Wait, how does this work...

Nothing like beating a dead horse, and really I don't love that phrase, but it works...

It is Sunday evening. It is 6:24 to be exact. I am in my new life, the life that is sans-teaching, but working full time. Forgive my list making, but maybe I am forgetting something...Laundry is done. House is clean. (has to be its up for sale) Lunches are semi-packed for tomorrow. Books are read. Okay. So now what?

I don't recall being in this position before...kids are entertained/entertaining themselves. Dinner is finished and cleaned away. So what do I do with myself? This is so odd.

I offered this blog up to a writer friend of mine and her reaction was of mild revulsion. Why? Extreme narcissism. My extreme narcissism to be exact. I guess she missed the disclaimer at the front, but anyway one of the points she emphasized was that I am NOT reinventing the wheel here. Women have been struggling with rearing children and being themselves/working, etc. for ages and I wasn't saying anything new. Blech. But I can't swallow that, somehow I can't do anything else BUT talk about this right now. I can't figure out another way to work through this. It's new territory and finding my way through it often feels like I am the first and only on who has done it. So true, not ground breaking stuff, for her, for many, but it is for me.

My point? I kind of lost it in there somewhere. But I think it was something to the effect of:

Now that I have some time to do something, what the heck do I do?

Life seems to me to be one big balancing act, and as soon as I am balanced someone throws another object at me and realignment begins again.

One of those days?

Sitting here at my desk I am trying to track why exactly my shoulders feel fixed to my ears...at what today did I become a stress case and why can't I shake it?

Okay, to start, an attempt at Jillian Anderson's Trouble Zones dvd. Note the word attempt. This video kicks your butt. Kicks mine anyway. This is the third attempt at finishing it and still not happening. Oh and they say the workout is 40 min. Not quite, thank you very much.

So begins the mad rush of the morning. Shower dress kids wake up advent calendar arguing dress me dress them clean up breakfast almost out of milk that was bread, once, sorry kiddo no toast and butter for breakfast baby pancakes for one not for the other socks on shoes on hair brushed chase other child to get him dressed make him breakfast doesn't want that okay I'll eat it laundry don't forget to put it in the dryer UGH dryer is full okay fold clothes chase child to dress again pack lunch don't forget snack forgot to decorate stockings for school ugh sorry kiddo maybe tonight 8:25 running out of time grab purse grab kisses drive away with car seat needed in other car get to work before I notice too far to turn back

And that was just before 8:45.

WHAT THE!

So, here I am fishing for the time of the Williamsburg Parade on the VA Gazette. Scroll down, nothing. Go across to the right hand nav and lo and behold, what do I see: The Viscosity of Me.

Huh? That sounds like my blog. THAT IS MY BLOG! Gulp. Hehehe, nervous laugh. I haven't written for quite some time. And turns out it has been posted as a link on the VA Gazette. Hehehe. Okay. Think. This is good. This is good because I really love writing. This is bad because I haven't written for some time. (Posts to follow about why I haven't written anything, and surely there are some doozies to come.) NOT that I haven't thought about it. In fact I think about it quite a bit.

I recently read this wonderful book, Better, A Surgeon's Notes on Performance by Atul Gawande. It is a truly insightful book about his experience thus far a surgeon, and his desire to examine his own preformance. I mention it for two reasons, one, I think you should read it, whoever you are, and two, in the summation he says "write something." I know he wasn't talking to me specifically, but he offers up writing as a way of problem solving, as well as a way of communicating. Surely this is a lousy way to sum up a great book, and it has a ton of other really compelling information, but that part hit me. 


Why? It applies to everyone. Write something. Write about your life, your kids, your struggles, your faith, write about what moves you, or what breaks your heart or what really ticks you off. 


Write something.

The day before.

Today is the day before. The day before my little elf of a girl gets on a big yellow bus and goes off to kindergarten. Sigh. The theme of this blog seems to be that of everlasting conflict, and this situation fits as well as any. She is just a baby! Or she was, just a second ago...

So how do I let her get on the bus, and pretend that I am doing fine? I swear it was just yesterday that I would cradle her in my arms and she would stare up at me with those deep blue eyes, looking into my very soul. She is such a challenge one moment and blows me away with her thoughts in the next. The other day she told me "Mom I love you more than all of the stars in the sky." I cried.

Her latest philosophical rant has been to convince Holden that the Holy Ghost aka Holy Spirit lives in your heart. Unfortunately Holden does not want ghosts in his heart and was very upset by this idea. An argument ensued that went something like this: but it is a good ghost, it is God's holy ghost. NO GHOSTS IN HEART. NOT WANT GHOSTS IN HEART! Ella, please, Holden doesn't understand what you mean. But mom it is a good ghost, it is a ghost from heaven. At this point, Holden begins to cry and Ella rolls her eyes, I mean why not, she is five years old...

So now I seem to be handing her off to the universe, asking other people to take care of her and love her, at least from 8:50am until 4:30pm M-F. How do I put my faith in these people who are so wholly unfamiliar with her? How do I trust that nobody will hurt her? That they will see how wonderful and talented and amazing she is...does any parent know how to do this?

Or do they sit where I sit, thinking to themselves that if she gets bullied by anyone I will cause them physical harm, if anyone is unfairly cross with her they will find me at their doorstep with a bat...are these irrational thoughts? Right now they feel pretty rational...am I just being an over protective mother bear? 

I do have to admit I am mildly excited that she will be asking someone other than myself to play Thumballina. Not because I am tired of playing, but she always scripts my lines for me and I am looking for just a little more freedom in my creative play. This could indicate that I don't have to worry about her being bullied...

Ahhhhh. Motherhood. It just might break me.

Hold me to it

Worky worky worky.
As I have said, I love to work. Since my kids were born I have done a good job (in my OWN opinion, anyway) of keeping one foot in the industry. I felt compelled to, things change so quickly that you must have a hold on it or you end up too far behind. So I teach online courses and freelance. (shameless plug: www.smckennastudio.com)

I find that working on my own has a lot of benefits. I am very nice to myself. I compliment my work. I take lunch. I work long hours, happily, if I need to. I make a good pot of coffee. Best of all, I don't ever snap at myself. (I know that sounds ridiculous, but you get my meaning.)

