1. I will find a regular, adult, capable-of-staying-overnight sitter for my children. This will likely involve calling the local nanny agency and interviewing nannies and paying through the nose to find someone who won't end up on Dateline NBC. However, in the past year, it has become extremely apparent that my parents, who live two miles away, are not viable answers for even emergency childcare situations. I don't trust their judgment, their interest, or (most importantly) their health. I do have a regular sitter, but she has a family and a regular job, and I need a back-up. This will alleviate a lot of anxiety for me and allow me to envision future weekend trips for my anniversaries (we haven't even gone out to dinner the past two years!).
2. I'm going to get up the energy to make more food at home. This pregnancy has knocked me out. I have never before barfed until eighteen weeks. I am still taking Zofran to alleviate some debilitating nausea. But my children are going to be supersized if I don't get a handle on the situation (let's not even mention me). I do not enjoy cooking at all. I'm not particularly good at it, and then when I do it, at least one half of the residents of my household are unhappy with what I have made or chosen. It's demoralizing. But we are all going to have to suck it up before we all have to suck it in!
3. I WILL get this house in order. It might kill me. But women have died for lesser causes.
4. I will NOT allow anyone to convince me to volunteer in a classroom next school year. I love my children, but the weekly gigs absolutely kill my momentum at home. I'll be available to pinch hit or do special projects, but a regular assignment is just too much.
5. I will start one of two sure-fire million dollar ideas: either embark on an actual effective system for organizing and storing Legos (We put men on the moon, people. We can't do better than the current offerings?) and especially Lego *sets* or start my own PURELY RECREATIONAL sports league for children in my area. No pros, semi-pros, or children with biceps allowed. No fathers (or mothers) allowed to coach. Customers would pay more for third party coaches, but they would get less politics and Daddyball and ridiculousness. Families would have to sign contracts stating they are happy for their children to play, that winning *and losing* are part of playing sports, that every child should be able to get to play infield or quarterback. When they are ready for more competition, they are free to leave -- there are plenty of places to find that.I'm going to be rich, people. And my kids might actually be able to just play a game instead of having to worry that their uniforms might not get dirty all season.
6. Write more, obviously.
There are more, like getting my middle child out of nighttime pull-ups, but I will leave it at that. That's enough for now.
Happy and productive 2012, everyone!
Panic at the disco
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
It's over. Christmas 2011, that is. All in all, it was an unlikely success, despite the Head Cold That Ate Cleveland (for me), various other assorted ailments for the little people, and the usual family shenanigans. I hope you and yours had fabulous holidays of the Hanukkah or Christmas (or Kwanzaa, Eid, Diwali... ) flavors. I, for one, am just incredibly grateful for the break in the regular programming!
But now, it's over. The decorations need to come down and, I hope, stored with some amount of organization or thought to aid in next year's effort. The kitchen needs to be restored, I hope better than I found it. But most of all...
My house is a total disaster.
I know that part of my panic is hormone, nesting related. I'm 21 weeks today, and suddenly, now that 2012 is this weekend, May seems a lot closer. Part of my panic is the fact that I spent yesterday at the home of my ultra-organized, completely anal brother and sister-in-law, where every single thing has a place and a home, they know exactly where that home is, and five minutes after gifts were opened, it was as if we had never been there. My brother's children automatically wash their hands before and after they eat, take showers of their own volition, and inspect glasses before they drink out of them. My children are staunch supporters of the five-second rule and have to be threatened to brush their teeth or observe daily hygiene.
But it is more than that. Our house is a disaster. I'm an organized person trapped underneath four completely anti-organization individuals, a dog, and two aged cats. We have too many clothes (hand-me-downs are overrated for the sheer amount of sorting and storing they require!), too many toys, too much paper, too much carpet (see: dog and two aged cats). Too. Much. Stuff. And I want it all gone, and I have no idea where to begin.
I wish we could go away for a weekend, come back, and find that some magic fairy (preferably Nate Berkus) had emptied my house of all the extra stuff, stripped the carpet and left hardwood or laminate floors -- I'm not picky, and painted the walls different colors. Oh, and finished the laundry.
For now, I am making 2012 the Year of the To-Do List. And I am hoping that once the fog of this neverending head cold lifts, I have some awesome second and third trimester energy surges to plow me through the mess.
But now, it's over. The decorations need to come down and, I hope, stored with some amount of organization or thought to aid in next year's effort. The kitchen needs to be restored, I hope better than I found it. But most of all...
My house is a total disaster.
