Aw, Wha, and WHAAAA?

First, the "Aw": MOTH had a show last night. A mentalist show. What's mentalism, you might ask? Or you might not, but I'm-a gonna tell you anyway. Mentalism is a branch of magic that is sorta towards the psychic-telepathy side of things. So, you basically study people, group psychology, patterns, etc., and learn to make educated guesses that make people gape and go "Duuuuude...." So he and his friend the hypnotist (like how I made that sound totally normal?) put together a double-bill show and last night was the free preview for friends and family.

I got all decked out, met up with a surprisingly large number of wonderfully supportive friends, left Tankbaby in the car (what? I cracked a window) and went to the local Eagles Club hall (which they call an aerie, which I think is adorable, in addition to being an excellent crossword answer). MOTH did things like somehow figured out which of five envelopes had the black card and somehow predicting which card a person would pick. I literally don't know how he does these things, which makes me insane. Then his friend (you remember, The Hypnotist) hypnotized people and made them forget they had butts and do ballet and stuff.

[Side Note: What was interesting was that the audience was mainly actors (friends of MOTH and TH), so there was definitely some speculation about who was actually "under" and who was just realllly good at improv. If you know anything about hypnosis, you know that it's not about being a zombie or being under someone else's control, it's about being in a very relaxed state and therefore extremely suggestible. So you basically focus and get into this hyper-relaxed state. The Hypnotist would watch the volunteers and, if someone wasn't going under, would gently send them back to the audience. A friend who'd been onstage said that he was aware of everything going on, but that when The Hypnotist said "OK, now you're going to be boxing! Practice! You're the Champ!" he just thought, "Well, why not?" He said he was totally unselfconscious and it never crossed his mind to care about what anyone thought. However, another friend, Paul, was up there at one point, and I could tell that he wasn't actually hypnotized. But, he's an actor, and a friend, so he just kept going and acting on The Hypnotist's suggestions, although definitely with a self-consciousness. He eventually got sent back to his seat. Later, a friend noticed that, after The Hypnotist had all the volunteers catching fish and then snapped them back to sleep, everyone just dropped what they were doing and went limp. Except for Paul, who, with his eyes closed and his face neutral, carefully set down his fish before going limp. Good improver, bad hypnotized guy.]

Anyway, the show was lots of fun, especially after MOTH's show got going and I could relax. I was really nervous for him, mostly because he was nervous, which is unusual for him. So I was in my seat, clutching my wrap (OK, well, that was because it was really cold in there--apparently Eagles are hot-blooded birds) and holding my breath during each trick until it was over. I'm gonna be fun at Tankbaby's first play, dontcha think?

Where is the "aw," you all ask? It's this: I want to publicly recognize MOTH (for the second post in a row, even) for not just his show, but for the fact that he came back last night and spent an hour on the couch with me last night dissecting the show, asking for feedback. And not just asking, but really wanting feedback, even when it wasn't positive (not that I had lots of negative stuff to say, but this was the first time he'd ever put together this show, and I had some definite ideas about "the next time..."). I was really impressed at how well he took this feedback, because I really, really struggle with this myself. Even when it's presented gracefully and gently and truthfully, even when I need to hear it, I really struggle with hearing anything even remotely negative about something I'm emotionally invested in.

But MOTH freaking took notes.

I find humility very attractive. (Which is a shame, because I have a hard time being peaceful with humility in myself, as I mention above. Now, humiliATION, that's different. Lots of experience there.) Yes, confidence is attractive, but only when it's unspoken. Otherwise, it becomes braggy (remember seventh grade, when that was, like, a horrible cutting insult?). And as much as I loved MOTH for being brave enough to get up on that stage in the first place, I was even more in love with him for being able to, in an effort to improve, be willing to sit down and hear constructive criticism.


OK, now for the "Wha?": I looked under my "Stats" page on good ol' Blogger, and, although I admit my interpretation of these charts and graphs is rudimentary at best, I am puzzled. For example, the majority of my page views have been from the US (not surprising), and a few in Canada, and then some scattered European and South American readers (Ola, Brazil!) (also, I realize that it's probably crazy to call them "readers," when in reality, it's more like "brief clicks before diverting to lolcats.com"). But! More than any of those? Russia. Da! Apparently they love me behind the Iron Curtain. But in what universe does this site send some to read about my giant baby?

Also, this? Is my blog, my entry, but a picture of the lovely and amazing Kitchen Witch. (Kitchie, I know you're on break right now, but girl...wha? How did my silly prattling get linked to your gorgeous pic?) I don't feel like translating it from the Cyrillic, but feel free, anyone so inclined, to let me know WTF?


And, finally, the WHAAAA?: We went to buy the boy some Playdoh tools and found a package that claimed to include "rollers, cutters, and more." And it's the "more" that I question. Look at the picture below. What do you see? A rolling pin, some cookie-cutters, scissors, and...what? What is that yellow phallic thing in the back? Is what my Russian friends would call a Фаллоимитатор?

Merry Merry Merry

So, I had a couple pre-Christmas posts forming, but they weren't happy. They weren't merry. They weren't seasons greetings fodder. It was a lot of not-going-home-this-year-rain-isn't-Christmas-weather-by-the-way-my-mom's-dead-at-Christmas-AGAIN sort of stuff. I was trying to get into the mood, I really was. We bought and decorated the tree, we sent and received many, many Amazon boxes, and I even made stockings for the three of us.

And I tried and sometimes, for some moments, I was OK. And then, I'd hear or read or see something and be all...meh again. Which didn't seem fair to MOTH or to Tankbaby, or to my fives of loyal readers. So I just kept skimming YouTube for claymation Christmas specials, and humming "Baby, It's Cold Outside" in the grocery store, and making my mom's favorite candy cane cookies (recipe from the Betty Crocker Cooky Book, the family copy of which is spattered with eggs, batter, and seven-year-old scrawl of "DELISHUS" next to the peanut butter cookie recipe).

And, after yesterday morning, I'm glad I kept going. Because I would have hated to have been grumpy and Grinchy on Christmas morning, when I opened this:

(WAIT! Go away. Go find your spouse/partner/significant other/mom/dog and tell them to keep reading for the Best. Present. Idea. Ever. Then be surprised and thank me in a year.)



How effing cool is that? MOTH found this website and did all the proofing and layout work and published one year's worth of this little blog of mine.


Can you believe it? It's 205 pages long, which made me feel slightly better about my pathetic posting rate. I opened it, thinking that the back pages must be blank or something, but it's full. Full of my words, which looked like actual words when printed on real paper. With page numbers and everything. I don't know if I can adequately express how cool this was. We had agreed not to do presents this year, for financial reasons--only stocking presents. My big gift to him was a DVD of an old silly movie from MOTH's childhood. It seemed nice at the time. It seems a little inadequate now.

At least I also got him a chocolate orange.


Hope you and yours had a safe, lovely, and calm holiday.

In No Particular Order

A few snippets, just to empty my brain, then I need to go catch up on y'all's blawgs.

On Monday night, we went to get a Christmas tree (this is our first since moving out here, as we--or at least I--always traveled back to Chicago for the holidays, it never made sense to get a tree). I'd intended for us to buy one from the stand a friend recommended, run by and profiting at-risk youth. But when we got to the lot, we saw neither flora nor potential felons, so we moved on. Two more lots, and we began to realize that we'd clearly missed the memo that said that all trees must be purchased by Sunday, December 12th, unless you wanted a Charlie Brown-esque twig. (Does this seem really early to anyone else? Maybe I'm spoiled, as we grew up with mainly--gasp!--fake trees and MOTH and I used to live across the street from a parking lot that became a Christmas tree lot during December, so we would just watch out our window for a good time to pop over. The entire selection, purchasing, and transportation process would take about twelve minutes.)

Sidebar: I just had the memory of the next-to-last Christmas with my mom. MOTH was working, so he stayed out here, and I was home with my folks. Dad had hauled up the tree box and we were in the process of assembling the tree when we noticed...an odor. A musty, mildewy sort of odor. We deduced that the tree had gotten wet during a recent basement flood. We kept trying to put a good face on it, but the reality was that our family Tannenbaum smelled vaguely but persistently of old wet socks. So we abandoned construction and Dad and I hauled the fake branches out to the cold snowy yard, in hopes of airing them out. Meanwhile, Mom spread the tree skirt expectantly around the 1 1/2"-wide green wooden dowel rod that formed the "trunk" of the "tree." The next evening, we tried again. Still that smell. We gave it another day, and the smell was fainter, but not gone. I'm not going to name names, because this isn't that kind of blog, but someone had the bright idea of spraying the branches with pine-scented Lysol. Which killed whatever mildewy microscopic creatures were nestling in the PVC needles (which were likely rife with lead! Yippee!) but left a smell that, while different from mildew, was not exactly...tree-like in nature. Back outside they went. We finally gave up a few days before Christmas and just assembled the damn thing, holding our breath during the decorating. It was fine in the house, but if you leaned close to place a present under the tree, you were likely to wonder who was giving someone the Parfum du Hospital Floor. End sidebar.

Anyway, it got late, so MOTH dropped me and the Tank off at home so we could start dinner, then went off and bought a tree. By the time he came back, it was time for dinner and then putting the baby to bed, so he ended up setting it up while I was laying down with El Boyo. We were planning on putting the lights and ornaments on with Tankbaby the next night, so we just left the tree alone and went about our evening. The next morning, when Tankbaby went into the living room, he was delighted. "Tee? Tee? Biiiiiiih! Dah! Dah! Tee!" ("Tree? See? Biiiiig! Soft! Soft! Tree!") He couldn't get enough of this marvel. I told MOTH, "If just a tree provokes this kind of reaction, Christmas morning is going to BLOW HIS TINY EVERLOVING MIND."


