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I totally want to cop out of writing today. I want to say, "Oh screw it," kick back a margarita and ignore my little corner of the blogosphere. I want to do that because I'm having a really crappy week. But, I'm not because I didn't write yesterday and had no better reason than spent-the-whole-day-trying-to-appear-busy. Apparently, the nearly half hour I spent on Twitter was more busy looking than writing a blog post, which at least involves typing and therefore the semblance of busy.

Side note: Is there any usefulness to Twitter at all if you don't have a smartphone? Seriously, if I don't have Twitter through an IV the way I want caffeine and/or tequila right now, is it even worth the bother? I can't imagine it is.

Side-side note: Is there a drink that includes both tequila and caffeine. I'm thinking tequila in coffee would be gross, but I but you could conjur something with Mountain Dew that wasn't totally terrible. In fact, now that I think about it, I do believe that's how they make the margaritas at a Jimmy Buffett concert. Or maybe just green Kool-Aid, who knows?

Side-side-side note: I wonder why 90% of Kool-Aid is red. Off the top of my head, there are two types of blue, one type of orange, one type of purple, 1 clear, 1 yellowish and 37 red. I mean, all that fruit you can use as flavor inspiration and everything ends up being red. Do you all just get a really great deal on red food dye? Because I'd like a couple more varieties of purple. I don't like grape, but I like purple things. So non-grape-purple things make me especially happy.

Side-side-side-side note: Our furnace is out and it's supposed to be 8 degrees tonight. Because I got nothin' but good timing, so I may be purple tomorrow. If I am I'll take a picture. I have a crapload of crochet to do and I can't do it when my hands are half frozen. Although, I do like my purple finger nails, especially since they aren't grape flavored.

Side-side-side-side-side note: I believe that one of the biggest failings on blogger is the lack of picture options. I'd really like a caption option. I'd like a little box under this picture that says, "Me getting ready for bed last night." Because it's funny. And I really made that face. And also because it's a really old picture, so it won't do to just stick it in here like it's relevant to the world and makes any sense. You might think it's Maren. Or that Brynna has some kind of non-growing disease. In any case, I'm sleepy.

Well, I think that's long enough to qualify as a post. Hope you all have a great weekend! I'll be hibernating/avoiding going home/sleeping too long because my room is 90 degrees and the rest of the house is 50/crying in my empty margarita glass, because in other news, my blender won't crush ice anymore.

Me, Being Mean

My mom just sent me an email with the subject line, "Me, Being Mean." I think that is awesome. Wicked awesome, in fact, and I think we should all do it, today. Just take a moment to appreciate ourselves being mean.

Now, because I am not a genuinely mean person, just a kinda mean person, I would never broadcast what my mother included in her email. Likewise, I would never use this world wide platform to snark on people I know, people who know me, or people who don't have people to tell them that I'm just an idiot and to not take it seriously. But I love the snark.

So, the rules of Me, Being Mean:
1. You may only be mean to groups of people or really, really famous people who would never be caught dead reading the blog of a woman who doesn't even own Jimmy Choo's.
2. You may NOT be mean to people based on race, religion, ethnicity, sexual orientation or anything else that's going to piss me off. Example: It's fine to be mean to, say, people who think black and navy match. It's not fine to be mean to Catholics. Okay? Okay.
3. I will be wielding my lordship over this post with an iron hand. If you are too mean, mean to the wrong people or just look at me funny, I will delete your comment. I may or may not send you an email explaining why.
4. This really works best if you are mean about mean people. It assuages your guilt.

Okay, mine:
1. People who think that Shiloh Jolie Pitt is somehow abused by wearing boys clothes: Here's the deal, people. Trying to choose clothing for a three, four or five year old is like trying to dress a pig. If they don't want to wear it, they won't. Brynna went through a period where she refused to wear pants. It was horrific. I would trade it in a nanosecond for a period where she wanted to dress like a boy. You know why? Because boys can climb on crap without showing their panties. They can crawl around on the ground with fabric between the ground and them. They are warm in the winter. Their clothes wash better. I could do this all day. In short, if the kid is wearing nothing but jeans, smile and nod, smile and nod. If you think that girls should wear pink, ruffly things all the time, fine. Dress your girl that way, if you can. But let me assure you, that's why Brynna would only wear skirts, because it's a guaranteed fact that your kids will want to wear whatever you don't want them to wear.

2. People who think that Suri Cruise is somehow abused by wearing heels: See above.

3. People who look at you mean for singing in the car: Okay, dude. My window is up. I'm rockin' out. I know how I look. I look ridiculous. I am the queen of the weirdos here. But, you know what, it's cool, because as soon as my kid gets in the car, I won't even be allowed to WHISPER the lyrics, so I'm rockin' in the free world while it's free. You, you can't hear me. You have no control over me. Quit looking at me like that or I will roll down the widow and crank the Kid Rock and do my absolute worst white girl dance at you. Don't tempt me.

4. People who make fun of me for talking with my hands: Yes, yes, in fact, if you tied my hands down, I would be mute. Thanks for asking. If I took away your asshat card, would you be mute?

