There I Am in Younger Days, Star-Gazing

Twenty years ago, after a long day of improvising Elizabethan daily trials (alack! the Queen is coming and I've naught to wear!), wearing layers of clothes in 90 degree weather, and mooning over whatever boy I was too shy to talk to at the time...a bunch of us were hanging out on the near-empty grounds of the Renaissance Faire. I was about 15, the rest of the group was older and much more sophisticated...why, I'd put their average age at 22! My friend Colin was playing guitar, and I was pretending that I, too, was cool enough to know all the words to REM's "The End of The World As We Know It" (by the way, you're welcome for the earworm). He played some other stuff I didn't know, and then he played the Indigo Girls' "Closer to Fine." And I was struck. By the end of the song, I was joining in on the chorus, and my next paycheck took me to the record store (remember those?) in the mall and I bought the album. By which, of course, I mean the cassette tape. It lived in my car that summer and I memorized every word.

In college, that tape was never far from my stereo. OK, to be fair, my dorm room was tiny enough that nothing was very far from my stereo, but still. Eventually I got other albums, and my college boyfriend, Eric, finally convinced me to move to these new-fangled CDs, which was basically his only useful contribution to my life, I see now. These albums were the soundtrack of my early 20s. One of my closest friendships from those days was my friend Mandy (she of the socks in the bed story), who was an alto, and she and I spent hours singing these songs, harmonizing as we drove or to cover our poor attempts at learning the guitar. Later, we found people who would play guitar not-poorly, and we performed at talent shows, coffee houses, and basically wherever someone would hold still. I may also have worn a lot of Doc Martens with dresses, but that's not important now.

I was thinking of all that today, as I drove windy country roads and sang at the top of my lungs. I had to go see a kid of mine who was recently pulled into foster care (the list of reasons included filthy house, meth use, living with sex offenders, and various suspicious marks on her 2-year-old body) and her new home is in another district, an hour away. I started out listening to NPR, but couldn't stomach doing what I was doing and listening to debates over whether we teachers are overpaid and "should learn to live within our means like the rest of the country" (thank you, call-in listener!). I put in the Indigo Girls' live album that I haven't played in years and all of the words and harmonies were right there where I left them. I remembered other drives on country roads in the Midwest, which boy I was crying over at the time, how cool and weird it was when my sister independently started listening to the Girls as well, and which songs would be forever tied to certain people.

I am sometimes struck that, ten years ago, I don't know if there was anyone in my life who didn't know that I sing, that didn't think of me as a singer. And now, I can probably count on two hands the number of friends who have ever heard me sing. It's not any less important to me, but it's somehow become less of my identity. When I sang at a friend's wedding, I got a lot of lovely compliments, most of which started with, "I didn't know you sang!" While I understand how this happens (I haven't performed much since moving out here, due to grad school, cancer mom, job, baby, etc.), it makes me inexplicably sad. Which is kinda weird, because it's not like my ability has changed or disappeared. In fact, since I took lessons for a while (after grad school, before baby), my technique has improved. But now it's a skill that I bring out from time to time, whereas before it was something people knew about me, sometimes before they knew my last name. It was a way that I connected with some of the most important people of my life. It was how I exorcised that hamster wheel in my brain and the little fuckers who ran on it.

And, because I am exactly that unwell, sometimes that sadness somehow keeps me from singing more now. Or rather, the fear of that sadness welling up and wrecking what was once a source of comfort and release. Because now it's also a reminder of something I'm not doing, which feels like pressure, which sucks out all the fun or relaxation that could otherwise be there (that sound you hear is MOTH shaking his head in disbelief of my labyrinthine logic). It makes me miss people with whom I once shared strong musical connections.

But today, I did it. I was able to put all that aside and just enjoy it. Just singing, harmonizing, matching the timbre of my voice to Emily's, rocking out in my little Prius bubble. It was great.

The Indigo Girls play each summer in a local concert series at the zoo. Picnic blankets, snacks, and probably disturbing the elephants--what more could you ask for? The last time I went was the week I found out I was pregnant, and we hadn't told anyone yet. I remember thinking, "If I'm actually pregnant [I was fairly disbelieving up until the first time I saw the sea monkey on the ultrasound], then this is baby's first concert." They're coming this July, and I think we'll take Tankboy. Let him hear it from the outside.

