Category Archives: Can’t decide on a category

Garage sale life

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You know those yard sales where someone’s trying to convince you to buy a table with three legs, a jacket with no lining, and a great cassette collection though you have no cassette player?

Well, I’m the neighbor who keeps all that stuff in the house because it’s just embarrassing to drag it out to the lawn.

You might remember almost two years ago an adorable and indignant Peanut ruined my car stereo. It’s been hit or miss each time we’re in the car—sometimes we hear CDs or NPR and sometimes the speakers just won’t work thanks to the quarter still lodged somewhere in the CD player’s nether regions.

I’m getting fed up, though, There were weeks we heard 90% of what we wanted to. It’s now down to 25%, even with the trick Spouse devised where we Fonzie the passenger side of the dash to jiggle the quarter out of whatever contact points are blocked.

And you know what? “Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me” is nothing if you hear only 25%. “This American Life” is useless if you hear one sentence out of four. And, most important, “Science Friday” might as well be “Science Monthly” since we hear almost none of it.

Bah humbug.

(btw, spell check allows Fonzie but not CDs. Proof the coders are over 40. Or knows more pop culture than punctuation rules.)

Reality Check

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Quote of the week:

“Everything you think, say, and do either helps or hurts. Leads you where you want to be or takes you off your path. Contributes to the family or tears it down. Everything either benefits or compromises you, the ones you love, and the entire Universe.”

Well, gee, that’s not putting too much pressure on our choices. Now I have to actually think about what I put in my mouth, what comes out of my mouth, how I react, and what I choose every moment of my day.

I guess I’ll start taking deep breaths and long drinks of water before every blink.

Like I didn’t have enough to do this week.

The quick and the dirty

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Highlights of the visit with a dear friend this weekend include an Impressionism exhibit where we saw Monet’s The Magpie and Bouguereau’s The Birth of Venus (which, for my money, totally shames Botticelli’s gaudy version.)

Also, coating our palates with cheeses selected by the knowledgeable cheesemongers at The Ferry Building’s Cowgirl Creamery and finding shirts to celebrate our absent pal jc.

Too bad there were so many menfolk in our way (you heard me, Spouse, Other Spouse, and Peanut). We could have eaten and talked our way through the whole City. As it was, we tasted bits. But hopefully it was enough to get us through.

Worth the co-pay

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My first visit to the therapist this weekend resulted in this bit of wisdom:

All parents find that to be good—really good—at raising a child, some part of them needs to go underground. Some people let their hobbies go, some let their careers go, some let their marriages go. But something needs to give. Just be careful what you sacrifice because the stuff that gets pushed underground may never come back up.

Damn. That was totally worth the $20.

Because for the first three years of Peanut’s life, I thought that I had closed all the doors to my future. Instead of choosing what went subterranean while I made the sacrifice to parent full time, I shovelled everything under. I was not willing to choose a few thing to die so the other bits could thrive. I just jammed it all in a box labeled: Do Not Open until 2011.

But framing the choice I’ve made in terms of pushing a few priorities to the back burner and shoving some effectively off the stove and into the trash is enlightening. I knew I wanted to fill each hole that arose as my family grew less and less needy with bits of me that I had stuffed in that box. But I didn’t (and don’t yet) have a plan for what comes out when. Just bringing dribbles of *everything* whenever there’s a spare moment will not work. I need to make room in the fridge and bring myself back a gallon at a time.

So I’m going to spend the next few weeks thinking about what I’m willing to toss, what I want to keep on hold, and what could slip back into my life, in one gulp not tiny sips, so I’m more of a person than I’ve been for a while.

What are you letting go underground while you do your most important work, and what are you carefully guarding and tending so it won’t get buried as you do your “have to” and “should”s?

The unshowered mother of a newborn

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When you’re home with your first baby and unshowered for three days, nobody much minds.

When you’re taking the older one to school and you’re unshowered for three days, it’s kind of embarrassing.

