The Beginning Of December

The night before last, I got out of work 22 minutes early. The moon was full. I put christmas carols on in the truck, and I sang on the way home.

When I got home, a woman popped out of the car, pointed a camera at me, and drove away. She couldn't have been taking a picture of me, could she? Perhaps she was transfixed by the gorgeous, glowing full moon over my shoulder? My holiday spirit was silently snuffed out. I reminded myself that the days of being followed by private investigators, aimed with the intent of finding fault and taking my children from me, are over. I forced myself into jolliness by loudly singing "Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer" as I climbed the stairs to the apartment. My home was filled with the smells of a good dinner and a loving family. My husband was vacuuming, and you know nothing turns me on like a man doing housework. I wondered what my ex comes home to at night. He wouldn't start that stuff again, would he? No matter. Years have passed and I have spent them building a solid foundation under me, I told myself. I am stronger, but even after years passing, the fear is still there.

My ex's sister in law showed up on my doorstep last weekend. I was a dishevelled mess, of course. She let me know that she is getting a divorce, and their house is being foreclosed upon. She has lost about one hundred pounds, and I would not have recognized her if I passed by on the street. I wished her all the best, but I felt terribly awkward. Those are the moments when I wish my hair was brushed, at least.

Last night we decorated the christmas tree. My mind was filled with work issues, and bills, and cleaning, and all the obligations of the holidays, yet all that melted away in watching the girls' glee. "Oh! Look at this one!" "I remember when I made this!" "This is my favorite one! No, this is my favorite one!" Many ornaments do come with attached memories. We unwrapped candles and light-up Santas, a ceramic centerpiece and a green and red tree skirt, and the girls' seemed enthralled with it all. Afterwards, we lit the tree and all the candles, drank hot chocolate, cut out paper snowflakes and watched The Polar Express. I wouldn't have done any of this if it weren't for them. I would have sat in my dark room surfing Facebook. Having a loving family is my biggest blessing.


I have torn the house apart. Since starting working full time in May, organizing the wedding, going away on my honeymoon, and my husband 110% focused on starting his business, the house did not clean its' self. I realized that I have never lived in one place long enough to need to steam clean the carpets, scrub the baseboards and launder the curtains. You have to WASH curtains? I didn't know.
I also didn't know how much satisfaction I could get from doing it. Don't be confused, it's not like, Yay! Housecleaning! but I am maturing into appreciating clean towels, folded and put away. I spent an afternoon underneath the folding table I use as a desk, going through papers and throwing things away. Then I went after the closet. Then I went after the girls' room (Goddess help me!). My girls aren't into toys. I know, it is weird. They are into projects. Knitting projects. Sticker projects. Sewing-painting-glitter projects which leave little paperbits-clothbits-glitterbits, sticky with glue, stuffed into every orafice of their bedroom. Beads are EVERYWHERE. Not just under the bed. IN the bed. Underneath the carpet that was supposed to be wall-to-wall. In the doll's shoes. In between the pages of Nancy Drew...beads! Who am I to stiffle their creativity? Never one myself for "tidyness", exactly...I may have found that even I have a limit. I have excavated about half of the apartment thus far.

Introducing Gretel

Gretel brings so much joy into my life. She knows when my bedtime is, and she comes to have her ears scratched before I fall asleep. Regardless of how irritating my day has been, I fall asleep happy, listening to her purring. In the morning, my husband looks for her, and gives her "talks" about her obligation to end mouse lives. He brings her presents from the dollar store. Watching him fall in love with Gretel makes me think he will be a very good Dad to a baby.

I had to sign up for my health insurance benefits today, which also makes me think about babies. I want to have two more, but I didn't plan the first two, and so I have no experience in planned babies. It's all new! How much money do I need? When is the right time? Now? Later? Never? What should I do? How much does prenatal care cost? How long does it take? When will it happen? What if I don't like the thing, can I send it back? Apparently, there is a no return policy. My worst fear is giving birth to an asshole.

