Caloden

$(%ing Blogger!

2006-02-06T22:05:00.000-07:00

Blogger is unreliable. I am trying this.

Please come and see me there and update your blogrolls!

Tick Tock

2006-02-05T20:35:00.000-07:00

I never planned to have children. It's not that I shunned the idea of reproduction, I just knew that never in a million years did I ever want to germinate another being within my belly only to push it out and have it trailing after me for years to come. Today as I walked through the infant nursery at work, I encountered three little peapod souls dressed in footed one piece get ups as they flopped from front to back and sweetly cooed and gooed. At first I had to stop and revel in their innocent cuteness, and then I felt this bizarre, grief sodden sob begin to form in my chest as I realized I would never again have one of those in my arms. So I did the only sane thing possible, I choked it down and tailed it out of there as fast as possible.

Ugh. Despite my carefully laid plans, I have already produced three of those wiggling vermin. After this last one I had surgery to ensure my life would be free of any future peapods. So what the hell was my deal today? I guess the biological clock ticks louder than reality.

Winners

2006-01-30T20:29:00.000-07:00

A couple of days ago I took Loren, Cassidy and Devon to the Winter X Games. Every year I swear I will not go anywhere near the mayhem of the chaos, blaring music, very hip young people and crazy-ass huge crowds. But I finally ran out of the free deodarant samples I had gotten last year so I needed to go back and fill up the diaper bag with more. The thing about the X Games is that they are out in the elements of winter. It's cold. There are copious amounts of snow. A soda and a sandwhich cost $13.00. The music is excrutiatingly loud. The skinny blondes at all the booths hannd out spongey taco shaped hats and orange cowbells that Cassidy must have, again and again. But Loren wanted to participate in a snowskate competition and in an attempt to be Super Mom, I complied and hauled all of us out there. I thought it would take an hour and a half. Nuh-uh. No. The competition started two hours late and lasted for over an hour. Four and a half hours in all. Of snow. Of Devon trying to crawl on to every passing and stationary snowmobile in sight. Of Cassidy needing more sponge hats and cow bells. Of Cassidy chit chatting with older, tattooed snowmobile racers -and them finding her soooooo cute. Of screaming announcers, exhaust fumes and me just wanting to discreetly stash my toddler, betrothe my daughter to a snowmobile dude and leave Loren impailed on a snowskate rail. But finally I saw the announcer of the competition take Loren's mitted hand in his, mumble a bunch of stuff into his microphone about what a "cool little cat, this fine young dude is", and hand over a prized T-shirt and helmet/pads set. I suddenly found myself giddy as all get up as I scooped up Devon, pulled Cass away from the crowds and headed toward home. As I approached Loren I could feel the glow of pride that radiated from his little pre-teen soul, he was so happy he could barely get out anything other than, "Mommy, thank you! Did you see my switch-side,ollie-grab on the side thing? Mommy, look! My Shirt! My Pads! My Helmet!!!" As he went on and on about the competition and all the various tricks, which I must confess all look and sound the same to me, he was bouncing with happiness. He even went so far as to hug Cassidy and tell her how grateful he was that she had waited for over four hours in the cold during his competition.

As we were leaving I looked up the hill to the enormous half pipe where the evening's real competition was just beginning. Up there were the men snowboarders who will go on to represent the U.S. in the Winter Olympics. Up there were the big sponsors, the big money, the big crowds. But as we walked away to the bus, Loren already wearing his new T-shirt and Cassidy hanging on his every word, I knew that right where we were was Golden.

Just Call Me Monk

2006-01-27T19:26:00.000-07:00

Some people handle stress by over cleaning their homes, others smoke and others exercise obsessively to get through the hard times. Me? I pick at the eye lashes of my upper right eye lid. I sort of mash them into my lid in a most pleasingly painful manner. It hurts in the same therapeutic way that a good eyebrow wax does. Don't get me wrong I am not into whips and leashes, although a playful spank can go a long way towards a good time. But as I mush my lashes over and over throughout the day, they slowly break off and it feels really good -in a sick sort of way. After a few days of this I end up with a fairly bald spot on the right corner of my eye lid. This week has been rather stressful in my small world. I have thought of upping my Prozac intake, but the thought of an even larger psychological band aid does not sit well with me. So rather than stuff Devon into his snow suit and go for a healthy, refreshing walk, I pick, pick pick at my lid.

Tomorrow I have to go work on the ski mountain. Venturing outside of my front door means I have to wear make-up and look presentable. But there is no hiding my bald lid. This afternoon I toyed with the idea of purchasing some fake eyelashes but I am no J. Lo or Paris Hilton, I don't even know how to stick those things on my eye. At this point nothing short of a huge pair of sunglasses will hide my gross little habit. Shit, just the thought of it is making me want to scratch at my lashes.

In and Out

2006-01-26T20:11:00.000-07:00

A little over two years ago when I informed Matt that he had once again knocked me up, I didn't quite grasp the whole baby thing. I mean I got it in some sense, after all at the time we already had two off spring we had been rearing about for nearly 11 and 7 years. But I didn't comprehend the HUGENESS that a third child would be. I was thinking about that cute, wee bundle that would be mine after nine months of vomit riddled germination. I had blocked out the sleepless nights, the winter coughs, the many years of only sleeping two hours at a time, the silent sex to ensure another 1/2 hour of a sleeping child, and most of all I had blocked out THE TODDLER. Toddlers are adorable, they have fabulous clothing, they try to say the cutest things, they have chubby thighs and the sweetest, softest butts. But holy shit. The maintenance. He is EVERYWHERE. And I can't get anything done. When he isn't stripping off his diaper and peeing on the floor, he is climbing up on the table and emptying out the sugar bowl. He drops things into the ferret cage: cd's, spoons, the random rubber band. He empties out the diaper bag and hides the contents in the kitchen cabinets. He feels the need to pull every towel off the towel rack and stream toilet paper throughout the living room. I love him to pieces and he has brought some much needed love to our household, but when I out him in his crib at 7 sharp and close the door, I breathe my first full breath of the day.

B.F.F.

2006-01-24T10:18:00.000-07:00

Over the past couple of years I have noticed a tapering off of my social life. I get invited out for drinks less and less, movie invitations are getting rarer and over the holidays -not a single party invite. Not a huge deal. With Loren and Cass getting older, playdates with The Other Moms no longer exist. Then I was pregnant and not much for socializing. Then I had a newborn. Then I had a newborn with a heart defect, a big surgical scar and strict instructions that he not interact with too many other kids. Then I was super blue and lethargic, not great company. Plus the treadmill frenzy of three kids keeps the small chat to a minimum, leaving few openings for personal networking. So all in all I can see the decline of my social ways. However, it was not until Comcast recently shutoff all my communications with the outer world that I realized the truth. I haven't needed friends. I have my highspeed connection. When Devon naps I don't pick up the phone to rekindle old friendships, I run to the PC and start posting about cancer. At night when the kids are in bed there is no cocktail hour with the neighbors, I am writing about my personal rants and looking for any juicy tidbits I might be able to incorporate into the cardio blogs. But what with the mysterious trainwreck munching the fiberoptic cable that has become my lifeline, I have realized that I have no friends. And I am lonely. Will this prompt me to pick up the phone and dig out long lost phone numbers? Likely not. I know Comcast will soon come back and all will be well.

The Bigger Questions

2006-01-23T21:25:00.000-07:00

I know that it's not ALL really about me. I understand that in the big picture of things I am but a small ant on a super big ant hill and I look exactly like every single other ant in the hill. But sometimes as I peck away here in my blog, I can't help but suspect that maybe I might just have a small, wee role in it. Take for example my Comcast connection. Originally I thought the ferret had chewed through my cable. No, the little fucker enjoyed a fine feast on my dishwasher tube, but left the internet connection alone. Nay, I have no internet because supposedly there was a train wreck, in a canyon, in a highly inaccessible area and now it will be at least FOUR days before repairmen can scurry up the mountainsides to fix the fiberoptic cables. It just doesn't ring quite true for me. First of all, there is maybe one operating train in all of Colorado. Yes, it does travel through canyons, how does it not in this state. But why would the cable be all the way out and up there? How did they get it there in the first place? How is that the wrecked train cars cut through my internet connection but left the cable TV intact? No. I think this is my Karmic Muse again fucking with me, laughing her bitchy little ass off as I flail about in search of an internet connection.

WWJD

2006-01-22T21:02:00.000-07:00

This morning I awoke to the usual mayhem of a weekend: Devon peeping over the bars of his crib crying, "Mai-mai! Mai-mai!" Loren frantically trying to get dressed for snowboarding, Cass sprawled in her bed and dead to the world, George the cat clawing at me for food, Mouse the dog hiding under the covers to avoid being tossed out into the snow on his boney ass and my one and only decent thought, "Coffee. Now. Please." After caffiene and a round of cereal for everybody I realized it was Sunday and thought, "What the hell, we're up. I don't have to be on the ski mountain this weekend. By golly, we'll go to Mass like good citizens." Now, these days mass attendance for us means that we sneak in at about half time, somewhere after the sermon but before the hand holding Our Father prayer. I figure this works better with our schedule since church begins at the ungodly hour of 8:30, and it's much more merciful for the other parishners if we keep toddler contact to a minimum. To subject them to an entire hour of my toddler would be far too cruel. So I dropped Loren off to hook up with his snowboarding friends and Cassidy, Devon and I traipsed up the hill to church. Sure enough we got there for the Our Father, had a taste of Communion Bread, got in a few thank you prayers and all was done. We headed out and down the stairs for snacks, coffee and a bit of chat with my parents and all the other happy Catholics.

Afterwards, as Cass and I walked to the car we began to add up our Jesus Points for the day. Cassidy helped my mother with the Catholic Coffee sales, netting $63, so she figured a point for every dollar: 63 J.P.'s. We lost a few points for our tardiness but more than made up for it by bringing our heathen toddler to the presence of God: 5 J.P.'s. We missed contributing to the charity basket, so we were docked 3 J.P.'s. On the other hand we gave up a fabulous, sunny, powder filled day on the slopes to go worship: 7 J.P.'s. And when all was said and done, we had a whopping 72 Jesus Points between us. Not bad.

All was well and we expected a shining day to lay ahead of us. So it was an especially stunning blow when I returned home to find my plate littered with shit cookies for the remainder of the day. First of all our Comcast was out. Not the cable. No, God wouldn't take away the Broncos. No sir. My highspeed connection was gone and after wading through the 1-800 hell, the dispatcher fellow informed me I could not get a repairman until next Friday. January 27. To make ends meet I post inspiring tidbits about cancer and diabetes and if I have no connection, I can't make any money. So I went to the kitchen to load up the breakfast dishes and start the dishwasher. That's when I discovered my kitchen was flooding. Apparently the Christmas ferret, still unnamed, had chewed a hole in one of the tubes.

In an act of desperation, I called the mother of Cassidy's friend and found her a place for the day, I dispersed Devon's nap directions to Matt and hightailed it out of there as fast as humanly possible. I can take many things. But a wet kitchen and no internet connection is asking a bit too much. I have again founf refuge in my parents' loft where I can peacefully post away about cancer and other joys. Maybe my Jesus points aren't redeemable right now. Maybe my lack of true, inner faith cancelled out all my J.P.'s. Or maybe shit just sometimes happens, even if your basket is chock full of J.P.'s.

Prozac Testimonial

2006-01-19T19:51:00.000-07:00

Today was a good day. There have been so many days in the last year when that statement simply was not applicable, but today it holds true. There was nothing Super Spectacular about today: didn't win the lottery, didn't begin a diet, didn't pay all my bills. Today I just existed and did my thing. But that is just it. I managed, and the key word here is managed. A couple of months ago the prospect of existing through the day was enough to bring tears to my eyes before I even got out of bed. The thought of getting the children up, dressed and the almost impossible chore of getting them to school on time would have simply been too much to bear before 8 in the morning.

Yes. I know. It's the drugs. But golly, it works and so I am not gonna knock that. I can get up, nourish the offspring, nurture the toddler, help with homework, match up socks from the dryer and provide nurishing after school snacks. Not too shabby. Not Mother of the Year material, but not shabby either. Wahoo for me.

Gifts

2006-01-18T14:11:00.000-07:00

Today has been one of those days of hitting a toddler wall. While I was cleaning the counter Devon had unloaded the silverware from the diswasher. The ferret happened to be out and he managed to steal several plastic knives and forks and hide them under the couch. I had forgotten the dog food bowl on the floor so Devon was able to quietly extract every single kibble and plop it into the dog water. Devon has also come to enjoy a nice leisurely stroll about the house in the buff. Everyday around mid-morning he starts tugging at his diaper as he squawks, "Guck! Guck! Guck!" Translation "Stuck! Stuck! Stuck!" So then I must help him out of his offensive clothing so he can frolic au natural. This is all well and good. I am completely in support of the children feeling comfortable with their bodies, but it also means I have to be on Hyper-vigilant Alert status, a towel ready at all times for any drainage.

Everywhere I turn today there is todddler flotsam and jetsam. And that is always the time I start to curse all the places I can't go: Hawaii, Nordstrom's, the hair salon, to sleep. And I compile the list of places I can: my living room, McDonald's, my loving room, the snowy park or...my living room. Not always alot of variety in toddlerhood.

But then when I was reading my daily meditations and today's entry is about gratitude. And really, when push comes to shove, my life isn't at all bad. It's sticky and chaotic but there is so much good. So for the rest of the day I am focusing on the positives and relishing the now. Despite the fact that Devon has covered his hands and lips with green marker, I am focusing on gratitude. I am grateful it's not a poisonous permanent marker and I am grateful he chose to color himself rather than the sofa.

