Five Things on Friday: Housekeeping Edition

Sometimes I am overwhelmed with the desire to yell, "Am I the only person who lives here?" I try to control that urge and not yell it, because obviously, I am not. If I were the only person living there, there would never be food under beds or socks in the couch cushions. There would never be three day old cereal and milk in the bathroom (?!?) or towels soaked in lemonade in peoples' beds. I would never have to listen to someone whine about having no clean socks for two solid weeks, while I washed every single white item I could find, only to discover that all their socks were stuffed together into a box underneath their bedskirt - like a self-defeating hoarder.

Of course, there are things I would miss if I lived alone. I'm sure. My mom tells me that an empty house is sad, and I am forced to believe her because she's been there and I have not. But that is not for me to focus on today. Today, I shall share

5 Things that The People I Live with Do to Annoy Me


1. The toilet paper roll thing - In a fit of absolute, positive typicalness, I am going to rant against people who never replace the toilet paper roll. Here's the thing: how hard is it? I mean really. You're already sitting there. It's right beside you. What do you have better to do? Are you somehow too busy to pop the old roll off, toss it in the general direction of the trash can and place the new roll on? Is it saving you milliseconds to just toss the new roll up there in that basket on the back of the toilet? You know, the one that I can't reach, because it's behind me. Yeah, that one. I swear, I could spend hours and hours, days and days expounding on the virtues of changing the roll. I once went on strike. I refused to change the roll for two months. Do you know what happened? No one changed the roll for two months. Seriously. And no one suffered but me, the one with the short little T Rex arms who can't reach the basket directly behind her back.

2. The Bathroom Sink - Right now, my bathroom sink looks terrible. I've gone in there to clean it three times and I keep just walking back out. Because I'm so frustrated I could scream. I thought that after having to clean out the sink trap because it had completely quit draining, my delightful husband would stop trying to wash the tiny bits of hair he shaves off his head down the drain. I was wrong. Of course, he doesn't try all that hard, so most of it is left for me in the bowl of the sink. All stuck with soap suds and disgust. Add to that the blobs of toothpaste that my children refuse to just rinse away that turn to aqua blue (glittery!) concrete and the soggy cat food (no I am not making this up), and you can see why I would rather let my head explode than clean the freakin' sink.

3. Packed suitcases - My kids love to pack their suitcases. They routinely do it for even one night at a grandmother's. And they want to do it themselves. I usually go check and make sure they have stuff like underwear and socks, but I mostly let them. Because it's one more thing I don't have to do and because I am totally going to have to unpack that suitcase. Here's the thing - packing is not easy. You have to remember what you need, what the place you are going will probably have, what the weather difference will be like. Unpacking, on the other hand is a cinch. You fish out your toothbrush, toothpaste, detangler and hairbrush and then you just dump all the rest in the hamper. Honestly, it only takes a second. But my kids just put their completely packed suitcases away in the closet. And because they each have two hairbrushes, toothpbrushes etc, so if they leave one somewhere we aren't screwed, I don't notice until I am tearing apart the basement trying to find Brynna's one and only plain white shirt that she has to wear with the cheetah jacket or she's going to diiiieeeee. Or Maren's Kai Lan panties which she must have for tomorrow because "We don't PEEE on Kai Lan!!"

4. Organizing the toy bins - I'll admit, my kids are pretty good about putting their toys in the correct bins - when they put their toys away. Too often we shuffle them off to bed without making them put them up because we've lost track of time and we're annoyed and headachey and please, please, please, just go to bed and let us watch grown-up TV and read and relax and have conversation that doesn't involve poop or that one time of Wizards of Waverly Place... And then The Husband comes along and picks them all up and dumps them in one bin. The wrong one. And the next thing I know, Brynna has dumped her entire My Little Pony bin on the floor and is crying because she can't find Rarity and Maren is rooting through her toy bins trying to find the rest of her mega blocks and there are fourteen crayons in the puzzle bin. I don't know why I can't explain to everyone that cleaning up the mess by putting things in the wrong place - just causes a bigger mess. Just take a second and put the stupid Littlest Pet Shops in this bin and the My Little Ponies in that bin and the Little People in the one over there. How hard is that? Also, when will toy manufacturers come up with something that doesn't involve the world little - we get it. Toys are for kids.



So, what are the little things you'd like a little help with? Do you ever, like me, swear that they are trying to drive you over the edge one toilet paper roll at a time?

Blogging my Adoration

Have you met the Pioneer Woman? I cannot say enough good things about this woman and her blog. She is warm, funny and real. She is the kind of person I want to be but fail at: she bakes, she homeschools, she gardens. I would love to do any of those things, but I don't. I don't even try, really. Unless you count my pathetic attempts at a flower bed each year. Which you shouldn't. I'm pretty sure it's not gardening unless your flowers are more plentiful and taller than your weeds.

In any case, she wrote a cookbook. A cookbook that I looked at with adoration. You see, my grandma has this addiction to cookbooks. She owns an entire four shelf book case full. I'm pretty sure she has a recipe for every food ever invented. Even aspic. *yech* I inherited said disease. I love cookbooks, but my criteria are a little different from hers. My cookbooks should include recipes that I intend to cook (at least one) and should have lots and lots of mouth-watering, yummy looking pictures. I need pictures. That's how I decide what to cook.

Pioneer Woman's cookbook has recipes that I intend to cook, a couple that I already have and LOTS of pictures. Of the mouth-watering variety. My mommy bought it for me for Christmas.