Because it Can't all Be Wise 'n' Shit

First, I'm so amazed and gratified that you're still out there. I gave serious consideration to just slinking away in shame and never coming back.

But if I did? Then I wouldn't be able to share ridiculous stereotypical mommyblogger moments with you. I do beg your pardon, and appreciate your willingness to pretend that no-one else has ever waxed rhapsodic about potty training.

So, Tankboy has shown some interest in toilet training, and we got a little plastic potty to offer as an option. He's only used it once (during an evening when we had dinner guests, who were very gracious about the fact that their hostess was getting weepy over 30 ccs of baby pee), until the last 24 hours. He tells me "baby pee" or "baby hah doh pah-ee" and then insists that "mama doh 'way" so that I will "yeave yone" (oh yes, for a future date, let's discuss Teeny Speech Therapy). He gently ushers me to the door, pausing only to ask for a pile of books. And if I peek in to check on him, there he sits, naked from the waist down, reading. "Honey? How're you doing in here?" Smile. "Duhd." "OK, then..."

But yesterday I heard the clunk of the toilet seat and went in to find him attempting to empty his little potty into the large bowl. He's only two, so this meant that most of my bathroom was dripping with pee. But that's nothing compared to...

This afternoon, when I came in to find him scaling the toilet to reach the kleenex, the better to wipe himself with. Because he had pooped. Riiiiiight next to the potty. Originally, that is. He had...traveled a bit.

Or this morning, when I opened the door to find him perched on his little seat, holding a (wrapped, thankfully) tampon and carefully considering his nethers. I stopped him, but I'm kind of wondering what his next step would have been.

Plopping and Hanging my Head

We just passed the fourth anniversary of my mother's death, and once again I wrote lengthy, detailed memoirs in my head that never made it out.

I am working late almost daily and bringing work home, trying to find some way to quite literally change the course of this one child's life, knowing that the odds are that the System is going to claim him as thoughtlessly as it has so many others. Meanwhile, my agency is facing up to 25% less funding next year, and if I'm not laid off myself, I will be doing the same work I can't get done this year, but with 25% fewer people and resources. And I can't make myself write about it, because it's a recipe that requires too much back story and too little hopefulness.

I am still running, but have lost the focus on letting go of anger and on learning to meditate and am feeling that dull, run-over lethargy and I just don't want to talk about it.

My friend had her beautiful baby girl, on Tankbaby (excuse me, Tankboy, as he recently turned two and is doing things like wearing cargo pants and shaving and calling girls)'s birthday, in the same hospital where I had Tankboy, and the visceral memories of that night and how weird but comforting it is to be the experienced mama...all plenty of writing fodder and I never even opened the Blogger window.

I'm pretty sure you guys have all given up on me anyway, because it turns out that I kind of suck at this being-part-of-the-blogosphere thing.

BUT.

Today, on the way home, I was listening to NPR, and they had a brief interview with Anne Lamott about Easter. And she talked about Lent and Easter being this "dark night of the soul," when it's time to just stop the crazy head hamster wheels (um, that's my imagery, not hers), and she told a story about going shopping:

"When I was 38, my best friend, Pammy, died, and we went shopping about two weeks before she died, and she was in a wig and a wheelchair. I was buying a dress for this boyfriend I was trying to impress, and I bought a tighter, shorter dress than I was used to. And I said to her, 'Do you think this makes my hips look big?' and she said to me, so calmly, 'Annie, you don't have that kind of time.' And I think Easter has been about the resonance of that simple statement; and that when I stop, when I go into contemplation and meditation, when I breathe again and do the sacred action of plopping and hanging my head and being done with my own agenda, I hear that, 'You don't have that kind of time,' you have time only to cultivate presence and authenticity and service, praying against all odds to get your sense of humor back."

And I almost drove off the road.