King of the Hill

2006-01-16T19:34:00.000-07:00

I love my daughter to pieces. She is sassy, whitty, funny and an amazing bit of a person. But I swear-to-fucking-God, sometimes she can make my blood boil in a second flat. It can be a toss of her hair, a roll of her eyes or yet another question as to why I am in charge and she is not. Regardless, there are times when I would like nothing more than to lock her out in the snow while I sit in a hot bath and enjoy my solitude with a glass of wine. One such moment occured a couple of days ago in the car. I suck at multi tasking and she knows this, so while I was attempting a left hand turn on to an icey road, she was yakkking and demanding about something we had agreed to let go for another day. I could see her out of the corner of my eye gesticulating, stomping her foot, moving to and fro as she bitched, whined and moaned about the injustices of existing on earth as my daughter. Devon chose just that moment to start shrieking about some woe in his world. I couldn't make a left. And I lost it. Lost it big. I can't remember the beginning of my scream, but my other self who watches from afar, was turning red with shame at my ranting. I do remember a few seconds into it I put forth something like this, "Goddammit Cassidy, you're just nine. And we have a minimum of nine more years together. And if things don't change one of us will have to go. One of us. Do you hear me? Boarding school isn't just for highschoolers, you know?"

First she looked at me with complete horror at the thought that just one of us could stay. Then she said, " Duh, Mom. I'm eight. Not nine."

But I really suspect that in those few moments she was thinking, "I wonder where she'll go when I oust her? Do they have a Bad Mom camp?"

Must be Jelly, Jam Doesn't Wiggle Like That

2006-01-13T11:22:00.000-07:00

Indications that it might be time to change my slovenly ways and go on a diet:

1. My underwear are too small. Yes, 16 months post-partem and I'm flying free because my cheeks are so damn wide.

2. I devoured almost an entire key lime pie between last night and this morning. And I have not even a smidgen of guilt over it.

3. Along with that pie I have been steadily snacking on store bought cookie dough all morning.

4. I haven't seen my running shoes in almost two months, and I don't even care.

5. I am still in those J. Lo knock off sweat pants that I was in before the holidays. And if we're being brutally honest...I have been wearing them almost every day since Devon was born.

5. I am starting to get plagued by dreams of cellulite on my thighs. The cellulite is shaped like little hungry sea anemones crying out for more food.

6. I sometimes think about trying to get to a yoga class, but the sheer effort of peeling Devon off of my hip, kicking Cassidy off of my leg and actually getting to the car is just too damn much.

7. Loren has started to ask me when I am going to be back to my normal shape.

8. I have an entire wardrobe of pants with snaps and zippers that I have moved to the storage unit.

9. I have stopped looking at the Victoria's Secret catalog because I have a suspicion I don't look like those girls. (Not that I ever did, but I was somehow able to have some sort of disillusionment before.)

10. People have stopped saying, "Wow, you really dropped the weight after Devon was born. You look great! How did you do it?"

I still have not made my New Year's list. But just as soon as I do....

S.O.S.

2006-01-11T08:32:00.000-07:00

A special sort of hell is being falling down, hacking up loogies, feverish and dizzy sick and getting to spend all your days with a healthy, happy, active toddler. Oh yeah, my Karmic Muse is having a hearty laugh right now. Bitch.

Inner Truths

2006-01-10T06:50:00.000-07:00

For the past five or six days I have been able to do little more than stumble down stairs and huddle on the couch. And some days I have stayed confined to my bed with a bottle of water, a box of kleenex and a book of vampire smut for company. From time to time I haul myself up to do a small project that has been needling me as I lounge in my sickbed. One day I took the two laundry baskets filled with odd socks and made pairs of all of them. The process took me the better part of an afternoon and at the end I even went so far as to throw out the remaining mismatched ones. In the past I have always saved the loner socks in a bag, holding out hope that the mates would someday return. But being a new year, I decided to take that brave new leap and toss the singles -a gut wrenching babybstep, for sure.

Encouraged by my sock success, yesterday I tackled the pantry and my tupperware collection. It's not really Tupperware, I'm not the kind of mom who routinely gets invited to those sorts of parties. Containers make me giddy and I would LOVE to have a collection of jewel-toned plastic boxes and bowls. But I think the hostesses know that I am far too irresponsible to be trusted with anything so precious as Honest-to-God-Tupperware. So I get the cheapies at the grocery store, and eventhough they are disposable I cherish those plastic bad boys. So yesterday as I cleaned and organized I was shocked and saddened to realize that what I thought to be a fairly presentable collection, actually turned out to be mostly odd tops and bottoms -very few matches. So I did what any sane person does, I scoured the house from top to bottom for the missing troops. I had an empty sick feeling when I came up with squat. I couldn't bring myself to toss the lonely tops and bottoms, afterall their mates might be out there somewhere. And in a final bit of desperation I bagged them up and looked for a place to store them. Finding none, I took them to my mother's house to see if she might need them. She looked at me as if I were insane and silently pointed her finger towards the door. Ouch.

Last night as I reflected upon my daily achievements I had a flickering of doubt about my character. Am I incredibally cheap? Perhaps reincarnated from The Depression, thus my attachment to small, homeless tidbits? Or maybe I have too much materialism? Or a touch of OCD? I don't know. But now that I have a free shelf in the pantry, I am going to fill it with happy box families of matching tops and bottms.

Sick Day

2006-01-07T19:50:00.000-07:00

Usually I feel guilty if I haven't gotten the kids out into the fresh air before noon. I sense myself a bad mother if I let Loren stay over at a friend's house and don't make contact before 9:30 in the morning. I get ancy if I see the kids eating meals at the coffee table while they watch TV. And although I don't battle Cassidy with the Hair Brushing Issue (if she wants to run about looking like an orphan, that is up to her) I try to make sure she has clean clothing.

That all went out the window today. I haven't changed out of my pajamas since the ER visit a couple of nights ago. I never saw Loren today and tonight he is at a different friend's house. We never ventured outside today because the television was far too enticing. I didn't even bother with Devon's booster chair, we took all our meals and snacks at the coffee table. On the plus side, sock sorting is an activity easily performed while watching TV, we haven't had so many matching socks in years. I am hoping tomorrow I'll feel up to going outside and joining the world of the living.

Days of the Week

2006-01-06T18:52:00.000-07:00

I am locked. Drained. Void. The New Year struck with Cassidy awakening and vomiting all over the bed. She woke up the next morning and started again. Monday was spent recuperating. And Tuesday she was sent home at snack time after she vomited her snack in the girls' bathroom. Wednesday at 5:30 a.m. I found myself snuggled around the toilet as I heaved and hurled for all I was worth. I spent that day sleeping at my mother's while she watched Cassidy and Devon. On Wednesday afternoon Devon began coughing. Thursday morning Cass, Devon and I were able to get an actual appointment with our doctor. This was mostly due to Devon's status as an infant cardiology patient, without his gimpy heart we would still be wasting away in waiting room hell. Cassidy passed a flu test, a completely nasty procedure in which she had to honk boogers into a dixie cup that I had the pleasure of holding for her. Had I anything in my stomach, I would have again barfed right then and there. I can handle many things, but mucous in any form is not on that list. The doctor diagnosed us all with General Muck, prescribed cough medicine and sent us on our way. So last night I medicated Devon and tucked him into bed at 7. He was up hoarsely crying at 8:30 and 10:30. When he awoke at 11:30 he had no voice left and was having difficulty breathing. I alerted Matt and we headed into the ER.

After nearly four hours, a breathing treatment, a steroid shot and lots of entertaining on Matt's part we were sent home. Devon has the croup. When we got home he slept until about 6:30 and was up for the day. Except he wasn't the Sweet Thing with whom I usually spend my days. He was Miserable, Crying, Fussy Baby. He was only happy so long as he was affixed to either my hip or boob. Tonight I drugged him at 5:45 and had him in his crib by 6.

If he will only sleep for most of the night I will forever be grateful. I will donate more to charity, hell I'll even start my own charity. I'll recycle more. I'll try to go to Mass more often. I'll plan healthier meals, play more games with Cassidy, listen more attentively to Loren's skateboard stories.... Maybe not, but I'll definitely be far less of a bitch in the morning.

Green, Green, Green

2005-12-30T08:17:00.000-07:00

Somedays I deeply dislike The Dooce.com. I religiously read her blog, and in frustrated stalker fashion get irked when she doesn't update on a daily basis. I love looking at all her pictures of her seemingly fabulous life. Look at her. She's obviously fit and thin, which indicates an enviable strain of self-control in her character. Her house appears clean and void of dustbunnies in all the pictures. Leta's car seat never appears to be encrusted with Cheerio guck. She makes an INCOME from her blog, which I still don't quite understand but completely admire. And most of all, Jon seems to adore her -baggage and all.

I know her life isn't all daisies and tulips. I've read of her emotional demons and chronic colonic issues. I have no feel for the latter, being a regular girl myself. But for the former, I can definitely feel some of that. And being a mother, under any circumstance, is difficult on any given day. Add in a handful of a daughter- a dilemma I FULLY understand- and each day is a challenge. But this woman gets to stay at home, with her daughter, her devoted spouse and make a living doing something she loves.

This is all adding up to a review of my life as the year comes to a close. I have to make some serious changes and envying somebody else's seemingly perfect existence is a nice little diversion from that task. I have been compiling a mental list, but need to write it down -lest I stuff it deep into the couch cushions never to again be seen.

On a completely different note, Devon is quite taken with a Tellatubbies show this morning. They are creepy little guys. Are they aliens? Mammals? Until this he has yet to show much interest in TV. Maybe I'll start that list with a daily session of TV for the little guy, it could lead to some free time for me.... Okay, maybe not, but a nice thought.

Uh-Huh

2005-12-28T20:32:00.000-07:00

Apparently the post holiday lethargy is not just pure laziness on my part. I am sick. Fuuuuuuuuck. I am queasy, the room routinely spins, I fluctuate between sweating, hot flashes and shivering. My bones feel like they are hollow, my arms are far too heavy for my shoulders, my ankles may very well collapse from the weight of my ass. I can't parent my three children, the laundry is out of the question, and I hope Devon can learn to change his own diapers before morning. Maybe the children can just graze, free range style, if I pour an entire box of cereal on the coffee table. The dog can clean up any that spills on the floor.

I caught this from one of the ten one-year olsd I watched at the ski mountain yesterday. Was it pouty Wyatt with the 100.5 temperature? Or Romiana who had three days of the runs? Or maybe Tanner and his waterfall of green snot? Whatever the case, there is no way I am venturing out at 6:45 tomorrow morning for more. Free ski passes be damned, I am staying home to contaminate my own brood. That way when I heal, they will all be coming down with it. And then I can spend a week with barfing, fevery kids of my own. Nail me to my cross right now, dammit.

Up and at 'Em

2005-12-28T15:20:00.000-07:00

I just can't seem to get off my ever expanding ass this week. E! has 24 hour 101 Most... shows running 24/7, the kids don't have school so they don't need clean socks, we have turkey dinner for another few nights.... When Devon runs out of diapers, which will likely be tomorrow, I will face reality and participate in reality. Until then I am reveling in the last lazy days of 2005.

Christmas Truths

2005-12-22T21:37:00.000-07:00

I am a Christmas loser. It's true. Every year in about October, I have the grandest of plans. I see the children and myself baking gingerbread men and cheerfully delivering them to friends and neighbors. In my head I concoct elaborate Advent calenders, with a different treat in each pocket-day of the month. In July I honestly believe that by September's end I will have ALL my shopping completed, stocking stuffers and all. I always design and paint a Christmas card and, in my head, decide to mail one to every person I have ever known or encountered. These are always my bestest of intentions. Too fucking bad I always get in the way on my inner Martha Stewart.

Reality is always a bit different than one's intentions. Truth is if we end up baking, the Pilsbury doughboy is our inspiration. This year I didn't even buy an Advent calendar. It is December 22, and not only have I not bought or made a single present for any friend or relative, I am not sure I have finished the childrens' shopping. This year I did design and paint a card, but it ended up as my current masthead. I figure if my true friends are clever enough to find my blog, well then merry, merry.

December 25 will come whether or not I have met with the holiday expectations. Tonight Matt and I bought a ferret for Cassidy and her broken heart. Did we not just kill off our guinea pig? Yes, indeed. But I have high hopes for this ferret. We got a cage, food, a hammock. The works. If we can keep it a secret and alive, for two more days, we are Golden. I have special ordered Loren's snow skate and am praying it will arrive by Saturday. We popped a Nerf football in the basket for Devon, plus a handfull of plastic jungle animals. He is just happy when we turn on the Christmas lights, so I think we're good with him. As for the other things? No, not gonna get cards mailed. Missed the deadline to get packages deilvered. But at this point it is what it is.

Deep down, I know that by July, I will again have dreams of Christmas grandeur. I will envision a Martha Perfect holiday. And I will know that I am just the Martha to create that perfection.

Welcome Home

2005-12-21T07:30:00.000-07:00

One of the worst ways to return home from a long weekend is to walk in and discover your daughter's guinea pig unresponsive as she is stuffed into the corner of her cage. Chaos awaited us upon our return last night. George, our hugely obese orange tabby cat, is always pissed when I return from a trip. He doesn't enjoy solitude, he prefers to have constant company to ensure that his food bowl can be filled multiple times throughout the day. Last night, being no different, brought George to the door mewing and thrashing about as he demanded food and fresh water from the tap. Our shithead dog, Mouse, was bouncing around and wrestling with George, who is much bigger than he. So I went immediately to check on the pig because I didn't hear her whistling and jumping in the cage. Finding her in that unnatural position, I let out a gasp that caused three young heads to instantly swivel my way -all with perfect oh's upon their faces. Knowing what was about to ensue, I quickly covered the cage and started directing: food for the cat, water for the dog, gate on the stairs, turn up the heat. Once done, I pried her out of the corner to find her completely paralyzed but breathing -albeit labored breathing. Devon started giggling and dancing as he saw me carrying the inert cavvy, he loves Whinny the Guinea. He went over to the cage, grabbed some hay to feed her and started making his pseudo whistling sounds at her as he waddled over and snuggled his head against her fur. Cassidy began crying buckets. Loren had stayed with my parents over the weekend and had been feeding Whinny. He started crying as it dawned upon him that his actions might have lead to her demise. I assured him that he in no way had done anything to result in the ever siffening pig. We wrapped Whinny in a towel and started telling our favorite pig stories. About that time Matt came home from work and we filled him in on events. Matt is tall, 6'6". He scooped Cass up into a huge hug and wrapped his other arm around Loren while I went to put Devon down for the night. When I came down Matt was explaining the process of letting go and remembering the good.