5. People who give me the stinkeye for bringing storebought cookies to the pot luck: Hey, yeah, I get it. I could have stayed up all night making homemade cookies. I could have. I would have, except that something in my life has to be simple, so had I done that, me and my entire family would have come to this thing in our PJ's. That's right, no one gets dressed without me. My husband will dress himself, but you better believe that he asked me eight times what to wear today, but not in time for me to get anything specific clean for him, so that mismatched outfit he's sportin'? Only partially my fault. And my oldest? She's capable of dressing herself and I did not pick out that ridiculous Madonna-esque ensemble, but she hasn't dressed herself since the baby came. I doubt seriously if she will dress herself until Maren learns to. Hey, you know, just three more years or so. No, I'm not crying? Why would that make me cry? I can't wait to dress an 8 year old.

Okay, so please, be mean in the comments. Just not too mean. Remember, I'm watching.

Parenting Styles and Parenting Fails

If you know me at all, you know that my super-sensitive-bloggy-topic-that-makes-me-postal is mommy wars. I HATE judgey moms. I refuse to be told how to parent and I am furious when anyone even implies that my choices are somehow the "wrong" choices.

Because I hate being a hypocrite, I try very hard to never judge other mothers. Nobody knows the trouble I've seen and you've got to walk a mile in her sensible yet cute shoes and yadda, yadda, more cliques.

Of course, there is a line. A line where it is no longer a matter of parenting style and a matter of crazy. Obviously, abuse falls below this line. While I still try not to judge abusive parents (because of mental illness, etc), I do judge the action as flat out crazy and wrong.

But there's another type of crazy. The crazy that doesn't make any sense, but isn't abusive or wrong. Just weird. Weird parenting choices that I can't, in my mind, justify. These are the tricky ones for me. I try not to judge, I really do. I don't want to judge, but at the same time, I just don't get it. I just don't.

I had a friend in elementary school who wasn't allowed to wear pants. It was a church thing. Since I went to a church all the time and I wore pants even more than I went to church, I didn't see the connection, but I accepted it. The problem was that in the winter, it's hard to not wear pants, so her family's solution: pants under culottes. Which are technically, kinda pants. This poor kid came to school every single day of the winter in sweat pants layered under homemade solid color cotton culottes. Frankly, I think that's crazy. If you don't want your kid to wear pants, okay, I don't agree, but I get it. But don't solve the pants in the cold problem by making them wear really ugly pants over their um... pants.

I knew a girl in high school who was allowed to spend the night at her boyfriend's house, but was not allowed to curl her hair or wear makeup. That's crazy, folks.

This weekend, though, at that party I was telling you about, I was standing around talking to another parent and they brought out the refreshments. Her face fell and she told me that her daughter had never had fruit juice. Because of the sugar.

She's three.

Then, when the cake came, she said that she had never had a cupcake either and in fact, would not know whether to choose vanilla or chocolate because she had never had anything of either flavor.

*POP* That's the noise my head made when it exploded.

I try to be hyper-aware of other parents' wishes for their children's diets. Because, I get it, I'm a little permissive with the diet. Here's the thing, I believe that I drink so much Kool-Aid as an adult, because I didn't get it as a kid. (I didn't get it as a kid because my mom was allergic to it, not because it was outlawed, I mean I drank Coke. And Big Red. Ah, I love Big Red.) My grandma had this "fake food" rule, that precluded me from eating spaghetti-O's, sugar cereal and certain candies. For instance, Twinkies were fake food and disallowed, but Oatmeal Creme Pies were fine. Healthy even. Because of the oatmeal.

So, nothing is off-limits in the Scattered house. That doesn't mean that I buy everything, because I don't like having junk in the house, so I try to keep our groceries healthy. But, if Brynna is allowed a treat in the gas station and she chooses a Twinkie, a Twinkie will she get. If Maren wants a cookie, and it's appropriately between meals and not too close to bedtime, fine.

I like to teach moderation. I know that's not every parent's prerogative. I know kids who have reached school age without ever touching a french fry. Amazing to me, but since neither of my kids seems to really like fries, I don't particularly worry about it. I know even more kids who reach school age without the magic of carbonation ever crossing their lips. Not so much with us. Some occasions, in my humble estimation, require Coke. Like the movies. Or pizza.

So, I try to account for that when I am planning a menu for other people's rugrats. I offer more than one flavor of cake. I know one little girl who can't have anything pink or red because of an allergic reaction she has to the food dye. I know another kid who can't have chocolate because of the caffeine. Fine. Strawberry, chocolate and white will be offered. I don't serve kids pop, and instead offer up lemonade (usually pink because it's a party, dammit) or Kool-Aid. I avoid anything with nuts at all costs. I try, is what I'm saying, to be reasonable and fair to parents who lay down restrictions for personal, religious, moral or medical reasons.

And frankly, if you want to parent your kid to never let them have sugar, okay. You're the parent, the choice is yours. It's not abusive. It's just weird. It makes me wonder about holidays. What does this precious angel eat for her birthday. What does she leave for Santa? What does she do on Halloween, for the love of all that's good and holy? What does that mom do with the little goodies that come home from school on Valentines?

But what's crazy about this, is that she brought the child to a birthday party. Now, in her defense, I don't think anyone but me at the party knew about angel's restrictions. She let her eat cake. For the first time. At three years of age. At someone else's party. Sorry. I just get going, you know. And wash it down with fruit juice.

But still, you know. Was this a surprise? The cake. At a party. I can't cater to this. I can't offer a choice that will cover this. Okay, kids, you can have chocolate, strawberry, white or carrots. Not carrot cake, carrots with ranch dressing. Yay!! Like that psycho Hidden Valley commercial with the kids at the veggie eating contest.

