Yep, I'm faking it

Confession time. I'm not putting this here to freak anyone out - I just need to tell it. I need it to leave me. And I don't think I can actually bring myself to say it out loud to anyone. Especially not in person where they can see me and I can see their reaction. Here goes.

Today, as I exited the interstate, just for a second, I considered not steering. I considered what would happen if I didn't. If I just crashed. On purpose. Into cement barricades that were left on the shoulder of the ramp for some construction going on. I considered really, how bad would it be? I considered that I wouldn't have to worry about the guilt of leaving my family - I wouldn't be around to know. But then, happily in this case, I also considered what that would really mean for my children. How they wouldn't understand. How they would grow up thinking that Mommy didn't love them enough to stick around. Funny, I never considered any pain that might be involved, and to be honest, I didn't much consider how Steve would be affected. I think on some level, I kind of believe there would be a little relief for him. I'm sure I'm not exactly the most fun person to be around these days. Our tiff this morning and the small bickering flare-ups over the last few weeks would be some evidence of that.

So in a way, I think my brief consideration of options and outcomes this morning was a good thing. It scared me. And you know, I know those are not the kind of thoughts I should be having on my way to work in the morning. Okay, maybe on a Monday, but, hey, there are better ways to get out of working - calling in sick may not be permanent, but it does get you out of work for a day or two. My doctor's office opens at 9:00. I called at 9:01. Amazingly (or not, God and I did have quite the one-sided conversation this morning after that), they have an appointment tomorrow. I will be discussing my level of prescripted help at 10:00 tomorrow morning. I will be asking if perhaps we can consider the possibility that a stronger dose might be of some assistance to me. In other words, I will do all I can to resist begging him to give me more drugs in the desperate hope that I can go back to feeling "normal." And by normal, I mean fighting with my husband, yelling at my kids, getting cranky when I am hungry, but managing to drive to work while keeping the van and myself in one piece.

So now, today, I sit here at work in my new cube in my new department in my new job (all of which I love, love, LOVE), and I am faking it. Every time someone stops by or calls or I have to go to a meeting, I am all smiles and happiness and laughing with the world. And then as soon as I am by myself again, I struggle not to just put my head down on my desk and let it all out. Back when I was normal, sometimes, a good cry would make me feel better. Yes, it's weird, but I think it's a girl thing. I realized today that a good cry would leave me feeling exactly the way I feel right now. So really, why bother?

Seriously, I think men need to give women a little more credit about this whole faking it thing. It is done to preserve their ego, after all, and it is not as easy as it seems! It's hard and it's exhausting to make other people think everything is just hunky dory. Politicians must be tired all the time!

Overheard in the cube farm

"Oh, my God, I was in the gas station last night and Wilt Chamberlain was in there! He was signing autographs and stuff for all these people. I called all my friends last night to tell them and then I called Millie and she did a Google and Wilt Chamberlain DIED in 1999! All these people were getting autographs from this man and I called all my friends to tell them that I held the door for someone famous and he's dead!"

"Hey, Shauna, Elvis is dead, too."

I'd have time if I quit my new job, just not the money to pay for the Internet

I just hate not having time to spend here in my little blog world. The 'real' world intrudes. New job. Little league. VBS. Oh, VBS. Vacation Bible School. I am SO obsessed. People around me roll their eyes when they catch me drooling over a demolished building, thinking of all the pieces I could scavenge. You see a dumpster, I see the broken pallet leaning against it that I could turn into a fence. It's a serious affliction. And it will be with me until the end of June. Let me just apologize now. There will be posting about it. And probably pictures. Don't hate me.

But back to the blogging. I also have this problem. I am a shy blogger. And Steve is a watcher. I don't know why, but as soon as I pick up the laptop and start typing, he gets nosy. Perhaps he thinks he needs to keep an eye on me, after certain other posts. I can't imagine why...So I'm left waiting until he goes to bed and you know, that's when I want to go to bed, too! But I miss writing out here. I miss finding things to share with my little audience.

And I do have things I need to get off my chest. I've hit a little bit of a rough patch. I'm not sure yet if it's just a bump in the road or if it's the beginning of another dark tunnel, but I'm trying to keep an eye on myself - again with the constant self-absorption. Coming to terms with my sub-par parenting is not helping. I've found that when you tell people you're a bad mother, they feel the need to assure you you're not. That you're doing just fine, that it's tough, blah blah. But they don't know. They just. don't. know.

