Thank You

I've tried to write a few different things for this last post of my thirty post marathon. Nothing is working. It feels like it should be good. Momentous. I have some big adoption posts I've been writing and rewriting. The kids are always doing things that I could talk about. Matt has washed his thirty-six year old truck like eight times in the last three weeks and that's just kind of hilarious.

Instead I'll say what's on my mind. Thanks. I enjoyed this month. Thanks for not getting completely bored of me and disappearing. Thanks for the encouragement. Thanks for the emails. I love your suggestions. I am totally putting vick's vapor rub on the soles of Nater's feet. I will absolutely sit and memorize every detail of the last time I nurse him. Thank you for commenting so lovingly on our swing victory.

Thanks Gayle and Maura for your hilarious daily thoughts. Thanks Mommy Geekology for reading chapter 1, page 1 and not laughing in my virtual face. Thanks Jessica Bern for being inspired and posting every day with me (no thanks for being way funnier than me though).

It feels good to have finished this without cheating or missing. It feels good to be done. I'll be back very soon, but definitely not tomorrow!

E&E Tally: 21768 words
Blog posts: 30/30

Cheap Bone's Connected to the...

Speaking of Cos.tco, yes we were at the end of that last post there, I bought underwear at the big mecca of all things super-sized the other day. For me, not the kids. It did seem very weird if you want to know the truth, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I have had laundry crisis after laundry crisis lately and I decided it wasn't the result of any laundry slackerdom on my part, I just don't own enough pairs of pan.ties. (That was for Marinka, she hates the word pant.ies. Also for my mother, she is dying right now. "Stacey Kathleen O'Roarke (I made those last two up), are you now discussing your unmentionables on the internet?" Hi mom! Yes, I totally am.)

It was weird to throw the underwear right on into the cart (it'll hold four kids, three pounds of cheese and a fully assembled tool shed...go on, ten points, you know it!) with the life's supply of string cheese and cheap Italian restaurant quantities of pasta sauce (which, hmmmm, maybe the Cost.co people were wondering what I was up to with my underwear). Not that I'm a underwear snob. At one time I was a VS girl, but I downgraded to Tar-shay long ago. Co.stco though. Wow. Next, I'll sew my own underwear from old onsies.

That night, needing some affirmation, I told Matt while I scooped my bowl of chocolate chip mint ice cream (hands down the best flavor, there is no competition). I figured he would be behind me. He loves Cos.tco. If Cos.tco had existed when he proposed to me, I guarantee you I would be sporting a bright, shiny Cost.co special sparkly right now. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Me: I bought underwear at Cost.co today.
Him: (shocked look) The romance is truly dead.

Imagine my surprise.

Me: They were $9.99 for seven pairs.
Him: I love it when you talk all se.xy.

That's what I thought.

(Let's make my mom really squirm. Hey mom, know what the dots are for in se.xy and pant.ies? So some gross internet perv can't put "kids in se.xy cheese pasta pan.ties" into google and get your adorable grandchildren as their number one search result. I know. What is this world coming to? You can't even shop for pant.ies at Cost.co and tell the whole internet about it without putting little anti-search dots in the key words. It's a sad, sad state of affairs.)

(Are you all thinking, sheesh, good thing tomorrow is the final day of November because Stacey is slipping. Oh yeah? Well, where do you buy your underwear? Just kidding, me too.)

E&E Tally: 20620 words (working on it, the baby will not sleep)
Blog posts: 29/30

Flopping Fish Brain

I passed 20,000 words today in the saga of Emily and Eddie, which is nowhere close to 50,000 words, but, considering the distractions I have in my days, is pretty darn good. I'm pleased. It's a whole hell of a lot better than nothing and that is exactly what I had at the start of November. The best part is that I am only just now half way through my outline. The plot is more complicated in the second half, so if I continue, I ought to be able to reach between 50,000 and 70,000 words easily and that is, well, fun. It's fun. We'll leave it at that for now.

There are only two days left of posting every day. I have things to say. Half formed blog posts sift through the holes in my mind. I can't hold them. I am tired and the points and themes and images get clogged in the gears. I'll let this one jump and flip and reverse like my flopping fish out of water brain.

We did a craft. With acrylic paint. In my living room. Right? Matt was all, who are you and where is my severely craft-averse anal retentive wife? Recall, I need therapy to let my children eat popsicles. It gets better. I painted their little hands with honest-to-goodness, doesn't-wash-off-easily paint and we printed projects. They are going to be the kids' presents to aunties and grandparents for the holidays, so I can't get specific and give it all away, but they turned out downright adorable.

In case you fear my blog (or my body) has been taken over by aliens, no, no, it's me. I yelled at Cue so loudly while his little hand was covered in lemon yellow acrylic paint that he sat down on his bottom and did the open mouth, someone-killed-my-puppy cry. That would be me. His mother. I killed his puppy. For revenge, while I had the baby's entire hand painted bright green, he insisted on covering the wet canvasses with his nanny blanket so that they could "go nigh-nigh."

My crafty quota is filled for the century.

ALSO, because I don't have enough misery going on at night, Gee is sleep walking. Actually, he is sleep pee-pee dancing all around the upstairs. He's sort of looking for the toilet, but if one of us doesn't get there fast enough and aim him in the right direction, he'll pee on whatever is handy. He favors the step stool, which is like three freaking inches from the toilet.

Finally, I took all the kids to a large box bookstore because something is wrong with my brain. Reference above, re: non-water based paints. It was packed. The aisles were so narrow. Our little procession involving stroller and kids holding stroller on both sides and Cue "pushing" stroller (oh my god, Cue, there is no where for ME to stand when you "push" the stroller) did not fit. I failed to hit the eject button and bail before we were well and truly into the store and COULD NOT TURN AROUND.

I have new appreciation for Cos.tco and its wide enough for the pallet trolley aisles. Those are my people. The pallet trolley people (thumps chest above heart while flashing cost.co spelled in a bizarre gang-sign-esque configuration of my fingers).

I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.


E&E Tally: 20620 words
Blog posts: 28/30

Small Prayers

Nate's not sleeping. It's horrible and exhausting and frustrating. And temporary. I'll say it three times so I remember and believe: temporary, temporary, temporary. It feels like it will never end, but it has only been four or five nights and I know, from experience, I know, it will end. He is teething and he has a terrible cold. Between the snot and his obsession with gnawing on his fists, he can easily waste the better part of our ten at night to six in the morning sleep routine.

The pattern of this week is not an easy one. I finally get him to sleep in his rigged car seat/bassinet contraption (patent pending) around eleven and at one thirty he is gnawing and fussing and making my heart pound by choking briefly on snot and just generally keeping me awake with his annoyingness. We nurse until two thirty, he sleeps until three thirty; we nurse until four thirty, he sleeps until five thirty; we nurse until six or so and he starts smiling and giggling and playing with my nipple.