I know that part of my panic is hormone, nesting related. I'm 21 weeks today, and suddenly, now that 2012 is this weekend, May seems a lot closer. Part of my panic is the fact that I spent yesterday at the home of my ultra-organized, completely anal brother and sister-in-law, where every single thing has a place and a home, they know exactly where that home is, and five minutes after gifts were opened, it was as if we had never been there. My brother's children automatically wash their hands before and after they eat, take showers of their own volition, and inspect glasses before they drink out of them. My children are staunch supporters of the five-second rule and have to be threatened to brush their teeth or observe daily hygiene.
But it is more than that. Our house is a disaster. I'm an organized person trapped underneath four completely anti-organization individuals, a dog, and two aged cats. We have too many clothes (hand-me-downs are overrated for the sheer amount of sorting and storing they require!), too many toys, too much paper, too much carpet (see: dog and two aged cats). Too. Much. Stuff. And I want it all gone, and I have no idea where to begin.
I wish we could go away for a weekend, come back, and find that some magic fairy (preferably Nate Berkus) had emptied my house of all the extra stuff, stripped the carpet and left hardwood or laminate floors -- I'm not picky, and painted the walls different colors. Oh, and finished the laundry.
For now, I am making 2012 the Year of the To-Do List. And I am hoping that once the fog of this neverending head cold lifts, I have some awesome second and third trimester energy surges to plow me through the mess.
My kids are not (always) assholes
Monday, December 19, 2011
During my hiatus from the blog, I attended my fifteenth college reunion. As I have written many times before, I love my alma mater fiercely, and I adore my friends and classmates that I met there. I mean, for the most part. Ninety-nine percent of them.
While I was at my reunion this year, I was struck by how many people approached me and told me they read my Facebook status updates all the time. As I admitted below, I am not a natural Twitterhead, but I am a Facebooker. With friends spread out around the country and sometimes the world, it really keeps me in touch with tons of people I would otherwise lose in my life and it also keeps me in the loop locally with my mom friends and organizations, so I find it insanely useful. But see, the classmates approaching me at the reunion, with few exceptions, don't actually post on Facebook much if at all, yet they read all of my posts. Which left me feeling a little weird. Naked, I guess. I guess I usually assume that if people don't post on Facebook, they don't read Facebook either. Ding-dong wrong, apparently.
I bumped into one friend late one night at the reunion. She had obviously been partaking of some adult beverages, as is her prerogative. After we hugged, the first thing she said to me was, "Wow! So your kids are, like, assholes, huh?"
I was taken a bit aback. I mean, I post snippets on Facebook about my kids -- who give me plenty of fodder for Facebook status updates, as you might imagine. I try to mix in positive updates along with the sarcastic, the weary, or the downright done kind. I mean, my kids are kids. Sometimes they are sweet, sometimes they surprise me, and sometimes, yes, they are assholes. But they are kids. Kids can be assholes. I'm not one to sugarcoat my kids. I will tell you when they are amazing, when they are brilliant, when they are heartbreakingly kind and generous, and when they are douchebags. I am sure they would prepare the same reports about me if given social media accounts. We're all human beings, and we're all assholes sometimes.
But in that instant, I realized that all my friend -- a rock star doctor who travels the world -- knows about my kids are what she reads on my Facebook status updates. And all she had taken from that is that my kids are assholes. I stood there sort of in stunned silence as she went on: "I didn't really want to have kids, but your Facebook updates have totally confirmed it for me," she laughed. "No thanks!"
Luckily, she was tipsy enough that I was able to navigate away from her gracefully, but I felt shamed. It made me doubt what I write about my kids both on Facebook and here. Just for the record, my kids are not (always) assholes. My kids are kids. I love them more than anything on the face of the planet. I marvel at how freaking hard they are sometimes. I berate myself for not being good enough to them or for them. I think they are awesome.
Some locals were surprised when I showed up pregnant this fall. A few voiced that they were befuddled as to why I would have another kid when the ones I have are such a handful. They are an awesome handful. They do kick my butt all the time. ALL the time. But they are the best things in the world, too. I love my little kid gang. And I think they make each other better. One more is going to be fun. Hard as hell, but fun.
So before we move on, I just wanted to clear that up. It's been bugging me since June. And that childless rock star friend? She has since, with her husband, added two puppies to her household. I look at the (many, many) pictures on her Facebook status updates and chuckle to myself. Because puppies? Can be so much bigger assholes than kids!
While I was at my reunion this year, I was struck by how many people approached me and told me they read my Facebook status updates all the time. As I admitted below, I am not a natural Twitterhead, but I am a Facebooker. With friends spread out around the country and sometimes the world, it really keeps me in touch with tons of people I would otherwise lose in my life and it also keeps me in the loop locally with my mom friends and organizations, so I find it insanely useful. But see, the classmates approaching me at the reunion, with few exceptions, don't actually post on Facebook much if at all, yet they read all of my posts. Which left me feeling a little weird. Naked, I guess. I guess I usually assume that if people don't post on Facebook, they don't read Facebook either. Ding-dong wrong, apparently.
