Channeling Joan Crawford

On most days, I make passing references to my sons' future therapy bills, and laugh.

Most of the time, it's my weak attempt at humor.

But then, there are days like this.

I've been living a full 24 hours every sixty minutes, and during each "day" I feed Joel, clean up his booster seat, load the dishwasher, drink a sip of coffee, read aloud the book about the bulldozer again, search for the missing sippy cup, tell Owen to turn the TV off, tell Joel to stop eating toilet paper rolls, tell Owen to stop riding his brother like a mechanical bull, look frantically out the window to see if the snow has melted, and then I go into the kitchen, where Joel is madly gesticulating at the refrigerator, simply famished.

It's been getting old, and I'm getting testy.

I decided  to go the bathroom with my smart phone to read blogs, hoping for a moment's peace. After all, "Mommy needs privacy." While I was in there, Owen opened the refridgerator and gave half a bag of shredded cheese to Joel and kept the other half for himself.


By the time I came out of the bathroom, my entire kitchen looked like a nacho bar.


The yelling and finger pointed that followed wasn't pretty. As I was doing it, I felt like Joan Crawford, and yet I couldn't stop myself.  I even said, "No shredded cheese EVAH-ER!"

I need thearpy.

We're fine now. I apoligized to Owen for not controlling my temper. He forgave me, because he always forgives me.

But this is the fear that keeps me up at three AM:

When will he stop forgiving me?

What am I teaching him about anger?

And, since everybody says that I look like Cynthia Nixon, will she play me in film based on Owen's tell-all memoir?

 

"I told you no shredded cheese! Now I'll have to cut you." 

These are serious questions, and I ask, in the spirit of the sisterhood---How do you control your temper? Not just with kids, but with anybody?

After all, I really don't want to be portrayed by Miranda. 

(Besides, I think I look like Beyonce). 

Thanks.

Fortress

There are days when the fight just isn't in ya. Days like this morning, when I just didn't have one more syllable left to negotiate with my three-year-old.

It's been a rough patch. Owen has been testing his limits and forgetting his manners. I'm feeling a bit emotionally abused. I mean, seriously, who talks like this? "Mommy, you need to listen to me right now or I will throw your coffee into the trash can!" or "Mommy, stop talking to me. Not. Another. Word."

I can't imagine where he gets this. (Kettle, meet Pot. Screw you, Pot.)

And, the noise. Oh, Good Lord, the noise. We're working on getting dressed by ourselves, because it's time. On purpose, I swear on purpose, he puts both legs into one pant hole, then screams "HEEEEEEEEEEEEELP! HEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP! RIGHT NOW MOMMY!"

I feel bombarded. Add to the mix, Joel. Joel has opinions. Lots of them. Unfortunately, he has next to no expressive language skills, so EVERYTHING is a "Unh-UNH!" followed by his one word: "THIS! THIS! THIS!" He moves his hand in the squeezing sign for milk and points in the general direction of whatever he wants. Often, it's whatever I have. For example, he'll have a waffle in his left hand. He'll be frantically squeezing his right hand and panting, "THIS! THIS!" wanting the waffle in my own hand.

It's relentless. The phone rang this morning, and my friend wanted to talk about health care reform policies. As we attempted to talk, Owen was screaming "HELP ME!" with his underwear around his neck, Joel was standing on a kitchen chair, attempting to grab my yet-eaten toast, saying "UNH-UNH THIS! THIS!"

My friend, the mother of two boys herself, said, "Oh my God, I'm never having kids."

And, y'all, this isn't even the worst part of my day.

We went to the doctor for Joel's fifteen month check-up. I asked Dr. S to look at Joel's scrotum, because it looked weird, a bit swollen. Paul had told me that it was probably nothing. Since I don't have balls of my own, I defer to the original owners in regards to All Things Gonads.