Then, Pioneer Woman wrote a book about how she and her husband (Marlboro Man) met and fell in love and my mom (who will tell you she reads historical fiction but really reads historical romance) went head over heels and HAD to have it. Then PW went on a book tour.

And came to Cincy. Have I ever mentioned how much I love Cincinnati? I really do. It's only about an hour away from me and there is something wonderful about that city. I love the architecture and the skyline and the feeling that everything has just been built sort of haphazardly, wherever there's room. Also, the bridges. If you like bridges, Cincy is heaven on Earth. And I love bridges.

See all those phones, that's
everyone taking a picture
all at the same time.
Trips me out every time.

So, mom and I headed up. We got there early. Really, really early. Because I thought we should. I thought people would be staking out a spot really early. Boy howdy was I wrong. So, we got to spend four hours in a bookstore, which was, of course, bliss. Except for my back. Remember when bookstores had comfy chairs instead of hard wooden benches. Of course it's better than one bookstore I won't name who only has three chairs in the entire freakin' store so you end up sitting on the ground. Will someone please explain to bookstore owners that we like to hang out there and we should be provided with a comfy place to do so. Thanks.

This is the spot we staked
out in SciFi. 

The signing was in Joseph-Beth Booksellers which is sort of a regional independent bookstore. There are four stores in Ohio, Kentucky and Tennessee. And they are far superior to any other bookstore we have around. Far superior. I have loved Joe-Beth (as we call it) since I was in high school and I can tell you this, they know how to do book signings. You had to get a line letter in order to have something singed. And in addition to giving the store an idea of what to expect, it also gave us time to not be standing. Each letter had about 25 people assigned to it and you didn't have to line up until they got to your letter. So, the standing time was greatly reduced and we got to stake out a nice spot to sit. With a bench, that didn't have a back. Have I mentioned that the one and only downside to this entire trip was my poor, aching back? Oh, I have. Okay, then. Moving on.

Pioneer Woman speaking...
in the pitch dark, apparently.

Anyway. Pioneer Woman finally (right on time) came out and spoke for a minute about how much she hates to speak. Which was precious. She talks just like she writes which is rambly and fun. Then there were questions and answers. And then we lined up for the book signing/personal meeting part. I've never met a celebrity and although I'd like to think that I'm all cool and chatty and just ignoring that you are famous, I was terrified that I would be crazy-fan-girl and never stop talking. So, I kinda never started. I completely froze up. I couldn't remember a single thing I thought I would tell her. About how I had eaten a gallon of her gazpacho by myself because no one in my family would try it. About how I thought her kids were too cute for words, especially Petunia. About how much she inspires me with her photography and her cooking and her willingness to try anything at least once. And her jewelry. I love her jewelry. I don't really wear jewelry, but she makes me want to try.

That's me, Ree and my mom. See how tiny she is.
Don't let all her jokes about Spanks fool you. 

This does not bode well for when I finally meet Adam Duritz or Jensen Ackles. Heaven help me, I probably will just stare and drool at Jensen, unable to form even a single world. "Hi," I may mutter, numbly hoping that someone hits me with a bus to save me from this misery. Of course, I may never actually meet Jensen Ackles, which would be sad, but at least I'd never have an opportunity to embarrass myself like that.

The One in Which I Ramble Incoherently

Did you watch Friends? Of course you did. Even if you say you didn't, you probably did. Nielsons don't lie. In any case, my favorite thing about Friends was that the titles were always "The One Where..." I love that. That's how we all talk about it anyway, right? The one where Joey does something stupid and Rachel and Ross are angsty! Or something.

My car is broken again. My car is nearly always broken. I'd make a list of all things that have been wrong with my car since I got duped into buying it from a major area dealership which seemed all reputable, but turned out to be agents of Satan, except I would find it utterly depressing. Here is my advice to you - Ford Windstars suck. I've never called out a brand like that here before, but alas, I can no longer stand it. I love the idea of my car, but the actualness of my car and its constant state of nearly running, but not well and oh look, my window won't go down - AGAIN is killing me. In any case, it seems to be the transmission this time, which is ridiculously important. And, in my experience, expensive. So, all that stuff I said about my dryer before I fixed it myself - apply that here, because I can't even begin to fix a transmission. I was just early, was all.

I've been doing a lot of crafting - like more than normal and everything, but it's all for gifts, so you're going to have to hold your horses. I can't post anything yet. It's all very exciting, though, I promise.

On an only semi-related note (but let's face it - that's better than most of the transitions you're going to get out of me today) the reviews on microfiction were completely mixed. I mean, no one hated it (which is nice for my ego) but not everyone wants it. Here's the thing, though: I really enjoyed doing it. So... I haven't decided what to do about it, yet. I might post it on weekends, so it would be sort of "in addition" to what I do now. Which would be more compelling if I actually posted M-F, as my plan. Or, I could ignore the naysayers and do what I want. Oooorrrrr. I could use it to fill in the gaps when I don't have anything interesting to say. Or I could start a microfiction blog where I fail to post at least as often as I fail to post here. I don't know.

Also, I have something really exciting I wanted to post about today, but I forgot my camera and there is photographic evidence, so you'll have to wait for that, too. I am an endless font of nothingness today.