"Annie, you don't have that kind of time." God. Damn. How could I not share that with you lovely people, especially those of you raising kids, especially those of you raising girl-type kids? You don't have that kind of time. You don't have time for self-doubting, self-critical bullshit. You don't have time for worrying how to impress other people. You don't have time to be less than yourself, to be not as good as you are, to hold your breath and spin your wheels.

You don't have that kind of time.


Damn.

Zen Schmen

So, ajm wanted to hear more about my little happy-making-ness thing I'm trying. I wrote (and wrote) about what drove me to it and I'm basically just trying what I said: I'm trying to find wisdom in other people and just fill my brain with some of these alternate thoughts in hopes of changing some really not-useful thought patterns.

Anger is one area that I'm really working on. I've never felt like this was a huge thing for me, but in the last couple of years, I'm finding myself getting frustrated more often and to an occasional object-throwing extent. It is ugly and it's not what I want to model for my son (who already does more than the occasional object-throwing, regardless of emotional state). So I'm working on letting it go. On deliberately and consciously recognizing my anger/irritation/frustration and rejecting the impulse to coddle it and feed it with righteousness until it grows toxic. It is exactly as hard and tedious as it sounds, and it makes me feel stupid and petulant at times, but it is working. I'm reading that Thich Nhat Hanh book I checked out, and while I'm not totally sold (he keeps talking about "embracing" the anger, but, halfway through, I'm still a little lost as to how to do that, if you mean "embracing" in a way other than "smothering"), I am finding a few things that stick with me. He describes anger as a house fire and points out that, in that case, you don't chase down the person you think set the fire, you take care of your house. So you don't spend energy trying to argue with or punish the person who is making you mad; instead, you take care of yourself and your own anger. I can get behind that, although part of me also says, yes, but after I put out the fire, you can be damn sure I'm going after that bastard with the matches. I guess I'm still working on enlightenment.

I'm also trying to be very kind to myself in this process and not see it as something I'm doing "right" (or, more likely, "wrong"). I'm just trying to watch for moments where I am doing something different and trying something healthier and appreciate those moments. Great googly-moogly, but I get tired of the phrase "living in the moment." Only slightly less overused is "be present." But I don't have a better way to describe what I'm trying to do, unless it's the phrase a dear friend once used, "cowboy the fuck up." I'm trying to get over myself and get some perspective. I don't know that I'm happier so far, but I think more peaceful isn't exaggerating.

Also, we bought a new oven. So that helps.

Also, also? Yesterday I put three different colored tutus on Tankbaby's head and watched him waddle around the living room, two stout legs under a black, orange, and blue cloud of tulle. It was like watching some sort of Goth cheerleader Ewok. A drunk Goth cheerleader Ewok. It's no meditation practice, but it did make me guffaw unattractively.

In Which I Pretend I Didn't Disappear for Weeks, and Hope You Buy It

Cute Kid (Not My Own) Story #1: This morning at school, this kid wanted the binoculars that another kid was using. He told me so, and I asked him, "What do you need to do?" This is a kid who has the verbal skills and the experience to ask for a turn independently, so whenever possible, we try not to solve the problem, but to provide him with some cues to solve it himself. Sure enough, A turned to B (hee...those are actually their initials, although it reads as if I was just not terribly creative with "Kid A and Kid B") and asked, "Will you share with me?" B replied firmly, "No share!" and A turned back to me with big sad eyes and a quivering chin: "He don't wanna share."

I asked him, "OK, so now what can we do?" because we teach kids that first, you ask your friend, and if the other child says no, then you can get a teacher to help you. A looked confused at first, then brightened as the idea dawned on him. The tears disappeared from his eyes as he jumped up and shouted, "We can trap him!"

Cute Kid (Not My Own) Story #2: My afternoon group is my social skills group, kids who are cognitively typical (and often quite bright) but have social-emotional/behavioral issues. We were at circle today and there was a fight over a blue cushion. And when I say "fight," I mean bellowing screams and flying fists. Possibly someone's mom was insulted.