Alas, my suspicions were correct. Joel has excess fluids in his scrotum, and will require surgery. This makes, in his short life:
1 stay in the NICU, including intubation
1 surgery to correct his funky Eustachian tubes.
1 set of beautiful blue glasses to correct his eye that likes to party.
1 super-size scrotum, thus ANOTHER surgery.

He will have three specialists AND will have been treated at least three different hospitals.

And believe me, I know how lucky I am. These are all treatable childhood ailments that are not connected to a larger umbrella disorder. I am blessed, believe me, I am blessed.

But, COME ON.

One of my favorite authors, David Sedaris, writes:


"When a hurricane damaged my father's house, my brother rushed over with a gas grill, three coolers of beer, and an enormous Fuck-It Bucket - a plastic pail filled with jawbreakers and bite-size candy bars. ("When shit brings you, just say 'fuck it,' and eat yourself some motherfucking candy.")" 

Today, I opened up my own proverbial Fuck-It Bucket and decided that I just wasn't gonna fight anything. I didn't have it in me. Owen wanted to go to Panera. We went. He wanted to go look at the animals at Petco. We went. He wanted to go the library. We went. Owen steered the ship; I just held on.

At the library, I ran into some friends. I told them about Joel, and started crying because I'm worried about my kid and it's troubling to hear that he has to go under the knife. So, I boo-hooed, and they were wonderful as only fellow mothers and friends can be.

Owen saw me crying and got very alarmed. He put his hand over my mouth and said, "Please stop crying, Mommy. Don't cry Mommy." He looked like he was about to cry himself, so by an act of will, I pulled myself together. Once again, I let him steer the ship.

We came home, and because I had out the Fuck-It Bucket, I ate cake for lunch. It was orgasmic. I'll write about it tomorrow.

As I put Joel down for his nap, I let Owen play with the vacuum cleaner. It was humming noisily, and I heard Owen screaming over it. Screaming. AGAIN. But yet, he was screaming pure poetry: "HEY! Hey! Hey Mommy! I LOOOVE YOU! I LOOOVE YOU!"

Once again, I forced myself not to cry as I replied, "I love you too, Buddy."

He turned off the vacuum and toddled upstairs. He touched Joel's head gently and showing me that he picks up more than I think, said, "Let's pray that Joel's penis gets better."

Since this was neither the time nor the place for an anatomy lesson, I simply swallowed yet another wellspring of tears and held Owen's hands as he said, "Dear Jesus, please help Joel get better. Amen."

With all the nonsense of the day, I've got this: proof that my son is developing empathy and a relationship with his God. My son knows, already, how to build up a fortress of love, protecting those he loves, providing shelter and security.

All things considered, not too bad. Even for a Fuck-It Bucket kinda day.

Confessions of a Crabby Ass.

Oh my goodness, y'all, I've had a shitburger of a day. 

Highlights: 
*Joel sick and coughing and slightly feverish.

*Owen is now coughing and starting a runny nose.

*This means that I can't go to the petri-dish of a gym to burn off some aggression.

*This also means that Owen won't go to preschool tomorrow.

*This also means I get to drag Owen along to Joel's Ear-Nose-Throat appointment tomorrow. I'm so excited to plunk down another $30 specialist fee so that she can say, "Tubes still look good."

*Today, we trekked up to Children's National Medical Center to have Joel's eye appointment. Our referral had expired, which resulted in frantic phone calls and a great deal of eye-rolling and muttering from husband. That would be the husband who had specifically taken off work to go to this appointment  Thankfully, we got in, but if we had needed to reschedule, Paul would have done the Socratic method with me all the way home: "Why didn't you check the referral date? I just don't understand..."

*We plunked down $30.00 for this specialist as well. 

*Joel still doesn't need surgery, thank God. However, he wasn't doing as well as last time. His left eye is crossing with more frequency. This could be attributed to him being under the weather. Dr. T says that Joel will probably wear glasses until he's at least thirteen. It makes me sad to know that he will have that extra inconvenience and  be "different" throughout his entire childhood.

*After we got back from the hospital, we went to the playground. Owen was going down a slide and he started crying. "Help! Mommy! Help! The poop is coming out and I can't stop it!"