I kick his snoring father and blurt out something borderline abusive and frightening and incoherent like 'take baby, might kill it, am dying.' Matt gets up and takes him away, blissfully far away, out of my earshot away, and lets him coo and smile and drip snot while he drinks a pot of coffee and reads the paper. I get a precious forty-five minutes to an hour of sleep before the rest of our merry gang wake exuberant for their day.

Most mornings, Nate falls back into a dead to the world, nothing will wake me, mouth open sleep between seven and eight and I can put him pretty much anywhere for the next three hours. I have had to wake him up to go to preschool.

I mean seriously, fates? Up yours. My fourth baby likes a bit of a lie in? My fourth baby. You find that funny, don't you? I might hate you just a little bit.

When he wakes naturally, he wakes happy and then comes my very, very favorite part of my day, week, possibly life right now. He coos, or sits contentedly in his old, recalled car seat set in his bassinet and looks around. He hardly ever cries. He just waits until I eventually get to a natural pause in breakfast, or dressing or another routine morning chore and scamper up the stairs to check on him.

When I see him awake through the door, I pause because the moment when he spots me fills my heart up to the very tippy top and overflows it all over the floor. The joy runs down the stairs and splatters all over my other kids. I step into the room and he sees me and he sparkles with happiness. His whole body wags. His smile cracks his cheeks and dribbles sprinkly bits of loveliness down his chin. (Or, yes, okay, that might be drool and snot, but it looks like sprinkly bits of happiness to me and I am temporarily sleep deprived.)

It is the most affirming thing. It causes such an answering pull in my heart. My own smile cracks my cheeks, my mood soars. It's almost enough to make me forgive him for the teeth and the snot and the whole 'I'd like to play at 6:00 a.m. routine.' Almost.

Please, please, gods of sleep and quiet and sanity. The teeth: let them break the surface. The snot: make it be gone. Grant me five consecutive hours. In the meantime, I can not be held responsible for my SB chai consumption.

I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.


E&E Tally: 19690 words (breath of life)
Blog posts: 27/30

To Life

When we were little kids, my Dad called the goop inside of a pumpkin the "pumpkin poop." Is that common? No? My family was weird? Shocking. At Halloween, he'd get all gleeful and tell us it was "time to scoop the pumpkin poop."

Matt tells our kids it's spaghetti. Because he had a normal, decent childhood. My sisters and I never had a chance. We think it's hilarious to sing the most annoying songs in the history of the universe on long car rides or all day hikes so that they get stuck in other people's heads. We laughed until we cried when Dee recounted a NPR special about sexing turkeys at one memorable Thanksgiving feast.

Because my sisters and I inherited my Dad's bizarre sense of humor, my youngest sister sent me an email the other day entitled, "It's true." I knew it was going to be good...and it was.


Bestill my heart. Someone out there in the world shares my family's penchant for pumpkin potty humor.

I wish I could say that we are all together today, three glasses in and laughing our asses off, but they have gathered in the Lonestar state and Matt and I have decided that a kajillion children (or four) and holiday travel do not mix. So, we are here laughing our asses off with friends who are family, raising our third glasses (or fourth, who's counting? yes, Cue, you may have a sixth cupcake) to loved ones, near and far, to friends that get us through our days, to cupcakes, to pumpkin poop pie.

L'chaim, blog people, to life!

(Oh, you are totally going to have that song stuck in your head for days. I know you are reading this in Texas. I win.)

(What, what's that? It's sixty there? Low blow. You win. Love you.)

I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.


E&E Tally: 17735 words (finishing weak, so true to form)
Blog posts: 26/30

Grateful

Once, I sat on the roof of an absolutely disgusting six-story hostel in the middle of the pocked, crumbling maze of antiquity that is Istanbul and looked out over the rooftops and minaret spires and lights. Beside me in a circle of students and travelers and wanderers, sat a Danish boy named Soren. That "O" has a weird line through it and it makes a vowel sound that my brain does not recognize. He laughed at me, drunk and giddy on beer and height, as he tried to shape my unwilling tongue around the sound. Around us, that filthy ancient city twinkled and sprawled and managed to look both exotic and beautiful.

Once, I leaped, brave beyond reason from adventure and youth, from stone steps carved into a cliff on the side of the island of Capri into the churning, crashing waves of the Mediterranean Sea and swam fighting the push-me-pull-me swells through a narrow cave entrance. There, I tread water with four or five other ignorantly-brave kids and watched the microorganisms that live in that dark space sparkle and blaze in neon and diamond, jewels beyond counting.

Once, I galloped on an agile, sure-footed stallion named Kirhan, across the rock-strewn high plains of the Atlas Mountains. I laughed, laughed out loud in blind joy, at the rocks and my bare head and the risk and the world and danger and fate, at falls and concussions and medical evacuations by helicopter. I laughed and I gambled without counting the costs of loss and I won.

Once, I clung to the back of a rusty truck, on a mountain of rice, baked and windswept and thirsty, and listened to Haitian teenagers scream songs to Jesus all the way up a dry, littered riverbed into the heart of starvation's furious maw. My heart pounded and my dry throat went drier at the sight of hundreds of people sitting in two painfully long lines. I moved down the left hand line at a speed that left no room for breathing, shoving bag after bag of rice from a wagon, into the hands of another volunteer, who threw it into hungry lap after hungry lap. A whistle blew when the rice ran out and we dropped everything, sacks, makeshift wagons, dignity and pride and ran back to the already moving truck, where hands waited to pull us up, out of harm's way, away from the tide of frustration that occasionally became a riot.

Once, I slipped, in a bikini and a snorkel, into the still, green waters of Palau's lagoon and watched, in frightened delight as two silver and steel dolphins swam quiet circles around me. Dive down, their keeper called, they like to play. I sank down towards the warped mirage of the bottom sand and the larger one, the male, sank with me, face to face. He nodded and smiled and clicked his encouragement and I reached out in wonder, thinking I am the lesser creature here. We surfaced together, him beside me, and the keeper called, grab him, he's offering, but I only vaguely heard because the female was on my other side, her soft-but-steel gray muscles against my body, and they took me for a short ride together. A gift.

Once, I quivered, doubled over with misery and terror, on a train stopped in no-man's-land between Romania and Bulgaria. My passport was gone, stolen by the friendly girls who had shared our compartment, and I understood, briefly, facing the machine-gun-armed teenagers on the station platform, what it meant not to be a citizen of a powerful, first-world country in this enormous world.

More than once, I have wept at sights too awe-inspiring for words, experiences too intense to explain.

I would trade it all, every moment, every memory, every single bit of it for my right now. My family. Matt. My children. My friends, near and far. That's how grateful I am. I am equally grateful that I don't have to bargain.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all. May your cup overflow.

If you aren't too busy cooking, tell me a memory you treasure from your time before children.