Now lets talk about working with others.
I don't like to be snapped at. Pretty much ever. I don't care who you are, I find it rude, and I find it disrespectful. Who says it is okay for YOU to snap at someone else? HOW are you more important than that me? How is your inability to deal with stress MY PROBLEM? WHERE do you get the right to treat someone else as if they don't matter. I DON'T LIKE TO BE BULLIED. By snapping at me you are being disrespectful and you are bullying me.

Since I don't snap, I find it very upsetting when someone snaps at me. I am taken aback.

I am generally non-confrontational. I don't like to argue and I really don't like to have to go to someone and call them out. In fact I will usually do anything I can to avoid that –this is where the problem starts. I am offended but afraid/reluctant to fight back. Afraid to say anything because I really don't like those kind of discussions. (This is a personal failing.)

I am going on thirty six years old and instead of fighting back I start to get anxiety. And then it gets worse. I get shaky and nervous. I give that person power to do it again and again! I worked with someone for two years who did this. It got so bad that even when I received an email from them I would get a sick stomach. Come on! It is sad to even write that! I hate to admit it, but it is true.

Now if you know me I don't seem like someone who would cower. I think I seem pretty put together. But I was raised, sorry mom, to not talk back, and it is a hard habit to break. That said, I am an adult and I need to change that behavior. 

So what this is leading to, well I have been snapped at. And it was in front of four other people. Nuh- uh. Not having it. The line has been drawn. And now, in order to prevent a situation like before, I have to grab sack (forgive the term, but it fits) and tell this individual that I will not deal with it.

Why am I writing this in my blog? It is seriously important to me. I have to do a better job of telling people what I need, what I can deal with and what I can't.  If I write it down I can't just excuse it away.

I want you to hold me to it.

bad bad yoga

It has occurred to me that the busier I am with design work, the less of a basket case I am. So that is good, but I hate being so easy to figure out. Or maybe it is good, it isn't like I have some deep seeded problems that it will take years of therapy to uncover. No. I just like to work. Could be worse. So that said, the last week I have been a worker bee, leaving less time to be tortured by my children. Okay, torture is a strong word. Think of something milder, and that is probably right. Not that mild. Okay, better.

Today was not a lot different, ran to work for a few hours. Learned something new about a software that I use, love that. Got home and for some reason, decided to work out. Well this workout came on the heels of a yoga class that about killed me. I mean I was laying in bed last night thinking I am so exhausted that I may die from yoga. Has anyone died from yoga? I am not sure, but I am convinced that last night I was on the precipice.

So workout today, and fully realize that I am not yet recovered from initial workout. I am smoked. I fit the kids with drinks and snacks and show and head up to my bed. I lay there just resting. I can't sleep, you never know what kids will do when they are awake and you are asleep. It can be very bad. Heh heh.

Enter Holden.

Mom
Yes honey
someping just happen when I take cheese to have a snack at table. make mess.
cheese?
yes
cheese for popcorn.
he thinks for a minute. no.
I think for a minute. cheese from the fridge?
yes, someping just happen (this is where he throws up his arms like, beats me mom, don't know how this happened. I would also like to note that this child loves the work JUST. I am guessing that if he says JUST he thinks it is less of a big deal. Me just eat penny. Me just use marker on wall, you know, no big deal)
what happened? this could be bad, he must have found the cheese we sprinkle on popcorn and has once again dumped it all over the table...
you come down now
okay, I will come down

we walk down the steps. he brings me to the kitchen table.

Well apparently in some languages cheese actually means raw EGG. From what I can decipher from the cheese story, my darling was looking for a hard boiled egg to eat. Naturally he grabs the first egg he sees and cracks it.

He realizes that one wasn't really working and that maybe he should go to the PLAYROOM and try another egg in case that one might work. Well no luck with that one either...

Okay, I am blaming the yoga.

jobby job job

Started a new job today. Part time, in town, in my field. This is very good. Three out of four requirements met.

Like to make a small point about this. Two years ago I applied for this job. I was offered it, but I turned it down. Many reasons, but always regretted not taking it. For two years it bothered me.

Started writing my blog when I really needed to get some things down and off of my chest. Prayed, because I really needed some guidance. Phone rings and job is mine if I want it.

Hmmm.

It is kind of amazing actually.


(okay, actually it was an email, but that didn't sound as good)

A moment of pause

Started writing yesterday, and stopped. I couldn't seem to gather my thoughts to make them coherent enough for anyone to read. Not great when you are offering your thoughts up for just that.

Recall the intro to my blog:

This is a blog about ME. It is going to be indulgent, frustrated, stressed, ranty, funny, honest and hopefully interesting to someone other than myself. It is a way to express my longing to be a better everything: mom, wife, person, designer, friend, etc.

I have been stewing about what the point of this blog is, and if that is point enough. AND if I have digressed from said point. I did say I wanted this blog to be indulgent, and I believe that I have lived up to that. It is past indulgent, we can even call it narcissistic. (We could even call it a journal of sorts. Ick, don't like that word, but still, it fits.) And I am okay with that. In fact, I want and need that. Any mom in my place needs that. Somewhere to rant, vent, be contrary, somewhere to be all of those things you really can't be when you have little ones to care for. If you shut those feelings down/stifle them for too long, they are bound to rear their heads in other, not so good ways.

Frustrated, aaah. Yes, well I have definitely covered that. My kids and my lack of forward movement seem to be the greatest source of frustration for me. BUT that doesn't mean that I don't adore them, or think they are amazing. Truly, they are a gift from God. I know that, and tell them that often. I personally don't like reading only the good things in life. A.) it makes me kind of jealous and B.) It is boring. I mean do you really want this to be one of those meandering Christmas letters where you tell everyone how awesome everything is and blah blah blah? Not me. Putting my angst about them out there does open me up to criticism. I accept that.

