gasp) scream at each other. Or at me. And yeah, they get in trouble for it, so don't give me the fish eye if I don't spend every other second telling them to quit running around or keep their voices down. They aren't living without rules and consequences, believe me. I just don't want them to grow up with my voice in the back of their heads, telling them all the time that I got the wrong kids.

Deep thoughts

After contemplating the complex issues in life, here's what I think about:

Remember "The Kids from C.A.P.E.R."? From the 70s? Remember that episode where the aliens were disguised as hot dogs, and flew around on frisbies, and people would eat them, and then put ketchup and mustard and relish on their heads and sing the Weiner Song?

Come on, you know you do.

What do you mean, it isn't pronounced "mare"?

Wow. I did one of these a while back, but this one is ... uh ... Wow.
Did I ever mention how annoyed everyone used to get with me when we lived in England? Because I didn't have a "real" American accent and thus was no fun for teasing.
Thanks, Orange!

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Midland "You have a Midland accent" is just another way of saying "you don't have an accent." You probably are from the Midland (Pennsylvania, southern Ohio, southern Indiana, southern Illinois, and Missouri) but then for all we know you could be from Florida or Charleston or one of those big southern cities like Atlanta or Dallas. You have a good voice for TV and radio.
The West
Boston
The South
North Central
The Northeast
Philadelphia
The Inland North
What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes

Deception

"The most important one," answered Jesus, "is this: 'Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.' The second is this: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no commandment greater than these."
-Mark 12:29-31

It seems to me, that if you hate yourself so much that you surround yourself with people and ideas that make it impossible to accept yourself the way you were made, with the result that you end up describing yourself as evil, fallen, and a deceiver because you couldn't maintain the lie that you made your life into just so you could deny something that you have no control over, that you're not getting the gist of those commandments. And that if you think that someone's sexuality is a bigger sin than the fact that your religion forces people into a corner in which they have to live a lie in order to feel worthy of your god's love? You aren't paying attention to your own Word.

Episode V

"You know what is SO gross? When Han Solo kisses Princess Leia!"
"EWWWW! I know! That is the GROSSEST thing EVER!"
"When Han Solo gets turned into carbonite..."
"YEAH!"
"THAT is soooo cool."

Here nor there

I remember the year I made the Boy a ghost costume out of long underwear and cheesecloth. And the year I made his scarecrow costume with newspaper stuffing and crinkly-paper straw. This year? 5:30 p.m. at the fly-by-night costume store and he's Harry Potter. And despite all my peer pressuring, he was accompanied by the Little Mermaid and her Gunky Red Hair That Is Not Really Red.

What I'm saying is, it was an excellent Halloween. The Boy ended up dividing all his candy into piles according to type, and then using them as a Lego obstacle course. The Girl put all hers in a plastic bag and then tried to hide behind the coffee table and eat them all.

Then they put about half the loot out for the Halloween Witch (who brought some nice erasers and so forth). And then I conked out on the Boy's bed after reading our chapter of Harry Potter.

Oh! OH! And get this! I was at the doctor's today, and they did the height/weight thing, and the nurse said, "Okay, 5'8 1/2," and I said, "Excuse me?" And she repeated my height, and I said, "Uh...no, I'm 5'7 1/2," and she said, "Want me to check it again?" and I said, "Yes, please" and guess what? I'm an inch taller than I thought I was. So, can I just say, how does that happen? How do I go my whole friggin' adult life thinking I'm an inch shorter than I actually am? I was ridiculously happy about it, for some reason. There's hope for me yet, as apparently I'm still growing.

No shit

Go read this, from Dr. B.

Curious Philosophy

Life lessons, gracie de Curious George:

"And the squirrel on his head was hungry..."

I think that kind of sums it all up, especially when stated by William H. Macy.

[Edited to correct the damned H. Thanks Trisha! You have saved me from a virtual eternity of looking like a dork! :) ]

A few things

Thank you. Really.

Better.

It's a start.

Think, thank, thunk

Well, crap.

I think The Depression is back.

I don't know. I don't want to jump the gun, and shit but I don't want to go back on those nice expensive drugs, but witness the telltale signs:

• Difficulty focusing on work
• Difficulty focusing on typical tasks
• Sleeping issues
• No appetite
• Fairly continuous feeling of anxiety
• Obsessing over really stupid shit
• Pretty much losing interest in pretty much everything

Aaaand we're coming up on a good 3 or 4 weeks here.

So.

There are still some non-medical things I haven't really put into full effect yet; I need to dig out the info I kept from my sessions last year, make specific times to get more exercise, plan out the diet better, blah blah blah. But. But.

There are some things in my head that make me sad right now. That's all, I guess.

Conversations from Bizarro World

The kids are watching "Dragon Tales"; I call them away for breakfast just as Max and Emmi are finishing their little dragon scale rhyme.

The Girl: EWWWWWW! GROSS!
The Boy and me: ?
TG: I don wanna fy with dagons in a lan uv BARF!

-------------------

Phone call with the Ex:

Ex: You need somebody extremely smart.
Me: I would settle for middling smart, even, at this point.
Ex: Well, I think he's gonna hafta be smart.
Me: Fine.
Ex: And I would say, pretty refined.
Me: Well, I don't know. I mean, I don't want somebody who's going to be going all esoteric on me all the time.
Ex: You know what you need? You need to date...
Me: A professor.
Ex: That's exactly what I was thinking!
Me: It'd do.
Ex: How old?
Me: I'm wide open. Any birthdate between 1960 and 1978.
Ex: 1978?
Me: I told you, I'm approaching desperation here!
Ex: That's like, what, how old is that?
Me: Ten years. That's the most I could stand.
Ex: What, you want to get them right out of college?
Me: SHUT UP! I said that was the Outer Limit. It isn't my preference!!
Ex: I think it's a little young, though.
Me: Well, so do I, I'm just saying that--HEY! Pot calling Kettle!!
Ex: I'd say somewhere between 40 and 45.
Me: That would certainly be my preference, but I'm like the choosy beggar here, dude.
Ex: An accent would be pretty good. Like maybe a British accent.
Me: Oh, sure, why not. Throw that in.
Ex: Like Hugh Grant.
Me: ??!! Hugh Grant?? Dear god, no. Try Collin Firth.
Ex: Who's that?
Me: You know, from Nanny McFee.
Ex: Oh, no way! He's a wus. Even Hugh Grant knocked him out.
Me: Shut up! He's a total sweetie! I am NOT dating Hugh Grant. Yuck!
Ex: No, you need a fighter.
Me: Uh, I think not. I can fight for myself, thanks. What I need is somebody who isn't all stressed out all the time.
Ex: Good luck with that.
Me: Yeah, yeah, I know.
Ex: All right, I'm on it.
Me: Good. Go. Find.

Why Sesame Street rocks...

Amy Sedaris is the guest on the street today. 'Nuff said.

Cry me a river

I've got a runner. This is what happens: The Boy messes up. And he realizes it. And he blurts out that he's sorry, gets a total panicked look on his face, and then takes off. Literally. Running. And then you either have to chase after him or ignore him until he comes back.

So on the one hand, this is a way to take the pressure off. I get that. He runs off, people come after him, and it isn't about how he's in trouble anymore. So I say to him, "Buddy. You've got to stop running away from stuff. You've got to stay and face up to it."

"But I'm just not that type of person!" he wails from downstairs (where yes, he'd run away to).

"What type of person is that?" I ask.

"The good type of person!" he sniffs. "I'm the other type of person! I'm the bad bad bad type of person!"

Oy vey.

No, I tell him, you aren't. But why do you run off? If you run off, you can't resolve the situation. I give him some examples of times he's run off so fast that he hasn't given the other person the chance to tell him it's okay and they aren't even upset. "But," he says, "I have to run away. Because I feel bad. And then I feel like crying." The tears start squeezing out of the corners of his eyes. "And I can't cry! I run away so no one will see me cry, because I can't help it, and only babies cry! And I don't want to be a baby! Everyone will know that I'm a baby!" He's crying really hard now, and covering up his head with the covers.

Where did this come from? Damn this American Man Shit. But I don't know, and he won't or can't tell me, where or from whom in particular this notion has come.

"That's completely not true," I insist. "I cry all the time."

"No you don't," comes the muffled response. "You never cry."

So much for all those sleepless nights thinking I'd scarred my kids crying while I was making dinner or reading them stories or wiping their butts. Hmm.

"Parents usually try not to cry in front of their kids, honey, because they don't want to upset them."