So, in order to somewhat justify the existence of this complete and utter lack of pixels, I pose a question. I've been having issues with wanting to write and having time to write and having seemingly nothing to write about. It has been brought to my attention that what I need is a plan. A plan of what to post and then I can ditch said plan when I do have something to talk about, but when I don't, I can follow the plan. The plan shall be the savior of empty-headedness. And I think that sounds solid. Makes sense. Follows logical pathways. Very Spockian. On the other hand, I'm not sure I'm really a planning kind of gal. Which leads me to the question. Do you plan what you're going to write? And if so, do you do a monthly plan, a weekly plan? An ongoing list of topics from which to pick? Just curious how everyone else is doing it.

It Must Be Something in the Water

It seems like there is misery surrounding me. I've been in a crabby mood for the past, well, let's not dwell on how long. The Husband's been in a bad mood all week. Various other family members seem to be looking down the dark path and last night Brynna began writing a book, Diary of a Sad Kid. It starts out with a diatribe about how bad life is.

"Are you writing fiction?" I asked, trying to be casual.

"Nope. Non-fiction," she replied honestly. Oookay. So, we suck. Our kid is sad and her life is "taruble." (You know, despite the fact that it's spelled wrong, I can't help but be proud of how phonetic it is.)

After a little bit of talking, we isolated a few things that are making her sad and took steps to correct them. Then, we indulged in some snuggle-bugging until bedtime. Because how can be sad when you are in a three-person snuggle-bug. (Maren had already gone to bed.)

This morning, she said, "Today is going to be the perfect day!"

"Oh yeah, why is that?" I responded. My head was pounding and Maren was participating in her new favorite car-ride passtime - babbling incoherently and then screaming at you for not responding properly. At least that's why I assume she's screaming. Since even her screams are not properly formed words, I can't be sure. We were running late (every day this week - for the win) and the car was making that noise that makes me nervous. From where I sat, it was not shaping up to be the perfect day.

"I don't know," she said. "Because it can be?"

And there you have it, friends and neighbors, the unbridled enthusiasm and optimism of a six-year old. Last night, her life sucked and today - the perfect day. And why not?

Then I came to work and opened my email. Months ago I read a blog. I commented on said blog, but because I thought my comment might spark criticism or debate, I subscribed to comments. It's not my habit on blogs that generally garner a great deal of comments, but I never remember to check back. Today, there was a new comment. There was some other stuff, but it ended with, "Happy mamas breed happy babies."

It's made me wonder if maybe my mood isn't at the center of all the angst. After a little argument yesterday, I was driving down the road, yelling at no one in particular. It makes me feel better, trust me. Most of what I was yelling was about how people treat you the way you treat them. You can't be horrible to everyone and expect them to bring you roses. I stand by that. Even the best people will eventually wear down under the constant pressure of your terribleness. I, by the way, am not the best people.

But maybe I'm just as guilty of walking around with a dark cloud over my head. Maybe you can't be down all the time without bringing everyone around you down. I've got a lot going on right now, and I may never talk about all of it here. But honestly, that's no excuse to walk around like Shleprock.

I tell Brynna sometimes that she has to make the decision to be happy. We could eat ice cream in Disney World while it rained M&M's and she would still be sad if that's how she had decided to feel. I think it's time to take some of my own advice.

Miscellany and Tidbits

When Brynna was potty training, I felt like the whole world was on my side. People waiting in line in public restrooms would automatically bump me to the front of the line, total strangers would offer to stand with my grocery cart, once when I ran off too quickly, a woman brought my purse into the bathroom and pushed it under the door to me. "I didn't want to leave it there," she said, "And I thought if you weren't quick enough, you'd probably need what's in there."

I don't feel like that this time around. Saturday, in an undetermined big box retailer, I abandoned the cart, grabbing my purse and the toddler and took off for the restroom. There was a line in front of it for the tax preparer set up next door and people looked like they weren't going to move to let me through. I did a loud excuse me and then channeled my inner city girl and pushed right between two angry looking individuals. I tried to rush Maren into a restaurant bathroom a week or so ago and a older woman (who I honestly didn't notice, I wasn't trying to cut line) fussed at me. I blushed and stepped back. "I'm so sorry. She's potty training and I was in a hurry. I didn't see you standing there." Just then another stall opened up and it didn't matter, but I wonder what happened in the last four years. Actually, Brynna was significantly older, so more like three years.
______________________________________

Brynna told me that when she grows up she wants to be a children's book author and illustrator. I very nearly burst into tears. I can't wait to read what she has to write.
______________________________________

Not my zombie baby bookmark.
My remarkably less cute fully grown
adult zombie bookmark.

I've always had a plan to write a book entitled, Things I Never Thought I'd Say, full of stuff like "Get your shoes out of your mouth!" and "Babies are not weapons!" Things I've said to my kids that just seem like you shouldn't have to articulate out loud. Last night, I got up to answer the phone and realized I couldn't find my book mark. "I've lost my zombie baby," I said to The Husband. "Can you help me look while I get that?" He came up empty handed and I fumbled around a bit more after I got off the phone. "Poor, abandoned zombie baby," I said. Then I realized that was one for the book that I could not blame on my poor children.


_____________________________________

Sad isn't it? All that empty expanse...

I've lost my wallet. My bank card never turned up suspicious activity, so either a very smart criminal has it and is stealing my identity as we speak (Go ahead, my credit sucks,) or it's somewhere in my house/car/myriad of bags/children's rooms (Maren likes to hide stuff from me). In either case, I'm replacing things. I've got a new bank card and The Husband just got new insurance cards and mine should be in a couple of weeks, so that's good. Other than that, I can't even remember what cards I had. How sad is that? I probably had thirty-some-odd cards in there. Mostly discount cards. Everything from fabric stores to pharmacies to groceries to restaurants.

