Oh Crap, That's Going To Hurt (Part #2)

A Three Part Tale Of Epic Clumsiness
Part#2

*If you have not yet read part #1 of my tale, I certainly recommend clicking the link for your reading pleasure. Although part #2 should be entertaining in its own merit, reading part #1 will only enhance your neurotic experience.*

Picking myself up off the blanket of garbage I had landed on, I decided to take the most direct course of action: turn my back on the entertained face of the garbage man and run...err...scootch like the wind back into the safety of my warm house with the comforting scent of brewing coffee.

Now that I knew what a nightmare being outside was, I knew that at some point in my day, I was going to have to go purchase salt for the glacier that is my driveway/sidewalk/impromptu vaudeville act. Not only that, but 15 minutes after shipping Smoochie off on the bus, I happened to notice his lunch on the kitchen counter. OF COURSE! It would make perfect sense that this would be the one and only day of the year for my oldest loin chop to forget his lunch. I had no choice but to venture back out onto the ice sheet.

Of course, it makes sense that I would desire to start my minivan ahead of time, to give the layer of ice clinging to it like a barnacle a chance to melt and slip away, so I grabbed my keys, took a now DESPERATE sip of coffee, and headed back out the door.

And that's ALMOST as far as I made it this time- out the door. I stepped down onto the first step and my foot did the whole banana peel trick it had practiced earlier. And since I was nice enough to include a mental dialogue in my first part, I'll continue the tradition. My mind, still desperate for coffee, rambled on in the following fashion:

Foot, step, foot step. Aw, CRAP, why isn't my foot on the step? Why, hello feet, haven't I already seen you once today? This landing is going to be a bit more painful than the garbage bag, isn't it? Close your eyes, perhaps you won't feel it....


And I landed rump down on the edge of the bottom step/sidewalk. This time I took a minute to assess things. Fortunately I didn't feel like anything was broken, but my wrist was a bit sore. Gingerly I stood up, muttering to myself something about what I'd pay to have an ounce of freeking grace, gave thanks that at least I didn't have my youngest son in my arms at the time, and gritted my teeth in order to try and make it to my car without another incident.

By the time I made it back inside to bundle Critter up and prepare for my journey to Smoochie's school, I was quite perturbed. At that moment in time I was feeling more like a drunk hippo on land than a gazelle. As I sipped at my now lukewarm cup of coffee, I comforted myself with the realization that, "Hey, Chas, you've already fallen twice today, odds are you'd probably get struck by lightning before you actually fall again."

Yeah, right. To be continued....

Timed Out

I've been in hiding. It's been a couple of months since I've posted anything here. My blog reader has seventy hundred blog posts that I haven't read. But it's not just here online that I've been in hiding. I'm realizing that I've been hiding from real life, too.

I don't leave the house unless there's a legitimate reason, like for the grocery shopping, or the actual job interview I had last week, or to avoid the indoor echo of Critter's temper tantrums. Most mornings, I'd like nothing more than to pile on about 10 comforters and not get out of bed for weeks. I know these things are probably fairly normal, and to combat them I try to exercise. I face each day with a grateful feeling that I get to enjoy my boys' smiles and giggles. And if I have to be with anyone, I plaster on a smile and a mask, and crack a good joke or two. Laughter is my lifeline, it always has been.

Part of my problem is that I refuse to have a pessimistic outlook to life. No matter how tough things are or how turbulent my insides are, I fully believe that half of the battle is in your attitude. The last thing on Earth I desire is to wake up and look at myself in the mirror and see Moaning Myrtle staring back at me. Holy Moley is that chick a major buzzkill. Call me stubborn, but yeah. That's not ever going to be me if I have any say in the matter.

Another part of my problem is that I find it very hard to write about the things that are going on in my personal life. For starters, I generally tend to follow the philosophy labeled: If you don't have anything positive (or nice) to say or contribute, then keep your yappy trap shut. I vowed I would do whatever it takes to make this as easy as possible on my boys, and that includes not talking about a lot of what is going on. Sadly enough, they (we) are learning that there are some wounds in life that you can't simply slap a band aid on or just kiss away. These moments are heartbreaking to endure, and even harder to write about.

So. We're getting to the crux of my post. I'm going to legitimately try and post more, in order to force myself out of hiding a bit. Why do I have such a strong feeling of deja vu??

And thinking of Keanu Reeves in black leather, does anyone have any good pointers to how to keep an 8year old boy from yelling in a very unquiet, turretty manner, "Look Mom!!! THERE'S YOUR BOYFRIEND!!!" every time he sees a picture of Dwayne (The Rock) Johnson in public?

I'm Back Like Jay Leno But Hopefully In A Better Way

Wow, is it hard to get back into the swing of writing anything after having taken a month off. I'm still here, I'm still muddling through, and certainly still taking things one day at a time. Some days are good, some days are an eternity. But really when I stop to look at it, that's just the way life often is, no matter what is happening in the world around me. The good and the bad often mesh together to create a richly painted canvas of who I am as a person. Not every moment needs to be profound, not every moment needs to be glorious. But beauty can be found in everything as long as I never stop looking for it. Whew. That's quite enough of the heavy for this blog post. Time to lighten things up, I think.

I know I promised a three part tale of my ice capades, and I am diligently working on part 2. I'll have it up sometime in the next couple days. I swear, sometimes my level of clumsiness surprises even me.

The past month has gone by fairly fast, with a newly crowned two year old in the house. Critter's Birthday was on Valentine's day, which kept me from yelling Bah Humbug at the top of my lungs to everyone I saw that day. Celebrating his birthday was a nice distraction. He's grown and changed a lot, and his vocabulary is expanding daily. Sometimes I can figure out what he's saying, sometimes I can't. He still diligently refuses to call me Mom, and if I listen close enough when I get him out of his crib in the mornings, I SWEAR he's actually calling me Mrs. Krabappel. He did look at me and say Mom once this past weekend- the first time he's actually used the word in context. I hugged him with tears in my eyes, swelled with pride, and offered to buy him a car.