One teacher grabbed J, who was sitting on the cushion and sobbing, and I grabbed D, who had been trying to get the cushion. We pulled them apart and spent a few moments helping them calm down (a tenet of the Positive Discipline thinking that we follow is that kids do better when they feel better; also, brain science tells us that kids can't problem-solve when upset, so our first step is always to get kids to calm down). Meanwhile, another child saw what was going on and offered D an identical blue cushion. He was instantly cheered, and happily sat down. J was still seething a bit about being attacked (go figure), so I asked him, "Did you want to tell D something?" inviting him to use his words to tell D "that made me mad" or whatever. He crossed his arms, furrowed his brow, and said firmly, "No."

So I turned to D and said, "Did you want to tell J something?" (we don't force kids to apologize, but we do give them opportunities to; sometimes they say "sorry" or they might explain "I was really mad that you wouldn't give that to me" or whatever). D solemnly said, "Yes," and crawled over to where J was sitting. "J, I want to tell you something...I want...I want...I want to tell you that...." I waited, wondering what heartfelt words he was trying to find.

"I'm gonna play T-ball this spring."

I'm sure that made J feel much better.

***************

MOTH is always telling me that it is unnecessary (as well as possibly boring) to open with abject apologies about not writing for a while. But! I bet it's totally different if I close with those apologies, right?

Yargh. I don't even have a single good excuse. I wanted to write more about my little happy-being experiment and how it's mostly working but it is exactly as hard and tedious as you'd think it would be. I was going to tell you about how within 48 hours we lost power and then our oven died and then my car's key fob stopped working and somewhere Laura Ingalls Wilder was all, "Deal with it, bitch." I still need to tell you about how my sister and I are planning a Gradual Surprise Party (tm Aunt Benevola) for my dad when I go back to Chicago in a few weeks. I have a bunch of sad foster kid stories that I don't think I want to tell you because they are sad and frankly you guys already have that Egypt thing to think about. I wanted to copy my cousin's Facebook post about a CNN report that Bristol Palin was considering running for office that read: "HAHAHAHAHA no."

In short, I'm here, and except for the part where I suck, I'm OK. I hope you are as well, except for the sucking part.

Look! Shiny!

Um, I now feel a little bit like that weird girl at the party who you make accidental eye contact with and suddenly she's oversharing about her boyfriend's thyroid problem when all you wanted was to reach past her for the chips.

So! (claps hands briskly) Let's move along, yes? I only have a minute, as I am nearly a month overdue on completing my BFF's birthday present, which I really want to mail tomorrow, but in the interest of shaking off whatever Morrissey shadow still lingers over this blog, I present another installment of...

Things That Make Me Happy

1) Kinda cheating, but seriously? Drunk fucking Hulk, man.

2) Running. I know, ew. But it does. Not the running per se, but the fact that I am actually following through on my goal to exercise (which, by the way, I started in mid-December, so it totally counts as having fulfilled last year's resolution) is comforting to me in a way I can't describe. Plus, you know, fitness blah blah.

3) Listening to NPR podcasts (often while running--I can't do the music thing, I end up trying to run in rhythm, which only works on very specific songs...it turns out I run at exactly the pace for The Magnetic Fields' "I'm the Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side," and nothing else). I love Pop Culture Happy Hour, even though all my TV viewing is on Hulu.com, and I've seen exactly one movie since 2008, because they are all so smart and funny and in my mind, they'd be friends with me. I also adore Radiolab, and it distracts me suitably for plodding along.

4) I listed some friend-related sadness last time, but there are also some friend with wonderful, wonderful things that make me happy. My not-at-all-miscarrying friend from the summer, who got married in December and will have the most loved baby girl in March. Another friend who, at 40, fell in love with a guy she'd known for 15+ years. They're getting married (also in March), and she's moving to Florida to be with him. A relatively new friend invited me to her voice studio performance and it was stunning and inspiring and she was so open and vulnerable and courageous in her performance...I got chills.