I don't know. I'm just not down with this. And I think she's a lovely woman and her kid is cuter than pie and I get it. I get the desire for your kids to grow up healthy and live forever and have zero cholesterol, but, I don't know.

The non-judgey part of my brain demands that I not post this. The curious part of my brain demands that I do. The part of my brain that can't think of anything else at all right now, because seriously, exploded head also demands that I post it. So, I will. Because two against one, baby. But I'll be praying that this lovely lady doesn't pick today to find my blog. Because I'll die.

Rules for the Pool

Today I took Brynna to a birthday party at our local public pool. We have a pretty impressive indoor public pool, that I've never been to before today. There's one large pool with lanes for swimming laps and a large diving area. Then there's the other pool, the pool we were in. It has a huge kiddy pool area with 3 large fountains to play in, a lazy river, a whirlpool and a huge water slide. As you can imagine, on a weekend day in Kentucky, the pool wasn't exactly dead. I would never think about going swimming in January, but apparently there are a lot of people who like to think it's summer.

Being at the pool and not having to worry about how terrible I look in a bathing suit (because I was hanging out on the side in my tennies and sweater with the other fuddy duddy parents) and having to only cursorily watch Brynna because she was surrounded by friends and parents and friends and lifeguards, too, I had time to watch people in an unfamiliar habitat.

I am not a pool person. As afore mentioned, I don't really like for people to see me in a bathing suit. In fact, I'm not sure I own one. I mean, I have a maternity suit and while I could get away with wearing a lot of my maternity clothes if I were so inclined, I don't think I have the belly to hold up the two piece I have. I also have just never lived that life. My mom is deathly afraid of water. I didn't inherit the fear, but I did inherit the inability to do more than the dead man's float.

I've just never really watched people at the pool before is what I'm getting at here. So, I have some observations. Understand that none of this should be taken as judgey, because trust me, I would have looked at least twice as bad as the worst looking person there, but people should really emphasize what they got. And people, for the most part, weren't.

So, here are a few tips on bathing suits and how to wear them, from someone who doesn't ever wear one, ever. EVAH!

1. Very few people can pull off a string bikini. You have to have a small enough chest that you don't need the support, because the ties shouldn't look pulled across your back. But you need a little cleavage or you look like a five year old in a bikini. It's weird. Also, you need a butt. Not a big bottom, but enough that it doesn't droop. Because drooping with strings look like it's just not tied tight enough.

2. Don't wear clothes to the pool. I don't care what you look like in a suit. You look better in a suit than in shorts and a wet clingy tee shirt. You see bathing suits were made to get wet, so they do it better than tee shirts, which were not made to get wet. If you feel like you need something like shorts, then invest in board shorts. They make them for a reason. I promise.

3. While a skirt can be slimming and a swim dress can trim more weight than a scalpel, a regular suit with ruffles stuck all over the abdomen is going to make you look pregnant.

4. Do not bring your baby to the pool until they can hold their heads up. Seriously. There's a reason that you couldn't find a premie sized suit.

5. Step in the three way. I can't tell you how many people looked great in their suit from the front and like they were wearing their kid's suit from behind. I'm not sure if that's an epidemic in people or in suit manufacturing, but there's a three way mirror for a reason. Use it.

So, in a completely judge-free zone, what tips do you have for the bathing suit shoppers in the ether?

I'm Not Dead, But If I Was, You Should Question the Creepy Preacher

Yes, I know it's been a while. I apologize. I hate taking unexpected blogging hiatuses. They make me sad. Sometimes, though, you just wake up on Saturday morning and think I really need to write that blog post. I started it, let's see... Tuesday. Tuesday? Tuesday?!? Really? I haven't written anything since Monday? That's terrible. Ohmygoodness.

So, Monday night (I think) I was watching an episode of Bones. It may have been a rerun or it may have been a new episode. It would help if I could remember what night it was. Anyway, I think Zack was in it, which makes it a rerun. Unless he's back from the insane asylum. Which, I don't know. I think they would have hyped that enough that I would know about it.

Anyway.

I thought to myself, "Well, it's got to be the creepy preacher." And guess what. It was the creepy preacher. The creepy preacher is practically a horror/crime standby now. Along with the cheerful nurse and the cute kid. I'm telling you, there is just a certain level of cuteness in a kid that spells psycho killer. I'm glad that my kids are cute, really cute, but not that cute. We have a lack of dimples for one thing. Dimples are always a bad sign. I'm telling you, Brynna is precious, but if she had dimples, I would sit up every night waiting for her to sneak in my room with a butcher knife. And I don't even own a butcher knife.

Which got me thinking, "Why is it always the preacher or the kid?" I came up with a few theories. A couple serious and a couple totally wackadoodle, which is how life should be. Half serious and half wackadoodle.

1. It's ironic. And not in the Alanis Morrisette way. You see, it's ironic because as a culture, we expect kids and preachers to be good people. So, when they start bumping people off, it's ironic. Because it's unexpected. Except, as I demonstrated watching Bones, it's not really unexpected anymore. It's expected. I think Children of the Corn was the last straw, personally. A creepy child preacher. It's not ironic anymore. Frankly, it would now be ironic to have the kids be cute, crayon-coloring harmless creatures and the preachers to be good people trying to help out. Because no one expects that anymore.