"Well it wouldn't upset me! It would just show me that it's okay!"

So I promised him I would cry more if he would promise to think about the fact that crying was actually something that everybody was made to do, and that it was good for you, and that if you never cried you couldn't get out the sad stuff. I am baffled.

Sundry

I've been rather short with the Girl lately, and I don't like it.

But let me first say, and I know this is eye-rolling-worthy, but it's absolutely true: You have No. Idea. how cute she is. I mean, the kid is Cute (tm). In fact, every interaction with pretty much every adult, in passing or otherwise, ends with them saying, "Ohhhhhh, she's so cute!"

This is getting dangerous. I mean, she gets away with shite (away from home) because of The Cuteness. Which is not a message we want to send to her little brain. Because you send that message, the next thing you know you get not just The Cute, but you get The Bratty. Not good.

Anyway, though, I am being too short with her, and that's not good. You know that thing where you hear your voice coming out of your body, and it's the Voice of Criticism? I don't like that voice.

Last week, a client actually said to me, "You know what your special gift in this world is? You are so calm! You can stay so calm and keep everyone else calm...it's amazing." And boy, did I get a good laugh outta that one. Hooboy.

We'll probably get our first snow today. S gave me an piece of extra carpeting she didn't want, and I put it in the basement, so we now have Unfinished Basement Playroom, complete with $5 Home De(s)pot painted concrete walls (sadly, they look a bit institutional, but can painted concrete ever not? I think I need to buy some funky spraypaint and get abstract), carpet-remnant carpeting, futon, blackboard painted-art table (formerly the second-hand table the Ex and I acquired when we first got hitched) and chairs, and all the toys and art stuff. I am ready to deal with Kids Stuck Indoors.

Approaching normalcy

Which is to say, pretty much back in the saddle. I'm wondering if last week's Mood Swing Bonanza was my bod's new middle-age reaction to stress? I realized on Saturday that the way I was feeling was pretty much exactly how I had felt (increasingly) for the year leading up to my stint on Lexapro. If you'll recall, that fun Depressive Episode exhibited itself much more as anxiety and high emotion than as mopey moping. And said depression was generally agreed (by the docs) to be caused by stress. So. Maybe a promotion, the ex's breakup with his fiance, and a disagreement with the landscaper was enough stress to throw me into a bit of a tailspin. Possibly.

Kind of along the lines of the way I work (in an overall sense), as soon as I realized this, I started feeling better. Although I still am not exactly pleased about where I am life-strategy-coping-wise, I do feel more myself this week. I think I can say that other than eating a half pan of rice krispie treats (damn their marshmallowy goodness!), things are coming around. I've actually managed to accomplish a few tasks around the house and on the job, as well as put some increased exercise into the schedule, and I think I'm going to pony up and go back on the Weight Watchers for a month (I'd gotten cheap and gone off it as I wasn't really following it very well, but now that I'm exercising more I have the bad feeling I'm also noshing more, which doesn't exactly equate with the goal of losing weight). If The Anxious comes back or seems to be lurking around after a few more weeks, I'll ask the doc about it; it's about time for my annual prodding anyway, and I should have my cholesterol and all that crap checked as well.

On a completely non-related subject, the Boy was wondering what instrument he might learn to play. The piano seemed a logical choice, seeing as how we have one, and I also pointed out to him that "Chicks dig a guy who plays the piano." "What?" he said, doing that eyebrow thing we in this family do so well, "Chicks dig? What does that mean?" And when I explained, "EWWWWW!! Mo-om! No way am I playing the piano, then." And then he started giggling.

And here's something that I have to write down so I never forget how cute it is to me: The Girl pointing out that there's "none more". "Only one more, Mama! Ohoh, now none more. There's just none more for you, sorry!"

Buck up, little camper

You know what?

One, you guys are so kind; thanks for the encouragement. I had trouble getting that post to publish last night and I finally gave up, thinking it was stuck in edit-land, and then this morning I wasn't actually too sorry about that, seeing as how it was the Majorly Whiney Post of 2006, but oh well, there it was. But thank you, really.

And two, somebody around here just needs to suck it up, and since it's just me around here I'm guessin' that by somebody I mean me. So, I say, time to subjugate, or sublimate, or subliminate, or sub-something-ate, which is to say, I need to just find something else to do with all ... this. Something which will further me along the path to betterness instead of just getting crumbs all over the couch. Time to throw myself into some worthwhile pursuit! Nose to the grindstone! Elbow to the wheel! Hand to the plowshare! Or whatever, you get it. Something more effective than moping around and making you read about it.

Smooch. At least I have you, dear Internets.

Neither here nor there

I'm so impatient. I'm all, like, I need space to get over this divorce. I'm most definitely NOT going to jump into anything, I'm going to take time for myself and all that groove. And so I did, and so I have, and it's been 3 years.

Three. Years. People.

And now I feel like a normal person again. I mean, mostly. Okay, so my house is still messier than I'd like it to be, and I'm still going back and forth with my ass, and so forth and so on, but in general, I think I could actually have a healthy relationship with another adult. I really could. Would I be kinda scared? Well, yeah, but not so much that I wouldn't just enjoy being happy in the present, and what is there to lose? And I don't need anything from anyone, but it would be nice to have someone to share things with. And I think that all sounds fairly normal. The problem is, I feel like I wake up one day and feel this way and the birds are singing and I open the door and I'm all like, What? No line of men outside the door? I feel like that scene in Mary Poppins where all the nannies are lined up around the block and Mr. Banks won't let the housekeeper open the door until 9:00 sharp, and then one minute later she opens the door...and there's no one there.

This is just one of those vent-y posts. I know that tomorrow I'll get up and go for a walk really early with S, and the sunrise will be gorgeous, and then I'll get a lot of work done and I'll go do reading groups at the Boy's school, and I'll wade through the laundry and I'll pick up the Girl and we'll draw with chalk and I'll have dinner with my dear friend J and laugh and it'll be a good day. I know that. But right now ... damn, you guys. I'm just tired of being alone. I feel like I'm disappearing and nobody can do anything about it, even if they wanted to.

Gee...

I've nicely asked my distant cousin to take me off her right-wing, anti-immigrant mailing list. I don't know what's up, but in the past week I've suddenly received a slew of annoying bulk mail from this woman, and it took me a while to remember that she's the waaaaay distant, gun-lovin' cousin that answered a question I posted on a geneology board a couple years back. Yaaaaay.

I hope she respects my request, but I will admit...one little part of me might get some satisfaction from what will happen if she doesn't...

I'm going to start forwarding all my StopTheNRA and John Kerry messages. Heh heh heh.

Happy little bluebirds...

What can I say?

A real sweetheart of a blogger (and a much better movie-goer than I, sigh of envy) wrote this during an email exchange the other day:

Your life is shrouded in mystery... heh It sounds like you're dealing with lots (both good and challenging), but you keep it to yourself mostly (not that
it's a bad thing, just an observation).

And it got me to thinking, that this is true and yet oddly not. I mean, I think I have become much more open since I began blogging, and what I mean by that is, I tend to be more frank than I was before. I mean, heck. Why not be honest? I like to think that I'm still diplomatic, but I also feel that having this (more or less regular) outlet for my thoughts and feelings has made me more comfortable with them, and with myself; more myself, I guess. Or more who I'm becoming.

But this is what is happening to me in the real world, the walking around world. Here in this world, the typing at all hours of the day and night world, I am still more honest but more compartmentalized. I mean, I don't talk about my job, because come on, I read Dooce. And I talk about my kids, but not in any particular depth, or not very often. And I don't talk very much about the people in my life, because first I feel this is something of an invasion of their privacy, and I don't want one of them to bust me one day, recognizing themselves here even with the fake names and so forth.

And right now, I would really like to talk about some hard things that are happening, but I don't, because ... because they aren't really mine to tell, so much. Because I feel like I've said them before. Because I don't want the people involved to feel invaded if posts were ever to come to light. Because it's all been said before, and done before, and frankly I'm so tired of it. And the interest of relating it just isn't there. It's a story stuck in a loop, and I don't really want to be there in the loop with it. It affects me, but I like to think I have set boundaries to keep it from affecting me as much as it used to do. I think I might write something, but then? I get tired of it. You know?

And I guess that's the blogging hazard...what am I saying? What do I have to say? Why would you care anyway?

Sucking at regular posting for nearly 2 years

But seriously, it's been NUTS around here. Blah blah blah, like you're all living in the lap of leisure, I know, I know.