*****


Speaking of the Man Of The House (it's been a while since I explained the MOTH acronym; also, I'm still struggling with a new nickname for Tankbaby. He continues to be quite tall, with substantial cheekage, but he is not the chunky monkeybabe he once was. Tanktot was Benevola's suggestion, but it makes me think of tatertots. Mmmm....tatertots.), where was I? Oh, yes, your thoughts on this, please: a few nights ago, I was working on Christmas shopping while MOTH played a video game on his phone. At one point he said, "Huh. This is weird. I'm playing this World War II game, but it's a Japanese game, so I'm on the other side." I asked, "You're playing a World War II game, as the Japanese?" He answered blithely, "Yep. Just bombed Pearl Harbor."

Now, I'm a hippie liberal anti-gun pro-public service yay-gays anti-war no-nukes kinda gal who has occasionally wistfully flirted with Canadianism. But I still found myself muttering to him, "Traitor."

Right? I mean, even in a video game, you don't bomb Pearl Harbor. It's in bad taste. I don't care what you thought of that Ben Affleck movie.


******

And finally, because he knows when you're sleeping and when you're awake...LoveGreg is back. Just a friend request, no poorly-comma'd letter. I...I don't know. I think we may have wrung all the humor out of him and now it's just tiresome. Feel free to correct me on this. But, dude. You're going to make me block you? On Christmas?!

******

Huh. Snippettier than I thought. I gotta go to bed. Don't write anything too funny tonight; I'll check on you guys tomorrow.

Too-Too-Tudio

Quickly, my pretties, for I must, must, must do some Christmas shopping before bed, and, given the coughing sniffling tossing turning fiasco that was our 25-minute nap today, I'm guessing that my night ahead isn't going to be too restful. Might as well try to start it early.

Poor Tankbaby. When vertical, he seems just fine, apart from a few sneezes, but when he lies down, some internal mucous barometer (hey! I used to play bass for...never mind) goes all wonky and he ends up breathing through his mouth like an asthmatic ferret.

(Like a what now? I don't know...it just sounded...poetic.)

I have had such a productive, grown-up weekend that I've been feeling alternately self-satisfied and depressed. Like, on one hand, yesterday alone we:

• Finally picked up a second oven rack (having lived three years here with a single rack)
• Bathed the dog
• Scrubbed the bathroom (necessary after Dog, the Bathing)
• Bought a new fish for our tank (fishtank, that is, not for Our Tankbaby, although he enjoys the fish in his own aquarium-banging way)
• Picked up diaper liners (disposable soft paper liners that go inside cloth diapers and make solid waste removal less unpleasant--see, you're always learning something here at ol' Falling!) and, because he's vaguely interested and we had a coupon, a potty seat for Tankbaby. Not that we're actively trying potty-training yet, but hell, he keeps saying "potty" and I figure we can keep offering it as an option for sitting. Who knows? Maybe my sleepless infant will redeem himself by being an easily-potty-trained toddler. Shut up. It could happen.
  
• Vacuumed the living room (and the oven--Elly, was that you who recommended this practice? Brilliant! Especially since we'd extinguished a rather...persistent oven fire several months ago with copious amounts of baking soda and...just...left it there. I guess in case the fire resurfaced?)
• Tried turnips and parsnips for the first time (roasted with other veggies--verdict: neutral, earthy, benign)
• Let Tankbaby help make a holiday craft project
• Cleaned tiny blue footprints off a beige rug
• Rued letting Tankbaby help make a holiday craft project

As you can see, a rather full day. Which is very impressive and I felt pretty good about it, except when I was feeling kinda lame, like, what happened to my life that picking up diaper liners and vacuuming my oven are now occurrences that make up a Great Saturday? Then I feel even lamer, because it's not like I used to have amazing Saturdays where I learned French while building houses with Habitat for Humanity and making homemade soup and reupholstering antique chairs before a night of dancing with the Olsen twins. I used to watch a lot of TV. And sleep. Because I was apparently 17 for about seven years.

So. Established: Me. Lame, now and for always. But now with accomplishments!

Oh, and if you have any hints for getting "washable" blue tempera paint out of carpeting, let me know, would you? MOTH scrubbed away with some spray stuff and got most of it, but there are distinctly not-so-much-beige spots remaining. I don't know what was up with that paint, anyway. I had to give Tankbaby two baths (the first one, the water in the tub instantly turned an opaque sky blue, as if he was bathing in Smurf blood) and while the paint was clearly dissolving in the water (and easily wiped off the counter, tub, toilet seat, cabinets and scale that he managed to touch on the way in to the bath), there are also these spots where I couldn't scrub it off for love or money. It just left bruise-y shadows in places, so I guess this would be a bad time to have DHS called on us.

Today we puttered in the morning and failed to nap in the afternoon and in the late afternoon, we joined a dear friend at the zoo for Zoolights, an annual event where they hang millions of tiny colorful lights all over the place, decorating trees and paths and whatnot, but also have hundreds of light sculptures of animals, birds, etc. It's delightful (ha! deLIGHTful! get it?) and lovely and festive and impossible to see and feel Grinchy, even for someone like me who still doesn't believe that Christmas in the Pacific NW counts, because 47 degrees and rainy just isn't really December. Anyway, the lights and animals are all well and good, but what we really go for is the train. You can take a steam train ride around the zoo and see all the displays, and if you happen to have a train-obsessed toddler who will spend the three hours prior to the ride walking around, plaintively saying "too-too" (choo-choo) while signing "train," well, so much the better. We went a few weeks ago, and since then, about 60% of the time we put Tankbaby in the carseat, he hopefully asks, "too-too?" so it was a relief to finally say yes this time. We also got to see a very interactive otter (MOTH ran his finger around on the glass and the wee sleekit creature followed it, doing loops and swirls and generally being adorable), some crabby lions prowling about, wondering what the EFF was up with this decidedly non-African-savannah weather, and a whole lotta bats. Everyone but me found the bats very cool. I find them unsettling. Yes, I can appreciate their unique physiques, and I will admit that they have cute faces, but come on. Are you a squirrel? A bird? A snake? Pick one and go with it. Creepy little things.

OK! Christmas shopping time (in my pjs! Remember when shopping meant you had to be dressed? And outside of your house?). Good night all! Try not to dream of bats.

Throughline? Phoo-line.

Rambling, that's what's on the menu tonight, and then off to be with me. After a couple crummy nights, Tankbaby had a better night Wednesday night (Jeez, stop saying "night"), but at about 5 am, he started calling for some open debate about wake-up time. Finally, at 7, I figured I'd go ahead and get up early and get a shower. But MOTH staggered out of bed and got to the bathroom first. And then, there were...noises. Unpleasant noises.

So, I ended up staying home from work yesterday and watching Tankbaby so that MOTH could rest. I tried to keep Tankbaby out of the house so that MOTH could get some sleep (when you share 740 square feet, there's no place you can sleep and avoid the toddler shrieks), so we went to the museum's "Science Lab" (a wondrous room of water tables and sand areas and flubber and fake hollow trees and block play and air chutes and fossils and basically anything your toddler or preschooler could want). I thought I could make a good snarky, funny post about the people-watching (MOTH likes to play a game he calls "Mommy or Nanny?" in such circumstances), but I lost my stomach for it when, as we were getting ready to leave, I saw a mom sitting in the employees' room, shaking and crying, while the purple-vested museum staff asked questions like, "Does he know his name?" and "What color shirt was he wearing?" while they radioed the front desk. This mom had been over by the water table when we were there earlier, and had strange, snappy passive-aggressive moment with me when she thought I was judging her for bringing in her stroller (which isn't allowed), because she didn't want to disturb her sleeping infant. I found myself getting bristly in response, but I remember too well those early days of Tankbaby, and if he'd given me the gift of momentary rest, you couldn't have paid me to risk waking him. So I tried later to give her a friendly smile when her kid splashed water on my kid, and she smiled gratefully back and I moved on feeling like, wow, a little moment of compassionate connection. And a half-hour later, she was sitting, stunned, trying to dial a cell phone with trembling fingers, and I found myself irrationally worked up over it. I'm sure they found the kid eventually (seeing as how it hasn't made the news), but I just kept thinking about what that moment must have been like. As moms, we have a thousand moments where you think the kid is about to fall or where it looks like he's choking or where she almost slips in the bath, or where you glance up and have a split second of panic when you can't find him...but then he rights himself or swallows or you grab her arm in time or you turn around and he's right there. I can imagine, with too much terrifying clarity, what it feels like when you look up and can't find him, and then turn around...and he's not there. And you think to yourself, "OK, don't panic, he's probably right over--" and he's not. He's nowhere.

OK. That was yesterday, and I'm still shuddering, thinking about it. This is why someone with anxiety issues should really never have kids. Or pets. I might be able to maintain emotional calm about a nice houseplant.

Anyway, we went from the museum out to my classroom for lunch and then we stayed a bit and saw my class. I'd intended on just explaining to them why I couldn't stay for class, but Tankbaby was enjoying the room so much and I was so tickled by watching them interact with him that we stayed. These are my social-emotional-behavioral kids, kids who are pretty typically developing in other areas but struggle with things like sitting near another kid without touching them. With fists. But they were so cute and gentle (or their idea thereof) with Tanky. One little girl with a truly horrifying background (Cliff Notes: Went into foster care after mom left her in the care of a convicted sex offender--not the same sex offender that fathered her, by the by--then went back to mom, who then abandoned her at a DHS office. Is now in foster care, but still has visits with bio mom, after which she tells her foster mom, "You don't love me. I'm a bad kid." Add to this behavior physical aggression and deliberate meanness, like intentionally taking the pink cup so that another kid can't have it, and then loudly gloating about it: "I got the pink cup so you ca-an't haaave it!") lit up at the sight of Tankbaby. She cooed, "Ooh! A baby! Hi, baby! You can hold my hand! Aw, you're so cute!" and darned if Tankbaby didn't hold her hand and let himself be led all over the place. If there'd been a Grinch around, you betcha his heart would have grown three sizes, yessireebob. It's possible I might have shed a womanly tear or two myself.