E&E Tally: 17735 words (holidays don't count, right?)
Blog posts: 25/30

Brothers and Sisters

I've wanted to do this for a while. This is the perfect time, in the midst of all the holiday preparations and craziness.

Gee at five months.


Cue at five months.


Nate at five months.


Think they're related? (Oh and yes, I absolutely did have hundreds of pictures to choose from in a folder entitled "Gee - Five Months," followed by a pretty good selection entitled "December 2007," followed by pulling the most recent pictures off of my camera, realizing there was only one of Nater and none of him smiling and then using a picture my friend emailed me last week. No wonder youngest children have issues.)

Also, my kids have crazy hair.

Not to leave anyone out, here's my beautiful daughter at five months. We received monthly updates from the orphanage with one or two pictures. At the time, it felt like so little and now I'm beyond grateful to have them.


I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.


E&E Tally: 17735 words
Blog posts: 24/30

Story Time

Someone asked in a comment many posts ago if we read to our kids and how we managed the crowd control. I read them books if they bring them to me throughout the day, but we have a formal story time as a part of our bedtime routine. They each get to pick one book when they are completely ready for bed and we all sit and read them together in our queen-sized bed.

It's funny. A long, long time ago, when I was pregnant with Gee and watching my two other children grow in an orphanage a thousand miles away, I had a fantasy I would replay often in my head. It was an idyllic picture of early mornings with a large family. I would wake up and hug each child drowsily as they crawled into our huge bed with spotless white sheets. We would snuggle, giggle, say good morning and then fall back to sleep for an hour or so, all curled together like puppies, until sunlight filled the room and the clock reached a decent time.

I think in my dream world, we all smelled vaguely of coconut and lemons and sunshine.

We definitely didn't smell like pee. In my real world, my kids reek of pee in the early morning. The night-trained one misses and the other two are wearing diapers so huge and swollen that I actually wrinkle my nose in disgust when I catch a whiff. They could never sneak in and wake me up by snuggling because I would smell them when they crossed the thresh hold of our room and about that time I would call, firmly, "the sun is not on, the clock does not say seven, back to your bed."

Truth is, I hate kids in our bed in the morning, in the night, pretty much at any time. I tolerate them as babies and then I want them to get out and stay out.

Further fantasy fallacies abound.

Our sheets are not clean. Even if they were when the night started, by the morning, the baby has puked on them.

There is nothing snuggly about small children sleeping. They are all knees and elbows and grabby little hands.

There is nothing decent about the time that our gaggle awakes for the day, nor would they be inclined to go back to sleep for an hour or so unless I hit them over the head with something heavy. Don't think I haven't considered it.

The window is more likely to let bleak, gray, winter light leak into our freezing cold room than buttery sunshine.

Some dreams never have a chance to get off of the ground. But, sometimes you can find their solid, golden core, if you are willing to allow the wrapping to look a little less perfect than you imagined.




I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.


E&E Tally: 16636 words
Blog posts: 23/30

The Final Tally

At midnight last night, clicker showed a final "mommy" count of 514 mommies. A little pee break around nine upped the final tally by seven. It involved Gee being unable to find the toilet in his sleep and Cue waking up as I tried to get Gee back into bed.

And the winner is: MKMom also known as Nissa. She guessed 529 mommies, just 15 off of the true total. Fifteen points, Nissa, love you girl.

A brilliant second place finish to Anna See of An Inch of Gray. Her guess of 463 mommies fell 51 mommies short of the correct number. Nicely done, ten points.

Shell holds onto third place with 582. She was 68 mommies away from the clicker total. Five points for Shell of Things I Can't Say.

An honorable mention goes to my mother, who calls herself itamot mom (is there any mommy out there mom). Cute right? She guessed 585, 71 mommies over. She knows her grandchildren well. Heather of Domestic Extraordinaire and Annje from Annje Unabashed were also in the running with guesses of 583 and 589, respectively.

You are all so much fun. Thanks for playing with me. Thanks for laughing at life with me. Thanks - truly thank you so much - for reading, for your emails, for your comments and your encouragement this month. I would have thrown in the towel ten days ago if you all weren't so good to me.

I'll post the points tomorrow. I'm so full I can't think. Matt and I had a date night tonight and I ate more than my fair share of the Great Wall of China dessert at PF Changs. It's a piece of chocolate cake as big as your head. No joke. The frosting is coated in mini-chocolate chips. And now I must go to bed. Happy.

I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.


E&E Tally: 15613 words
Blog posts: 22/30

Clicker Counter

A few weeks ago, during a particularly gruesome quadruple screaming jag, it occurred to me that it would amuse me to know how many times a day I hear the word "mommy."

I told some friends about it on a walk and we all agreed that you could never keep track for an entire day. You'd have to hire someone just to count. Unless... Unless! Unless, you had one of those awesome little things that official people hold at airports and concerts and sporting events? The little clicky things. You know how they click it your direction as you walk in the door and you get all kinds of "oh yeah, well click, click to you too," and you make that little hand clicking motion at them back. No? Maybe that's just me?

They are called Hand Tally Counters and they can be had on Am.azon for a mere five hundred pennies. That's right, an entire day of fun for under five dollars. And don't think I didn't get the super saver shipping because I did! Of course I did! And I superly saved! By buying $20.00 more in stuff I didn't need! To avoid paying $8.99 in shipping for a $5.00 item. Amazon wins again. Does it matter? They've already conspired with Goo.gle to take over the world.

So yesterday, my little clicker friend came and today, we count.


I know, he's kind of cute, right?

Wanna play with me? How many mommies do you think I count today? Before you guess, let me give you an example of Cue asking me a question.

Mommymommymommymommymommy - yes Cue - mommymommymommymommy - Yes! Cue! What? - mommymommymommymommymommy mommy? yes, what is it? mommy, where mine nanny mommy?

So that's 17 mommies for one question. Times a hundred kajillion billion questions a day. I know. Clicker only goes to 9999 so we may have to reset. But, I'll keep a running tally here.

1:37 a.m. Gee has to pee - Clicker says: 3 mommies

6:45 a.m.-8:15 a.m. Wake up, dressed, breakfast - Clicker says: 53 mommies (cumulative total)

They are now watching Thomas the bizarre little Tank Engine. Silence.

Extrapolate at will. I'll check back in in a couple of hours. You have to have made your guess by then to play. Let's say fifteen points to the closest guess, ten to second place and five points to third place. Counting ends at 11:59 p.m. tonight, but they go to bed about 6:45.

Oops, 8:45 a.m. diaper change and resulting whine-fest (ongoing) - Clicker says 67

Make that 79. Yeah, that's right, 12 times before I could change the time and hit publish.

Update #1: 1:07 p.m. You are all awesome. Okay play is closed, last comment in the game is #13, my lovely mother. We just returned from a solo Costco run (Where I refused to defer on a prime parking spot to a little old lady, but I waited forever and also FOUR small children by myself. I'm going to hell.), lunch with Daddy at work, and we are now in quiet/nap time until three. Clicker says 303 (Nate shrieked for the last fifteen minutes and I'm pretty sure if he could say mommy, he would have screamed it 1500 times, or possibly, I am starving, milk bitch.)

