Super J has taken a few hours every warm day during the past two weeks to Power Wash our fence. If you recall, the fence had to be repaired and needed to consequently be restained. Prior to much squirreliness at work and necessary budgeting, Super J had procured the necessary equipment to work on this task. And so he has been.
I must say, the fence looks terrific. It has been stripped of the strange rust colored stain that the sun had been continuing to weather. But it's been a lot of work (A. LOT.).
In fact, Super J's at home this morning finishing it up; he's been at it for about 2 and a half hours now. And I just have to say that I feel some guilt sitting at the computer blogging, knowing he is out there doing all this manual labor...for HOURS.
Does anyone else feel like this? I mean, seriously Gentle Reader, when your spouse or significant other or roommate or sibling or parent or whoever is out "working" on something, do you feel compelled to be "working" on something, too? Something ie: not frivolous? And then once you get that task done, THEN what. Because that's where I'm at right now. I'm done with my "get it done tasks" (well, except folding Mt. Doom of Laundry, but that's rarely on my "get it done tasks" list, so I don't count that).
Ohhhhhh, hallelujah! The baby has woke up from her nap. Crisis averted. Whew. But I'd still like to hear any thoughts you'd like to share. :)
Friday, March 6, 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Bull-hooey
So, I was trying to be a good mom. Seriously, I promise I was. As I watched my three oldest girls carrying out pitchers of water and come back and report how great it was that they were playing in the mud, I thought to myself, "See. This is what it's about to be a kid. Playing in the mud. Getting dirty. Drying in the sun" (for albeit windy here in Metropolis, it was rather warm today). I didn't see them for a while, but I knew they were having a good time.
And then they came in.
They were CAKED in mud, up to their armpits, faces slathered. They were coated. And, to make things even more...breathtakingly filthy, every step they took unearthed some of it onto my floor and carpet and stairs.
I should have, in hindsight, had them strip right then and there instead of marching them to their bathroom to denude, but I didn't. At least I had a rational moment to have them take off their shoes (and mind you, not their off brand Krocs, but their school shoes, for crying out loud! Of course their school shoes) which were also just covered. Still. Holy trail of earthen dirt!
We now pause for the moment of personal growth:
For many years as a mother, I have felt tremendous guilt over this little poem (to the left...click for a larger image).
No more.
I had an epiphany today: I need it clean. Or even the semblance of clean. Or even the desire to be clean. Because without it, I am a joy crusher. A dream destroyer. A merciless mother when it comes to activities that make my house get messy.
Oh my holy cow, do you know how many times I've said NO to my kids ideas and activities and now I know why: because without a shadow of a doubt, at this moment in my life, on the precipice of a depression, I just don't have it in me to clean up after it.
Because it will be me, in the end, who has to clean up. And there's just one of me. Yes, Super J helps out when he can, and the girls will work to complete an assigned tidying task, but only to the level that (at most) 6 year olds can achieve and with lots of guidance and often, nagging. That means that *I* am outnumbered and when I see stuff like this, I confess Gentle Reader, I lose my cool. And I swear, a lot, in my head (and mayhaps a wee bit under my breath). It's true. I am no longer ashamed to admit it. ...well, maybe a bit, but still. I realize that there are many of you who are successful at doing both...letting your children be creative and messy and full of these aspirations AND teach them to clean up after themselves, but it's just taking me a bit longer to get there, and I'm not 100% sure it ever will. And I'm okay with that.
I mean, I'm not okay that I have to nag them to clean. That I'm working on. But I'm done feeling bad because I don't let them paint every time they want to.
Alrighty, so continuing on with today's story...the girls got an early bath. The stairs got vacuumed (a task I detest) as did the rest of the house. Floors got mopped (yes, they were that muddy). And quite frankly, as I cleaned my temper grew smaller and smaller and I actually feel pretty good right now. This is what led to the epiphany, which I kinda knew but really just got hit home again so I thought I might as well record this for my girls to read when they are older: Cleaning soothes the savage mother. It did with MY mom. When she'd get worked up, we'd all start cleaning. It literally kept her from giving us beatings, which is what she got as a child. This was her method to break the cycle of abuse. And it still works for me.
When I get angry, I like to vacuum. I like a clean kitchen, so I'll clean it. I function better in an orderly home. We all do, but some can take a messier place better than others. That doesn't mean that everything in my house is in order. Please. Have you been to my house? But if there is at least one room in my house where things are in its place, I can seek refuge from all that ails. I know there is hope, somewhere.