Stressed. check.
Ranty. I love that word.
Funny. According to the moms that I run into, yes.

Honest. Sometimes brutally. Sometimes I embellish a bit. I can say that my last post about Jamestown was not in fact my own personal hell. It was more like purgatory...

and, interesting to someone other than myself. And although I would like this, and I think it has been mostly...it is not at the top of my list. If the minutia of my life isn't exceedingly interesting to someone, that is fine. I can live with it. You can even go to the top of the page hit next blog and there you go.

Longing to be a better everything:

mom, something I can always improve on, and some days I do see it. Some days, ie Jamestown post, not so much. longing definitely the keyword.

wife, an ongoing education and I get to laugh my way through it with a wonderful man

person, yes, one of the most challenging

designer, I haven't really touched on this yet, and for good reason. I am not really ready. I am in the position where I can talk about these other issues, I can do it quickly and with verve. I am in the thick of those things. Design for me has a different compartment lately. It is almost like a pot on simmer. I will get to it, as it is an integral part of me. But for today, I need this space to get rid of my demons. Call this the baby steps blog. Hopefully I will look back and say: in the early days of my blog all I could do was talk about myself. Me me me. What a narcissist. But now I shall wow you with my knowledge of the international type style and my interpretation of it...

finally, friend, well, one can always can work on that, too.

So the point of this blog? I guess to help me get through it. Could be prettier, sure. Could be more elegant and hopefully it will be. Could NOT be more indulgent. But I like that.

You are a bad bad person

Disclaimer: i love these kids!

If we were to sit and discuss my own personal hell, it might be something like this: take four children, ages 7, 5, 4 and 3 to Jamestown on a Tuesday afternoon when the temperature is 92 degrees. I am not kidding. It sounds like absolute torture to me. And since, I am some kind of a masochist, that is exactly where I found myself. Today, a Tuesday, 92 degrees, 4 children. Sigh.

Now I think it is important to understand the psychology behind this situation. So I shall interview myself to offer a window to the soul, so to speak. The risk here, well it is concrete proof that I have tug of war conversations with myself.

Q: Why, Sharon, does this feel like your own personal hell?
A: Well to start, there is no way of getting out of the driveway without SOMEONE having to go potty. Of course we did the potty roll call just a few minutes previous to putting the car in reverse. Everyone was fine, no, don't have to go, no potty!, etc. But as soon as we are all buckled in it is pee pee time.

Q: Well that doesn't seem like a big deal.
A: Well that is not a question.

Q: Well then what?
A: Four children in a car on the way to Jamestown. That is a challenge to any adult's mental health. And if they say IT ISN'T, they are LYING. I personally choose not to pretend that I have it together, instead I am putting it out there. They shout, scream, yell at each other, somehow manage to get extendo-arms and hit each other from unreasonable distances. To top it off, the video that is meant to subdue them into a tv induced coma is a fail. It is instead putting me into a coma.

Q: Well that sounds a bit like complaining.
A: Again, not a question.

Q: So continue, what exactly is so frustrating about this experience for you? WHY do you have such a hard time handling it?
A: Okay, fair enough. Although I value and appreciate that the kids are running and playing and having fun, I am very self-involved and I would rather be home writing in my blog or working. THERE. I SAID IT. I AM A BAD BAD PERSON. I know they are having fun, but it is hot and sticky and I think I am getting sunburned and Holden just intentionally stepped in dog poop. Ella is on a continuous pout when it comes to the lemonade. She won't share it. She is taking the longest drink KNOWN TO MAN just so her compatriots cannot have any. It is hot, there are a few too many dragonflies who are doing flybys around my head. HOLDEN, don't hit anyone with that stick. HOLDEN. HOLDEN are you listening? You need to be a good listener to mommy! Does this kid speak English? Is his name even Holden? I have no idea. He doesn't seem to respond to either...
of course at this point my voice has just become background noise. I have become Charlie Brown's teacher. I HATE that teacher. As a matter of fact, I hate Charlie Brown. I have a feeling that is un-American on some level but I do. Well it is out there now.

Q: Um, that was a bit of a rant. Got yourself back together?
A: Sigh, yes.

Q: But don't you love the conversations you overhear among the kids? Aren't they priceless?
A: Oh you mean the uproarious laughter after Holden stepped in the dog poop? And me yelling at the top of my lungs, in Jamestown, HOLDEN DO NOT STEP IN DOG POOP! With this statement I have become ridiculous. If he has just stepped in dog poop, why do I feel the need to shout do not step in dog poop? I am now a loud, ugly American tourist, even though I live five miles from Jamestown.

Or the following:

Holden, did you step in dog poop on purpose?
Yes.
Why?
Because me like it.
But dog poop is dirty and smelly. It makes mommy upset that you did that!
But me just do this (demo of foot rubbing on dog poop).
Um, okay but I don't think that changes anything. (And I don't know what to say after that. And I think that he also thinks I am now ridiculous. I mean just listen to this conversation.)

Or this:
Holden, you need to listen to mommy, you are being too crazy. Did you just pinch your cousin?
Yes.
Why?
Me play pinching game.
You are not playing a pinching game.
Yes me is.
Please do not do that, you could hurt your cousin!
BURRRRPPP. (smells lovely, this corndog burp)
Sigh.
Scuse me. (cue toothy grin)

Exhale.

So, at the risk of sounding selfish, I just would really prefer NOT to go to Jamestown with four children. Or, funny enough, with two. Or even by myself...I know! Maybe the problem here is NOT me! Maybe it is Jamestown!

ya, right. ;)

Momentary lapse of reason

Early morning workout. Turn on tv, put in dvd. Wait for husband to come down. Sit down at computer to check fb. Mistake. BIG mistake. I see is some beautiful photography from a dear friend of mine from grad school. Love this girl. Read on to see she has spent the week away taking an advanced software class. Pictures are stunning. She is stunning. Disclaimer: Friend has three beautiful children. She has somehow successfully managed to balance children and successful career. And remember this is about me. Me me me. Back to my rant.