Finally, things are right with the world

Look:

They fixed it! I still have not idea what its purpose is or who might have thought that hideous thing adds any aesthetic value, but whatever. This new tidy design is good for me and my ~issues~ and also for the other drivers on the road. I don't think they were too happy with my efforts to avoid looking at the monstrosity on my daily commute. It's hard to stay in your lane when your eyes are closed. Who knew?

In other aligning-my-world news, I am finally where I belong and where I know that I know stuff. Yes, the local Dairy Queen has opened for the season, but that's not what I was talking about! I started in my new job today. HRIS instead of Finance. It is so nice to be in a work environment where I actually understand the words being used in meetings. AND! Not only do I understand them, I HAVE SOMETHING TO CONTRIBUTE!!! Can you hear those angels singing, or is that just in my head? I'm sure the euphoria will wear off soon - unless I keep taking the drugs - but for now, I'm going to bask in my little honeymoon period. Soon enough I will face the reality that I have taken on a job where my boss already has given me a list of her top five projects for me to work on (FIVE. PROJECTS - not tasks or assignments - PROJECTS), none of which I know how to do yet, I also still have a project and training commitment to my former department and boss, oh, and I'm in charge of my church's Vacation Bible School again this year and Andrew is playing baseball and Abby starts dance class next month...hmm...perhaps this will the summer of my meltdown. Yay! I am giddy with anticipation!!

It must have been husband snatchers

If you know my husband, I don't need to explain his feelings on spending money. If you don't know my husband, I will summarize: Spending Money Bad. B double A D. Have I mentioned he's an accountant? Yeah...one of THOSE. You know, not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just a lifestyle I don't understand or choose to follow...

So, imagine my surprise when he came home the other day with this:

Yes, he PAID MONEY for it. What is it, you ask? Well, my friends, this is the Cross Cruncher. A set of 12 crunches on this is like doing ONE HUNDRED regular crunches!!! AND!! No more BACK PAIN from old-fashioned crunches!!!!! Why crunch on the floor when you can CROSS CRUNCH sitting upright in comfort!!!!!!! How much would YOU pay for this item?!

Umm...this is the kind of thing I would point out to my husband and he would roll his eyes and tell me what a waste of money it is. And he bought it. When I asked him about this unusual purchase, he replied (seriously, you won't believe this)

"It was on sale!"

Seriously. What happened to my husband? And can I swing a new digital SLR camera out of this deal before we switch him back, please?

Seriously, I don't even need the little gold statue

I'm in training this week, and feeling a little in the shadow again. I have been living in someone's shadow for many years now. The creator of the shadow changes, but my place within it does not.

Most of the time I'm mostly okay with it. But sometimes I have to fight the feelings harder. When I'm feeling unliked, especially in comparison to another, it gets harder. Okay so maybe Steve is not wrong when he calls me competitive. Anyway, this is one of those times. Training. Stacy is just so good. And it's not that I think I'm not good. Okay, sometimes I do think that. But I try not to. But there is someone here who I think does think I'm not good. Especially in comparison to Stacy. Well, maybe that's natural. But it has become a situation in which I am nervous around this person, and worried I will say or do something to further confirm her beliefs about my abilities. LACK of abilities. And of course, being nervous and on edge and uncomfortable about saying or doing something stupid in front of someone is a sure-fire way to guarantee that I'll do exactly that. I have a severe case of foot-in-mouth disease when it comes to this person. I tend to have this disease quite often, actually. It is just much, MUCH, more severe around certain people.

I do not like that she does not like me. Maybe it's not even that she doesn't like me, but I think I annoy her. And I have come a long, long way in my paranoia about wanting people to like me. But mostly, my recovery works best with people who I don't like back. And I like Carol - oh, I mean, "this person."

I just want her to like me back and to think I'm smart, like Stacy. She doesn't have to think I'm AS smart as Stacy, just kind of smart. About anything. Or at least not as dumb and annoying as I think she thinks I am.

In truth, part of what causes my nervousness around her is that she reminds me of my mother-in-law. I'm not going to get in to details about my relationship with Dot here. She and I have come a long way. I enjoy spending time with her and I think she tolerates me most of the time. But I am often still worried that I am going to say or do something that will draw comment on my stupidity.