2. It seems nicer to be slaughtered by a kid. Because, you know, kids are nice. And cute helps. If you're going to diced into a million pieces for someone's amusement, at least the view should be nice at the end. Of course, preachers aren't always attractive. In fact, they're really only attractive in romantic comedies. So, I can't explain that one.

3. A killer child (or preacher) represents our failure. Face it, if your kid starts playing Norman Bates at three, you've probably messed something up big time. Now, I'm not saying it's always the parent's fault or anything, but there's probably something there. Likewise, if a preacher is secretly storing seventeen year old girls in his basement for a rainy day, then someone in that church should have seen the crazy. In the larger sense, it's our failure as a society. We allow children to feed on whatever elements of culture strike their fancy. We tolerate cult behavior under the guise of freedom of religion and so here we are. Blood covered toddlers and mace wielding pastors. It's a bad thing.

4. We all secretly live in fear of our children. Think about it. Who else would we spend half of our life tip toeing around to keep from waking them. Feeding them constantly. Why? Could it be because we fear they'll eat us if we don't. Perhaps.

There you have it, a brief analysis of some crap no one ever thinks about but me. You're welcome.

Happy MLK and a Winner is Born

So, today is a holiday. School is closed and so is Non-Disclosed Nonprofit, so here I am. Hanging out with the kids. Who may or may not be driving me crazy.

We're going to make a cake. Because if there are two things on this planet that Brynna loves doing, it's baking and celebrating. So, since it's a holiday, we're making a Martin Luther King Cake. Which, is, I know, kinda weird.

I tried talking to her about why we celebrate MLK day last night. I didn't get far. The fact is that to a five year old who is drawn to children who are different to her, the fact that people once hated and did evil things to people different from them is weird. The fact that a war had to be faught, marches had to be marched, speaches spoke, and minds changed for people to treat each other with respect is sort of beyond her ken.

And the idea that it was once revolutionary (may still be revolutionary) for people to try to change the world with peace rather than fighting. Well, since she goes to school and resolves conflicts by holding a ceramic dove, she kinda doesn't get that either.

What makes this so hard is knowing how much a five year old should know. I want her to know the history. To see the larger implications of deciding that our differences are worth more than our similarities. I want her to know that it's not just about the past, but about the future too. It's about learning from the injustices of our past and translating that to treating people fairly in our future.

But I also don't want her to know. I don't want her to know that there was a time she wouldn't have been allowed to go to school with some of her friends. A time, in fact when those friends wouldn't have been able to go to school at all. I don't want her to know about the horrible things that would have been said about those friends.

So, today we bake a cake. In honor of a man who sought to solve an old problem with peace. And Brynna wrote a song (which is, in honor of full disclosure, as much about cake as peace or justice Dr. King). And we'll go on for a little longer not knowing what hate really means. Thinking it is how Brynna feels about chicken vegetable soup, or about me when I punish her. It's okay. For today.
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On a different note, thanks to random.org, I declare the delurk winner to be Suze. So, Suze, please let me know what color scarf you would like, or send me a picture of your winter coat and I'll surprise you. Congrats Suze!!

Miscelaney, Ranting, Giveawaying and Awards

First of all, it's Delurking day, so Delurk already! Seriously, I want my comments to equal my stats for today, or I'll be mad. Or something. Oh, hey, I know... A giveaway! So, y'alls know I'm broke and stuff, but how about a giveaway of a fabulous scarf, color chosen by winner, hand crocheted by blog mistress and delivered before it gets this cold again. Even if you live in the Southern hemisphere! How about that? Good? Good. To enter just comment. About any of my rantings, here. Enter by, oh, I don't know... Sunday. Does Sunday sound good? Sure, Sunday. Enter by Sunday and I'll use one of those nifty online random number generators. It'll be fun. I promise.
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Second of all, my mommy blogging compatriot, Cindy at Consider the Lilies gave me an award. I have summarily ignored it. Not because I don't appreciate it, because I really, really do. You know, I am always amazed that people read this drivel. It's really just me prattling on, most days. You could just move in with me. Of course, then you'd have to eat my cooking and you couldn't ever turn it off... Anyway, upshot, I am super-thrilled to have an award. But I've ignored it because I don't really know who to tag.

So, anyway, here it is: The Official Rules...

1) List 10 things that make you happy, and try to do at least one of them today.
2) Tag 10 bloggers that brighten your day.
3) If you are one of those 10 lucky (happy) bloggers who get the award, link back to my blog and create your happy list!

1. Things that Make me Happy
1. Coke, 2. Chocolate, 3. My kids laughing, 4. Rain, 5. New shoes, 6. My computer working, 7. My kids sleeping, 8. Supernatural on TV and a crochet project in my hand, 9. Bookclub, 10. Reading with no interruptions.

2. Bloggers Who Brighten My Day
1. Stinkbumps the Wonder Boy, 2. Madtown Mamma, 3. Sweetwater Journal, 4. Bourbon in my Bottle, 5. Life Begins, 6. Sleepless in KL, 7. Glory Be, 8. Where Your Treasure Is, 9. Confessions of a Sassaholic, 10. The Blog to Nowhere. Consider yourselves tagged. And Stuff. And don't feel bad if you feel the need to ignore this for a while. Or even ever. Believe me, I'll understand.
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Thirdly, I have this issue with my blog. You see, I try to keep it thematic. I don't go off all that often on my politics or my faith or the books I read or whatever, because I'm trying to make this sort of fit a niche. I don't know what that niche is, but I like it to fill this hole I've dug for it in my head. So, sometimes, things strike me and I want to write about them because I care about them, but I don't because I care about the thing that I'm doing here.