And then there was meal planning and grocery shopping and, gloriously, peeing by myself in the evening when MOTH was finally feeling well enough to shuffle around upright (we disappeared for over five hours and returned home to no indication that he'd ever left the bedroom). So I started to write last night, but at 9:30 decided that I needed rest to combat whatever I was being exposed to in our little germ incubator over here.

Which is why I didn't write all this yesterday. But now that I have, it's 10:30 and I am literally falling asleep while typing (or "falkaaaa" as I just wrote before I caught myself), so this not-terribly-interesting-or-particularly-well-organized post is going to grind to an unceremonious halt.

Oh, except! Can I just share with you these boots, so that we may all ooh and ahh and wonder what the blue fuck they are made of that they are worth $415?! Unicorn hide? I mean, I love them. I really do. But, as MOTH said, "Do they have rockets? Because for $415, you had better be able to fly." He's not wrong. And the copy underneath is pretty rich ("one of those magical styles that make you think God was guiding John's pencil"? I mean, they're divine, but I don't think they're Divine). And while the communist part of me that listened today to how much funding our program is about to lose is appalled at the frivolity of $400 shoes...they're just...so...pretty....

National Geographic Oughta Do a Special

We've had a lot of wind around here lately, and this morning, many an idyllic lawn scene looked like it had been the site of a sniper shooting. I posted on my Facebook page:

"RESOLVED: If you feel so moved as to put a winter or Christmas scene on your front lawn, you should also be responsible for righting any fallen characters the dawn after a windstorm. A fallen Frosty is sad, but an entire Nativity scene full of prone bodies...that's just creepy."

I got some funny responses, including a friend who noted that, "That was a Necrotivity: The birth of Zombie Jesus," and another who pointed out that yellow crime scene tape would add that certain je ne sais quoi.

It makes me remember one of my favorite mom stories: A few years ago, visiting my mom and driving around the neighborhood and seeing some of those lighted deer that had been knocked down. They just looked so pathetic, stiff limbs jutting straight out. I joked about them being shot, and mom insisted that no, it looked more like some larger predators had come through. "Like pumas."

"Pumas, mom? In the suburbs?"

"Lawn pumas."

"Ah."

Later we drove past an apartment complex that had a nativity scene set up in the courtyard. Mary was there, but Joseph was face-down in the straw, the Wise Men were scattered, and the Baby Jesus...well, the Holy Child was missing.

My mom sighed knowingly and shook her head with regret. "Lawn pumas."

The Waaah-mbulance Rides Again

As my friend C might put it, "Fuuuuuuuucccccccccccc." ("K" omitted intentionally; we like to play around with various phonetic spellings of the f-bomb. The very French-looking "fuc" becomes "fuccer" as a noun, which for some reason gets thrown around quite often in our text messages.)

I have cried twice today, and it's 9:30 pm. I cried the first time this morning, in the bathroom, where I fled after being kicked in the face by my beloved beast boy. After a Scenario C night, but with a twist, as I fell asleep while putting the baby down (not the twist, there), and so was up until 1 AM. When I went in at 1, some atoms shifted or something, and there was suddenly a very awake boy who wanted milk. No milk? OK, water. No water? I WILL SURELY PERISH IN A BURST OF FLAMES FROM THE DISAPPOINTMENT, MAMA. Fine. Water. Except MOTH, who'd gotten up to go to the bathroom and was thus dispatched for the water, thought it was for me, and brought back a rather full cup, with no lid (because he knows that I've been able to drink out of an open cup for several weeks now, with practice). So, sipping, blind guiding in the dark without contacts, spilling, bracing for screaming, but not prepared for no-screaming-but-instead-very-insistent-conversation about the pj's: "Wah? Wah? Wahhhh?"

Then there was some crying, some pillow-related thuggery, and several wet kisses followed by more crying.

The 5:30 wake-up was quick and painless. The wake-ups at 5:37, 5:52 and 6:14 were also quick, but progressively less painless. Finally, at 6:30 (our chosen end-of-milk-embargo time), I nursed him and dozed on and off for 45 minutes, until he bit me in his sleep.

Did I also mention that the ductal yeast infection (for that is, although I forgot to tell you, what was up with Big Boob Ow) has returned with a zingy vengeance? And that I had terribly painful cramps*? And really had to pee (because I had to drink the rest of that water)? And that it was extremely windy outside, which made our weatherproofing plastic rattle tediously and caused this wind chime** we have to clang repeatedly in between the brief respites from Gitmo Baby?

So you can see where, when during our morning cuddles (where MOTH and I try to keep Tankbaby entertained for as long as possible while remaining as horizontal as possible), Tanky kicked me square in the kisser, I might not be totally faulted for fleeing to the bathroom and weeping into my hands for a few minutes.

I did get a nice, cuddly nap with him later in the day, which is the only reason I've only cried twice today. The second time was while putting away the dishes as MOTH got Tankers ready for bed. I was so tired and physically uncomfortable all morning, and I kept trying to rally, but Goddamn, this parenting and co-parenting and working-parenting thing is so fuccing draining sometimes. I had one thing I wanted to do today and I got half of it done, mainly be being a not-so-hot parent and trying to convince the child I've been away from for 9 hours a day the lat five days that he might rather play with a puzzle or a cracker wrapper or anything not in my lap. And I wanted to see a friend, but we couldn't make it work. And the damn wind kept blowing. And MOTH made a delicious dinner that he and Tank enjoyed but I found vastly unfulfilling (I was skeptical about the collard greens, but tried a bite before sauteing some green beans. The greens weren't all that bad, but I sure didn't like them enough to justify eating the amount of bacon fat they were cooked in. And, turns out, I don't like ribs. I like barbecue sauce, I like pork, but I don't like wrestling fatty tendony meat off of bones with my teeth. Unless I'm at a Renaissance Faire.) (I'm lying, I don't like it there, either.)

Anyway, I kept lapsing into that icky place where you feel petulant and depressed and self-righteous about it, and would hover outside myself and think, "Now, Falling, you don't need to make that face when you're cutting up the greens for the baby. Just eat your beans and shut up about it." And I would, consciously, rise above. For a minute. Then something else would happen and I'd slip again. And get mad at myself, and feel petulant and depressed...and lather, rinse, repeat.

So,when I found a garbage can full of broken glass and learned that while Tankbaby and I were napping--apparently we slept the sleep of the dead--MOTH had accidentally broken one of our set of glass mixing bowls, bowls that were, incidentally a gift from my mom, well, I couldn't restrain the despondent, "SHIT" that came out of my mouth. MOTH apologized, and of course I explained that I wasn't mad at him, but...shit, you know? I like those bowls. They remind me of Mom, they're useful, and...shit.

So while MOTH brushed Tankbaby's teeth and washed his face (overheard over the screaming, "I'm sorry. Next time I'll use the soap without the acid in it."), I put away dishes and scraped off garbage and cried the Feeling Sorry For Myself Rag.

But! Then I curled up with the kid and read some books and learned that my brilliant offspring can--at not-yet-21-months old--identify the colors orange, pink, and yellow. And I had another wedge of the pumpkin bread MOTH made earlier. And got a sweetly giggling, kissy boy to sleep, through the use of another one of my enthralling tales. And now? While MOTH is out for the evening, I'm going to paint my nails in anticipation of tomorrow's wedding, watch some Hulu, eat some more pumpkin bread, and enjoy what seldom-I'd-say-never-but-I'm-trying-not-to-hyperbolize get: a quiet moment to myself.

I wish the same for you all this evening. Especially about the pumpkin bread.


*In addition to some...intestinal issues, I have my period for the first time in 30 months. It's not entirely impossible that this is related to Crying, The.

**The fucking CHIME, man. We've lived here for three years. Every winter, when it gets windy, I talk about how much I hate that thing banging around outside. MOTH balefully informs me, "I think it's soothing." I explain that I believe him, but I find it terribly anxiety-producing and unnerving to have this random bonnngggg outside my front door, especially when I'm up at night. I can't explain why this particular sound undoes me so, but I believe the words I used tonight were, "It makes me feel like I'm in an insane asylum." Finally, as he does periodically, MOTH went out and covered the clapper-thing so that it would be quiet. Which is sweet of him. Not as sweet as just taking the fucking thing down for good, but...

A YouTube Video is Worth A Thousand Words

How was my day at school?



Yep. 'Bout like that, but without the benefit of horses.

Back Again?

I thought we covered this last year.

I survived NaBloPoMo and posted every damn day for a month. A month during which I didn't eat any candy. You can't come here tonight and expect anything.

Instead, know that I'm out there now, catching up on all of YOUR blogs. And eating month-old candy corn.

Living the dream.

Going Out With a Meh

We had a friend over for dinner...and she was delicious!

Heh. No, but she joined us for yummy seasoned fried tofu steaks and stir fry veggies with noodles and ginger sauce...wow. I'm totally full, and yet just reading that makes me hungry.

Anyway, she did, we ate, and I put Tankers down late and still have to shower, so this, my final NaBloPoMo entry will be utterly devoid of ceremony. Or possibly quality.

First, if you haven't already, go give a cosmic hug to BugginWord, who got some perfectly wonderful, deserved news today.

Secondly, for your absent-minded giggles, here are some misspellings and malapropisms that have made me chuckle today (four of the five are from Facebook, which should come as no surprise):

1) "I have to give the dog a shot. I'm a canarian."--Utterly serious five-year-old in class today, armed with a stethoscope, a needle, and, one would hope, a newspaper-lined cage.