Update #2: 5:10 p.m. Actually, they kind of kicked butt this afternoon. We had a long quiet time. Clicker says 349. Impressive, but the dinner hour approacheth.

Update #3: 7:19 p.m. They went to bed at 6:45 p.m. Clicker says 507! I have to say, I thought it would be a hundred or so higher than that. I didn't expect to see Matt at lunch today, there were about 100 "Daddies" that threw the total. Cue also took a killer nap. Not that I'm complaining about that in any way.

That's still 42.2 mommies for each hour of awake time. One mommy every eighty-four seconds. For twelve hours. 720 minutes. (Yes, Matt totally had to help me with that math. I have lost all skills). That, my amazing fellow moms and dads, is why our days are long, but our years are short.

MKMom is currently in the lead with her guess of 529. Anna See is second with 463 and Shell is third with 582. I won't call the winners until midnight. You never know when a potty emergency might occur.

E&E Tally: 14772 words
Blog posts: 21/30

Red Umbrella

Matt and I toured Pompeii trailing behind this neat, crisp Italian woman with a red umbrella. It was both the best of days and the worst of days, depending on whether we looked at the situation with humor or horror in any given moment. We'd signed up for the tour off of our cruise ship and subjected ourselves to the care of Red Umbrella Woman on purpose. There was no one to blame.

We hung way back behind the last stragglers in the group, plaguing Red Umbrella Woman with our tardiness all day, and alternated between amusing ourselves by mocking her and grumbling in irritation. (We also stopped to gape in UTTER horror as a fifty-ish adult man in full possession of all of his facilities, pried a piece of rock from a 2000 year old building and dropped it into his camera case as a souvenir. We actually looked around to see if we were a part of some kind of horrible reality show that parodies obnoxious tourist behavior to see how fellow travelers will respond. But no, the guy was just an asswipe.) She kept up a never-ending chirpy stream of information and instructions while always moving us onward, our fearless leader, red umbrella open and held high above her head.

I had an uncomfortable revelation, about four o'clock today, after a long, busy day of never ending instructions and information. Put on your pants, don't throw your cup, put on your shoes, you should really still be wearing your pants, go and use the bathroom, that is a peanut bar, it's your snack, stay with me, keep up, don't straggle, I need good listening, when did I tell you we could do that, the pants, truly, I don't jest, that is a present, it's not for you, yes you can give it to him, there will be cake, please hold the stroller, stay with me, cars!, don't straggle, I said there would be cake, not right this minute, you must be wearing pants to eat cake, don't touch that, don't touch that either, it's bird seed, birds eat it, No!, Wait!, birds eat it, go upstairs and take off your pants, pajamas on, where are you, teeth, pick books, get in bed, iloveyouohmygodgoodnight.

All I lacked was the red umbrella. And if they would follow it, I would carry one.

(Come back earlier than usual tomorrow morning. I have a new toy and it's going to be a fun day around here. For me, at least.)

I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.


E&E Tally: 13747 words
Blog posts: 20/30

FYI

Matt would like you to know that I left Ess' water bottle at school on Tuesday and it had to be tracked down today. This shit always bites me in the ass. He also informed me five minutes ago, as he headed to bed at 11:35 p.m. and I said I would be up once I finished my blog post, that there are many, many things that he would prefer to see me do every day for a month. Blog posting does not make his top, oh, I don't know, five thousand.

A few national months that I can think of that might interest him more:

NaPoWaMo (national pot washing month)
NaCloFoMo (national clothes folding month)
NaPhoAnMo (national, Stacey has to actually turn on her cell phone, keep it in her near vicinity and ANSWER it when it sings at her month because he had to leave work today after the preschool tried to reach me multiple times to pick up Gee after a little accident that left him without appropriate school attire. Oops.)
NaParCarGarMo (national park the car in the garage month) This one should probably have the addendum W/OHiWa (without hitting the wall)
NaCoDiMo (national cook dinner month)
NaPuFreBaCriMo (national put the freaking baby in his crib to sleep month)
NaNoToTherMoMO (national no touching the thermostat month) aka:
NaFreToDeMo (national freeze to death month)
NaNoBloMo (national no blogging month)
NaQuiWoMo (national quit worrying month)

I could do this all night. In fairness, this was his idea. He retorted back over his shoulder as he trudged up the stairs, "when is NaSeHaMo?" I'll leave it up to your imaginations.

I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.

E&E Tally: 12642 words (Damn.)
Blog posts: 19/30

Mother's Milk

I breastfed Garrett exclusively for a year. Determinedly. Doggedly. From my mom-of-four perspective, a bit over-the-top obsessively. It's not that I didn't enjoy it. I did. Breastfeeding is easy for me. Once the little blisters on my nipples harden into callouses (I do know how much you love these little nuggets of TMI), and I can stop Bradley method breathing through the latch on, it's all good. Simple. Healthy. Snuggly and fun.

I know it's not always that easy. I've seen friends struggle with low supply and difficult latch. I'll just tell you straight up, I have National Geographic boobs. Small, with enormously long nipples. My nursing nipples can nip through four layers. Nothing stops them. On the bright side, only a baby absolutely determined not to nurse could miss those suckers (aha). They look exactly like the nipples that come with Gerber bottles. I kid you not. I would take a picture, but you know, I don't need that kind of traffic.

With Garrett, I fell hook line and sinker, weighted down by all my first-time mom insecurities, for the whole, formula is evil it shall not pass thy baby's lips line. I struggled a little. Not with nursing so much as with the time and space restrictions. I couldn't go anywhere without the baby. I hated pumping. (I still hate pumping, I'd rather tote the baby everywhere.) I worked for six months and I would skip lunch to dash to his nanny's house and feed him so that I didn't have pump.

I don't want to paint nursing as a negative experience. I adore it. I love the ease of it. The deep, physical attachment with my child. I love the portability, the lack of mess, the lack of need for sterile bottles or accouterments of any sort. I love the noises they make, the little sucking sounds, the nuzzling and routing. I love a milk-drunk baby, out cold in my arms with the little-old-man-contented face on. As they grow, I love the smiles. I love the way an alert, four-month-old baby pauses to survey the room and then snuggles back in, smiling up at me, his little tongue already curled into a tube, ready for his next sip.

My favorite and sharpest memories of Garrett's infancy are lying beside him, pressed together like lovers for his early morning nurse. I can hear him gulping milk greedily after six hours of sleep. I can almost feel the pleasurable sensation of the release in pressure, the lessening of the ache as he drinks. I remember the equatorial sun, never failing to make its appearance over the cliff line outside our bedroom window at six in the morning. It hit the foot of the bed and then the light sheet and then my legs and finally his face where I stroked it gently as he drank. That might be the most content I have ever been, with no where else to be, nothing more important to do, no other children I was ignoring, Matt happy to watch us and doze in the heat.