Later I tucked Loren into bed, he appeared to be at peace with the evening and saying goodbye to Whinny. Cass was drained and shivering from so much emotion, and she ended up snuggling into bed between us for the night. I rubbed one arm as Matt rubbed the other. He talked to her again about the honor of sharing life with an animal and the inevitability of letting go of a shorter life. We both watched as her eyes became heavier and heavier and she let go of the day altogether.

This morning Loren got up and went snowboarding with his best friends. Cass and I discussed Whinny's burial plans, a difficult task since the ground is frozen. She is more upbeat as she anticipates the excitement of the next few days. From time to time I see a shadow pass over her, but the resilience of childhood coupled with the Christmas season seems to be bouying her. Devon keeps going to the cage and looking for the pig. I am going to remove it and try to explain that she has gone bye-bye.

Behind the Magic

2005-12-15T20:55:00.000-07:00

I remember the exact moment I figured it all out. I was five. We were at our kitchen table painting wooden Christmas ornaments, my mom was a combination of cheap and creative and so we often made things like ornaments. My pile contained a variety of Christmas and winter things. There was a snowman, a star, Santa Clause, Baby Jesus in a manger and a very pregnant Mother Mary. I remember looking back and forth between Santa and Mary, puzzling over why Santa traveled down the chimney and Mary had angels for boyfriends. (I have to insert that I had an older brother and through some rather unfortunate events I was well aware of how a lady could get pregnant, a bit much for a five year old to handle.) But as I muddled through the mystery, it hit me. It was all a bunch of hooey. Santa could in no way fit through a chimney and even if he could, he would die of ash inhalation or a clausterphobic fit. Mary and Joseph really were not so chaste, she got with child just like any other woman.

As I watch my own children grow I am awed by their faith. Their innocence is so precious and I want them to trust. I want them to have the luxury to believe.

Every year I get a little antsy around Christmas time. It's a love hate thing. I want to believe in some of the magic but I end up feeling empty. I wish I could have told my parents at that moment, maybe they would have steered me back towards the magic. I just hope that my children will trust enough to let me know when they are puzzling over the bigger questions.

Holly Jolly

2005-12-14T21:16:00.000-07:00

Indications that I might be cracking under the holiday stress:

1. Last night when I went to the store to buy baking supplies (marshmallows and Rice Crispies) I also bought paper plates.
2. We have taken to eating on those plates so I don't have to wash real ones.
3. We can no longer eat at the dining room table because it is covered in Christmas decoration boxes.
4. The table remains covered in boxes because I can't muster up the energy to actually put the decorations on a tree.
5. I have started turning Devon's socks inside out in an effort to make laundry go further.
6. I have stopped monitoring the older kids' feet and their sock status.
7. Although I painted a 2005 Christmas card (I used a portion of it for the new mast head above) the notion of buying stamps and mailing those cards seems more like a Valentine's Day project.
8. Tonight, instead of dinner, I ate an entire plate of rice crispie wreaths -off a paper plate.
9. I have been wearing the same pair of J.Lo knock-off sweat pants for three days, and have no plans of a costume change for tomorrow.
10. Friday I am expected to travel to my mother-in-law's house, who is no longer my mother-in-law, for a weekend of good, wholesome, dysfunctional family fun.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. And I mean that in a really good way.

The Word for Today is....F%^$

2005-12-13T20:43:00.000-07:00

Just when I think I am getting the hang of this Mom Gig, I wildly stumble and fall flat on my face. This week I have been running about, decorating Fancy Houses, planning meals, paying the bills to ensure nothing gets disconnected and feeling like I am just in reach of that Mother of the Year statuette. I have been in warp speed as I juggle the kids, guzzle coffee and imagine myself in calm control. I have felt that picturesque Christmas just within my grasp as I hustle about making sure Everything is Perfect. All that came to a screaming halt this evening as I was discussing tomorrow's intricate pick up and delivery of children details with my mother. She has been minding Devon this week as I put the finishing touches on the Fancy Homes. As we planned tomorrow's details she kept mentioning the date of the fourteenth. I looked at her with pity, as I was feeling so organized and together, and explained that we needed to discuss the thirteenth of the month. Meaning tomorrow. As in Wednesday, December 13th. She looked at me with her own dose of maternal pity, very self-rightous on her part, and told me TODAY is the thirteenth. Not tomorrow. Meaning I am a day off. I am not organized. I am not in control. And I am fucked. This means that tomorrow is Cassidy's Christmas pageant siging thing. The one with the bake sale fundraiser. The one where she has to be clean, well groomed and attired in festive garb. The one where I have to travel up and down the valley to work, gather Devon and arrive to listen to her songs and purchase baked goods. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck a red and green colored Christmas duck.

Tonight I have to run to the store to fetch baked good supplies, whip them up, locate matching socks and bribe Cassidy into a shampoo bath. Then I have to fight her with a brush and bribe her some more in order to style her hair. I would rather cut off my right hand than try to groom that child.

How do the Other Mothers do it? I don't think I will ever get the hang of this Mom thing.

WTF??

2005-12-12T18:37:00.000-07:00

Every week day morning I first drop off Cassidy at her Montesorri school and then drive another 10 miles to drop Loren off at his Waldorf school. Cass used to attend Waldorf, but she is much more of a Montesorri child -so the short side trek has become our morning routine this year. Each morning I try to get some Quality Mom Time in with each of them so first I chat with Cass and then after the drop, Loren and I usually launch into a dialogue. It is almost always about him, since he is a pre-adolescent and EVERYTHING in the known universe is obviously about him. Today, being no different, we yakked about a new video game he and his dad rented over the weekend. Usually when the topics turn to skateboarding tricks or video games I mentally turn to auto pilot and just shake my head yes and insert the occasional, "Really? Cool. That sounds great." This morning I managed to hear something about how envious his friends would be about the game, since for some unkown reason he gets to have the rental until Christmas, and how we would likely be having company. I nodded my head for an affirmative and inserted, "Really? Cool. That sounds great." I made a mental note that over the holidays we would have a house full of boys and that I would need to stock up on frozen pizzas.

Well, the calls began rolling in at about 2:55. The Other Mothers were wondering why in the hell I had allowed a playdate on a Monday??? Playdate? No, none here. We visited the storage unit over the weekend and the bottom 500 square feet of our 1,000 square foot home is covered in boxes of Christmas decorations, winter coats and the odd mitten. So hosting a den of teen and pre-teen boys was not on my afternoon agenda. But sure enough, there they were. Parked on my couch. Requesting food. Fuckers. Loren gave me a huge hug, in front of his friends, and said how happy he was to have his friends over. I made a mental note to have the WTF chat later and maintain my current possition of The Cool Mom in front of his pre-teen thugs. By 6 they were picked up and I asked Loren if he could possibly wait one more week until Christmas break for the chaos of a couch full of smelly boys. I promised him good snacks and a cool mom. Then I poured myself a glass of wine and called it good.

Wasting Away in Margarita Land...

2005-12-09T20:57:00.000-07:00

It is so fucking cold. I hate the cold. I loathe warming up my car in the mornings. I can't stand clunky boots. Wearing long underwear makes me feel even fatter. Icy roads scare the hell out of me. Winter is wrong on just so many levels for me. I grew up in the mountains. I've had my fair share a fluffy, snowy scenics. If I could, I would go someplace warm. Someplace where I don't get a chill if I stand within three feet of the windows. A land where I could wear strappy sandals every day of the year.

This morning it was -6 degrees outside. It was so cold that my dog, Mouse, would not go out and do his morning job. He is half Daschound and lacking most of his body hair. When the ground freezes he prefers to lift his leg in my closet. (He sucks and is basically a shit head, but the kids love him and so I have yet to stick him in the microwave for my own enjoyment.)

I know I am being an ingrate. We live in one of the world's most beautiful places. I didn't realize until I went away to the Midwest for college that not everbody got to go skiing every weekend. Growing up I always sighed at the thought of having to go skiing -yet again, carrying all that heavy equipment, sitting on a cold chairlift.... But, as somebody recently pointed out to me, there is a reason why many people only come here for one week out of the year. It is not because they have real lives and must toil away in the plains of the country. No sir. It is because it is so goddamned cold, and to live here for the other 51 weeks of the year would just be fucking insane.

And so I sit here at my desk, a space heater on my feet and a blanket draped over my lap. The money I could have spent on plane tickets to Hawaii will go to the electric company. I will dream of a day when the children have grown and I can move to Florida with all the other old geezers.

Santa Baby

2005-12-08T11:36:00.000-07:00

My children are starting to compile their Christmas lists. They usually keep it short, over the years we have instilled a List of Three concept into them. Three things seems fairly manageable, nothing too outrageous has yet to happen with three requests. Of course, they always end up getting many more than three things but the main three are always in the pile on Christmas day. Most years I am consumed with tracking down exactly what they want, and I am sure that once the Christmas Spirit kicks in -say about the 23rd, I will find some motivtion to shop. But this year I have been thinking about me. If we're going to be honest, it is safe to say that once a baby -or three- comes along grown up presents are mostly a thing of the past. And I am fine with that. Some of the best moments in my life have been lying in the upstairs bed listening to Loren and Cassidy run down the stairs and shriek with delight upon discovering that Santa did indeed come during the night. As the Master Card commercial so eloquently puts it: those moments are priceless.

But what about me? Afterall, this is my blog, I can write whatever I damn well please and I think today it will be all about me. If I were to have a list it would have more than the Three Items. I have always been smitten with the 12 month gift idea: jelly of the month, exotic plant of the month, cheesecake of the month. But I think I have happened upon an even better 12 month concept. I want a year long cosmetic surgery/spa gift. Shallow? Oh, yes. Succumbing to societal pressure? You bet. But some of those ladies on Dr. 90210 are looking preety good. I don't have any desire to look like Barbie or Golide Hawn. But to quote Melanie Griffith, I would just like a few things "to be put back in their right places." So starting in January I would dive right in for a boob lift. I don't want them any bigger, my Double D's are already way too out of hand. But to have them be Lindsay Lohan perky and say a size C, that would be lovely. February might bring a bit of liposuction and a tummy tuck. Three kids and not much motivation has left my abdominal region less than stimulating. Perhaps in March a touch of Botox in my forehead -too much frowning has given it a weathered look. April and May could be chemical peel months. High altitude Colorado sunshine can be hell on lily white skin. In June I think an herbal body wrap might hit the spot. I'm not sure about the rest of the warm months, but I do know that once the cold hits I would like a hot rock massage. That leaves a few more months of choices. And although I would love to opt for a new nose, I don't think I can go there. I have seen it on tv and it looks painful.

I look forward to listening to the pitter patter of Christmas morning feet this year. It will be even sweeter by the stomping of Devon as he trails after his older siblings. I might peek in my stocking to see if Santa got my wish list, but if he didn't I will still love watching the children get their List of Three on Christmas morning.

Yes, Loren....

2005-12-06T21:56:00.000-07:00

About a year and a half ago, around Easter time, Loren took me aside and told me he needed to talk. This isn't an unusual thing for him since he is one of the chattiest kids, with the exception of his sister, I have ever encountered. So he looked me in the eye and with great seriousness said, "Mom, I know what's up."

"Oh shit," I thought. "What did I or didn't I do now?" But instead I said, "What's up little, man?"

"Well, I know all about the Easter Bunny and Santa Clause and the Tooth Fairy."

Hoping to avoid this conversation for another year, I played dumb, "What do you mean, sweetie?"

"Mom, I know all about it. I know they are all you and Dad."

I cringed, fearing I was in for a lashing for fibbing to him for nearly 11 years. But thinking I could still get away with it, I replied, "Why do you say that?"

"Well, duh. A flying sled? A bunny with eggs?"

And then the most unexpected thing happened. He hugged me so tightly I almost couldn't bteathe. And he said, "Thank you, Mom! Thank you so much for all those years of presents. I don't know how you and Dad did it, but thank you!"

And then I really couldn't breathe.

Now when Loren asks what Santa will bring him he will sometimes quietly elbow me or whisper where Santa can locate the present he desires.

The Manor

2005-12-05T20:57:00.000-07:00

For one reason or another the children and I have been staying at my parent's house for nearly two weeks. We came the day before Thanksgiving so that I could do my annual decorating job on my mother's windows and we never left. First I did the windows, and then the Thanksgiving table and last night I got the Christmas tree done. It just seems that once I complete one project my mother has something else for me to do. And it's not that my place is a long drive, I live about five miles down the road from my parent's house. Everyday I tell myself that this is the day we will go home and then throughout the day I find reasons that I might stay just one more night.

Every night the three kids and I snuggle into the room where I grew up, although it now bears no resemblance to the room that was once mine. Devon has his portable crib, Loren and the dog have their upper bunk of the trundle bed and Cassidy and I somehow manage to squeeze into the lower bunk. Every night I wash the kids' laundry and every morning they choose one of two outfits that they have been wearing for about the past fourteen days. And every morning my father looks at me with a question, and I suspect a hope in his eyes, of what are today's plans. And I just sort of shrug. He nods, grabs his portable coffee cup and heads off to his chambers for the day. I know my parents love having the kids, these are their only grandchildren. But we number four, we are unruly and we are loud. There have been other times over the years when I have sought solace here. First I came with Loren, then with Loren and Cass and now with the three of them.

There is something comforting in the dysfuntion that is my family home. My mother is fairly nutty. My father is often detached. But they are my family. I am hoping this time to find the answer I am seeking. And maybe tomorrow will be the day I go home.