*One discarded pair of Lightening McQueen underpants later, we drove home. Owen didn't want to eat tomatoes, and decided to voice his displeasure by throwing the dish on the floor, scattering tomatoes everywhere.

*I ate my lunch of tomatoes (flavored with floor seasonings) and cottage cheese. Considered crying, except that nothing really bad had happened to warrant such nonsense.

*Took a shower, changed into pajamas.

***
In less whiny news...we have  a winner. To celebrate my blogiversary, I had this giveaway.

I went to random.org,  like won did on her honest and always-thoughtful blog. I wanted to be totally on the up-and-up with my first blog giveaway. I did the Number Generator, eliminating the double-comment from my cousin, David, (thereby giving everybody one equal chance to win the Starbucks gift card.)

I punched in appropriate numbers, and the randomly selected winner is.... Caution Flag! Congrats! Please contact me so I can get your info...

Now, here's the problem: Unlike my technologically-savvy friends, I couldn't figure out how to get the actual drawing widget up. So, you'll just have to take my word for it. I swear there were no shenanigans involved. Truth.

***
I don't know how to end this entry, so here's a picture of Joel attempting to bludgeon something. Enjoy!

Rain + Melancholy= This

Reasons why winter can kiss my butt: 
1) No tomato-plant smell.
2) No dinners on the back deck
3) No afternoons at the pool
4) No berry-picking
5) No solid, activity-fueled naps.
6) Cold and flu season.
7) Potholes.
8) Ugly, naked trees.
9) Close-toed shoes are an abomination.
10) The State of the Union address.

Things I will begrudgingly admit are okay about winter: 
1) If you live in places like Colorado or Pennsylvania or even Wisconsin, skiing, snowshoeing, and ice-fishing are Schnapps-drinking good times. (Of course, I live in Maryland.) 
2) Christmas is fun.
3) Eggnog is delicious.
4) It's nice to snuggle up with a cup of herbal tea at the end of the day.
5) Nobody sees your thighs when you wear jeans and sweaters.
6) Owen was born in February.
7) At least the days are shorter.
8) Lost returns to the airwaves.
9) The mosquitoes and ants are dead, for a season.
10) I get to wear scarves and stocking hats.

Thus sharing these oh-so-mundane thoughts, I'm off to put on another ugly, shapeless sweatshirt. Then, I will attempt to amuse my children by making animals out of recycleable materials. I'm sure it'll be a hoot.

(Kill me now).

An unacceptable development

I'm writing this really quick because Joel is waking up, and despite my best efforts, he is up for good. He only slept an hour or so, and this development is completely unacceptable. The whole point of only one nap a day is that it's a long motherfucking nap.

And, of course, Owen is asleep, and will be asleep for several hours, leaving me with an afternoon of a tired-ass baby doing his patented "Look, lady, I've got needs. Go into the kitchen and make me a sandwich, toots." routine.

Babies. There's just no reasoning with them about my needs---like the need to shower, read, sleep, throw a load of laundry into the dryer, take an uninterrupted poop. Those needs.

No, instead the witching hour is starting around 2 today, and will continue until Paul gets home.

I hope that we won't all be crying when he walks in the door, but my magic 8-ball says, "Prognosis Excellent."

Spiderlike

After we got over our fight, I asked my mom, "Did you ever hide in your room with the covers over her head when Tom [my brother] and I were little?"

"Yes, honey," she answered. "Of course I did. Everybody does. And you and your brother turned out all right."

This is exactly what I needed to hear. Truly, I remember a lot about my childhood. I remember all sorts of good stuff. I remember Mom occasionally losing her temper. But, I do not remember, ever, a sense of weepy, out-of-control crazy. I was never, ever, scared of my mother.

And, I needed to hear that today. Because today was hard.