Suddenly, it as if someone has poured gasoline on me and lit a match. I am up in flames, consumed with what I haven't done. What I haven't accomplished. I want to be there. I want to be ten years into this career. I want to be working somewhere that values what I do, and lets me know it. I want to be away for a week learning more about my craft. I want, I want, I want. Sigh.

I am crushed. Whatever has set me on fire has now doused me with water. Or what I wish was water. Instead it feels more like paint. Sure it puts out the fire, but it covers me and leaves a sticky mess behind. It isn't just washing away letting me to dry. Instead it sits on me like a coat.

Suddenly the choices that I felt were so right, are just not feeling so right.

Sure it could be a momentary lapse of reason, and I am sure I will recover but for that minute I feel awful. I feel tragic. (As you know by now, I tend toward the dramatic.) I try to tell myself to see previous post where I state that I have been happy as a clam raising happy clams, or was I a duck? Whichever. Unfortunately I am unable to read – call it temporary blindness to reason.

When my kids were babies, if you had told me to go to work, to put down that baby and get myself out that door, I would have told you to take a hike. (Probably not so nicely, either.) No way. I was staying HOME. No part time, nothing like that. That baby was mine and I was raising it as close to me as possible. I wanted Carte_blanche. As much love as I could give, 24/7. And I got it, and that was a true gift. I still thank my husband that he wanted that for me too, and wanted that for our kids. He never made me feel that what I was doing wasn't the right thing. No time lines, no ultimatums, just when you are ready, then go. When I look back on that I can't think of anything better, we were in a love bubble.

So what is wrong with me? Why does that offering, made with the most true love possible, now make me feel so behind the power curve? Why do I feel frustrated with the choices I made? They were good choices, I am sure of it.

WHY is it so challenging to be a woman. To have to straddle the line of biological/hormonal drive and professional/personal satisfaction. WHY can't I be like my mom, she was and I quote "I was exactly where I wanted to be. Home with my four kids everyday. Crafts, baking, playing, you name it, we did it." She didn't want anything else until that fourth one was comfortably into school. And since that fourth one is ten years younger than me it follows that I had a stay at home mom until I was almost done with high school.

What or who created this monster? Was it my parents, encouraging me to be an independent, successful female? That sounds reasonable enough. Now mix that up with wanting to get married and wanting to have babies. (Or dare I say, needing to. Having babies was just what I was going to do, no second thought to it.) Okay, okay, so the choices I made were direct reflections of the things I WANTED. I GET IT. I carved this path and have the calluses to show it.

So now, here I am. I understand how I got here.

Now what do I do?

Gardening, what fun!

Exhausted. Well, that was the reason I was unable to post yesterday. I thought about writing all day, composing the article in my head, and laughing at how funny it was. In my head, anyway.

Instead, I spent the day gardening. Yes, I said it. I garden-ed. Is that a word? And no, this blog has not been the victim of a hostile takeover. I GARDEN-ed.

AND, it turns out, funny enough, that you CANNOT pretend that you don't have a yard, for like two or maybe even three years. NOT a good idea. Because, quite a few things happen.

1. your yard looks like a scene from the movie Jurassic Park. Sure we mow the grass, but it is the bushes that really start to scare you.

2. your plants NEED you. Yes, they need you. Because it isn't enough that you have had two babies within two years (23 months and one week to be exact) and that you are doing everything you can to SURVIVE them. That you are attempting to preserve your own sanity and the heath and welfare of your children and that of your husband. That you might want to have some professional life left and try to cultivate some freelance work. AND, that your husband travels and goes to graduate school so even when he is within your home state, he is at school. BUT NO, that is not enough, you must get out there and take care of your plants.

3. When you do finally revisit that yard,  resentment in hand, you are likely to angrily chop (notice I do not say trim) at the bushes all the while yelling things like this: HOW IS THAT FOR YA? HUH? TAKE THAT! HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT? Doing this, is problematic in a few different ways.
A. you realize that you have some unresolved anger issues.
B. You are forced to ask yourself: is this truly about the bushes?
C. Your neighbors think you are crazy and this behavior only confirms it.
D. Your husband knows you are crazy and doesn't want the neighbors to SEE it.
E. There is little to no bush left, and really, there is no going back.

4. The longer you let the bushes go, the larger they get, the harder it is to cut them back. It follows that it would take you all day to do even a few of them.

5. As you chop, sorry, trim them you notice that many of them are unwell. (see point #1) They have black dusty yucky stuff on them, some have white powdery stuff on them. It is gross, and I suspect not great to inhale while you are in a flurry of trimming. And, you feel bad, in a motherly way that you have neglected these plants. Even the ones you HATE. (see point #6)

6. What once was tiny little thorns you are now facing BLADES OF TORTURE on these bushes. I mean really. Can someone PLEASE explain to me why every plant that we have, minus one or two IS COVERED IN PRICKERS?? Someone must know the answer to this because I gotta tell you I am pretty TICKED OFF about it. I am covered in scratches and have had to pull like SEVEN splinters in the last 24 hours. I mean really.

7. Your children. Yes, there they are. You didn't think that you were going to get away with gardening without their involvement? It is just too much fun to watch mommy on her knees trying to pull dinosaur era grasses out of the one-time flower beds without HELPING her. Best to use small plastic shovels and throw dirt at her while she is doing it. And then say "what mom?" when in the heat of frustration, and covered in dirt, she shouts your name.

8. You trim, trim, trim, finally letting go of the anger. You stop thinking about the choices that have led you to this minute (not only those involving ignoring the yard), look around and realize you have tremendous piles of plant refuse all over your yard. Picking them up and moving them is DEADLY as the knife sharp prickers are glinting in the sun. You will need a full body hazmat suit to protect you from them.

9. You are now covered in not only scratches but twenty-seven mosquito bites. Should be fun scratching those.

10. You have little to no strength left in your forearms. Or just none, actually. And this limits you in every respect from picking up your child to lifting your fork. It really shows you that you need to get to the gym and work on that upper body. Like as soon as you are able to turn the key in the ignition of your car.

