Thirty-one

One of my favorite sayings is this: If you do what you've always done, you get what you've always gotten.


Sometimes the husband throws that back at me when I decide to sleep rather than get up early for a run. And I use the term "run" lightly, since I rarely run and if I do, it's for a very, very short period of time. You marathoners have me mystified. I'm not joking. I can't fathom doing that for hours on end. I just think my hands would swell and my feet would go numb and I'd just be like, oh Jesus, I'm EXHAUSTED (and come to think of it, a little ornery), and then I'd step off the trail and into the first Starbucks for an iced green tea and a comfy chair.


Everything tends to jiggle when I bounce repeatedly like that, and it just doesn't feel good. I don't imagine it looks very good either, especially from behind. But if I don't run, the jiggle won't go away. Get up early and run, defeat jiggle. Stay in bed and sleep, jiggle is happy and well-rested, but ever present.


Vicious circle. Anyway.


I did something different lately and in the process, proved my saying to be true.


(No. I didn't run a marathon. Do you have short term memory loss?)


I went with Nine and her Brownie troop a couple weeks ago to make, serve, and eat dinner with families who are currently homeless.


Families. No home.


Let that one sink in the next time you send your Chardonnay back for being too buttery.


One young woman we ate dinner with had four kids, and the youngest one was just a few weeks old. I smelled her daughter's sweet, tiny, little baby head (stop it, you know you sniff baby heads too, and if you don't you're missing out on one heavenly scent) and flashed back to when my own girls were tiny and we were all snuggled up with blankets and diapers and everything else we needed close at hand.


Do you remember when you first had your baby, or got your puppy, or whatever it is you pour your heart into? How vulnerable you felt and how many hours you spent awake worrying or feeding or caring for that being? And have you ever had a total piece of shit day and the whole time thought to yourself, man, I just can't wait to go home? I just want to kick off my jeans and put my slippers on and watch a movie, or read a book, or call a friend, or plant some flowers, or pour a cocktail, or something that makes me feel like me again.


Well, for these families, at this time in their lives, that's simply not an option. Neither is privacy, or freedom, or organic vegetables from the farmer's market, or a light heart. How must it feel to explain to your school-age child that they are going to sleep in a tent at a church for the next two weeks, and after that, well, we just aren't sure where we might sleep?


As I sat with that young mother and her newborn, I struggled to find something to say that would open a neutral conversation. I asked about her children, their ages, school. But I couldn't bring myself to ask if she had a husband there with her, because really, that was none of my business. I didn't want to ask if she'd had a good day, or if she was enjoying being at the church, or if she's exhausted with the newborn, because come on, what could those answers be?


Maybe she feels blessed that she's somewhere other than outside with her babies. I have a feeling if I was in her shoes I'd be spending all of my time and energy on trying not to break down in tears, and I wouldn't be able to hold my head up and be gracious while some smiling, well-meaning stranger was asking me about my life, because all I would be thinking about, apart from what got me there, would be the fact that I know when that smiling, well-meaning stranger leaves, she's going to a warm, comfortable place and I'm going to my tent, to look through my box of belongings and put my kids to bed on the floor.


Yeah. So.


Instead of doing what we always do, which is discuss why "Eeeeew" is not an appreciated response to the meal I prepared, we went and did what we never do instead, and got what we rarely get. A really, really good shift in perspective. It was good for Nine to see and understand first hand that if these little kids didn't particularly care for chicken with apricots, or rice, or salad, well, they were about to learn to, because making some noodles or having a bowl of cereal instead just wasn't an option.


And we learned that hopping into a car with friends can feel like a luxury, as can going home to a little house full of equal amounts of love and luck and blessings and dirty laundry and paw prints and ponytail bands.


Turns out I live in the lap of luxury. Sure, it's got dog hair all over it, but now more than ever, it feels just right to me.

Thirty

For the last three nights in a row, Nine has had night terrors. She's always been a sleepwalker and a sleeptalker and a sleepcryer, and rumor has it, she gets it from me. And for the last three nights, it's been all angst and tears, panic and worry. She sits up, eyes wide open, red and teary...fast asleep. And she cries out about her sister, or about "There's no more A's at swim team" or "Will you go first, Mommy?" or "I just can't fall asleep" and she's very upset about it all. 


Usually it's her body telling her it's time to get up and have a quick pee, but she's so exhausted from school and swimming and ballet and whatever else she's had up her sleeve that day, that while her body wakes, her mind can't actually come around with it. So she ends up in this weird halfway place of body in/mind out. She's walking and talking, but making no sense because she's speaking her dream, which is goofy and Nine-ish.