Service, Please

2005-12-04T09:57:00.000-07:00

Devon will surely be the end of me. He is truly the sweetest little thing, if he had a flavor he would be made of vanilla cream. But, holy fuck, I am so tired. He has had about three bad nights now, waking up up three and four times a night and then up for the day by 5:30 a.m. It would be one thing if he snoozed for three hours in the afternoons, but no. 55 minutes of a nap and he's up cooing and giggling. Little fucker.

I wish I could just set him outside the door, like when you're done with a room service tray. I would hang aTake This Away to be Bathed and Fed sign about his neck. Then I would lounge in bed and sleep ALL day, not just for 55 fucking minutes.

Here and Now

2005-12-03T22:10:00.000-07:00

Tonight I went to pick Loren up at a friend's house and ended up chatting with his friend's mom for over an hour. I am not usually a casual chatterer since I often have Devon and am mostly interested in preventing the destruction of our surroundings due to his curiousity. But tonight Devon was home in bed and so I sat with my friend and caught up on her life. She is an amazing woman. Her husband left about nine years ago and he has never contacted them again, since then she has supported four children without any help from him. Several years ago she was diagnosed with MS and this summer she left her job and is on permanent disability. She talked about how this is the first time in her life she hasn't had a job, hasn't had to think about getting a job or stress that she has no future plans of ever getting a job. She said it is a huge adjustment to have the luxury of embracing her full time role as a mother. She said that even though on some days she can barely walk, she is happier than she has ever been because she can take her kids to school and be there when they get home. We both had a laugh at the irony of it all.

I have another friend who has a genetic liver disease and has virtually no immune system. Her lungs are scarred from so much pneumonia and some days it is hard for her to catch a breath. Last January she almost died when she caught a cold that quickly went to her lungs and roosted on her scar tissue. In fact, about once a year she nearly dies from sort of bronchial battle. But in between those times, she stomps through the days and spends most every moment she can with her son. She was told she could never have children, and so the fact that she was able to birth him and live through it is a miracle. She holds that close to her soul and gives thanks every day. It is her goal to live long enough to see her son graduate from highschool. I want her around much longer so I have asked her to be Devon's godmother so that she'll have to continue stomping about.

Both of these women are a miracle of strength to me. I sometimes look at them and wonder what I possibly can bitch about. I think it is true that we all carry only that which we can, but in some cases the load seems so much heavier. Some days, when my load seems crippling, I think of these two women and it motivates me to get up off of my ass, give thanks for what I have and to get on with things. Because as they have both told me time and again: life is short, make the most of today.

Wide Open Spaces

2005-12-02T22:10:00.000-07:00

Tonight my parents took the older two children out for my father's annual office Christmas party. It is at a bowling alley where, at night, they turn out the lights, turn on the disco ball and call it Cosmic Bowling. I went with them a few years ago and, thankfully, I believe I have forever been relieved of ever having to go again. However, every year my parents offer to take the kids and I eagerly toss them their coats and shove them out the door as fast as I can. So tonight after I put Devon to sleep, I have had nearly three hours of silence. And how fabulous it has been. Just the knowledge that I could do most anything in the world, as long as it doesn't involve being too loud or leaving the house, is as liberating as anything I have had in ages. I could walk around naked if I felt so inclined. I could take a bath by myself. I could read a book, paint my toe nails, pluck my eyebrows. The possibilities are fairly endless.

How it is

2005-12-01T20:50:00.000-07:00

I love my kids to pieces. Today after school we got Devon dressed in his snowsuit and the older two and I went out sledding with him. I pulled Devon and Cass in a sled with Devon laughing at the top his lungs the whole time. He has the most contagious giggle, and soon we were all laughing and having the best time. It was the first time in ages when I can recall truly letting go and laughing from my gut. It was the kind of cathartic laughter that leaves you feeling tired, clean and ready to live. We were all so carefree that we could have been on a Hallmark card. After we went inside and warmed up Cassidy had a drama, the older two started squabbling and Devon promptly tripped and started crying. It was back to the usual grind. But just having that respite, a fresh breath of air, was about the best thing in a long time.

Tuesday

2005-11-29T14:23:00.000-07:00

Lately I have been writing alot of posts about cancer and cardio issues. Everyday I have been immersed in articles about all the horrible things that can, and likely will, happen to my body either tomorrow or any day until I die. So it is really no surprise that last night I decided I was succumbing to eyelid cancer. Not normally a hypochondriac, I mulled it over for awhile before determining that I did indeed have eyelid cancer. Now I have not yet encountered any eyelid cancer artilces in my daily google searches, but I am sure they are out there. And last night I was sure my face would be plastered right there, with a big ole tumor under on the bottom eyelid, next to my little blog blurb about the trials and tribulations of living with eyelid cancer. However, when I shoved my face up against the mirror for a closer inspection with a flashlight and huge magnifying glass, I discovered that in the middle of my tumor was a stubby eyelash. Doh! Ingrown hair syndrome, not eyelid tumor.

I hope I don't get cancer again today.

Suckers

2005-11-28T21:42:00.000-07:00

Today I went to Loren's school and helped out with the decorating for the upcoming winter event, the Winterfaire. When I went to help I did not realize that I had somehow been elected as The Offical Decorator for the whole shebang, but one of The Other Mothers was so sweet as to sign me up for that position. Thank you. Because I don't already have enough to do, I am now roped into hauling Devon with me for a good part of the week as we go to ridiculous lengths to hang garland, lights and doo-da's so that our children can go on Saturday and make felt angels for us to hang on our trees. At this point in our Waldorf schooling career I have enough felt angels to decorate two trees. Now I know that this is a fundraiser for the school and everything needs to look nice. In fact, I deeply understand because one year I was actually the Winter Faire Queen and in charge of the whole freaking affair. But this year the reigning Queen is out of hand. She has changed the menu and specified that the homemade items be made with ONLY organic ingrediants, each family has to make 10 items to donate for the children's store (these items can be knitted or we can purchase kits to make them), she is strongly encouraging parents to dress up in Renessance garb so that the children can get a better feel for a Victorian Christmas. Ugh. Whatever. When she walks by, the Other Mothers roll their eyes and look knowingly at each other. I have heard the outrageous stories of their weekly meetings over the past months and have always snickered to myself because I was far too smart to get involved this year. But now here I am, The Official Decorator. Fuck.

I do have a few smarts, I made sure that there is a take down/clean up committee and that my name is not on it.

Miss Congeniality

2005-11-26T22:25:00.000-07:00

Last night I came to the realization that I would make a lousy celebrity. As I went downstairs to do the final sweep: stove off, no open windows, clutter shoved under the couch...both Loren and Cassidy descended upon me from out of nowhere. They were like a paparazzi blitz in a Lindsay Lohan feeding frenzy. Cassidy was trotting along side of me yapping up questions and complaints while needing answers to her find-a-word puzzle book. Loren was on the other side firing questions into my ear, as he is now at ear height, about snow conditions for snowboarding, the location of his wool socks, the status on his wet gloves etc. No matter where I went or how fast I walked, they dogged me until I thought I might entirely lose it one final and glorious time for the day.

Now aside from my ever growing popularity as I quest for my Mother of the Year award, I have no real crowd appeal. I shouldn't sing out loud, I don't act, my Playboy centerfold days are long behind me so I guess I really needn't worry about my realization. Celebrityhood just isn't in the cards for me. But I still am wildly popular when the kids need something and someday I will fondly look back at their annoying stalker ways and miss them deeply.

Sweet Peas

2005-11-25T19:55:00.000-07:00

Today I had to work. I mean seriously work, not hang a few Christmas lights on fancy walls and chit chat with my friend work. I had to watch a room full of one year olds. For seven and a half hours. Holy shit, I hurt everywhere. I don't even really like children. Well, I like mine and a select few others. But for the most part they are loud, unruly, random and stinky.

Holiday Effing Cheer

2005-11-23T21:16:00.000-07:00

Tonight all three children and I trooped to my parent's house so that I could finish decorating my mother's windows. It is my appointed family task that I perform on an annual basis. Every year about a week before Thanksgiving my mother hauls boxes of garland, lights and doo-das from her basement and then I spend hours and hours determining which windows will have which theme, how many strands of new lights we need etc. As I have mentioned before, my faith in most things is not deep, and this extends to Christmas. But I do feel strongly about color schemes, and so I cannot bear it for a year to pass and my mother's windows to be tacky. And Christmas truly can be horrifically tacky. The blinking lights, or lights that both blink and play music, Disney themed ornaments...they all wear on me this time of year. In fact my family still discusses, after a few drinks, ghosts of Christmases past when I walked out on the tree decorating because my brother put both white and colored lights on the tree -at the same time.

Earlier this afternoon my mother had the task of purchasing more white lights so that I could finish my job, which has now stretched on to nearly a week. When she came home and I opened the bag I found nothing but pain. I was met with twinkling lights, not blinking but still awful. And one strand had white chord while the other strand a black chord. I hung them all up and set them on the super blinker setting just to punish her. Needless to say that Friday morning she has her marching orders to trudge on out and fight for the correct lights, lest she rot in tacky Christmas hell for the next five weeks.

On another note, it appears that Cassidy has The Eye. She knew right away what a blunder my mother had committed. I think she may be a Christmas Decorating Nazi. It makes me proud to know I might actually be doing something right.

Thanksgiving

2005-11-22T20:46:00.000-07:00

I have recently begun reading The Language of Letting Go, by Melodie Beattie. Everday has a short narration followed by a brief prayer reflecting the high points. It is meant to be started on January 1, but I was feeling a bit optimistic and decided to give it a go in mid-November. I am usually a gem with the daily reading, but am having a little more difficulty with the praying aspects. I lack in quite a few areas of personal development, faith being high on the to do list -so praying is not usually my gig. But I am truly trying to let go of a bunch of personal crap and so am giving both the readings and prayers a valiant effort. Today's narration discussed gratitude and acceptance. It states that if I am hitting a brick wall to try gratitude and acceptance. And tonight I am indeed nestled up against those bricks, they are gritty, scratching my face and none too comfortable. So here goes my gratitude and acceptance for today:

Loren got to come with me to the fancy/famous home and spend the day swimming with his best friend. All day long their laughter could be heard from the patio.
Cassidy has spent the evening trying her hardest to finish her optional Thanksgiving Break homework. Many of the problems are way beyond her grade level, but she is working so hard, and so enthusiatically, to complete it.
Devon spent the day with my mother, Mia, and went the entire day with no fuss.
I got to spend the day with my friend while we decorated, chatted, enjoyed the views and worked at an extremely leisurely pace.
I am not necessarily where I want to be, but this is not a bad place and I am lucky to be surrounded by an abundance of beauty.

Some days I feel pretty good about the readings. Today's is a bit puzzling. I recognize the good and the beauty but I still feel as if resistance is tugging at me, almost as if I have toilet paper trailing out of my panty hose and the other end is closed in the bathroom stall door. Maybe I will spend another day on this one.

Better Than Christmas

2005-11-22T06:28:00.000-07:00

The countdown to ski season has officially begun in our house. I grew up skiing most every weekend and my school had a weekday ski program. And while I still enjoy skiing and snowboarding, if I don't make it out to the mountain until March (when it is warm) I am just fine. However, I am raising a bit of a fanatic in Loren and he is absolutely quivering at the thought of spending Thanksgiving Day on his snowboard. Yesterday he got out all his gear and was hopping about the living room, helmet, goggles, board and all. He saw this as completely normal until I pointed out that he was about to squish Devon with the metal edges of his board. Of course Devon was wildly amused by the whole spectacle and was dancing up and down as he giggled at his be-goggled idol.

As soon as Loren gets up he starts discussing exactly how he will spend Thursday and which runs he will board. After breakfast he models his new coat, once again explaining all the features and how they will benefit him on the slopes. By lunch I am so tired of listening I just want to haul him up the mountain and push him down the slopes just to shut him up. I am thrilled that he has a passion of this nature. He is actually a very good boarder and I love watching him on the mountain. And I know that sometime in the next few years I will not get the pleasure of hearing his exuberance in such a pure way. But dear God, that kid can talk. And talk and talk and talk.....

When I Grow Up....

2005-11-21T13:11:00.000-07:00

I have a friend who routinely jokes with me by asking, "So what is it that you are doing this week?" The implication being that since I resigned from my real job nearly three years ago, I have yet to buckle down and commit to anything lasting and meaningful -as far as my career is concerned. And it's true. In the last three years I have posed as an executive secretary for a geriatric electromagnetic engineer, I have taught skiing to bratty, overprivileged children, I briefly answered phones for a controlling window dresser and have added the occasional helping hand to various friends as needed. But I think my most intriguing, and cushiest, job is my current gig of holiday decorator/go-and-get-it-girl to the rich and famous. A friend of mine is a caretaker to a fairly exclusive movie icon, and each year before and after the holidays I help her set up and then dismantle the fancy homes. I have never met her client, and would probably be a bumbling fool if I ever did, but I have had the honor of folding his linens, dusting his suites, hanging his children's stockings and decorating his Christmas trees. But what I love most about this job is the art. This man has more art in his homes that most museums. I have gotten to touch Picasso's sketches. The other day I dusted a Ming Dynasty horse statue. I have viewed myself in Napolean's personal mirror, although I had to somewhat stoop to see myself. I have always been the type of person to secretly touch the museum paintings when nobody is looking, and so the opportunity to shamelessly fondle these objects d'art is beyond a dream for me. I'm not sure I would want to do this job all the time, but for the time being it's a good set up and a chance to glimpse how the other 3% enjoy life.

Wednesday Wisdom

2005-11-16T12:22:00.000-07:00

Most mornings I run about the house in a random frenzy trying to get the kids ready for school while ensuring that they have proper clothing, sufficient lunches, all their homework and that they have eaten something semi healthy for breakfast. This morning, being no exception to the grind, I was muttering a steady stream of commands and complaints as I attempted to herd the three of them into some sort of productive effort towards the front door. I must have said something somewhat bitchy because Loren stopped cold in his tracks and looked at me like I was more nuts than normal.