I consider it self-editing. I don't normally feel all that bad about ignoring something because it doesn't fit what I do. But sometimes I have to open my mouth and let stuff come out. Or fingers. Which, when you think about it, is kinda gross. Anyway, here goes.

I have been devastated by what's going on in Haiti. I don't know why. I can't describe why this disaster has hit me so much more emotionally than any other terrible earthquake, tsunami, hurricane, random natural disaster. Possibly because I have an inexplicable and irrational fear about earthquakes (irrational because I live in Kentucky, not because they shouldn't be feared). Perhaps because it seems so close. Perhaps because I can't imagine the fear and horror that most of those people are experiencing, but I can try and trying may drive me to insanity.

I firmly believe that when things like this strike, you have to do what you can. Anything you can and then move on. You can't spend hours, days or weeks being consumed by what you can't do. And what I can do right now is not much. I don't have a lot of cash to donate, although I'll drop my pennies in the proverbial bucket. I don't have a lot of power or influence. I can't go to Haiti and even if I could, I don't know what I would do when I got there. I don't really know what to do, except pray and hope.

I don't really have a platform. I mean, this is it. This space where I ramble and prattle about nothing serious and everything silly. Where I talk about Doctor Who and my grandmotherly instincts. But, I have to do with my little platform what I can. Here are a few places you can drop whatever pennies you have to help those in Haiti: Doctors without Borders, The Red Cross, and World Vision. I am sure there are many others and I am sure that wherever you choose to drop your pennies, they will make a difference.

That said, I have to further devolve into the land of Things Of Which I Don't Speak to say: Shame, shame on Pat Robertson. I am constantly amazed at how people of faith with power are so capable of forgetting the primary tenants of our faith. Help others, don't judge, treat others as you would be treated. If I were a better person, I would hope that Mr. Robertson never finds himself needing help and hearing such horrible, discriminatory, hateful remarks. I am not a better person. In fact, I am a worse person and have this to say: "Judging by the ridiculously substandard "news" presented on the 700 Club, I am sure that they have made a deal with the devil to keep it on air. I do hope that it doesn't result in the earth caving in beneath their feet."
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Now, I should have given you plenty of fodder with that last little tidbit, so comment, delurk and be merry. For tomorrow you may be doing it in a fabulous new scarf.

And Get Off of My Lawn, Too, You Whippersnappers

I have often mocked The Husband for premature aging. Before we even had children, we lived next door to a family, who on the night of the youngest's high school graduation, had a party. There was music and drunk kids in the yard and it was all very harmless. He laid in bed all night long and grumbled about their music being too loud. I chuckled softly at the old man I had married.

Then, when we first moved to Sadieville, a teenager down the street from us had his party busted by the cops. Right before the fuzz showed up, the kids went flying out of there, mostly turning around in our front yard. While I giggled and settled in to watch the show, The Husband paced and complained about people driving in our yard. (Just to clarify, we have a lovely green lawn that is more weeds than grass and almost entirely not landscaped, it's not like they were damaging anything. Except my precious, prize-winning dandelions.)

I pride myself on not exhibiting this kind of old lady nonsense. (Of course, I complain about new music and wonder about the attention span of youth, but I have never, NEVER, lectured a McDonald's employee about making change.) Today, though, I must do it. I must unleash my inner blue-hair. With the following unoriginal diatribe.

Put on a damn coat, you idiot. Seriously, what is wrong with the youth of today?!?

Yesterday, I drove by a wreck near the high school. Two young girls were huddled together on the side of the road while the police checked out the damage. One wore a long sleeved t-shirt and a down vest and the other wore (wait for it, wait for it) a nearly see-through sweater and a spaghetti strap tank top. It was seven degrees. I really don't think I'm exaggerating. It may have gotten up to like twelve.

Today, I watched as a girl in her late teens walked into a doughnut shop wearing a skirt with no leggings and long sleeved tee shirt and a scarf. That's it. Today, I believe it was in the 20's.

Now, okay, I get it. Coats are so uncool. Coats were uncool when I was in school, too. I mean, there's just not that much that can be done with one stylistically. And that's okay. I get suffering in the name of fashion. I own high heeled boots. But frankly, there is a level of suffering that is acceptable (high heeled boots) and there is a level that is not (no coat in sub-freezing temperatures).

Despite the horrific uncoolness of coats when I was a teenager, we wore one. Why? Oh, I don't know. Maybe it was because we had parents. Perhaps it was because we had the sense to not turn purple. Maybe it was because we loved the continuation of our lives more. I don't know.

What I do know is that my fine state is setting records in low temperatures. So, please, for the love of all that's good and holy, get a freakin' coat. Put it on your body. Button, snap or zip it up. Rest well in the knowledge that you look great under said coat. Live with it.

Hermitage

At some point in my life, I had a dream. My dream was odd.

I dreamed of living on a mountain top in Vermont. Alone. Very alone. I dreamed of being a hermit. I wanted a house with lots of windows so I could see the maple sap and the trees turning and the snow. I wanted to write and never leave the house. I imagined that my only acquaintance would be the local boy that I hired to deliver my groceries.