So, yes, my children are aging and I will never have this time with them again and I'm sure I'm missing out on some things, but maybe if I stop feeling so flippin' guilty about all this other stuff and just let myself be who I am, not who I think I really should be, my sweet girls will remember me being happier during their childhood, and that's not such a bad thing to want for them...and for me.
And then they came in.
They were CAKED in mud, up to their armpits, faces slathered. They were coated. And, to make things even more...breathtakingly filthy, every step they took unearthed some of it onto my floor and carpet and stairs.
I should have, in hindsight, had them strip right then and there instead of marching them to their bathroom to denude, but I didn't. At least I had a rational moment to have them take off their shoes (and mind you, not their off brand Krocs, but their school shoes, for crying out loud! Of course their school shoes) which were also just covered. Still. Holy trail of earthen dirt!
We now pause for the moment of personal growth:
For many years as a mother, I have felt tremendous guilt over this little poem (to the left...click for a larger image).
No more.
I had an epiphany today: I need it clean. Or even the semblance of clean. Or even the desire to be clean. Because without it, I am a joy crusher. A dream destroyer. A merciless mother when it comes to activities that make my house get messy.
Oh my holy cow, do you know how many times I've said NO to my kids ideas and activities and now I know why: because without a shadow of a doubt, at this moment in my life, on the precipice of a depression, I just don't have it in me to clean up after it.
Because it will be me, in the end, who has to clean up. And there's just one of me. Yes, Super J helps out when he can, and the girls will work to complete an assigned tidying task, but only to the level that (at most) 6 year olds can achieve and with lots of guidance and often, nagging. That means that *I* am outnumbered and when I see stuff like this, I confess Gentle Reader, I lose my cool. And I swear, a lot, in my head (and mayhaps a wee bit under my breath). It's true. I am no longer ashamed to admit it. ...well, maybe a bit, but still. I realize that there are many of you who are successful at doing both...letting your children be creative and messy and full of these aspirations AND teach them to clean up after themselves, but it's just taking me a bit longer to get there, and I'm not 100% sure it ever will. And I'm okay with that.
I mean, I'm not okay that I have to nag them to clean. That I'm working on. But I'm done feeling bad because I don't let them paint every time they want to.
Alrighty, so continuing on with today's story...the girls got an early bath. The stairs got vacuumed (a task I detest) as did the rest of the house. Floors got mopped (yes, they were that muddy). And quite frankly, as I cleaned my temper grew smaller and smaller and I actually feel pretty good right now. This is what led to the epiphany, which I kinda knew but really just got hit home again so I thought I might as well record this for my girls to read when they are older: Cleaning soothes the savage mother. It did with MY mom. When she'd get worked up, we'd all start cleaning. It literally kept her from giving us beatings, which is what she got as a child. This was her method to break the cycle of abuse. And it still works for me.
When I get angry, I like to vacuum. I like a clean kitchen, so I'll clean it. I function better in an orderly home. We all do, but some can take a messier place better than others. That doesn't mean that everything in my house is in order. Please. Have you been to my house? But if there is at least one room in my house where things are in its place, I can seek refuge from all that ails. I know there is hope, somewhere.
So, yes, my children are aging and I will never have this time with them again and I'm sure I'm missing out on some things, but maybe if I stop feeling so flippin' guilty about all this other stuff and just let myself be who I am, not who I think I really should be, my sweet girls will remember me being happier during their childhood, and that's not such a bad thing to want for them...and for me.
Where the wind comes sweeping down the plains
Hooooooooooooly cow! It is windy out there in Metropolis. 
We went to playgroup this morning (only 50 minutes late, thank you!) and one of my friends said, "Hope you didn't try to fix your hair before you came!" because all of our hairs were, quite simply, plastered to one side of our heads or whipping off the other, like flags out of control. Unruliness at its finest. And I thought to myself, Awwww, heck! I could have gone for another day with my unbrushed Wal-mart visiting hair and no one would have been any wiser!!! Oh well.
What's worse is that when you do finally arrive home, your hair just simply cannot recover from that kind of natural blow drying. However, I was quite comforted to know that you can try to achieve this same gravity defying look on the professional level. Hmmmmmmm.....
We went to playgroup this morning (only 50 minutes late, thank you!) and one of my friends said, "Hope you didn't try to fix your hair before you came!" because all of our hairs were, quite simply, plastered to one side of our heads or whipping off the other, like flags out of control. Unruliness at its finest. And I thought to myself, Awwww, heck! I could have gone for another day with my unbrushed Wal-mart visiting hair and no one would have been any wiser!!! Oh well.