"Geeze, you're put out with him just for that?", he said.

"Huh, oh that. Yes. Well, your father left before he put that away and then I just tripped over it. It's frustrating when..." Blah, blah, blah.

"Man, it's almost impossible to please women," Loren sighed.

Seizing this as a Teachable Moment, I explained to him that, YES! It is! That he should stay away from women until he is at least thirty, and even then to take it SLOOOOOOOOOWWW. This was all entirely selfish on my part. Having become a mother at twenty-two there is the outside possibility that I could become a grandmother way too soon. So when almost any opportunity comes along and I can preach birth control in ANY form to the kids, I grab that bad boy by the horns, hop on my soap box and preach for all it's worth.

Questions for Friday

2005-11-15T14:43:00.000-07:00

Where is the pleasure in mouth full of boob? Sometimes I look down at Devon as he is alternately nursing and humming to himself and he is the happiest bit of twenty-two pounds in the whole world. He scrunches up his bottom leg and foists the other one over my shoulder while he uses his free hand to pull on my hair. And when he gets fully into it he wiggles his rump to and fro. Overall a fairly obnoxious process, but it makes him so damn happy that it warms my heart.

More Coffee Chat

2005-11-15T10:32:00.000-07:00

"Yeah. So those pills don't seem to be working very well."

"What makes you say that?", I replied with perhaps just a smidge of aggression in my voice.

"Well, you seem even worse now than before."

"Well, they do take six weeks to fully take effect.", was my outer dialogue.

However my inner dialogue, the ever more eloquent of the two, was more along the lines of this,"Well, I think what you're looking for is the Stepford Wife Pill. That one does take effect within twenty-four hours. That pill would have rendered me jolly, eager to please and mute. But I told the doctor, hell no. Why the fuck would I want to do that?"

His outer response was, "Oh, okay then."

But I think his inner dialogue went something like this, "Holy shit, five and half more weeks of bitch central. "

The World's Smallest Violin is Playing My Song

2005-11-14T10:16:00.000-07:00

I don't think can't take it anymore. I can't deal with the oatmeal stickiness that coats Devon's booster chair. The cheerios, raisins and juice stains that cover his spot beneath the table are beyond gross. There are a billion bouncy balls and aphabet puzzle pieces littering the living room floor. The guinea pig has kicked out bedding from her cage and Devon loves to pick it up and toss it into the air so that most of it lands in his hair. Over the weekend Devon found the dog food bag in the pantry and has distributed it, piece by piece, in the cabinets, the tupperware containers and his toy basket. I just want to scream, but if I begin I'm not sure I'll stop until I am completely mute.

It's not that I don't love being a mother, I truly do. But I suspect I have hit some sort of toddler intolerance wall. It has been at least seven years since I last had a toddler and all the muck one brings. I am ill prepared for this phase and not well equipped for the pure freaking randomness that is toddlerhood. This morning I have had fantasies of taking Devon across the street to the park, there I would leave him with a free to good home sign around his neck. He's super cute and I bet he would find a new home in a jiffy. I would then run home, lock the door, draw a hot bath and read a trashy novel. When the older kids came home from school and asked to his whereabouts, I would calmly explain his new origins and they would accept this as a healthy step in the right direction.

But, alas, it is not to be. I would definitely miss out on Mother of the Year if I gave away my child to the first taker. The older kids would find fault with my decision. The Other Moms would balk. And I would miss the little guy something fierce. Instead we will go read his scratch and sniff books, play ball and look at the new fish. He will continue to redistribute the contents of the pantry and most of his meals will end up on the upholstery. This is where we are right now. Some moments are priceless and others are incredibally challenging. Today I will not start screaming, instead I will love him, tickle him, listen to his giggles and truly try to appreciate all that it is.

It's Lonely Up Here on My Cross

2005-11-13T19:19:00.000-07:00

Despite my new medication, today I found myself in the kitchen trying oh so hard to not hyperventilate. Devon was wrapped around my knees while he tried to climb my legs so that he could more effectively scream his frustrations into my face, I guess his wails were not working at knee level. Cassidy was perched at the computer trying to play a game she couldn't understand, loudly demanding Loren's assistance. And I was trying to tell Loren, yet again, to get off his ass and finish his fucking homework. This scene had been in rotation for a better part of the morning and suddenly the thought that I would have to cook them all lunch, mediate the fights, continue to prod Loren's gluteal region and clean up the house for the week was just way too much to stomach. I kept waiting for my super duper Prozac suit to materialize, the one that would give me infinite patience, an endless well of energy and take 10 pounds off my hips. When it dawned on me that no such suit came with my pills I started to whimper and twitch. Loren, a true blue co-dependent in the making, heard me start to stutter and came into the kitchen and quietly removed me of Devon's death grip. Once free of the squealing I looked around myself, realized I could in no way deal with the house and suggested to the children that we vacate the premises. We decided upon the new Petco and drove twenty miles to look at fish and chinchillas.

Upon our arrival at Petco, Loren decided his life could not continue without a Chinese fighting fish and he chose to spend his birthday money on one. Realizing Loren was getting something without her, Cassidy conned him into buying her one of everything he was getting, and in his purchasing euphoria he agreed to anything she demanded. Much excitement followed and by the time we left both Loren and Cass had fish, gravel, plants and tank decorations. They were both quivering with giddiness the whole way home.

I have informed them that in no way will I clean the fish tanks, that those fish will float dead in their own muck before I extend any helping hand. I reminded them that I have Cassidy's guinea pig cage to clean every other day, the family dog and cat to feed, a baby to nurse... I quite literally have enough shit in my life already. They laughed and promised to diligently tend to their new pets. I know they are fibbing, they mean well, but they are fibbing nonetheless. Next Sunday I will have to add fish tanks to my to do list, but maybe by then I will have found my Prozac suit and maybe by then the new chore won't cause me to hyperventilate.

Sandman

2005-11-13T10:28:00.000-07:00

Last night I had a dream about Matt and me and a horse. We were trying to get home, only it wasn't the home where we now live, and we didn't have a car. After some searching Matt somehow located a gigantic stallion, complete with saddle, to take us home. I didn't quite understand this because it was winter and neither of us had warm clothing for the journey. So Matt hopped up on the huge horse and beckoned for me to join him. He gave me his hand and I somehow crawled up behind him, it was rather akward since it was a saddle for one. We took off in the snow storm, up and over a mountain pass, (that I recognized to be the pass that in reality connects Steamboat Springs to Boulder) few cars were venturing here in the cold night. Matt was entirely comfortable riding the beast, which I thought odd since I had never in our fourteen years together seen him express a passing interest in horses. I, however, was having a seriously difficult time on the ride. I am afraid of horses, I don't care for being out in the winter elements -especially unprepared, and I couldn't get a safe, firm hold on the horse. I kept slipping and bumping about as we climbed and climbed the mountain road. I tried yelling to Matt about my issues, but due to the blustery storm he couldn't hear me. Finally we stopped at a restaurant for warmth and food where we somehow encountered Cassidy, who observed that the horse was exhausted and obviously needed water. She brought him a large jug and nuzzled with the animal while Matt went to have a drink with some friends at the restaurant bar. As I got warm, Cass and I talked and we decided that the while the saddle could not accomodate me, she could easily ride in front of her daddy. When Matt returned, the two of them hopped up on the horse and struck out on their outing. I waved good-bye and then that dream morphed into another dream.

Usually I am pretty handy with dream interpretation, but I'm not grasping this one. It's not quite as bad as a scary cold water dream, but I don't like it much. I have been dwelling on it most of the morning searching for some clarity.

Coffee Talk

2005-11-10T09:14:00.000-07:00

This morning Loren picked up my new bottle of pills and said, "Yo Heather, what are these? Are you sick?" (In his cool 12 year-oldness he has taken to calling me by my first name.)

My first thought was, "Crapper, should have put those away. " Followed by, "You nosey little effer, it's none of your business." Ending with, "Geeze, he just cares, stop being such a morning bitch."

So I poured myself a cup of coffee, sat down at the breakfast table and explained to both Cassidy and him my doctor's visit yesterday. We touched on Postpartum Depression, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Generalized Panic Disorder (my specialty) and regular ole depression. We chatted about my brother who is Bi-Polar and had some good laughs over some of his more amusing manic moments (Yes, I know I'm going straight to hell for my insensitivity over his mental illness. But if he weren't my brother I would be far more p.c. about it). Then both kids wanted to know if this medication thing is a common occurence, so I decided on honesty and told them a list of people we know who either are, or at one time were, medicated. To some they knowingly shook their heads, and then at the last name Loren paused and said, "But she doesn't even have kids. Why does she need pills?"

To which Cassidy replied, "Duh Loren, you don't need kids just to be nuts."

And Loren countered, "No. But it helps."

Out of the mouths of babes.

Good Things

2005-11-09T19:30:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think Oprah knows best. I thought of her this morning when my day started to look sunny, as opposed to the shit storm that has been constantly lurking on my horizon as of late. Oprah tends to get a bit namby-pamby from time to time, but she's been on the air for ages and who can blame her for occasional sappiness. I don't have a long attention span for televiosn but I do recall that a few years ago she had some sort of gratitude campaign. I believe it consisted of a running tally for each day's snippets of happiness. So today I mentally compiled the good things and good feelings in hopes that I can carry them with me. Following are the ones I hold dearest:

I get to share my life with three healthy children who have a huge and endless zest for life. They are witty, funny, mostly sweet and they are mine.
I have a guardian angel who looks out for both the children's and my dreams.
My doctor is fabulous and is willing to spend an hour out of his schedule to help me get Lady Anxiety under control. Yes, he is paid for this but he is very good at what he does and I am lucky to be his patient.
The autumn days are still warm enough to enable me to pop Devon in the jogger and go out for long afternoon walks.
Hope. I have hope that I will make it through this ever darkening part of the year. That the holidays will pass without too much drama/trauma. . And hopes that there are many more sunny days on the other horizon.

Today was mostly good. Gratitude is good. My children are good, more so now that they are on the way to bed. It's all good for now.

Vicious Webs

2005-11-08T10:43:00.000-07:00

I have a dirty little secret, perhaps not so secret once I post an entry -but who really reads these anyway.... I have been nursing Devon. Yes, I spent a majority of August and September weaning him to one early morning nursing session per day. It was hard work ignoring his night cries until he finally gave up, grunted himself into a little ball and curled into the corner of his crib. It took several weeks of eliminating first the lunch session then the after dinner session, and finally the night sessions. Being the third child Devon is fairly accustomed to rolling with the punches, and for the most part he took the new regime like a trooper. But then about two weeks ago he got the sinus muck and awoke every other hour snuffling himself into howls of fury. The book we purchased on sleep training said I was supposed to leave him be unless he was sick, then I was to comfort him and return him to the crib. Well in our book comforting has always consisted of nursing. So in an effort to keep the night raucous to a minimum, the first night I nursed him once. The the next night it was twice. Then the early morning feeding moved up to a 4 a.m. feeding followed by a reassurance session at 6 a.m. Now Devon is freely nursing throughout the night and several times during the day.

This would not be such a big deal except that once I had weaned him I was quite vocal in my accomplishments. Once Devon turned one I started receiving comments like, "Oh, he still nurses. He's one now, he doesn't need to do that anymore." Or, "If you're not careful he'll be in Kindergarten and you'll have to go to his school during lunch so he can have his mommy milk." Of course once he was nearly weaned I flat out fibbed to some people and claimed he was boob free and loving every minute of his sippy cup. That being the case I now feel as though we are limited in some of our activities. What if those people discover my lying ways? What would I need to fabricate then?

It's definitely a predicament. But in the meantime Devon is happy as happy can be when he sees my Double D's heading his way. Sometimes he even starts giggling because Fortune is smilling upon him.

Obstacles

2005-11-07T18:09:00.000-07:00

Clarity sometimes grabs me at the oddest of times and in these moments I suspect that things around me have run amuck in a fairly seriously way. Following is a list, in no particular order, of my suspicions:

That snapping those many, many leg snaps on Devon's pajamas should not bring me to tears.
Cassidy's compulsive need to spontaneously hug me should comfort me rather than give me the urge to run from the room.
Loren's desire for a new snowboard jacket, and my inability to procure one, should not cause me to itch all over.
The dirty dishes on the counters shouldn't create noise in my head every time I pass the kitchen counter.
My inability to breathe should be caused by aerobic activity rather than an average evening at the dinner table.
The thought of getting from noon to 6 p.m. -Devon's current bedtime- shouldn't seem like an impossible task.
That focusing on more than one thought at a time should be something a grown person of 35 can accomplish.
The first thought when I awake in the morning should likely not be, "Holy fuck, when can I go back to sleep?"
Conversations with the Other Moms should probably not cause me to hyperventilate.
My favorite companions should consist of a group with more members than a trashy book, a glass of red wine and the silence of night.

Now, I do know what this list means because eventhough the dirty dinner dishes are yacking at me, I'm not a total nutter. And I have already started the process of tackling it. I have called my doctor to turn myself in to his prescriptive recommendations. As much as I hate drugs and their side effects I have to face the music and quiet the noise that Lady Anxiety, who currently dwells in just about every pore of my being, is creating. Hate, hate, hate to do it, but do it I must. Uck.

Nuts

2005-11-06T06:40:00.000-07:00

If I had a left testicle, I would gladly give it up just so that I could again sleep in past 6 a.m. Loren and Cassidy could always be convinced to sleep in in the mornings. Not so with Devon. Six a.m. and he is up and chatting in his crib, usually something pertaining to my breasts and how he would like some service from one of them. This relentless morning grind will be the end of me, either that or give me some seriously unsightly wrinkles.