I have to get a stupid MRI to rule out any stupid neuro-degenerative diseases, which I'm almost 100% sure I don't have. I think I carry the baby too much, which results in some tingling. Just in case, we're scheduling the MRI. Which means I need to tangle with the insurance people, because, as the nurse told me, "Your insurance does not guarantee coverage."

Additionally, I am no longer able to take my son to swim lessons without giving the people at the Naval pass office three drops of Paul's blood, five major forms of ID, and a kidney. They are making it more challenging to get to a military pool...in response to 9-11? I don't know. All I know is that it's more mindless hurdles that I'm not in the mood to jump.

Finally, we're going to North Carolina tomorrow to see Paul's brother and his wife. They are nice people, but packing drives me into such a rage of panic and overwhelms me so completely that innocent bystanders who call to check on their grandchildren sometimes get the brunt of my frustration.

So, yeah. Sorry, Mom.

After apologizing and hanging up the phone with Mom, I sat on the deck while Joel napped and Owen played with his pipes. I was looking at a spider web, which stretched from the top of the house all the way to our grill, a good four feet at least. It sparkled, gossamer strings swaying gently in the breeze. If a spider had the determination to create these beautiful snares, I figured that I could at least summon the moxie to salvage the morning.

I decided to take both boys, for the first time, to the public pool. I don't really feel like explaining everything that happened, because it was, nice, but uneventful. Both boys played. Both boys smiled. The water was cool, and nobody cried. I felt a bit more capable.

I suppose that this, in it's own small way, is my Independence Day. I'm trying to escape the tyranny of my dark mood and petty frustrations, and if it takes some chlorine and sunscreen to do the job, than so be it.

In its own way, choosing to shake off a bad mood, is, in fact, revolutionary.

Try to Keep Up

Some Background: Paul and Owen are in Virginia, because Paul needed to change the brake pads on the Outback and his dad has a garage, while we merely have a gravel driveway. Owen loves to watch Paul work on the car, so off they went. They got a late start, so they decided to spend the night there. Since Paul's parents recently got over a nasty cold, I decided to stay behind with Joel and his developing immune system.

Joel woke up around 3:30, which meant we had until 6:30 to do something fun---Mommy and Son, exploring the big, big world. What could we do? We already went on a walk, the pantry was stocked, and his playground options are pretty limited at this point. It hit me like a bolt of lightening (more on that, later): The Farmer's Market! Produce, dogs, the beach, people...what's not to love? Of course, the nearest farmer's market is a thirty minute drive from my house. But...it would be worth it to do something special, just the two of us.

I went online to see when the Farmer's Market started. 6:00 PM. Damn #1.

"Screw the schedule," I thought to myself, "The man and his clock is always putting me down. Joel will just deal."

Then, I realized that the stroller, the backpack, and the Baby Bjorn were all in the Outback, which was, at that moment, in Virginia, minus its brake pads. So,I would have to drive thirty minutes out of my way (driving past at least THREE roadside produce stands). Then, I would then have to CARRY all 22 pounds of Joel up and down the boardwalk while juggling my wallet and keys, plus bags of my luscious produce bounty and homemade goat cheese.

So...Damn #2.

Then, as if God was trying to send me a message, the heavens opened up, rumbled, and poured down rain. Soon, Joel and I were standing by the window, watching a thunderstorm of epic proportions.

Damn #3.

So, suffice to say, our Mommy and Son outing involved reading stories and stacking blocks on our living room floor, until I put him to bed at 6:30.

The rest of my evening included the following exciting activities:

1. I went online and told the Facebook universe that Owen had found a five dollar gift card in his Cheerios box. My public needs to know these things.

2. I looked at a friend's pictures of a family outing to see the movie Up! and then lunch to Chuckie Cheese. Was envious.

3. Decided to thwart said envy by accomplishing something, so I halfheartedly worked on continuing education credits to keep my teaching credential.

4. Five minutes later, I was back on Facebook. Nothing new had happened in five minutes.

5. I went to the blog, and saw that there were no new comments on any postings. Sighed dramatically.

6. Checked email. Got a message from a magazine that said, basically, that I would hear from them regarding an article I submitted for publication in SEPTEMBER. Sighed even more dramatically.