You know, truthfully, I think I do stupid stuff around most people. I do and say a lot of dumb things (so maybe I AM as dumb and annoying as Carol makes me think she thinks I am!!). The difference is that most people are kind enough or self-conscious enough themselves or maybe just too oblivious to comment on my stupidity. But some people - such as this person in training with me this week and my mother-in-law - have a way of always pointing out and commenting on the things I have just said and/or done that I know are stupid, but it's too late, they're already done. By commenting, I just feel more dumb than I already did, and am suddenly embarrassed and more likely to continue the stupidity by trying to talk myself out of the stupidity. Boy, is THAT a dumb idea!

I just want to feel like Sally Field when she won her Oscar - affirmed that everyone in the entire world loves her and thinks she is brilliant. Every. One. Is that really so much to ask?

I warned her there would be blogging about this

Okay, I'm back. And I've promised you a story. Of course, I've told a couple of you the story already now...but I'll tell the rest of you anyway. I don't want to be labeled a tease forever, after all.

So where were we...oh right, last Friday. I got a phone call a little after 5pm from one of my best friends, Jody. She asked if I had plans. That usually means she has plans in mind for me, so I answered vaguely. And then she said "Do you want to go to the Hank Williams, Jr. concert with me?!!" Yes, she said it with two exclamation points. And my answer...Uhhh...sure. I mean, Sure! Has anyone ever asked you to go with them to do something when you know they really really want to and probably won't if you don't say yes...well, that's what this was like. I said she's one of my best friends. I wouldn't do this for just anyone. It is Hank. Williams. Junior. Oh. My. Goodness. Really? Seriously? Okay, so we went. And wow. WOW. It was so awesome! The people-watching. Not the concert. I mean, Jody had a GREAT time - she loved the show.

The tickets were free (thanks to connections from her boss' wife) and we were in the 9th row to the side of the stage - VERY close. This is how close:

Yes, I could almost smell Hank. Of course, that could be more of a reflection on Hank than on our tickets. Now, you may know, I used to live in Texas. And there was a lot of country music there. But Hank is the countriest of all the country music and I have never been a big fan. So I wasn't there for the music. But I was so excited by the crowd. I never imagined it to be such a diverse group. You know, not as in diversity of COLOR, but in just about every thing else. There was the party girl, who I tried to take a covert picture of:

The true cowboy:

And this couple:

They had tickets on the floor, but never stood. The gentleman watched the large television screen more than he watched the stage. He could have been at home in his living room. You know, except for the thousands of screaming people. And the smell of Hank Jr.

There was also a guy who was wearing a very unique cowboy hat made from a Milwaukee's Best case. I tried to get a picture for you, but it just didn't come out very well. I am so sorry.

There were "suits" and people who had probably never been in a suit, maybe not even for their wedding. And there were manners. There are a lot of rude people in the world, but not many of them were in attendance at the Hank concert. Except for maybe the woman in line at the t-shirt stand. Or maybe she was just drunk. Drunk and Hank Jr. seem to kind of go together, don't you think?

38 Special also played before we got there to see Hank Jr. and the headliner was Lynrd Skynrd. But my friend Jody was not interested in Lynrd. We watched our Hank, bought a t-shirt, and left. It was a great time. And I even have proof:

Oh, and the hint - That's How They Do It In Oikie. That's the name of the tour. Except it's not really Oikie. It's Dixie. I think I need my eyes checked:

Y'all come back now, ya hear?

I haven't posted here in EIGHT DAYS! I am suffering withdrawls. I have stuff to tell you, I promise. I just...can't right now. I have to go to work (after I dry my hair and take the kids to day care) and then I have to go to Chicago...but I PROMISE I will post soon. How could I not? I have to tell you what happened to me last Friday night! Oh, I'm such a tease, aren't I? That's spider to you.

Okay, I'll give you one hint...

That's how they do it in Oikie.

Really, that's a hint. If you live in my head, it's a hint. Oh, all right. ONE more hint.

Yup. It's THAT good.

Yes, this is what Steve puts up with every day

I am not a neat freak. I am not fastidiously clean. Never have been, probably never will be. I am perfectly content to allow dirty dishes to accumulate in the sink until my spouse gives in and washes them. I hate doing dishes more than I hate looking at them in the sink. It works out well for me that Steve hates doing the dishes far less than I do. And that I'm spider. Heh heh.