The interesting thing about the last couple of nights is that our usual tactics haven't soothed her. The traveling husband likes to try to wake her up, because seeing his beautiful girl in a freaky state is all too much for him, so he talks to her like she's awake, in a loud voice to startle her and bring her around, and sometimes she talks back to him. Sometimes she talks about the chicken and points to the wall, but he keeps trying. I usually just carefully guide her back to bed, rub her back and tell her she's safe and sound. Look Nine, there's the puppy, see? Look, there's Seven, sleeping in the bed right next to you. Here, baby, here's your lovey, lie down and go back to sleep.


But over the past couple of nights, those things didn't work, and I ended up in her room a handful of times, trying to get her to just lay back down and get some much needed rest.


You know what did do the trick, instantly? I laid down next to her. And that darling, sleepy girl, with her eyelashes to the moon and heartstrings to my soul, laid her soft cheek against my shoulder, and fell fast asleep, deep and peaceful, resting and quiet again.


As I laid there with her I realized something. Something other than the fact that a doggie pillow pet is nowhere near big enough for two people to share.


I realized that Nine spends much of her waking hours trying to convince me and herself and anyone else that will listen that she doesn't need me, and that she's independent and responsible and ready to get her ears pierced and go to sleep away camp, MOM. She gives me her cheek so I can kiss Her Highness there, rather than on the lips which is so EMBARRASSING before she scampers off to third grade. She rolls her eyes when I call her for the fourth time for dinner and she presses me to waiiiiiiiiiit, when by God I've already waited 15 minutes for her to stop loving up the dog and get her shoes on so we can hurry to school or hurry to ballet or hurry to her play date or hurry hurry hurry rush rush rush until bedtime.


And then, it turns out, she spends some quality subconscious hours literally crying out for the time she missed being wrapped up in my arms, breathing with me, and melting back into my body as best as she can, what with her being Nine and independent and responsible and all.


I will take it. All of it. I will take the pushing away in the waking hours because it shows me she's trying to build herself up brick by brick and I am amazed by the process. And I will take those quiet moments with her in my arms, because I know this time will pass. And one day I'll ache to hold her while she sleeps but she'll be away at college or married or trying to get her own baby to fall asleep.


I spend a lot of my time feeling like I don't have the right answers or the right tools or enough time or enough energy, but you know what I felt these past couple nights? Magic. Maternal magic, I like to call it. She needed peaceful sleep and I gave it to her. Me. I did it.


She has no idea, but by folding her into my body as she slept, I made her whole.


And she has no idea, but she does the same thing for me, every time I look at her.


Outhaaaale.


:)

Twenty-nine

Guess what happened today? I found the silver lining.


No, for reals, I actually looked up at the clouds this morning, after the rain stopped, and saw the sun shining behind one of them. It created a bright, glowy edge along that big cloud, and I thought, Huh. There it is.


Nothing has changed. The taxes are still there, as is every other stress in life like aging parents, missing siblings and the ever-present question of "Why haven't we won the lottery yet?".


But.


While the puppy is a nut job, he's sweet and fuzzy and when he pounces on me at 5:30 in the morning with his 110 pounds and then circles around and drops down ass first on my pillow, it's sort of charming. If you can get past the wind getting knocked out of you by his not-so-soft landing on your ribcage, and his hindquarters an inch from your nose.


Maybe I should get smart and realize it's him telling me to get up for that 6am class so he can spoon his alpha dog.


And my girls are crazy and combative but they are healthy and strong and funny as hell, and all of those things, even the crazy/combative parts, are going to serve them very, very well someday. I'm happy to be their training ground.


Also? Good things are coming. Fun, interesting, different, challenging, new things. They're coming. I know they are. And if this isn't your first time reading this, you know I love anticipation. And today is my favorite day of the week. So today, my coaster is glistening in that silver lining and going tic-tic-tic up the incline, and I'm inhaling and outhaling and letting go and becoming transparent and letting it wash right through me as I fall into the next steps of my life.


I'm blessed to have today and I pray I get tomorrow. I live in the quiet, joyous expectation of good. (I didn't write that, I read it somewhere. Nice, right?) My hair is frizzing into oblivion and I'm pretty sure I haven't weighed this much since the last time I was 4 months pregnant and tomorrow morning my kids will be all, We don't want that weird organic cereal for breakfast, we want Lucky Charms! And that will all be fine. Nothing some product and a little self-control and some marshmallows can't mastermind.