Which brings us right back to the initial point. Gardening to upper body exhaustion = blog fail!

Mawage. Mawage is wot bwings us togeder tooday.

Disclaimer: I love my husband, that is certainly not in question. This morning he about pushed me over the edge. As you know my grip on reality is already tenuous, and with this behavior, he has positioned himself as the centerpiece of today's bit of written therapy. I warned him. 

Now as if working out isn't hard enough; getting up at the crack of dawn to work out, well in my eyes you should get some kind of medal. It sucks, plain and simple. Sure, when you are done you feel pretty good about yourself, minus the fact that now you have to get in the shower and hopefully after, not before said shower, attempt to carry your stout three year old down the steps. Recall, he is very whiny in the morning and needs quite a bit of tlc, he does not care that you are exhausted. Of course the fact that your arms have little to no strength left to lift him is beside the point. Just hold on, but not with your arms, to the fact that you have accomplished something amazing. Then, try not to cry as the day is just starting! Go get em girl!

So, downstairs I go, spring in my step. (ya, right) Ready and willing to be tortured by the inane comments of our wonderful, and ridiculously fit instructor, Tony Horton. Turn on TV. Drag out weights. Make sure volume is low, as last week it was so loud upon start that it almost gave me a heart attack. AND, important to know, I do not want to wake children. In fact that is one of my main goals of this exercise session. COMPLETE SANS CHILDREN. Husband calls down, get started. I do. Warming up.

Bounding down the steps my darling husband decides (now wait a minute here. I don't know that this is a conscious decision, I think it is a similar condition to Tourette's. {see disclaimer on post number 2}) that now is the right time to start singing, at a very high volume,

Don't ask her on a straight tequila night.
She'll start thinkin' about him, then she's ready to fight.
Blames her broken heart on every man in sight,
On a straight tequila night.

Yes, he did.

Honey!
What?
The kids! You are going to wake them up!
No I'm not!
They listen for your voice, they can hear you!
They do not.
UGGG!

I exhale. continue with reps. This song has been in husband's head for a few days now. We could be sitting watching tv, driving in the car, eating dinner, anywhere really and he is compelled by some greater force to sing this song at top volume.

A few minutes pass. Bicep curls, husband turns to me and with mournful features says:

Here's a glass of Chablis, some quarters and change:
Maybe you can turn her love life around.
Then she won't need the salt or the lime anymore,
To shoot that old memory down.

What can I do but laugh. Obviously this man has lost his mind. And that is a good thing, as it will allow us to relate on an entirely new level. And you can't even get MAD at him, as much as I want to be because I KNOW HE IS GOING TO WAKE UP THE BABY, you have to admire his silliness. He makes me laugh more than anyone I have ever met. 

Trudging through the next set of dips I look over him. OOHH, AAHH, OOHH, AAHH. Boy I am really going deep on these! WOW! and he jumps up. Once again, he is overcome with emotion for this poor jilted woman:

Blames her broken heart on every man in sight,
On a straight tequila night.

MOMMMYYYYY!

Kids without pancakes

Yesterday, as I mentioned, I decided I would attend the Y's yoga class.

You really start to love yoga, once you get into it. Your body almost craves the stretches. I am no yoga master by any means, but downward dog has become my friend. Normally I am able to keep a relatively clear head during practice. Some scatterings of thoughts run here and there but usually I can control it. So I have been looking forward to this hour all day. Get my head into it, my body into and I am going to be golden.

Not yesterday. Could it be the day leading up to yoga that prevented me from reaching enlightenment? (okay, my own personal version of enlightenment, how is that?)

Could it be the process of getting in the car? (This is getting pretty ridiculous, the amount of time it took me to get my kids to exit the house and get into the car) I mean really. Could it be that I am a self handicapper and decided to eat a toasted English muffin with whipped cream cheese only one half an hour before yoga started? (Ugh I was so full, why did I do that!) So any of these reasons, and more. Like these two conversations for example:

Holden, lets get in the car. Why are you wearing sweat pants it is 95 outside.
Love warm pants.
Where are your shorts?
They wet. Me pee in them.
Oh. Okay. But it is very hot, you are going to be too hot.
NOOOOOO
Wait, your pants are twisted, let me help. Oh, your underpants are on backwards.
Let me fix them.
NOOOOOO
ugh. now where are those wet shorts?

Overhear in the back of the car:
Ella: I need my bag from school!
Holden: why ella need bag?
Ella: I need to make pancakes.
Holden: why make pancakes?
Ella, with conviction: Holden, not everyone gets pancakes. They are for kids without pancakes.
Holden: ME MAKE PANCAKESSSSSSSSSSSS


So we reach the Y. Bribery consisting of high fructose corn syrup fruit snacks ensues. You can only imagine that I am setting myself up for failure by allowing 3 and 5 to each hold 4 quarters. By the time we actually reach the vending machine we are somehow down seventy five cents. Don't ask me how, I just don't know.

Containment, at last. They are in child care I am in yoga. Breathing deeply. Until I realize I have a nose whistle. Breath very deep hoping to eliminate it. Doesn't work. Try again. Still doesn't work. And if I keep up this breathing rate I am going to pass out. Seems to be getting louder. Am I the only one who hears this thing? It seems really really loud. I look around. I mean we are in the middle of centering ourselves and all I can think about is this whistle!

Downward dog has devolved into downward spiral. During triangle I notice I have missed shaving a hair on my leg. What the hell has it been like two months since I shaved it? How did I miss this one? Gross! Try to pull it. Ouch! Can't get it.

And then, somebody toots, just to make it worse. I have now completely left the yoga room, at least mentally. It happens that the toot-er has been chewing their gum very loudly, and I suspect that nobody could hear my nose whistle over that anyway.

So my conclusion to this exercise in frustration: yoga plus nose whistle = fail. Kids plus fruit snacks = Holden falls into a high fructose corn syrup sleep coma on the couch at 9:00pm and stays in it until 8:00am. Thank you God!