Milestones

2005-11-04T10:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the one year anniversary of Devon's heart surgery. Last year on November 4 we were sitting in the cardiac waiting room at Children's Hospital in Denver, we were waiting for the nurse to come take Devon away so that his deformed aorta could be repaired. I didn't think I would be able to relinquish him when the nurse came, but take him she did. I can't recall most of that day. I do remember getting a call in the middle of the next night, Devon was having complications, he had stopped breathing and they were giving him a transfusion. I remember racing through Denver to the hospital, making deals with God all the way. I remember seeing him sedated with all the tubes going in and out of his tiny 12 week old body. And I remember the relief when the nurses told us he was on the mend. I stayed at his bedside for the next several days and as he started to wake up he made nursing noises in his deep, drugged sleep, and after a couple of days he started clawing at the oxygen tubes on his face. Most of the time passed in a sort of distant haze, I knew I was there but I felt somehow removed.

When we returned home I thought that haziness would fade away and I would get on the stick: lose the post partum pounds, interact with the children, be productive. Afterall, I had so much for which to rejoice. I had a healthy baby. But the haze didn't pass, if anything it got thicker as the winter progressed. I barely remember much of the past year. I can recall the high points and the happy times with the children, but I don't remeber much about my personal role in it all.

Perhaps the haze has had something to do with lack of sleep. Devon only began sleeping through most of the night sometime this past summer, but I often wake in the dark hours and sneak over to the crib to make sure he is still breathing. And if he sleeps for more than an hour in the day, I am convinced he has somehow perished in his crib. This continual stalking on my part is likely why he will only nap for exactly sixty minutes. He must know that if he slumbers any longer, he will wake only to find me peering through the crib bars and gently prodding is chubby little tummy.

This one year mark is pivotal for me. I have long thought that if he made it through this past year, he would be around for long after. The doctors have told me otherwise at all his many cardio checkups. They tell me that although he has funky heart valves, he is fine. He is good to go, even better since he now sports a titanium aorta. So now it is time for me to step back a bit and concentrate on myself: getting back on that stick, losing those pounds, developing my career, sticking to my lists, rejoicing in my healthy children and perhaps I will even be able to give up my crib stalking ways.

Fun Time

2005-11-03T18:47:00.000-07:00

Today Cassidy had a half day of school due to parent/teacher conferences. So we had ample amounts of time to spend in the park before it got dark. And spend it we did. While I tire of the park in about three minutes, afterall I have been at this park thing since Loren was wee -so that means nearly 11 years of good park time, Cassidy and Devon can stay at the park ALL afternoon. And since I am not comfortable leaving my eight year old with my toddler, I resign myself to hours and hours of chase, tether ball, small chat with Other Parents, and -my favorite- Other Parent Observation. Today I had two highlights in this endeavor.

The first was a Mary Kay Olsen look alike -except a bit taller. She had the long quilty coat, the HUGE, hip bug eye glasses, small, cropped sweater under the coat, low rider pants and some sort of clunky shoes. Fabulous, highlighted hair in some sort of mussed pony tail, she was amazingly hip. And in the park. Her kids were equally as cute: blond, bowl cut boys in chunky sweaters. They all arrived eating ice cream cones and laughing. They could have, and surely should have, been on a photo shoot. But after about twenty minutes it all started to go South. I heard the tension in her voice as she had to mediate yet another squabble. And then IT happened. One of the boys dared to remove his Merrill shoes on one of the play structures. After he refused to put them back on, she wailed, "Tristan! I bought you ice cream! Ice cream on a cold day. And THIS is how you repay me me?" Tristan ignored her and ran to the slide, shoeless. I moved away from the raucous but continued to eavesdrop. I noticed as they left the park that the pony tail was beyond skewed, the glasses were off and her perfect mouth was in an O of complete horror as she carried the shoes in her hands.

The next was a family that lives just down the street on the other side of the park. The father, Jack, had been playing with the little boy, Bodey, who is about three. Cassidy and I had gotten Loren's soccer ball stuck in a tree and he came over with a broom to help us beat it down. This done, we chatted, did the introductions and played toddler soccer for a few minutes until both Bodey and Devon lost interest. After a time the wife returned from work and joined them. Midge, the wife, and Jack were genuinely happy to see each other. Jack told Midge about their day together, how he and Bodey had been on a bike ride and gone to the library where Bodey had wandered through every book aisle exclaiming, "I want that. I want that. I want that." Much laughter followed and she said, "Oh, I know. Isn't it so cute when he does that." Then he asked about her day and she filled him on the details of her office friends.

Now I know their life is not a 24/7 love fest of true happiness. But that brief snippet I observed in the park was pretty damn close. They weren't pretending or performing for my benefit. They were just a unit. A family. And I thought to myself, "I want that."

Fortune Cookie Wisdom

2005-11-02T19:22:00.000-07:00

This is the catch twenty-two of being a mother: They always want you, but they always want you.

Tell it Like it is

2005-11-01T07:42:00.000-07:00

Recently a friend of mine asked me what is like to share day to day life with a toddler. (She is single, but has a fabulous love life and sometimes contemplates the leap into motherhood.) At that moment Devon was nestled in his favorite spot on my hip and simultaneously pulling my hair, grabbing at the phone and smearing oatmeal all over my neck. So I decided on honesty and told her it was like having a 22 pound tumor attached to my hip and having only the use of my left hand to perform ALL every day tasks. I heard a small intake of air on the other end of the line and she said, "Oh. Okay. Well, I gotta go then."

I like to think that I am sort of a population control, that my honesty actually contributes to the well being of the world.

The Name Game

2005-10-30T18:53:00.000-07:00

I sometimes wonder what the true difference is between an island and an iceberg. I have been accused a time or two of being the latter. Icebergs give me the willies. Just part of them perched above those frigid waters, and huge parts of them going down, down, down into dark lonliness. Penguins can live on icebergs, but if they jump into the water a seal or a whale will swallow them. And they randomly float about with the currents, never knowing where they are going. Uck.

Now an island seems far more inviting. I get a mental picture of warmth and gentle,clear blue waters and big momma seaturtles laying their eggs in the sands. Islands have pretty tropical birds and fragrant flowers. Hugh Grant famously said that islands may appear to be lonely but that beneath they are connected by bits of land masses, making them rather social.

I think the island gig is a far better concept.

True Love

2005-10-29T21:56:00.000-06:00

Today was not really a good day, it was a bad day. An awful day. It was a Bush getting re-elected for a third term day, a planetary misalignment day. So tonight, in an effort to soothe the pain, the older kids and I headed to Wal Mart in search of vampire teeth and fake nails for Cassidy's Halloween costume. After that we trooped to the video store for some cheap entertainment. I sensed that there was no agreement amongst us and suggested we return tomorrow when we were fresh and could make a decent movie decision. Just then, Loren piped up from one of the aisles, "I got it Mom! I found just the right one." He came out of the aisle with About a Boy, featuring none other than Hugh Grant. Cass ran over, smiled, and in agreement -not always an easy effort on her part- said,"Great! Let's get that one." Gotta love them. (I think they have had to sit through that movie at least 30 times.) On the way to car I overheard Loren tell Cassidy, "Now we can have a Hugh Grant Film Festival for Mom."

Love'em to pieces and pieces.

Who Wears Short Shorts

2005-10-27T10:44:00.000-06:00

I have noticed lately that Cassidy has taken to wearing long sleeved shirts. The mornings are cool, but the afternoons are still a comfy Indian summer, so I inquired as to the reason. She told me a little boy at her school said to her, "Geeze, your arms sure are hairy. Why are they like that?' Ouch. I know this is an issue that has bothered Cass for several years. She can't help it, really. Her father and I are rather fuzzy and we have produced three furry offspring. To add insult to injury this was a boy whom she used to fancy, they played baseball together over the summer and she thought him special. Well, no longer. He is on her list. And to be on Cassidy's shit list is not a good place to be. She has a fabulous memory, she is creative in her cunning and she is merciless. This poor fool doesn't know what he has unleashed. She will remember him until she is grown.

I completely understand Cassidy's plight. Growing up I, too, suffered from the arm hair issue. I pleaded with my mother to help me rid my appendages of the eyesore, but she countered that if I did then the hair would grow back in odd patterns. So I learned to cope. Cassidy is far more relentless in her demands and so, on ocassion, I will help her Nair her lower leg regions. I do this because at the tender age of eight I used to steal my mother's razor and shave my legs. As a result, my ankles have some vicious scars. I don't want Cass to have lumpy ankles, so I figure the Nair is a decent solution. It still doesn't solve the arm hair dilemna, but it is a start.

Cassidy will grow up to be a true stunner. Whether she chooses to go au natural or opt for a weekly wax, beauty and wit will be hers for the taking. Regardless, that silly boy will still be on her list.

24/7 Devon

2005-10-26T12:59:00.000-06:00

This morning while changing Devon's diaper I had an epiphany. Much to my exasperation, he was wiggling and flopping about as I was trying to affix his diaper tabs. It ocurred to me that I desperately needed to get away from him because he was driving me nuts and I wanted to scream. If only I could park him somewhere, I thought, put him on a shelf or safely perch him someplace for just a few minutes while I collected myself. And that's when it hit me, if he had a velcro patch, say about 6" by 6", sewn into his back or front side then I could just stick him to the wall. And the more I thought about it, the better it sounded. The velcro would need to be fairly sturdy, we're talking 25 to 30 pounds of squirming toddler to support. Then there would be several docking stations, consisting of the other velcro half, for the parents to install around the home. These would be affixed fairly low to the walls so that the child's feet would not touch the floor, but not so high that it would frighten him or her.

I can see how there might be issues with scarring once the patches were removed, but with cosmetic surgery being what it is I think this could be easily remedied. And this is obviously not for every family. In fact some parents might outright object to the idea, but that is why it would be purely optional, sort of like circumcisions.

The more I think about, the more smitten I become with the concept. There is something in it for everyone: mom or dad get a break, the baby gets to view the room from a new perspective, the surgeons make a few bucks. I think it's a winner.

Sick day

2005-10-25T19:28:00.000-06:00

Unconditional love: wiping that huge wad of green goo from a small nose and holding the glob captive upon my finger while he slumbers upon my chest.

Cut the Cord, Already

2005-10-24T09:29:00.001-06:00

"You keep that baby and it's your one way ticket into poverty." So said my father nearly 13 years ago upon discovering that I was unwed, ungraduated and pregnant.

"Are you going to marry him?", he demanded.

"Um. No. Not right now. I don't really know.", I mumbled.

"Are you going to finish your degree?"

"Um. No. Not right now. I don't feel well most days."

"Have you seen a doctor yet?"

"Um. No. Not yet."

"Well, my parents had this problem with your Aunt Mary (his older sister). They sent her off to a convent, she had the baby, came home and returned to school. We can send you out to California and you can stay with your Uncle Joe (his brother). You can have the baby out there, come back and get back to normal. What do you think about that?"

To this I said, "Um. I don't know. It's alot to think about." But in my head I had an entirely different strain of thought, something like this,"Well, you arrogant prick, I'm scared as hell. You raised me to believe that this sort of situation is the biggest error of ALL the errors. I am pregnant, confused and I feel like shit. I need a hug and somebody to tell me that I am okay, that I am not a bad person, that I am loved."

Before we could get up from the table my father asked my mother for her thoughts on the matter and she tossed in this, "Well, what I see here is a serious lack of conviction on her part."

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

I no longer wear this scene on my shirt sleeve on a daily basis, though it definitely smarted for quite awhile. For a very long time I think I let this be a self-fulfilling sort of prophecy. Now I use it to fuel me along on the more difficult days. My parents are what they are and I try to love them that way. I don't want to carry their baggage or judements anymore. I am trying to liberate myself of that one way journey; not to show my parents, but more to show the children what can truly be accomplished through hard work and following dreams and hope.

New Leaves

2005-10-22T20:08:00.000-06:00

I am all in favor of envisioning a better life, not that mine is a bad one, but sometimes a little dreaming is therapeutic. Picturing myself doing the things that are most fulfilling and meaningful often boosts my spirits. But today when I was out for a walk -by myself- I realized that I have been using this sort of fantasizing as a crutch. I was by myself for nearly an hour, the afternoon sun was falling over the mountains, the leaves mostly gone from the trees and I found myself picturing what I most wanted to do and be. After about 30 uninterrupted minutes of this I began to wonder if this was actually a healthy way to pursue my time. Why wasn't I actually doing these things instead of just wishing for them - I questioned. (I suppose in my usual musings I am with the children and have not had the silence to get to this part of the process.)

So after chewing on this for awhile I made a mental list of the things I truly do want. Now it is one thing to make a list and entirely another to commit to it. I have made a zillion lists in my time and have successfully hidden most of them in the couch cushions. I decided to turn over a new leaf, summon up my courage and pursue some (i.e. my) meaningful endeavors. This is something akin to a New Year's revolution, but I am not in competition with all those other newly reformed slackers. This is just me, on my own path, doing my own walk. There is no time like the present, sieze the day, act now...whatever the case, I just might be on to something here.

This is the Day

2005-10-20T20:19:00.000-06:00

Today when I went to pick up Loren from school I encountered one of the other moms I actually like. Unlike some of the Range Rover moms, she is a real mom. She struggles in her relationship with her husband. She battles her defiant, Taurus born daughter. She strives to work from home, raise a toddler, put good food on the table, keep the electricity running, etc. Currently she is working in the Kinderhaus at school to help make ends meet. She is most definitely my kind of mom. We were chatting and catching up when I went to give her our usual hug, she pulled back and said, "Uh, I'm not so sure you want to do that."

And I thought, "Oh lord, you won the lottery and you're going immediately after school to buy a luxury SUV. And you are already avoiding our hug moments."

But no. She peeked over shoulder for listeners and said, "Last week one of the kindergarteners gave me lice. We spent the entire weekend at my house bathing and ridding ourselves of them."

"Shit." I replied. What else can you say to a lice outbreak. I hugged her anyway and told her how straight and gorgeous her hair looked, and that she seemed super clean to me.

As we said our goodbyes, I had a moment where I realized just how good my current gig truly can be.

Rise and Shine

2005-10-19T20:48:00.000-06:00

Sometimes the best part of getting out of bed is knowing that within sixteen hours, give or take, I will be returning. Call it laziness, depression, desperation, but sometimes that thought is the only thing that motivates me to pry my ass from beneath the comforter and out into the world.