Maybe this is just the Nutella and Real Housewives of Orange County marathon I indulged in last night talking, but you know what?


I have hope! I believe!

Twenty-eight

Does anyone else ever feel like they're choking to death in a pit of what the fuck?


I mean, pardon my French, but if you ask me, I'm too familiar with the taste of that nasty muck.


I'm a poet and I didn't know it. (Sorry, second and third grade humor reigns in my house.)


It's all one step forward, two steps back sometimes, isn't it.


Yay, my bonus is coming! Boo, we owe more than that in taxes. (BTW, can someone tell me what country doesn't suck that also doesn't have taxes? Because I'd like to move there, please.)


Yippee, the puppy finished school with flying colors! Rats, he just ran out of the house and tore across three lawns and into the street with all four of us chasing after him.


I'm sure he thought it was the most fun he'd had since he polluted the RV. And if I was watching it from a neighbor's window, I'd probably pee my pants - which I have been known on occasion to do - at the sight of us all running at full speed but coming nowhere near to catching him. We could have maybe caught his tongue, which was flapping in the breeze, but that thing is slippery.


In the moment though, his escape wasn't that funny. We had just been talking about taxes, which formed the thick, murky base of the WTF choking potion, which came after the fight to get Seven to do her homework, which was timed perfectly with the argument with Nine about why three cups of organic cheesy bunny snacks isn't an appropriate snack in and of itself, even if it IS organic, which led to us being a mere 8 minutes away from the time that ballet class starts. And in case you were wondering, ballet doesn't start in my living room, it starts one town over. That's the moment when the puppy decided to shove his gigantic, hairy self out of the front door, take a leap over the front hedge, and take off like a racehorse heading for a finish line decorated with kittens and milkbones. Except in his case, the race ended with the alpha dog (also known in this case as The Very Angry Husband Who May Have Just Pulled A Hamstring In The Middle Of The Street) catching him and "helping" him back into the house.


Now, if I was the dog, and I'd been listening to the taxes and the cheesy bunny conversation and the whining about the math, I'd have run away too.


Let's be serious, I'm not the dog and I wanted to run away.


But I didn't. I swallowed my crazy, and got in the car with the girls and drove like a maniac safely to ballet, explaining all the way there that no, me and their dad actually aren't the meanest dog owners in the world, because listen girls, it's really, really hard to teach a dead dog that running out of the house into the street isn't a good idea, because he might get hit by a car. Then, I choked back some tears, got a chai tea latte, sat in the hallway at the studio and started tapping away here.


How do all of you deal with the dance of life? Where do you find the extra joy you need to make those backwards steps not quite as tumultuous? Is it juicing cucumber and spinach? Pouring a Chardonnay? Taking an extra exercise class? Writing a blog? Do you meditate? And if you do, on a side note, how do you meditate without falling asleep? Or is that the goal? Because I can always use more sleep. And more Chardonnay. And more dancing and meditation and exercise and green juice.


This is me, begging the collaborative you, to share your infinite wisdom so that I can catch back up with myself (and the running puppy). I need to remember where to find the silver lining on days like this. I need to find my uncrazy self so I can be happy, helpful, smiling, grateful mommy.


I need to inhale and outhale and keep plowing ahead, even with the full realization that the choreography of life will take me backwards again at some point.


Thanks in advance.


Love,


Grumpy McNeedsalot

Twenty-seven

We are just back from a five day camping trip for Spring Break.


We have decided as a family (okay, so my husband and I have decided) that Spring Break will always and forevermore be a family week. Because we have two daughters. Two reeeally pretty daughters. No seriously, we make 'em fine. And we don't ever want to see our pretty girls flashing their boobies for necklaces or doing body shots or going all cowboy ugly on YouTube.


Granted, they are only Seven and Nine but it's coming and don't pretend for a minute I'm not right because alcohol is potent this I know.


So we rented an RV and me, the traveling husband (who is, I need to mention, 6'4" and around 245 lbs), the two girls and the puppy (who is, I need to mention, 110 pounds of hairy jowl juice) all piled in and off we went to the coast for five relaxing days of board games and dog farts in enclosed spaces.


Here's a sampling of things I discovered while roughing it:


1. In April, the wind in Santa Cruz, California feels a lot like standing in a freezer while one angry person throws icicles at your body and some other relentless bitch holds ice cubes against your ears while your kids are all, Let'sgotothebeachagainI'mhungryWherearethesnacksI'mboredCanImakethefireDidwebringmybikeWhatarewedoingtomorrowCanwejusthavesmoresfordinnerETCETCETCETFUCKINGCETERA.