7. Went to Amalah.com (a professional, honest-to-God, money-making mommyblogger) and realized that there are some incredibly talented writers out there. Considered sighing yet more dramatically, but feared doing damage to my lungs.

8. All this sighing makes one hungry, so I sat down for a single girl's dinner of Twizzlers and cheese.

9. Turned on the TV. Watched What Not to Wear. Clinton and Stacy decided to give the girl who starred in Blossom a makeover. Since Blossom went off the air, the actress had earned her PhD in NEUROSCIENCE and had two kids. She also decided to dress like an Orthodox Jewish Hippie. As usual, she was encouraged to wear blazers and high heeled shoes with a box toe. She looked cute.

I wasn't a big fan of Blossom, but I'll always connect the show to my first date with Paul. We were at some forgettable sports bar, and an incredibly drunk woman kept slurring that Paul looked, "Just like the brother on Blossom."

No, not Joey Lawrence. The other brother. You be the judge:



10. After all that excitement, I decided to go to bed. I read an amazing collection of short stories called Tunneling to the Center of the Earth by Kevin Wilson and swooned.

Then, I closed the chapter on this exciting, exciting evening. I know you wish you were me.

SPLOOSH

Owen and I were reading a book about pirates. One of the pages showed mermaids, which sent my mind in the following direction:

1.I used to pretend to be a mermaid all the time. Like many kids from Arizona, I spent a good five months of the year in the pool, and for a good solid year, I would make anybody willing to put up with it play Mermaids. There wasn't too much to it---I would be a mermaid, swimming through the ocean, flopping my gorgeous mane of flowing hair about. My brother would be a shark, and it would be my job, as a mermaid, to run away from him and/or beat him up.

2. As I was thinking about the mermaids, I thought about Ariel from The Little Mermaid, and had a sudden wave of sadness that I would never have a daughter to play Ariel with.

3. This was immediately followed by self-disgust because I. Am. Not. Having. This. Conversation. Again. If I was meant to have a girl, God would have made it happen (or still will). I love every chubby bit of my Joely. ENOUGH, already.

4. This was followed by a rare burst of insight: I only think about having a daughter when I am tired or hungry. Instead of going down this boring road, I should consider eating grapes.

5. I ate some grapes. I realized that I didn't really want a daughter. At that moment, I was feeling a little worn down. What I was really craving was understanding.

If I want somebody to understand me, I could save myself all sorts of trouble and expense and just call a friend.

***
When Owen wants to stop Joel from doing something, he has taken to framing it as concern. He'll say, "I don't want Joel in the bathroom because I don't want him flushing down the toilet." or "I don't want Joel playing with my dump truck because it might hurt his teeth."

Whether this is a new and improved method of manipulating us or real concern for his brother's welfare, I'll take it.

***

During lunch today, Owen said, "Mommy, feed Joel some alphabet soup so he can talk to me."

***

When I turn around the corner and see Joel, once again, holding two fistfuls of potting soil, I swear he is smirking at me. "What are you gonna do, Mom?" he seems to ask.

For Owen's benefit, I pick him up and say, "Joel, you're taking a break. I'll tell you when you can get up."

As you can imagine, this is a powerful discipline tool. Joel is truly sorry for his misdeeds. So sorry that he heads right back for the plant like a heat-seeking missile.

***

Owen placed pillows all over the floor, then stood up on the couch and said, "I'm jumping in the pool! SPLOOSH!" He landed on the pillowed floor with a thud, giggled to himself, and did the same thing about thirty more times.

Joel cracked up every time he said, "SPLOOSH!"

Point/Counterpoint

Paul is on a run, enjoying the beautiful 70-degree weather. I am inside, listening to Joel settle down for a nap.

My aunt is in Seattle, visiting cool museums and seeing my brother's band perform. I am feeding Joel pureed carrots.

Owen is at the park with his grandpa. I am nursing Joel.