2) "My simpathies."--Posted on a Facebook status update of a friend about a recent loss. While, obviously, there's nothing funny about the loss and this person's sorrow is clearly heartfelt, I am a bit tickled at the connotation of simpering condolences. Maybe because I was sometimes on the receiving end of them (again, by well-intentioned people), and found them aggravating. "You know, these things happen for a reason..." SMACK.

3) On an entirely different status update, someone wrote, "Contratulations." I dunno...it seems to...mean less when you write it like that.

4) On one post, a few women were posting back and forth about running off together. The original poster agreed to the plan, and I'm pretty sure she meant to write "definitely." But what she actually wrote? "Defiantly." Like, eff you, world! We're all running off together! I mean, we've all had those moments, no?

5) One more Facebook one: A friend wrote that she once said that she was "bleeding like a stuffed pig," and asked others to post similar oopses. I shared this true story: Once, when I felt that MOTH was being patronizing, I shouted indignantly, "I don't need your condensation!" Ahem. I was going for "condescension." I lost the argument.


I'd list more, but I think it's a mute point.

That's MIZ Cranky T. Mutterpants to You

I had a six-hour training today at work, on a topic about which I have strong opinions. Strong opinions that are at odds with what the trainer was talking about. Which means I spent six hours alternately participating in and cursing myself for participating in discussions where I started most sentences with "But.."

And now I'm retroactively feeling like a bitchy ol' fusspot.

I hate it that I went into the training without an open mind (with a closed mind?), and I really did try to pry it open throughout the day. Because it felt awful to sit there and be frustrated and mute, except for the temporary reprieves of being frustrated and vocal (there were a lot of discussions and group brainstorming sessions; it's not like I was derailing the presentation) (not that that wouldn't have been pleasant at some point) (but come on, I wouldn't do that).

I was by no means the only person with these opinions, and I don't think I was even the most vocal. Which makes me feel a little better, except that then I think of poor Joe Presenter Guy (strangely enough, that's his real name) trying to preach his gospel to a room full of heathens. Opinionated, vocal heathens. Who knows, maybe he's the kind of guy who went home and said, "My, but what a lively discussion we had today!" I tend to project, however, and worry that he went home to his wife and kids all sad and Bob Cratchitt-y, with only a few sou in his fingerless-gloved hand, shoulders bent under the weight of our criticism, explaining that the Christmas turkey will be small this year...

Huh. Got a wee bit dramatic there. Ahem.

But I do feel badly when I'm watching a presenter do poorly--in this case, not because he wasn't a fine presenter (after all, "Presenter" is his middle name), but because he wasn't teaching to a receptive audience. Which isn't his fault. I tried to make that clear on the evaluation form: "Yes, the presenter was well-organized, friendly, open to questions...I just happen to think he's full of bool-sheet."

Which isn't exactly true (the bool-sheet part, not that I didn't write that on the evaluation form. I totally did.) (come on, how mean do you think I am?) (only somewhat). His ideas were fine, lovely...one might even say ideal. But in the real world, with budget cuts and more a-coming, when we're already having to make more with less, hearing about the ideal anything is a sure-fire way to engender resistance and resentment from the troops.

And I did really take a minute to think each time I added something to the discussion. I tried to verbally and vocally own which things were my emotional reaction (he was describing a model of service that would drastically change my job) and which were realistic, logical challenges. I was polite, I made jokes, and I tried to make notes of where we agreed. And I spent most of the day swallowing my tongue, choosing instead to write snarky notes to the woman next to me (the act of which a co-worker called "pre-texting"). But I was telling MOTH about it tonight, and all I can think about is that I was too negative and that I knew I didn't have an open mind and that I should have just let this roll off me, mentally checked out. Because--say it with me now--what if someone (gasp) disagreed with me? What if they think I'm wrong? AND NOW THEY WON'T LIKE ME--WAAAH!

On the other hand, I know (because they told me) that there are people who agreed with me who don't feel comfortable talking in front of a large group of people. And maybe I was their voice.

Yargh. I wish I could be bold and unapologetic. Or meek and uninvolved. This combination of in-the-moment-mouthy and later-anxious is for the birds.

High Fructose Corn Syr-YUM-p

Today is the 28th consecutive day that I have not eaten any candy.

Don't get me wrong...I've had sugar in other forms. A friend's birthday cake (only one slice, but I will admit to consuming the leftover frosting over a matter of days), cookies at a bachelorette party, and a cup of hot cocoa even as I'm writing this. I fully recognize that giving up sugar as a whole = impossible for me. And that's sad. Go ahead and judge, as long as you don't take away my chocolate brownie frozen yogurt, I'm fine. (Because I will cut a bitch for some fro-yo, oh yes I will.)

Anyway...I thought I might try to just limit myself and see if I could go without candy for a month. I love candy. I may have mentioned this a few times already, but I don't think I really explained how much I. LOVE. CANDY. I really don't get sick of it. Sick of myself? Sure. But the sweet, chewy, fake-fruity goodness of a handful of Mike & Ike's? Not on your life. Part of it is an oral-motor thing, as I eschew hard candies and, while I certainly like chocolate, I will always pick the sour gummi worms over the Snickers bar. I also like sweet/tart/fruity things, as long as they're chewy. Jolly Ranchers? Are good if you need a small, solid adhesive. Otherwise, get thee back and bring forth jelly beans (Starburst are a favorite, although the Smuckers and Sweetarts are also quite good).

Um. This might not be such a bright idea, posting about this during the period of abstinence. It's possible I might have just drooled a little bit.

Anyway, the point is that, of all the sugar holds under which I am powerless (what? nothing, just keep going), candy is the worst. I can exhibit self-control at the store and not purchase cookies or donuts, but if it's April, there is some sugar-encrusted marshmallow Peep/Chick/Rastafarian thing going in my basket. (Mmm...crunchy sugar crystals over gooey fake marshmallow--marshmal-faux, if you will...) And then it's in my house, in the candy jar, and I grab a handful whenever I walk by. And I live in a very small house. I eat it mindlessly while reading or nursing or chatting or (and this is just sad) cooking a meal. I keep stashes in my car. I try not to bring it to work, but then I just raid everyone else's candy dish/jar. I'm that girl, the one who brings her files in piecemeal to get a separate Hershey's kiss each time.

I've tried to make some changes. Like only purchasing candy that cannot be wolfed down by the handful. No jelly beans (well, except for Easter, but that's just...anti-religious, that's what that is! Jesus wants me to eat jelly beans to remember his resurrection!), no Whoppers. Mini Tootsie Rolls, Smarties...things that require unwrapping and a bit of attention to consume.

But the bottom line is, I'm more than a little embarrassed by how little willpower I have over candy and how unthinking my consumption has become. It was one thing when I was 22 and we were all young and invincible. I didn't smoke, drink, or sleep with caddish men, so I figured, if this was my one vice, so be it. But now...now I'm 35 and have the metabolism to match. And I have a kid. A kid who watches me and mimics me and who has cottoned on to where my hand goes when I reach waaaay up on that one shelf and says, "Baby? Eat?" I really should put some broccoli up there to throw him off the scent.

So, I've gone the whole month. I ate a good chunk of Tankbaby's Halloween candy that evening and then gave the rest out to other trick-or-treaters so it wouldn't be in the house, tempting me. Then, of course, MOTH brought home a whole container of candy corn. But I stuffed it back on the shelf, above the soups, and--while I can't say I don't notice it when I open the cabinet--I have pretty much forgotten it's there.

And that's been the month. I've been tempted and I've been humbled. Working late at the office one night, totally stressed out, I had to stop myself each time from instinctively reaching for the secretary's candy bowl (what I finally did was take that last damn Reese's peanut butter cup and shoved it in a drawer, just to shut it up). On Thanksgiving, my friend's (soon to be ex) husband brought over a bag of holiday M&Ms that they snacked on while we cooked. And it was really annoying not to be able to just grab a handful.

(Except, of course, that it wouldn't have been a handful. All the other grown-ups had a few here and there, but gradually forgot about the bag of green and red goodies. If I hadn't had a moratorium on candy, I guarantee I would have consumed enough M&Ms to calorically outweigh a big ol' scoop of mashed potatoes.)

And that's what has been the most embarrassing and disappointing and humbling: recognizing how thoughtless--no, that's not right, really...it's careless--eating candy is for me. And that I miss it. I wish I could say that after a month, I'm all "Ew, candy is gross! I can't believe I ever ate that junk!" But I'm not. Instead, I'm marking my calendar for December 1st, when, O Desk Drawer Reese's Cup, you shall be mine.

On the other hand, I know that I can do it. I know that I can walk through the candy aisle (can't skip it, as that's also where crackers live) and, stifling a soft moan, not pick up a bag of Fruiti Gummi Squishie Platypi, or whatever. And I think that's what I'm going to hang on to: the knowledge that I'm not powerless over candy. I can refuse to buy it. I can keep it out of my house (mostly, because see above re: resurrection jelly beans). I can take just one piece out of the office candy dish. Or maybe two. Shut up. The point is, I think sometimes I succumbed out of a sense of "I might as well, because I know that I can't stop myself, so why bother trying"--which is fucked up in its own way, yes?--and I can't use my own weakness as an excuse any more.

MOTH says that my giving up candy while still eating other sugar is like an alcoholic saying, "I'm just going to give up gin." I can see his point, I guess, but I'm still kinda stupidly proud of myself. I think mainly because I think of myself as having zero willpower (there's a reason why I never started smoking/drinking/sleeping with caddish men in my twenties, and it's because I have an addictive personality and would now be a lung-cancer-ridden alcoholic riddled with STDs) and this proved that untrue. I feel embarrassed and silly and ridiculous to stake a claim on this particular trial, but I like that I've succeeded (I say optimistically, as I still have two days left to go). I like that I've proven that I can set a goal (no matter how dinky) and meet it, while still being a mom and socializing with friends and dealing with work stress. Now that I know that, just think of the possibilities! What's next? Showering daily? Cleaning out my purse on a semi-regular basis? Finishing that pile of sewing repairs? The world is my mollusk! The top-of-a-not-terribly-tall-tree's the limit!