2. The board game "Beat the Parents" is fun. Also, sort of hard to win if you don't know the details around Harry Potter.


3. Your camping neighbors feel like safe, friendly people, but really, they could be into odd shit.


4. Goat farms smell really, really awful.


5. Goat cheese made at stinky goat farms is really, insanely delicious.


6. Last goat farm note: When there are over 100 female goats, and only two male goats, and their names are "Lucky" and "Macho Grande", it makes me think that goat people are really, really funny.


7. Sleepy girls will fight with each other about stuff that makes no sense, then cry, then protest whatever you tell them to do, even if it's what they were begging you for ten minutes prior.


8. After a few days of camping, you're dehydrated, and you smell like dust and fire.


9. Starting your period while camping in an RV where the "bathroom" is around the size of a postcard, is really fucking not awesome.


10. Looking at the Pacific Ocean and breathing deeply brings clarity to life.


11. Whatever size RV we ordered is smaller than the one we're getting next time. I can't have the dog sniffing my ass every time I get up to pour more wine. What am I, an appetizer?


12. Drinking wine and playing gin rummy with your husband while listening to Kenny Chesney on the iPhone by the fire as your dog eats cardboard and your kids play with your new neighbor's kid (even if they are into odd shit) doesn't suck.


Happy Easter!

Twenty-six

The Good Ship Amy, she's a-teeterin'.


I don't know if it's the last post, and my mind stretching to wrap around all those hungry adults sending their kids out to murder other children (whatever, so I'm not into sci-fi, I guess).


Or if its from trying to stretch my admittedly feeble brain around a neighborhood watch guy deciding the kid he sees walking home with candy in his pockets looks too scary to just be walking around on the sidewalk, plus what is it with that sweatshirt, so he handles that swiftly with his gun, and then goes home and (who are we kidding, you know I'm right about this next part) eats Hamburger Helper for dinner, then tucks into a warm bed for the night.


Um, last I checked "Neighborhood Watch" was like a clear-eyed liaison group who reported sketchy situations to the police so they can come handle it. Because, you know, it's their job and everything. I kinda doubt that Zimmerman's volunteer description said, Definitely kill whoever looks like they may or may not have Skittles in their pocket...it could be a weapon, and anyway, you know how crazy kids get when they're on sugar. Shoot on sight.


WTF?


And then I was folding laundry last night (the whole time I was thinking how easy it would just be to lay down right on top of it and go to bed) and I ended up SOBBING after getting sucked into the '19 Kids and Counting' episode (SPOILER ALERT for all of you people who watch the show religiously - no pun intended) where they go for an ultrasound to find out if their 20th baby is a boy or a girl and instead they discover the baby has no heartbeat. Here's me, folding socks and crying away, just sniffling and crying, because their baby girl (they discover she's a girl when she delivers her a few days later) is gone. Evidently it didn't matter to me that they already have a boatload of kids, poor little Jubilee Shalom had no heartbeat. And her name meant joyful celebration and peace, as if I wasn't already crying hard enough amongst the underwear and tank tops.


Are you crying yet? Maybe it's just me.


In any case, it could be hormones or PMS or lack of sleep or trying to figure out how to work full time and prep meals in advance that all four of us want to eat so I don't have to run from work to home to voice lessons for the girls and back home then back past the voice lesson class to puppy school in the pouring rain all the while checking work emails and planning Spring Break and wondering what I'm wearing this weekend and oh yeah, what the FRICK am I going to pull out of my ass for dinner since the flat iron steak I had in mind is not getting put on the bbq in the rain.


Or maybe it's the movies and the Florida boy and the twentieth girl that are all floating by the Good Ship Amy, wreaking more than a little havoc. On top of which, I've been fighting the flu for 5 days and all I want to do is curl up by the fire and sleep.


Hmm...crying...kids...boats...maybe a Disney cruise is what I need. Disney IS made up of the happiest stuff on earth (and also probably lots of crying kids on a boat). Obviously when we win the lottery tonight that will be the first thing I make a reservation for.


God, I can't wait. It will be the most expensive and fun vacation I have ever slept through.

Twenty-five

Innocence doesn't suck.