What's worse is that when you do finally arrive home, your hair just simply cannot recover from that kind of natural blow drying. However, I was quite comforted to know that you can try to achieve this same gravity defying look on the professional level. Hmmmmmmm.....
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Can You Say, "Sleep Deprivation," in It's Native Tongue?
Motherhood. A beautiful thing. Precious children entrusted to our care. Tiny, helpless, needy beings totally reliant on us to protect, feed, nurture and change them. To cradle them and raise them with love and compassion and the swelling pride of parenthood. If ONLY they knew how much better we could do OUR part if they would do their part. And by that, I mean sleep.
Remember me saying how great Miss Q was as a sleeper? Because she was. Notice the past tense of that phrase. Anyone who has seen my drooling baby knows we are in the midst of teething. Throw that in with a cold and shocking moments of unexpected gas eruptions, and Oh yeah!, an aching jaw on my part, and you have the most atrocious scenario for me last night. We were up many many MANY times, and of course, Miss O decided that she needed to come sleep in our room (we don't let them get into bed with us, but we do let them sleep on the floor next to the bed--Super J creates a little bed palette next to ours. We aren't *that* mean. Though, Super J figures if they'll sleep next to the laundry hamper and his shoes, they must really want to be in the room with us. ANYWAY! I digress).
When I "woke" up for the morning, ...well..., let's just say I was NOT Miss Merry Sunshine. Once again, for a brief moment, I felt like a failure of a mother as I snapped at my kids who couldn't understand my half mumbles and incoherent commands and psychic utterances. How could they??? Because who honestly can speak Sleep Deprivation? Super J has gotten pretty good over the years, but still, it's something that you really don't want to have to hone. And I don't want to have to keep practicing it, that's for sure.
So, I bring all this up because once again I was out driving (ack! They should have a warning you can put on cars for moms with new babies, something like: Please don't honk! I'm driving under deprivation of nocturnal bliss), unshowered, in a faded t-shirt, anklet socks and off brand Kroc's, wearing my well-worn blue hoody jacket which is currently sporting some spit-up stains and dried snot (did I mention Miss Q has a cold?), and not caring as Misses O and Q and I went to Wal-Mart. Because can I just say NO ONE is at Wal-Mart shopping at 8:45 in the morning...except the Elderly, who seem especially spry at that hour which makes me kinda bitter, but they look with knowing empathy at me with my offspring in the cart, so I don't feel so bad that I didn't even brush my hair (...unless you count me running my hand through it. If you do, then yes, I did brush my hair). And I thought to myself: I have come to this.
Almost seven years of lack of sleep and I am not only totally willing to, but I embrace, going out of my house looking like this simply because I am too tired to care! And what's scary is that I know I haven't hit bottom yet because I still put a bra on before I went out. But Gentle Reader, it crossed my mind. Indeed it did.
I'm looking forward to reclaiming myself, or at least attempting to, at some point in the future. Super J keeps telling me that when Miss Q is 18 months old, I won't recognize myself. I believe him. I have to. Because I can only go up from here.
I can hardly wait for nap time.
Remember me saying how great Miss Q was as a sleeper? Because she was. Notice the past tense of that phrase. Anyone who has seen my drooling baby knows we are in the midst of teething. Throw that in with a cold and shocking moments of unexpected gas eruptions, and Oh yeah!, an aching jaw on my part, and you have the most atrocious scenario for me last night. We were up many many MANY times, and of course, Miss O decided that she needed to come sleep in our room (we don't let them get into bed with us, but we do let them sleep on the floor next to the bed--Super J creates a little bed palette next to ours. We aren't *that* mean. Though, Super J figures if they'll sleep next to the laundry hamper and his shoes, they must really want to be in the room with us. ANYWAY! I digress).
When I "woke" up for the morning, ...well..., let's just say I was NOT Miss Merry Sunshine. Once again, for a brief moment, I felt like a failure of a mother as I snapped at my kids who couldn't understand my half mumbles and incoherent commands and psychic utterances. How could they??? Because who honestly can speak Sleep Deprivation? Super J has gotten pretty good over the years, but still, it's something that you really don't want to have to hone. And I don't want to have to keep practicing it, that's for sure.