I bumped into one friend late one night at the reunion. She had obviously been partaking of some adult beverages, as is her prerogative. After we hugged, the first thing she said to me was, "Wow! So your kids are, like, assholes, huh?"
I was taken a bit aback. I mean, I post snippets on Facebook about my kids -- who give me plenty of fodder for Facebook status updates, as you might imagine. I try to mix in positive updates along with the sarcastic, the weary, or the downright done kind. I mean, my kids are kids. Sometimes they are sweet, sometimes they surprise me, and sometimes, yes, they are assholes. But they are kids. Kids can be assholes. I'm not one to sugarcoat my kids. I will tell you when they are amazing, when they are brilliant, when they are heartbreakingly kind and generous, and when they are douchebags. I am sure they would prepare the same reports about me if given social media accounts. We're all human beings, and we're all assholes sometimes.
But in that instant, I realized that all my friend -- a rock star doctor who travels the world -- knows about my kids are what she reads on my Facebook status updates. And all she had taken from that is that my kids are assholes. I stood there sort of in stunned silence as she went on: "I didn't really want to have kids, but your Facebook updates have totally confirmed it for me," she laughed. "No thanks!"
Luckily, she was tipsy enough that I was able to navigate away from her gracefully, but I felt shamed. It made me doubt what I write about my kids both on Facebook and here. Just for the record, my kids are not (always) assholes. My kids are kids. I love them more than anything on the face of the planet. I marvel at how freaking hard they are sometimes. I berate myself for not being good enough to them or for them. I think they are awesome.
Some locals were surprised when I showed up pregnant this fall. A few voiced that they were befuddled as to why I would have another kid when the ones I have are such a handful. They are an awesome handful. They do kick my butt all the time. ALL the time. But they are the best things in the world, too. I love my little kid gang. And I think they make each other better. One more is going to be fun. Hard as hell, but fun.
So before we move on, I just wanted to clear that up. It's been bugging me since June. And that childless rock star friend? She has since, with her husband, added two puppies to her household. I look at the (many, many) pictures on her Facebook status updates and chuckle to myself. Because puppies? Can be so much bigger assholes than kids!
Catching up
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Husband says it is insanely boring when I write posts about why I have not been posting. So I am going to let him be the voice of my (former? long-lost?) readers and just sum it up in one sentence: too.much.life. You can relate.
The truth is, I have struggled a lot since attending BlogHer in 2010. I haven't really known where I fit in this blogging world. I felt a need to jump in, to join the fray, to tweet and market and write elsewhere and... you know, it's just not me. It's just not. I am not interested in sponsored posts, not interested in tweeting (I do love the Facebook, though, and I read OTHERS' tweets), not interested in trying to get a book deal. This little space has been mine for four years now, and I guess that's just what I need it to be. A little space.
I needed time to come to the conclusion that it is okay, that I am no less a writer or a member of this blogging world, if I am just the writer of this blog, somewhat anonymous and completely small-time. I read a lot of others' blog posts, but I comment very rarely only because I am usually on Flipbook and it is a total pain in the rear. Am I still worth reading? Well, you'll have to decide.
In the meantime:
1. I'm pregnant. Yes! Seriously! I'm halfway done, actually. I know, how could I keep it off the Interwebz for so very long with my huge mouth? I will tell you the truth: I don't really love when my favorite bloggers conceive and then their blogs become all about pregnancy and butterflies and roses and whatnot. I didn't know how to present this and also say, dude, this blog is NOT going to be all about my pregnancy. But here it is. A few common answers to common questions...
-- Yes, this was planned. We have debated for years, and if you have been reading here, you know it has been bouncing around in my brain. We finally decided to go for it.
-- No, I'm not "going for a girl." I'm not a huge gambler, especially when odds are not in my favor. I would love to have a daughter; I think that is well known. But I also think four boys would be pretty darn special too. When I was pregnant with B., I was desperate to know what his gender was. Like, manic. But this pregnancy, I am oddly at peace. I don't care. I know that sounds ridiculous given everything I have written, but I think I have finally come to the realization that what will be will be, and I am not in charge, and no matter what, it's okay. Which is good, since, you know, what will be WILL be, I am NOT in charge, and no matter what, it IS okay. Ha. Maybe I am growing up.
-- Yes, this is IT. I am crazy, but not THAT kind of crazy. And yes, for sure. Husband and I do know how to prevent these things. Ten years of baby-making and a now advanced maternal age are enough. I'm tired and I have a lot of heartburn and I'm old. This is it. The end. All she wrote. Shop's closed. And... scene.