I posted that last post and then I hated it because that? That's Drama Queen Me. And I am soooo trying not to be a drama queen anymore. Usually, if you were here, you'd think I was less like the old Calgon chick and more like the chick in those other commercials, where everyone else is all on speed everywhere and she's just hanging out eating that piece of chocolate. Isn't it chocolate? Dude, don't ask me.

I think I had a dream last night about the purple skirt I had in high school. Man, it was so Laura Ashley. No, that isn't right. But it was something like that. One of those 80s purple cordorouy-ish mid-calf length skirts. I loved that skirt.

I really like the Boy's second-grade teacher. Man, karma is making it up to him for kindergarten, is all I can say.

I own this and I know you're jealous. Try not to be jealous.

It's getting to be Autumn people. I am totally on board with AJWP--Fall. Rocks. I can start knitting again pretty soon. Maybe tonight! Maybe while I watch Ghost Whisperer! Feel the excitement just BUSTING out all over!

S and I have started walking in the mornings at, like, 6 am. Nothing starts the day off right like an hour freezing your tush off with a good friend, especially one with that crazy dry British wit. Still living the myth, I tell you.

Peaches. Canned. Cobblered. All done. Farewell, oh Peachy Season.

I feel like sending cards. Crazy cards that make no sense. Want a card? Email me.

My son thinks it is gross to eat your dessert with the same fork you used to eat your dinner. Yet he eats boogers. Does anyone else see the irony here?

I think that's everything.

It was the best of times, it was the OH FOR CRYING OUT LOUD GO TO SLEEP ALREADY!!!

Ahhh, bedtime. Such a lovely, peaceful time for one and one's offspring, non?

A warm bath and steady routine will get your little ones off to dreamland in no time.

Who comes up with this swill, I ask you?

Do you wanna know what bedtime is like at our house? My friends, the clock starts at

5:30: Homework Time. Everyone gathers at the kitchen table for a half-hour of homework, while dinner finishes cooking. Sounds cozy, doesn't it? That's because you aren't the one getting the pencil chucked at your head when the Boy gets frustrated past bearing, or cursing yourself for forgetting to defrost the pork roast, or being asked for the umpteempth time for the purple marker. Bet on falling at least 10 minutes behind schedule due to some unforeseen Maelstrom of Whining.

6:00-6:30: Dinner. You will sit down to a nice family dinner, with conversation with the kids and a real nutritional value. You will even have desert! You will not count on having the older child make a face at the main course, which will not stop him from taking a bite and deciding he likes it after all and will eat it all, but which WILL prevent his little sister from even looking at it for the rest of the meal. She, however, will take 5 hours to eat the 3 green peas that she has chosen to sustain her. Your children will then spend the next 1/2 hour continuing to pilfer food (they just bloody ate!) and working themselves up into a frenzy despite your attempts to get all Zen up in their grills. Count on being at least 45 minutes behind by the end of this phase.

6:30-7:00: Quiet play. Or, Apocalypse Now as presented by the 8-and-under crowd. Take your pick. 1 hour behind schedule.

7:00-7:30: Bath time. Quiet and soothing, as long as you don't mind soaked floors, 15 HotWheels cars in your shower, a wet cat, and strident demands to "come watch the show! About Jesus! He puts water in his mouth and DIES!" Verily. What the hell time is it now?

7:30-8: Bedtime for the little one; quiet time for the older one. Or, one more story/potty trip/drink/snack/backrub/song/hug/kiss/cuddle/refusal to sleep. We aren't even looking at clocks anymore because we shall cry if we do.

8:00-8:30: Bedtime for the older one. After which he happily drifts off to happy sleep. Ha. Ha hahahahahaaa. Ha. Oh, lookie there. It's 10:30. Time to go work.

This slight (and sarcastic) exaggeration brought to you by the letter P, the number 12, and the last 3 brain cells I have left.

Oh, and his nose is sorta broken, poor kid, but only in a cartiledgey, nothing to do but wait til it doesn't hurt anymore sorta way, thank heavens--and thanks for asking!

Kansas

I dream about tornadoes, and at some point in each dream, I say to myself, Wow. I can't believe I'm finally seeing a tornado, and it isn't just a dream. What does this mean?

I want things now. Or not. Depends.

I'm going to Atlanta in December, for my uncle's surprise birthday party. I haven't seen my extended family for 20 years. Unless you count 5 minutes at the airport once. Which I don't.

The Boy's nose might be broken. We'll find out Monday. Playground. Metal bar. Face. You know the drill.

In the papers he brought home today was a sheet about helping. How would you handle the specified situation so that everyone was happy? The questions don't really matter, but his answers are telling:
1. Take terns
2. Take terns
3. You your sister you your sister you your sister you get it (or not, there was a question mark from the teacher next to that one)
4. Take terns
5. Take terns

He's good at taking turns. It's the other options for compromise that allude him at the moment. We're working on it. He'll get it.

There was a bear in the parking lot of the grocery store across the street from the Girl's preschool today, so the kids didn't get to play outside (nor after school; the preschool is only a mile from the house and they hadn't caught Gentle Ben yet, go ride your little bikes around like the Big Bear Pizza Delivery service, kids, I think not).

There are some teenagers wandering around drunk out back now, from some party somewhere nearby, I don't know where. I must be getting old because they do not amuse me. Maybe they'll amuse the bear.

On tonight's program...

Scene: From behind me, as I start the bath; the costume: a big plastic gold crown, a gold sequin star wand, a stuffed unicorn. Sung to the tune of "Alluette".

I'm a princess, I'm a pretty princess!
I'm a princess:
A princess with no clothes!

Yep. That you are.

Scene: The Boy and Girl look at a book.
B: Gigi, that's disgusting.
G: Uh-huh.
B: And silly.
G: Uh-huh.
B: Disgusting and silly: That's a baaaaad combination.

Indeed.

Three Things Meme

I've been tagged by Scrivener to do a meme, and it only took me, what, 8 days and him telling me for me to realize it. Now why is it people don't ask me to do memes? Hmmm...

1. Three people who make me laugh:
The Chica
The Boy
The Girl

2. Three things I can do:
Write backward with my left hand
Speak French
Knit
(we didn't say things I can do well, now did we?)

3. Three things I can't do:
Roll my tongue
Wiggle my ears
A cartwheel

4. Three things I'm doing right now:
Blogging
Trying to figure out if that's the Boy I hear out back
Feeling sorry for myself, boo-hoo

5. Three things I want to do before I die:
Fall in love again
See my kids become happy, healthy adults
Hang glide

6. Three things I hate the most:
Hatred
Cruelty
Intolerance

7. Three things that scare me:
Evil
Sharks
Black widow spiders

8. Three things I don't understand:
How to make the "r" sound properly in French
My son's temperement
Why people can't just let things go

9. Three skills I'd like to learn:
Fluent French
To play the piano well
To sew well

10. Three ways to describe my personality:
Simple
Complex
Confusing

11. Three things I think you should listen to:
Rain
NPR
The Asshattery song

12. Three things you should never listen to:
Nails on a blackboard
People being hurt
Any song by Paris Hilton

13. Three favorite foods:
Chocolate cake
Saag paneer
Home-made chex mix

14. Three beverages I drink regularly:
Coffee
Water
Red wine

15. Three shows I watched as a kid:
Wonder Woman
Underdog
Lawrence Welk

16. Three people I'm tagging to do this
Amy (POW)
Holly (Crazy Mama)
Catherine (come on, you wanted to know what to do with the blog)

Take it as you will

Here's the thing with God and me: I like the guy. If I'm going to be totally honest, I will have to tell you that spirituality is a very large part of who I am. It's just that I'm afraid to tell you that. Because if the same is true for you? Fine. And if it isn't? Fine. But anymore, it seems most people only admit to believing in God as a preface to launching into some diatribe, and I don't want you to see me like that, because that is so not me. It seems that an admission of Christianity automatically makes you a fanatic.

