Mentally Barred

As I mentioned before, I may be going back to work full time.

So, in an effort to open up as many doors as possible, I've decided to take the bar exam here in Wisconsin.   For those not in the know, the bar exam is an exam the state requires a lawyer to pass before they can legally practice law in that state.  It's a tough (and expensive) exam, spanning two full days, and covering every area of law imaginable.

So even though the exam isn't until the end of July, I've already started studying.  And my brain is fried.  Not that I've burned out or can't learn anything more.  Just fried in the sense that all my mental energy is focused on re-learning difficult concepts that I haven't utilized for as many as five years or so. All of which leaves me with little mental energy for blogging.

So forgive me if my posts are infrequent for a while. I'm still here.  I'm still going to read and comment on other blogs.  It's a nice distraction from studying.

But until I have all my brain cells back, I may not be posting more than a few times a month or so, when my mood and energy levels allow me to.

I love you all, and am still around.  But for a while, I'll be studying as I've never studied before. And coming from this overachiever, that's saying something.

Lesson Learned? Do Not Talk On The Phone While Driving. You'll Just Do Something Stupid.

As I headed home from the gym, I saw some one in the parking lot whose car battery had died.  The poor soul finagled around with some jumper cables with a mixture of confusion, dread, and anger on his face.  This reminded me of something I found out a couple years ago when I still lived in Ohio.

Your car battery can't die if you leave your keys in the car and the car running.  All night long.

Oh yes I did.

You see, I was on my way home from work when I got a call on my cell phone from an old friend I hadn't talked to in ages.  I was so excited to hear from her that I broke several safety rules by talking on my cell phone while driving.  I continued talking on the phone as I pulled into the parking lot. I got out of my car, and closed the door, still talking. Once I was in the house, I talked some more.  I think I talked for two hours, total.

What I didn't do?  Turn off my car and take the keys out of the ignition.

Yes, my car sat there running in my parking lot all night long.

So imagine Husband's surprise when he wakes up at the butt-crack of dawn (he had an hour-and-a-half commute back in those days), and hears a car running.  Who the hell else is up this early?  Huh, that sound is right by our apartment.  Wait a minute?  That's OUR car running!

Needless to say I never heard the end of this.  Which is fair.

Because it happened again.

Yes, not once, but twice, I have forgotten to take the keys out of the ignition and have left my car running in the parking lot all night long.  The second time (we were still living in Ohio), I was talking to my mom.  Who I talk to practically every day.

No excuses there.

So now I'm hyper-vigilant about making sure I turn the car off before leaving.  I've even turned it off, turned it on again and then turned it off again, just to make sure.

This is blurring into OCD territory, and I have enough neurosis, thank you very much.

Bad Blogger, Bad

It has come to my attention that I do not post as regularly as I used to.

I'm not leaving the blogging world.

I'm just distracted.

Husband's job search is taking longer than expected.  Although he's guaranteed to stay in his post-doc position for another year while he continues looking for permanent work, he won't make enough money to allow me to stay at home with the kids.  We've made it through the past two years relying on his income and our savings.  But it's gotten to the point where I have to get either a part-time or full-time job, lest our savings run out completely.

And I'm conflicted.

I have no doubt that the kids would love being in preschool for a full day if I went back to work full time.  In fact, it would probably be good for Toddler, who still refuses to use a "big girl" cup or use the potty.  She'll bring the cup to her mouth to drink, but won't actually swallow anything.  She loves sitting on her potty, but refuses to actually pee or poop in the potty.  Being in daycare/preschool and watching all the other kids do these activities may be the push she needs to start doing them herself. It would be an adjustment for Preschooler and Toddler, but once they got used to it they'd have so much fun they wouldn't think twice about missing me.

But I'd miss them.

When we lived in Ohio, I worked full time for three years.  Both my kids were placed in full time daycare when they were just infants.  And they thrived.  I had no doubt that they were receiving good care.  But I missed them with all my heart.  You know how some people love being with their kids all weekend, but secretly feel good come Monday when they get to return to work and the adult world?

I never felt like that.

For three years, I never felt like that.

And the activities we already do during daytime?  Speech therapy for Toddler?  Gymnastics for both girls?  Play-dates?  Not to mention that I wanted Preschooler to try out soccer and swimming lessons this summer? They'd all have to be moved to nights or weekends, or dropped all together.

And working part time?  It would mean working nights and weekends, and not earning that much. So I'd be at home with my kids during the day, but not with my family at night.  And it would make taking time off for long-weekend visits to my parents' or elsewhere a bit trickier.

So, it's complicated.

Add to that the conundrum of where I'd look for a job.  Husband is best off staying where we are in Wisconsin, completing the research he's been working on for the past two years.  But for me, there are few jobs here that would allow me to utilize the skills I earned in law school without actually practicing law, which I don't particularly want to do.  I worked crazy late hours while living in Ohio and have no wish to return to such an intense working schedule.  For me, the best place to be where I can find work related to my degree without actually practicing law lies in Minnesota.  But this would involve Husband leaving his research here in Wisconsin unfinished, and taking up a whole new post-doc position in Minnesota while he continued looking for more permanent work.