I bought a new wallet and it contains my check book, bank card and an ice-cream punch card that I happened to have in my car. It's pretty sad.  How does one go about replacing their Subway card, I wonder. And can I maintain my points? I had points. They are probably gone now. Maybe that's what the ingenious thief is doing, stealing all my affinity points.

Five Things on Friday - Random Love Edition

Today, my boss and I, desperate to get out of these four walls of lunacy, took a long lunch at a local museum. Which was weird. You know, I used to work in the arts and we did that sort of stuff all the time, but here, well, let's just say it's not in the culture.

Anyway, this is a cool, funky little museum and I had a great time. I went to see an exhibit of Shirley Mason (Sybil - yes, that Sybil, with the 16 personalities, no her name wasn't really Sybil, it was Shirley, yes she really was a professional artist). She lived nearish to me and someone recently found a whole bunch of her art, and WOW, am I rambling.  Anywho, there was also an exhibit by a weaver and it was heaven. Just heaven. And it reminded me that happiness is sometimes about surrounding yourself with things that you love.

Hence  - Five Random Things that I Love and Make me Happy

1. Fiber Art - Anything from weaving to quilting to hand dyed fabrics. Not to mention crochet and knit. There is something undeniably tactile and solid to fiber art that makes me weak in the knees. Literally. I was literally swaying in the museum and wondering what my boss would do if I passed out right in the middle of the gallery.

2. Nifty Glassware - I have this thing about glasses. Some people get all worked up about dishes or teapots and yeah, they're nice. But I love glasses. I don't really own any. Honestly. Most of my glasses are broken, so we have replaced them with plastic and plan on buying glass when both of my children our firmly out of the throwing-and/or-carrying-things-that-are-too-heavy phase. I do have some really nice Coca-Cola glasses that are put up and a couple of single glasses that are my water glasses. I also really love to drink out of Mason jars. It appeals to something nostalgic in my soul.

3. Irises - I love irises. They are by far my favorite flower. There is something so confrontational, yet graceful about an iris that appeals to me. I'm sort of a traditionalist, preferring the purple-yellow iris combo. But I can love just about any iris you want to introduce me to. The Husband thinks my favorite flowers are tulips and I do love the hopefulness of a tulip, but I am deep in my soul, an iris woman.

4. Pickles - I adore pickles. Sweet, sour, dill, kosher, slices, whole, spears. Kitchen pickles, refrigerator pickles, fried pickles. I love them all. I had barbecue for lunch and I almost jumped up and down when I saw the three (3!!) fresh pickle slices on my plate.

5. Red - My favorite color is purple and red is probably three or four colors down on my favorite list, but there is just something about red things that make me happy. I have a red wool coat that I wear most of the winter and it really jazzes up a gray, dreary day. I like to wear red, in part because I think it goes well with that whole underfed vampire look I have going on, but also because it just knocks some energy into me when I see it.

So, what makes you happy? The randomer, the better!

How I Wish I Could Quit with the Whining

I'm tryin' ya'll. I feel like every time I open my mouth (or fingers - which just sounds wrong, but you know, to type) I end up whining. Like a whiny little baby.

Yesterday I was trying so hard to be funny about the dryer. Mainly because after I was done hyperventilating and screaming about how I would never, ever, ever live like normal people and waking everyone up in the house with my hysterics, it was funny. Okay, well, after a good night's sleep it was funny. In that laugh or cry kind of way. My point is that I was trying to be funny when I was telling about it because someone should get some enjoyment out of my misery, right?

But it wasn't funny. I see that now. It was "Poor, pitiful me. You should worry about me and my horrible, ridiculous laundry issue." I try to maintain some perspective in life. You know, with a few exceptions, bad stuff just avoids me. I'm incredibly blessed to be walking around without a horrible disease, or a missing limb. I'm incredibly lucky to be sitting in my kitchen, rather than out in the street, to be feeding my kids decently nourishing food (when they will deign to eat it) and to be trudging to work instead of the unemployment office. I got it good and I got no room to whine, is what I'm saying, here.

Also, I went home last night and decided I didn't trust the husband to fix the dryer and took apart what he had done and found some type of animal nest in my dryer vent and once I ripped that all out and re-attached everything - guess what - my dryer's not even broken. All that angst over nothing that was really ever a problem.

It turns out that God doesn't want me to wear dirty clothes, He wants me to quit being such a damn drama queen and fix something instead of worrying about how it'll never, ever be okay. Which is good advice. (Of course, God doesn't typically give crappy advice, it's misinterpretation.) He probably also wants me to remember this the next time I'm lecturing Brynna about being a drama queen and telling her that defeatist attitudes like that are like poisoning yourself. She gets that from somewhere, you know. Also my grandmother, who I am always lecturing about being a pessimist. I guess I get it from somewhere, too.

In any case, I need to find my happy, or my funny or something. I'm not nearly as miserable as I sound.

And on a completely unrelated note! Take this here survey:

God Doesn't Want Me To Have Clean Clothes

I decided, because my list was too long, that I would do New Month resolutions instead of New Year's resolution. I would focus on small, positive steps, 3 per month (one pertaining to me and my personal time, one pertaining to the house and chores and one pertaining to parenting issues) and tackle them one at a time. This would be a doable strategy, I thought; and filled with hope and ambition, I began January 1.