My friend Kristen is sailing today. I am folding laundry.

Other people are finding the positives and counting their blessings. I am being grouchy.

Tomorrow will be a better day.

No, things aren't normal yet

I have an icky, post-holiday hangover. Everything has been too much. I want to rummage through my drawers and cabinets, and get rid of the clutter. All sweets must go in the trash can. Old toys and worn out clothing must leave the house. I'm ready to get rid of the tree and box up the decorations.

I. Am. Done.

It's an itchy feeling, not having things where they belong. I need to have some organization. It's the German in me. Joel may be crying, and Owen needs me to find the special, purple van (which is the only acceptable van to play with despite the fact that there are 2000 bazillion cars on every flat surface of the house), yet I still find the time to put my silverware away just so.

It's been a stressful few days. I was at my in-law's house. Owen and his cousin (while, really, doing an admirable job for being two) were often on the verge of a turf battle over cars, Legos, books, oxygen, chairs, affection, etc...We all should have worn black and white shirts and whistles.


Joel was five months old, and generous with the late-night awakenings.

I was tired most of the time and attempting to show everybody that Nothing Had Changed, and I was just as capable of attending to conversations, using my mind, pitching in. I wasn't.

This morning, (still at my in-law's house) I woke up around 6:30 (Joel had been up at 4, and 6, and was snoozing again), walked into the kitchen, and mumbled something nasty and passive-aggressive to Paul. He told me that I needed to go back to bed until I could be nice. I complied, after some grumbling. Paul took Joel to the coffee shop, and some relatives watched Owen.

I slept until 9:30, then sat in bed, listening to the boys playing, the hiss of the sausage cooking, the sound of my sister-in-law chit-chatting with my father-in-law. This is the part of the post where I'm supposed to have some epiphany about how lucky I am to have family members that take care of me, and how much better I felt after sleeping in. But that would be a lie. Here's reality: I couldn't summon the energy to play nice, to smile, to play with Owen, to listen to "Fox and Friends" on continuous loop. I. Couldn't. Do. It.

So, I hid. I pulled the covers over my head and dreamed of quiet, sunny kitchens, with well organized drawers and spotless surfaces.



Totally gratuitous shot of Joel (see how he's sitting up now!)

SUF Day

Yesterday, I was having what I call as "Stupid Ugly Fat" day. That is a day, where, yes, I determine myself to be stupid, ugly and fat. Generally brought on by a lack of sleep, these are days where I wallow in insecurity and generally fail to see joy in anything.

When I was younger, the only person who could make me smile during SUF days was my brother. I would whine, "I'm so stupid."

Tom would grin and reply, "You're not only stupid, but you're ugly. And fat." This would make me smile because 1) He knew the script so well, 2) He loved me so much and so unconditionally that by merely saying the words, he took away their power, and made them ridiculous.

Once Paul and I got together, and I was comfortable enough, the dynamics of SUF changed. I would begin my whining and he Just. Wouldn't. Play.

"I'm so stupid," I would say. "I'm so fat. I'm so ugly." Ah, the pathos! The violins!

Paul, being a practical Midwesterner at heart, would look me in the eye and say, "That's not true, but since that's how you feel, what are you going to do about it?"

For awhile, I would attempt to pick a fight, but Paul wouldn't budge, and wouldn't play. His point continued to be, "If you don't like something, do something about it."

As you can imagine, this threw me for a loop, but after being together for twelve years, I'm starting to figure it out. Some positive results of Paul's tough love include: becoming a runner, becoming a writer, and finding sympathetic girlfriends.

After a run, everything is just not that intense, and I usually can at least knock "fat" out of the equation, because my three mile run instantly renders me skinny.

Writing, for the longest time, was an opportunity to whine on paper. Oh my, some of my entries were tedious. I made Morrissey from the Smiths sound like Pollyanna. I was in a writing group back in Arizona, and a colleague told me, after reading an especially whiny piece, "Maybe you should look into counseling. Really. This made me very uncomfortable." O--kay. Time to scale back a notch. Phrases, such as "My life is a dark, dark, room" are not only overdone and overdramatic, but they are just plain boring.