Pass the Broccoli

2005-10-18T19:25:00.000-06:00

For most of the past fourteen months I have kept a vigilant post over Devon's dietary needs. Not a drop of formula has passed his cherubic lips. This is not for lack of trying on my part, he has just been extremely insistent in his demands for my breasts. He has eaten nothing but organic baby foods since he started on cereals and jarred foods. Since he has began on solids he has had only organic fruits and veggies, poultry from happy, free range chickens. And cow's milk being diffiult to digest, soy milk being hard on the liver, young Devon drinks only goat's milk. Not easy to find or cheap, goat's milk, but Devon eagerly laps it up and it is good for him.

All of it has come to a screaching halt this evening. Devon discovered the joys of potato chips -from Cassidy. And not just regular potato chips, bar-b-que flavor. He sat in his high chair for nearly an hour as he made the "more" sign over and over for chips. He even went so far as to say,"Mo. Mo. Mo,", in his little, angelic voice.

It's all downhill from here. Tomorrow I might as well give him Fruit Loops and a Coke for breakfast

True Dreams

2005-10-18T17:31:00.000-06:00

Indications of a white trash lineage just might be: after bathing the baby in the sink (with water heated on the stove since the hot water heater is broken), stirring the ramen noodles while the baby rests on my hip, hearing him exclaim, "Mmmmmmmm!", and thinking it's all good.

Made in the USA

2005-10-12T20:17:00.000-06:00

I am a firm believer that a full tank of gas should not exceed $15. This is due to the fact that I began driving in the late 80's and my first car was a small VW. I attended a Midwestern college where nearly everything hovered around $10. A meal out with friends $10(I was still too young to drink), entrance to a dance club $10, art supplies $10 and a mostly full tank of gas $10. A ten spot was a fairly easy and comfortable thing to produce. So now 16 years on down the line it still seems like the just thing to pay for my car to run.

This would be all well and good were it not for the stress current gas prices bring upon my being. Since I still cannot bring myself to put more than $15 in the tank, current gas prices mean that I must make several weekly stops at the filling station. My son, Loren, cringes when he sees the gas light on my car display, for he knows that soon enough we will have to stop for a fill and The Scene will again occur. On the other hand Cassidy gets extremely nervous when she sees the needle go below half full, she starts to fidget at 1/4 full and openly loses it when the light flickers to life. In either case we stop and it begins with me looking at the current price, grinding my teeth and muttering something along the lines of, "Those goddamned Republicans...." As I fill the tank I get more bothered and upon entering the car I am red in the face and exclaiming, "Those goddamned, fucking Republicans. Can you fucking believe this???" Cassidy, always eager for a drama, happily bobs her head up and down. Loren quietly accepts his present fate and mutters a yes. At this point I launch into how dependent the USA is on China for goods production, how The Republicans had a chance to improve the levees in New Orleans but actually cut the funding, how Bush is eliminating environmental programs left and right and the baby seals won't have a polar ice cap to sit upon in a few years. Now I don't actually watch T.V. or read newspapers. I never really know if my facts are true, and I am fairly sure they are often filled with HUGE untruths. But my point is this: Bush and his cronies are not good. Things are only getting worse. We really should not have to pay so goddamned much for a tank of gas. And my children should know this LOUD and FUCKING CLEAR. And as they get to witness this lesson several times a week, I think they just might be getting the point.

Love Me Tender

2005-10-10T20:06:00.000-06:00

Raising a son into puberty has given me an entirley new understanding of the male gender. Over the past twelve years I have often believed that I would raise a new and different kind of man. A man who would call at the times he said he would call. A man who would be sensitive to all things. But I am coming to realize that testosterone is a groovey, groovey bedfellow, and that the argyle wearing boy I was gently stearing towards gracious living will indeed knock back a longneck with the best of them. I am learning that:

Men truly are mesmerized by electronic gadgets, it begins in early childhood with video games. The release of a new XBox game brings all things to a standstill in a fellow's life, be he tall or small.

They don't not call because they are jerks, there are just far more important things going on. Soccer, football, that new game release. These erase any awareness of previous obligations.

That true self-centeredness is not them being pricks, it just is what it is. Eventually they realize it and come crawling back for a hug.

I know there will be many more lessons along this puberty path, but today I am just grateful that his hormones tire him and he is going off to bed.

Micturation, Baby Style

2005-10-08T19:57:00.000-06:00

Devon has been beating a spoon against a soup bowl for over twenty minutes. He is covered in his dinner from head to toe. He has stripped off his diaper and has a full on baby erection. The spoon on bowl sound is fully annoying and I know that at any moment he will likely pee all over the couch (can he actually pee with a baby hard on?). But the banging is entertaining him and I don't have to battle him to bathe him. I think I'll chance the pee and ignore reality for just few more minutes.

Sugar Baby

2005-10-07T21:48:00.000-06:00

Carbs, carbs, carbs. Why are they really so bad? And why do they dwell in the best of foods? Protein is just fine, but slap some buns and dressing on a chicken breast and that's a piece of pure heaven.

I could eat carbs at any time of the day, but I find they are the best and most useful late at night. Something about eating a helping of buttery pasta followed by a bowl of ice cream brings me much happiness after 9 p.m.

Come Monday morning I am hopping on the Weight Watchers wagon. But until then I am bedding down for a romantic weekend with a baguette, a box of Eggo waffles, Hamburger Helper noodles and both Ben and Jerry.

Teacher's Pet

2005-10-06T20:17:00.000-06:00

Tonight I called Loren's teacher just to check in, touch bases etc., I hadn't seen much in the way of nightly studies from him and when pressed on the subject, he replied' "No worries, mom. I've got it all under control." Turns out Loren has had homework for the past few weeks. He has had assignments and weekly quizzes. And tomorrow he has a presentation in front of the whole class. Silly me, here I thought they were just knitting and making bees wax sculptures at that Waldorf school.

In his defense I have to say that the apple is super close to the tree in this instance. His father could spend the entire semester anywhere but in the classroom and still pull off an A on the final exam. And I am a huge procrastinator who truly believes that tomorrow just might hold an additional 6 hours for me to get all my stuff done. Loren's teacher marveled at his academic ablities, given that he uses the daily reviews as his only source of study efforts. I'm thinking Ivy League here, oh yeah.

Captian Underpants

2005-10-06T06:47:00.000-06:00

Save me now, but I have a toddler in my house. Seems logical since that is what happens when infants start walking about in the upright position. But I must admit that I am a bit taken aback at this turn of events. Devon didn't bother to crawl until well into his 10th month so I grew way too comfortable with Immobile Devon. He started waddling towards the end of July and now only runs -everywhere. Whether he he has two or twenty feet of space, he runs. Evidence to this can be seen by the collection of road rash that has accumulated on his face.

He is also the stealthiest Relocator of Items I have ever met. His father has been known to put things in odd places, high up ones since he is 6'6", but Devon fancies the garbage can. All of the tupperware, toilet paper rolls, dishwasher items etc end up there on a daily basis, and yesterday his softie blanket. But he took it one step further in his pursuit of redistribution. He found a paper lunch bag, put the softie inside it and then stuffed it in the trash right around breakfast time. We can't go anywhere without the damn blanket and by lunch time I was tearing apart the house. (A mother in pursuit of her child's security item is a scary, scary thing.) I looked in the trash about eight times, but only seeing the regular stuff I pawed through everything else in the house. We had to run a few errands and as I looked at him in his car seat he appeared naked and bereft without the softie. There are only 1,000 square feet in our home and upon our return I searched every single one of them,
finally trying the garbage again. I found the paper bag, squeezed it, determined its squshiness did not belong to fecal matter or a dead animal and opened it. Eureka, the effing softie. Devon's face lit up and he started squeeling. It was covered in pickle juice but he didn't seem to mind.

Devon's second favorite toddler indulgense is the downstairs bathroom. Super fun stuff in there. Whether or not anybody is in there he is always angling to get himself inside. When he and I are alone I leave the door open because lord knows what he might do unobserved for the three minutes I am on the pot. As soon as he hears me sit down he comes running as fast as his stumpy little legs will take him. Upon finding me in the sitting position he starts giggling and stomping his feet, apparently the sight of me with my pants down is high entertainmnet. He always tries to make a grab for my pubic region, but that is where I draw the line. I figure that vague memory might not be healed by even the best of therapists.

Jimmer

2005-10-05T09:05:00.000-06:00

I had a dream about my grandfather last night. He was an amazing character full of playful naughtiness that was a magical experience for a child. My dreams about him are extremely infrequent, perhaps only a handful since his death when I was 19. The first dream actually ocurred on the day of his death, at the approximate time that he was in the emergency room dying. The dreams are always similar. In them I am not expecting to see him and when I do it is always such a relief. He rarely says anything to me, but he always gives me the most amazingly warm smile and then hugs me for a very long time. Sometimes he is the age when he died and other times, like last night, he is in his 50's. Sometimes it is just a few moments within a dream and others it is the whole dream. Regardless, in the dreams I know he has been looking for me and is there just to let me know that he loves me and that everything is okay. In fact, when he does speak he says, "It's okay honey. Everything is all right." When he lets go he smiles again and I know it is time for me to leave. I never have to look back because I can feel his love as I go. The whole experience is always the most beautiful display of unconditional love and acceptance, and I feel safe for days afterwards.

Another Banner Evening

2005-10-04T20:39:00.000-06:00

I hate most everything about scrapping children. I hate the high pitched, whiny sounds of their voices. I despise the stomping of their feet as they descend the stairs to tattle to me. I can not bear the flimsy ass excuses for their squabbles. The monotony of the fight subjects sometimes inspire thoughts of locking them out on the back porch -except that the neighbors might intervene. I loathe that yesterday, today and tomorrow and all the rest of this year's days will consist of more senseless, crappy fights.

The only really good thing is that after they finish fighting about who will spit first while brushing their teeth is that they will go to bed in 15 minutes. Wa-freaking-hoo!!!!!

Buried Treasure

2005-10-03T21:35:00.000-06:00

Three kids has pushed me over an edge in so many ways. When we just had the first two I was able to maintain some sort of balance. But something about that third wheel has sent everything askew. Yesterday the cell phone went missing for most of the day. (I say THE cell phone meaning Matt's phone because MY phone is gone: recently lost/stolen.) We were gone for a majority of the day and when we returned home it was not where I had left it -resting peacefully on the living room coffee table. We don't have a land line so we couldn't just call and listen for a ring. And just to add a little spice to the situation I remembered I had put it on vibrate so as not wake anybody earlier in the morning. Matt headed over to a friend's house to call his phone. And I sent the bigger kids over to the park so that I could listen for some sort of a vibration sound. After twenty minutes and not a peep I suddenly had a revelation: DEVON! Ah, yes that stealthy varmit of a thief baby. His daily early morning entertainment consists of rounds between the living room and pantry where he redistributes anything he can quietly drag or carry to either location. Some mornings when I have not yet had my coffee he can get quite a bit accomplished without my knowledge. And among his most favorite of relocation destinations is the garbage can.

After our return home, and before the search, Matt had taken on the task and cleaning the refridgerator while I ran to the store. When I returned the fridge stink was gone to the dumpster. Of course with my newly found suspicions of the phone's location this meant only one thing for me: a dumpster dive. I donned a pair of gloves, tromped down to the dumpster, dug out our bag and started sifting. Down at the bottom, under the rotting refried beans and nestled in a bed of coffee grounds was the silver clam beauty -and it was even vibrating.

Top Shelf

2005-10-01T22:24:00.000-06:00

There is a stench in my refridgerator that is beyond reason. It is a stink that inspires a stop, drop and roll action. My suspicions are with either an aged container of refried beans from at least two weeks ago or a ziploc bag of chicken breasts from whenever. The smell has been brewing for several days. Comments like,"Huh, something odd in there," have surfaced at dinner time for the past few days. I finally detected a breaking-point-odor-situation tonight when I opened the freezer for a nip of ice cream and I almost wretched.

Today we were at a soccer tournament where we ate take out all day and tomorrow we have a another full day of soccer games so I will be able to avoid the stench dilemna for another 24 hours. I think with clever planning I can avoid it all until maybe Tuesday. Mornings of cereal which involve only a milk need. Dinners of freezer type items or PB&J's. This is good, a 72 hour reprieve. I can go with that.

S is for Snake

2005-09-30T20:45:00.001-06:00

This afternoon when I picked up my twelve year old son, Loren, I asked him how his day was. He said fine, etc, and then proceeded to ask me." Mom, how do you make out?"

Ouch. Right here, I was wishing to be anywhere else but in the our car at this moment. Because I realized immediately that he didn't mean you as in his dad and me, he didn't mean you as in the second person plural general sense, he meant you as in me, as in first person singular. AS IN HIM.

And right then and there all those times when I said, "Loren, I want us to have an open and honest relationship. I want you to be able to confide in me. I want you to feel comfortable with me.", came flooding back to me. Crapper, time to pay up and face the music.

So being the open, honest and comfortable mom that I am, I said, "You mean make out, as in kiss?."

Yes, that is exactly what he meant and what he had been up to on his half day out of school. Hanging out with his current young lady, his two buddies and their lovlies. All of them daring each other to "make out", although none of them really knew the meaning of the dare.

And being the open and honest mom that I pretend to be, this is what limited wisdom I gave to him:

1. First off, a girl loooooves a good kisser. It's all in the kiss. If you have a fabulous kiss, the rest can wait for quite a few years.

2. Soft lips, but not fluffy lips.

3. Go slow. Much more anticipation that way. (And yes, self-serving on my part).

4. No snake toungue.

5. No thick dog toungue, which goes hand in hand with salivating -a big no.

6. Nipping and biting is NOT for beginners. Plus, it leads to unsavory gossip in the 7th grade.

7. Hands are good for holding right now. Groping and fondling is for the advanced class.

8. A vertical approach is sufficient. Anything horizontal is too much.

9. While kissing is fabulous, a girl also loves a fellow who can converse.

10. Finally, whatever he does the girl will immediately turn around and tell ALL of her girlfriends. For concrete evidence of this I told him about a snake-toungue-kisser from highschool that my friends and I still mock. So he should think before he acts.