It's restrictive, though. The lack of freedom wore on me. At exactly a year, I poured cow's milk into a sippy cup and said, here you go kid, that whole boobie thing, it's over. I didn't mourn it. We were heading to Haiti and our family was about to grow. I felt satisfied that we'd both gotten what we needed from the experience.

I nursed Quinn until he was eight-months-old not even close to exclusively. I still hated pumping and I couldn't imagine, with two other kids under two, not having some freedom to escape, some time that was my own. We bought formula. It felt almost laughable that I'd refused to buy any before then. I nursed him primarily, but when it was inconvenient or I needed a break or I had plans I could just...leave. It was good. I was a more confident mother and with confidence came the ability to think for myself. There are as many ways to feed a baby as to skin that poor proverbial cat and if the baby was happy, well hallelujah, pour me another glass of wine because he should sleep for five hours.

I didn't mourn the end with Quinn either. I went to my sister's bachlorette party. I tried to pump, it didn't really work, he didn't really care...and done. We wanted another baby and so I wasn't all that sad about jump starting my ovulation.

I thought I would want to hold onto this phase with Nate until the bitter end. He takes formula, don't misunderstand me, I'll never unring that little bell of occasional freedom, but I thought I'd want to nurse him for as long as he wanted to nurse. Until we looked into each other's eyes and both thought, wow weird, alrighty then.

I don't. I both adore it and I'm tired of it. I sit here typing this with one hand and I cherish his solid weight in my other arm, his little llama lips on my nipple, at the same time I think in the back of my mind, how much longer? Is six months long enough? He takes a bottle, he had formula at three-weeks-old when I shoved him at my long-suffering mother and jetted to Chicago for the weekend. I have a girls' weekend planned in two months and I don't want to pump. I don't own a pump. I've been playing with the idea of weaning him before then. He'll have started solids. He'll be able to hold a bottle in his chubby little hand. It would work.

Yes, my motives are purely selfish. Have I mentioned that I hate pumping? My reservations are purely selfish as well. Will I regret it? Will I look back and wish I had nursed him as long as possible? That I'd held onto this fleeting baby phase as long as possible? Or am I, four kids and five years later, just a realist? Nursing will end. We will reach the end of his babyhood and step off into toddlerdom whether I watch it slip through my tightly clasped hands or I give it a pat on the bottom on my way to catch a plane.

I don't have a neat wrap up for this one. I don't have a neat wrap up for five years straight of pregnancy and babies and nursing either. I have so much. I am not complaining. I guess, this time around, whether I choose it or not, whether I'm ready or not, whether I'm a little tired of it or not, I do have to mourn.

E&E Tally: 12642 words
Blog posts: 18/30

In Defense of Honest Discourse

I have a pet peeve. Okay. Fine. You got me. I have a kijillion pet peeves, but this one is pervasive. It bugs me on twitter, it bugs me in blogworld, it bugs me at preschool, it bugs me in casual discussion and in formal settings. It bugs me on Fox News and on CNN and on MSNBC. It bugs me on a train and in the rain and with a fox and in a freaking box.

Something becomes controversial, something goes down, something needs to be decided. It could small, like whether to mop or swiffer the preschool floor (no, I will never let that one die, it was too awesome). It could be huge like how to address health care issues in a nation of 360 million. It could seem petty like whether someone lied on their blog or it could be completely legitimate.

A discussion commences, it moves forward, sometimes it rages. Maybe it gets heated. Maybe it's gone on for an hour, for months, for an entire election cycle. Eventually, it never fails, large or small, some person starts using this tactic to shut others down. On twitter, it's the "it's over" syndrome. "Move on." "Drop the drama." At the board meeting, it might manifest as impatience. At the national level, maybe the dissenters are called out for "standing in the way of progress," or "failing to support our President," or worst of all in my opinion, racism. Maybe it's just the brilliant political quip "you lost, let it go." Yes, that was sarcasm.

There are hundreds of ways to say it, high-brow or blunt, but the core sentiment is this. We, "the in-the-right, cool people" are so OVER this and you the "still discussing a dead issue not cool people" are SO YESTERDAY. I believe its simplest expression may be the exaggerated eye roll. Which I've perfected, so I get it. Really. I even encourage it, just at home, not during the debate. That whole thing your mother taught you about not talking behind people's backs? It's kind of wrong. When mocking people for their passionate opinions, do it behind their backs. I don't mind being mocked, I just don't want to know about it.

I am not defending hate speech at any layer of our lives. I'm not saying we have to let nastiness continue on twitter, or on the House floor or at a community meeting.

What I am saying is this: It is belittling and counterproductive to tell people when something is "TOTALLY O-VAH." Because, to them, it's not. Letting discussion play through to its conclusion is so healthy. If it's done right, it often allows participants to let something go, to process, digest and understand the other point of view. It always allows a person to listen better to the opposition if they feel heard themselves. Shutting people down might feel like a win, but if you've left them seething and resentful, it's a loss in the end.

It particularly bothers me when there is a power differential. I see this on twitter all the time. Something will get heated and suddenly a blogger with lots of followers will start in on the embarrassment tactics. "This is over. Move on." I'm not saying we can't call someone out for getting personal. I do think that there's a better way. How about "that's really personal, can you keep it respectful" or "let's stick to the issue, not the person."

Because discourse leads to compromise and resolution. What if the founders, instead of hashing out the beautiful compromise we call the Constitution, had yelled IT'S OVER ASSHOLE and gone home? What if Ben had been all "I'm done discussing State's rights, bitches, we need FEDERALISM" and George had gotten in his face and said, "SMALL STATES RULE, WIGHEAD," and the Adams brothers had rolled their eyes and let fly with the "Let's just MOVE ON already, do we really need TWO houses in this stupid government. Blah, blah checks and balances, you people never shut up."

No, I am not comparing the constitutional convention debates to a twitter drama flare up or a preschool kerfluffle. Much. I am comparing them to the current national debates about the economy and health care.

I've been in discussions that went on for hours, but ended with unanimous votes. I've been in negotiations that tanked because people refused to stick it out. To hear others. I think great things can be achieved when we let respectful discourse and negotiations continue as long as necessary. Whether it's peace in the middle east or peace in a marriage or how much to regulate the insurance industry or what's a healthy snack to serve to four-year-olds or how much disclosure is necessary when you blog about products, whatever the issue, it can benefit from honest, respectful discussion.

And if you get to that point we all reach, where you are just done and you want your fleece pajamas and a glass of wine already, it's easy to achieve. Walk away from the debate, whether that means standing up and saying good night or closing your computer. Sticking around to tell other people that they are done feels like bullying.

That's what I think. (Blush, clears throat, crickets chirp.) But, no one really cares what I think anyway because you are all SO O-VAH me.