5) I could make this list all about Tankbaby, because he's just so full of awesome lately. He is talking more and more (which has not been the case lo these many months) and his chirpy little voice slays me, in a very "he thinks he's a person" way. He also has taken to requesting that his head be covered by the blanket when he goes to sleep, and this seems to really help him go to sleep faster most nights (maybe he's part parakeet?), and he is Holy Mother of All That Is Good And Holy, pretty consistently sleeping through the night. Like, until 6:30 AM. Those animal sacrifices must have really paid off. And finally, he recently learned to recognize the letter "R," so it's now like we have a tiny pirate walking around our house. Win.

6) I just figured out how to make the filter motor on MOTH's aquarium stop making that annoying noise. I know that probably doesn't mean much to you, but trust me. It was really annoying.

Navel-Gazing-est, now with Drunk Hulk

I've been avoiding writing.

Because I don't want to write about Arizona. I don't want to write about feeling scared and defeated and hopeless. I don't want to write about feeling worried all the time for me, for my son, for all of us. I don't want to write about the colleague at work whose bloodwork came back high for the marker for ovarian cancer. I don't want to write about the friend whose separation is becoming a divorce full of anger and sadness. I don't want to write about the other friend whose deepening depression I missed and can't be there to help him with now. I don't want to write about another holiday season without my mom and how it still colors everything. I don't want to write about how worried I am about money all the time and how I think I'm deciding I do want another kid but that it's not a good idea. I don't want to write about the tenuousness of work lately and the way everyone walks around tentative and defensive and resigned. I don't want to write about the constant undercurrent of panic, that I've done it all wrong, that it's too late, that it will never be right again.

Yeesh. It does feel a little better to rip all those band-aids off. You know, except for the resultant oozing.

But, as much as my brain is full of all of that lately, I don't want to write about it. Because I haven't yet found a way or a point at which I can write about it and have it be productive in some way, whether that means it's cathartic to me or helpful to someone who reads it or even just a good exercise in writing. I mostly want to get a big black crayon and scrawl "LIFE SAD" a couple dozen times, like some sort of Goth Drunk Hulk. (OK, I just read the last dozen tweets there and am actually giggling out loud, despite all I just wrote. "EVERY GENERATION NEED IT OWN RICHARD GRIECO! DRUNK HULK THANK ZAC EFRON FOR STEP UP TO PLATE!" Maybe the solution is to just have this piped into my head at all times.)

So, unlike other times when I've neglected this blog, I've been sort of purposefully neglectful as of late. Not because I don't think it's OK to write about sad stuff, obviously, but because I am in a weird chicken-or-egg place where I'm not able to tease out a sad thing about which I have thoughts versus just ME SAD ALL TIME. (Hee. I have some notes about what I'm doing to try to change this, but as I write, I'm just thinking that I need a whole lot more Drunk Hulk.)

Where was I? Right. I clicked a few posts back and saw a comment from cd over at The Frangipani Journals (which, by the way, hi! You're in India! The internet is magic!) and went and saw this perfectly timed post on her blog, where she writes about answering another writer's question, "What is your word for 2011?" That writer describes the word as your "North star," and an "organizing principle" for, in her case, writing, but cd framed it as more overarching goal for the year. She chose "risk," a word I could certainly get behind, as I am about as risk-averse as they come.

But as I sat with it for several minutes, the word that I kept coming back to is...happy. I would like to be happy.

Because--and I'm going to get a little down here, but just keep that Drunk Hulk tab open in another window and you'll be OK--I haven't been happy in a long time. Like, since I was pregnant. Now, I don't mean that I've been depressed for the last two years. But I've been so (take your pick) tired, worried, overwhelmed, lost, straining, focused, and/or stressed that I can't look back and see any decent stretch of time when I was content. When I felt like, "yep, I've got this, this is enough, I'm good." I've had that in moments, but only moments.

And don't get me wrong, it's not like I haven't also been excited, giddy, and madly in love with my son. I am so grateful for a healthy family, really exceptional friends, and a job that--despite changes and uncertainties--is still there, still providing some sense of fulfillment, in addition to health insurance. And, because I'm feeling guilty because of the timeline I've laid out, let's go back again: madly in love with my son. Like, cannot get enough of him. I don't regret having a baby for a second. But it was a very hard first year, for me individually and for us as a couple and a family, and I think the second year has been about coming back from that. And having a kid changes everything (what a completely original idea! I wonder if anyone's ever noticed that before!) and puts extra pressure on any pre-existing cracks. And then there are the things that aren't at all baby-related, like the tanking economy and all of its myriad effects (at least, I don't think that's related to Tankbaby. I can't vouch for what he does while I'm at work all day).