Dutch Babycakes Tells a Bedtime Story

So, one of the reasons I keep falling asleep with Tankbaby these days is because we've been breaking the nursing-to-sleep habit (obviously, with MOTH he's been doing this forever, since MOTH simply refuses to lactate for fear of it ruining his figure). It's not something I've been worried about particularly, since I am and always have been very Malcolm X by-any-means-necessary about getting him to sleep (and thus, being able to sleep myself), but lately, more and more, he's not nursing to sleep but nursing himself awake. He gets drowsy, but wakes to keep nursing. Or, worse, doesn't get drowsy and just hangs out, tethered by the mouth, but with flailing hands and legs akimbo. (I have friend who will happily tell you that Legs Akimbo is her name in the Boom-Boom Room. For the record, my Boom-Boom Room name is Dutch Babycakes.)

Anyway.

The unexpected boost in this particular sea change is that Tank has decided that my pillow is da bomb (that's right, folks, you can always count on Falling for the hippest, newest street lingo). So as long as he wants to nurse, he has to stay on his pillow (the Boppy cushion). And I give him a one-minute warning and then put away the sweater cows (tm Stewie) and offer up the chance to share my pillow. This has been working pretty well at defusing any protests that may arise. He crawls up and nestles in, and we cuddle until he falls asleep. The only problem is that I used to use my smartphone to read; since Tankbaby was facing me, I'd simply extend my arm behind him and scroll away, thus keeping myself awake. Now that he's not nursing, however, there's not a way to do the sneaky reading thing, so I end up just lying quietly, miming sleep. Until I'm not so much "miming" as "actually in a dead sleep until MOTH comes in and asks, 'Have you blogged yet today?'"

Some nights, the boy has a harder time falling asleep. In order to keep him in the drowsy (and, most importantly, STILL) state while he snuggles, I've been telling him stories, long, rambly stories in a whispered monotone, creating a background of white noise. These stories are all about a little boy named Tankbaby and his three friends: a fox, a zebra, and a dinosaur. (The zebra and the dinosaur live in the backyard. The fox is more of a wandering soul and lives in the general neighborhood, but the dinosaur can call him when needed.) They don't have names yet (suggestions currently being taken).

In case any of you are having trouble sleeping, here was tonight's story,written as exactly as I can remember it. Have someone read it to you in a boring whisper...works like a charm.

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Tankbaby. He had three friends: a fox, a zebra, and a dinosaur. One day, the fox came to Tankbaby's house and said, "There's a princess who needs your help!" Tankbaby climbed on the 's back and they started--wait. First he packed a lunch: apples, bread, and cheese. Then he climbed on the--no, wait, then the zebra asked for a lunch, so they packed some leftover curry for him. Then the dinosaur said, "What about me?" and they asked him, "What do dinosaurs eat?" and he said "Leaves from trees" and they said, "How about you just watch for trees on the way and eat when you want?" and he said, "OK." Then Tankbaby turned politely to the fox and asked, "Should I pack a lunch for you, too?" and the fox sighed with exasperation and said, "I'll eat leftovers. Let's just get going! That princess needs your help!"

So Tankbaby climbed on the dinosaur's back and they started down the road. After a while they came to a big castle, surrounded by a moat. And at one end, there was a turret, which is like a big round room with a cap on top. And looking out of the window of the turret was a princess with long brown hair named Natalie. Wait, the hair wasn't named Natalie, that was the princess' name. Anyway, Tankbaby called up, "We're here to rescue you!"

Natalie replied, "I don't need rescuing. I just need help."

"Oh," said Tankbaby. "OK, well, how can I help?"

"I have this heavy table, and it needs moving and I can't do it all by myself," she said. "Can you help?"

"Sure," said Tankbaby. "Open the door, and I'll come right up."

"That's the problem," said Natalie. "I can't open the door. The key is under the table. And I can't move the table until you come help me move it."

"I can't help you move the table until you open the door!"

"Well, I can't open the door until you get the key!"

"Well, I can't get the key until you help me move the table!"

"WELL, I CAN'T HELP YOU MOVE THE TABLE UNTIL YOU OPEN THE DOOR!!" Tankbaby shouted.

Finally, the fox raised a paw. "Can I interject? What about the window?"

Tankbaby said, "Yes! The window! Only...how will I get up there?"

The dinosaur shrugged and said, "I dunno, but all this thinking is making me hungry," and he stretched his long neck up to get some leaves off the tree...the tree right next to the princess' window.

"That's it!" shouted the fox. "Climb up the dinosaur!"

So that's what they did. Tankbaby climbed right up onto the dinosaur's head and the dinosaur stretched his neck up until his head was at the level of the window. Tankbaby climbed in through the window and said, "So, where's that table?" He and Natalie moved the table and found the key. They ran downstairs and opened the door.

Tankbaby asked Natalie to come home with him, but she said, "No thanks. I've got my mommy and daddy here, and I'm working on that big block tower over there, and later we're getting ice cream and I just have a very full day. Thanks anyway. Can we still be friends?" and Tankbaby said, "Sure," and they exchanged e-mails. And then Tankbaby climbed back on the dinosaur and headed home...and then the fox...fell out of the nest and...the wings were growing on the mushrooms...and they drove for a while...and the...frog took off the grass skirt and....she said, "wear the brown belt," and...they kissed and...then the plates started dancing....and...desk lamp...penguins...Morgan Freeman...The End."

It's possible that I might have been falling asleep at the end, there.

Phoning it In

I got nothin' today, kids.

I am sleepy and full of half-formed thoughts and not an insubstantial amount of carbs, and the call of my warm bed is so loud I can't hear myself half-think.

I'm a little embarrassed that I'm petering out so lamely tonight, and am already panicking that I won't be able to come up with anything else for the next four days (and then...what? What exactly do I think will happen if I fail at NaBloPoMo? I guess I don't really know, since this is only my second, and I did manage to write every day next year...maybe they hit you with sticks or something. While publicly shaming you. And making you eat pineapple. I really hate pineapple. Jeez, I can't believe I'm not writing more tonight--I'm so clearly on my game, here.).

I offer up the following distractions:

1) While going about my business with Tankbaby today, I listened to archived episodes of NPR's Pop Culture Happy Hour. I enjoy it inordinately, especially considering that, given my limited exposure to pop culture these days, I don't get a third of the jokes. But I enjoy feeling like a part of the smart, funny kids' table.

Part of what they do in every episode (issue? session? what do you call a unit of radio?) is end with a round of What's Making You Happy This Week. In that vein, allow me to share something I just discovered that is making me happy this week:

2) Backwash, a strange, strange little web series starring Joshua Malina (of Sports Night and West Wing fame) and featuring guest stars like Allison Janney and Jon Hamm. It's very strange and stylized and kind of impossible to describe. Or, at least, describe well, apparently. But if you have seen minutes at a time to spare and want to enjoy the adventures of someone named Jonesy, I recommend you stop by.

Now, go forth and enjoy smart, funny, people who are stronger in resisting the lure of the warm bed.

Requisite Thanksgiving Post

Oh, I had big plans to write about something quirky and unusual and long, but that was before I fell asleep while putting the baby down (as soporific as the process usually is, it's twice that when preceded by a large meal of turkey). So, here goes nothing...

Today, I am thankful for:

• Good friends who have become family. We have had the past three? four? Thanksgivings with another family, one whose children refer to Tankbaby as their "little brother" and let us run amok in their house. This year had the potential to be tense and awkward, as the parents have separated, but they pulled off an almost entirely tension-free afternoon and evening together. If you'd been there, you would never have known.
• The fact that Tankbaby, when he throws a chubby arm over my shoulders at night, freaking patted me with soft, doughy pats. And then I died of cuteness.
• Pumpkin stuffed with everything good
• MOTH sending me a perfectly phrased text message in the middle of the afternoon, just when my head was starting to explode (I did say "almost" tension-free, you know; it actually wasn't so much about the soon-to-be-exes, but more about that inevitable moment where you realize that the food schedule is all off and your turkey is going to be done but you haven't even started the potatoes AAAAAIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE. And I was trying to pass messages along about how to solve problems and everyone had different thoughts about what to do and I was all LET'S JUST HAVE PB&J SANDWICHES). The text started with "I love you and trust your judgment" and just helped me feel instantly better.
  
• Skype! We called my dad this morning and I just keep marveling at the Jetson-like technology that allows him to see his grandchild running around the house and babbling (at least until said grandchild tries to close the laptop lid, effectively ending the conversation).
• The fact that I still have a three-day weekend ahead of me. I believe the word I'm looking for is woot.
• The moment at dinner where the kids decided to tell us what they were thankful for and the 4-year-old said something like, "I'm thankful for my family and that you guys are our family too because I love you." It was a very "God bless us, every one" little moment and I totally, um, got something in my eye. Sniff.

Erk. Here's a weird and abrupt ending, but the little internet-connected-ness symbol in my toolbar keeps going on and off, which makes me feel like I oughta click "publish" now while the gettin's good. (What the hell does that mean, anyway? I've used it all my life, my mom used it, but...what? The getting is...good?) Anyway, hope you are all full up of love and stuffing. Happy, happy day.

No Battering the Baby! No, Not Like That...I Mean...

I did not need to threaten to deep-fry the baby...because...

SEVEN HOURS IN A ROW, BABY!!!

Me, I mean. The baby has been sleeping for 7+ hours in a row for some time now, but unless I want to go bed at 9:30 each night, that hasn't meant that I got a similar stretch. But...last night...maybe it's because I wrote nice stuff about him, maybe it was the roofie I slipped him (heh), but that beatuiful baby of mine slept from 9 pm until 6:27 am. I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I tell you that this was the first time in 21 months that I have slept for that long. I've explained to Tankbaby that if he can get me one more hour of consecutive sleep, he can have a sibling. Or perhaps a pony. We haven't decided yet.