But wait. You know what? I don't think that's true. Not really. Or, no more true than it ever was. It's just that...Well, it seems as though the Diatribe Tribe have more power than they used to have, and more attention, and that makes them scarier. But the odd thing is, I don't judge people of other faiths because of the fanatics that claim those faiths; I don't think that all Muslims are terrorists. I find it appalling that people of a given faith can't practice it in piece without other people making broad erroneous judgments. Those people who claim to be Christian and then go around spewing hatred and intolerance? I don't see any difference between them and Muslims who go around spewing hatred and intolerance. Or Jews who go around spewing hatred and intolerance. Or Hindus who go around...see what I mean? They just stand out more, but I don't think that means they're the majority, and by letting them hijack my religion, I'm just giving them more power. My spiritual beliefs are a huge part of who I am, and to me personally, they play a very major role in most of the decisions I make and the way I try to live my life. But unless we're having a philosophical or theological discussion, I'm not likely to bring it up in conversation, and I sure as hell am not going to judge you if you hold a different opinion than mine, just as I hope you won't judge me.

I lust after John Stewart and I can't stand Bush&Co. and I have a devotional by Joel Osteen by my bed and I read it every morning. I go to church every Sunday and dear lord I know that South Park is disgusting but I laugh until I cry every time I watch it. I swear like a sailor (when the kids aren't around) and I'm in charge of putting together the advent devotional for the church this Christmas. I teach vacation bible school every year and I vote for the candidate that seems the most liberal (whatever party they happen to be in) because I happen to take all that "love thy neighbor" stuff literally. I believe in evolution and the virgin birth. I have a rosary and a string of buddhist prayer beads and I use them both. I wish I could've had a marriage that worked but I don't believe that God is pissed at me just because I didn't. I think every family in this country should have equal rights, regardless of the age, race, gender, or marital status of the people in those families--and regarding marital status, I think if you want to get a piece of paper that certifies your commitment, I think you should be able to do so, whether you're straight or gay. I don't like abortion but I really don't like the fact that there are people who would rather illegalize it than make it unnecessary by providing free, safe birth control and sex education. (And speaking of: I really really really miss sex, dear god do I ever. People, somebody needs to help me get a date already. Hop to it!) I really don't care whether Jesus got it on with Mary Magdalene or whether he didn't, because either way it doesn't change the message: Be kind. Forgive. Believe in good. Do good. Love your life, and the people in it, and never give up hope. And yeah, I happen to go the Jesus route, but I see a lot of people of a lot of religions (and of no religion) following that same message, and frankly I think they're a lot closer to paradise than the so-called Christians who have nothing but judgment and hatred and fear in their hearts.

I don't think I'm alone, or even in the minority. People just aren't that simple. Are they?

Tell me why

I have given birth to the incarnation of Tom Sawyer.

The Boy was in big, BIG trouble for something yesterday, and got sent (ok, he got dragged, kicking and screaming) to his room, which he promptly trashed. Mm-hmm.

So today he is grounded and has lost many privileges until he cleans up his room. His sister follows him upstairs. I come up a little later to check progress, and here's what happens: The Girl bounds out of the Boy's room, puts her hands on her hips, and says, "I am going to clean up the Boy's room, and he doesn't have to pick up even one piece!"

"Oh, reeeeeally," I hiss. "And whose idea was THAT?"

"Mine!" declares the Girl. "And I am going to clean up his room for the REST of my LIFE!"

"Oh, I think not," said I. "If you want to help him, fine. But HE is most certainly going to do at least half the work."

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. "You!" she shouts, "are the MEANEST! MOM! EVER!"

From inside his room, the Boy puts together a Lego. "Yeah," he says, "You aren't being very nice, Mom."

Five minutes later, they come into my room. "Mom," says the Girl, "can you open my piggy-bank so that B can count my money?"

"WHAT!?? NO! You are not giving him your bank!" She's been trying to sneak it past me for the past 5 minutes.

Is there a karmic lesson to be learned here somewhere (other than, why the hell did I think quitting therapy was a good plan)? I have some sort of wierdo flu/cold/fever thing that's been going around, so I am all Day-Quil'ed up and have no patience for lessons right now. I am about to start calling boarding schools. Do boarding schools answer the phones on Labor Day?

Roots and seeds

I've said before that I think fear is at the root of most of our problems: hatred, anger, intolerance, and my fat ass. You know, all the major stuff.

I've been working a lot on overcoming fear. By which I mean, recognizing it and dealing with it. A huge part of this has been learning to let go of the fears I have for my kids, especially for the Boy. The more I let go, the easier it gets.

So this week, we took him out of therapy. And, me being what I am, I keep worrying that decision, turning it over in my brain like a piece of glass in a river, only instead of getting smoother, the damned thing just gets sharper and splinter-ier. If I don't knock it off, pretty soon I'm going to jump head first in the river trying to dig it out, and get water all up my nose. Not to mention that drowning thing.

Here's the thing, though: What am I so afraid of? I'm afraid of a ghost. I'm afraid of what might happen if he doesn't get "early intervention". I'm afraid that one day he'll be an unhappy and unstable adult and he'll blame me. I'm afraid of losing him. But all this fear is rooted in events and behaviors that began 3 years ago, during a horribly tumultuous time for all of us. And frankly, I think they blossomed in my own depression and anxiety from that time and the year that followed. They've been watered by diagnoses and opinions and judgment, real or imagined. And they've become a veritable tangle of thorns.

I know he has challenges. He needs to learn how to deal with frustration, and disappointment, and yes, fear. He needs to learn how to get along with others without walling off or blowing up. He needs to learn how to let go of things. But isn't that what life is supposed to be about: learning how to be a human being? I keep going around and around this, but it keeps coming down to the fact that I don't think it's a disability to be born without knowing how to be perfect. I look at my strengths, the things that have gotten me through the past 3 years, that kept me from going completely insane as a kid, and at the center of each one I see a seed, and that seed is a weak spot. A weak spot that I learned to live with, to cherish, even. Who am I to take those seeds away from my child? How can he grow to be a man if all I show him are the weaknesses, and never teach him how to tend them until they become strengths?

Mm, yummy crow

Man, I pity the girl who gets me for a mother-in-law.

So now a very different story has come out, and I owe Natalie an apology. Yes, the 38-year old needs must apologize for talking smack about the 7-year old. How degrading.

Last night, the Boy said, "Mom. I just can't help liking Natalie." And I said, "Honey, I understand that, and you don't have to like whom I like or not like whom I don't like. I just don't like the way Natalie is acting. I don't like that she is demanding things from you."

"But Mom! She didn't demand it, I asked her if she wanted jewelry and she said, 'Yeah, sure.'"

Hold the phone.

I asked him to tell me the WHOLE story again, from the beginning. Ah, and now a different picture appears. After the boys went and told Miss thank that the Boy has a crush on her, she came over to him and asked him if he wanted to play. And then HE asked her if she wanted to be the master, and she said, "Yeah, sure." And then he asked if she wanted him to bring her jewelry, and she said, "Yeah, sure."

So. On the good side, perhaps the Boy has not chosen the Class Shrew to be the object of his affections; I mean, there's a big difference between taking advantage of somebody who says they like you and just having the common sense to take what's offered you. On the bad side, I apparently am a total psycho.

yah.

Okay, we covered the p*nis and the v*gina, but who said anything about JEWELRY??

So. Third day of school. The Boy comes home, and he finds this costume jewelry ring that his sister has, and he nabs it.

"What," I scold, "are you doing taking your sister's play jewelry?"

"But Mooooooom," he moans, "I NEED it to pay my DEBT to NATASHA!"

Again, so.

Natasha just happens to be the sweet young thing who broke my boy's heart last year. He had the major first-grade crush on her, and she just adored him--for about a month. THEN the little hussy took up with the boy down the street. About the same time that the Boy's best friend in class (up to that point) also decided to hang out with the same other boy. Okay, such is life, and it wouldn't have mattered a speck to the Boy because hey, he liked the boy down the street, too. Except that Boy Down the Street used his power for EVIL. As in, everyone gang up and be mean to my kid. Oh, there was much deep breathing and crying and moping about, I tell you--and that was me, thank you very much. It only helped a little that Other Boy's mother was in an absolute state of mortification over the whole thing and practically started wringing her hands whenever she saw me.

Well, I guess looking on the bright side, I have a very resilient child, because it would seem that today at recess, he told some other boys that he has a crush on Natasha. And of course, those boys immediately went and told her. And somehow the result of all this, my Boy says, is that she is now his "master" and he owes her a debt that can only be paid in jewelry.

WTF??? If this is the beginning of a pattern of the types of girls my kid's going to go for, please shoot me now.

"Well," I said, "I'm not so sure I like this whole plan. First off, Natasha treated you pretty poorly last year, and I don't think I like her demanding anything from you."