However. I do have a few quirks about keeping things...tidy. I like symmetry and balance. I like things to be even. Honestly, one of the reasons I think I'm (almost) ready to accept that we are done having children is that right now, I have one boy and one girl. Tidy. Unless I were to have boy-girl twins the next time, there will be unevenness. Three means there is no tidy division. There will be a two-one split. I don't like it.

Okay, so maybe some would accuse me of being a little anal retentive. I prefer "detail-orientated."


But seriously. Sometimes it's just wrong. WRONG. When people leave things in an untidy and uneven state. Like this:Do you see the wrongness of this?! No, it's not a trick of the angle of the shot. This weird, pointless structure actually looks like this. Seriously. And I have to drive by it twice a day, on my way to and from work. I think INDOT (that's the Indiana Department of Transportation) might be trying to kill me.

Like dropping acid, but without the fun

So for the last two days, I've been having flashbacks. Flash-way-backs to eight years ago when I was home with my newborn baby - my first baby. I was exhausted, hopped up on haywire hormones, having trouble breastfeeding, alone; and then it got worse. In Colorado, two teenagers walked into their high school in Columbine, and started shooting their classmates.

The news coverage went on and on. It was on every channel, all day long. I tried to turn it off, but I was drawn to it. I was horrified and mesmerized. I cried. I sobbed. I wondered what kind of a world I had brought my new son into. I held him close to me and we cried together. His crying was more related to wet diapers and hungry tummies, and mine was overwhelming grief. I grieved for those kids, but even more, I grieved for our world and what it had come to.

And now here we are. Eight years later, I have an eight year old boy and a three year old girl. And a student walked into his classrooms at Virginia Tech yesterday and started shooting his classmates. It is deja vu, an acid flashback, a recurring nightmare. Luckily, work kept me from watching the coverage all day yesterday, but the news feeds kept me well-informed. I have no more tears. I am astounded at the capacity for evil in this world. I just. don't. understand. Why? God, why? It is heart-wrenching to watch the students and families. I want to hug them and cry with them and somehow tell them it will be okay. But it's not. It's not okay that this young man had no other way to show his frustration, distaste, anger, whatever except by shooting people. And himself.

Events like this remind me of the dangers in this world. Dangers which I am normally able to pretend to ignore. If I couldn't, I'm not sure I would have the courage to live my life, or the strength to allow my children to leave the house. I hate that my children will never be safe anywhere they go. I hate that the world has become a place in which this kind of horror exists. We live in a nice neighborhood in a nice, normal, small Mid-Western town. But it's not enough. Something could happen. And it doesn't have to be at the hands of terrorists who fly planes into buildings. Or even at the hands of a troubled young loner at a college campus.

When I was in high school, my younger brothers played with the boys who lived across the street. We also lived in a nice small Mid-Western town. One summer day, while I was their babysitter, they planned to go over and play video games with Kenny and Jonathan. But our uncle surprised us and stopped by to take us for ice cream instead. When we got home, police sirens and fire trucks followed us. We had just pulled into the driveway when they pulled up across the street at Kenny and Jonathan's house. Other boys had been over playing video games and apparently there had been an argument. Kenny had gone to get his dad's shotgun to scare one of the boys, not knowing it was loaded. He accidentally shot the boy in the face. He died. He was sitting in an easy chair when it happened and the family put the chair out for the trash the next day. It sat there for two days until the trash picked it up. I looked at that blood-stained chair and cried. It could have been one of my brothers.

Something could happen to my kids. Anywhere. I live in terror that something awful will happen to them and I will not be able to save them or go on without them. I want to go back to pretending it will be okay. But I don't think I'll be able to for a while. There are new images burned into my memory. They sit along side others: what happened across the street in 1988, Jonesboro, Columbine, Oklahoma City, 9/11; and countless others, images gathered from stories about horrific crimes committed against children.

My flashbacks go on. Eventually, they will ease. Until then, I pretend I'm not afraid every time my children leave my sight. I pretend. And I lie. I do have more tears.

In honor of Easter last Sunday, a bunny story

I know I shouldn't, but this story made me laugh.