In other great news, my sister sent us a thank-you card for her wedding, and it included a Calvin and Hobbes stamp.

In honor of these two momentous events, I give you one of my favorite C&H strips of all time:


Consider this my early-Thanksgiving "what I'm thankful for" post. Mwah.

Bedtime for Bonzo

I put Tankbaby (Tanktot? Tanktoddler? Tankkid? Chuck?) to bed a while ago. He nursed, as usual, but more often lately, he doesn't nurse to sleep; I generally call a halt to it at some point and just tell him it's time to go to sleep. Sometimes he protests, but tonight he just kissed me and laid his head down on the pillow. A soft sigh, and he dolphin-flopped his little body over so that he was facing away from me, knees bent and feet tucked against my thighs, hard little skull wedged in under my chin. I kissed the back of his head and put a hand on his shoulder, pulling up the monkey quilt a little more snugly. Behind his back, I pulled out my phone so that I could read a little bit (I am trying to catch up on all the blogs I've abandoned these past months) and try to avoid falling asleep, as I almost always do.

After a few minutes, he turned back to face me and flung one little arm over my shoulder, a chubby hot hand on my face, right where my jaw meets my neck. His eyes were closed, his chin raised slightly, and I thought surely he was asleep. But then he opened his eyes (so I quickly shut mine to model "see, now is the time when we sleep"--and this, dear friends, is how I so often am awakened by MOTH saying, "It's 10:30, did you still need to blog/make lunch/shower?"), still breathing quietly, evenly. I peered at him through my lashes and watched him look quietly around, finally fixing his gaze on me. Fully aware that this could be where I derailed the whole thing, I couldn't resist opening my eyes and gazing back at him. We lay there, in the glow of the nightlight, blinking at each other from a distance of a few inches, my body curled around his, his hand still resting heavily on my face as if to mark his place. Finally, his eyes drifted shut and stayed shut. I was feeling dozy, and I knew I should get up before I actually dropped off, but I couldn't make myself move. The warmth, the breathing, the sweet little face that still looks babyish while the rest of him looks like a little boy...I was literally captivated. I cannot believe how much I love this wild, weird, confounding creature.



One of you remind me of this at 5 AM tomorrow morning, when Milk Negotiations are in full swing and I threaten to dip him in batter and deep-fry him.

Poetical Perspective

A man said to the universe:

"Sir, I exist!"

"However," replied the universe,

"The fact has not created in me

A sense of obligation."
--Steven Crane

Directions: Just add water. Shake. Watch self-pity disappear.

Equalizing

I had a lovely time last night. Intelligent, funny ladies, all. At one point, the bride-to-be took a picture of me, highlighting my (ahem) abundant cleavage (no, it wasn't THAT kind of bridal shower, but I was wearing a v-neck sweater, and the girls, they are prolific). She sent it to MOTH, with the message "your pretty woman." Later, she got a message back, saying, "Who is this?" I laughed, figuring her number wasn't in MOTH's phone, but really. Who did he think it was? He knew who I was with that night, it was only going to be one of a few people.

Today on our walk, I asked MOTH what he thought of the picture. Raise your hand if you can see where this is going.

"What picture?"

Yep. The "who is this" was not meant as "who is sending me this message" but as "who is this manic-eyed, Muppet-browed girl with the nice rack and why are you sending me her picture at 8:3o on a Saturday night?!"

I have no idea who the recipient could be, but I am wondering if he/she will be at the wedding and have a weird sense of deja vu when they see me.

***

I had a weird moment last night where I think I said the wrong thing. My friend is pregnant, and I was telling her something I wish someone had told me before I had a baby: if you're breastfeeding, the first several months (or longer) are just going to be unfair. No matter how egalitarian your household, no matter how enthusiastic your spouse about sharing the responsibilities, there are going to be times--a lot of them--when you are going to be the one doing most of the heavy lifting. And it doesn't mean anything negative about any of you, it's just the way it is: Mamas got it rough.

I think my friend didn't want to hear that at that moment, and I didn't present it as eloquently as I could have, and I quickly apologized. But I remember vividly a day when Tankbaby was about five months old, visiting my dear friend Ms J and her saying, "Oh, yes! Those first six months...I remember thinking that if J and I got divorced at that point, dammit, I got to keep the kid. Like, sorry, dude, but I've put in the time. You can have the couch."

I felt so relieved, like it wasn't just that MOTH and I were failing or that we were making stupid choices or that I just couldn't hack it...all thoughts that had been taking up more and more real estate in my head when I would take a shower and listen to Tankbaby wail and feel guilty for those fifteen minutes I was taking for myself. But I would also think, Damn, kid, your dad is right there, and you are not actually ON FIRE right now. And later, when I would be quite literally weighted down by the baby and watch MOTH enjoy an hour on the couch reading or playing his video game, and I'd quietly burn with resentment because HOW DARE HE enjoy some quiet down time when he could be sitting and fretting with me over whether shifting ten degrees to the right would disturb Tankbaby's fragile drowsy state.

I remember reading Dr. Sears' books, which I generally quite like, because they appeal to my hippie, attachment-parenting self. But I also remember reading something at one point about "honoring your partner with his share of the parenting," and having hot, frustrated tears spring to my eyes. It wasn't that MOTH wasn't willing (and in fact, really wanted) to be an equal partner. It was that Tankbaby wasn't having it. He was a boob man, a mama's boy, and while he and MOTH did fine while I was at work during the day, once I got home, he needed to be in physical contact at all times.

As part of my work, I've done a lot of reading about attachment and bonding and temperament, and as such was both a) well-equipped to understand what was happening and thus respond generally with patience and acceptance of my child's needs and b) COMPLETELY FREAKING OUT because what I understood on paper was SO MUCH HARDER in real life and what if it was all wrong, or worse, all right and it's just me who sucks for not being able to hack it, even though I am so well-informed and AAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEEEE. I mean, intellectually I understood that Tank and I had a very strong, secure bond, and that babies are designed to want to be around their mamas and that's what has helped keep the species alive and not have our young wandering off to be eaten by cougars. And after I went back to work, I was gone all day. Of course he'd want to be with me as soon as I returned. On the other hand, I was working all day on five interrupted hours of sleep, commuting during rush hour, and I would get to the doorstep and hear wailing through the door. Inside, an exhausted and frustrated MOTH would explain how little the baby'd slept that day as he handed Squally McSleepless over; I'd hold him in one arm and unpack the breast pump with the other, effectively clocking in for the 14-hour evening shift.

You'd think it'd be helpful to have some professional knowledge to back up your instincts. Which it is, sometimes, except when sleep-deprived, hormone-fueled anxiety starts messing with you, in which case you doubt your instincts and then have the existential angst of your personal and professional belief systems crumbling around you in a moment where you think, "Maybe four months old isn't too soon to teach kids that life is unfair and then you die."

Looking back, I don't regret how we handled it. I think it was hard, sometimes feeling impossible, but clearly we all survived it. I think MOTH had a hard time being constantly the second choice, but his hurt and frustration wasn't always voiced, and I sadly didn't have the extra resources to check on him, because I was so busy feeling overwhelmed and HEY AT LEAST YOU GET TO SHOWER IN PEACE. So I felt resentful a lot and he felt rejected and have I mentioned that we were both. So. Tired?

But we found our way. Our co-parenting became more me-parenting, MOTH-everything else-ing, as he did laundry and dishes and cooking dinner while I rocked and sang and nursed. And eventually it evened out, and he could play with the baby on the floor while I made dinner. I think having that desire and intent to share parenting equally, even in the months where that wasn't possible, formed a foundation that we're now getting to take advantage of. Tankbaby can handle new people, but still has a healthy amount of stranger anxiety. He does great for babysitters. Most importantly, he has a dad who knows all of his words and signs and will often tell me, "Oh, now we're doing x for that" and who is in tune with teething and bowels and vaccinations. And while he still likes mama's boobs, he can go to sleep without them.

And two nights ago, during the cacophonous fire drill that was the 5 am wakeup, while Tankbaby cried and writhed and flailed, at one point he wailed, "Da?" And I immediately said, yes, of course, you can have Dada, and rolled him over next to MOTH, who put an arm around him. Tanky quieted and let out a shuddering sigh and I thought, There it is. That was the first time he'd requested Dada instead of me. I had a rush of feelings: happy (for him that he'd found some comfort, for MOTH for being chosen, for me for getting a break), but also sad that I wasn't able to comfort him then, and a little rejected. (And, because it was still early in the battle, the moment lasted only about three minutes, and then all bets were off and we began to play "Who Put Fire Ants In the Baby's Diaper?" again.)

I know that was the first of many times where I will hear "Dada" as my arms are pushed away. I know that in the future, it will be deliberate, sometimes with purpose (Daddy does the train better) and sometimes just to exert a choice, any choice, because that's how kids roll. And I will try not to get bent out of shape, feeling rejected, all YOUR DADDY DIDN’T CARRY YOU FOR NINE MONTHS/WAKE EVERY TWO HOURS TO FEED YOU FOR THE FIRST SIX MONTHS/HAVE HIS KEGEL MUSCLES SO STRETCHED OUT OF SHAPE THAT TRAMPOILNES ARE NOW A REALLY BAD IDEA and instead smile, kiss them both, and go sit on the couch with a book.

In Which I Provide Effective Birth Control

Dig me, posting before dark for a change. Tonight I am going off to a friend's bridal shower, so MOTH graciously took the boy to the library and farmer's market so I could come here for a bit. Why not write during Tank's nap, you might ask?

Oh, ho, ho. That's a good one.