Morning Rant

6:00 am Alarm goes off. Husband and I are working out every morning at 6:30. Well the attempt is being made anyway. Have been doing well, are in week 2. Due to an early trip to DC he is unable to today. Due to a fried egg topped large cheeseburger, shoestring fries and a glass of wine, I am unable to. (see my favorite bistro: www.bluetalonbistro.com) I instead will sleep in, which is almost as decadent as the cheeseburger. I have to note that Tony, the powerhouse fitness instructor specifically said DO NOT EAT A CHEESEBURGER. Aaah well, I am paying the price. No worries Tony, I plan on attending power yoga this evening at the gym.

6:35. I hear the first "Mommmmmyyyyyy" of what promises to be a whiny mommy filled day. HOW do I know this, you ask? What can I say, its a gift. That and 3 has only just gone to bed at 11:00pm! Are you kidding me, I think as I wrench my eyes open. Hubby is in shower, no luck there. Well he is lucky anyway.

I yell back, I am sleeping. Come into bed with me. It is too early for your shows.
He comes in my room, and is not interested in any snuggle time.
3: NOOOOO. Me want hot tea!
This is possibly the only child in the US, born of American parents who has a required 3 cups of English tea per day. This family is nuts.
I bring him downstairs, and now we are both cranky.
Drop him off at the couch and with one eye open assemble hot tea. (yes, it is decaf, I am not completely out of my mind. Yet.)
Teapot, microwave, fill cup halfway with milk, slight teaspoon sugar. hand it to child as I pass couch. tell him I am going back up to bed. please enjoy the next episode of whatever mind numbing show nick jr has to offer. Oswald? Ack. honestly I can't remember what was on. He nods, already slipping into his hot tea coma.

Crawl back in to bed. Hubby is out of shower, says I hear something downstairs, is Holden playing your computer? No, I grunt, I brought him down. Did he get hot tea? (that question alone tells you we have lost our minds. We don't ever say tea. We always say HOT tea. It follows someone would ask if he wants one lump or two, or if he raises his pinky while drinking.) Yesssszzzzzz.

7:25 Drag my butt to shower. Trying to drown/burn this sleepy feeling with some very hot water. Door opens and scares the crap out of me. It is 3. COME DOWN STAIRS. WANT HOT TEA. I jump out of my skin. And breathe deep as not to react in the way I SO want to. In my best mommy voice I say, Yes darling, I will be downstairs as soon as I am done in the shower. Then I will make you some hot tea. I smile, as I remember that I should reflect the love I feel for said child in my face. Then he will reflect it back and become a "whole" individual. Here is hoping anyway.

7:29 (just a guess really) Door to shower opens again. Again startles me, although you would think I would be getting accustomed to it. This time it is not 3, but hubby. Oh Honnnnnneeeeyyyy...I offer a soapy kiss goodbye and finish washing my hair.

So lets now fast forward to the part of the morning that has left me popping vitamin B, as my mother calls it, the stress buster vitamin. You would think that these little things, the minutia of motherhood would roll off your back, well news flash, THEY DON'T.

Holden it is 8:55. You have five minutes left on the computer. I am setting the timer. We have to go to school.
NOOOOOO. Me want stay with you! and Me want to go work with daddy! and Me want to hug papa! NOOOOOO schoooooooolllllll!
heh heh. not a chance kid.

Ella, honey finish up we have to get going for school.
This is a good movie, huh? (She has crazy eyes btw)
This is the today show honey.
I love this show. Do you think it is better than the Princess and the Frog? As she asks she licks the inside of her elbow.
I raise an eyebrow. what are you licking?
Yogurt, she says matter of factly.
Oh, I say and nod.
I think I like the Princess and the Frog better. and then she licks her shoulder.
You have yogurt on your shoulder?
She nods, yes. I do. Thats okay though, right mom? Sometimes kids get yogurt on their shoulders.
Um, yeah, I guess they do. sigh.

Mom, how does my brain know that I want to move my arm. Or that I want to move it again somewhere else.
Um, I am still on the yogurt question.

Lets get in the car!
Oh crap, one car seat is still in the back. Holden's shoes are nowhere to be found. Ella keeps saying, I am a good girl Mom. Holden is whiny. I am not. Thanks Ella but that is hardly helpful right now. Try to move the seats so Holden, who is lately prone to colossal meltdowns over well, everything, won't have one. A morning without meltdown makes for easier drop off into his classroom. Moving seat as Holden's head is completely up my butt. Trying to latch it and begging him to back up at the same time. Ella continues her self evaluation. I bang my head on the ceiling. Get Holden in seat. Mommy want hot tea. Ha! No way babe we are on the way to school. Get in front seat after almost falling out of the side door as my foot gets caught in...oh who the hell knows. Throw car in reverse. Do not realize back is up. Bang loudly (and may I say this is not a new concept, just look at the back of my minivan) into door. ACK! Forward. Close back. Try to remove shoulders from ears. MOMMMMMMM. Cannot identify child who has just called me, or refuse to anyway. Instead I say, NO MORE TALKING!

Drop off goes relatively smoothly until I realize that in the commotion I have forgotten snack/project bags. Head home, pick them up, head back to school. Of course children are assembled in hallway and 3 has eagle eyes. My plan to avoid him seeing me: fail. Luckily he is engrossed in a story (Jesus is in our hearts, I know is on the tip of his tongue). He is across the room, unable to get up to hug me and settles for blowing a kiss.

Luckily, I caught it.

Quack. Quack.

25/35
Over the last few months my darling husband and I have been working on/questioning/exploring our ideas for the next few years of our lives. You know, the plan. The family goals.

Sounds reasonable enough. Too bad it has left me gripping the door frame for my life. White knuckled panic. WHY? I am not that person! I love change, I am here I am there, I move all the time, I mean I am open to new experiences, I am all over it!

Reality check time. I don't seem to be that person anymore.