So, I had a hard year. And a year to try to come back from it. And now I'm ready, antsy even, to make some fucking forward motion. You know, as soon as I'm done being sad and angry and fearful and stuff.

Last time I linked to the terribly wise DoctorMama, but in case you got sidetracked by her running wisdom and overlooked her life wisdom, I send you to parts one and two of how she changed her life. You really oughta go read them, but for our purposes, I'll sum up: she writes about taking control of your own outlook and of letting go of anger (and its root, fear) and being...happy. Content. Peaceful with herself. (She also continues to be whip-smart and rapier-witted, which reassures me.)

I apologize. I stopped to re-read (again) those posts to organize my thoughts some more, but it's late and I'm afraid I'm going to crash to a rather inelegant end. What I want to make sure I put down, what I commit to in this vaguely public forum, is my current game plan. I have a therapist I see on an as-needed basis, and have been seeing her again. I have taken meds in the past, and am not averse to taking them again. But I also feel like, at some point, I gotta find something a little more internal that I can change. And I need to do it in a way where someone can gently kick my butt if needed or even just ask a curious question that makes me kick my own butt. Consider that an invitation, y'all.

So. I have started running, using the Couch to 5K program, with a healthy dose of DoctorMama wisdom. I have never been a runner before, and I hesitate to call myself one now, only 5 weeks in (although yesterday I ran 20 minutes in a row, which I'm not going to pretend isn't a triumph), but I've been trying to get regular exercise back in my life. In terms of flexibility and efficiency, this is working for me right now. I don't see any racing in my future, mainly because crippled tortoises are still faster than I am, but I know that it's good for me, both in terms of aerobic fitness and in terms of doing something just for myself.

I have bookmarked all of these bits of wisdom I've been talking about, and I'm going to pull key passages and print 'em all out and read them. Every day. I keep thinking about adding some sort of regular prayer/meditation in my life, and until I figure out how to do it properly, I figure it can't hurt just to take 5 minutes to read something that makes me say YES.

Thich Nhat Hanh's name has crossed my path twice today, which I took as a sign. I've requested his book on anger from the library. I also requested a Henry Rollins CD (to listen to while running), and am hoping that the two don't create some sort of matter/anti-matter explosion on the hold shelf.

And I'm going to keep sitting with that idea of happy. For me, that isn't gleefulness or cheerfulness, because I've had those. I'm looking more for contentment. For peace. Hell, mostly for just the absence of the whole fear/angerball thing. I want to be a better person, for me, for my family.

Well, and for you all, because then I won't write big old depressing blog posts anymore. Wish me luck.

A Lot of Wise Words That are FREAKING ME RIGHT OUT

I'm odd.

People who know me are all nodding and snorting, "Tell me something I don't know."

No, I mean, I'm feeling odd lately. Anxious. Twitchy. Teary. I mean, I'm having trouble sleeping. Think about what my night-times have been like for the past two years, and then know that my son is finally, finally sleeping through the night (in some form, 80% of the time, but let's not be greedy, here), and then think about that: I'm having trouble sleeping. That's both ridiculous and depressing.

I'm not totally sure what's going on. A drop in hormones going along with a drop in breastfeeding? General world ookiness (economy, Arizona...)? Previously wacky brain chemistry becoming wacky once again? I dunno. And I haven't wanted to write much, because I don't know what to say or how to make it entertaining or at least helpful to me.

But. I have recently come across some other, smarter people who are writing good stuff. Stuff that hits me, sometimes in inspiring ways ("Yay! I could do that!"), sometimes in depressing ways ("Boo-hoo! Why can't I do that?!"). But it's hitting me and I'm trying to see that impact as a...sign? Ech. Not really. But as...important. If I'm feeling oochy and detached and slouchy lately, something that makes me feel energized and reactive and engaged is worth paying attention to.