So what do I do?  Work part-time in retail or something similar?  Find a full time job in Wisconsin totally unrelated to my degree and my previous work?  Move my family to Minnesota?

It's really complicated.

Add to that the fact that the baby we've been trying for, for well over a year, hasn't happened.  I know that God is in charge of this and he's saying, "Not yet." And it's probably for the best, even though I don't fully understand why.  But it still hurts.

So with all this crap floating around in my brain on a daily basis, it makes it hard to be wry or witty, or to write about the funny things that happen in my day-to-day life.

So I'm not giving up on blogging.

I'm just distracted

Sculpt

Hey y'all. Apparently, I'm temporarily southern.  If you haven't already guessed, I enjoy writing. In that vein, I've been challenging myself to write in genres outside of this blog.  Below is an example of something I've worked on.  It's non-fiction, based on real things that happened in my real life.  But instead of being all snarky about it, I've went in the opposite direction.  Law school forced me to write whatever I needed to write in as few words as possible.  In the following piece, I do my best to undo that habit.  It may come off as too lyrical, but again, I'm pushing boundaries.  I'll return to my usual snark next time. Enjoy!

*     *     *

The Venus de Milo sits poised in the Louvre.  Pale marble shoulders flow uninterrupted towards flawless breasts.  A sleek profile, with hair curling around a comely ear, exposes the delicate line of an unscathed neck.

A mask is placed over my nose and mouth, filling with a vaguely sweet fog. Just breath deeply.  Count backwards from ten. My eyes involuntarily close as the gas steals my consciousness with unwarranted impunity. 

An artistic rendering of Venus might be bereft of arms, legs, or a corporeal form.  But there is always a face, a head, and a neck.  If nothing else, these parts comprise a goddess turned human by the deft hand of a skillful artist. At age seven, I lay insensate and oblivious to the scalpel carving a new silhouette, a bloody mélange of Venus incarnate. If you cut and shape a child, hacking away at what is ugly and distorted, will you create a woman that is whole and divine?

I was born with a hemangioma on the side of my neck. 

It's a benign tumor of the blood vessels charmingly referred to as a strawberry birthmark.  At six months, the red, bulbous growth enveloped my left ear and obstructed my hearing. Maybe it will go away. My infant neck was powerless to support its magnitude, which wrecked my countenance and twisted my spine. Maybe she’ll outgrow it. A hemangioma can become ulcerated and infected, adding illness to disfigurement. Maybe it won’t go away.

These reasons were pleaded in hope that insurance would cover the desired series of treatments. A girl should not have to grow up looking so different. The insurance would not pay for cosmetic surgery. My doctor had a saying, a joke. “We’ll get you looking beautiful by your junior prom, I promise!” It became a mantra, really.  You don’t look pretty now, but you will someday.

Plastic surgery is not pretty.  Especially long term plastic surgery, which offers no immediate results and yields no instant gratification.  Did Venus suffer the hunger and thirst that precedes an operation? Would she be fitted with an IV and put under anesthetic, only to wake up in terrible pain, confused, bruised, swollen, and vomiting?   Is this what happens when a goddess impersonates a human?   Each procedure quilted skin to skin with stitches so small and numerous that my doctor could never keep count.  He always lost track after fifty.  Can you stitch a human to imitate a goddess? Despite the surgical procedures, I still did not look normal, so the entire process would be repeated the next year.  And the next. After all, a girl should not grow up looking so different.

For a while, youth shielded me from censure.  The natural curiosity of other children had not developed into full-fledged criticism, and for a while they accepted my hemangioma as just another anomalous encounter in their brief life.  But the year I was seven was the year, I had tissue expanders.  Two sausage-shaped balloons were inserted into my neck and filled with saline. Their purpose was to stretch out my skin, so there would not be a gaping hole in my neck after they severed the remnants of my hemangioma.  For two painful months the implants remained in my neck; two months spent not in the seclusion of a hospital, but at home exposed to the real world. It was for the best, though. After all, a girl should not have to grow up looking so different.

When I first came home from the hospital, something strange happened. Despite my best efforts to force my skull upright,  my head constantly cocked to the right,  My doctor explained my body was reacting to the foreign substance trapped inside the only way it could.  It turned away from what was painful and unnatural. I thought that was odd, that my body no longer recognized itself. 

The bulbous implants embedded in my neck sparked a catalyst that fractured the definition of human. Everybody stared.  Everybody asked questions. After the two months the implants were removed, but I still did not have that instant gratification I so longed for.  I still did not look like every one else.  I still wasn’t ready for the junior prom; and now the veil was lifted. 

Questions and stares ranged from curiosity to disgust. I purposely kept my hair long so it would hide my neck and ear. My family took pains to remind me that my unusual appearance did not make me a bad person.  I was kind, smart, and ambitious, but no one said beautiful.  If some one loved me, they refrained from mentioning my appearance. Should a child grapple with humanity? I knew nothing but an alien shell. 