"MOTHER!" he retorted, "That is SO unfair. LAST year Natasha was just a first grader! Just six! What do six-years-olds know? NOTHING. NOW she's SEVEN! Seven-years-olds know EVERYTHING!" And then he made that exasperated "sheesh do you comprehend NOTHING" noise.

I think I need a drink. It's gonna be a loooong puberty.

Kick-ass moms unite!

Beth, where the heck did you find this?
Now THAT's the way to start off the morning! Enjoy. (And check out Beth's Beth-y goodness while you're there.)

First-day-of-school-tons-of-work-too-lazy-to-do-anything-but-watch-Buffy-and-do-a-crossword Meme

As seen at Scrivener's (aka He Who Is Cooler Than I).

Not that he tagged me. I never get tagged (just like baby, waah waah) (and only the people I went to college with will get that) (oh, and Pammy, I'm the one who prank called you but I wasn't really trying to prank call you, I was trying to let you hear "Love Shack". Live!) but I'm doing it anyway.

What?

Okay, so you go here and you look through the random quotes until you find five that reflect who you are or what you believe. And by the way, it was a real test of will not to put down the Erica Jong quote that I wrote in my diary during high school. Erica Jong! Like I'd read any Erica Jong in high school. I would've had a nervous breakdown. Come to think of it, I still haven't read anything by Erica Jong. Hmm.

Right. You don't care. Onward.
-------
Things don't fall apart. Things hold. Lines connect in thin ways that last and last and lives become generations made out of pictures and words just kept.
-Lucille Clifton

Pain nourishes courage. You can't be brave if you've only had wonderful things happen to you.
-Mary Tyler Moore

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
Hebrews 11:1, The Bible (King James Version)

Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around every once in awhile, you could miss it.
-Matthew Broderick, Ferris Bueller in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off"

Once I make up my mind, I'm full of indecision.
Oscar Levant

"BLOOSH"

Days until school starts: 1
Supplies I still need to locate, despite having searched through stores in TWO TOWNS: 4
Number of days the Boy has been home because of gap between summer program and school: 2
Inches of floor space not covered by Legos: 3.7
Sibling arguments that have ended in tears or name-calling: 1,298,400,002
Mommy Drinks consumed in the past 48 hours: 1. Okay, 2 (it was a double)
Business projects that have chosed the past 48 hours to implode: 5
Times per minute the children are asking me to come downstairs while I'm trying to put out said fires: 398
Guilt over not going downstairs: 398 to the 34th
Seconds until my brain goes, as the Boy likes to put it, BLOOSH: .0000000000001

A drop in the ocean

The Boy is sad. Remember M, his best friend? They won't be in the same class together this year.

When he saw the class posting, he ran over to the edge of the sidewalk and sat down, in that hunched-up-boy ball that kids make of themselves, as though they can curl up against hurting. What I want to do is to forcibly uncurl the kid, with words or actions. What I do instead is sit next to him for a minute, silently, rubbing his back. Later, in the car, I'll tell him about my best friend when I was his age, Beth Williams (Beth Williams, where for art thou? I miss you, Beth Williams), who lived up the alley from us. I'll tell him that we weren't in school together or even in the same grade, but we were still best friends and we spent all our time outside of school together. And I made other friends in school, and it all worked out okay. I'll tell him that when I first met his Aunt Chica, I was sure she didn't like me, so sometimes making new friends takes time but who knows what can happen? But right now, I have to fight the urge to curl up in a little ball next to him, a mammoth rolypoly repeating a little mantra in my head: My boy will be happy. My boy will be happy. My boy will be happy.

I've always tended toward the melancholy, I think. I am Phlegm Girl. What did they do for melancholy in the middle ages, I can't remember? Hot coals, wasn't it? Leeches for too much anger, hot coals for too much sadness. I'm trying to stop with the hot coals these days. I'm trying to stop with the vodka or the ice cream or the whatever it is I bury my nose in; but I'm also trying to stop with the rolling around in my sadness until I'm all covered and stinking with it. It's not as deadly as you might think, to be sad, nor as permanent.

I've been thinking, that a lot of the Boy's anger is what he uses to cover up sadness. The Anger Bone's connected to the Sadness Bone, the Sadness Bone's connected to the Fear Bone... I've been thinking that maybe it's time to quit trying to figure out what's wrong all the time, stop trying to fix the sadness or push against it or bury it, and instead gently, gently see whether I can tell what's beyond it, what's inside it, and maybe help him to do the same.

I've been thinking, oddly, that I'm really very happy.

Hall of Shame

On the way home from dropping off the kids at day school, the theme song from "Titanic" came on the radio and prompted me to ponder what a sap I am. So, since I'm all about the full disclosure, here is my Hall of Shame (#1): Top 10 Movies That Should Make Me Nothing but Cynical and Yet Reduce Me to Tears Every Single Stupid Time. Don't hate me for being a complete dork, I beg you.

Note that these aren't the only movies that make me cry; these are just the ones that I'm embarassed about crying over. For example, I cry over It's a Wonderful Life every single Christmas, but I'm not embarassed about it. But crying over a dorky remake with C. Thomas Howell? That would be embarassing. Crying when I read The English Patient? Oh, but of course. Crying over the totally overblown and muddied/Hollywood-ized movie version? Oh, the shame of it.

If I listed all the movies that made me cry, you would be sitting there reading all damned day.

Titanic
Somewhere in Time
Pocahontas
The Incredible Journey
The English Patient
AI
Minority Report
Hanover Street
Brother Bear
The Lion King

All I've got...

Overheard from the front seat:

B: But this card, this one I'm gonna trade as soon as I can. I don't mind Digimon, I really don't, but not this one. I don't like this one. He's all boring. He's just a guy! Just a big, big guy, with a whole bunch of hair under his arms.

G [in the Worldly Tone that only 3 1/2 year olds can muster]: But B...grownups have that. They have hair. They just do.

B: Yeah, yeah. I'm still trading him.

Wuh-oh

I was up last night working until the sun came up, and then I crashed for 2 hours while my children, in a completely uncharacteristic act that makes me believe all good things are possible, slept until 8. You would think, as they are with their dad tonight, that I would have gone to bed at a nice early hour and so recovered, but for some reason I am still awake. I have the night after the all nighter can't go to sleep now hangover.

I think I would be a good insomniac, but I lack the motivation.

It looks like the Girl has outgrown her peanut allergy. We still have to wait for the backup blood test and then do an in-office challenge, but I am feeling pretty hopeful. It will be great not to have that hanging over our heads, and will totally offset the fact that I must begin bathing the cats. Heh.

Change your channels, or, Surrender the Pink!!

Hey, if you are totally addicted to Catherine Newman's gorgeous heart-rending wacky ever-pink-lovin' column over at BabyCenter, and you're all broken up over it ending, don't totally despair because 1) she has a new monthly column in "Wondertime" magazine and 2) she is a total doll and all that despair would probably make her feel bad, and then I would have to smack you. And then I'd feel bad. And then it would be a Carnival of Badness and that would be, well, bad.

You have to look for the Dalai Mama column under the parent-to-parent section. Their navigation is a bit wacky (or else I am, a possibility we should never rule out) and there didn't seem to be a way to simply access archives of the column; I had to look under the "more in parent to parent" link to find the earlier column and I'm not sure how many they'll archive online, but there appear to be two available at the moment. So hie thee over there.

Edited to add: Oh yay! And she will also have a weekly blog column.

Heal thyself

It's early afternoon, and the clouds are coming in over the foothills. The old cat is asleep on the bed, and the fan on my dresser blows the warm air around. From my desk, I can see over the tops of trees, houses, to the hills and the mountains beyond them. Every now and then, I hear the birds fighting over the feeder in the backyard on the other side of the house: wrens, sparrows, finches, starlings, dusty brown and grey and black with only the smallest bits of color, red, yellow, purple when the wings turn, and two doves.

A few weeks ago, I felt anger on behalf of someone who was dealing with a lot of pain. She was angry, and hurt, and strong beyond belief. She said she felt that she was putting negative energy out into the universe, and I said, no, you deserve to be angry, anger gives you the strength to tell the people who are hurting you to fuck off. And that's true, but it's been weighing on me ever since, because it isn't the whole truth, and I feel as though I did her an injustice, saying just that, saying just, "Go ahead and be pissed off."

One thing about blogging that has been a real privilege has been getting to know, on whatever level, so many amazing people in so many stages of their lives. There is so much strength and wisdom floating around out here. So many people willing to extend a kind word or just let each other know that they aren't alone. And I think that's what friends are, whether or not you've ever met face-to-face. It's damned hard cracking open the old hardened wounded places, and letting light in, and yet everywhere I look, someone is doing that hard work.