I knew that if I blew this small test, some part of the remaining adolescence was in jeapordy. As of tonight we are still on an open page. I am creeping and crawling with the willies, but we are open and honest and that is all that really matters to me.

The Sun'll Come out Tomorrow

2005-09-29T19:39:00.000-06:00

This job thing is killing me. Four days in a row this week and tomorrow will make it a round five. Last week I put in five days and next week they are expecting yet another five out of me. It's not that I lack a work ethic, I just have more important things on my agenda. If I had some sort of an official position, say a nuclear physicist or a U.N. Leader, I might be more apt to show some committment to a job. But when I am work I find my mind wandering to the truly crucial parts of my life. For instance, Halloween is practically looming in my face right now, and that means a pumpkin design. This year I am envisioning something involving a series of large pumpkins sprayed painted black with glass beads embedded in the shells. However, and this is where the true stress comes in, do the beads come in only various shades of blue (my fear), or a variety of colors -which would result in a sort harlequined effect.

Another issue is laundry. Working every day has created a Laundry Situation in my house. The children have given up all hopes for clean socks and are beginning to settle on anything without clumps of mud. Loren has cleverly taken to tossing in an extra pack of boxers whenever we are at Wal Mart, so he is at least clean in that department. Cass is not a big fan of panties so she isn't too deeply impacted here.

Yet another area is school lunches. Both of my older kids attend schools with no lunch programs. Both schools are filled with crunchy, natural fiber wearing, unemployed moms who pack lunches filled with things like whole grain sandwiches, kelp snack packs and organic juice boxes. This pressure forces me to take my Lunchable disguising efforts to new heights.

If I hadn't already given my notice at work, I would call in sick tomorrow rather than face a fifth day. I would take Devon to the park where I would avoid the laundry issues and explain to him the wonders of pumpkin design.

Mother of the Year

2005-09-27T15:18:00.000-06:00

Recently, in an effort to create a more diverse and wholesome dinner menu, I bought a pork tenderloin. Having been mostly a vegetarian up until Devon's pregnancy, I am not well acquainted with the pork family, but I did have the vague notion that a tenderloin is a good thing. It came in a tube-like package and appeared to be quite tender indeed. Now, I am not much of a dinner chef. I can bake cookies with the best of them, make a cake look pretty and I can set a table something fierce, but preparing dinner has always mystified me. Matt was the one who actually put the loin in a pan and cooked it up. Whilst it cooked I played up this new meat to the kids, told them what a treat was in store for them. They were practically giddy by the time I told them to go into the kitchen to view and try this wondrous creation. Big mistake.

"Ugh, Mom. There's a cock in the kitchen!", shrieked Cassidy.

Hoping against hope that she saw some sort of farmyard animal on the counter, I followed her voice.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"A cock. There in the pan.", she pointed.

"I'm sorry, what? What did you say?", I asked, afraid of what she might belt out next.

"Yes, like a weenie. I'm not eating that thing, you cooked a cock."

"She's right, Mom. That's a cock there.", helped out Loren.

"Where did you even hear that word?", now I was really afraid of the answer.

"Carrie says it all the time. Carrie Bradshaw.", she quipped.

And now it all became clear. The summer before a freind had given me several old seasons of Sex in The City. I had a fierce case of insomnia near the end of my third trimester and she gave them to me to help me sit through the wee hours of the mornings. One night I had fallen asleep during an episode only to awaken and find Cassidy perched beside me, wide eyed and completely enthralled. After that, and I'll admit throughout the year, she would sneak the tapes into the upstairs VCR and watch to her heart's content.

After some coaxing and reassurance that the meat came from the pig's loin and not his groin, I convinced the children to each try a bit. They were both pleasantly surprised at the succulence of the pork. I asked them if they would care for more with dinner, to which Cassidy replied, "All right, but not the tip. I'm not like Samantha, you know."

Expansion of the Universes

2005-09-25T20:57:00.000-06:00

In an effort to avoid dealing with the night time routine, I have been poking about on various blogs this evening. Now that I have begun to blog I should probably be more supportive of these fellow blog peoples. However, I am not so sure I can. It was rather odd looking in at all those lives, like maybe I was reading their mail or peeking in their living room windows while they were privately scratching their butts or picking their noses. I read about one fellow who had oodles of posts about his new Mac software, and I mean oodles -as in months of different software topics. Another woman devotes each week to a different type of cupcake baking, I liked the thought of her. Yet another woman was all about crafting and crafty type fairs. Now I am not at all judging them, poking a wee bit of fun, yes, but nothing seriously cruel. I gotta hand it to them for their diligence about things like the best software companies, the smoothest frosting etc. This blogging thing is odd, really. I can't fathom anybody actually reading mine, I just bitch about how hard it all is while I know that I am the one who creates a majority of the difficulties. Those other bloggers might motivate me to take up a hobby, expand my horizons, better the world around me.

Or not.

I will likely continue on, peeking at the other blogs for entertainment value and getting a cheap giggle out of it.

Is that bad?

Futball, Anyone?

2005-09-24T19:08:00.000-06:00

Today was yet another soccer Saturday. In many years past this would have been an opportune occasion for a panic attack, but today I managed to maneuver my way through two games, an almost spouse/mother encounter, team pictures, interaction with the Other Moms, player drama -all without nary a hyperventilated breath. But, wait, I guess the day wasn't really all about me....

Today Cassidy played first. Many comments like' "Huh, Cassisy sure ends up on the ground alot." "Oh, look, there's that redhead, bet she'll score." And from her father (and with what I interpreted as awe), "Damn, she's an aggressive little thing." Soccer suits Cass. She gets to go out on the field, push other kids around, occasionally kick one or two, whoop and holler, and generally stomp about and kick some ass. She uses it completely for her own purposes and to her advantage. She loves the attention and applause. It doesn't hurt that she is athletic, devious and ruthless. I worry about the other teams as she gets older and has more meat on her bones.

Loern's game was second today. And I know all the parents always say this, but honest-freaking-abe, the other team was HUGE. As in sizable huge. This is a U14 league, meaning the kids are ages 12 and 13. But the opposing kids were in no way 12 and 13, they probably have to shave. I wanted to lift up their jersies to see if they were sporting chest hair. And my poor little Loren facing off against them. I wanted to grab him up and take him home. But I have to give him credit, he gave it all he had. He was fast, agile, aggressive (not always a strong trait for him) and couragous. I got teary as I had one of those amazing, emotional mom moments. As I held the baby on my hip and watched my little man on the field all was well: Cassidy had scored her goal, Loren was boldly facing the enemy, the baby was still and I could actually breathe.

Duck l'Orange

2005-09-22T19:38:00.000-06:00

This morning my eight year old daughter, Cassidy, caught me crying in the shower. When she asked me why, I told her I had stubbed my toe. Suspicious by nature, she asked again and I confirmed the toe injury. When I realized she wasn't leaving the bathroom, I ducked my face in the water, poked my head out of the curtain and reassured I that I was indeed fine. And although she didn't verbalize it, I could almost hear the words," Uh-oh, Mom's having a Dead Duck day." Oh dear, I thought.

Now I should insert here that I am a huge Hugh Grant fan and that my children are often spontaneously subjected to a Hugh Grant Film Festival(HGFF). Among my favorites is About a Boy in which Hugh plays Awful-Caddy-Hugh, as opposed to Floppy-Bumbling-Hugh, and he befriends an adolescent nerd-boy named Marcus. At the onset of the movie, Marcus's mother downs a bottle of pills after an early cry fest and ends up in the hospital. During this time Marcus happens to be in a park where he accidentally kills a duck with a loaf of heavy hippy bread. Out of desperation Marcus seeks out Bad Hugh's company and guidance etc, etc. After many a viewing, my children have come to belive that early morning crying is a bad thing, as in Bad Thing.

Now I truly was not having a Dead Duck day. A bad day, yes. Stressful, you bet. However, lately my schedule is so crowded that I simply don't have the time or convenience for a good, cathartic cry. Can't cry while I serve up breakfast. On the way to school drop off is no good. The work environment is not conducive. Then there is afterschool pick up, soccer practice, homework time, dinner, the bedtime routine etc. It was either in the shower or wait until the end of the day, and by then I would be too tired to cry.

The Best Part of Waking Up....

2005-09-21T07:33:00.000-06:00

Every morning the baby wakes me at 5:49 with his wailing requests for milk. Fair enough, after all he had the good grace to go peacefully to bed at 7 the night before. So after we nurse, I stumble downstairs in search of my bestest morning friend, the coffee maker. Praying that I set it on auto the night before, I sniff around for the aroma of life. If no auto pot awaits me, I hoist the baby up on my hip, claw through the freezer for a filter and the coffee and brew up a pot. I wait for it to fill up enough so I can snatch the carafe and pour a cup. No picturesque Folger's moment here: the baby is crying, the dog is barking for breakfast, the cat is trying to climb on the counter for a treat and I am desperate for the damn java. But ah, a creamy cup later all is starting to look bearable. I tell the baby I love him, let the rotten dog outside, push the cat off the counter and decide to face the day after all.

R U Techno?

2005-09-20T20:25:00.002-06:00

I have found the new carrot of excitement for my twelve year old son, Loren. Instant messaging, or out of the ultra cool mouth of my son, IMing. Now I'm not a complete techo liazard, I have IMed a time or two. But it has usually been with a long distance friend or somebody I only see periodically, not a person with whom I have spent the entire day. And when I do IM it is often a flowing conversation. The tidbits my son shares with me go like this: Hellllooo? Anybody there??? Somebody talk to me??? Where is everybody????

And in reality it goes something like this: hllo.././?? r u ther? tlk me/?? wher r u?

Ouch.

Now I am not out to mock the preteen set. I admit their lack of grammatical accuity and punctuation smarts, but I can grasp that they are testing the waters of boy/girl communications. And from what I hear on the playground their verbal conversations are still much of the same. In a world crazy paced lives I'll take this bit of techno innocence and hold it dear.

Equilibrium

2005-09-19T06:23:00.000-06:00

Devon, my one year old, slept through the night last night. Monu-freaking-mental in my life. Well, he slept until 5:49 at which point he woke up to nurse, but I'll take that. I had nearly seven hours of sleep -in a row, more than I have had in over a year. Right now, at this very moment I feel like queen of the universe. Nothing can get me. Everything is good in my corner. I have hope that the world will mend itself: global peace, an end to natural disasters, a cure of all cancers, I could even lose the last ten Devon pounds -maybe even today.

Silent Fantasies

2005-09-11T15:56:00.000-06:00

Last night I had a serious Calgon moment. We had been at various soccer games throughout the day, two last minute birthday parties -which meant two last minute birthday presents. The one party invloved parental chit chat with all the Other Moms which always makes me feel like an outsider-wierdo-alien. All the questions about why have we changed Cassidy to a new school, how is that education working out, how is the baby, what are we doing to better the lives of our children on an hourly basis, etc. My standard answer to all of them seemed to be, " Well, er, duh..." And although this was not an unusual Saturday for me, I did notice some curious additions to my usual array of neurosis and anxieties. Instead of just the usual panic/inability to catch a full breath, I also had this constricting pain in my chest.

Now I'm not an overly unhealthy gal, I don't eat alot of heavy cream sauces, I don't smoke, I exercise fairly regularly etc, so I was quite certain I wasn't having a heart attack. I did have a drama moment when I envisioned showing up in the ER, being hooked up to machines and being given a lovely shot of numbing Demerol...but it was not to be. I sucked it up and nodded in agreement to whatever the Other Moms were yacking about. But by last night I just couldn't bear to hear the word Mom and know that it applied to me. I didn't want to be touched with sticky, peanut butter hands, I didn't want to find the random sock, read a book or kiss any boo-boos. So I called my mother and asked if I could come spend the night.

Yes, it meant sucking it up in a different way and chit chatting with The Mother. But on the flip side it was a glass of wine, the remote all to myself, no requests to watch cartoons, no bitching from the crib to be nursed at 4 a.m., no sounds of crying, sibling scrapping. I did wake up and have chest pains after only ten minutes but at least it was after a solid six hours of sleep. I can go with that.

Beauty is Ageless

2005-09-06T09:11:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I turned 35. Not a huge deal in the big picture of the world; a million more newsworthy events are out there. But in my little existence it was largesse. 35 is 7x3. It's 17 1/2 x 2. It seems like I was just 17 1/2 a few years ago. I was still a senior in highschool and I had teachers who were 35, and that was OLD. That was crazy old, unhip old, ugly old, bad hair old. I ran into a highschool acquaintance at the grocery store yesterday and we chatted about this very subject. She said she didn't feel 35. But I looked at her and thought, "Honey, from your broad hips, sweat pants and bad hair you sure look it." Of course I didn't mention that to her.

It's not that I necessarily feel old, I feel pretty much the same as I did at 22. But I suspect that I got stuck somewhere at 22 and have not moved on in any significant fashion. Living in my small hometown I have the honor of watching my cohorts as we all age. They seem to be progressing: larger cars every year, better homes, better jobs. I know success isn't all about materialistic acquisition, but it does signify some sort of fire burning under the ass. I drive a VW Bug. I hate my job and daily try to figure out ways to quit it so I can stay home and play with my son in the park. I have no burning ambitions to climb my way to the top of the corporate ladder. Do the other 35 years olds feel this way? Are they wired more efficiently? Do they belong to some secret motivational club that I am not? Or is it that I am a slacker? I didn't have to ask these questions at 22, I figured they would all work themselves out by 35.

I looked in the mirror last night before bed: two inches of graying roots, broadening hips, bad sweatpants. It was all so much that I decided to call in sick today, play with my son in the park and light that ass burning fire tomorrow.

test

2005-08-29T22:52:00.000-06:00

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