I can't exactly get all "this is what I think about debate" on you and "discourse is good" and then close comments can I? Gentle. This is the kind of post that usually stays in my head or in the drafts except that posting every day is hellishly hard. What do you think? Or tell me one of your pet peeves. Unless it's "women who complain about what other people tweet on twitter." In that case, please, mock me behind my back in an IM conversation so that I can pretend that everyone likes me.

E&E Tally: 11377 words
Blog posts: 17/30

Is This Cheating?

I think this might be cheating.

That was all I was going to type because it's almost 10:30 at night and I just finished writing my extra words for today, trying to make up for yesterday. And then, at 10:26 p.m. Nater rolled over for the first time. From his tummy to his back. I wasn't really watching. He was doing some tummy time on his yellow, little chick blanket. He rolled half way onto his side with kind of a clunk. I heard Matt say, "Your big noggin is in the way. It's like a kickstand." I looked up in time to see Matt adjust the baby's head a little and over he went.

In celebration, Matt put Nate's little butt in his hands and raised him up and down a few times in imitation of the world's smallest demon drop ride. Nate loves that. He's still giggling.

A million tiny moments add up to a life. So many of mine are priceless in their own quiet way. Have I mentioned lately how lucky I am?

10:39 p.m. Goodnight.
I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.


E&E Tally: 10011 words (Did you know that the average romance novel has between 50,000 and 100,000 words. That's a lot of words.)
Blog posts: 16/30

Private Gee

If you take your little Opie lookalike

to a barber across from a large military installation, should you really be surprised when he emerges looking like a fresh recruit?



No. You should not. You should just put your tail between your legs and remember that just because everything is cheaper at Wal.Mart, it does not mean that you should do everything there.

He looks so grown up. It's killing me. I am dying here. Matt and I are going on a date so that I can drown my sorrows in cheap Thai food.

He's still adorable.


Him too. Yep. That's the same chair. He likes it, okay? He knows how to bounce by pumping both legs.


I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.


E&E Tally: 8414 words (Boo. I'm going to try to change this when we get home.)
Blog posts: 15/30

Delightful

I babble about attachment here all the time. I always wonder if it makes sense to anyone that hasn't been through adoption/adoption therapy or struggled to attach to a child. Most of you are parents, so I will guess you understand attachment on an intuitive level. You certainly have seen your child light up when he sees you and fall apart when you leave the room at some stage in their development. The physical manifestations of secure attachment, you know.

I have read so much about attachment and bonding, attachment theory and attachment therapy over the last four years. I know a lot, relatively speaking, about unattached children and forming attachments with children after infancy. In my mind, attachment is the formal word for the building blocks of love, trust and security that we give our children by responding to their needs.

I had a chance to hear Dr. Kent Hoffman speak on attachment theory as a part of a training course for a volunteer program. Dr Hoffman is an attachment specialist who practices right here in our town. He runs a program designed to help at risk mothers form secure bonds with their babies.

Dr. Hoffman approached attachment from a different angle. He spoke about the types of attachment infants form with their biological (or original) caregivers, in order to make us understand that the young women he sees grew up in homes with a very poor attachment model. They have formed mostly disorganized attachments, which result, not necessarily from abusive caregivers, but from chaotic caregivers. Alcoholics and drug addicts often form disorganized attachments with their children. They aren't there fully, they don't meet all of their babies needs. They don't interact with their babies the way the baby craves. A severely depressed mom can form a disorganized attachment with her child.

A baby that forms a secure attachment to his parents learns, usually in the first six months of life, to view the world a certain way. He learns that life is fundamentally good and people are trustworthy. He expects his needs to be met. He learns that good things usually follow bad things and he can weather the bad. He learns that the world is inherently orderly and he can rely on people to help him.

A baby that forms a disorganized attachment lives in a different, far scarier world. She considers life fundamentally bad and uncertain and finds people untrustworthy. She expects that her needs will not be met. She learns that bad things keep happening for no reason in a random and chaotic pattern. She learns that the world is inherently chaotic and that she can not rely on anyone to help her. She may even learn that she can not rely on herself. She may learn that she can rely on only herself.

As teens and even adults, these people can't think ahead. They have no concept of a future that is different from their difficult today. They don't expect others to do what they say they will do. They expect relationships to be unpredictable and temporary and they expect to be hurt by the people that they need.

You see the difference? You see where in our society the second type of people often end up? Why some people can't seem to hold a job? Follow through? Take help that is offered? Even when it seems so obvious that it is right there.

Dr. Hoffman said a few things that will stick with me. I mean really stick with me. I wake up each morning thinking about how to incorporate these lessons into my life. I take a deep breath and remind myself to keep these things in mind for this new day.

Each person walks around with more pain than you imagine. I don't take this to mean that we are all doomed to suffering or eternal unhappiness, but just the fact of it rings true. We all have our sorrows. We all have our griefs. We are all struggling in some respect, somehow. We might be happy, functional, balanced. We might be depressed. We might be right where we need to be. We still all have our hidden pain.

We all want to be held by someone bigger, stronger, wiser and kinder than we are. It's right again, don't you think? I think we are all searching for this to a certain extent. Dr. Hoffman called this need the need to be in a held environment. I think you could say it's the universal human need to be safe, to feel secure and to feel loved. It's the "father-figure" many women yearn for, the "mentor" we all seek, the ultimate definition of god. As it pertains to raising children, I am quite certain I have "bigger and stronger" down. I need to keep working on the "wiser and kinder" aspect of the thing.

Every person yearns to be delighted in. This is my favorite. Every person yearns to be delighted in. I don't have "god" moments and "aha" moments are so Oprah-esque, but I got a chill. I knew I needed to hear this and live it. Every person yearns to be delighted in.

It's true for me. I instantly recognized exactly why I love this blog. People share my delight here, they delight in me and with me and I can reciprocate, visiting their thoughts delighting in and with them. It's also why we love certain friends. Don't you have a friend like that, a friend who delights in you? I'm lucky enough to have a few. Think about how it makes you feel. I've also had that friend who only wants to be delighted in and has little to offer me in return. Not so fun.

Mothers naturally delight in their babies in the first months of life. Look at this picture of me and Nate. (Artistic credit to the amazing Nick Follger.)

Can you see it? Can you see the basis of self-esteem? The idea that he is worth something? The security that comes from being in a held environment? We all give this to our babies, usually it comes by instinct, so naturally that you don't even notice.

The thing is, it's easy with a baby. Nature sets it up to be easy. The tininess. The helplessness. The smiles. The coos. The urge to protect and nurture. It gets harder in my limited experience. I have days when I absolutely know that I have not delighted in my four-year-olds. They are so far from delightful I might venture to use the word demonic. They are trying, whiny and disrespectful. I am exhausted, angry, exasperated. Some days, it's hard to find any delight.