There's a theory that when you're processing something difficult, you go through a series of emotions, in a certain order: anger, sadness, fear, guilt, understanding (or acceptance). You have to go through all those emotions to get to the last one, this theory goes, but it's so easy to get stuck in one--or stuck avoiding one--that you can't get through and out the other side. (One therapy that works intensively with processing these emotions is EMDR therapy, which I went through several years ago, and which I would whole-heartedly recommend looking into it if you are struggling with past trauma.)

For a long time, I was stuck with anger. Specifically, I squashed all the anger I felt down, directed in inward. It still isn't my brightest light, dealing with anger, which is maybe why I have a child who has anger issues? Kismet is a riot.

So when I went to see Dr. Zen again when my marriage was ending, we did this particular meditation in which you imagine yourself going down a path, and at the end of the path you find a cage. In my cage was a woman. She looked like me, more or less, except that she was filthy and furious and covered in blood and surrounded by bones and really wanted nothing more than to rip my throat out. So then, you're supposed to ask whatever's in the cage what it wants. Which, as I said, turned out to be my demise. Why? I asked. And the bitch said, "Because you put me in this cage."

Who doesn't love a little therapy, I ask you?

So. It turns out that whatever's in the cage is the part of you that you've been running away from. It did not take too long to figure out that the lovely Bitch in my cage was all the anger I had, but was afraid to let out. The point of this therapy is that eventually you open the cage, and eventually I did, and can I just tell you how angry I was in that part of my life? And damn, but it felt great. I loved being angry. That Bitch walked around with me in my head. She didn't want to kill me anymore, she loved me for letting her out. But eventually Dr. Zen said, "You know, anger is necessary and has its place, but at some point, you have to let it go."

And that's what I really wanted to say. After you sit with it for a while, you have to let it go. You can't let it go until you make friends with it, but then you can't hold on too tight to it or it will suffocate you.

So here's the funny thing, is that as I went farther along that path, farther into those woods, and opened my arms to the other ones who live there, and the longer I left the Bitch out of the cage--letting her know in no uncertain terms that she was always welcome, that I'd never lock her up again, but that she didn't get to run things, either--the more she changed. And I know this sounds all sorts of weird, that I had this actual person in my head for a while, but the brain is a weird organ, what do you want? So anyway, she changed. She quit being so angry, so ready to attack anyone who hurt me. She quit being such a Bitch, I guess, and she started being more a voice of reason. She started pointing out things that might not be in my best interest; she was less reactionary, and more of a guide. She became gentler, and kinder, and eventually she walked back into the woods and I haven't seen her since. But I know she's still there, and I listen when I hear her voice. She's pretty smart, and she has my best interests at heart.

Let's talk about S-*-X

So here's the thing. The Boy is turning 7 next week. Agh! S-E-V-E-N!!

He's been expressing some interest in...girls. Dear lord.

We were sitting out on the front porch a few weeks ago; he was sitting with his dad, who'd just dropped off the kids, and a family with a girl his age (or a bit older) walked by. She said "hi", and he said "hi", and then he did The Blushing Head Duck with the Small Private Grin.

Oh and did I mention? Dear lord.

Also we've had the show-and-tell during bath time, so it's now Official Separate Baths for Siblings at our houses.

Oh, and he is fascinated with "tongue-kissing". Dear God, I need to block Google off this blog. Remind me to do that, k?

So. Last night we sat down to a nice bedtime story about the birds and the bees, blah blah blah, illustrated and co-authored by Marc Brown (yes, that one) and it was quite lovely and age-appropriate and so forth and so on. And went into not terribly much depth but did cover the basics, the basics being how the babies get made. Which is a good thing to be covered, because discretion be damned, I'm going to go ahead and spill the beans that a new baby is coming into the family, and not by means of my uterus, thank you very much, but the Boy and Girl will soon have a half-sibling. Tres exciting! So.

I think he took it pretty well, and he asked some thoughtful questions, such as whether you have to cut both ends of the umbilical cord and why didn't I keep his placenta? Because he misses it! And could we get one from someone else? (Uh, no.) And do sperms come out when he pees? He did get a bit goofy in the middle, which is one of his ways of coping with discomfort, and I asked him if he wanted to put this book down and read something else instead, but he insisted on persevering.

Here was the hard part (erhem): There was no pussy-footing (again, erhem!) around about the actual mechanism for the baby making: Insert part a into part b. [I hope you realize I am being obtuse to prevent this post from turning into Googling Perverts R Us.] So after I read that sentence, his eyes got a bit bigger and he said, "Wait. What? You stick it in?" "Um. Yes," said I. "Just like that?!" "Erm, not exactly, but more or less, yes." "How? How? Do you just [with hand gestures!] shove it in there!??" And in my head, I'm reviewing and thinking, "Sadly, more often than not, particulary during college." But what I say! Is "No, no, of course not. But that isn't anything you have to think about right now, that's something you'll learn more about as you get older, because remember this is something that only grownups do."

When I was a kid, my mom NEVER talked about the s*x. When I heard the word "virgin" on tv once, and asked her husband what it meant, he said to ask my mother and she told me to look it up in the dictionary. It was obviously a shameful subject; hell, I couldn't even SAY the word until I was in junior high. I think this taboo-making made it easier for me to be taken advantage of, and I will not have that being the case for my kids. I'm certainly not going to overwhelm them with information, but there are so many things I want to be different for them. I don't want them to have hangups with their bodies or boundaries; they'll develop enough hangups of their own without me starting them out that way.

"My dad talked to me about this, too," the Boy assured me while we were reading. "He tells me everything. And he always tells me the truth. Except sometimes, when he can't." I hope that telling him the truth about some things now will make it easier to tell him the truth about other things later.

Sweet, sweet nectar

Oh my. Oh my, my, my.
I love this man. Someone please clone him.

Words!

Oh, the Jinky Art has the writing now as well! Hoorah!
Seriously, I love that Jinky Art. I covet those portraits. It's enough to make a girl want to move her kids to Australia, just to get such delicious photos of them...

Worthy

So I'm thinking (big surprise) about how much pain we go through when we're trained, for lack of a better word, to dislike and mistrust ourselves.

I've been reading some posts about the hard stuff that some really good and insightful women have been going through, and mulling over the feelings that these posts brought up for me, and one common thread really stands out for me: Each of these women were taught as children that they deserved what they were getting. And what they were getting was shit. And I'm remembering what that feels like, and it's been on my mind anyway because I'm working (as you know) on moving past some things in my brain that I just feel I want to leave behind.

This post isn't going to make a lot of sense, I can tell already. Please stick with me. Or, well, or not. If you've been where I'm going, you're going to know what I mean, I guess. So there's that.

When I was a kid and living with my mom and her husband, he treated us like shit, her and me both. The thing is, when somebody treats you like shit, and you're healthy, you do one of several things. You say, "Uh huh, well, Fuck. Off." if warranted. Or you say, "Look, you may not realize this, but you are treating me like shit and you need to stop." Or you just walk away. Or something, you get the drift. So a really primo Shit Treater has to try and keep you from being healthy, right? They have to make you as sick as they are, so that you end up thinking you deserve what they're handing you. Who are you to leave, or tell, or stand up to them? You're nothing. You're weak. You're unlikeable. You're stupid. They love you, which is more than you'll get anywhere else, but how can you expect them not to treat you like shit because, man, you just bring out the worst in people. It's especially easy to talk kids into this line; when you're a kid, you're supposed to believe grownups, especially if they are one of your parents or step-parents or whatever.

I'm not dwelling on this, but I'm just remembering how my mom's husband used to say horrible things to her until she cried, and then he'd call her names for crying, and say he was just joking with her and why was she such a cry-baby with no sense of humor. And I remember hating her for being so weak. But I loved her more than anything, you know? I went a long time when I would not cry over anything personal. I'd cry at movies and crap, but if I was afraid or upset about something personal, I wouldn't cry. I would either get very blank, or I would smile. The Chica and I still sort of joke about it because if something totally freaks me out, I still do that. My jaw clenches up and I'm sure I look like death with this horrible grin on my face, but I swear I cannot do anything else. I have to be either really freaked out or really, really angry, but it's still there. And even when I cry, I have a hard time just crying--I have to sort of make it into a joke so you don't think I'm really crying, or so you can see that I know how stupid I am to be crying. And I'm a crier, so you'd think I'd be used to it by now.