So, I bring all this up because once again I was out driving (ack! They should have a warning you can put on cars for moms with new babies, something like: Please don't honk! I'm driving under deprivation of nocturnal bliss), unshowered, in a faded t-shirt, anklet socks and off brand Kroc's, wearing my well-worn blue hoody jacket which is currently sporting some spit-up stains and dried snot (did I mention Miss Q has a cold?), and not caring as Misses O and Q and I went to Wal-Mart. Because can I just say NO ONE is at Wal-Mart shopping at 8:45 in the morning...except the Elderly, who seem especially spry at that hour which makes me kinda bitter, but they look with knowing empathy at me with my offspring in the cart, so I don't feel so bad that I didn't even brush my hair (...unless you count me running my hand through it. If you do, then yes, I did brush my hair). And I thought to myself: I have come to this.
Almost seven years of lack of sleep and I am not only totally willing to, but I embrace, going out of my house looking like this simply because I am too tired to care! And what's scary is that I know I haven't hit bottom yet because I still put a bra on before I went out. But Gentle Reader, it crossed my mind. Indeed it did.
I'm looking forward to reclaiming myself, or at least attempting to, at some point in the future. Super J keeps telling me that when Miss Q is 18 months old, I won't recognize myself. I believe him. I have to. Because I can only go up from here.
I can hardly wait for nap time.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
I AM the Queen, kinda
Went back to the dentist today and now have a lovely temporary crown, upon which I cannot eat anything hard or chewy (I guess that means no Snickers Bars). Also, I am currently enjoying an extraordinarily numb right side of my face. Super J said I look like I'm ready to sing some Elvis' songs, I'm so droopy.
Seriously, it was so numb that I couldn't close my right eye all the way while the dentist was drilling and doing all that stuff in there, so I had these random tears that would just drip out of my eye and I could do nothing to stop it. Later, I rubbed my ear and couldn't really feel it. That's numb.
Of course, have you ever noticed that you aren't totally numb until AFTER you leave the dentist's office????
Anyway, the hard part is over. Thank heavens.
Seriously, it was so numb that I couldn't close my right eye all the way while the dentist was drilling and doing all that stuff in there, so I had these random tears that would just drip out of my eye and I could do nothing to stop it. Later, I rubbed my ear and couldn't really feel it. That's numb.
Of course, have you ever noticed that you aren't totally numb until AFTER you leave the dentist's office????
Anyway, the hard part is over. Thank heavens.
Click Clack Click
I've never been a nail biter. In fact, one of my prized talents I've had and cultivated since I was little is that I've been able to grow my fingernails long. Over time, that talent has led to certain...quirks, I suppose you might call them.
My biggest one is that if one nail breaks, they all get cut to the same size (or close proximity). Thus, I will never be in the running for a world record, and I can't quite explain how totally okay I am with that. Ewwwww.
AHEM!!!
ANYWAY, I share this because, for whatever reason, this past weekend has been brutal on the ol' nails. Even the ones I trimmed down got jagged and had to be filed down to almost nothing. Why, just this morning, I had to trim two more down to the quick (well, maybe not the quick, but pretty close).
Interestingly, while it is annoying to have all my nails cut short, I just have to say that the silver lining is that it is so pleasant to type with shorter nails. I have fewer typos and can actually type faster. Will that keep me from growing out my nails again? Nah.
What about you, Gentle Reader? Do you have long nails or short nails. And which do you prefer when typing?
My biggest one is that if one nail breaks, they all get cut to the same size (or close proximity). Thus, I will never be in the running for a world record, and I can't quite explain how totally okay I am with that. Ewwwww.
AHEM!!!
ANYWAY, I share this because, for whatever reason, this past weekend has been brutal on the ol' nails. Even the ones I trimmed down got jagged and had to be filed down to almost nothing. Why, just this morning, I had to trim two more down to the quick (well, maybe not the quick, but pretty close).
Interestingly, while it is annoying to have all my nails cut short, I just have to say that the silver lining is that it is so pleasant to type with shorter nails. I have fewer typos and can actually type faster. Will that keep me from growing out my nails again? Nah.
What about you, Gentle Reader? Do you have long nails or short nails. And which do you prefer when typing?
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Becasue Sometimes I Forget
...that there are better days. But there are.
And today was one of them. Just wanted to share that, too.
UPDATE: Um...In the title, well, that should be "BECAUSE". I know that. But I kinda like Becasue. It kinda encapsulates the weekend for me...misspelled, but readable and understandable nevertheless.
And today was one of them. Just wanted to share that, too.
UPDATE: Um...In the title, well, that should be "BECAUSE". I know that. But I kinda like Becasue. It kinda encapsulates the weekend for me...misspelled, but readable and understandable nevertheless.
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