That free spirited bedouin is twenty-five year old Sharon, not thirty-five year old Sharon. (see above picture) What happened to her? I mean, one minute I am living in NYC doing freelance design at Loreal, Macys, Avon, you name it. If I didn't like a job, I left it. I found another one. I never worried about that. I just assumed I would land on my feet and I usually did. Now: UGH. Now when anyone mentions the future I cringe. How did I get so comfortable? So complacent? When did I decide I didn't want to be uncomfortable? I mean a bit of discomfort isn't such a bad thing. In fact it tends to engender growth. Or at least that is what I've read.

On the other hand, tucking in, is that such a bad thing? I have been happy in that space, like a mother duck waddling around with her ducklings. Going here and there but never too far.

Turns out you can't really stay in the nest like that for too long. You start to not be able to see outside of your square footage, or not see YOURSELF outside of that cozy abode. Instead you shrink back and convince yourself that this is just fine, and it is fine, I guess, but is that enough? I don't know. I have spent quite a bit of time lately chewing on just that. HOW did I go from that fun freewheeling Sharon to this cautious, more fearful and protective Sharon.

I suspect that 5 (Ella) and 3 (Holden) have had something to do with it. It has been a great ride, and one that old Sharon couldn't do nearly as well as current Sharon. And I couldn't have asked for better, holding on to my babies, having everything we needed – no pressure to do anything but love them up.

Okay, so now what. Something has to change, I know that. If only I was a man! Wouldn't this be easier?! The expectation would be that I would just go to work and the rest would take care of itself! (sorry men, but that is the way it seems to me!) Nobody would think I would do anything else. They would encourage me to go! Not that anyone is encouraging me NOT to go to work...but I was just kind of on a roll right there and it sounded good.

I recall hearing a co-worker say, after a tough weekend at home with his two kids, "I just wish I had my wife back." Now this was six or seven years ago. BEFORE I became that kind of wife.
where did she go?
coworker: Oh she is in there, somewhere. Since we have had our kids though, she is mostly unrecognizable.
what do you mean?
coworker: she just isn't the same. she is frazzled from the kids, covered in their mess, too tired to do much outside of taking care of them. I just miss the woman I married. She was wonderful and creative, she had a spark, she was full of life.
oh. that is very sad. (I actually remember saying that, and thinking that!) I hope she comes back soon.
coworker: me too.

SO wife becomes unrecognizable to husband. She has turned into the waddling duck, with ducklings in tow, never moving far from the nest. Cautious, careful and protective.

UGH! I have got to get back to work on THIS duck.

Is she really five? really?

This is a snippet of Ella at age 18 months. It is a deadly combination of brains and cuteness.


Since I deal with my impending job with a mix of denial and excitement, it follows that I should for this morning, pretend it doesn't exist. Instead I shall write a bit on my darling girl, Ella. Not to bore or to brag, but to let you know what I am up against here. Here are some of her statements, but recall as you read that she is newly five years old.

Ella: Mommy where is your grandpa?
In heaven honey.
Ella: How did he get there? Did he die on the cross like Jesus?
Um, no. He did not die on the cross.
Ella: Was he brought up to heaven on horses?
I don't think so, but I can't be sure. It may have been angels.
cue Holden, with passion: GOD IS IN OUR HEARTS!

Ella: Mommy. When can I drive the car?
not until you are 17 babe
Ella: Well when I drive a car how will the police officer know that I am old enough to drive?
you will get a drivers license. you need one to drive a car.

Ella is silent, but I can see the wheels turning. Which leads us to the following:

Ella: Mommy, want to hear something funny?
sure babe, whats up
Ella: How am I supposed to learn to drive a car if I don't have a drivers license until I learn to drive a car?
um
Ella: Mommy?
well we will get you a learners permit and blah blah blah. (I am stunned from previous question as I babble on about this)
she now looks very concerned.
Ella: HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO FIND MY WAY IF I DON'T HAVE A NAVIGATOR! I NEED A NAVIGATOR!
okay honey! We will get you a navigator! I promise!
cue Holden again with passion: POOP!

And finally, just the other day.
On the way home from the dentist.
Ella: Mommy, do you go to Norge Dental Center for your teeth?
yes I do
Ella: Have your teeth ever been happier?
huh?
Ella: Have your teeth ever been happier?
why do you ask? (then I see the balloon she has been holding onto from the hygienist. It says: Norge Dental Center, my teeth have never been happier!)
I start to laugh. I say, my teeth are pretty happy. Yours?
Ella: yes, they are happy.

So that is a taste of it. I figure that I have about five minutes before she is smarter than me. Heck, she may even be smarter than me already, just playing at it to preserve my self esteem...

rock/ME/hard-place pt 1

Lately, and I mean in the last few months I find myself in totally new mommy territory. And the more I examine this place, the less I know what I am doing. I seem to lose confidence in my original declarations the more I investigate my options.

What the heck am I talking about? Going back to work. SWEET! and then five minutes later: UGGGGGGHHHHH.

The problem is this. By three o'clock most days I am ready to jump off a bridge. OR shall I say I feel like I am getting pushed off a bridge. Unlike my dream it is not some scary faceless person pushing me, it is a 3 year old and a 5 year old. It is the whining. The crying. The fights. The tenth time my daughter has asked for a drink as she is blind to the NINE other drinks that are scattered around the house. Oh and the "I'm hungry!" Mommy. Mommy. Mommmmmmy! Mommy can't you hear me? Mommy why are you ignoring me!" Usually that exchange somehow devolves into something about my daughter's soul and my utter disregard for it. Or, out of the corner of my eye I see my son streak by (yes, naked once again). I ask for the current location of the clothes, find them in the bathroom soaking up a puddle of pee. Sorry Mommy. Missed potty. Thats okay Mommy.

Add this to my current job of being an online professor. Or maybe it isn't even that...maybe it is this magnetic pull I have to my computer. Not to be on fb or surf, but to work. I love to work. It feels good! I actually accomplish something! Accomplishment, it is such a wonderful word. It is a word that makes me feel like I actually matter. That everything I do isn't fruitless. Now you can say "Oh Sharon, of course everything you do matters! Blah blah blah" But really, it is tough to see that as you raise your kids. You are spending so much time laying foundation that you don't see a lot of measurable results. Measurable results, another word I LOVE.