My last operation was performed when I was fourteen.  What was once inspired by a desire to prevent disability, morphed into pure art and confused beauty with perfection.  This  procedure involved a skin graft.  A piece of skin was taken from my groin, and shaped into an earlobe. Trapped in the throes of puberty, just the mention of the word “groin” made me terribly uncomfortable.  I was mortified that my doctor had not only seen that secret part of my body, but that he had managed to turn it into an earlobe. When I returned to school the next year, with an earlobe where there previously was none, I could not explain to my friends how it was done.  I was too embarrassed.  But mortification aside, this surgery was the most memorable because it was my last.

I was tired of it all.  I was tired of pain, bruising, swelling, and stitches.  I was comfortable with my appearance. Beauty was subjective and fluid; I was never going to look perfect.  But that was okay.  Because I was smart, and kind, and a good friend.  Because I had a family and friends and a God who all loved me, despite my funny-looking ear and my scars. It’s ok to grow up looking different.

When the skin graft operation was over, my mother and doctor discussed options for future treatments.  But I was beautiful.  I did not need more surgery.  I owned my body.  I had my own voice.  

I declined any future treatments. 

My doctor was astounded.  My mother was worried.  But, I was free.   I wore my hair up again.  I no longer cared who saw my ear and my neck. The artist never completed the sculpture, but a human emerged anyways. 

Twenty-five years after that first operation, I gave birth to another hemangioma, a quarter-sized one attached to right leg of my youngest daughter.  I’m inordinately proud this hemangioma.  It’s a second chance to let nature, not the scalpel, take its course.  At two years old, her hemangioma has already lightened considerably.  

A girl can grow up looking different.

*     *     *

Close up of my left ear and neck, seventeen years after the last operation.

A picture of me at 9:00 pm on a Thursday night in my bathrobe.

The Valentine's Grinch

You may have noticed that Valentine’s Day came and went with nary a word from me on this blog.

That’s because Husband is a Valentine's Grinch.  And now, so am I.

Screw you, Hallmark!

From day one, Husband made it clear Valentine’s Day was not for him.  Too commercial.  Too contrived.  Too unnecessary. 

This used to piss me off mightily. What was wrong with gift-giving?  What was wrong with setting aside one day a year to celebrate love? I wanted to feel special.  Didn’t he want me to feel special?

Thus, Valentine’s Day drove a minor wedge between us.  And for me, at least, it became a point of stress, anger, and disappointment.  I couldn’t let go of the expectation of Valentine’s Day accolades, even when I knew he wouldn’t cooperate.

Flash-forward 10 years, and finally something clicked.  I do feel special.  I do feel loved.  Every single day.  

The funny thing is, I have nothing against Valentine’s Day.  It is nice to set aside a day to show some one you love them.  Lots of people use gift-giving as a way to show others that they love them, and that’s great.  Sometimes people need a special gift, even if it’s just a small token, to feel loved. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.

It’s just that, Husband and I show love differently.

Gift giving between Husband and I is kind of stressful. Did I spend too little?  Too much?  Will he truly appreciate it?  

But the words he says, the things he does to help me out, and the time we share together every single day, outweigh any gift he could give me.  We also usually do something extra-special for our Anniversary, but even that involves going somewhere extra-fun or extra-special together, as opposed to gift-giving.  

And for what it’s worth, when you share a joint bank account, and check it regularly, it’s difficult NOT to learn where gifts came from and how much they cost, which sort of ruins the surprise.

Maybe things will change.  Maybe someday I’ll decide again that gifts are important, as a means to show you made an effort to think about something your significant other would like and acted accordingly.  

But between him and I, at least right now, ignoring Valentine’s Day makes both of us feel AWESOME.*

*Caveat: Husband, if at any time you change your mind, and feel like celebrating this, or any other holiday, with items such as flowers, chocolate, and coffee, I would welcome these efforts with open arms, and would love you even more, forever and ever, amen.

[Insert Witty Title Rhyming "House" With "Mouse"]

We had mice in our house.  Yes, mice.  Plural.

I shouldn't be surprised. Our house backs up to a nature preserve, so we see an abundance of wildlife.  But somehow we managed to make it all through last winter with nary a mouse in sight.

I thought we had immunity from these devils.  

But a month ago I was cleaning out our pantry, when I noticed a couple of graham crackers have been nibbled at. 

Uh oh.

I knew it was a mouse, but I figured that since I could find hardly any mouse droppings, it was just the one.  We set out traps and, lo and behold, we caught a mouse.

Feel my rath!

But late one night my husband went into the kitchen for a nighttime snack, and what was standing in the middle of our kitchen?  Another mouse, mocking him, daring him to set up more traps.  So, that's just what we did, and the next morning?  There were two mice was in the traps.

Take that, [explative of your choosing here.]

We still didn't find any mouse droppings, so we figured the problem was solved.  But a few days later, what did Husband find in the basement? A small mouse nest containing a sizable pile of almonds.  We never eat almonds.  Where did they come from?!

So, we set the traps out one more time, just in case.

And when I woke up the next morning, what sight greeted me in the kitchen?  Three mice.  Three mice.  Three.  It was like some sort of mouse suicide pact.

Ahhem.........AAAAAAAAAAA!