The first is from (and this is weird to even type) the Dalai Lama's Facebook page. He wrote an essay called "Countering Stress and Depression." It's here in its entirety, and I particularly like this:

"One of the approaches that I personally find useful is to cultivate the thought: If the situation or problem is such that it can be remedied, then there is no need to worry about it. In other words, if there is a solution or a way out of the difficulty, you do not need to be overwhelmed by it. The appropriate action is to seek its solution. Then it is clearly more sensible to spend your energy focussing on the solution rather than worrying about the problem. Alternatively, if there is no solution, no possibility of resolution, then there is also no point in being worried about it, because you cannot do anything about it anyway. In that case, the sooner you accept this fact, the easier it will be for you. This formula, of course, implies directly confronting the problem and taking a realistic view. Otherwise you will be unable to find out whether or not there is a resolution to the problem.

Taking a realistic view and cultivating a proper motivation can also shield you against feelings of fear and anxiety. If you develop a pure and sincere motivation, if you are motivated by a wish to help on the basis of kindness, compassion, and respect, then you can carry on any kind of work, in any field, and function more effectively with less fear or worry, not being afraid of what others think or whether you ultimately will be successful in reaching your goal. Even if you fail to achieve your goal, you can feel good about having made the effort. But with a bad motivation, people can praise you or you can achieve goals, but you still will not be happy."

I don't know what to do with that at the moment; I kinda find it more daunting ("whyyyy can't I do that?! Help me, Dalai Lamaaaaa!") than helpful right now, but I think I want to keep coming back to it.

Also? Elly. Elly is smart, yo. And I'm not just saying that because she liked my mollusk joke. "YOU are a possibility." Again, at this moment, I find that a little intimidating, because yikes! What if I can't live up to being a possibiliteeeeee??!!!"

And? Doctor Mama. She not only inspires you to run, she also helps your whole life become better. (Even if you don't run.) (But she'd really like you to run.) "I have a sticker on the back of my laptop that reads 'HAS ANGER SOLVED YOUR OTHER PROBLEMS?' that is quite entertaining to make people gaze upon in meetings." I love this. It totally applies to me, but I love it.

So, that's where I am. Trying to find some smartiness elsewhere, because I'm feeling dull. Got any wisdom that you find helpful when you're feeling fragile and anxious and twitchy and needing some quiet and some kind and some humble? Share, share...

Freakosystem

We're all sick over here. Nothing ebolaish, just your garden variety head cold thing, with symptoms and severity fluctuating by the hour and body. So Tankbaby coughs and sneezes (IN MY EYE) all morning, but then when I try to put him to bed early, is suddenly all, "I feel fit! And hale! Bring me my badminton set and my mountain climbing harness! Go!!!" while MOTH, at 8:15 pm, is snoring next to us. And I stayed up to finish prepping the chicken broth for tonight's soup, feeling grumbly and sniffly and sorry for myself, even though I was also kinda enjoying the quiet warm kitchen and my Dick Van Dyke Show reruns.

I hate making chicken broth. Why don't you remind me? I love homemade soup, and I love the simmering smell that permeated my kitchen all day, but the whole straining/picking out meat from the dessicated carcasses thing at 10:30 at night? HATE. Oh, and what? You take the meat off the bones before you simmer the chicken? Well, la-di-da for fancypants. Over here, our method is as follows:

1) Buy a purse chicken (I recently heard this phrase to describe the pre-cooked rotisserie chicken-in-a-bag, and love it) for dinner
2) Without ever removing chicken from bag, peel off large yummy chunks of breast meat
3) Put bag in fridge so that we can use the leftover chicken the next day
4) Two days later, realize we're never going to use that chicken
5) Throw whole bag in freezer
6) Repeat, according to recent freezer contents, seven times in four months.
7) The night we plan on having homemade chicken soup, pull a bunch of carcasses out of the freezer
8) Realize that we forgot (again) that homemade broth takes two days to make (one day to simmer, then let fat congeal overnight-yum!)
9) Curse
10) Thaw carcasses just enough to be crammed into stockpots
11) When broth is ready to be strained, go through hot, falling apart chicken carcasses to pick off perfectly good meat that we are too frugal to waste, but not smart enough to take off before freezing the damn things, often including the stupid string that ties the whole thing together, necessitating a whole lot of chicken carcass fondling

Wait. Did I just make this post about how to make chicken broth very poorly? I told you I'm unwell.