I was a naive kid and I think that's okay. I'm all for kids being kids for as long as they can be. Children are exposed to adult concepts at an earlier age now, and their little burgeoning minds are filled with questions and confusion more than ever before. I'm not unrealistic. I realize it's not all heffalumps and kittens until age 13. And I know it's impossible to put kids into an opaque bubble where they can be protected from the horrible things this world is full of (I've tried. They won't stay in there. Some excuse about needing oxygen.). Just turn the radio on and you'll hear all sorts of interesting lyrics that are catchy but wildly inappropriate for the nine-and-under set. In my car, Nine will belt out "Make me come alive, come on and turn me on..." with no idea of the meaning. The side of me that's on the cover of Bad Parent Magazine each month thinks it's sort of funny, plus I like Nikki Minaj and David Guetta too, so yes, Nine, I will pump up the volume. The responsible side of me is like, man, where's the Disney station when you need it.

I was in Boise, Idaho last weekend (which I love), seeing one of my oldest and closest friends and her family (who I love - whom I love? {don't start with me, I love them and I majored in design, not English, so whatever}), and I was lucky enough to be there to judge a state dance championship (which I L-L-LOVE). Some of the teams were fantastic, and some of the teams just made everyone want to say bless their hearts. But overall, it reminded me of how it felt when I was on a competitive dance team, and how many hours are devoted diligently to that opaque bubble.

When I was a part of that world in an active sense, I danced 7-9 hours a day at the peak. Combined with school, that doesn't leave a whole lot of time for getting into trouble. Plus I loved it, so I wasn't itching to get out of my bubble and into stuff I for sure wasn't ready for. And I was surrounded by several opportunities to do just that growing up in Los Angeles. But I just went to school, and went to dance practice, and came home to eat, do homework, sleep, and wake up to another day of the same.

(No this isn't turning into a dance resume and also? Disclaimer: Um. Allegedly there were boys and beers and other not so G-rated activities sprinkled in there from about 10th grade on, but there wasn't even a hint of inappropriate early on. It just didn't occur to me. All that busy bee dance practice and whatnot. And? No wonder my body has gone from rock star to rocky road. Who can do all that dancing anymore? Okay, I'm sure people can and do, but obviously, that ain't me no mo'.)

Back to the subject at hand.

Life isn't simple anywhere, for anyone, but in a town like Boise, with all those nice people and poised dancers and wholesome activities, it seems like it could be. I love that. I like a simple life, especially for my kids. I want their little busy lives to be mostly about field trips and math problems and swim medals, and fighting with each other and sleeping amongst pink lava lamps and stuffed animals and zen music (and dog hair). It's my job to teach them about the hard parts of life - death, disaster, mental and physical illnesses, etc. - in bits and pieces as needed. It's hard enough at this age and stage for them to wrap their brains around how come that friend wasn't nice to me today, and what if I'm allergic to something, and what does "diffuse" mean, and no I don't have a crush on that boy, doooon't teeeease meeee. I am not ready to expose them to the crazy scary parts of life yet, and I don't think they are ready for it, even though they beg me to let them read/see/do stuff.

Such as. The can of worms that is The Hunger Games. I know it's trendy, and people do love it, and I'm sure it's a fantastic piece of literature and breakthrough filmmaking. I'm a huge fan! 

Except I'm not. I'm out. I refuse. From my admittedly outside perspective, I see it desensitizing violence and devaluing life. And among children. I've never been one to enjoy watching a fight, and my heart sinks when I think of settling in to watch a child's innocence slipping away and into violence at the hands of an adult. Ick.

Granted, I'm the girl who can't watch "The Lovely Bones" because the thought of something like that happening to my daughters makes me feel like I want to crawl out of my skin, which isn't necessarily how I want to feel while I'm watching a movie. I'm supposed to feel transcended and entertained, and at the very least, so engaged that I forget for a minute just how much buttery popcorn I'm shoveling in.

Which takes me back to seeing The Hunger Games. In real life, we're all advocates for our children and we work to take those kinds of images out of their environment, so for me, it doesn't make sense to fill their minds and eyes with visions of children being forced to literally rip other children apart. Um, no. You're NINE. Howzabout you grab a snack and go play outside instead? Make up a silly language with your sister and try to teach it to the puppy. How about if the most traumatic thing I expose you to today is me making you finish your vegetables. Let's understand the social dynamics of being a pre-pre-teen and get comfortable with that before we start watching kids killing each other and being torn apart emotionally while doing it - all in the name of entertainment. I can think of at least a couple other things I'd rather my kids engage in for the sake of fun. (Witnessing the murder of a child probably isn't on that list.)