So here I am faced with the idea of going back to work. My husband and I are in agreement on this. Going back to work would be a great opportunity to feel a sense of accomplishment. To have more ME existing in well, me. To get some space. To use my brain. To feel capable on a professional level. Oh can you imagine, a professional level. Sigh. That sounds wonderful.

And then I turn my head and see my three year old sitting in his playroom (currently across from my home office that lately hasn't been even coming close to its potential) playing so sweetly with a toy car. Singing and chatting to himself. Happy as a clam. Clothed, actually. He couldn't be in a better position, mommy nearby ready to hug, ready to kiss and generally insure he maintains happy clam status.

Introducing...exhausting, overwhelming mommy guilt. UGGGHHH.

The soundtrack of my brain is this: yes no back forth money kids work kids self kids happy sad freedom guilt. Sigh.
more on this topic to come...

off a bridge

I had a dream last night that I was on a high bridge, (location relatively unknown) a very high bridge. It is nighttime, dark and windy. Not sure why I am up on this bridge, but have a bad feeling. I notice a man with red hair was struggling with someone up ahead. This was a foot bridge, I guess? So I walk toward them, seeing that they are in distress. I had a feeling that she was trying to stop him from jumping off the bridge and he wasn't interested in hearing it. So I approach them and he walks in my direction, but really not seeing me. He has a panicked look on his face and his hair is curly and blowing behind him. Wild like.

As I reach him I grab his arms and attempt to convince him not to jump. Whatever I say, my plea must be working as he steps back from the rail and listens to me.

Someone grabs my shoulder and forcefully turns me around. I recognize the person from an earlier exchange in the dream. I am unclear what it is we talked about but recall he was angry. The red headed man steps back out of the way. The other man starts edging me toward the rail of the bridge as he yells at me. It feels like it is even windier now. I look down and realize boy this is a very high bridge. Higher than I thought, it looks like one hundred yards at least.

Angry man puts out his hands and pushes me off. 

After a long fall I am in the water and suddenly I see a dog has jumped in the water after me, a weimaraner to be exact. I know it is a female somehow –so odd the details you remember in your dreams. She helps drag me to the shore, and is now my dog. We silently agree on that.

I head inside a cabin. It is warm and the former owners of the dog are there. They are telling me she is my dog. The man who pushed me, is that him? He is in the house too. I try to tell him I survived. I am not angry, just pleading with him to hear me. He doesn't listen.

I wake up, not very rested.

Raising kids is very similar to working with a mental case.

Disclaimer: Now don't get me wrong, this post is not meant to offend anyone who has mental illness. I am keenly aware of the reality of it, so please don't take this the wrong way. It is just one of my ways of rationalizing the extreme difficulty of raising small children. My extreme difficulty that is.

Lets examine a few of the regular behaviors of my kids. You may be lucky, your kids may not be like this. You may not have kids. You may have been blessed with an angel baby who grew into a wonderful, temperate angel child. (Unfortunately this means we really can't be friends as I cannot in anyway relate to your experiences. Also, if you are really good at running we may not be able to be friends either. Sorry.)

screaming. crying. random outbursts (just last night my son after seeing a mast of the ship at the playground decided to yell at the top of his lungs "JESUS DIED ON THAT CROSS. JEEESSSUUUSSS DIIIIIEEEDDD!" Yeah. Enough said.

Uncontrolled bursts of emotion. See above as Holden actually sang the last part of that little number.

Muscle spasms and loss of muscle control. Take said daughter. After a fun evening playdate she has had just enough of her brother. She pushes him into the corner of a table. He cries loudly (it hurt!). I scold and place her in time out. She collapses into a heap on the step. She starts crying uncontrollably. She is able to articulate through her crying this little tidbit:  YOU ARE THROWING ME IN THE GARBAGE! IT IS LIKE I AM A PIECE OF TRASH! (Keep in mind this child is four.) Ella, you are in time out. I am not throwing you in the garbage! IT IS LIKE I DON'T HAVE A FAMILY ANYMORE AND I AM IN THE GARBAGE. (oh brother!) Ella, please honey. You are even in a short time out, just two minutes. You are fine. You just can't push your brother, that hurt him. OOOOHHHH, I AM NOTHING! (I didn't even know it was possible for a four year old to react this way, and by the way who calls her nothing! Nobody in this house! Where does she get this!) Up to bed and the child is still sobbing – you know those gasping sobs that make you feel like the worst mother in the world when all you were trying to do was teach her not to push her brother! I mean really!

exhale.

Okay, back to the thesis.

unexplained nudity. My son is three. He has officially been in the naked phase for three years now. Does three years count as a phase? Seems a bit long, actually...take this for example:

Holden walks by me without pants. I ask, where are your pants? He says to me "my underwear stinks." I say, like any normal person, they do? (knowing very well that I have only put these underwear on him in the last twenty minutes.) he says, "yeah, they are yucky." well lets get you some new underwear. He looks at me and shouts NO! and runs. Probably to go out to the back deck and pee off of it.

See! I am right, aren't I?

Viscosity is a measure of the resistance of a fluid which is being deformed by either shear stress or tensile stress. In everyday terms (and for fluids only), viscosity is "thickness". Thus, water is "thin", having a lower viscosity, while honey is "thick", having a higher viscosity. Put simply, the less viscous the fluid is, the greater its ease of movement (fluidity).<sup>[1]


I have had the word viscosity in my head for a long time. Why is it significant? I guess because I like to think of it in terms of how I respond and react to stress. If humans are mostly water, then it feels like an appropriate way to examine and describe myself. The viscosity of my being. How it copes, how it flexes and sways in stress. And most importantly, how it retains it's form after it has been affected by said stress.

What kind of stress? Could be anything really, from my five year old yelling: “Don't you care about my soul?!” at the top of her lungs to the sticky spots of popsicle reflecting the light as they travel across the new wood floor and calling my name to wipe them up.

:Sigh: Now this stress may not be the worst kind, and I can keep adding to the list of things that challenge my viscosity, but then I wouldn't have anything to write about later...</sup>