2. I have made a decision. I will no longer call myself a Stay at Home Mother. I cannot claim this idea -- I read it on Twitter. Another mother made the statement. I can't remember her Twitter handle, which is probably like the worst breach of conduct ever, but... at least I'm honest? Anyway, as she said, we are ALL mothers. We don't call dads "Work Outside the Home Dads." I'm over the labels. I am a Mother. Period. I also now like to fancy myself a Writer. So I am a Writer and I am a Mother, but I am not a Stay at Home Mother who writes. Just in case you were looking to give me business cards for Christmas or whatever. I don't know why, but this decision to reject that label has really affected me the past few days.
3. I have been writing for pay. Or, at least, assembling writing. I completed two first drafts of books between April and October, and it kicked. my. butt. I kind of hated the struggle to balance my kids and my employer. My hat is off to the better multitaskers than I am... I sucked at it.
4. I miss my people. I'm feeling very disconnected from my kindred spirits right now, for whatever reason. Suburbia is getting to me. I am feeling smothered and yet lonely all at the same time. Does that even make sense?
5. I want to write. For ME. So I am pledging to myself that I will write more and more frequently. I am not sure I will ever be a daily blogger, but I can try. It's good for my soul.
I've missed my space. It's good to be back. The adventure continues!
The truth is, I have struggled a lot since attending BlogHer in 2010. I haven't really known where I fit in this blogging world. I felt a need to jump in, to join the fray, to tweet and market and write elsewhere and... you know, it's just not me. It's just not. I am not interested in sponsored posts, not interested in tweeting (I do love the Facebook, though, and I read OTHERS' tweets), not interested in trying to get a book deal. This little space has been mine for four years now, and I guess that's just what I need it to be. A little space.
I needed time to come to the conclusion that it is okay, that I am no less a writer or a member of this blogging world, if I am just the writer of this blog, somewhat anonymous and completely small-time. I read a lot of others' blog posts, but I comment very rarely only because I am usually on Flipbook and it is a total pain in the rear. Am I still worth reading? Well, you'll have to decide.
In the meantime:
1. I'm pregnant. Yes! Seriously! I'm halfway done, actually. I know, how could I keep it off the Interwebz for so very long with my huge mouth? I will tell you the truth: I don't really love when my favorite bloggers conceive and then their blogs become all about pregnancy and butterflies and roses and whatnot. I didn't know how to present this and also say, dude, this blog is NOT going to be all about my pregnancy. But here it is. A few common answers to common questions...
-- Yes, this was planned. We have debated for years, and if you have been reading here, you know it has been bouncing around in my brain. We finally decided to go for it.
-- No, I'm not "going for a girl." I'm not a huge gambler, especially when odds are not in my favor. I would love to have a daughter; I think that is well known. But I also think four boys would be pretty darn special too. When I was pregnant with B., I was desperate to know what his gender was. Like, manic. But this pregnancy, I am oddly at peace. I don't care. I know that sounds ridiculous given everything I have written, but I think I have finally come to the realization that what will be will be, and I am not in charge, and no matter what, it's okay. Which is good, since, you know, what will be WILL be, I am NOT in charge, and no matter what, it IS okay. Ha. Maybe I am growing up.
-- Yes, this is IT. I am crazy, but not THAT kind of crazy. And yes, for sure. Husband and I do know how to prevent these things. Ten years of baby-making and a now advanced maternal age are enough. I'm tired and I have a lot of heartburn and I'm old. This is it. The end. All she wrote. Shop's closed. And... scene.
2. I have made a decision. I will no longer call myself a Stay at Home Mother. I cannot claim this idea -- I read it on Twitter. Another mother made the statement. I can't remember her Twitter handle, which is probably like the worst breach of conduct ever, but... at least I'm honest? Anyway, as she said, we are ALL mothers. We don't call dads "Work Outside the Home Dads." I'm over the labels. I am a Mother. Period. I also now like to fancy myself a Writer. So I am a Writer and I am a Mother, but I am not a Stay at Home Mother who writes. Just in case you were looking to give me business cards for Christmas or whatever. I don't know why, but this decision to reject that label has really affected me the past few days.
3. I have been writing for pay. Or, at least, assembling writing. I completed two first drafts of books between April and October, and it kicked. my. butt. I kind of hated the struggle to balance my kids and my employer. My hat is off to the better multitaskers than I am... I sucked at it.
4. I miss my people. I'm feeling very disconnected from my kindred spirits right now, for whatever reason. Suburbia is getting to me. I am feeling smothered and yet lonely all at the same time. Does that even make sense?
5. I want to write. For ME. So I am pledging to myself that I will write more and more frequently. I am not sure I will ever be a daily blogger, but I can try. It's good for my soul.
I've missed my space. It's good to be back. The adventure continues!
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