I remember the first time someone said something that made me think that maybe I was looking at things a bit askew. I was telling my high school counselor, who I started seeing because of fun stuff like loosing my shit in the middle of English class and scraping glass up and down my arms, that I was really afraid that my friends were going to figure out what a horrible person I was and run for the hills. And she said, "You must not think much of them." And I said, "What are you talking about? My friends are amazing, they're wonderful." She said, "Well, that's not what I'm hearing. Either they're so stupid that they can't see what you're saying is obvious, that you're this horrible person, or they know it but they're just stringing you along and pretending to like you, which is pretty bitchy. So which is it?"

I will always love her for asking me that. I think that's the only thing that could have made me start thinking that maybe, just maybe, somebody was full of evil stagnant black shit but that it wasn't me. She could have told me that up and down and I wouldn't have heard her, but to turn it around and make me look at it that way got through somehow, even though hello, that was 20 years ago so obviously I'm a slow worker.

Yippee

What is more fun than hanging out watching "Ghost Whisperer" on a Friday night? Spontaneous visitage by She, of course. I have to say that it's one of the few benefits that I can see of the whole divorce/split-parenting thing: having the luxury, a few evenings a week, to make spontaneous plans.

And what do you mean hanging out watching GW doesn't sound like a fun Friday night? I am a bachelor. It's what I do.

Clarification

You all should know that the situation with the Ex and his girlfriend isn't as totally bizarro as that last post makes it seem. We don't generally hang out together or anything, and I make a real effort to set boundaries for myself. We're all friendly, and my feelings for the Ex really do border on fraternal (what's the sisterly version of that? sororitorial?), so we will get together for holidays or kid-centric activities, and we'll help each other out if a schedule juggle is called for, but I do my best to stay out of their whole, y'know, thing.

It's a little complicated because of extenuating circumstances that I don't really want to go into in a public forum, but there has been, over the past few months, a little more of a familial "support" role on my part. Still, I'm being very careful about my boundaries and in general, I say the same things over and over: It'll be okay, you need to talk to each other, not to me.

So I'm not totally nuts. Just FYI.

Hrmmm...

So I snooze the alarm and when I go back to sleep, I have this dream in which the wife of this guy I used to work with (and whom, truth be told, I always had a bit of a crush on but never did anything about it because I was married, idiot) was all upset with him and didn't know what to do. Then the phone wakes me up and it's the Ex's girlfriend in tears because she's all upset with him and doesn't know what to do.

How come this type of thing never happens when I dream about getting it on with Hugh Jackman?

Beautiful as the day

And these are the everyday triumphs, the small victories:

When your nearly-7-year-old son throws himself on the floor sobbing at 9:00 at night, after too much arguing over why he has to clean up his room and what the consequences will be if he doesn't, because he's tired and hot and not the last in a long line of Impatient and Temperamental People, you take a deep breath and then you get some cold cloths and you help him into bed and turn on his fan and read him a story. And when he sobs very quietly that he needs some alone time and turns to the wall, you don't take it personally and you don't think (much) about all the things you still need to do before you can go to sleep; you think how proud you are of him for learning to ask for what he needs, and how lucky you are to have him, and you wonder when having a temper became a disease, and begin to wonder if being healed might mean just accepting who you are, who he is, instead of always fighting it. But for tonight, you just let it be, and you read the story.

When you begin to wonder if you will ever get your life together, your finances together, your body together, you give yourself a break and you set your mind on what you choose to believe. And you remember what that is, exactly: That you are fortunate, a child of great fortune. That your life continuously overflows with abundance, from sources both expected and unseen. That you are blessed with wonderful people and children and a healthy body and great love. You hold that in your heart and in your mind and let is sustain you. So long, that is, as you don't get the great idea to try to mow the lawn--the lawn that has been growing for 4 weeks while it gets its roots under it--with your push mower in the 100+ degree heat. If you were to do that, then you'd let yourself have a small emotional breakdown while you were laying damp and nekkid on the bed evaporating so as to recover from the heat stroke you nearly gave yourself. And you might have to have a little cry at that point, but that would be okay too.

You gently remind yourself that finishing a project is more productive than starting a new one to avoid the feeling of ... what? What are you trying to avoid? You sit with that one a while, instead of just running from it.

You breathe more, and drink more water and less vodka. You choose to believe the good in people, to smile more, to take a breath before talking or yelling or rolling your eyes. You choose to quit reacting to other people's reactions. You decide to have a cup of coffee, to make a bird bath, to let go. You might even decide to love the world, and to live in it.

It's over

Dear Diet Coke,
How do I even begin? You know I loved you. I swore I'd never forsake you. You were everything to me, everything. How many years did we have together? So many good years. Whenever I needed you, you were there for me. How often I turned to you! But now...

We can't go on. You're hanging with a bad crowd, darling, and I just don't think I'll ever be able to look at you in the same way after this.

And anyway, you kinda taste like ass, now that I think about it.

Tears and kisses,
PK

Things I will write about when I get a minute

The soccer week thingie and related Boy stuff
Summer!
A Big Piece of News that I can't tell you about for a few more months. But that will be veeery interesting when I do tell you. And which is good, and not even anything to do with me personally, but will have quite the effect on the Family Unit.
What else do you wanna read about?

World Crap

Friggin' good-looking Frenchmen and their crappy tempers break my heart every time.

Allez Les Bleus!!

Sometimes

We have an open space behind our house, and on the other side of it are a few family "farms"--not really farms, but folks who keep a few horses or sheep or cows. And one of those farms now has some lambs, and in the evening, when it cools down and we open the windows (because someone decided to live without air conditioning, wacky insanity!), you can hear them, and it makes me want to go live out in the middle of nowhere. It would be interesting if I ever ended up being of one mind, instead of always being all "Black. White. Black! White!" with a little "Chartreuse!" thrown in for spice. I love living in a neighborhood with, you know, neighbors, and people, and stuff within walking/biking distance. But I would like to live out in a forest in a house with real shutters and pine needles and shit. There's nothing to be scared of in a forest. Other than a forest fire. Which, okay, pretty scary.

Yesterday we biked to school, then I biked home, then biked back to pick up the kids, and we all biked home, plus I planted ALL the ground covers in that nasty clay soil we have out here (adobe hut, anyone?), so by bedtime I was all worn out. I stuck the Girl in my tub and the Boy in the shower, then he went to play with his Legos while I got in the shower. As I was getting undressed I hear this voice chime from the tub, "Mama, I can see yo bottom!" and I turn to see this forehead and eyes peeking up over the edge. "Oh, I'm sure you can," I said, because it isn't exactly the kind of thing you could miss. "We're both girls, and we're in the same family, so it's ok." Then we had this song: "Yo bottom, yo booty, yo CUTE LITTLE bottom!" Let me just point out, in case I haven't made it clear, there are many adjectives that one could use to describe my butt, BUT cute and little are not two that spring to mind. So nice to have children and their tenuous grasp on reality around the house.

Earlier in the evening, some of our neighbors from the old house passed by on a bike ride and stopped for a minute to talk. The Boy was off playing with some neighbor kids, but the girl and the old neighbors' boys ran around for a few minutes. At one point, I don't remember how we got here in the convo, but they said to me, "You're always so patient." And the woman said, "I always wished I could be as patient as you are with your kids." And it was funny, because this is the woman that I had a complex about, back pre-Lexapro when I was going into my Freaky Depressed Recently Divorced Non-Religious-Based Hermit stage. I was convinced that she thought I was Crap Mom and you know the drill. Then when I went on the meds and was seeing Dr. Zen, at some point we came to the conclusion that hmm, maybe some of that was in my own head? And I should just try not to project? And eventually I quit thinking she was always avoiding us and blah blah blah. And now here was this same woman, saying "I wish I could be patient like you" and looking kind of, what? Sad? And I said, "That means a lot to me, you saying that, because I don't usually feel very patient. I usually feel like a total shrew and then I lay there at night thinking about what a crappy mom I am." She breathed out, "I feel that way all the time." "No," I said, "I know you do, we all do, but none of us are. We're fine. We just don't believe it. You're doing great."

It's a holiday over here today, so of course we're celebrating by watching..."Sleeping Beauty"! "Mom, how can da fairies carry da princess?" "They probably used magic." "OHHHH!" Happy 4th, or happy Tuesday, depending on your locale.

...like ass.