That dream died a slow and painful death. First I realized that you have to do something other than just write to afford that house with the big windows and the mountain in Vermont. Then, I realized that I don't really like to be alone all the time. Then I got married and had kids and the dream was gone.

Or was it? It seems that a glimmery piece of that dream lives on. A tiny little smidgen of it that I still imagine in my mind's eye and smile over. The only part of it that holds much appeal for me right now.

The local boy.

Where, oh where, is my local boy with my groceries. Where, dammit!

Can you tell, it's grocery day. Grocery day with the stupid car carts and the list and the crowds of people and the screaming children (mine of course) and the figuring out if it's cheaper this week to buy a gallon of milk or two half gallons and wondering why it changes.

I hate grocery day. With the passion of a thousand suns. I cannot describe my utter loathing for grocery day.

Which is why it seems to be on Tuesday, because grocery day is supposed to be on Saturday, but who wants to ruin a weekend with it.

And so, on afternoons such as these, afternoons when I have put off making a list for the better part of the day, afternoons where I question whether we can survive without milk, bread, butter, sugar, juice or any kind of meat at all. These afternoons, I close my eyes and I picture a beautiful young boy with kind eyes and a red backwards baseball cap, who drives his beat up car up my long, winding drive to deliver my groceries.

He smiles, unloads his car, puts away my items and waits while I get his weekly wages. I work furiously, unfettered by the droning tasks of normalcy, then relax when he is gone, have a glass of wine and cook a simple, yet elegant dinner for one.

The dream lives on.

Worst Weekend Ever

So, I was snowbound for almost three days, my husband lost his job, the computer broke (making finding a new one a wee bit difficult) and my car door broke. I may or may not have also stood up my dentist.

So, since I am incapable of thought, can't post at home until my computer gets fixed and forgot to bring pictures for crochet posts, I have a meme!

(Thank you Ann and Everett!)

I. Worst Four Memories of 2009
1. Going back to work after maternity leave
2. Losing Marley-Bones
3. Swine Flu
4. This messy night

II. Best Eight Memories of 2009:
1. Listening to Maren begin to talk
2. Brynna's last first day of Montessori
3. Book club - all of them
4. Watching Scott County almost win state in football
5. Maren's first steps
6. Taking Brynna to see The Princess and the Frog
7. Peggy's Preakness party
8. Taking the girls to the Sweet Corn Festival

III. Four Biggest Accomplishments
1. Joined Twitter
2. Didn't kill anybody
3. Stayed married
4. Whatever - I suck. I have no accomplishments

IV. Biggest Failures
1. Didn't get mother of the year
2. Failed to kill someone.
3. Failed to get a DVR like the rest of the world.
4. Whatever, I don't have failures either. At least I'm 0 for 0.

V. Favorite 4 Movies seen in the theatre in 2009:
1. Watchmen
2. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
3. District 9
4. The Spirit
I'm amazed I can come up with 4.

VI. Favorite 5 Non-fiction books read in 2009
1. Crochet in style.
2. Have I mentioned I don't really read nonfiction.
3. I mean, I want to because it's good for you and all, but eh. I just don't.
4. I thought about it some, though.
5. Oooh! Bluegrass Conspiracy. Yay! I thought of one!

VII. 5 Favorite Fiction Books read in 2009
1. The Aunt Dimity series
2. Ordinary People
3. Just After Sunset
4. My Big Fat Supernatural books
5. Watchmen

VIII. Favorite Fiction/Non-fiction hybrid book of 2009
1. I can't believe this is a category. I don't even know what this means.

IX. 4 Goals for 2010 (I've got lots of these but here are 4)
1. Take the GRE
2. Get the house clean and keep it that way
3. Start walking
4. Learn to knit

X. Song of 2009: "Party in the USA." Yes, I know what you are thinking, but you've got to see Brynna sing it and do her little dance. Totally worth it.

XI. 4 TV Show of 2009
1. Glee
2. Supernatural
3. Burn Notice
4. Doctor Who

Just a Little Tweak

I'm not sure why I didn't come up with this sooner, but we've gone back to the new look, which I really like. I hope you guys do too. But we've changed the comment form. Now everything seems to work, although I miss the embedded comments, but whatever.

By the way, I'm using the royal we in this post because WE solved this problem all by OURSELVES with no fancy schmancy tech support. Suck it!

But It's Important to Me

Last night was rough. I was supposed to go to bed early, but I couldn't because I was too busy dealing with my broken blog. Which is still broken. I don't even know how to fix it. I'm so desperate.

Anyway. The Husband was mad at me. The whole night. For trying to fix my blog.

See, he doesn't "get" my blog. He doesn't read it. He doesn't want to read it. If I mention it, he says, "Well, I'd rather talk to you than read stuff you write. I mean, you've probably already told me everything in there anyway." And apparently, he doesn't care that it's broken.

I can't tell you how much this hurts me. We don't really get each other a lot. I mean, he hates crocheted anything. He would never, ever wear anything I made for him and he doesn't like for me to make things for the kids to wear. So, he doesn't get it.

I don't get video games. It doesn't make sense to me how you can sit on the floor for hours playing some weird game.

But this. This he should get. He's a writer too, and he should understand that writers want to be read. That it's sort of the whole thing about writing. But he doesn't. And he doesn't want to.

And really, I have no point here. I just want to whine about it. I want to complain about he should get it. He should care. He should be here reading this, but he isn't. He won't be. He refuses to be. Because he wants me to tell him.