They still need it. I know it because it clicked inside of me that on the days that go the worst, this is what is missing and I am the catalyst for change. The knowledge clicked that someone showing delight in me can turn my day, my mood, my path around.

I'm trying to let my children see me delight in them, to focus on showing them deliberately how they delight me. Oh, hell yes, I know, I still have dark days. I forget. I get off track. I'm still able to view the entire world and everything in it through my sarcastic lens. But somehow this idea of delighting in others has stuck in my brain, jived with all my hard won attachment knowledge, settled in to stay. I'm glad. I think, to go all biblical on you, that delight begats delight. It's one of those things that pays you back in orders of magnitude over what you give and pays others forward in a boundless stream of energy.

How delightful is that?

Help me? How do you show your children, especially your older out of infancy and toddler stage children that you find them delightful? How do you remember to find them delightful, you know, on the hard days?

(In case anyone was to mistake me for an expert on pretty much anything: I'm not. This whole post is my brain's interpretation of my adoption attachment research melded with my thoughts on the presentation of a true expert. Also, if you are thinking, wow, Stacey, that's weird. I don't have any issues showing my kids how delightful they are. They are always delightful and my delight beams from my eye sockets and my ears and other orifices of my body. Fabulous. I'm happy for you. I mean that. Just lie to me in the comments, Pollyanna, because the truth will make me all insecure and depressed and I am trying really hard for delighted here ;-)

E&E Tally: 8414 words
Blog posts: 14/30

First Snow

Some things never fail to feel magical. White twinkle lights. A lighted birthday cake in a dark room. That first glimpse of the tree on Christmas morning. A bonfire on the beach. Colored leaves swirling in the air. Your first underwater glimpse of a coral reef. When the groom sees the bride.

The first snow of the season is on this list.



For five glorious minutes or so every year, I see the magic. I'm able to push aside the damp, heavy blanket of experience. To forget that it means months of freezing cold. Slush. Frozen hands scraping the car. Day after day when we can't go out because the van lacks four-wheel drive. Our permanently chilly house. That feeling each morning that I have to force myself, physically force myself, to crawl out and hit the icy floor and pull on clothes so that I don't stay in my long underwear with a hat pulled down over my ears all winter. The effort it takes not to spend day after dark weary day alone in the house grousing and sniping at each other. Play dates must be carefully arranged, no more skipping to the park and running idly into friends.

The brief northern summer has spoiled us, played with our emotions, kissed us on the cheek and departed. There's nothing now until May but longing.

I detest winter. I am always cold. My blood grows sluggish in protest. My skin turns to unpleasant scales. My nose runs. When the big, wet crystal flakes started to fall this afternoon, I focused on the squeals of joy. I let them loose to wonder and stomp and catch it on their tongues. I even grabbed my camera and braved the wind, let them laugh at the white dust in my hair.

During quiet time, while Cue napped, I reverted to my Grinch-ish nature and glared out the window in disgust as it started to stick. He woke at 3:30. The light had already changed, short day fading into black night. He's too big, but I carried him down the stairs anyway. It's the only time of day that he is cuddly and pliant in my arms. He gasped on the landing, twisted to see over my shoulder out of the big double window. I felt the bitter draft pouring through the single pane. He saw the magic of the uninterrupted new snow.

"No, momma," he pointed, "no outside." I stopped to look with him, to hold him while he marveled, his runny red nosed pressed to the freezing glass. "No on da trees. No on da car. No on mine ball! Momma! No on mine ball!!"

"Yes, I see it, baby, I see the snow."

"No on mine ball!!"

"Uh huh. Snow on your ball. It's everywhere, isn't it?"

"No eveywhere." His excitement made him hard to hold. He lurched to the side. He wanted down to run to the door, to find his sister and brother, to share the wonder. I pointed out mundane things transformed for long minutes more, holding him close, wanting to see the magic through his eyes a little longer.



I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.


E&E Tally: 7404 words (This is so hard.)
Blog posts: 13/30 (My library books are overdue.)

Natty Pants

It was bound to happen at some point and today is the day. I got behind. Actually, I stayed up way too late drinking wine and eating soup (that I made) and chatting with friends who keep me sane and keep me going and make this time one of the happiest times of my life.

I didn't write a blog post and I didn't write my 500 words. So, here it is. The blog of shame. I give you: the Natty Pants. A few people asked. I believe they meant on the cutey cute baby and I would love to oblige, but the cutey cute baby went to bed an hour ago. I only have 48 minutes before I miss a day of blogging and, therefore, the natty pants stand alone. Lie down alone. Or with my toaster and the left over Halloween candy.




I know. Pathetic. This is why people should not blog every day. They are damn cute pants though, admit it.

I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.


E&E Tally: 6764 words (boo)
Blog posts: 12/30 (sort of)

Pants Required

At the risk of irritating Backpacking Dad, who has a complicated argument about feminism that requires me not to mock my husband, I am about to mercilessly mock my husband. In my defense it's not just for a cheap laugh or because I want to paint him as the stereotypical incompetent, buffoon father. It's because that's what we do. That's our marriage. We mock each other mercilessly. I was brought up to equate teasing to the point of pain with love. It works for us.

He mocks me because I can't boil water without burning something. I mock him because he can't cook anything without destroying the entire kitchen and possibly creating the need for a counter poultice. He mocks me because after five hours, an entire winter's supply of newspaper, two fire starter logs and a lot of cursing, I can't get our damn wood stove burning. I mock him for having the skill set of Pa Ingalls. Seriously, if the apocalypse occurs, we are golden.

He's an incredible parent. He is patient, kind and every bit if not more competent than I am. He spent the entire day on Tuesday first at Nate's well baby check up and then driving around to various clinics tracking down H1N1 vaccines for Ess and Gee and Cue. My point being, this post is not about gender stereotypes, it's not perpetuating the image of Dad as floundering, unnurturing and intentionally flummoxed by the role of caregiver. Matt handles three toddlers and a newborn with ease.

It's about pants.

In particular, an adorable pair of pants in which I dressed Nate on Tuesday morning before I sent him off to the pediatrician with his father. Believe me, I get that dressing babies and toddlers in clothes that you care about is silly - but it still happens. Sometimes, things are so cute that I can't resist. Sometimes, a grandma or an aunt sends something beyond adorable. In this case, a friend sent me this absolutely ridiculous pair of natty, frat boy, J-crewy patchwork pants with a tiny blue belt in size three-month and oh my god I love them.

So, I dressed my baby all frat-boy cutie and sent him off with Matt for measurements and shots and stuff. I took Cue to toddler class. Matt dropped the baby off with me after the appointment and we traded cars so that Matt could pick up Ess and Gee at preschool and take them to harass our health cooperative about flu vaccines.