I'm not on a high horse, I wouldn't even know where to find one, and while I'm on the subject, I'm afraid of heights, so there. I am positive you wouldn't agree with some of the movies I watch or music I listen to. And you can call me a prude, but just know that if you do, it doesn't make you all creative and potent because Nick Bell beat you to it. He called me 'prude' in 7th grade on the blacktop. I was wearing my green/gray reversible gym clothes and I was only offended for a second because I knew enough to know he was probably right, even though I let him give me my first real kiss the year before. He tasted like carrots. To this day I don't know why.

So if not letting my kids read or see The Hunger Games makes me a prude, then maybe you and Nick Bell are right. And hey, if the gym shorts used to fit...

I'm sticking with the whole innocence doesn't suck thing. I'd rather hold onto that than a movie ticket for now. But feel free to bring me some popcorn to go. 

:)

Twenty-four

I have approximately 28 minutes of silence to myself, so I thought I'd use the time to do a little bit of housekeeping.


Not my house, obviously. Don't you know me by now? That place is covered in dog hair and muddy paw prints, because where we live, it's been raining for two days, and the rain has apparently called the puppy by name, each drop screaming in dog tone, "Dumb puppy! Come pounce in my mud!".


The housekeeping is for my blog house. This one right here.


I fear that if I were a fish, I would be a selfish.


I've been looking at this blog as mine. Meaning, a place for me to get out my thoughts and questions and ponderings. Then I sit and wait, and you people (all 5 of you or however many are taking the time to read this on a regular basis) write me back. Mostly the response has been a resounding "Me too!" or "That's my life. Are you a spy?" or something of that nature.


But lately, I inadvertently have been putting questions out there that are then creating some questions in other people's minds.


The first one was when I wrote about Paula Deen. Who knew pie was so divisive? I certainly didn't. But it was just my opinion, my point of view, my feelings on the topic at that time. And although I love hearing the opposite point of view, I didn't (and don't) write here to get anybody's panties all bunched up. It's just me on me.


The second one was the last one I wrote...I have a feeling that it was internalized and thought about a lot. Some of you wrote to me and said again, "Me too!" or "That's my life. Seriously, stop spying on me.". But I think there are a different set of you - probably some of you who know me personally - who are thinking that me writing and wondering about where I live or where I am in my life is about you.


I'm here to tell you it's not. It's still just me on me.


I question everything. I worry about everything. Including where we live and the quality of our relationships and whether our daughters are happy enough and engaged enough and settled enough and eating enough. See? It's a tangled web I manage to weave, and I think some of you who are physically close to my sticky threads felt like I wandered over and bit you. Just a nip.


Side note: I gotta get off the spider analogy because I am afraid of them and am now fighting a case of the heebie jeebies. Also, I just really wanted to type heebie jeebies.


Back to the matter at hand, with 17 minutes left.


If you know me at all, you should know that I say what I mean and I mean what I say. I don't lie because I'm really bad at it and also because I can't keep the one true life I have straight, do you think I could keep another story going alongside? Well, I can't. 


Also, if we're truly friends, you know that as a Taurus, I'm loyal as hell to those that are true to me. I'm stubborn and I'm grounded and if you're my husband, you might call me a cat, because I'm perfectly content to find a warm spot and lick myself into oblivion, then roll over and go to sleep.


I don't like change and I don't need any more of it. I'm content sipping my tea or Chardonnay, just knowing that my coral - near and far - is at the bottom of the ocean and always will be. I love to be near you, but I also love knowing I'm near enough, even when I'm not physically right next to you, because you're right where you belong in my heart of hearts.


If you know me at all, you know that. And you know that if I write about moving away or moving aside or moving around, you know me well enough to know that if I've put you in my heart, I'd never move away from you, and I'd never move you aside and I wouldn't mess around with a good thing. I'm cool like that.


So. With 12 minutes left, I'd like to end this little love letter to my friends and readers with a plea. I'm worried about everything and everyone else. Continue to be the thing that makes me uncrazy, if you will. I gotta put it out here, because it helps me, and if me putting it out here does anything but inspire you or make you think or push you to write back to me with an Amen, Sister, then just say something to me, please.


My psychic power "on" button got lost a long time ago. I think it eloped with the "off" button that used to push itself after a couple of glasses of wine, telling me to switch to water. I hope they are very happy together. And I hope we will be too, forever and ever and always.


Seven minutes left. I think I'll meditate. And by meditate, I mean do sit ups. And by do sit ups, I mean play Angry Birds.


Good night, friends.