If you have over a friend/coworker for dinner on a Thursday, and you drink a leeetle too much Riesling, and you work on Friday, and spend all day Saturday planting shrubs and trees and flowers, and then have your niece over for a sleepover with your kids Saturday night, and then get up at 6:30 to make them pancakes and then take them to the park, by Sunday afternoon you will have had a very nice time for days and days, but you will feel...

We are family

This is the coolest shit I've ever read.

Ego, ergo

Stupid question: Does anybody ever succeed in getting away from her ego? I mean, without going off to be a nun or a monk or run an orphanage or something. Does anyone who ends up staying put, and picking her kids' noses and cleaning up the cherry pits that the 3-year-old keeps spitting on the floor under the table, and trying to get the 6-year old to understand that he needs to quit interrupting, and putting the cold cloths on their heads at night and trying to decide if setting an alarm system on the doors counter-balances the open second-story windows, and cleaning out the cat box--that chick--does she ever figure out how to forget about whether people like her or like her kids or think that her house is clean enough or that she's clever enough or all those other stupid things that get in the way of just being satisfied? So maybe she could quit staring up at the dark air above her head at night and wondering why she can't just be a good enough mother or daughter or friend or whatever the hell else?

I think if I could quit caring about all that shit, I could do anything. But I don't know how to quit. I keep thinking I know, but then I fuck it up. I want everyone to think I'm this funny, smart, attractive woman with these well-behaved brilliant children. Which is just the most destructive want I can think of. Stupid, stupid, and impossible, and embarrassing, and just awful.

Kick me.

Two years ago, the Boy was about to go into kindergarten and he decided he wanted to play soccer. Okay, we said, great!

Not so great. Kind of a friggin' disaster, actually, filled with fun moments like screaming, pushing, throwing of oneself onto the ground and refusing to move (in the middle of the field in the middle of a game). So forth. So on. Which is fine when you're 2 but not so hot when you're 5.

This was right in the middle of the Difficult Period, so I don't know. It was stressful, but not really surprising, and anyway I'm not so much a Lover of All Teams Athletic (having been the Last Girl Picked on nearly every occasion). Here's the thing: I was such a miserable little kid, and I just keep thinking that if I try hard enough, I can save my kids from being miserable little kids, too. But can I? I mean, isn't it just part of everything? It all gets mixed up.

Long story long, the Boy decided he wants to try soccer again. Which brings up the angst in me, even though he's grown a lot in these past 2 years and is much more in control of himself emotionally. I just don't want the pack to turn on him. Damn, I hate the pack.

But it's his childhood. Not mine. And if he wants to try it again, then I've got to let him. I've got to quit projecting all this shite onto my kids. I mean, hell, we're lucky that this is even an option. It's like, the problems we have now are so small compared to what they were, why am I just waiting for something to go south? That's just a stupid way to live. Why not just believe that things will keep getting better instead of waiting for them to crash and burn?

Anyway, we signed him up for a 1-week camp, and if it is just awful we can drop him out of the fall registration. I can't keep him all safe and isolated. That's just crazy talk.

"My new anonymous name" is wussing out on me

Dudes. Here we are in the middle of a toe-painting vodka party, and She Who Will Not Be Named has to go home so she can get up in time for garage sales in the morning. Because, ok, so she is all crafty and makes money reselling stuff, but is that more vital than drunken toe-painting with moi???

Huh?

What would Jesus do, is what I ask you people.

Windows

I grew up believing that everyone has a gift. Too much religion or too many Disney movies, maybe, but there it is. Everyone has a gift, and you just have to find yours. And for years, I felt more and more desperate: What's my friggin' gift? I can't figure it out. I'm not really great at anything. Oh, I'm smart enough, and I can do lots of things well enough to be going on with, but I'm not particularly talented in any one way. It's been this sort of gnawing worry. What if I can't figure it out? What if I can't find it? What if I waste my whole life and never ever do the one thing I was put on earth to do?

For a while, when we were first married, we had this dog. And I used to take her for walks after dinner, and in the winter that meant after dark. Which was okay, because she was a big friggin' dog and part wolf (yeah, I know), and who was going to mess with me with that dog on the leash?

Anyway. I'd take her for walks and it was frosty and dark and we lived in the older part of town then. And I used to love looking in the windows of the houses we passed. Not in a creepy way, of course; just looking in as we passed if the curtains were open. There was a man who made violins, and his workroom was on the street and everytime we walked by I felt like the whole world was in the right place. Just seeing that house, that room, and that man carving out the curve of a handle, the half-finished instruments...it was like seeing everyone in the world, all at once.

When I was younger, I played a different version of this game; whenever we'd drive home at night I'd look out at all the lights we'd pass and try to imagine all the people living in those houses, working late in those buildings. Sometimes, now, this is the way I pass the time when I'm stuck in line. This woman in front of me, this man behind me. I look at my children, and I see a line running ahead through years and years, and back through years and years, and across the entire Earth. Why do we think we're all so alone out here?

This strange idea has been forming in my head for the past several months. What if my purpose, this thing I'm supposed to do, is just that? See. Just look, and look, and really, truly see.

For Raehan

One more week. Give me one more week.

Last Friday I went over to the Chica's for dinner and wine to celebrate the fact that I'd made it through that week! And also just to go over to the Chica's for dinner and wine. And did I mention there was wine?

Nothing impossible, just a busy start to June. I wasn't going to mention any of it, bad or good, because I didn't want to jinx myself, but then I realized that I don't believe in jinxes anymore.

The Ex went through something, and all I'm going to say is that it was a Bad Something, about as bad as it's ever been, but that it seems to have also been a turning point and since then things seem to be going much, much better for him. Better for him, of course=better for La Famille=better for me. Yay!

Work. has. been. nuts. But hey! I get to be nuts in the comfort of my own home! And I found a neighbor girl who just started baby sitting, charges $2/hour/kid, and is perfect as afternoon coverage when I need to get in extra work but don't want to leave the kids in school all day. They get to come home and go to the park or play at home instead. Yay!

And one place they get to play is the basement, which I finally have managed to almost completely clean up so they can use it as a playroom. Still a few boxes to unpack and spare carpet to put down and cement walls to paint, but in general...Yay!

And I'm closing on the old house this Friday. Part of all the hecticnessity was getting last minute repair stuff done. But it'll be over Friday. Yay!

Oh, and here comes my Girl, down the stairs, all messy-haired in her pink pajamas that used to be mine. Yay!

But I miss you guys, and I cruised by a few of your places yesterday, and oy I've been neglectfull. I'm sorry. One more week.

Crazy like a tea cozy

Everything's good, it's great, it's just INSANELY busy. Some of it is work, some of it is personal stuff that I'll tell you about as soon as I know it's safe to do so without jinxing myself, and some of it is stuff that you'll just have to live without knowing. I'll be back as soon as I can catch my breath!

Here's something to consider, in the meantime. Sometimes, it really is a choice: Do you mine the last drop of drama from your life, or do you choose to just ... not? It's odd, the beginnings of the feeling that I am going to choose the latter. It feels a bit risky, oddly enough, to choose peacefulness over drama.

Oh, and I got my hair cut. And I bought new running shoes. This should be interesting.

Live the Myth!

You might notice that I have a festive new Summer Motto going on here.

The kids and I went to the pool today with S and her kids. S used to be one of my neighbors at the old house, and now we're neighbors in the new neighborhood, too. Our kids have pretty much grown up together. I love S.

The olders were swimming around in the big pool while S and I watched the youngers splashing in the kiddie pool. S's oldest is a year older than the Boy, and absolutely gorgeous. I mean, this girl is lovely, smart, and can kick butt to boot. As she stretched out on her towel to dry off, I shook my head. "So," I asked S, "Is her father starting his heart condition yet? The one he's going to have in about 6 years?" I tease her husband a lot about his three daughters and how he'd better start his gun collection now. The girls are all stunning and ... independent. The poor man.

She laughed. "No," she said, "I think he's in denial. He's just pretending that it's never going to happen. I just tell him, enjoy it while you can, honey. Live the myth!"

We both looked at each other and started laughing at the same time. "That's got to be one of the most brilliant things you've ever come up with," I said. "It should be our new motto," S agreed.
"This summer, we will Live the Myth!"

The youngers in the baby pool started screaming at each other over one of their pool toys. S and I leaned back in our deck chairs. "Live the myth, baby," she murmured. "P! GIVE IT BACK TO YOUR SISTER!!!!"

God, I love that woman.