Mama's going to nap with Tankbaby today. Or possibly instead of. I don't really care which, but the point is, I'm going to need a nap at some point, or else it's entirely likely that I'll be driving home from the shower tonight and veer off the road, a fiery crash of naplessness and ire. I guess it will bring new meaning to the phrase, "You can sleep when you're dead."

I believe I've mentioned once, twice, or thirty times that Tankbaby isn't, and has never been, a good sleeper. We've really come so far from where we were a year ago, or even six months ago, and the nightweaning has been pretty successful.

Except for lately, when 4:30-5 AM rolls around and Tank decides that his tank (so to speak) is empty. There are three ways this can go:

Scenario A: Tank whimpers and signs "milk" while saying "Mama?" I roll over, cuddle him, whisper, "Milk in the morning." He whimpers again to make sure his objection is noted, and then crawls up onto my pillow, flings a chubby arm across my neck, and goes back to sleep, his sweet baby breath on my face (when do kids start getting morning breath? I thought it might be by now, when he's got most of his teeth and is eating adult food--he had hoisin salmon last night, which you'd think would emit some sort of odor when incubated in a moist little cave--but so far, I'm OK with my nose being an inch from his open mouth). We all go back to sleep for another hour or so, at which point he gets to nurse and we hang out in dozy cuddliness until I have to get up for work.

We get this for a few nights in a row, long enough to lull us into a false sense of security, and then...

Scenario B: Tank whimpers and signs "milk" while saying "Mama?" I roll over, cuddle him, whisper, "Milk in the morning." He whimpers again to make sure his objection is noted, and then crawls up onto my pillow, flings a chubby arm across my neck, and...grabs it, pulling me closer, trying to get access to my tank top. He asks more urgently, "Mama?" and signs "milk" with whatever hand is not involved in snaking its way under shoulder straps or down through the neckhole. I reassure him that milk will be forthcoming sometime after FREAKING DAWN, for crying out loud, but that it's time to go back to sleep. I gently guide his hands back away from all my vital organs. Repeat once or twice more, then we all go back to sleep. Cuddly dozing, get up for work.

This is, obviously, less desirable than Scenario A, but still doable, especially if I manage to get to bed early enough that I've had a nice chunk of sleep before he wakes. (Did you catch that part? Because it becomes important later.) It only lasts about 10 minutes, it's generally still done quietly and I can literally do it with my eyes closed.

But last night? Last night was the dreaded

Scenario C: Tankbaby wakes with a cry, I pat him on the back or cuddle him. He asks for milk. I explain the (at this point, extremely well-established, consistent) no-milk-between-10-and-6 policy. He crumples as if I have told him that Santa Claus is a lie (and, I guess, that Santa Claus existed in the first place...a poor simile, but I'm running against the clock, here). He cries piteously, saying and signing "milk?" with his best Charles Dickens orphan face. I remain sympathetic but unmoved, disentangling his hot little hands from wherever they've managed to lodge themselves (dude, WHY are your hands down my pants?). He gets more agitated, arching his back, crying more loudly, flinging himself around the crib, into our bed, trying to climb over me to lie between me and MOTH. I continue to pull him back down, offering cuddles, kisses, and sometimes cash if he'll just lie down and go back to sleep. He refuses all such reasonable offers, crying "Nah! NAH!" (his version of "no") repeatedly, long after I've stopped offering the pony rides and free magazine subscriptions. He continues to flail, I continue to try to be calm and soothing and sleepy-looking while simultaneously catching all those little limbs of his (dude, WHY are your hands down your pants?) and trying to mentally calculate, "If he falls asleep right now, I can still get another 47 minutes of sleep." He finally buries his head against a pillow or my chest or my armpit and quiets, breathing more deeply, juuuust long enough for my heartrate to slow and then the slowly erupting cry, "I thought I was feeling better but I just remembered THE MILK THING and now I AM VERY UPSET ALL OVER AGAIN WAAAAAHHHH!"

Repeat. And repeat. Eventually, he gets so worked up that he is just sobbing inconsolably, those jagged, hiccupy sobs that you cry if you're foolish enough to go see the new romantic comedy too soon post-breakup. And I rock him and hold him and MOTH hugs him and he finally, finally lies down and sighs, those long, staggering sighs that follow sobs. His eyes, screwed shut from crying, finally relax a bit, although the lashes are still wet on his cheeks.

It is simultaneously the most infuriating and most pathetic thing I've ever seen.

To be fair, last night was only the second night of this we've had since the nightweaning process back in June, and the other was the night we moved the clocks back for Daylight Savings Time. But still. You can see where it would grow tedious rather quickly.

Part of it is my fault: when putting Tankbaby down for the night, I accidentally fell asleep with him, until MOTH woke me at 10. (In case I haven't described our co-sleeping situation before, we have Tank's crib up against our bed with the side rail out, so we can lie with him to snuggle, but he also has his own space. So I was sleeping in my bed, not crammed into the crib with him, in case you were wondering why MOTH left me in there so long.) I came out into the living room to blog, while MOTH went to bed, but was in that logy place where I was too groggy to write much (or well), but couldn't actually sleep, either. I watched Glee on Hulu (which will explain why, at 5:37 AM, I was shushing with Tankbaby while singing Cee Lo in my head, and also illustrate how unhip I am, that I learned about Cee Lo from a FOX sitcom) and finally went to bed after midnight, but I tossed and turned for another hour (still singing Cee Lo, "I pity the fooo-hool who falls in love witchoo...").

Anyway, the point is, I'm gonna need to take a nap later.

If You Can't Say Something Nice

Yeah.

It's been one of those days, at the end of one of those weeks.

Luckily, I have all of next week off. Except for the day I'm going in and not getting paid, because I have to have to have to get caught up, because that constant screeching in my head is getting louder, and at some point it's going to drown out the constant screeching of my kids. So I spent a little time today getting all hinky about how the Department of Ed keeps adding paperwork requirements with one hand and taking away funding (and therefore, staff and time) to meet these requirements with the other. The whole agency is nervous and on edge, the general feeling being that we're lucky to have jobs...jobs that are rapidly becoming impossible to do. Or at least, to do well or meaningfully.

So! (claps hands briskly) Let's ignore that. And look! Over here!

Growing up, one of our traditional holiday viewings was a little thing called Emmet Otter's Jugband Christmas, a little special that Jim Henson made back in 1977. Based on the children's book of the same name, it's a very Gift-of-the-Magi-esque story about a mother and son otter, a talent contest, and a washtub. I defy you to watch it and not have your cockles warmed.

We used to watch it on a rapidly-decaying VHS tape, labeled with Sharpie, taped off of TV with the commercials paused out. A few years ago, they released it on DVD, which means that I can enjoy it without feeling like each viewing is one step closer to the disintegration of a cherished childhood memory.

So, rather than blather about Job Woes, which is fun for exactly no-one to think about, including me, I direct your attention to the following. As much as I love the Muppets (which is a LOT), I love Muppet outtakes even more:

Scene From a Grocery Store

Setting: Neighborhood grocery store

Time: Eveningish

Shoes: Chuck Taylors


Me: Oh, Tankbaby. You are so cute. Can I give you a kiss?

Tankbaby: Nah. (his version of "no;" I'm from Chicago, I can dig it.)

Me: I can't? OK. How about...can you give me a kiss?

Tankbaby: Nah.

Me: Fine. Can I give Dada a kiss?

Tankbaby: Nah. (points to teenage employee, stocking soup on a nearby shelf and makes kissing noise)

Me: You want me to kiss her? (He nods.) I don't think so.

Tankbaby: (makes kissing noise and points to the girl) Mama!

Me: Yeah. Mama's not going to kiss her.

MOTH: Can Dada kiss her?

Me: Nah.

MOTH: OK. Just checking the boundaries.

Me: (clobbers him with a can of Campbell's tomato soup)

End scene.

But How Does That Make You FEEL?

I so love therapy.

For a verbal processor like me, an hour of yakking, answering probing questions and gathering feedback...ah. Torture for many, I know, but for me a good therapy hour is like a mental massage: I leave feeling relaxed, refreshed, and other spa-advertisement adjectives. Lest you think I'm being terribly selfish to admit that I like an hour of talking about myself while someone listens, I should point out that a) I do pay for the services, and b) I try to throw in some jokes.

I have been feeling absolutely overwhelmed the last few days (weeks? longer?) and am now at that point where something like misplacing my keys brings actual tears to my eyes for a second, when Perspective is not only something I've lost, it's a fictional character to me, like the Jabberwocky. Some of it is work stuff, and I've finally resigned myself to going in one day next week when we're closed and just working for the day (unpaid, natch) in hopes that getting caught up (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) will be worth it. I do love being productive. I love crossing stuff off of lists and making files and finishing projects, but I think at this point, a thought I get to have to completion also sounds mighty nice. Not that I wouldn't get a nice buzz off of a clean workspace, an x-ed out To Do list, and a nice color-coded binder...mmm...

The stuff that isn't work is less easily solved, but...today, at least, I'm feeling more optimistic about it. I talked to Dreamcatcher Therapist today a lot about the notion of there being One Right Way for things, and that, while I intellectually understand otherwise, I still secretly believe in it. (Please note: I'm not saying that my way is the right way, I'm saying that there is some independent, external right way that should be obvious to all and I am holding myself to it.) And am constantly judging myself as to my success in attaining this One Right Way, Anything Else is Wrong and Worthless. Which, of course, leads to peace and enlightenment, right?

Dreamcatcher Therapist: It's like you're a kid coloring, and you look down and see that your house isn't perfectly in the lines, and it's a different color, maybe not quite as good as those kids', but that's OK, you know?

Me: Totally foreign concept.