After having taken such a long bloggy vacation, I'm feeling list deprived, so I'm going to sign off with a list today. And then try and find time to work on part 2 of my tale of clumsiness. So without further Ado, I present to you:

TODDLER VOCAB 101
Critter Speak

Woof Woof : Dog, any dog, all dogs, any furry thing that might possibly resemble a dog, does not exclude squirrels, rabbits, Scooby Doo, and some fat cats

Bub Bob: Spongebob

Go!: To leave the house, any and all cars, trucks, tractors, vehicles with wheels excluding trains, and what Smoochie must do if Critter doesn't feel like dealing with his kisses

Da Dain!: The Train, must include the article the, there is never just a train, it must always be the train

Uh, Oh.... Roogaloh!: Uh-Oh, Spagetti-o's

Dye! Low! (sounds like wow with an L instead of the W): Bye! Love You!

Owttt!!: Ouch!(are you starting to notice a yelling pattern? Critter doesn't know the meaning of inside voice.) Best yelled when I'm wiping his face, his bottom, or his hands. I hope he stops yelling this at the top of his lungs before spring, or I will have to do some explaining to the neighbors.

Gay Goo: Thank You (he says this often, I eat it up for its uncharacteristic non ornery-ness)

Ki-Ki/Gi-Gi: I have NO CLUE. I can't seem to figure it out. I've determined it's NOT blanky, binky, kitty, or any other ends in y word I can think of. If anyone has any suggestions, I would be most appreciative.

And since Critter has just just begun running through the house with his hands in the air, yelling, "THE TRAIN??", I can only assume he is looking for one of his many trains and I must go help him find it now. Next Up, my tale of clumsiness, part 2.

Oh Crap, That's Going To Hurt (Part #1)

A Three Part Tale Of Epic Clumsiness
Part #1

Last Wednesday night, I heeded the warnings of my local weather.com page and prepared for a layer of ice to blanket the land. In preparation I had shopped for our food before the onslaught of the freezing rain, ran any and all errands that would be needed for the following couple of days, and upon completion pulled the wipers up off my windshield to avoid not being able to scrape off the ice when the time came. However, even though I prepared ahead for the ice, I am still a great procrastinator at heart.

I must confess that I was not nearly as prepared when it came to toting my garbage to the curb for the pick up on Thursday morning. I, truly, am a procrastinator to the core. It has not been unknown for me to wake up at 5am on the day a 10 page paper is due and spit one out in its entirety from start to finish. And my inner mind mechanisms treat the toting of garbage in much the same way as it would a term paper- I don't really WANT to do it, so I put it off until the unavoidable moment when it's do or die- sink or swim in a sea of black garbage bags. For me, that moment is each Thursday morning at about 7am because the Garbage man shows up at my curb shortly before 8 each week.

True to form, I woke up last Thursday morning in a rush to get the garbage out. And upon opening my kitchen door, I encountered the ice.

Ice, while it can be devastating, is truly beautiful when it coats the world outside. Trees glisten and creak under its weight, snow sparkles like a vampire should never, and our fence becomes a glistening fortress. This is the exact form of beauty that accosted me as I opened my kitchen door coffee-less, bleary eyed and rushed, last Thursday morning.

I suspect that if you know me, or have read a great deal of my blog, your gears are at least spinning if your mental light bulb isn't going off like a strobe by now. Anyone who's known me for a lifetime, or a few years, or a couple of months, or a day or so, or perhaps encountered me in a grocery store, or even so much as glimpsed me from inside a jewelry store, will be able to tell you without a nanosecond of hesitation that Chas plus a glacier of ice can not ever equal anything graceful. Highly entertaining perhaps, but never graceful.

I approached the ice with this fact fully on my mind. I carefully slid my way to the garage, and began toting garbage bags to the curb. Well, technically it was more like skating- my driveway was a giant sheet of ice and it slopes down toward the street. Not only did I have the skating rink of a driveway to maneuver through, I had gravity working against me as well. Have I mentioned that I was already being extra careful? Well, I was as careful as I could be, toting 3 bags of garbage so I would only have to conquer the driveway twice.

And I made it, too. I toted those three puffy black bags of garbage to the curb like a slightly tired gazelle. Congratulating myself on my lack of broken bones, I placed my hands behind my back and headed back up the glacial incline speed skater style. And feeling quite cocky and graceful I began the trip back down to the curb.

As I reached the sidewalk and turned from the driveway ice to the sidewalk ice, I felt my whole world begin to slip out of balance. My feet magically (and yes I say magically because by that point I had forgotten that it could actually happen) lost all traction. Did I mention that I hadn't had coffee yet? My first foot hit the sidewalk ice, lost traction, and slung its self magically up into the air about head high. My other foot, being attached to the very same body that was attached to the first foot, followed suit. Before I could blink I was staring at both feet, hovering quite horizontally a couple of feet in mid air.

I think at this moment I will take a few sentences to share what one's mind actually thinks when one finds themselves a horizontal ice queen. Now mind you, it happened quite quickly, but I had time to fully think, Oh crap, no traction! Crap, no traction for that foot either! Oh, hi feet, so that's what you look like... Feet? I can see my feet? Uh-oh, crappity crap crap crap!! THIS. Is going to hurt...

And that is exactly what flew through my head on my way down to the ice encrusted Earth. Somehow, I managed to land on a bag of garbage though, feeling grateful at hearing the 'poof' sound it made when I squished the air out of it. Giving thanks for my blanket of garbage, I assessed the damage. I discovered that due to my strategic landing upon a pile of garbage, I was quite fine. Feeling relieved, I looked up.

And that was when I noticed the garbage truck across the street, with the driver inside staring at me...

Dear So and So: New Year/Weight Loss & Candy Edition

It's been quite some time since I participated in Kat's Dear So and So on Fridays, and I thought today was as good a time as any to start up again- since I actually have something to say for a change.


Dear Self,

You fool NO ONE at the check out line when you nonchalantly tell the clerk she can just throw the King Size Reeses Big Cup in the bag. She knows full well the second you're in your car you're rampaging through that bag like an 8 year old with a Christmas present and stuffing it in like a 13 year old girl with an A cup and a box of Kleenex.