After moving to Maryland, having a series of rough things happen all at once, and spending some time on the couch with a prescription to Zoloft, I understand what depression really is. It's not cool, and it doesn't make you more interesting. It's just really, really sad, and really, really hard work.

So, after that experience, I stopped writing to vomit out every negative feeling floating in my head, and started to write for the joy of it. This is the most recent evolution of my writing life.

This leads me back to sympathetic girlfriends. While it is better to find solutions through exercise or writing, sometimes a girl's just gotta whine. I called my friend Kristen. Kristen has probably been told her entire life that she is beautiful, because she is truly stunning. However, I hope that she is told as often that her soul and spirit are beautiful, too.

I started telling her that I felt ugly, etc. etc. She didn't try to solve my problem. She didn't try to make me laugh. She just listened and sympathized, and then she did the exact thing I needed. She complimented my hair and my skin, and told me that she thought I was pretty.

Yes, it's needy, but sometimes a girl just needs to hear that.

My SUF day thankfully ended, and I'm grateful that I can see them for what they are---days where I'm a little needy, a little lost, but never, ever, alone.

Defending Scrooge

I'm thinking I might just skip Christmas this year. At least, skip the part of Christmas that involves shopping.

I'm a reluctant shopper on my best day, but the idea of shopping with boys---just the idea---gives me a headache. I have always related to the Grinch as he moans, "All the noise, noise noise." The piped in carols, the clod stepping on your toes, the sensory overload of colors and consumerism and stupid crap that nobody needs---that is holiday hell. Adding Owen's announcement that he "Neeeeeeeds" everything he can see, and Joel's two-hour window of pleasantness before he neeeeeds boobs and bed is enough to cause me to reach for the smelling salts.

Except that I don't have any more smelling salts, and I would have to go shopping to get them.

There are ways to avoid this. I remember teaching summer school several years back, and over Diet Cokes and sandwiches, a colleague of mine announced, "I have finally finished my Christmas shopping!" Finally, on July 12th, she had completed her shopping. I was fascinated, and horrified. Who thinks this way? (Total disclosure: I start thinking about possible themes for my annual Christmas newsletter around July [okay, February] but that is totally different and I don't see what that has to do with anything.)

Anyway, she went on to tell me that she orders everything online, sends the gifts to relatives in Pittsburgh, (wrapped, of course), and tells them that they are to keep the gifts in their closets and sheds until Christmas Day. I asked her why she doesn't just bring them to Pittsburgh herself. She explained to me that she and her husband go diving in Fiji every Christmas.

Genius.

The Internet does not work as well for me because I am a lazy-ass. I'll wait until the 20th, order the gift too late, then present gift-wrapped notes to people that say things like, "Look in your mailbox."

This year, I won't be diving in Fiji. Rather, I'll be with loved ones, people who love me despite my tendency to be a Christmas curmudgeon. Consequently, I will get online, I will find good gifts, and I will be much happier once the job is done.

Because isn't "getting the job done" what Christmas is all about?

Cue the Violins...

I'm feeling a bit discouraged today.

Paul and Owen went to church and Sunday School, while I stayed behind with the sleeping baby. I'm still wearing socks (turned inside out, but I'm too lazy to fix them), my glasses, pink striped pajama bottoms and a huge, blue University of Montana sweatshirt. I did not, in fact, attend the University of Montana, but I went through a phase a few years ago where I thought it was funny to have sweatshirts from random places.

Anyway, I'm feeling discouraged because I. Am. Just. Losing. Myself. I re-connected with an old friend from high school on Facebook yesterday. He's a pastor now, has three kids and a wife, and he teaches classes online for various universities. He's still smart. He's still actively engaging his mind. He can read Greek and Latin, for Pete's sake. He has children, but, it appears, has not been consumed by them.