But there are things, special things, heartfelt things, that you can't just say. I can't tell him any of this for instance, or how grateful I was about that Doctor Who marathon, or how overwhelmed I was by something that Brynna didn't do. I can't say any of those things and if I did, it would sound stupid. Mushy tripe. But I can write it. Writing it is different. It's transcendent. It's important.

The act of writing is what makes me a writer. I struggle with it all the time. And mostly, I don't call myself a writer, because I don't write enough and I don't feel I deserve it. But this space, this instant publishing wonderland, gives me a gift. The gift of writing. The gift of publishing. The gift of readers. The gift of feedback. It's special.

And it pains me that he doesn't get that.

New Look - FAIL

I was so afraid that everyone hated me!!

Thanks Suze for letting me know that comments weren't working properly. I might have never figured it out.

In the meantime, don't get used to this new look. It sucks, it's temporary. Nothing works right, but I am going to need a little more time than I have right now to fix it. Maren needs pajamas and bed. In the meantime, everyone bear with me.

I wish I had a tech team.

The Scariest Word

For most of my life, the worst word, the worst insult, the worst thing to be was normal. I hated normal. Normal was boring and sad and pedestrian. I didn't want to dress normal or talk normal or read normal or listen normal or care normal. I wanted to dress weird, talk weird, read weird things, listen to weird music and care about weird things. I fought to separate myself from normal.

I know now that my rebellion was still normal. And that even if it hadn't been. Even if I was rebelling when no one else was, I was rebelling in all the normal ways. I didn't dress like the "normal" kids, but I didn't dress like no one else, I dressed like the "weird" kids. I found cultural identity while trying to shed cultural identity.

Even now, I don't want to be called normal. When the doctor tells me my thyroid levels are "in the range of normal," I bristle. I don't want to be normal. I want to be excellent. Different. Better, smarter, crazier, prettier, better. I don't want to read best sellers because that's what normal people read. I don't want to listen to music on the radio because that's what normal people listen to. I still haven't outgrown my intense and overwhelming desire to be something else. Something spectacular. Something different. Something weird.

Being a mother gives me a new perspective on normal, though.

When Brynna had her hearing tested after her ear surgery and the doctor said it was back in the range of normal, I nearly cried with joy. When her teacher says that her stress over social interactions at school is normal I breathe a sigh of relief. When she struggles with something, I want to know if that's normal. When she fights something I want to know if that's normal.

I have looked up each and every milestone she has reached to make sure her timing was normal. I have queried on bulletin boards and asked, "Is this normal?" I have read stories of others' children and thought, "Brynna does/doesn't do that. Is she normal?"

I used to read a blog about a little girl who had SPD and I would think about all the things that this little girl and my little girl had in common and wonder if Brynna had SPD. Was she going to struggle? Would she be normal?

Today, I read a post on Girls Gone Child about siblings. I cried. And I cried. And then I cried some more. Not because I get it. I don't. I was 13 when my only sibling was born. But, because I read this story of a boy who loves his sister pushing her into a table and I felt, "Oh. It's normal. What Brynna does is normal. Their relationship is normal. It's all going to be okay, because thank God, they are normal."

I have worried for months about their relationship. About the jealousy (on both parts, Maren won't let me read to Brynna without pounding on her door), about the outbursts, the anger, the frustration, the hurt.

Last night, at the grocery, Maren bit Brynna. Hard. Left teeth marks. For a moment, I thought she had broken skin. Brynna cried, demanded a band-aid, extorted a chocolate bar. But she wasn't mad at Maren. "Her teeth probably hurt," she said, "She wouldn't have done it if she had her paci."

I underestimate Brynna. Time and time again, I think I know what she will do, how she will react. "I know my kid." I reassure myself. And time and time again, she surprises me. She acts with patience and forgiveness when I wait for revenge. She acts with kindness when I expect callousness. She is so much more than I expect her to be.

She is beautiful. Heartbreakingly beautiful. She is kind. Most of the time. She is smart. Worrisome smart. She is creative. More creative than I have ever been. She is a writer. An artist. A craftsman. An intellectual. A questioner. A fighter. A peacemaker. A warrior. A determined soul. A sponge. An elegant lady. A tree climber. A tom boy. A girly girl. An angel. A troublemaker.

Ask Brynna what she wants to be when she grows up and she will shrug and say, "Lots of things." The list includes, but is not limited to astronaut, singer, teacher, mother, dog groomer, vet, ballerina, princess, cowgirl, firegirl (the Brynna-ized female fireman). I want to tell her. I want to make sure she knows that she doesn't have to wait until she's grown up to be lots of things. She is lots of things now. She is so much. So much.

So much more than normal. So much better than normal. I look at her and I see the kind of abnormal I always wanted to be.

News Flash - Second Child Syndrome Not Always a Bad Thing

So, I have SCS (Second Child Syndrome) pretty bad. I don't remember to take pictures of Maren, I occasionally forget to order food for her at restaurants. My diaper bag that was always stuffed to brimming with extra outfits, bottles, cups, snacks, wipes and toys now carries a bottle of Tylenol and a burp cloth.

She's over a year old and I haven't even BOUGHT her baby book yet. It's sad, really.

But today, I figured out the up side to SCS. It has reduced my fear level. You may remember that when Brynna got her ear tubes just over a year ago, I was a quivering mass. I was a nervous wreck. I failed to sleep and I freaked out. Partly because she was deaf, partly because my baby (4 year old) was undergoing surgery, and partly because I was a pregnant ball of hormones.