So I'm fed up.  We keep the kitchen nearly spotless, and keep our food wrapped up tightly.  There's been no more indications of mice in our abode, but now I'm paranoid.  I know those buggers are out there biding their time.  And when I let my guard down, they'll reappear, wrecking havoc on my already jangled nerves.

Jerks.

My Eyeballs Need Pajama Jeans

I clearly remember when I got my first pair of glasses.  I was in second grade.  When I put on those glasses and looked out the window, I was able to read the name of the elementary school across the street from the optometrist's office.  Actually, it was the first time I saw the words period.  Prior to, I had no idea there were words on the building at all.

Also, movies make a lot more sense when you can see what is going on.

So, wearing glasses is old hat to me, almost as old as I am.  At age 13 I got contact lenses. The contacts usually were not a problem.  I kept them clean, and had no problem putting them on or removing them.

Up until today.

I recently switched to a new contact-lens-cleaning process.  You put this hydrogen peroxide solution in a special case that has a bit of some metal in it. The hydrogen peroxide reacts with the metal in the case to create a lot of little bubbles that clean the lenses.  And while you wouldn't want to put hydrogen peroxide directly in your eyes, after an overnight soak, the hydrogen peroxide has used itself up, or rendered itself harmless or something.  SCIENCE!

Unlike regular saline solution, you don't want to get hydrogen peroxide in your eyes.  So the bottle is fitted with a red cap to remind you not to put it in your eye.  The cap is red per the understanding that the people using the hydrogen peroxide solution may not be able to read something that says "WARNING!  DO NOT PUT IN EYES" in anything less than 128 point font.

What the manufacturers didn't count on was my utter inability to register color or meaning in the depths of my morning fog.

Fumbling around for my saline solution to wet my lenses before putting them in, my hand came across the bottle of hydrogen peroxide solution.  I put a couple drops in my contact lens and then, plop!  Onto my eye it went.

To say it burned is an understatement.  It was as if my eyeball was engulfed in the smouldering flames of the furthermost chasms of Hell.  And once more, I was forced to ponder....

In my scramble to remove the offending lens from my eyeball, I succeeded in moving it, but not out of my eye.  To the back of my eyeball.  So I started poking myself in the eye in an effort to push the contact lens to the corner of my eye so I could get it out.   It went something like this:  Poke... AARRRGGHHH ... Poke poke ... AARRRGGHHH AARRRGGHHH ... Poke, poke, poke... AARRRGGHHH AARRRGGHHH AARRRGGHHH!!!!!!!

Finally, I resorted to rinsing my eye with water from the same cup we use to rinse after we brush our teeth.  Not the most sanitary eye rinse, but given that I just set my eyeball on fire and then proceeded to stab at it, germs were not really a fear of mine.  My fears centered around the very real possibility that my eyeball was going to burn a hole into my brain.

After several cold water rinses, I was able to rinse the lens out of my eye into the sink.  Huzzah!  I'll just pour this extra water out and.... oh crap!

I rinsed the contact lens down the drain.

So now I look like a victim of pink-eye or possibly some form of stigmata, or maybe I'm just high all the time, and I have to wear my glasses all day long until I can trek off to the optometrist for new lenses.  Seeing as usually wear my glasses only at night, it's the eyeball equivalent of staying in my pajamas all day long.

Is there a glasses-equivalent of Pajama Jeans?  Please say yes.

Happy New Year! Try To Fail Less, OK?

I've never been one to make a new year's resolution.  It would be setting myself up for failure, and I don't need yet another reason to be depressed.  Plus, change is disturbing and hard.  Status quo for the win!

Still, this year I feel compelled to resolve some things.  So here is a list of things I resolve to do, along with the reasons I'll fail to accomplish these lofty goals. Hey, I'm just keeping it real.

1) Lose weight.

Ummmm.... have you tasted food?  It's delicious!

2) Drink less coffee.

It would be like Night Of The Living Dead, but with less brains and more yelling.

3) Stop swearing.

Hell, no.

4) Blog more frequently.

Hey, I've been doing fewer stupid things to write about. I'm not about to buck that trend.

5) Yell less.

NOW WHY WOULD I WANT TO DO THAT?!

So there you have it.  Five new year's resolution that I'll fail to accomplish.  Now THAT's a resolution I can keep!

A Peek Inside My Drawers. No, Not Those Drawers.

The Cheesy Blogger prompt from this week was a peek inside our space.

Now, I'm no stranger to nosiness. Growing up, when we wanted to engage in a nice family bonding activity, we'd drive through the local frozen custard place. Frozen custard is like ice cream, but made of pure awesome. Then we'd eat it in the car as we took a drive around the neighborhood, to look at all the new houses being built in our city's burgeoning subdivisions.  While driving, we'd joke that we would slow down to peek from our car into any well-lit windows.  At least, I think we were joking.

Anyways, better late than never, here is my contribution to the peek inside my space project... a peek inside my desk drawers!

It's pretty standard stuff.  We went on a mad organizational frenzy over the summer, and while it might look somewhat disheveled, all the items make sense as belonging in a desk drawer.

OH.MY.GOD.