He walked in the door with Nate in the car seat carrier tucked in sweetly under a knitted blanket. We conferred and kissed and swapped keys and off he went. I'm tempted to lie here and say that the baby was starving and I pulled him out to feed him. I didn't. I pulled him out to show off his natty pants. Except natty pants showing off = complete failure because he was not wearing said natty pants. He was not wearing ANY pants.

I suppose that was some kind of lesson that the universe attempted to teach me like: Do not take thy baby's pants in vain. Or: The baby is more important than the pants. Or: No one cares about how cute thou baby's pants are.

I didn't give a shit because where were his freaking pants? My favorite pants! Not on the baby's bottom half, that was clear.

That is Matt. He leaves the kids' stuff everywhere. No joke. We loose more hats, mittens, sweaters...pants. It makes my type-A, stuff-tracking, constant-inventory-taking head explode.

I thought about calling him, but I knew it would be an exercise in useless frustration.

Me: Where are the baby's pants?
Him: The baby's pants?
Me: The cute little patchwork pants? I put them on him this morning.
Him: ?

Instead, I swallowed my ire because I am an unbelievable martyr like that. I took my pantsless baby and my fully clothed toddler home and put them down for naps. I thought about calling him again and sending him back to the pediatrician for the pants, but fortunately I waited because I found them in the car.

The discovery of the pants would have made me feel bad for cursing his pant-loosing name all afternoon, but then he got back from the preschool pickup/vaccination of Ess and Gee and I cleaned out their lunch boxes. Gee's water bottle was not in his lunch box.

Tragedy of epic proportions. I had to endure Gee's mental breakdown over lack of water bottle all day today while Matt was safely and conveniently at work. With his lunch box and water bottle. And pants. I hope.

I don't ask for a lot. Okay, I ask for a lot and I'm asking for one more thing. Bring them home in their pants. Unless they've peed or shat on them and then throw them away with my blessing. (The pants. Throw the pants away, not our children.)

I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.


E&E Tally: 6764 words
Blog posts: 11/30

Sweet Surrender

My mom brought up my sisters and I belting out songs in the car. The shortest trip was occasion for a family sing along. Her musical taste didn't exactly set us up to be on the cutting edge of high school music fashion. Knowing all of the words to Lemon Tree and the ability to recite the entire score of Oklahoma! (where the winds come sweeping down the plains) are not skills that up your popularity factor.

It was quite an education. Peter, Paul and Mary. The Kingston Trio. The Beach Boys. Kenny Rogers. I know them all. Every word to every song. And then there was my mom's favorite.

I love my mom and her 60s folksong/cheesy musical scores taste in music, but I swore on my high school canopy bed with Tiffany blaring on the radio and a mix tape of The Who and Pink Floyd and Rush in my hand - created by a sweet boy named Dave who finally decided to educate my uncool ass - that I would never, never let my children reach the age of 16 so oblivious to current music trends. At the very least, at the very least, I would tune into a current rock/pop station in the car. I would not, under any circumstances, play the same tape (okay CD now, the van forces me to move with the technology times) over and over. My children would understand that there was life beyond CCR and Buddy Holly.

It's just not that easy to escape your past. Those melodies, those lyrics, are engraved in my soul. They are, for me, the soundtrack of love and security and family.

I sing them as lullabies. I barely realized when it started. The quiet ones bubbled out of me after the lights were out. I folded and put away clothes while they all lay, silent and content in their cribs, and sang the songs that I mocked so easily a decade and a half ago.

Had an uncle name of Matthew, was his father's only son.

You fill up my senses, like a night in the forest.

Misty taste of moonshine, teardrops in my eye.

Soon, I was taking requests. I know them all. They know them all. At four and four and two, they know them all.

Talk to God and listen to the casual reply.

If I had a song, that I could sing for you.

The fear that it within you now, it seems to never end.

Cue struggled up the steps the other night ready for bed, his feet covered in fuzzy pajamas. He mangled his favorite joyfully, mouth full of marbles, but he had the tune. "Wessergina. Mou-ouMomma. Take me home. Cuntwy Woads."

I stopped at a local book store later that night on the way home from some errands. Our town drips this time of year, a cold faucet left on over our existence. The wet parking lot reflected the strip mall lights in the unexpected wind. I ran for the cover of the front door and stood there feeling furtive and silly. I forced myself to bypass the stacks of tempting novels beckoning from the front tables and walked to the back, pawed through the used CD section until I found it and paid my few dollars for my prize. I left hurriedly, trying to laugh at my ridiculous guilt.

They love it. We belt in the car every day now. Before their buckles are even snapped, they are calling their requests, sniping at each other over favorites.

They know them all. Country Roads. Feather Bed. Sunshine. Rocky Mountain High. Matthew. The soundtrack of my childhood.

I look at them in my rear view mirror, smiling and singing and I can't get the words out around the clog of tears and memories and emotions in my throat. There is one they don't like. They always ask to skip it. It's my favorite. Isn't that always the way?

I turn it up. I'm the mom here, after all. And the child.

Lost and alone on some forgotten highway
Traveled by many, remembered by few
Looking for something that I can believe in
Looking for something that I'd like to do with my life
There's nothing behind me and nothing that ties me
To something that might have been true yesterday
Tomorrow is open, right now it seems to be more than enough
To just be here today and I don't know what the future is holding in store
I don't know where I'm going, I'm not sure where I've been
There's a spirit that guides me, a light that shines for me
My life is worth the living, I don't need to see the end.

Sweet, sweet surrender
Live, live without care
Like a fish in the water
Like a bird in the air

Singing it, I think I understand the word "anthem" a little better. I wonder if my mother ever cried, watching us fill her rear view mirror.

I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.




E&E Tally: 6064 words (I'm on pace for 18K words, not 50K. Slight difference. Better than none though, right?)
Blog posts: 10/30 (I think I can crank out 30, question is can you all bear with me to 30 ;-)

Growing Up In Pictures

I went back through my saved drafts today (possibly looking desperately for something to post). Look at what I found. I put this post together on December 31, 2008. I'm not sure why I never published it. The moment passed, I suppose. Something came up. Who knows? It was a shock to find it almost a year later. Look at how little Ess and Gee were in January 08. And Cue. My Cue. In January 08, he was our new baby. The innocence slips away. (Anyone? Rock song? Title and artist to kick off a new trivia game with ten points. I think I've even used this song before.)

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Iiiiiiiitttttttttt'sssssssss......

January

February



March


April



May



June, July and August




September and October



November and December



Then, we start all over again.

May your new start be all you are hoping, may 2009 be your year, may your children go to bed early and sleep late, may your coffee be hot and your beer be cold, may the salt on the rim of your margarita glass be thick. May I see you here at the end of 2009.

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Look at that. Here we are. Cheers. And would you look at us now.


I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. Except that I just realized I can't close comments if I ask you rock trivia. Sorry I suck at responses this month.


E&E Tally: 5471 words (More than a thousand words today!!!!)
Blog posts: 9/30 (Thanks for your emails counting that last one. You rock.)