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.