Twenty-three

I haven't written here in a full week, but the traveling husband was flying across the country and back again (and across and back yet again) over the course of 5 days, then I was on a Girl Scout camping sleepover, and add into that my general scatterbrained state. On top of which, was The Curse, which bounces me from crying to cramping to crabby and back again, all of which puts me into a nasty funk. Part of said funk can be blamed on PMS and the accompanying narcolepsy (and yes, that blog entry is a'comin'), and part of it can be blamed on my general WTF state of mind.

As in, WTF are we doing with this life?! WTF are we doing trying to live comfortably in Northern California? WTF are we thinking about moving out of Northern California? WTF are girls so mean? WTF does my uterus hate me? WTF are people like Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton rich and famous and I'm not? Do I need bigger boobs or crazier parents or WTF? Apparently, I've got a shit ton of whatnot banging around in my brain, nonstop. So does the husband. And the more spin he's in, the more we're all in.

The question of the ages for us has been: What determines quality of life? Is it having more than enough money? More than enough toys and stuff? Friends close by? Family? Can we make dear new friends at this age and stage of life, or do the people who have loved us for years love us more than anyone new ever could?

And as I watch Nine try to figure out where she fits in socially at school, I realize that that journey is never-ending. Or at least it's still in progress in this family. I mean, it's clear to all of us that we belong to each other, and that we are together by choice (and by triple-knotted heart strings). But socially, outside of our family unit, who's "A" list have we made it on? And does that even matter, or are we supposed to just focus on the five of us? (I count the puppy because he weighs more than both daughters combined. Also, I'm pretty sure he can speak English {with an accent} and has a lot to say, he just chooses to remain silent for now.)

In any case, we've been in Northern California for four years. Looking at it from the outside, we're pretty ingrained. I volunteer at school, we help out with swim team, the girls are in ballet and voice lessons and get invited to birthday parties. They have pals who've been in their classrooms and on their soccer teams for three years now, if not longer. I have built up a brilliant gaggle of women who have become friends and neighbors and confidantes and shoulders to lean on. The type of amazing women who show up before you've even asked them to. The ones who bring you pots of homegrown flowers on your birthday and pots of homemade chicken stock when you're sick. It's pretty amazing, actually. 

The traveling husband isn't so lucky as me, and his social circle up here is much smaller. And by smaller I mean, the only two guys who are together with any consistency are him and the puppy. But sometimes he wants to spend time with someone who doesn't eat poop and who's hair doesn't float into his beer. He's more gregarious than I am, he requires some social interaction with people, and he loves that sport-fueled camaraderie. I'm a little more okay with just sharing a vino or a tea with my best girls via phone or text, since that's all we can muster these days due to time changes and diaper changes. But geographical distance for us doesn't equal distance of the heart. Boys are more literal and visual, and my husband is no exception. He does see some friends occasionally, but everyone is hyper-scheduled in NorCal, and the guys here aren't as free to indulge in Sunday Funday as he would like. So he pines for his "boys" - not only his big brother, but the friends with whom he went to college. He shares history with these guys, and they know my husband and they love him and all his quirks. He's on their "A" list.

The point is, overall, justified or not, we tend to feel a bit +1*, to use the husband's term.

*You know when you were single and you got invited to a wedding, and the bride and groom were all, Oh, she doesn't have a boyfriend...well, she can just bring somebody...address her envelope with an "and Guest". And then you sent in your RSVP with a Yes, I'll be there (but you don't give a name of your guest because you don't know who to bring with you yet), so you got put down on the list as You+1. You+the nameless, faceless person who would show up with you and be charming enough and probably have a really good time and hopefully be a great dancer and definitely is nice enough to drink all that free wine without pissing anyone off, but still...just a +1.

Which brings me back to the question at hand again. What determines quality of life? Should we move to a place in the country where we can afford all the things and toys we want, even if it means being further away from friends and family? Does it matter that we'd be further away geographically? Because let's be serious, the actual time spent together at this point is minimal. I think we've determined that time spent, for us anyway, does improve quality of life, because when we do spend time with friends - location being irrelevant - we always feel good. So should we stop worrying about living in a small house filled primarily with dog hair and old furniture, and just get people over here to spend time? Or should we just move back down South? But what if we move "home" and we end up staring at each other and the walls every Saturday night anyway, because we've been gone for four years and everyone has their plans and their people and their activities all set already? And again, shouldn't we focus on making each other happy, and stop looking outward for answers? On the other hand, we all need to spend time with more than just who and what is inside of our house at all times, otherwise we go ape shit. Don't we?

Stop looking at me like that, I told you at the start that I'm funky and scatterbrained.