In any case, Maren is undergoing the same surgery Thursday morning. And I... I am not a bit worried and I kinda keep forgetting to ask for the time off. I know, I know, it's ridiculous and horrible and I suck as a mom, but wow, this is going to be way easier without hyperventilating in the waiting room.

We'll Always Have Sci Fi

This weekend, there was a Doctor Who marathon on BBC America. I love Doctor Who. I especially love the tenth doctor. I can't wait to meet the eleventh, but I will always love the tenth.

So, I endeavored to watch it. I honestly thought I would be lucky to get in 2 episodes. But, I found out something fascinating. Brynna likes Doctor Who.

That means that The Husband is outnumbered and I can watch it all the time, now.

It also means that I have finally got something in common with my kid. We don't like the same music. We don't like the same shows. We don't like the same clothes or colors or princesses. We don't really have much in common at all. We both like purple. That's pretty much it.

But, now, we both like Doctor Who.

It's more than just having something in common, too. I feel like I have baptized her to Sci Fi. I feel like this is the first step to a greater geekiness. Someday, she'll watch Serenity with me. Someday, we trade Dresden novels and I will give her my collection edition of the Hitchhiker "Trilogy." Someday, we'll snark over the love/hate relationship that Hollywood has with Phillip K. Dick and someday we'll daydream about Comic-Con.

I wouldn't say that SciFi is my life or even my passion. In fact, given the choice, I would choose horror. And that's always been a gap between us. See, Brynna hates to be scared. She's never going to watch The Exocist with me. Never. I know that kids grow up and change and yadda, yadda. But some things don't change, some things are personality traits and I may be wrong, but I just don't see it.

But, now we have SciFi. Now we have something to share. A whole world (or rather millions of alternate universes) to explore together. To trade and discuss and wonder. She's my girl. And I'm her mom. And we love Sci Fi.

And Maren? Maren'll be watching The Exorcist with me in no time.

A New Year, A New Look

I'd like a full makeover for me, a la What Not to Wear. I have this secret love for Nick. It seems that there is someone else on the website, though, so I'm done. You all have missed your window, I'm no longer interested. Of course, Stacy and Carmindy are almost worth the trip and the tears. Anyway, I digress.

Since no one is paying me $5,000 for a new wardrobe and supplying me with a team to give me a hairdo that actually fits my face and teaches me to put on makeup in less than 3 minutes, because that's pretty much all the time I have in the average morning... Oh crap, that sentence really got away from me and I digress again.

I thought that the next best thing would be a new look for the blog. I'm quite impressed and I hope you are too. Someday, I hope to have other pages, you know an about, contact, yadda-yadda. The kind of thing that people who pay for their blogs have.

But, since I can't pay for my blog, I won't be getting those things today.

Let me know what you think.

And just so this isn't totally blogging about blogging which makes my head hurt, I'm putting most of the craft meme stuff in the mail today. One thing will be hand delivered and I have to work out when and how to do that, but everything else is hitting the mail today. If you are one of the lucky few, start looking out.

Once you receive your item, please let me know. I want to make sure you get it, and I want to post on the final projects, too. Thanks and love you all.

Sleep

As you might know, sleep is the most precious commodity imaginable in a house with children. People have died over sleep deprivation issues. The complication to this is that sleep deprivation in the child-filled house only has a passing relationship to whether or not the children are sleeping.

For instance, last night, Maren was awake from 1 until 1:15, from 4:15 until 4:30 and from 5:50 until 5:52. That's a grand total of 32 minutes. Brynna slept through the night. So, if I spent 8 1/2 hours in bed, then I should have gotten approximately 8 hours of sleep, subtracting the 32 minutes that Maren was awake. Correct? No.

Actually, I was awake from 1 until 1:55, because I had to stay in the rocking chair until she was completely asleep so she wouldn't wake up when I put her back down. Then I dozed off, then woke up and had to sit still until my foot woke up, then moved her to the crib, got back in bed and stared at the ceiling for a while.

Repeat at 4:15. Then at 6ish, I got up, got Maren and brought her to bed with me. She immediately went back to sleep and I spent the remaining 2 and a half hours half sleeping and trying not to smother my child in her sleep. So, really, I only had 4 and a half hours of good sleep and 2 hours of half sleep.

The Husband, on the other hand, didn't get up with Maren at all, but woke up at 7 and couldn't get back to sleep because he is in the habit of getting up at 5:30. Which is also, by the way, why Maren woke up at 5:50. Her clock runs a tad slow.

So today, the adults are all in a half-life type of haze. If the children were smart enough to stage a coup, this would be the day to do it. Of course, this day isn't all that different from all the others, so really any day would do. They could take over the house in ten minutes flat.

Brynna's probably not the "bloodless" type when it comes to coups, but if she promised us naps every afternoon, we would consider her a benevolent leader and not try to wrest back control. I assume she would lead the charge, being as she's the oldest and capable of speech.

Of course, if Maren led the charge, we'd get two naps a day and an 8:00 bedtime, which might be the downfall of her kingdom. If we were well-rested, we might just be good parents and get everything back together.

So, I guess the lesson of today's post is that when you overthrow a government, you should be kind to its citizens, but not too kind. Too kind will get you overthrown right back.