When one of the preschool families brings in their pet boa constrictor and mentions its poor sight and reliance on smell, being unshowered for three days in the summer might be European in the Greek-economy way rather than the endearingly-French kind of way.

[Seriously, they said, “no, she doesn’t try to constrict us, but we try not to smell like chickens.” I asked about goats, because that is the farm animal I most resemble olfactorily.]

Just wondering

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How is the child abuse rate in this country not higher?

(Seriously, no depressing replies from my social worker friends and family or law enforcement readers on how desperately high even a 0.00000001% rate is. I know that. But the question does not value a higher rate. It marvels at the <100% rate.)

Why can I not watch a film, show, or commercial without composing a critical theory response that involves footnotes and dreams of a research grant? What the hell is wrong with me? Am I missing enjoyment centers in my brain or something?

Where is that box of books I labeled to be first on the shelf after the three moves of a year-plus ago? I need two of those books, man. Where are they?

How does, "you may cut paper and only paper" translate into "try to cut your shirt, the rug, your chin, a bracelet, and the baby toys while I’m right here watching“? Seriously. Taking the whole ‘looking for negative attention’ thing to a whole new level.

No wonder I’m pissed I have absolutely no time to write…the voices in my head are better companions than small children. Why does nobody say how completely not ideal the companionship of young children is?

Now I know…

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Wanna know how to find the people who notice whether you exist on this planet or not? Have a baby. People who actually care will make showing their feelings a priority. People who don’t give you another thought at least tell you in their absence how they really feel…

Shiny new ‘pooter gets overheated…

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Oh, shiny new replacement computer, what a LOT of ranting you are going to process today.

Let’s begin with the fact that you need to exist. And that the bargain model I bought last freaking year, 13 months ago (which means one month past the freaking warranty expiration) was supposed to be a great deal. But two netbooks, stripped down to fit my pathetic budget bought within 14 months, means there will be no Christmas, no Hannukah, no new shoes—not even to replace all our white shoes after Labor Day—probably ever again. So screw your predecessor, screw you for existing, and screw you for being so much freaking better than last year’s model. And $10 cheaper. Bastard ‘pooter. I already don’t like you.

And you, Mother’s Day expectations…you suck. Because I hate Hallmark holidays and refuse to purchase Hallmarkiness in response to fabricated sentiment, I feel dirty for looking forward to Mother’s Day. I feel dirty for telling Spouse exactly what I wanted him and Peanut to make me. I feel cheap and hypocritical for smiling every time some says Happy Mother’s Day. And I feel really cheated that I didn’t get to sleep in, didn’t get a second to myself, didn’t get a shower, made my own breakfast (which the Spouse and Peanut refused to eat, thank you very much, to pour insult unctiously over injury). Sure, I have two beautiful, healthy, interesting, adorable, intriguing children to share the day with. And I’m finally, finally, finally home so I could spend the day with my mom and her mom. Everyone’s healthy and happy and really freaking lucky all ’round. But the Hallmarkiness of the holiday is centered around well rested and clean moms, yo. And I felt like a dolt for buying into that shite. I don’t sleep or shower or get any chef appreciation any other day of the year, so how dare I expect it on Mother’s Day?

You know what, I’m gonna leave it at that, ‘pooter. Cuz I don’t think you could handle a rant about all the other stuff making me a sourpuss today. And I can’t afford to lose another of your kind, you little technological bastard.

Babka in the computer

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I told you I couldn’t type with friendmade babka in the house. Computer took offense and took a header off the curb of my insanity-lined writing path. Having no ‘pooter is tough on the blogging.

‘Tis amusing reading your comments re: the babka-fest, though, via phone. What a string of privileged, upper-middle, first-world bullshit probs, eh? “Hard to type one-handed on my ‘pooter-surrogate phone while bouncing sling baby on yoga ball and wolfing down chocolate babka.”

Boo hoo to me.

We now rejoin our regularly scheduled rant…

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already in progress:

…and you’d better call the insurance bastards to see if it’s covered.