So, my mental to-do list then, is going to look something like this: Inhale. Meditate on what feels right for my family and myself. Outhale. Encourage Nine to find her "A" list. Inhale. Get the husband out of the house (with human friends). Outhale. Find dates on the calendar and invite friends over, and open our doors and our hearts to new people and different ways of spending quality time. Inhale. Pray (a lot) for guidance and strength and peace and continued good health. Outhale. Do laundry.

Oh, and lastly? Deep inhale. Find a way to gingerly tell Nine and Seven that they are, as of this afternoon, going to have to appreciate going commando, because the puppy has eaten yet another pair of panties, and the only way for me to keep him alive and eliminate stress (and mindblowing dog gas) from my life, is to evidently, eliminate underclothing. Outhale.

Here's to letting it all hang out, in more ways than one.

Interlude

1. I don't understand the reaction to Paula Deen's announcement that she has diabetes. I think someone going through something like that in private, let alone with a billion people watching, deserves compassion. Yes, she fries food and she cooks with fat and salt. But I've never heard her say "You should eat food like this three times a day, seven days a week.". Not even one time. She herself said she only tapes 30 days a year, and I've only seen her take a couple bites of each dish on camera. So that probably means she's not cooking and eating like this every day either. The woman pulled herself up by her boot straps, doing the only thing she knew how to do in order to provide for her kids at that time. Nobody is forcing people to cook and eat her recipes, just like nobody is forcing people to eat at McDonald's or smoke cigarettes. So Paula Deen building a life off of biscuits and gravy and then getting judged harshly when she gets diabetes feels a lot like a woman dressing provocatively occasionally and getting blamed for being sexually assaulted. Also people, mind your own beeswax. Sheesh.

2. Rush Limbaugh probably gets paid per click or each time his name is mentioned. As nauseating as it can be to swallow fury, maybe the best thing to do is to remain totally silent and unresponsive. If the squeaky wheel loses it's audience, eventually it will stop squeaking because nobody is listening anyway. Won't it?

3. Late Oscar note: Angelina - You have a family with one of the sexiest men ever created. You should be languishing in the most cushy comfort zone known to humankind. So what was with the forced Barbie pose in your dress? It just felt weird, even if your measurements do match Barbie's exactly. If the dress only works with the stick figure leg poking unnaturally out of the slit, then the dress isn't working. You know that. Suggestion: Start planning your next gown now, and each day, as you review the sketches, EAT A MAYONNAISE SANDWICH AND SOME PIE.

4. General awards show note: Why do stars act surprised when their name is called as the winner of the award? There is generally a 1-in-5 chance it's going to happen, and no matter how many times they skipped math class when they were in school, I'm pretty sure they understand those odds. So stars, if your name is called, stop looking like Taylor Swift does after every performance when people clap for her (I love you Taylor, but girl, all your teenage gawk and awe is gone now...move on from looking surprised when people do what comes naturally as a singer finishes a song.). Also, stars, if you are going to cry, please make sure you actually cry. I don't want a shaky voice, and an angst-filled facial expression, and no actual tears. You aren't going to get another award for this performance, no matter how good it is. And if you can't fake a few tears, it ain't that good. So if you feel overwhelmed, let the mascara run. And if you don't feel overwhelmed, for the love of Christ, compose yourself, graciously accept, thank Jesus and everyone else, and go make your next million. Don't feel bad, I'd be slap happy too.

5. Who, exactly, do I think is going to come up behind me and pick up the dog hair/shoe/corner of a granola bar wrapper/backpack/ blueberry/tissue/dried mac and cheese noodle/pencil that I just walked by? Every time, I look at it on the floor, roll my eyes, and mentally summon the energy to bend over (for the 100th time that day) to pick it up. I'm actually trying to mentally summon the Magic Clean-Up Fairy, but it turns out that if it's on the floor, it's going to be me at some point picking it up. Because unfortunately for me, I am the Magic Clean-Up Fairy. Granted, when the traveling husband isn't traveling, he picks up a lot of dog hair. Also, the puppy enjoys eating socks and underwear, so if I could get past the whole next-time-that-dumb-pup-eats-clothes-he's-going-from-dumb-to-dead thing, then I would actually appreciate the help. But for now, I need to find a way to fix my broken bender overer, because that thing is tired.

Now you can imagine what my house looks like tonight. May you bask in the glory that is your tidy home, and may you have some pie, too. I hear Paula Deen makes a chocolate one that's so sweet, it'll practically give you diabetes on the spot.

What? Too soon?