Not that I had anything else of import to share. The title up there doesn't mean much, except it's a word that popped into my mind as I watched Tankbaby play with his new Lego set. It's a zoo kit, and MOTH keeps making these lovely exhibit areas with trees and waterfalls which makes me giggle because I think a certain adult in this house is looking forward to the upcoming toy sets (Legos, trains, etc.) more than our child. Anyway, Tankbaby clearly doesn't watch enough National Geographic specials about the natural order within the animal kingdom, as indicated by his pretend play with the animals. This morning he had the giraffe stomping all over everything, including an entire family of lions. "WAH, WAH, WAH!" he growled ("walk, walk, walk!" for those of you with out a Tank-to-English dictionary available) as the giraffe jumped on the lion's head. The lions in this set are apparently pacifist vegetarians, whereas the giraffe is...well, ballsy. The elephant likes to jump on things (while we haven't shown Tank any Animal Planet shows, he has seen this clip more times that I can count, mainly because watching him sign "elephant jump" is so dang cute), and the alligator exists solely for the purpose of Tank ripping his hinged jaw off so that we may reattach it, repeat to fade.

Oh, and speaking of inappropriate use of child's toys, y'all were so pleased by the Playdoh naughtiness, I thought I should also share the following:


Ignoring the dog-top in the background, you see here a few pieces of plastic food that can be peeled, shucked, whatever (I actually requested this for Tankbaby for Christmas, as otherwise he keeps requesting actual food that he peels, then discards with great velocity). Looks OK, right?
Yeah. Could they have put the velcro anywhere else on the banana? Must it be so...circumcisey?

OK. I have to go. Tank is sleeping and I have to learn Quicken before he awakes. We bought the software ages ago, after yet another of my complaints that I don't have any sense of our money around here. When we lived together in sin, we each handled our own bills. Then we got married and we generally just kept everything in one place and one or the other of us would pay whatever needed to be paid. I kept a handy-dandy Excel sheet so that I could track stuff, but mostly it was a checkbook and a credit card. Then we moved here, I went to grad school and MOTH took over a large chunk of household stuff so that I could focus on my studies (and watch a lot of Law & Order reruns in a depressed stupor, although that might not have been as clear at the start). I took out student loans, we switched to mainly a debit card system, and he put most of our bills into on-line payment. I graduated and took back my fair share of cooking, cleaning, etc., but somehow never got back into the financial management duties. As a result, although I am the major breadwinner (as much as a teacher in this economy can be, that is), I have no idea where our money goes. I'm like a 1950s household in one person.

As a result, I have to ask MOTH about stuff like, can I put this on the debit card or are we waiting for a payment to go through? Because although I get paid regularly, his income is scattered in amount and timing, so he always knows how much money we have and where it's coming and going, and I do not. Which makes me crazy, not just because I feel like I have to ask permission to use my money and then find a check for $200 worth of magician's insurance and then I have to call my friend and freak right the fuck out because, really? magician's insurance? it's not like he's sawing a lady in half--he does card tricks? are we worried about papercut liability? Wait, where was I? Oh, yeah, I don't like not knowing anything about our money other than that we perpetually don't have enough. Also, what if MOTH gets hit by a bus ('cause you know that shit's not covered by no magician's insurance)? I'm gonna be that stereotypical widder woman who's all quivery, "Oh, my husband always took care of the money..." Not on your life.

So, we bought some basic software and I'm gonna learn it. Then we can both be looking at the same data and if MOTH has been siphoning off some money for his chippie on the side, I'll know about it.

(Not that he would ever do such a thing, of course. Whenever the subject of infidelity or open marriage has come up, MOTH's standard response is: "Are you kidding? I can barely handle you." Aw. Ain't he sweet?)

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.