His blog discusses films, books, theology, conservation, politics. My blog discusses Starbucks runs and poop.

I periodically will look at old writings, presentations, lesson plans, and papers and think, "Who is this articulate person that shares my name?" I know that I once thought about Shakespeare and brain research, but now it seems that part of my brain measures the length of Joel's naps and devises new ways to encourage Owen to use the potty.

A friend forwarded me a deep thought about prayer written by C.S. Lewis. I've tried to read it twice, and I haven't been able to get it. I find the same thing happening when I read the newspaper....if it's not the Style section, forget about it. I tried to read George Will and the words just bled together into blah blah blah.

Thankfully, I'll be teaching in the spring, to give my mind some discipline. Oh, yeah....I'm not.

If I was reading this, my first thought would be, "So, what are you going to do about it?" I think that a run and a cup of coffee will help things along nicely.

I guess the first step to re-using your mind is to stop spending so much time thinking about how you're not thinking.

Not creative today, so here's a list.

Things I Love:

1. Older gentlemen who notice that you are lugging a four month old baby in a carrier while holding a toddler's hand, and hold the door open.

2. The dollar aisle at Target, for providing trinkets (a Slinky here, a wooden helicopter there) that work as bribes, thus preventing Owen for soiling himself (as often).

3. Owen's "marathons." He runs around the kitchen table, sometimes ten to fifteen times, loudly proclaiming, "I'm running a marathon, very, very, fast, just like Daddy!"

Things I could do without:

1. The Big Brother aspect of Facebook. It scans whatever you write about or list as an interest, then tailors the advertisements accordingly. Sometimes, it's funny, like when I mentioned Highlander, and was deluged with advertisements explaining that my life will finally be complete with the complete series on Blue-Ray.

Sometimes, however, Certain Social Networks need to stop preying on the insecurities of mothers that had babies only four freakin' months ago and stop peddling super cleanse diets or Rachael's Ray's tummy diet, or Oprah's new miracle weight-loss product. Certain Social Networks need to understand that I'm trying my best, but the weight is not coming off as easily the second time around and it's hard to always feel a little too round and a little awkward, and not hot at all. So, when I log on to catch up with people and write my goofy status reports, I really don't need some Certain Social Network to insinuate that my ass is too big. Ahem.

2. I could also do without play dough chunks lodged into my rugs, hangnails, and the knowledge that my infant son is by far the most fashionable member of our household. Not even a contest.

Trash Compactor World.

Owen came down the stairs, into our bedroom, and stood this close to my ear, whispering, "Mommy...Get Up Mommy." It was five AM. I had been asleep for almost forty-five minutes, after feeding Joel. Even after putting Owen back down to bed, I knew that there was no more sleep to be had. Joel would be up shortly. How did I feel? Very depressed.

Paul's working from home today, and we both grumped around all morning. I just feel so trapped...I can't leave the house too much because we're working on Joel's nap schedule, while moving Owen to big-boy pants to get this potty training over with, already. Owen doesn't nap, so I don't have a quiet afternoon time, as I once did. And now, my day is starting three hours early. I feel like that scene in Star Wars, where Luke and Leia are in the giant trash compactor, and the walls just...keep....closing....in. My world is getting smaller, and smaller, and smaller. I'm not reading the papers, I'm not wearing lipstick, and it's not often that I speak a sentence that does not have one of the following words in it: Owen, Mommy, Stop, or It.

So, I took Joel to the gym, had a run, and as always, felt better. Treadmill as Zoloft. I'm going to make a plan---have as many people over here as possible, for both Owen's entertainment and my own. I'll run most days, just to get the dust off of me. I'll continue this blog. I'll look into putting Owen into a "Mom's Day Out" program one day a week, so he's getting something structured during the week and Joel and I can get some focused time together. And, I'll use this gift certificate for a massage ASAP.

I don't like feeling this way, and I don't want my boys to ever think that I resent them, or that I do not treasure the opportunity to be home with them. It's just hard living in a trash-compactor world.