As for you, Peanut, you are a very interesting introduction to the fine, fine phase that is Four Years Old. Nothing could be worse than Three, it is true. But if Three was all Mr. Hyde and no Jekyl, Four is the maddening experience of discerning what dropped hat sends you from Jekyl to Hyde and back. No, I will not pick up the toy you kicked across the room. You threw one, I took it away. You threw another, I took it away. Most of your collection is on top of the bookcase today, waiting to see which version of you comes out of your room tomorrow morning. So when you kick a toy out of anger, you get to pick it up yourself. No, you do it. Cry all you want; I no longer flip out when you’re in distress. A newborn has made me immune to your terrorist tactics. Butter is the antidote to my occasional Peanut allergy.

Butter, you’d better stop it. Seriously. Knock it off. I followed all your nonverbal cues, I did everything you wanted, and I got you to sleep. Just because I moved the slightest bit does not mean you can flutter your eyes open and start flirting with me. Yes, you’re cute. Yes, you’re still tiny enough that everything you do is precious. Your loud sleeping is delightful, your recent partial baldness is adorable, and your waste products are coo-inspiring. But go to freaking sleep, you little monkey!

And quit suggesting that you want to nurse just so you can gather huge mouthfuls of milk and the spit them on me. That’s not funny, despite what your brother says.

Hey, agents who have my novel and haven’t replied in well past the 6 weeks you promised: screw you! What is wrong with you? All the other rejections came within the appropriate timeframe. It’s rude to set a deadline and miss it without notifying involved parties that you need longer to complete the task. I don’t want your representation, anyway. This thing is gonna be huge, and so will the next dozen or so I write, and you’ll rue the day. You’ll weep, you’ll rend your garments and pull out your hair. You’ll want a time machine to take you back to when you first heard my name just so you can jump at the chance to take on all my current and future brilliance. You will self-flagellate, and you will be correct in so torturing yourselves.
Asshats.

Sure, Peanut, we can go to the playground. Sure you can climb that big ol’ thing you’re always scared of. Sure I can help you down. Just turn around and…no, I can’t climb up there with you. I can’t help you from up there. I can help you from down here. No, I can’t take baby home and come back without the sling. Even if I did, I’d still be short and unable to lift 35 pounds down from well above my head. I will stand here and talk to you gently for 30 freaking minutes, convincing you that I will help and you won’t fall and you can do it. And after that interminable period of patience and goodness and model mothering, during which I have to take two time outs to keep from beating you and one to nurse your brother, I will grab you by the ankles and pull you off the play structure. Yes, you technically fell. I mostly, kind of caught you, though. It was a slow fall. Are you hurt? No? Good. Come on. Time to go make you the dinner you request and then refuse to eat.

Roget and me

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I have, for at least 13 years, used J.I. Rodale’s The Synonym Finder as my thesaurus of choice.  It’s the best I’ve found, and I love me a good thesaurus.

But today I had to question my preference. Working on a client project,  I wanted to find a term that connoted mental space, intellectual wiggle room, a physical distance from enclosure.

The Synonym Finder offered “enough room to swing a cat.”

Not quite what I was looking for.

As I flipped through, looking for another term, the book shouted, “lickspittle; legerdemain; inefficacy; ill-bred; debauchery; contumacious!” Well, that’s just rude.

I might be in the market for another thesaurus, if this one keeps misbehaving.

That which doesn’t kill you…

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Spouse out of town for  five days.

My mom out of town for six days.

About one hour after they left, week three growth spurt began (a little late, which is not shocking, given the child in question). Feedings every hour ’round the clock.  Now entering day three of that super sweet milestone.

Peanut on a collision course with logic and basic social mores.

No chocolate in the house.

A month overdue on a client project.

At least the new washing machine works (oh, sure, did I mention the old one died on day seven of newborn at home?). The fridge is full of food other people made for us. The growth spurt has to end, as does Peanut’s rebellion. 2666 is almost done. The weather’s nice, the garden’s growing, and I can only feel about 20 of my dozens of stitches right now.