What? You mean rabbits get EATEN in the wild? By coyotes and hawks and owls? Especially these cute little bite-sized ones? NO! Gosh, I wonder why they are ENDANGERED??? And I love the end where the state pygmy rabbit coordinator (that's a great job title, btw) basically said they are going to keep putting more owl food out there because, you know, it's "valuable learning."

Can you imagine what the little bunnies are thinking?

Oh, thank you, large human people, for rescuing us from the wild where we have no hope of survival.

Wait. What? You mean you're putting us back? What, we aren't cute enough? No! We'll be good little bunnies, we promise!

Poor little bunnies. They can come live in my neighborhood. Based on how many bunnies we see in our backyard, it's a bunny safe haven around here! Maybe I'd better give that pygmy rabbit coordinator a call...for the bunnies' sake!

Updated to add:

And in other news...T. Rex: tastes like chicken!

Maybe we could share clothes, too!

You know, I love my husband. You hear people talk about their spouse being their best friend and all, and I've always thought that was weird. I don't know why, but I don't think I'd call Steve my BFF. That's a title I give to my girlfriends who I get together and chat with and who I have fun with. I've never put Steve in that role, but really, he kind of is my BFF. He is the person who I tell everything to. Every. Thing. Yes, that includes things I don't tell the girls I consider my BFF's (and no, I'm not going to discuss the contradiction that I have multiple BESTs...let's move on). It isn't much, but yes, sometimes, there's stuff I don't tell the girls. But poor Stevie, he knows everything about me (and he's STILL married to me, can you believe it?!). I know some married people and some people who USED to be married who say that you should have separate checking accounts. Take separate vacations. Have multiple televisions so you can each watch your own shows in different rooms (yes, Internet, we only have ONE television in our house - we are THAT old school. Plus, our house is smallish.). But we don't do any of that stuff. And OH MY GAWD we sometimes get on each others' last nerves. But I really like it this way. We talk. We are really good at talking. No, not just me! Steve talks, too, I swear! If something ever happens and we actually divorce, it won't be because we never talked about our problems. No, it will definitely be because of his porn star side job. I just get so jealous when he doesn't include me!

But having said all that mushy gushy I-love-my-porn-star-Sweetie stuff, sometimes I need him to be a girl for a minute. I went shopping last night. Yes, again, it was to the crappy Wal-Mart. Don't judge me - it's all I have. While I was there, I found some clothes on big time sale for Abby. For all the clothes-shopping I feel like I do for that girl, she STILL doesn't have enough clothes for the Spring/Summer. And honestly, why would I spend crazy money to buy the really cute clothes I want from Gymboree and Baby Gap and Lands End when she is just going to get paint/marker/food/snot on them and then grow out of them before I even have time to wash them? So anyway, I ended up with ten items for $30. TEN. For THIRTY. Can you even believe that math?!? I was so excited! And? They are all color coordinated in reds and blues and khakis. NO PINK. OR PURPLE. Not that I have anything against pink or purple, but she really has the market cornered on those colors and it would be nice to have some variety. So I had found these amazing deals and I had no one to tell. It's like hitting a hole in one with no witnesses. Or catching that huge fish and then lose it to a broken line. Or...some other sports analogy that I don't have any actual experience with...with NO WITNESSES. It was a moment when I really missed my mom. She would totally get me on this. But Illinois to Indiana is a heck of a drive just to go to the Wal-Mart (and, by the way, you have to pronounce that Wawl-Maurt and with "the" in front, it's a small town rule, I think).

When I got home and we were getting ready to go to bed, I asked Steve if I could show him the clothes (I had already told him about my awesome buying super-power, but he was unimpressed). He agreed, but was clearly not committed. I showed him anyway. And made him PRETEND to be excited. Sigh. It was really just too much work that way. I needed my husband to be a girl. Seriously. And don't get all excited, I mean that in a very boring, non-sexual kind of way. Although I'm pretty sure if I mentioned this idea to Steve, his thoughts would lead him down a different - and not non-sexual - path...I said I love him, I didn't say he was perfect.

There's a reason why people hate Mondays

After realizing that I was becoming a catty junior high Heather/Mean Girl, I made a Lenten commitment to make less fun of others and more of myself. Weeelllll...have I got a story for you! I should warn you, those of you without children, who are less exposed to various disgusting bodily functions and fluids as a part of your everyday routine - you may want to stop reading right now. Seriously. I've got some new pics over at Flickr. You could go look at those instead.