DT: Okaaaayyyy....(scribbles furiously)

The best part is that, at no charge to you, I will also judge you about your willingness to follow the light. So when someone (cough...MOTH...cough) manages to be all Zen, like, "Heck, I'll color my house pink, 's cool...whatevs," I am very threatened because there is only Zool One Right Way, dammit! And if you have another Right Way, then my Right Way must be Wrong and then I am doing it Wrong. And no-one likes the kid who does it Wrong, Right? So just tell me WHAT COLOR DO I PAINT THE DAMN HOUSE?!

Ahem. Or something.

Of course, I know better intellectually than to go down these roads, but emotionally, that's where I head. Judging those around me so that I know how best to judge myself when I inevitably compare myself. And this is truly where the approval junkie thing goes off the rails. Where I have this innate desperation for external approval, but I know that's not what I want for myself, so I try to intellectualize around it, stuffing it down and smothering it with appropriate words while my hamster-wheel brain spins ever faster.

DT: How do you walk around doing that all the time?

Me: I'm...very tired.

See? See how I'm feeling more optimistic? Doesn't it just shine through?

You'll just have to trust me. I'm feeling like I'm starting to untangle some stuff, which feels good (see: organizational high, above). Also? MOTH is making chicken tikki masala tonight, with warm naan on the side. How bad can life be with warm naan? (And, I don't care what you say, warm naan definitely falls into the category of Things That Are Right.)

And This is Why I'm Eating Chocolate Frosting on Graham Crackers at 10:00 at Night

OK, first of all? I'm still in it to win it, NaBloPoMoFos. I dunno what happened, but I did post yesterday. It was the post I started on Sunday before the evil virus got me down. And for some reason, when I hit "publish" yesterday, it just stuck in on underneath Sunday's Evil Virus Post. So, um, scroll on down to where you see "Gazing Comma Navel," why dontcha.

Secondly? When you've had a day where:

* You started the day with a 5 AM, 40 minute period of coaxing your toddler back to sleep, so that you ended up grabbing the fifteen minutes that you should have used to get up early and wash your hair so it is now twisted on your head in a devil-may-care-but-she-sure-doesn't poodle poof...

* A child runs out of your classroom and runs for the front doors and when you catch him he makes all 50 pounds of himself go boneless while the school secretary watches, and

* You learn that a kid on your caseload went into foster care not just because of the homelessness and neglect and mental health issues, but because, when he was 18 months old, his mother flung him against a wall in a grocery store bathroom, and

* You work through lunch (again) and somehow still can't get your head above water, even though you'll be working for 12 hours today, and

* You listen to a radio interview with an economist on the way in to work and realize that you can't afford a second kid and will probably have to sell the first one when you run out of plasma...


Well, that is a lovely day indeed for your MOTH to show up at work with hot, homemade beef stew for dinner, complete with crusty loaf and cloth napkins. Even better if he brings your kiddo, smiling and calling, "mama!"as his chunky legs pedal towards you. And you can eat and relax and watch your kid insist on eating out of your bowl and thirty minutes are all it takes to reset.

A bloggy kiss for my partner, who sat in traffic both ways in order to do a little something nice for me today, even without knowing how badly I needed it.

These Are Not the Droids You're Looking For

You guys.

I had a whole real post I was working on. It wasn't a random assortment of thoughts with occasional puns thrown in--I had notes! And time to ponder! And I was actually writing something kinda heartfelt that was making me think...

And then my computer started FUH-REAKING out. I started getting pop-ups like, "Stealth Intrusion! Infection detected in the background. Your computer is now being attacked by spyware and rogue software" and "Your PC activity is being monitored. Possibly spyware infection" and "ZOMG YOU'RE TOTALLY BEING HACKED RIGHT NOW BEEYOTCH!"

Best of all, the calls were coming from inside the house. It claimed to be "Vista AntiSpyware." A quick Google search revealed that this is a fake anti-malware scam, where they want you to "click here for an anti-viral scan." So while there isn't any program "IRC-Worm.DOS.Septic" trying to "exploit Windows security holes," what this shit does do is screw with your existing anti-viral software. So my hours-long McAfee scans were for naught, and cheerful green screens told me my computer was squeaky clean, even as more dire pop-ups sprouted, screaming "YOU'RE IN FOR IT NOW! VIRUSES! VIKINGS! ZOMBIES! YOU REALLY OUGHTA CLICK HERE, OR YOU'LL BE SORRRRYYYYY!"

More Googling (which took forever, because these stupid, tedious thing also throws dire pop-ups whenever you try to open a browser) led me to different versions of removal instructions. I tried McAfee's "stinger" first, which did zip, other than gleefully assure me that I was 100% clean! Yes, sirree! Nothing to see here SECURITY HOLE DETECTED BLOCK THIS ATTACK BY CLICKING HERE OR WE TAKE THE CHILD!

I found very clear instructions (complete with screenshots) here, which I'm including on the off off off chance that anyone with the same problem finds this blog. I'll let you know how it works (updated: seems to have fixed it!). (I will admit to a certain paranoid fear that maybe these "fixing" instructions were just another form of malware...they're all in it together! But I found this solution listed other places as well, so either it's the real thing or there's a vast conspiracy and we'd all best decide whether we're going to be Browncoats or Alliance.)

I know I can't take it personally, but I do. These pimply assholes sucked away the rest of my lovely Sunday afternoon. The post I was working on, luckily, was saved mid-draft, but I had to do all these scans and figure out how to manually search and destroy this thing (the success of which has yet to be determined, by the way, as I'm typing this on MOTH's computer while mine is being exorcised) and I snapped at Tankbaby when he kept mashing on the keys and...pleh. Anyway, all this to say that you're not getting my sincere, heartwarming post this evening. I guess you'll just have to wait. It's a shame, too. It came with a pony.






OK, fine. You can have the pony tonight.

Gazing Comma Navel

MOTH thinks I am a pessimist, because I am constantly worrying about what could happen or what did happen or what what's currently happening might mean. It really bothers me that he would see me as so negative, because I don't want to be seen that way. Other than a brief period in college, for which I blame too many Melissa Etheridge videos, I have never wanted to be that dark, twisted, damaged person. (I have, however, often wanted to date that person, which is another topic all together.)

I maintain that I am an optimist, because I do see all those negative, worrisome possibilities and yet continue to move forward. I got married, I had a kid, I went back to school, I moved across the country, I left everything I knew and started over. And I was terrified about all of those things, but I did them anyway. I think that's optimism. Not that everything's going to be OK, but that it might not be, but I'm going out there anyway. It takes a certain amount of faith in the universe to walk out your front door when you're fairly certain that the hive under the garage is full of killer bees, you know?

Part of what I've had to come to terms with about my own anxiety is that it's always going to be there. It's not something I can just will away. I don't mean that in a defeated way, but that I have learned that I have to figure out how to manage it rather than spend my energy trying to fight it. I try very hard not to indulge it, but sometimes I only manage to tread water when I want to swim. So I don't get into panic mode, but neither do I relax and enjoy the moment. It's like I'm out there on the surfboard, crouching, not being knocked down, but I can't stand up and ride the wave, either. (What's with all the ocean/water metaphors? DON'T KNOW. I am not an ocean person...I've watched Shark Week, you know. Murky depths are not my scene.)

One of the questions my therapist posed for me last week was about living in the present. Being in the moment. Now, my therapist is a little, as my friend C says, "dream-catchery," but she's not wrong here. I struggle with being able to be present and relax in the moment and not think about what just happened or what might happen or what could happen IF I LOOK AWAY FOR A SECOND AAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE CONSTANT VIGILANCE!! The way my brain works, I'm able to see all these possibilities in every moment--good and bad, but why spend energy worrying about the good, right? When I could be dedicating myself to anticipating every possible negative ripple and preparing for each?

What a weird way to live, right? And I'm not, like, constantly miserable or anxious or anything. It's just that I'm seldom really relaxed, either. I have trouble feeling like this, whatever it is, is "enough" in any given moment. There's always something I'm missing out on, something I should be doing, something I need to be thinking about. My hamster-wheel of a brain is always turning, and I keep running, like the thought of just getting off has never occurred to me.

I sort of manage to do this with Tankbaby. I mean, he's just so darn delectable and fun and all-encompassing that I do sometimes find myself just reveling in his sweet, weird babyness (see also: mondo kisses instead of bedtime). And sometimes, when I'm reading a book with him or walking around the neighborhood, I'm wholly there, sucking it all up. But, probably more often, I catch myself thinking about how big he's getting, imagining him as an older kid, worrying about weaning, trying to figure out if I want another, etc. And, as my therapist would point out, whenever I do that, I leave--at least in some way--the present that I'm in.

Weirdly, I was very much about living in the moment when my mom was sick and I was around her. Because it was too painful to remember the blissfully ignorant past, and even more frightening to think about the future, I actually did manage to stay very much in the present when I would visit her. Even sitting in the chemo room, I was just...there, making jokes and being slightly uncomfortable and trying to make personal connections with the nurses. And then we'd leave chemo and go to a play or go home and make dinner, and I just kept taking it moment by moment. However, I don't think that's quite the same thing, as it came less from a Zen place of acceptance and more from a white-knuckled terrified denial. I wasn't relaxing in the moment, I had it in a choke-hold, because it was all I could handle.

One of many lines I love in Suzanne Finnamore's Otherwise Engaged is when one character, imitating Deepak Chopra says, "If you think of your mind as a seething serpent, why would you walk toward it?" Or our inimitable Anne Lamott, who says, "My mind remains a bad neighborhood that I try not to go into alone." These two quotes pop into my head when I think about meditation, and the idea of just sitting quietly with my hamster-wheel brain makes me roll my eyes. But I keep considering it, because I've gotta learn a way to quiet the shoulds and coulds and maybes and whatabouts and whatifs. And I don't drink, so blackouts are right out. What's left, you know?

I'm not done thinking about this, but I am done writing about it. For now. Head-shrinking again this Wednesday, maybe I'll have be awarded with great clarity. Or possibly a root beer. Both sound nice about now.