Love,
Your subconscious


Dear Hips,

This letter is to notify you that you are officially being placed on notice. You have a short time left to vacate the premises. Please be prepared to vacate in the immediate future, and leave your dwelling in a state of good repair. You will be penalized and fined for any stretch mark vandalization. And pick up all your Big Cup wrappers for crying out loud!! Consider yourself warned.

Thank you,
Building Maint. Dept.


Dear Arms,

Seriously? You have to be THAT FLABBY? I saw you the other day and you gave me distinct Homer Simpson vibes. I highly recommend you try and lift something heavier than a coffee cup and an almost two year old for a little while.

With Sincerity,
The Bathroom Mirror


Dear Self (again)

You know you can do this. You were actually successful in your attempts last year and managed to ring in the new year 40 pounds lighter. Keep going, don't get discouraged, and keep your chin up. You will get there, especially now that your hips and arms have been placed on notice. But for crying out loud, try and stay away from the Peanut Butter Eggs that accosted you in the Check Out line Wednesday Afternoon. (Um, WHAT MONTH is Easter in this year?) And the Big Cups. And the Twix. -- Hey, I'll tell you what-- would a shock bracelet at the checkout line help? Willpower, girl, willpower. Just stick with it.

Love,
The Soon to be New You.


Dear Nestle Crunch Hotline,

Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for the fit of giggles you gave me this morning. Without giving it away, I will only tell you to call this number: 800-295-0051. If it's busy, keep trying- trust me it's worth the giggle. When asked to continue in English or Spanish, just stay completely silent for 10 seconds and listen- you will smile. Keep going and press 4, then listen to the options and press 7. Try not to giggle out loud, or your selection will be made for you- I had to attempt 3 times before I made it all the way to 7. Anyway, Nestle, thank you- you finally made my day without lingering on my hips!

Always Love a Good Giggle,
Chas

Back With a List

I've caught some sort of goop that's left me miserably croupy, and cold meds make me completely loopy. And as I drift in and out of consciousness on my couch, I am daydreaming of a day in which I could just stay in bed and sleep. Unfortunately, with a not quite two year old running rampant in the house, that is a luxury I do not have. So today's post is dedicated to reasons why mothers should be allowed sick days, or reasons why one should not blog while hopped up on cold meds, whichever more suits the bill. So without further ado, I leave you with the top ten things (Letterman style) my boys love to do when I am sick.

10. Trash the house. This should be a given, but there are those out there who are not yet parents and therefore not fully aware of a young child's 'parent is in the next room and too stupefied to move so lets massage grape jelly into the kitchen floor' philosophy.

9. Pull pillows out from under my head while I lay in surrender on the couch.

8. Host Scooby Doo Marathon days. Mom doesn't have the energy left to protest the multiple hours worth of consecutive Scooby Doo Dvd's that have been popped in her 5 disk DVD changer. And SOMEBODY (cough cough SMOOCHIE) knows it.

7. Interpret half hearted grunts as the answer yes to questions like, "Mom, can I have MORE CANDY?"

6. Chase each other around the house wearing nothing but underoos and diapers making monkey noises.

5. Giggle in a sadistic way while trying to see how high the rotini spaghetti needs to go into the air before making an audible splat on the floor- in the name of science, of course.

4. Take up target practice by aiming the newly issued Christmas nerf dart gun at the unwashed dishes sitting on the kitchen counter instead of windows and doors.

3. Be grateful mom takes on the 'just don't aim it at your brother's forehead' approach to her day.

2. Attempt to hang dirty socks from the Christmas tree.

1. Remove all jammies from the jammie drawer, spread them in a fine layer across the hardwood floor, then take a running belly flopping leap, slip and slide style. Implement a point system and see who can achieve the most air with the least amount of injuries.

Update

Some day I will be able to sit and write out the complete story of this time in my life. Some day I will be able to sit on the other side looking back and see things in a larger perspective. Some day I will have picked up the pieces of myself that are scattered across the recent months and fit something back together that closely resembles who I am and the path I am meant to be on. Someday I will recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror.

But for now, although I can't piece together the bigger picture, I can see enough of it to know I'm caught up in a massive whirlwind of hurt, emotion, and loss. And both my head and heart know that I have fully stepped into one of the darkest and most confusing periods of my life.

I've been avoiding my blog for a while now, I'm hopelessly behind on reading the blogs I used to take such pleasure in reading. I recognize within myself some changes. I am and always will be an optimist. I will always strive to see the good in life. I will always seek the joy and the laughter. These things I know without doubt. What I didn't expect, though, was that I would ever have such difficulty seeing these things before me. Laughter doesn't arrive to my ears as easily as it did a few months ago- at least mine doesn't. The joy is still there, I just have to search harder.

It's not my intent to have a little pity party for myself, I am trying to share what is in my heart without stepping over boundaries and sharing more than I am able to. The end of any marriage is, of course, a sad event. But little by little I am discovering as each day passes that it is nothing shy of devastating. No matter who is at fault, no matter what things have expired, the end of a marriage isn't pretty. And I guess I figure if it wasn't painful then I probably shouldn't have been married in the first place.

I have made my recent focus on just simply making it through the holidays. After I've made it through this difficult time, I will reassess and adjust my goals. The Holidays for me have always had strong ties with family and tradition and great joy. This year has been something entirely new for me, so I feel myself tripping in the dark a little bit. Eventually I'll be able to discover the light switch- I'm just going to have to stumble across the room first. And in a way, I am breathing a sigh of relief that they are almost here and will be over soon.

I'm working on a post regarding New Years Resolutions, but I will say that one of mine for the new year will be to blog on a little bit more regular basis. The past few months have left me searching for the words to express myself, and I'm beginning to think there's no way past that other than to just do it. And in honor of my always look on the bright side of life philosophy, this will be the first holiday season in recorded memory when I will leave it weighing considerably less than I entered. And by holiday season I mean from the moment Reeses ships out its first shipment of Peanut Butter Pumpkins to the time one wakes up bloated and hung over on New Years Day after the cramming of non-diet allowed food and drink. And truly, that is a beautiful thing.

Tantrums 101

Critter will be 2 years old in just over two months. I'm pretty sure he's a little go-getter because he's got a pretty hefty jump on just what it means to be a terrible two. To detail the specifics, he is strongly opinionated, screeches orders (that he fully expects to be obeyed IMMEDIATELY PEOPLE)no one but he can understand, and has been working hard at mastering the tantrum. As I've been watching him work earnestly at developing his tantrum skills over the past few weeks (months), I've also watched him develop a set of his own rules to further his objectives. He adheres strictly to his rules, and shows initiative when following them and flies by the seat of his pants when necessary- he should go far in life with his keen ability to 'wing it'. I tried to interview him for a tantrum article on my blog, but when approached he ran in the opposite direction screaming, "Goo Dish Kapoosh!" and went all paparazzi hater on me. So I will share with you a list of the tantrum rules that he previously provided for me instead.

Rule #1. When throwing your person on the ground, you must be aware of the possibility of hitting your head too hard on the floor. You can choose from the following two concussion free drop techniques: either knees, belly & arms, head, OR butt thump, yoga roll down, light head thump. Feel free to mix it up for variety.

Rule #2. Diaphragm diaphragm diaphragm. Acoustics mean nothing if you don't. Use. Your diaphragm.

Rule#3. Never leave a toy sitting within reaching distance of your chosen tantrum location. One can choose the following methods, but be sure to assess the situation as it arises and choose the one most likely to launch the toy into orbit. You may kick, throw, head butt, scoot, fling, or punch any toy within reach. You may also opt for the combination of the above best suited to scuttle your toy through the space time continuum. Keep in mind you get extra points if the toy launches again from a nearby wall or piece of furniture, and infinity points if you manage to break 'unbreakable' plastic. Silly grownups.

Rule#4. Location location location. Never throw a tantrum in your bedroom, your parent might just opt to walk out and close the door. Choose Wal-Mart over McDonald's- the acoustics are better and there's less competition. Never choose a room without an adult. If it looks like the adult is going to leave the room, pick the tantrum up and move it to the new location. You MUST appear cooperative and willing to move the tantrum to wherever the adult will be able to observe it, otherwise you are wasting your tantrum talents.

Rule#5. Do whatever it takes to ensure your tantrum will not be ignorable. I guarantee you that if your adult is smart they will attempt to employ the highly controversial 'ignore it and it will go away' technique at some point in the tantrum game. You MUST SQUASH THAT TECHNIQUE IMMEDIATELY. Borrow, beg, kick, stomp, throw, gnaw, scream. If you want to be a winner, you must do what it takes.

Rule #6. Longevity is the key to the game. If 15 minute tantrums don't cut the peanut butter, try 30. Be strong, be loud, be persistent.

Rule#7. And finally, if all else fails, move your tantrum location to the tops of your adult's feet. I only recommend the employment of this technique as a last ditch effort. Because, if you pull out this last stop, there's a chance of having a nap forced upon you. Use this method with caution. Trust me.

Friday the 13th Snippets and a Celebration

I haven't offered up any Snippets in a while. In fact, I haven't been too horribly faithful about blogging lately, period. However, in honor of today's up close and personal encounter with Friday the 13th, I'm offering up 13 snippets, only I'm changing it up a little bit. My snippets all involve Friday the 13th, or the number 13.

1. Hurricane Charley made landfall in South Florida on Friday, August 13th, 2004.

2. On November 13th, 1974 (which was actually a Wednesday) the real life events that inspired the Amityville Horror Movie occurred.

3. On Friday April 13th, 2029, the asteroid 2004 MN4 will make its close encounter with Earth.

4. There were 13 participants in The Last Supper. Tradition states that Judas, who betrayed Jesus, was the 13th to sit at the table.

5. Triskaidekaphobia is the fear of the number 13.

6. The original United States flag contained 13 stars for the 13 founding colonies.

7. The Francis Ford Coppola version of Bram Stoker's Dracula was released in the United States on Friday November 13th, 1992.

8. Paraskevidekatriaphobia is the fear of Friday the 13th.

9. The real life events that inspired the movie Alive occurred on Friday, October 13th, 1972.

10. There are 13 in a Baker's dozen.

11. Every month that begins on a Sunday will contain a Friday the 13th.

12. There is at least one Friday the 13th in every calendar year.

13. I turned both 13 and 18 on Friday the 13th. And today, I turn 35. I have a special affection for my Friday the 13th Birthdays, a personal kinship. I will be celebrating with chips and salsa from my favorite Mexican restaurant (instead of cake) and spending time with the two most important people in my life- my two little guys. Oh. And a trip to Starbucks. (Clumsy oaf Chas happy dance goes here)

My Fill Up

Critter is on the cusp of speaking. For a long while now, he has told elaborate stories, his big blue eyes sparkling and his little hands dancing around for added effect. I could watch him all day, painting his tales in the air with fat and sticky little jelly tainted fingers. And I do, my eyes bouncing back and forth between those hypnotizing eyes and the deliberate motion of his fat little arms like a mother's pendulum. All day long he shares his stories with me, and all day long I try to keep a straight face and carry on my end of the conversation. Our conversations are indeed two sided, but only one side of them is in English. The other one is in a much practiced language that consists of eternally long vowel conjugations, jiggly cheeks, and painting fingers.

He does say a few words, even if at this point they are approximations. Whenever his Daddy walks into the house, his feet take on a running cadence and his shouts loudly exclaim, "Dah!" as he runs to hug a couple kneecaps. If he's looking for his brother, he will knock on his bedroom door(this is almost sad to watch if Smoochie is in school), and lean in to press his little lips to the painted wood and proclaim, "Gaa!"

One of my favorites to watch is what sounds like little death threats in every parking lot we traverse, as each car passes us by, Critter waving one hand in an exuberant farewell while declaring his own verbal farewell, "Die Die". Every time I hear his approximation of Bye Bye, my mind automatically conjures up an image of SideShow Bob explaining, "No, it doesn't say Die Bart, Die, it says THE Bart, THE."

One of HIS favorite words is quite pleasing to hear. He uses it a million times a day, both as he is giving his Mama an offering of something torn, ripped, spilled, or broken (or simply sharing but at 20 months this is quite rare) and as he is given something he has asked for. He will focus on your eyes with his little blue sparklers and convey his thanks with a, "coo goo" (thank you). A million times a day I am blessed with an approximation of thanks.

Yesterday I started wondering why none of his approximations included my name. Ever. There's no ma, mama, mum, mom, or anything that even might remotely resemble any of the above forms for what I am called. And you know, I'm the one he's with 98% of his time. Bathings and feedings, diaper changes and kissed boo-boos, vastly performed by me. Heck, I'd be happy to hear an approximation of "Chas", as long as I could watch him joyfully paint the air with his fingers while he said it. But alas, there is nothing.

About the time I was thinking these things, he came and gave me a microscopic scrap of paper he had found in his spelunking adventures in his home, and engaged me in his conversation. Handing it to me like a new found treasure, he smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and stated, "Coo goo."

It was then that I realized I'd much rather hear my boy say thank you than Mama. A million times a day 'thank you' is much more pleasant to listen to than a million times a day 'Mama'. Maybe I should be thankful for what I have rather than longing for what I haven't got. I've got a high spirited, independent, engaging little boy who is healthy and cute as a button. Who cares if I ever hear the word, "Mom" from him? Thank you is enough. Thank you reminds me to be grateful.

Of course, it was as if he could read my thoughts in that moment. A short time later after a diaper change (and before the obligatory after diaper change tickle) his lips contorted into an unfamiliar shaping and uttered the sound, "Mmmmmmmmmmmum-mum."

(And of course) He was lifted up, squeezed to the point of popping, and peppered with kisses while he cried out in protest, "Aaaaaaaargh!" But it was too late, my heart was already overfull with thanks.

I need a laugh

If you've followed my blog for a while, you know I love to see the humor in life. No matter how dark things get, I seem to be an eternal optimist- but I find my stores of optimism are dwindling a bit. I know it's been a while since I've posted, please forgive me. I'm at a loss, currently, for something clever and witty to say. I'm working on it, but writer's block and a few other things have muddled my brain. So today, I'm asking you to help me. Please help me out- leave me a comment with a joke. Today, I need a little laughter to restore balance to my universe. Thanks for lending me your humor- be assured it will be greatly appreciated.

On Being Me

There are certain things in my life I can count on. The fact that my youngest son's morning diaper will peel paint from his bedroom walls daily. The fact that dishes will dirty, laundry will not wash its self, and little toys will find themselves in the oddest places- a matchbox car inside the diaper genie, a section of train track in with my dish towels. I can count on daily smiles and hugs (for now until they are too cool for mom) from each of my boys, and the glorious musical chime of their spontaneous laughter. I can count on the phrase that's thrown out each weekday by Smoochie while rushing out the door to catch the bus- "See you later, Alligator." And I can count on my daily response, "After while crock-eeee-dile."

During the week, things have taken on a sense of normalcy. I have essentially grabbed hold of myself by the scruff and shaken myself out of the moping and feeling sorry for myself stage. As each day passes, I have fewer weak moments (outwardly at least) and can at last breathe a little bit. During the week, when there are two boys to care for and a whirlwind of things to accomplish for them, it is becoming easier to accept the way things are.

I will not lie. It's hard not to hope I can reverse things. The reality that I'm standing on the precipice of divorce and will have to jump whether I like it or not is enough to leave me with anxiety attacks. After all, at some point I will have to jump off the ledge willingly or wait around for the push from behind- either way there's no turning back and either way will find me at the bottom.

This anxiety is easier to set aside during the week when I have to be strong for my boys. When they are there as a constant reminder of why life is good and glorious. It's easy to ignore a panic attack when Critter is busy acting like a giggly jack-in-the-box before launching himself at me with a little attack growl. It's easy to lose myself and my worries in the moment when I'm busy reading Harry Potter books aloud nightly to Smoochie (and listening to his giggles and gasps) while we enjoy a cup of warm caramel apple cider together.

With my great love and need to care for my boys, my weeks have become almost easy. But the weekends scare me.

The boys will be spending their weekends (away from me) with Bonehead. I don't worry about their safety for I know their father loves them every bit as much as I do, and will take great care of them. In fact, my fear has absolutely nothing to do with Bonehead.

I have heard choruses of "Oh honey, good for you. You get 'me time'. Oh how great, you get time to take care of you. Good for you to have time to yourself for a change." These phrases to me are the verbal equivalent of a haunted maze.

Here's the deal. I am on the brink of my 35th birthday. I pretty much know who I am as a person. I've got a pretty solid idea of myself and who I am in this world. I really don't need time to soul search- I have faith in God, and trust that he will help me to arrive on the other end of this every bit as optimistic good natured as I have been in the past. So essentially none of this scares me. Here's what does-

In my life, I have never just been me. In my younger years, I had my mom and sister, and throughout my teenage years I rarely went a month without a boyfriend (or two). I went away to college for a year and about the time when the whole 'just me' would have stepped into the normal course of things, there was a marriage. And now, at darn near 35, I am discovering that having been married since the ripe old age of 19, I have never in my life just been me. I have never had to rely on myself emotionally. Or in the middle of the night when the stresses of life creep into my blankets with me. Until now there's been a cohabitant. Someone with which to share these things and difficult moments with.

In my heart I know that I am strong and that I can face whatever life hands me with grace and dignity. Even so, the thought of being 'just me', of losing these things (to put it bluntly), scares the crap out of me.

Description of a Night Terror

After a summer break, the Write Away Contest hosted by Michelle at Scribbit is back. October's topic is fear, and the following post was created as a submission. Thanks to Michelle for bringing the contest back after a brief hiatus.

Her sleep is a portal. She’s not known a full night’s peaceful sleep since that moment in childhood when they first found her and filled her with visions of her bed crawling with spiders and other such creepy crawlies to taunt a small girls mind. She’s an adult now, but that doesn’t mean she’s any less immune to them when they choose to approach. When she sleeps, somewhere within a dusty window into another dimension opens, and things cross over.

Sometimes they’re so focused on the cross over that they can’t wait for full sleep to reach her, shouting her name in terrifying voices just as she’s begun the decent into oblivion, snapping her awake with a violent jolt, leaving her with a sheen of sweat and choking on a fight or flight response. Often while sitting up in bed she wonders if her mind has been touched by schizophrenia. The voices had been male and deep and clear as day, so clear she looks around to be sure they weren’t murmured in her ear by a strange man in her room.

Then there are the times they exhibit patience and wait for her to be swallowed whole by sleep. They slink through the portal into her mind and taint her dreams, leaving evil fingerprint smudges wherever they touch. Her dreams are tortured and inescapable and grotesque shards of what they should be.

Sometimes she jolts awake before they can fully approach from their domain, leaving them half buried in both worlds, dancing in and out of her peripheral vision. They are shadows of where evil used to reign. They’re never seen directly but loom just beyond her sight, making themselves known with the briefest of glimpses of dark malevolence. They make sure she knows they follow her and that they watch.

Sometimes when she jolts awake she brings them fully with her. These are the whole ones, the ones her family calls night terrors and the awareness of these often leave her screaming with insanity. They weren’t halved upon the awakening so the full scope of their evil engulfs her like the churning frothy apex of a wave.

Her eyes open and she can feel them, their faces pressed up against hers, the humid and putrid breath of evil on her face. Watching her. Still she cannot see them but in the darkest hours of the early morning she can see the void they occupy. They blanket her with their misery, tucking her snugly in a quilt of horror, and steal her ability for words. They drip with poison and ooze with eternal isolation. As the moment passes and she begins to fully waken, for a brief moment she knows what true horror is. She has looked fear in the face and been rendered speechless, left without words and alone in a sea of oblivion. She reaches for her voice to scream and breaks the spell woven over her in the darkness, and all is again as it should be. Until they next choose to cross over and visit her sleep.

One Week

I have started and deleted my next post about a hundred times since the last one. I have also started and walked away from my next post about a hundred other times. For the first time in my life, my preferred method of expressing myself is failing me. I can't find the words to express how I feel. Ironically enough, for the first time in my life my appetite has disappeared as well.

This has been without a doubt one of the toughest and most heart wrenching weeks in my life. What started out as probable divorce with a remote chance at saving it is now definite divorce with no chance at saving it. I have cried myself dizzy. I have experienced bouts of extreme anger. I have sat numb and lost. I have exercised obsessively. I have hugged my boys, and I have cried with them too. I have questioned my life, my self, my family, my ability to hold it together, and my heart.

I haven't slept much, and when I do manage to relax enough to fall asleep, reality often slaps my dreams and I wake up in a panic, yelling the word John into the dead of the night. It echoes in the silence.

I tell myself that I am strong, that I can make it through this- repeatedly- as if it were a record broken in my head, skipping back to the word strong over and over and over. I think maybe if I tell myself often, one of these times I might believe it. It might break through the wall of ache in my chest and finally once again let me take a deep breath.

The boys are first and foremost in my thoughts. I think of all the things I have to do for them. Not only do I have to wake up each morning to care for them and nurture them, I have to be strong for them. I have to show them that although it's OK to be strong and go on with our lives, it's also OK to be sad and grieve the family we were. I have to learn how to let go of him and still cultivate a friendship for the sake of the boys. I have to put my feelings aside and place the boys before any ache, hurt, or anger I might have.

I am sad. I am heartbroken. I am lost.

I am banking on the fact that it has to get better, because I can't see how it can possibly get any worse.

Raw and Brutal and Honest

On Wednesday, Bonehead and I decided the best thing we can do at this time for our family is for us to separate. Although divorce is not definite, it is a very high probability at this point in time. It will take nothing short of a small miracle for us to be able to fix the fissure in our marriage.

Without going in to too much detail, I will say that the decision was mutual, and state for the record there has been no infidelity on either part. I will not now, nor in the future, bad mouth the father of my children online or in front of my boys, he is a good man and a great father.

Judging from the obvious lack of sponsorship and ads in my sidebar, it should be apparent that I pretty much blog for me, and that I write simply because that is what I enjoy doing. I debated whether or not to blog about these recent changes in my life, and the structure of our family, and decided that honesty is best. I am not the type of person who can pretend to be something I clearly am not. Life has thrown me a massive curve ball and I desperately need this outlet. Things in my life are changing in a major way.

I am trying my best to continue to see things in a positive light, to look for the humor in each day and keep a positive outlook on life. But I'm finding that I just need to take each day as it comes, deal with what is before me, and be thankful at the end that I made it through. Logic tells me that things will get better, there will be an end to the anguish and heart ache, but my heart screams the opposite. It will be a journey, I will get there, and along the way, I will share what I can in as graceful a way as possible.

Because after all, although I am mourning the imminent loss of more than 15 years of marriage and 20 years of friendship, I have two absolutely beautiful boys to think of.

A Little Case of Hero Worship That Incidentally Was NOT Sponsored

I was spoiled once. I had a washer and dryer that was the cream of the crop. Once these babies were in my home and set up, I quickly learned that I'd never had another (or never would) who compared. I gushed about them to anyone and everyone who would listen. I loved them so much after I started a load I would caress them and my heart would fill with happiness. They were energy efficient, sleek, had few moving parts, and when they ran they whirred like something straight out of The Jetsons. At the time we had 7 people in our home (my sister and 3 nieces lived with us for a year and a half back in the days before Critter joined us) and it seemed to me that the capacity on these babies was absolutely UN-BE-LIEVABLE.

What washer and dryer am I speaking of?

I'm so glad you asked.

Please allow me to introduce you to the Fisher & Paykel washer and dryer.

The washer:



Ta-da!!

This baby was awesome. I threw the clothes in, threw the detergent in the center cup, pushed a button and soon enough it was whirring away on our laundry. There was a weight sensor so it would only fill with water as needed for the load size. It seems to me that most people these days drool over the front load washers, but to me, the top load is a love affair that can not be broken. Yes I realize it is only a washer, and a top loader at that, but nothing falls back onto the floor after I attempt to put it in, and I didn't have to try and stuff anything through a small opening like trying to jam a mini marshmallow through a life saver candy hole. I guess in retrospect it wasn't anything over the top special, but it was the perfect mate to my dryer.

The Dryer:



(a.k.a. my preciousssssssss)

This may be the one household item I held in higher esteem than liquid bubble bath and straight from the package razor blades. Have you ever seen a top loading dryer? Let me introduce you. Inside this dryer is a steel drum that has a lid that opens when the dryer is resting and locks into place when the dryer is running. When it locks into place, it makes this space age sound and you can seriously close your eyes and imagine you are sitting on the space shuttle getting ready for take off. The drum inside rotates much like a front loader, but every so many minutes it stops and rotates in the opposite direction. So your clothes don't get tangled up in each other. And to me, that was just a perk. The seller on this beauty was the top loading feature. Clothing never fell on the floor between the washer and dryer. I didn't have to bend and maneuver the clothing in over a dryer door in any fashion. I simply grabbed an armful of clothing out of the washer, turned to the right a little and dropped the entire armful into the dryer. It was Heaven on Earth for mom or dad or whoever got stuck with the laundry chore, I swear. Let me tell you I'd rather clean a toilet than do laundry, so me being excited about these babies was really something.

One sad day about a year and a half ago, our town got rain. It fell, and it fell, and it fell, and we were completely unprepared for it. When all was said and done the town received 4 inches of rain in 82 minutes, and we were gifted with a foot and a half of standing water in our basement.
We lost both the washer and the dryer. And it was a very sad day in my life. *sniff*

At any rate, we have not been living for a year and a half without a washer and dryer, let me assure you. They were replaced, but due to budget restrictions we had to go with a different brand name. We opted for the front loading washer and dryer, and I won't say the name because they work just fine and I don't want anyone to think I'm saying they are inferior because they are quite functional in their own way. However, I do not have the desire to caress them, and they do not take me to space. Its just that Fisher & Paykel are the ones who got away, the long lost love that I daydream of having back. To my heart, there will never be another.

Has Anyone Seen Smoochie's Mom?

Almost everyone knows that when a person has more than one child, the personalities of said children will differ greatly. I knew this even before I had children because I had a sister who is as different from myself as night and day. Yin and Yang. She's outspoken while I bottle it all in. She's outgoing & talkative while I'm quite introverted. She had 3 girls and I had 2 boys (because she hogged all the girls).

By the time Critter blessed our family, I was fully aware that he would be a person with a personality completely separate from his big brother. Critter tries daily to shatter our eardrums, I think I've had to tell Smooch to use his inside voice three times in his life. Smooch will be 8 in a couple of months and still won't climb on our kitchen counters and I'm trying to figure out just which Ninja moves Critter uses exactly to get at the Marshmallows in our pantry. And after I took them away how he managed to retrieve them from the middle of the kitchen table.

Now for the most part I'm a fairly intelligent adult woman. I knew these boys would be different. Although I can say I didn't exactly plan on HOW different they would be, I did expect it. What I didn't expect, however, is how different their Mothers would be.

Smoochie's mom was totally on the ball. He was clean, well (and promptly) fed, and at all times "dressed and ready to face the day". I quoted that because that is the phrase I used every morning when we were getting ready. A pajama day for that boy was always either a super treat meaning we had nowhere to go, or it meant the boy was super sick and too pitiful to care about getting dressed. Smoochie's mom had it all, an eagle eye, quick humor, and reflexes as quick as a rabbit. Smoochie's mom rocked. It's no wonder he never colored on a wall or cut his own hair.

Meanwhile, in the land of Neurotic 6 years later, I look around and spy Critter's mom. She's frazzled and mostly askew and partly deaf and completely off her rocker. I'm thinking Critter may be getting the shaft. Critter thinks that if his mom is putting clothes on him it means he is going "bye bye" and starts waving. And he may be right.

Critter was most recently spied in a living room (also occupied by Dad AND Big Brother) drawing on a coffee table with a pencil. This implies he has developed the ability to become invisible and his mom's eagle eye clearly needs lasik.

Critter's mom is slow and has lost her quick reflexes. She's always limping due to the recurring foot cramp that comes from stepping on poky hard plastic children's toys. She may be developing a personality disorder because she can often be spotted hunched over limping and muttering to herself.

Critter's mom has lost her sense of time and completely thrown her ability to plan for the immediate future out the window. She should really expect that every day at 5:30 Critter will be hungry and yet it still comes as a daily surprise to her. Her personal motto has recently become, "Oh crap, dinner."

I have searched our home thoroughly for any trace of Smoochie's mom, but she can't be reached for comment. (Between you and me I'm pretty sure she's locked up in a tower somewhere and won't be coming back)

And Critter's mom? Is too busy daydreaming of a bubble bath in a soaking tub with candle light ambiance and a glass of wine to bother.

Wordless Wednesday & Personality

I think it's really cool how personalities somehow shine through even in photos.

My Epiphany about Epiphanies

Yesterday, I came up with my most brilliant idea of the year. Truly, it was simply phenomenal. Our house is a bungalow built in 1933. When we purchased it, to us, that meant charm. I mean, it still has the original doors and glass doorknobs. Take that and combine it with hardwood floors, a large yard, a large kitchen,(and yes, a dishwasher) and we were charmed into buying.

Unfortunately charm technically means work. I'm not really sure how the two tie together but they do. And this is where my mind and my thought pattern was yesterday when I woke up. There are things in this house that simply need to be redone.

Now, Martha Stewart I am not. Nor am I an interior designer, and my home collection shows it. I'm pretty sure if they came out with a line of my personal home decor, it would be titled Le Hodge Podge. Given the funds, I would gladly hire a crew to come in, demolish-strip-paint-rebuild-cute-ify every square inch of this place. However, I am a stay at home mom, and our budget is stretched. Things are tight.

But see, the thing is, as I sat yesterday watching Critter eat his breakfast, I had an epiphany (I seem to have a lot of these and apparently haven't yet learned that epiphanies are usually not a good thing when they spontaneously erupt from my brainwaves). If I wait until we have an abundance of funds to start fixing up the place, I will be ready to move to the nursing home. I can either get up the nerve for a healthy dose of DIY or I can live the status quo.