Today started out fine. It's a gorgeous day in central Indiana - 74 degrees and sunny. I got up on time. Did my push-ups and crunches. Yes! No, darn! The scale gave me the bad news that I now weigh more than I did at the beginning of the year...sigh. But okay. Game is on and I am re-focused! Rah! We got to day care at the right time so I would make it to my meeting on time. Woo hoo! Uh-oh! I forgot today was Spring Picture Day. And of course, my children are not only not dressed like the little cutie pies they are, they certainly are not color-coordinated with each other for their nice sibling shot...sigh. But...okay. We'll make due. And we'll plan on making an appointment with our nearest Sears/JCPenney's for some REAL portraits. You know, since I don't have my rock star paparazzi camera yet.

Morning meeting was fine (I was almost on time). Work was fine. Lunch was fine. I had a salad and some leftover Sausage Skillet Sensation (with broccoli this time - yum!). Healthy! We even walked! Hoo rah!! Life is good. Game on! I am having a generally good day! And it's Monday! And I'm already considering what healthy dish I can prepare for dinner. Maybe we'll grill! Outside! And walk! Yes! Oh, what's this? A little twingle in my belly? Why, I think I'll walk myself to the restroom and...uh, wait.

Ummm....what just happened? I didn't just do what I think I might have just done, did I?! Oh. My. GAWD. I had an accident. Of the number two variety. In my pants. At work. HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN?! I don't feel sick. Well, okay, I kinda feel sick NOW, but that's probably more a result of being absolutely disgusted with my own body. Okay, this can't be salvaged. I have to leave. Immediately. Crap. LITERALLY. Going commando for the rest of the day is not an option. For one, eww. For two, I also have other issues which prevent me from leaving an unprotected barrier between me and my pants. For three, EWW! And OMG, what if it happens AGAIN?! Because now my stomach is not feeling quite right at all.

Okay. Stay calm. Breathe. Clean things up as best you can (and, yes, now we are going to talk to ourselves in third plural person - it distances us from what is going on. Because EWW!). Wait for the other people to leave the bathroom. Let's stay anonymous. Okay. Remember, calm. Don't raise suspicion. Back to our desk. Must tell Stacy. She's on a conference call. Good - because we don't really want to explain this in person. Will send e-mail. Very vague e-mail. Maybe we can come back after we change. We're not sick. Right? Just what? Not potty trained? Don't think about it now. Type e-mail standing up. Because. EWW! Out the door. Okay. Calm. Don't freak. Oh, driving. Requires sitting. Okay. Brace yourself wth your thighs. Limited contact between seat and pants. You can do this. Drive very quickly. Seriously, if we get pulled over, there's no way we're getting a ticket. Drive 90. Because. EWW! Home. Van in garage. Driveway close enough. Run. Not THE runs...we've apparently already done that (EWW!).

Whew. Clean. Still disgusted. Stomach gurggly. We'll wait ten minutes and see if we're going to be okay. Oh! Not okay. NOT OKAY. Staying home. Thank God for wireless and a laptop.

Shameless tease for the other blog

Something occurred to me the other day. It was a moment when something happened and my first thought was - Oh, I'll have to blog that! Because yes, I'm turning into THAT kind of freak. But anyway. I finally realized that I have been blogging over here a lot more recently than I have been blogging over in the kids' blog. When I first started a diary for the kids, I was so excited and had SO many things to write about that I didn't know where to start. I felt like I was there all the time. Then I started this little blog of mine so I had a place to write down some things that I wouldn't necessarily want to share with the kids.

At first, I thought this wasn't going to go so well and I was starting to worry that I really had become the mom who had nothing else interesting to talk about besides her kids. Okay, so maybe interesting is a stretch, but lately, I'm finding it so much easier to hang out over here and 'chat'. It's harder to talk to the kids, you know?