Just LOOK at the organization!

The one anomaly?  The basket of dirty laundry under my desk.  My kids dress and undress in the middle of the living room, so to save my fat lazy energy-conscious ass from having to bring dirty clothes upstairs just to bring them back down on laundry day, we keep a laundry basket under our desk.

Doesn't every one?

The Breaking Point

Lately my kids have been pushing me to the breaking point.  

For weeks, Toddler has refused to go to sleep until at least 9:00 pm, yet she still wakes up several times during the night, and by 6:00 am the next morning.

I’m tired.

Preschooler is highly sensitive to her sister’s feelings.  When Toddler cries about something (which is every day, terrible twos and all), Preschooler will start crying and screaming until she is more upset than her sister.  If you try to get her to explain why she’s upset, she’ll just choke out, “I. Don’t. Like. It. When. Toddler. Cries!!!” Then Toddler will cry even more, because her sister is so upset.  It's so incredibly frustrating and difficult to try to calm Preschooler down when she's in one of these fits, not to mention coping with Toddler's initial temper-tantrum, especially when it happens multiple times a day.

We're trying to work with Toddler by not giving in when she has a tantrum, and removing her from the situation when necessary. We’ve also worked with Preschooler on some coping mechanisms.  Everyday I remind her she can cover her ears, she can say “I don’t like this noise,”  she can go sit in her special chair with her favorite blanket, but she can’t scream.  Sometimes this works.  

Sometimes it doesn’t.

Preschooler has also taken to not listening.  Most of our conversations lately go something like this:

Preschooler: Mommy, can I build with blocks?

Me: Of course!

Preschooler: Mommy, can I build with blocks?

Me: Yes!

Preschooler: Mommy, can I build with blocks?

Me: YES! I ALREADY SAID YES!!

Preschooler: MOMMY, YOU’RE NOT LISTENING TO ME!!

Finally, the other day, I just lost it.  Toddler was only whining a little bit, when Preschooler pitched one of her volume-to-11 screaming fits. She screamed so hard her face turned beet red.  And I lost it.

“STOP IT RIGHT NOW!” I growled. “I’M SICK OF THIS. YOU GO SIT IN YOUR CHAIR RIGHT NOW UNTIL YOU CALM DOWN!”

There are no words to express the amount of guilt I felt the minute those words left my mouth.

Preschooler was still crying, except now?  Now she was crying because I yelled at her.  I could see it in her eyes.  I will never forget the way she looked so afraid and miserable at that moment.

And then I cried.  I cried because I was so frustrated.  I cried because I was so tired.  I cried because I don’t want to squelch Preschooler’s feelings.  There needs to be some balance for her between understanding that it's ok to be sad and being so in tune to the feelings of others, yet not over-reacting about every little thing.  I just don’t know how to  help Preschooler achieve that balance.  

I apologized to Preschooler.  I admitted I got angry and yelled at her, but that wasn’t ok for me to yell like that, and I was sorry.

She forgave me.  And strangely enough, she was pretty chipper the rest of the day.

I’ve been so grouchy with my kids lately.  I hate it about myself.

So I prayed.  I’m not saying this works out for every one, but this time?  It worked out for me.  For the first time in probably weeks, I woke up in a good mood.  Even though Preschooler had a potty accident first thing in the morning, I was in a good mood.  Even though Toddler was up at 5:00 am, I was in a good mood.  Even though I spent my entire shower listening to my kids fight and scream and cry over some Duplo blocks they were playing with, I was in a good mood.

And I am thankful for that.  I am thankful that today, hopefully today, I’ll be able to handle what life throws at me without being so overwhelmed by it all.  

I hope today will be a good day.

I Turned On The Christmas Music, And I'm Not Ashamed.

Today I played some Christmas music while I did the dishes.  Yes, I’m THAT person.

Fa-la-la-la-la-La-la-la-la.

I love Christmas, and as far as I’m concerned, the season to be jolly can last for the entire months of November and December.  I need something to offset all of that winter seasonal depression, and holiday cheer fits the bill nicely.

Christmas first waved hello to me in Starbucks.  I was there over the weekend to do a little writing, and what did I see?  Red cups!  Peppermint Mochas! 

“Yippee!” I said, while waiting in line.  

The woman in front of me turns around.  Did I say “Yippee?” out loud?

“The Christmas things are here!” I mumbled in a small but gleeful tone.

“Huh,” she said.

Whatever.  I drank my peppermint mocha in one of the cafe’s plushy orange chairs, and mentally planned every single moment of the next 8-10 weeks.   Christmas by nature involves list-making and if there’s one thing I love it’s a good list.  Lists of what presents to buy, when, and where, and to whom.  Lists of what to cook and bake.  Lists of what to pack on the long weekends visiting family.

And seeing as Husband and I have finally done what we always say we’re going to do, and spread our Christmas shopping out over the course of the year, it’s a bit like I’ve been celebrating Christmas ALL YEAR LONG.

Lucky me!

This Is Why Obituaries Rarely Include Puns

We gather here today, to mourn the loss of our beloved dining room chairs.  For six years they faithfully crowded before our dining table. But now I have no chairs left.  They have disappeared.  They have a new purpose in life. 