The weekend is clearly on its way up, right?

Hey! You! Damn you.

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Okay, broken tortilla chips at the bottom of the bag. I’m calling you out. YOU are what’s wrong with civilization. You sit there, all disingenuous, pretending to be cute little juvenile chips. “Oh, baby chips, how adorable and undoubtedly tasty,” we’re supposed to proclaim.

I don’t buy it, broken chips. You’re impostors. You’re not cute or tiny or in other ways deserving of the affection we give tiny mammal creatures, with their floppy heads and ridiculous mewling “et la” fencing cries, “hilp hilp hilp” guliping swallows, big eyes and delicious ears and milk-smelling breath.

No, chips. You are not cute and you are not babies. You are detritus. You are the trash that ought be thrown into a witheringly hot tortilla soup, or reserved for some lame casserole dish that demands crushed chips, not for grownup tasks like scooping salsa or taking the edge off my gnawing disillusionment and anger.

I try not to just throw you in the compost, though that is the fate you deserve. No, I make an effort, you chip-goodwill welfare recipients. I try to select you individually, little crumbled useless shard of corn and salt, to get just a hint of salsa on my palate. Tiny flake after tiny flake, I waste precious time and compulsive eating impulses just to make it seem as though I am responsible with the chip dust that I, in all likelihood, caused to break away from the bigger pieces. I have chip breaker’s guilt, and so I try to eat those lame shards.

But then my rage controls me. I might run out of binge energy at this rate, long before I’m overfull and long before the shards are gone. I don’t want to go through this again next season when I have random chip urges again. Get out of my way, chip gravel!

So I shovel pinches full of the little bastards into my gaping maw. No way to dip them, so now it’s just dry, salty tortilla shrapnel. Unsatisfying.

Finally, I look into the bag. The broken bits of chip, like my life, used to hold promise and endless possibilities. And now they are the uncomfortably dessicated flotsam and jetsam of poor choices (like bagging the chips next to the gallon of milk) lying on the shores of a vast ocean of now impossible possibilities.

So I throw the nigh on empty bag of crumbs back into the cupboard, so they can taunt me and torment me and mock me and drive me into an existential spiral in a few months. Oh, they’ll be there. Because it’s not as though anyone else will eat those little bastards in the meantime.

the little things

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things I deeply appreciate this week:

babies who laugh in their sleep
babies who sometimes *do* sleep
people who cook me food
people who wash my dishes
people who do my laundry
Netflix
peri bottles
central heating
indoor plumbing
rocking chairs
helpful four-year-olds
kellymom.com
sunshine
ibuprofen
experience
fresh sheets
understanding clients
co-sleepers
thoughtful friends
intense four-year-olds who are trying their best
rechargeable toy batteries
Moses baskets

things I could really do without right now:
grouchy people
people who snap at me
nighttime flop sweats
The Part About The Crimes
advice to let a two-week old cry instead of “over” nursing
intense four-year olds who need to test limits
leaf blowers

and so it goes…

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TKW posted a delightful cookie recipe on her bloggety blog. And I read it, during the newborn’s reliable morning nap while the bigger kid was at school and thought, you know what seems like some massive self loving right now? Homemade cookies.

So I looked over the recipe. “No problem. I even have eggs. I boiled some yesterday, but…oh crap. I boiled some yesterday and they’re still on the stove. Gross. Wasteful and gross and now fuck the cookies I’m taking a shower.”

And with that, delicious newborn work up and tried to eat his Moses basket and I relented to the reality that is my world for a while. But I’m making those cookies this afternoon, with bigger kid the baking partner from my dreams, while grandma cuddles the little “if it ain’t made of warm, human flesh, I won’t sleep on it” smartest dude in the house.

Know what? I didn’t even cry. Not at losing the “baking in peace” moment or the hardboiled protein or the shower. Didn’t even think of crying.

Look at me, all bright-side of things and silver lining-ish and perspective-y. Must be the hormones.