Maybe it's because I'm amongst friends here. I know you - well, I think I know all of you. I suppose it's possible there are some lurkers out there. But it's fairly unlikely. The lurker I just learned about (Hi, Brian! No, girls, not THAT Brian.) doesn't really count as a lurker - he's a friend, too. So when I'm here, I'm chatting about life and stuff and it's comfortable. When I'm talking to the kids over in their world, there's a little more pressure. I've realized that, while I'm not lying to them, I am trying to put a little better spin on some of the stuff going on, even when I'm talking about hellacious bedtimes and torrential tantrums. I don't really know when or even if they will read what I have over there, so it's hard to gauge what age group I'm talking to. Maybe I should be brutally honest and really tell it like it is. But I gotta tell you, if I wrote only the stark and nasty truth, there are days when they would think I regretted ever having them. And I really don't - I promise! You know, not every day. But oh, sometimes, I dream of the days when coming home from work meant dinner of whatever we wanted - or out to eat on a whim. Or even better, maybe a movie. ON A WEEKNIGHT. And without any planning ahead WHATSOEVER. Oh, and sex. Because we weren't tired. Ever. Those were good times.

These are good times, too, they are just very different times. Days are full of things like daycare, homework, Disney channel, baseball, screaming, macaroni, peeing the bed, and on and on. Oh, good times, my friends. Good times.

What's a twelve-letter word for disruptive?*

So the big news in parent guilt - THIS week - is the new study that says kids who spend more than two years in day care are more disruptive in school through the sixth grade. Great. Because I wasn't quite feeling like a bad enough mother yet. So it's good, really, that we just took care of that last bit of parental self-worth.

At least it's not all bad. The study also found higher vocabulary scores in kids who receive high quality care when they were young - even if it was outside day care. So, all I have to do is find a "high quality" day care. Then at least my kids will be able to use really big words when they disrupt the class.



*obstreperous - my kids will totally know what this word means!

Where there's smoke, I might start a fire

You know you're a mom when...you are seeing freaky preschool characters in the strangest places. Last Friday, on my way back to work after lunch, I pulled up behind a car at a red light. The driver's hand was hanging out the window and was holding a cigarette. Not an uncommon site, but when I glanced back, I saw Oobi. Oobi is the freaky character of a kids' show on Noggin made from a HAND.


Oh, yes, that's right - Oobi is a hand. A hand with an eyeball ring. And the fingers. Of the hand. They are Oobi's nose, mouth, and HAND. So when Oobi picks something up, Oobi uses his hand which is also his mouth which is also his hand. Ironic since Oobi IS a hand... And Oobi has a bunch of other hand friends and family. Freaky. I don't let the kids watch Oobi. Because it's stupid and freaky, that's why! But if you watch Noggin, you can't avoid the promos. And now I'm seeing Oobi in my everyday life and Oobi is SMOKING. Seriously. Those kids are watching too much t.v.

So that was Friday at lunch. Friday night, we showed the new Veggie Tale movie at church. (Do you see how my life revolves around those kids and their t.v. characters? Ack!) I thought it would be a good idea to pop some popcorn. I took up my stovetop popper, the popcorn, popcorn salt...I had everything, except I forgot the oil. Oh, no problem, there was some olive oil left over at church from our spaghetti dinner. Great! Did you know that olive oil has a lower burn point than regular cooking oil? Funny. I knew that. It's amazing what facts can slip your mind when you are answering the clammering cries of two small children. But that fact did come racing back to my mind when I heard a strange "POOF!" from the church kitchen. Smoke. Flames. Burning. IN THE CHURCH! Did I mention there was a wedding scheduled the next day?

I think it might be true about your life flashing before your eyes when you die because I saw a future flash before my eyes as I slammed the popper lid shut and carried the smoking pot outside. And that bride was pissed.

The Internet has eyes

So I think I'm being watched by a new pair of eyes. And perhaps discussed. By a pair of eyes I did not expect to look here. Maybe being made the butt of some jokes. It's entirely possible. I am suspicious. And I'm considering how this feeling of being watched might make me feel I should restrain myself a little. What will he think of all that I put out here? I'm sure he thinks this is pointless and stupid. But I love being here. So I think I'll stay.

I only have one more thing to say: Game on!

I can quit anytime I want. I just don't. want. to.

Oh no. I think my husband tried to have an intervention. Apparently, my recent increased attachment to the laptop has not gone unnoticed. He went to a movie by himself today (oh, I have so many thoughts on THAT, but another time...). When I tried to protest - from behind the laptop screen - he said it wouldn't be any different if he stayed because I'd just be at the computer the whole time. But at least we'd be together, right?! He accused me of being attached to the computer 24-7 lately. And then? Then he said something nearly unforgivable. He said...it hurts to even type it...he suggested that I go ALL WEEK without the computer. Clearly, he was trying to kill me. When I told him as much, he backed off and only tried to maim me with a one day abstention. Monday. No computer when I get home. What?! Why?? What have I done to him? Does he hate me that much?