The personal time issue for January was make-up. I'm not a person who feels naked without it or anything and I don't guess I ever will be. I do know, however, that a little somethin-somethin under my eyes goes a long way toward making me look not corpsey. Also, I have the complexion of a vampire, so I try to deal with that. I had gotten to the point where I couldn't remember the last time I'd even opened my make-up bag. It's not that I want to be made-up, it's just that I want to look like I care. I told one person that I used to look cool and earthy and non-conformist walking around with no makeup and know I look like an overworked soccer mom who may or may not have been nibbled on recently by the walking dead. So, make-up. I've fairly succeeded. I'm averaging about four days a week, which is technically more than half - so there.

The parenting issue for January was potty training Maren. I've been holding her back, not because of any of the normal reasons, but because I'm freakin' lazy. I don't want to have to ask a person every fifteen minutes if they need to potty and I hate all the mopping that goes hand in hand with potty training, but I've been doing it and now here we are in February and she's mostly trained. We've got a little bit to go, but she's wearing panties except for sleeping time and only having an accident or two a day. So, that's good.

On the household front, however, I have been thwarted. I'd like to say I've failed, but I can't really take on the full guilt and responsibility of this debacle. I vowed to get caught up on laundry during the month of January. I seriously still have stuff down there from this summer to be washed and don't even get me started on the massive mountain of blankets and pillows down there awaiting attention. Really. It's bad. It's bad-bad. So, I set out with high hopes and a stock of All and generic fabric softener. And here's what happened:

• My washer which kind of came and went in terms of working, just went. I mean, it still washes the clothes, but every load has to be spun out at least twice and sometimes I give up and wring them out piece by piece by hand. I don't heat my basement above don't-freeze-the-pipes warm, so you can imagine how much fun this has been.
• My water heater went out. Which shouldn't contribute because I wash most of my clothes in cold water, reserving hot for The Husband's shirts he wears to his oil-change place of employment and towels. I am sorry, but you will never convince me that it's okay to wash towels in cold water. I don't even understand why. But even so, the stress of getting a new water heater and then the night we went without water completely had a little impact. Very little, but whatever. 
• Not enough time. I have discovered that our family generates approximately ten loads of laundry per week. Since I have a child who refuses to wear the same pajamas two nights in a row and the world's biggest towels, it adds up quick. Add in potty training and the afore mentioned oil-change employment and we are buried under a growing mound of dirty clothes. To keep up I have to do ten loads, to get caught up I was attempting to do 20 loads per week (2 loads a day each week day and 5 loads a day each weekend day). I have never once succeeded at my 20 load goal. Partially because of the extra time I spend standing at the washer while it spin-spin-spins. But partially because I have this whole other life. Where I do things other than wash clothes.
• Last night the dryer broke. I know, it's not even January anymore, but I'm still trying to get in there and get it done. Just start February late or something. But no, the dryer won't dry. And I am officially screwed.

I actually had a hyperventilating nervous breakdown about this situation last night. I cried and screamed and gnashed my teeth. And I still have no solution. I dried one load of clothes five times last night and it was still damp when I brought it upstairs. I have located a retractable clothes line for the low-low price of $6 and I may have to resort to that. But in the meantime, I have decided to work away at catching up laundry, lecture my kids about wearing things until they are actually dirty and not stressing it too much.

Because, obviously, someone up there wants me to wear dirty clothes. I'm not sure why, but I am sure that it's no mistake. It can't be. So the next time you see me with a little salsa on my shirt just smile and ignore it, because that's what I'll be doing.

Big Girl Magic

Yesterday, I left work and picked up Maren and headed home. The Husband had gotten Brynna from school already and they were at home waiting on us. Maren is a little like a very high wattage light bulb. She brightens any room, but after a while, it's easy to find yourself wishing you had one of those nice 40 watt bulbs. It's not that the bright light isn't nice, it's just that it kinda wears you out.

Maren and I played peek a boo in the rearview mirror for - I kid you not - 20 minutes. We also argued about whether or not there were cupcakes in my purse. (There were not, but by the time I convinced her that there were no cupcakes in my purse, I would have given her 10 just to change the subject.) By the time we walked in the door, I was ready for a hot bath and bed. Unfortunately, it was only 6:00.

When I came in, Brynna sat at the kitchen computer on barbie.com, her homework done, her chores complete, ready for anything. We talked at supper about real world math problems and her upcoming Valentine's party at school. (Valentines is a big deal because the kids are only allowed candy at school on Halloween and Valentine's.)

Later that night, sitting in the bathroom floor and clapping for Maren as she pottied, I realized that this is just what growing up looks like. I might have to chase Maren through the house asking her seven or eight times to take her dolly in her room. I may have to remind her every. freaking. day. not to throw her coat on the floor when she walks in the door. I might have to play peek a boo until I want to rip that blankie to shreds and I might have to spend a good portion of my time sitting on the floor in the bathroom waiting for her to pee. But it won't always be that way.

And yeah, it isn't all peaches and roses with Brynna either. I still spend a fair amount of time reminding her about that whole coat-floor situation. And even though she's showering on her own now, she won't let me leave the bathroom yet. And there's homework checking and spelling word quizzing and really, it's just as hands on and time consuming as it is with Maren.


But the challenges I have with Brynna now (longer bedtime stories, homework help, historical lessons, interesting words heard on TV, etc.) are bigger, scarier, and honestly - more fun.

The other day I was whining about something or other (Woe is me. I don't know who I am?) and Suze commented that she thinks it'll get better as my kids get older. I wasn't so sure at the time, but sitting in that floor last night, I realized that maybe she was right. When I spend time with Brynna, I'm still trying to be Mommy - the amazing superheroine who can leap tall buildings in a single bound and can and will take a bullet for her, but I'm also me. I listen to my music, I play my games, I read scary books and love anything about magic. She knows I would rather watch Doctor Who on Saturday morning that Magic School Bus. And she almost always thanks me when I give in and watch Mrs. Frizzle. Although I still maintain that the cybermen are actually less scary first thing in the morning.

When we talk, I tell her stories about when I was younger, I tell her about the books I'm reading (leaving out the gory bits) and about the band names I made up at work while I was bored. She tells me about what the girls at school like, and what she wants to paint and the band names she makes up at school. 

It's amazing to watch Maren grow up. To watch her figure things out and put the world together. There is so much magic to a toddler. Everything they see is something new and exciting to be explored and plumbed to its depths. I watch her and I am overwhelmed at the beauty of a learning, growing child. I love to teach her things, to hear her say, "Oh!" when she gets it and watch her put that knowledge into play. I get so caught up in the magic of her that sometimes I forget the more subtle magic I see in Brynna.

It's a different kind of magic. It's wood nymphs to Maren's dragons, but it's no less amazing. There is so much to do and explain and explore with a big kid. So much world to understand. So much that she didn't have the patience for before. I think I'm gonna like this phase. And while I would never wish away Maren's littlehood, I am pretty sure that I'm gonna be thankful when she's a big kid, if for no other reason than Brynna will be a dreaded pre-teen.

Soul Sisters

A little microfiction. More "What's in my Crochet Bag" next week.

"I love it," I whispered, running my hand along the line from trunk to roof to hood. It seemed wrong to speak out loud in its presence. The matte black of a lifetime of being only marginally cared for seemed like it would absorb the sound the way it absorbed the light anyway.

"I didn't know you were a car person," he muttered, sounding concerned. I'm not sure if it was because he clearly wasn't a car person, or if it was because he saw in my eyes more affection for the car than I had ever had for him.

"I'm not really. But this... I love this. What is it?"

"A Ford Galaxie 500. '64. It hasn't ran in two years, but it's finally up and going again." He paused, considering. "You wanna drive it?"

"Of course. Do you mind?" By this time, I had made it around to the front end of the car. Imagine a giant, like a "Jack and the Beanstalk" kind of giant. Now imagine that giant is an accomplished dancer with the Paris Ballet. Imagine him dressed all in black and standing in the wings, ready to take the stage. The car was a bohemouth, but obviously so full of grace and beauty. I wanted to rescue it. I wanted to give it the love and affection that it needed. New paint, spiff up that chrome, and of course, whatever was necessary under the hood.

"What's its name?" I always named my cars and this car was so obviously full of personality, it had to have a name. Something really exotic. Something fitting.

"Doesn't have a name. It's just a car, you know."

"How do you feel about Esmerelda?" I asked, circling. "Or Caramia?"

"I pretty much just call it the Ford. If you wanna name it, that's okay though."

I slid behind the wheel and looked across the vast expanse of leather bench seats. Such a pity about bench seats, there is really nothing finer. I barely spared a glance at my modern car as we slid out of the driveway. It's true, I realized, big cars really do drive like boats. The sun was still setting and we started out into the countryside driving into the red and orange, letting the tendrils of the dying day wrap around my hair as it streamed out the window. Bad Religion was on the radio and the pulse and the harmony pushed us down the road.

We were pulling into the field as the sun gave its last dying gasp. I did what I always did when we arrived, I rolled down all the windows, cranked the radio, killed the lights and slid out. There were seven of us there that night, and I was the only girl. Jeremy dragged the chairs out of his trunk and Evan pulled out a six pack. We settled in for the night, to laugh and joke and let the night air make us feel alive. We came out here because we always got loud, the stories building and building; the laughter escalating, until there was nothing left but the din of us.

The boys and me, I thought. Putting one foot on the rear bumper, I slid up onto a trunk that, were it a dining room table, would have seated 12. Kevin started telling us about his day at work and I lay back against the rear windshield to watch the stars come out. The glass was cold against my shoulders and the small of my back where my tank top didn't completely cover the skin.The car seemed to hum beneath me, alive and comforting. The metal still hot from the Midwestern sun and the glass still cold from the drive, it seemed like everything solid and important was wrapped up in the Detroit steel, leather and rubber beneath me.

I laughed along that night. I laughed until the tears streamed down my cheeks. I watched the stars blink into existence and then begin sliding across the sky. I enjoyed that night to the hilt, mostly because I knew deep down that it would be my last.

When the dew started to appear and the night was a blanket around us, protecting us from each other, we packed up and headed back into town, where the lights drowned out the stars and hum of town hushed our voices more than the silence of the country ever could.

Putting the car back in the garage, I knew that she and I were sisters. Both feeling neglected and lonely, even when surrounded. I couldn’t keep doing what I was doing, hoping for better, when I could see her, suffering the same that I was hurtling toward.

“Goodnight, Caramia,” I whispered, shutting the driver’s door behind me. “I’d save you if I could.”

Five Things on Friday - Time Sucks Edition

I may have mentioned that all my resolutions this year were about time and I didn't know where it was going to come from. I still don't. But I have found some of it. It was being sucked by the interwebzzz and it has to stop. Or slow down. Or be shared by all. I don't know. I've been trying to cut down, honest.

In any case, I thought perhaps you all would love to meet some of my nefarious time sucks yourselves, so you too can not have enough time for basic human hygiene.

My Five Worst Internet Time Sucks

1. Mahjong - Specifically, Mahjong Dark Dimensions. In the beginning you get three minutes on the clock, so I always think it'll take maybe 5 minutes to finish a game, but you just keep getting time added on and before you know it, you've invested 15 or 20 minutes in a single game and you NEED to replay to prove that you can do better. It is the most addictive thing since Minesweeper. And I was a nut for Minesweeper.

2. Farmville - Yes. You can blame me for your miserable Facebook experience. Look, I try not to publish much. I also have never spent the first penny on it and I only play once a day (well, on rare occasion twice) but seriously, I'm not that bad. There are other Farmers you hate more, trust me. The thing with Farmville is that you can't really slow down. You can't really play less, because you are always leaving something undone. And it's seriously like work - the better you get, the more you have to do. I could easily spend two hours a day on my farm and still not finish everything I'd like to do. I'm going to have to quit, but I'm not sure if I can. You all should start planning an intervention.

3. Free Rice - I sincerely hope that I'm not the first person to tell you about Free Rice, the website where answering trivia or vocabulary questions feeds hungry people. If so, then you should skittle on over. Just wait until you get to a thousand grains of rice, you'll never look back.

4. Sporcle - Specifically, the Presidents quiz. Oh, my. I could spend all day doing this. I always forget Taft. I don't know why. I should be able to remember Taft. Anyway, if you browse around a bit in the categories, you'll find everything from Buffy characters to Shakespeare quotes. So many quizzes, some of them very hard and some of them refreshingly easy. In any case, don't forget Taft.

5.Shopping - I love to shop online. I go to a store that I like and start filling up a shopping basket/cart/bag and then never check out. It's a sick obsession, really, but I just get whatever I like for me, The Husband, the girls, the house, my mom and then just close the window. It's like window shopping without the exercise, which seems pretty pointless when you put it like that, but it's also window shopping you can do at work without being noticed by your boss. Unless you can't. I don't know where you work.

So, what sucks your time? Or are you that good that your time never gets sucked? Or maybe just not on the computer? Commiserate, please.

Finding my Feet

We have a different definition of "snake handlers" around here.

There's a lot going on in my world. There's my not-very-happy job change I alluded to previously. There's my trying to get into school, which I haven't talked about much because I feel like I've been talking about it with no change for like, a year, so maybe I'm jinxing myself by talking at all. There's the fact that I am no longer employed only part time, so I have this tendency to look at the clock and think, "Frak! Seven? How is it seven? Wasn't it just 2?" Actually, I almost never think the word frak, but I'm trying to be family-friendly here.

I feel a bit like I'm floundering. I actually wrote this whole post last night and then thankfully deleted my insanity. Last night it was about how useless I feel, how hopeless. How I used to think of myself as a fairly competent person. An intelligent girl who could and would take on the world. Someone who had most of it figured out and only "most" because the people who have it all figured out are obnoxious. But now I feel like I can barely tie my shoes. "I'm losing it," I wrote. "And 'it' is everything by which I used to identify myself. My primary defining factors have always been my abilities and since they seem to be dwindling, I feel like I no longer know myself."

Which is beyond pathetic and that's why I deleted it. But still... But still...

I was reading all about the whole astrology sitting on its head thing earlier in the week. Now to put this in context, you should know a few things about me. I am a Leo. I have no idea what that means. I don't know what the defining characteristics of a Leo are, who Leos should marry, what we should do with our lives. I haven't read a horoscope since high school. (Okay, okay, I used to work with a woman who read mine to me everyday, but I don't count that.) I am not an astrology person, is what I'm saying here. I may believe in ghosts, but I don't believe in the stars.

So, anyway, this whole adding a constellation thing makes me a Cancer. If you believe those who think we should change, which as far as I can tell is a bored guy in Minnesota. For some reason, this has thrown me into a tail spin. I have spent the whole week obsessively researching this (how long has it been going on, what are alternate sign charts, what are the characteristics of a Leo, of a Cancer, blah-de-blah-blah). And the whole time the echoing voice in my head has demanded - Why do you care????

And I have no answer. Except that I feel like I'm not who I think I am. And I guess, timing wise, this has just appealed to a little part of me that was already freaking out. (It doesn't help that I think I am more Cancer-like, now that I've done all the crazy research.)

I told my boss the other day when she was questioning what I had accomplished the other day that I had been busy, "finding my feet," for most of the day. I'm not sure she liked that answer, but it was the only one I had. I sorted through email and decided what needed to be kept and what could be gotten rid of. I went through two inboxes and did the same. I compiled multiple to do lists into one master to do and threw out old files and scraps of paper. I didn't really accomplish much, but I put my pictures of my kids on my desk and then I found what I should be doing now. (Which is probably not writing this blog post, by the way.)

I feel like that in all aspects of my life right now. Like I'm finding my feet, piecing together something that looks more like my life and my self. Last night I was down about the prospects of making that work, but today I am feeling more optimistic. Okay, I may not be who I always was, but that's okay, because I didn't really like her life much anyway. I'll keep the good and ditch the bad and come up with a better person, I hope. One who may have a little less figured out, but knows who she is.

The Worst Week Ever

Worse than it looks.

Did you ever watch that show on VH1, "Best Week Ever," where every week, they go through all the funny stuff that happened that week. That week did not happen to me last week. I had the worst week ever. I had a bad week at home, a bad week at work, and I injured my kid.

Thursday morning, my week already sucked. I mean it. It was terrible. I felt like Alexander. I did not want to get out of bed Thursday morning and so discovering that Maren had wet through her diaper, Brynna had taken everything out of her backpack and I couldn't find my keys was just what I needed. We were running late. Like really late. Like, I'm-not-sure-if-we'll-make-car-line late, which in retrospect, is so not a big deal.

But we ran out the door, calling farewell to The Husband and sprinting to the car. Once there, I opened the door and loaded Brynna in. Maren tried to climb in her side to "climb through," and I took her out of the car, set her on the ground and told her to go around. She took a couple of steps in the right direction and I turned my attention back to Brynna. I made sure she was in completely in the car and slammed the door. Because it's a mini van with sliders in the rear, I turned as I slid. There was Maren. Right by my leg. With her hand in the door.

I screamed, opened the door and pulled out her hand. I couldn't see anything for the blood, so I ran back in the house. Except the door was locked. I screamed "Help me!" at the door while I fumbled with my keys. Just as I found the right key, The Husband opened the door and asked what happened. I tried to explain while I pulled off Maren's coat and ran for a rag.

"You asked for help and now you're trying to do everything," he yelled. "What do you want me to do?"

"Go get Brynna out of the car." It was the only useful thing I could think of. As he went looking for shoes or something, I began soaking up some of the tiny handful of blood my precious girl was holding. I couldn't see anything that looked like a cut, only something that looked like a huge black maw.

"We've got to go to the hospital." I was stating the obvious and I knew that, but I also felt like it had to be said.

"Of course you do, it could be broken," The Husband yelled back at me.

"Okay, well, I'm not putting her coat back on." The whole time Maren was crying, in a quiet mewing sort of way, not the wailing you'd expect, which made it somehow worse. "You take Brynna to school and I'll take Maren to the hospital."

"I don't have time to take Brynna to school. I'm probably already going to be late to work."

It was at this point that I snapped. I screamed something about not caring if he never made it work because Maren had to go to the hospital and Brynna had to go to school and I was offering him the easy way out and he should damn well take it. It was not my finest hour. On the other hand, neither was it his, and I had already blown having the best parenting day ever by smashing my kid's hand in a car door. I had nothing to lose.

I picked up Maren and carried her, wrapped in a blanket, hand wrapped in a towel to the car. As I buckled her in, I told Brynna to go in the house and Daddy would take her to school. Maren and I were going to the hospital. And thus began the longest car ride of my life. It takes, I discovered, about 20 minutes of hard driving to get to the nearest hospital. I spent most of it wailing incomprehensibly into the phone. I called my boss to tell her I'd be late, the babysitter with the same basic message and my mommy to beg her to come to the hospital with me. I was a little hysterical by this point.

When we finally got to the ER, I whisked her in, blankets flying. We were triaged and in a room almost instantly, proving once and for all that there is an advantage to small town hospitals. I had to tell people over and over and over what happened.

"No, I did it. I shut her hand in the car door," I repeated. "It's a slider, so it sort of slams and then goes in," I explained once, wincing. "I should have been watching." "I didn't know she was there." "I was in a hurry." "We were late." If the hospital had brought me a crown of flashing lights that declared me Worst Parent of the Year, I wouldn't have felt any worse, any more on the spot, any more criticized. Of course, it was all in my head. The staff was friendly, kind and more than once said, "These things happen."

We x-rayed and there were no breaks, leaving just the gaping maw of doom to deal with. The doctor finally entered with four nurses in his wake. They wrapped Maren from her chest down in those miniature sheets they give you to cover your lap, making her a giant immobile mummy. Then, with the four nurses and I holding her down, the doctor began stitching.

I won't go into detail about the horror of it all: the assurance I felt that she wasn't numbed properly, the decision that this was the worst stitching in the history of the universe, the unease as she screamed "All Done, All Done, ALL DONE, ALL DONE!!!!

I've had bad days. My son died. I found out my daughter was being abused at daycare. And this, well, compares. I'd like to say that in the grand scheme of things, it wasn't so bad, but that's a lie. It was bad. And it was worse because it was my fault. Ethan and Brynna, I failed them. I failed to protect them. For one it was something that I probably couldn't have stopped and the other, something that I never saw. But failure all the same. I didn't fail Maren, I hurt her.

People joked all day that I was hurt worse than her, and I'm sure it seemed that way. She rebounded, showing off her bandage, happily picking out band aids to cover the five stitches and being more or less happy with the world. I still haven't really. I still feel a rush of nausea when I change her bandage, not because I'm squeamish of stitches, but because I re-live that moment of understanding. I still hold her a little tighter than necessary, kiss her a little more and baby her much more than she is willing to take. I'm trying to make up with someone who isn't the least bit mad at me. Which, of course, because I am me, makes me feel worse.

Tomorrow morning, we go to have the stitches out. I could send The Husband on this errand, he is off work and would go. But I won't. I will see this through to the end. I will be there to hold her hand if it hurts, to dry her tears, to try like mad to absorb her pain. I will take her Buzz Lightyear band-aids so that if she needs one when we are done, she can use the ones she picked and loved. I will probably cry like a crazy lady again.

The other day The Husband told me that I need to stop beating myself up. We were in the middle of an argument and I responded angrily, "I will when the stitches are out."

"Fair enough," he replied. I think he was surprised that I was willing to let it go that quickly, and the truth is that I'm not sure that I am. I am not sure that I will ever be able to look at her precious hand and not feel my stomach turn, not suck in that breath of heartpain. But I will stop crying about it. I will stop talking about it. I will stop worrying about my mothering skills and whether or not this will come up in therapy in 20 years.

Who knows? Maybe it's my therapy I should be worried about and not hers.