I opted for the DIY route. I mean how hard can it be, really? It's not like I haven't read any assortment of DIY blogs over the past year or so. And back in the day, I could watch the heck out of Trading Spaces. (Is that even still on?)

A while back my in-laws gave us a whole slew of paint that was left over from their re-paint job on their home interior. Since I already had the paint, and I had a great portion of the supplies needed sitting around our home in various places, I began in our bathroom. I chose this room because it's the smallest room in our house. For those of you who speak fluent Chas this interprets directly to 'The room that will be easiest to redo when things explode and I've messed it up entirely'.

So sometime after breakfast, I climbed Mount Babygate and began work on our bathroom cupboards, which will be miraculously transformed from their generic dark oaky color to black by the end of the redo.

I did not take into account what DIY means with a 19 month old running wild and unchecked in my home. I was soon enlightened to find out that it means while I am busy not paying attention to him and sanding down the cupboards, he will find the need to help me out with my homemaking duties and use his footie pajamas to mop my kitchen floor for me. Water courtesy of the dog dish. He also took it upon himself to redo my decor by completely emptying his toy box and artfully arrange his toys over every square inch of floor space between his bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room. His decor line is titled Le Tod Podge.

Today I decided that I simply can not handle another dog water wash on my kitchen floor, so I waited until my sweet little Critter was down for his nap before embarking on my bathroom project. Having done all of the sanding and priming yesterday, I began applying paint on the cabinets today.

I soon discovered the oops paint I thought was black looked much grayer out of the can. It didn't completely cover my white primer- but I figured it wouldn't on the first coat- but I had to use white primer because it's what I already had on hand, and this is a budget DIY project for Pete's sake. So while my little Critter snored peacefully away in his crib, my mind became obsessed with the color gray.

-Gosh that's awful gray.

-John's going to kill me, I told him the cabinets would be black. And I started this project without even talking to him in the first place. Surprise honey, I've torn apart our bathroom, you can't shave because I've got drop cloth taped over our sink, and ta-da! How about a gray cabinet or two?

-Would he buy the line 'Gray is the new black'?

-I'm going to have to rethink my wall color. Crap, this whole thing is about using what's on hand, what on Earth am I going to tell John when I need to go buy a couple gallons of paint?

-I'm not sure I can do gray. Maybe I should just go buy a small container of real black and go over with the black at the end?

I was totally and completely fixated on gray. Just before I was finishing the last part of the last cabinet, I noticed that my gray was drying a bit darker. I breathed a sigh of relief, noted that I hadn't been that covered in paint since high school when I worked on Tech Crew backstage making sets for plays and such. While admiring the nice dark black color my cabinets were drying into, I stepped backwards off my handy dandy step stool.

Right into the bucket of paint.

Because I'm Chas and that. Is just what I do.

I will now leave you with the mental picture of me with a black foot and ankle wrapping a makeshift cover with improvised drop cloth rippings, (plastic and paint are slipperier than ice- it's a wonder I didn't break anything) once again scaling Mount Babygate, hunchback sliding my foot across from the bathroom to the living room and finally through the kitchen to the sink (the bathroom sink is out of commission remember). I'm 5 foot 3, so I have nooooooo clue how I cleared the counter and managed to get my foot in the sink without leaving a trail of gray (until it dries anyway). I will tell you it was a sight to behold.

Next time I have an epiphany, somebody needs to smack me back into reality.

Discovering a Different Perspective

The Fairy Tale.

Cinderella and her Prince.

Butterflies, flushing newness, and happily ever after.

I can't truly speak for all American girls, but I can say that I grew up with a horribly misrepresented notion of happily ever after and the fairy tale. The handsome prince who was perfect and flawless. The certainty of being swept off my feet and worshiped and treasured surely meant a lifetime crammed full of sweet nothings and blushing cheeks and intestinal flip-flops, right?

The bookworm that I was as a young girl ran into book after book about the beautiful girl and the prince (or cowboy or dark and mysterious rogue rebel as I grew older) who supplied her life with the promise of happiness and flowers and suave romance and heart palpitating lust every moment of every day for eternity and forever. To my 20th century American girl mind, that was the definition of happily ever after.

I never once read a book about the day Cinderella woke up and realized she would spend the rest of her life eternally retrieving Princely's skivvies from the floor next to the empty laundry hamper. I never read any of her rants about how at least the ugly step-sisters left their clothing inside the hamper and left the stinking toilet seat down and they for freaking sure never ever supplied her bed with so many pillows she dreamt about being choked by marshmallows.

Nor did I encounter a book about how to continue loving your prince through bouts of extreme anger and frustration and tears and hurt (aka P.M.S.) and how to come to terms with the realization that life and love and marriage isn't the idealistic fairy tale I once thought it was.

Now that I'm older and I've experienced a great deal of marriage and love I realize that while fairy tales do exist, it is my concept of both the fairy tale and happily ever after that was grossly askew. Here, I'll explain.



This is a photo of one of my most beloved, highly prized possessions.

It's a poem written for me by my very own Bonehead while he was out at sea for the first time after becoming my husband. It is about both him and (a highly romanticized concept of) me. I'd share the story of the inner romance but some things in a marriage must always remain sacred. What I will say is that upon his return after our first prolonged separation as husband and wife he presented me with this poem.

A few years later he secretly commissioned my high school best friend and maid of honor to turn the poem into a beautiful one of a kind piece of art. For the longest time I kept it tucked away safely in a closet so no harm could come to it. Occasionally I would take a peek, run my fingers lovingly over it and allow the words to once again fill my heart with love.

One day Bonehead took it from it's safe place without my knowledge, grabbed my toddling Smoochie, and the two of them had it professionally framed for me. Almost 10 years into our marriage I walked into our bedroom and found it waiting for me on my pillow.

I know now that happily ever after is different for each person. For me, it is the scattering of joyful moments that tie together the mundane. My fairy tale is knowing the continuing love of a man and being able to share the ins and outs (and yes, the frustration and anger too) of every day life with him. My happily ever after lies with this poem and many other unexpected moments like these that fill my heart with joy.