They stand in front of our buffet to prevent Toddler from opening each and every drawer like a poltergeist in pigtails.

They are used by Preschooler to construct blanket forts.  The chairs aren’t very good at this, as the blankets constantly fall down, requiring my assistance to set the fort back up again, and again, and again, until I go insane.

I use the chairs as a precarious step-stool to reach the highest shelves in our cupboards, despite the fact that we have a real step-stool in the closet. I’m like a lazy MacGyver.

And, actually, they do serve as chairs during meal-times, lest we all eat off tv trays on the sofa.

So maybe my chairs haven’t left me.  They’ve simply diversified.  They should put this on their resume, so that one day they may be chairmen the board. 

Hardy-har-har.

Sorry.  I promise I’ll never use a pun again.

Garden Fail

I’ve always enjoyed gardening.  When I was a child, my parents always let me have a little garden of my own, to plant petunias, marigolds, and other plants hardy enough to withstand clumsy handling.  When I was 17 or 18, I moved on to planting some perennials, some of which survive to this day.

So now that I had a whole four square feet of land outside my front door, I was eager this summer to pull out the weeds, and replace them with flowers; my own take on urban beautification. But away from the influence of my parents’ green thumbs, this garden was a near failure.

My black-eyed susans never bloomed.  My coneflowers were eaten by rabbits.  My salvia (no, not the hallucinogenic kind) grew all wonky, instead of straight and tall.  The pre-existing bleeding hearts withered away and died.

The only thing to flourish?  Potted petunias.

I guess I’m back to square one.

Candid Camera Ain't Got Nothing On Me

I remember my very first camera.  It was a turquoise-blue kodak pizzazz.  It was about the size of a very large remove control, or a sadly diminutive box of chocolates.  Despite the fact that there were only two functioning buttons, I still couldn’t operate it.  In a remarkable display of cutting-edge technology, it required a roll of film that I was never able to wind properly. 

Then the dinosaurs went extinct.

When I finally did load the film, I ventured forth and took twenty-four pictures; twenty-five if it was a really good roll of film.  My portfolio contained such gems as the sky, the inside of my purse, half a finger tip, and bits and pieces of the subjects I was trying to photograph in the first place.

Despite these earnest, early attempts, I’ve never taken good photographs. Nor am I particularly willing to be subjected to being photographed.

I’m notoriously unphotogenic.  It’s genetic, through my father’s side.  My father, his mother (my grandmother), myself, and possibly Preschooler, all experience the same bizarre anomaly in front of a camera.  Our eyelids all go sort of heavy, and we basically look like we just took some sort of really fun drugs, even when we’ve taken NO DRUGS AT ALL.

 

We look like this in every photo, ever.

Even more significant, I can’t smile on cue. Every time some one says “smile!” or “say cheese!” I go full-jungle-ape, baring as many teeth as humanly possible. I was probably sixteen before I learned to smile properly for a camera, and even now it’s a fine line between nothing and JAZZ HANDS!

Sexy.

With this history, it should come as no surprise that I’m rather bad about taking photographs of major life events.  I’m not artistic, I don’t like being in pictures, and my otherwise beautiful children are either smiling weird or either running towards or away from the camera.  Because of this, I usually just end up with some pictures of off-center birthday cakes and whirling dervishes in my photo albums

More importantly, I'd just rather live in the moment rather than try to get a good picture.  I just enjoy my time, and then mooch a few good pictures off of someone else who actually bothered to pick up a camera during the event. 

This didn't bother me until we celebrated Toddler's second birthday.  All of a sudden I realized I took no pictures - not one - of her birthday party.  And even though I’ve received a handful of beautiful photos from my mother and my mother-in-law, I still felt sad.

I'm sad to see my baby growing up. 

Can't she stay a baby just a little bit longer?  Because law degree aside, I have yet to perfect and patent my time machine, what with filling out those arduous forms at all. 

Just don’t let her turn 16 yet, ok?

Places I Love (To Not Love)

I know, I KNOW the Monday listicle challenge was to name your favorite places. But I’m going to list my LEAST favorite places. I’m a rebel like that.

I also know that it's Tuesday.  This makes me fashionably late, and for the very first time, fashionably anything.

Right then, places I hate:

1) Any bed that’s not my own.  My bed has a squishy pillow-top with grooves shaped over the years to fit my bizarrely bony hips and gigantic ass.  Sleeping anywhere else is like sitting on a rock-hard platform.

2) Dressing rooms.  No matter how much I weighed, the flickering fluorescent lights and tilted mirrors do nothing to hide my flabby belly.  It’s like they WANT me to not buy any clothes.

3) Scorching hot pavement directly under the earth's sun.  My shoes will start melting and then what will I wear, WHAT? Also, I hate sweating.

4) Gym class.  Gym class was the bane of my otherwise stellar academic career.  Oh, and also calculus.  These two things are related, right? Also, I hate sweating.

5) My bathtub.  I don’t take baths. I’m a showers only kind of gal. So if I’m in my bathtub, it means I’m cleaning it.  And every one knows cleaning the bathtub is a job that should only be performed by Satan's minions in the seventh layer of hell.