My best friend freaked out today when I talked about this with her. She has a strong opinion: NO MORE BABIES! NO! NO! NO! I think in her worldview only truly insane people have more than two. For me, I feel so enriched by my girls, and I feel like having a big family would be a dream come true. Even after every ounce of excrutiating hell I withstood in my divorce and ensuing custody nightmare, that never obscurred the joy that I get from my kids. To me, the experience was hell/mothering is AWESOME!

I want to experience what it all would be like with a loving, stable, rational partner, too. I missed that when my girls were small. I want to build a beautiful tribe, and have that be part of my legacy. My mom warns me that the age difference between the girls and whichever children we eventually have will be difficult. My mom had one in highschool, one in middle and one in elementary, and was very, very tired. My husband, forever the optimist, says who better to help the children navigate the situation than me, having lived it myself?

Sure, there is money and time and resources to worry about, and I'm taking the time to worry about them this time. I'm trying something new: Looking Before I Leap. Thinking Before Acting. Plannnnnnnnnnnnning.

“When planning for a year, plant corn. When planning for a decade, plant trees. When planning for life, train and educate people.”-Chinese Proverb

Shrug. We'll see. Family planning gives us the illusion of control, but still there are an infinite number of uncontrollable variables. There, exactly, is the point where I contemplate the role of The Gods. We'll see.

A few art projects

Pocahontas

Hello from the parenting trenches. Whoo0-ya! I'm a parenting marine today! This hippy granola school that I so intelligently enrolled my children in is really busting my chops. I need an AUTHENTIC pocahontas costume by tuesday, I need a native american dish to serve four, I need a poster with 5 pocahontas facts, 3 pocahontas pictures, and a timeline with 7 events. The timeline must be memorized. I need one hundred paper plates and signed report cards to bring with me on tuesday for parent teacher conferences AND there was also a book report to do, due Monday.

It started at seven am with the "mommymommymommy, are you awake? Let me put the ass of the cat in your face!" There is nothing like waking up to the wrong end of a cat to put me in a great mood.

My husband was doing color commentary for a double header today, and took my beloved truck. No problem! Off we hiked to the drug store for posterboard. We cut and colored and copied. I can do posters in my sleep. We used genuine fall leaves, just for pizazz.

Then it came down to the costume. The real Pocahontas was naked. John Smith commented in it in his journal. All the boys were turning cartwheels, and she wheeled around with them, completely unaware of her heathen nakedness, to paraphrase. You can't go from the disney pocahontas, obviously. What does a 17th century Algonquin girl wear? That I have in my house?

Nothing. I can't find any useful resources online. Everything has seventeen years of beading and animal pelts involved. I get out the movie The New World, and the girl wears leather dental floss. I can't send my kid to school in that. I begin to get frustrated. I take down an old bedsheet, and start cutting and making fringe. Hours pass. Complete disaster. My elder daughter tells me she can't wear it. I say fine and sulk in the bathtub, grumbling fuckthisschoolandtheirgoddamnauthenticnative

americancostumedamandingvolvodriving

organicyogurteatingbunchoffuckingassholes, etc.

Now I'm out the material I was going to use, and the kids want dinner. I order chinese, and take down my husband's brown curtain in "The Man Room". Too bad. If you hadn't abandoned me and taken my truck, your window would still be dressed. I put in a completely child inappropriate movie that I like, tell the kids not to listen to the dirty jokes, and get out a needle and thread. I try to psych myself up. I can do this. I sew all the time. I got a B in home ec in eighth grade. I make dresses ALL THE TIME, if by all the time you mean never.

So, sew sew sew, eat a steamed dumpling, sew sew, check the book report, sew. Here is the finished product. It ain't no great shakes, but let me assure you, it is well, WELL beyond my capability. My daughter totally loves me, and tells me that she will remember this when she becomes a teenager and is tempted to hate me. She better.

I give you....Pocahontas.

Getting There

Last night my husband and I went on a date. I had woken up in the morning crying. I dreamed about my friend who had passed away last spring, and every time I think of her, I think of her young family, just like mine. I think about the fact that my time on earth is limited, and I am not yet what I want to be.

All day I was in a bad mood. I have a gong that goes off inside me, chiming "Get there. Get there. