Delightful

I spend an unhealthy amount of time in my own head.  I ruminate about things.  I fester.  I struggle with frequently bouts of depression brought on mainly by my own belief that I'm Doing It All Wrong.  My brain tells me often that I'm failing.  At everything.

Which is, you know, ridiculous. 

A therapist told me once that I need to stop believing that voice in my head.  The one that tells me I have everyone snowed.  That if they knew The Real Me, they'd run far away.  The therapist said that I am REALLY the girl everyone else sees.  That THAT girl is the real me.  The girl on the outside IS me.

The voice in my head is lying.  Huh.  Who knew?

That same therapist told me that I am "one of the most delightful people he's ever met".  Which, you know, could have been some therapy-style trick to make me feel good, but for some reason it had a dramatic impact.  In other words: his trick worked! I left his office thinking "Damn! I'm delightful!"  I actually believed him. 

Sometimes I'm still a wreck.  My house gets messy and my pants get tight and I bark at my kids when I shouldn't, but instead of allowing that voice to tell me I'm a failure, I just try to remember that I'm delightful.  DELIGHTFUL, dammit!

Hipster

On my hip in 2010

Due to strange circumstances, Dave was home early today from work, which meant that he was here when I arrived home from Mother's Day Out with Paige.  Because I knew Dave was upstairs, I grabbed Paige out of the car and carried her all the way up to him.  She rode on my hip the way she did when she was a much smaller girl.  Except today her legs hung down to my knees and her weight bore down on my joints. 

It occured to me even in that moment that this very well could be the last time I carry her like this.  Which means, it's the last time I'll carry any of my babies like that.  Riding along on my hip as if they are still attached via umbilical.

It made me sad to witness a little piece of their childhoods falling away.  And since so many of these things go by unnoticed - the last bottle, the last night with a pacifier, the last pair of footie pajamas - I decided I'd write down the last day I carried my last baby on my hip. 

I want to remember this one.  Just because.

How's it Going?

morning snuggles

So I've been pseudo-homeschooling my first grader since September.  Aren't you wondering how it's going?  I hardly ever talk about it on my blog.  Why?  Because it's been such a non-issue.  So completely easy and good that writing about it would be sort of boring.

For those of you who are new here, my kid was in public school for three years (two years of pre-k, and then Kindergarten), before I chose to move him into a smaller private school.  A private school that only meets two days per week.  Mondays and Wednesdays William attends school all day just like any other kid.  Tuesdays and Thursdays he is tasked with specific homework assigned by his teacher.  My job on homeschool days is to keep him on task, and answer questions if necessary. 

Which means I'm not *really* homeschooling.  Because I do not have to introduce or teach any topics.

There are two things about this "blended model" that I find difficult.  The first is silly, but it does cause us MUCH grief: waking up on school days.  William must rise by 7am in order to arrive at school by 8:30am.  He finds this wake-up time to be VERY offensive.  We've had several mornings where he's vacillated between weeping and surliness because he's "so very tired".  In fact, if you ask him how he likes his new school, he's libel to say "it's fine, but it's SO EARLY". 

Now, you and I both know that if he were attending "real school" he'd have to rise every single day at the "ungodly hour" of 7am.  But I warn you not to try and use this rationale with William.  He's not buying it.  He is utterly convinced that all of the public school children sleep until they wake naturally, then wander off to school where they have hours and hours of recess followed by cupcake parties every afternoon. He believes this because in Kindergarten, he really DID have hours and hours of recess, and sometimes they'd watch an entire Disney movie in the afternoons.  Yeesh.

The other difficulty with the "blended model" is William's struggle to stay focused during our homeschool days.  There are many moments when my only option is to sit right next to him and force him to finish his work.  As you might imagine, this is a frustrating situation for both of us. 

But that's it.  Two complaints.  Everything else is wonderful.  The curriculum is impressively intense, and yet he is keeping up with the work without any trouble.  He loves his teacher and his new friends.  *I* love the other mothers (who are all crazy just like me!).  We still have cupcake parties (a reasonable number).  And (contrary to William's wailings) there is plenty of recess and P.E.

But the best part? The easy pace.  Three mornings per week, I snuggle in bed with my kids until 8am.  We eat a leisurely breakfast and start school at 9am.  We're usually done by lunch and then we can play the rest of the day.  We typically stay in our pajamas until school work is done.  For me, it's heaven.

I often think of other  mothers busily making lunches and hustling children to carpool while I'm under the covers snuggling with my kids.  I love our time together.  I love that William and Paige have become so close (William paces outside the door when Paige is napping, just waiting for her to wake up). 

I know this life would not be for everyone, but it suits us.

I have no idea what the future holds.  I have no idea if this is the school for us until graduation.  I just know it's working now.  My kids are happy.  I'm happy.

It's working. 

Acid Test

This is *my* dog, who is mute. 

So there's this dog.  He's a "golden doodle", I believe.  His name is Henry* and he lives in the house that backs up to our house. 

*I know his name is Henry because his owners can often be heard outside calling the dog by name while cajoling him into "going potty", presumably because they are on their lunch break and cannot afford to wait for Henry dawdle while doo-ing.

And Henry? He loves to bark.  Oh how he loves it.  He barks each and every time his owners let him out into his yard.  Multiple times daily Henry barks and barks and baaaarks.  Loudly.  Repetitively.  Constantly. If barking were knitting we'd all be wearing sweaters.  All of us.  You too.  A nice sweater knitted with love by Henry. 

Now, Dave and I have spent the last six months bitching and moaning about That Damn Dog.  We stomp around and make comments about The Type of Person who would let a dog Disturb Our Peace.  We grumble and moan and gnash our teeth WITH EACH OTHER.  Because we are not the types to make waves.

At least we weren't until today.

Today Dave arrived home from work to the New Normal: a cacophony of woofing.  When I told him that Henry had already been barking for an entire hour, Dave decided he'd Had Enough and was going to Do Something.  Namely: call the neighbor.  Someone whom we have never met, mind you. 

I panicked.  I might have even begged Dave not to make the call. 

Me: Please don't call. 

Him: I'm calling.  This is ridiculous.

Me: I don't want to start a war with our neighbors!

Him: No, this has gone on long enough.

Me: What if they take retribution?

Him: Like what? Are they going to throw acid on our children?

Me: OMG I hadn't thought of that THEY WILL TOTALLY THROW ACID ON OUR CHILDREN!

And then he walked outside on the back porch and called.  I stayed inside watching him through the window nervously shifting my weight from side to side and wringing my hands. 

He came back inside a few minutes later and said the owner was apologetic and said SHE COULDN'T HEAR THE BARKING (because she is clearly deaf), and that she would bring the dog inside immediately.

Dave was cocky.  "See? Nothing to worry about. Problem solved".

I'll admit, I was cowed.  He showed them who's boss, didn't he?

But then? (oh you KNEW there was more, right?). The neighbor CALLED BACK about an hour later and left a message on our machine asking us to call her.  I told Dave that she'd had time to stew about his complaint about Her Angel and now? CLEARLY SHE WAS GOING TO THREATEN MY CHILDREN WITH ACID.

I mean, why ELSE would she be calling back?  WHY? What other possible reason could there be?

Um.  Turns out she called back to apologize again for disturbing us.

Which I assume was just a way to lure us into a false sense of security so that she could throw some acid on our children.  It's the only thing that makes sense.

Bullet Points

So, I'm looking for part-time work. 

I put a note on Twitter last week and within hours a woman (whom I know in real life) contacted me about her company.  She suggested I apply for a part-time position.  And she asked for... (wait for it) A RESUME.

Of course she did.  Because DUH, if you want a JOB you're going to need a resume.  Everyone knows that.

Except that I hadn't even THOUGHT about a resume before I opened my big yap and asked Twitter to give me a job.  What the hell is wrong with me? And I have to tell you, the last resume I put together contained information FROM THE NINETIES.  Yes! 

This means 1) I am older than water and dirt and 2) I have nothing to PUT on a resume.

I've been a stay-at-home mother for almost eight years.  Eight years ago - back when I actually earned a paycheck - the Internet was still "so new and groovy!" (ok, we didn't really say words like "groovy" in 2004, but still).  Blogs had not even been invented!

As a side note: how the hell did we live without Facebook and Pinterest and blogs?  My gosh, life was hard back in the Olden Days.

So now I'm tasked with coming up with a resume that does not scream "MOMMY APPLYING RUNRUNRUN!"  And also, I'm forced to put things on my resume to show that I can actually DO something.  You know, I'm supposed to point out all of the charity work and volunteering I've done.

Which is fine I suppose.  But I'm sad that I can't point out all of the things I've REALLY been doing these last eight years.  Things that are, in my opinion, MUCH more impressive than "Supervising the implementation of CRM campaign management software from initial data definition to completion" (which was an actual bullet point on my resume back in 2001.  I *think* I know what it means.  Mostly). 

I wish people knew who I have become these last eight years.  I wish they knew that THIS job is the one I'm most proud of.  That THIS is the job that has made me who I am.  And THIS is the job that has proven to me that I am capable of anything.  An. EEE. Thing. 

But sadly, "capable of nursing a baby while simultaneously peeing and comforting a sobbing 4 year old" is not something you can really put on a resume.

The Whoorl Curl

Well, apparently Sarah over at Whoorl featured a photo of my hair (or HAY-er as some Oklahomans call it) on her blog. 

Pardon me while I faint from all the blushing.

If you are here visiting for the first time from Whoorl, let me just warn you, I do not always have great hair.  Oh yes, sometimes I can rock the 'Alt Summit Bun' (as it will forever be known).

But most days you will find me schlepping around in yoga pants with my bedraggled locks in a nasty tangle.   Unlike Sarah's, my blog will not inspire you to be more beautiful.  To dress better.  To organize your life and get rid of clutter.

No, mostly you will find stories here about my children, their poop (among other things), and (a shocking number of ) tales about my underwear.

You should probably just run now while you have the chance.  Or, hell, stay!  I might make you feel better about yourself.

Perky



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It's strange.  Some days I'm inexplicably down.  I blame the moon.  And solar flares.  And pollen.

So forgive me while I curl up in bed and watch Downton Abbey while simultaneously balancing the checkbook. 

What?  We all know nothing is more cheering than Quickbooks and an English accent.  Duh.