6) Hospital.  I hate having an IV in me.  HATE IT.

7) Work after childbirth.  Months of PPD combined with an undiagnosed bipolar disorder made going back to work after childbirth nothing short of a tragedy.  I’d have panic attacks in the parking lot at the mere thought of entering the building.

What, only 7 places?!  Angela, you optimist, you!

 Take a look at other great listicle posts here.  Thanks Stasha!

The Downside Of Secret Naps

When I was in high school, my mom taught freshman English literature to my friends.  And my enemies.  At my high school.

It was a double-edged sword.  On the one hand, there was no cutting class, cheating on tests, or any other shenanigans.  Mom wouldn’t find out about these transgressions days, weeks, or months later, after all was long said and done.  No, she found out within the hour from her coworkers, who were also my teachers.  There’s no point in acting out, when there’s no feasible chance of getting away with it. 

On the plus side, I always had a car ride to school. She was able to coordinate my schedule so I would end up with the teachers of my choice. Best of all, I was able to conduct my own personal study hall under the guise of being her “assistant.”

Students had the ability to be a teacher’s assistant one hour of the day, rather than taking an extra-credit course.  Theoretically, these students were to assist the teacher doing who knows what.  In my case it meant sitting at a desk stashed away in the English supply room, reveling in the gift of undisturbed slumber.

This secret nap was sorely needed.  By the time I was in high school, I spent most of my free time at ballet.  Ballet shoes took up more space in my backpack than books.  I’d often go straight to ballet after school, arriving home at 9:00 in the evening to wolf down a re-heated dinner, and (finally) start my homework.

I was tired.

Until one day, I had an unanticipated surplus of energy.  Embarrassing, embarrassing energy.  I sat at that stashed away desk in the supply room, mentally going through a recently-learned dance routine.  Pretty soon I was walking through the steps while sitting in my seat.  Before long, I leaped up, and twirled into a double-pirouette, landing only to see one of the other English teachers chortling in the doorway.

And that is reason no. 239 why I wasn’t popular in high school.

Shot In The Heart, And You're To Blame

When we moved to Wisconsin back in October, we had some difficulties getting my daughters’ vaccination records to move with us. Our first visit to our new pediatrician’s office was for Toddler’s 15-month-checkup. I was unsure which vaccinations she was due for, but I thought, “No problem!  That’s why they keep records of these things.  Right? RIGHT?”

WRONG.

When our doctor in Wisconsin reviewed the records we brought with us from Ohio, they couldn’t figure out which vaccinations she received. You see, the vaccination chart was on the SECOND page of the girls’ records we brought back from Ohio, but our new doctors’ office would only scan the FIRST page of the records into their electronic systems.  The rest of the documents in the girls’ charts went into some strange land of limbo known as “storage,” accessible by neither man nor beast. 

Because I couldn’t say for sure which vaccinations she already received, I went ahead and told the staff to skip the vaccinations for this visit, we’ll get the necessary vaccinations once we have all the records straight.

Fast forward three months, and we STILL didn’t have a clear vaccination record for either of my children.  By this point I was so fed up that I just said, “Go ahead, just give her whatever vaccinations she missed from her 15-month checkup, along with whatever she’s due for today.”

“M’am, that’s going to be six shots.”

“Really?  Hmmmm.... is it dangerous for her to get that many?”
“No, there’s no danger.”

“I may regret this, but lets just do them all and get it over with.  It’ll suck for today, but she’s so little she probably won’t remember.”

Poke. WHAAAA!!! Poke. Poke. WHAAAA!!! WHAAAA!!! Poke. Poke. Poke. WHAAAA!!! WHAAAA!!! WHAAAA!!!

I regret this. 

Not only did it physically hurt her at the time, which broke my heart, but she remembers those jabs. Now she is terrified, utterly, utterly, terrified.  All a doctor has to do is look at her to reduce her to a trembling wailing heap in my arms.  If I even go to lay her down on the scale to get her weight and height measured, she clings and trembles as if I were trying to baptize her in a fountain of acid. The poor thing desperately clings to me, shaking with terror, if I even try to lie her down on one of those plastic changing tables in the McDonald’s bathroom.

She remembers.

I ruined her.

And I felt like CRAP about it.  How could’ve I willingly exposed my baby to such pain, that it would stick around as one of her earliest memories?  But as I was wailing and gnashing my teeth over this, my Mom came up with the best reasoning I’ve heard yet. 

“Honey, lots of people are afraid of the doctor.  Who’s to say that she WOULDN’T have developed such a fear, no matter how many or few vaccinations she received?” 

So maybe I didn’t ruin her.  Yet.

Sorry Toddler.  Mommy loves you very much. Even when your 5, 15, 25 years old, if you need some one to hold your hand at the doctor’s office, I’ll be there.

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Challenge Accepted

In my head (don’t tell me you don’t want to be there), there is a big difference between “dares” and “challenges.”  I’m so incredibly risk-adverse that I blow off any type of dare.  It’s been like this since I was a child. Observe:

Another child:  I dare you to climb to the top of that tree.