Okay, so maybe I need to lay off the VBS forum, Google homepage, blog surfing...a little...

Moving on, back to 1993

Today, I left work at noon. I am running pretty low on PTO (thanks to a few too many "I think I'll take a day off" days and way too many "my kids are sick and want Mommy" days), so I went to work this morning trying to convince myself that I did not have a fever and that I could make it through the day. But by noon the cold sweats and desire to use my keyboard as a pillow convinced me it was time to pack it in. Okay, so I'm still sick and it would be best to avoid earning a new nickname around the office. Because I'm pretty sure that if I'm introduced to the new guy as Typhoid Cheri, that's going to be something that he remembers for a while.

On my way home, it was time for the WTTS Time Capsule. Today's year: 1993. And the first song played to transport me back to that milestone year: I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) by The Proclaimers (if I was as cool as Taunie HTML-book Smartypants, maybe I could embed the video right here, but since I'm not, you'll just have to follow the link). Ahh, the memories. The timing! It was Fate. It was Love. 1993, the Summer of 1993, more specifically, is when the Mississippi River introduced me to my future husband. It's just a romantic that way. And then the Proclaimers helped me fall in love with him. They're quite the match-making duo.

It's actually a little bit of a long and twisty story, and I am nothing if not long-winded, so if I try to relate the whole story here, you'll be reading a book. I'll do my best to summarize, I'll even use bullet points to see if that helps! Here goes:

• The Mississippi River floods Des Moines, where I had stayed on campus at Drake University.
• Grandpa kindly rescues me from the city without properly functioning toilets and three feet of water where downtown used to be.
• I visit my best friend in her college town, Charleston, Illinois.
• She introduces me to the guy she has a big ol' crush on.
• He almost backs over me with his car.
• I decide he's kinda cute. (My best friend moved on to other crushes, and yes, there was some other stuff between him trying to kill me and me deciding he's cute - don't look at me like that!)
• He drives me and my best friend 500 miles - JUST LIKE in the song (okay, it was more like 400 miles, but go with me here) - back to Des Moines to rescue my things from the abandoned campus.
• He gets REALLY drunk the night before we leave Des Moines, but still has to drive the entire way back because he is the only one who could drive a stick shift. (That's not all that important to the story, but it's funny, so I like to remind him of it any chance I get.)
• Yada yada yada
• We fall in love.

Okay, I had to cheat and use the yada yada...what can I say, it's a nice little story and I could go on for a while. I can't wait until the kids are old enough so I can tell it to them (of course, I'll have to take a little creative license here and there since we met at a bar and a lot of the funny stories start with "Steve was really drunk and..."). And as angry as I was at him a couple of days ago, I've moved on now. He has been more considerate of my sickliness and, truthfully, I'm whiny when I'm sick. Worse, I don't like to admit that I'm whiny, so I just take it out on him. Poor sap. If he'd known this is what he was in for, he might have tried harder to run me over that first night we met. Or maybe been less of a hottie. With those glasses, was that possible?

Nope, I'm not over it yet.

Last night's rant continued.

This morning, Andrew informed me that his homework - the homework from when he was out sick on Thursday that Steve picked up on Friday afternoon - is not completely done. This, after last night I found the homework laying on the table and he told me it wasn't done. So I told him to finish it - and Steve was involved in this conversation. And then I lapsed into delirium again. Apparently, Steve didn't follow up on the homework situation and Andrew didn't feel the need to actually finish it. This morning, he said he didn't want to finish it. Maybe they've changed things since I was in elementary school, but I don't remember homework being optional. When I told Steve, he said "That's all my fault. I didn't keep on him." I said I agreed.

Needless to say, there were a bunch of unhappy people in my house this morning. Pretty much everyone was fairly miserable with life in general by the time we left. And Andrew was working on his homework when I left him at day care. He gave me a little practicing-for-adolescence attitude when I told him I would be checking with his teacher today to make sure he turned it in. He said it wouldn't be. Because he just enjoys being in trouble both at school and home, I guess.

It should be a fun evening. If I can stay awake that long.