Me:  No thanks.

However,

Another child: Who thinks they could climb to the top of that tree?

Me: CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.

I would then try ineffectively to shimmy up a tree.  I’d only manage to get one or two feet off the ground.  I never had good gross-motor skills.

It wasn’t always physical challenges that prodded me to take on a challenge.  There were academic challenges too.

Math teacher:  Ok, it’s time to review our algebra homework.

Me: AAAAARRRGHHHH.  Math is hard.

However,

Math teacher:  Ok, here is an extra-credit algebra worksheet.  You get 1 extra-credit point for each problem you answer correctly.

Me: I’ll take two, please.

Now, I was no great-shakes at math, but that’s besides the point.  If you try to motivate me to achieve a goal by betting me I could never do it, well, you’d be right.  If some one thinks I’m unable to accomplish something, and they tell me so, I have no desire to prove them wrong. 

But if you simply present me with a lofty goal, I’ll rise to meet that challenge.

And sometimes I succeed.

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This post brought to you by a writing prompt at http://www.studiothirtyplus.com/  Check it out!!

I'm Whale Neutral. Don't Tell PETA.

Having majored in English, and being a self-proclaimed library addict, I’ve read many a tome in my day.  So I’m about to go all Judgey McJudgerson, and regale you with a short list of books I absolutely hate. 

Moby Dick.  Oh how I loathe Moby Dick.  I’ve been forced to read it cover-to-cover twice.  One professor in particular, LOVED Moby Dick.  He may or may not sleep with a copy of Moby Dick under his pillow.  WHO KNOWS?  Because despite all the symbolism and etymology, Herman Melville spends an exorbitant amount of time discussing whales and whaling in minute detail.  Excruciatingly, painful, minute detail.  Guess what?  I don’t care about whaling!  On the other hand, I also didn’t like Free Willy.  I’m whale neutral.

Sweet Valley High.  Anyone remember the Sweet Valley High series.  Anyone?  Beuller?  Right.  For those who were not pre-teens in the 80’s, here’s the scoop.  There are two girls.  They’re twins.  And every book revolves around some sort of boyfriend drama.  Or who’s on the cheerleading squad.  Also, I think in one book they had some sort of switched-identity due to a coma, or something.  I was 11, with no boobs.  Boyfriend and cheerleading conflicts were not relevant to my life.  I did, however, have a brief and passionate love affair with the Babysitter’s Club books, despite the fact that I rarely babysat.  Apparently the life of a pre-teen is tumultuous and inconsistent.  Also, no one used the word “tween” when I was young, and I refuse to use it now.

Uuuummm....hmmmmmm.  I guess that’s it.  Apparently I’ve enjoyed, or at least tolerated, every other book I've ever read.  Ever. 

Wait a minute, this can’t be right. Any one out there care to shore up this pathetic list? 

When NOT To Let Your Babies Run Wild And Free

Over the weekend my mom hosted her annual 4th-of-July-fireworks-party-spectacular.  As part of the festivities my mom set up one of those kiddie swimming pools.  Now, Toddler is not yet potty-trained, and being the organized, prepared woman I am, I brought exactly ZERO swim diapers.

“Whatever,” I thought.  “I’ll keep her in a regular diaper with her swimsuit on.  She’ll just have a little extra junk-in-the-trunk.”

So into the pool she went.  She splashed, she laughed, it was a wonderful family summer experience.  And sure enough, her water-logged bottom swelled about 5 times its normal size.

After she had enough, I took her inside to dry her off, only to find her COVERED in small beads of silicone gel.

The diaper exploded. 

“What did you THINK would happen?!” exclaimed Husband when I told him of this predicament.

“I DON’T KNOW?!” I cried.  “We’ve accidentally laundered disposable diapers before, and they never exploded!  They just get really, REALLY, heavy!”

We hosed Toddler off, and sent her back outside to play in her swimsuit sans diaper.  She didn’t realize anything was amiss, although I’m pretty sure she peed on her grandfather’s lap.

The next day my sister came over with her kids, and being a responsible parent, she DID bring swim diapers.  Which I scoffed at.

“Whatever.  I’ll let my baby run wild and free,” I thought.  Husband, on the other hand, felt differently. So we put her in the swim diaper, which turned out to be the right call.  If we hadn’t, the pool would’ve had to be evacuated due to a turd and my poor parenting choices. 

Lesson learned: There is a reason they make special diapers for the pool.  This is not a difficult concept, unless you're me. I like to learn things the hard way.

P.S.:  Also, I’m THIS CLOSE to using cloth diapers should I ever have another infant.  The only problem with that is I’m chronically behind on my laundry, and don’t see myself as catching up any time soon. And while the obvious solution is to use a diaper cleaning service, in my neck of the woods that would cost more than disposable diapers, because they require you to "rent" fresh diapers of their choice each week.  In addition, which "yuk" factor is worse: laundering dirty diapers myself, or covering my baby's butt with diapers that (although they were cleaned) once resided on another baby's butt?  I await your learned, professional opinions with interest.

This post also appears at Cheesy Bloggers!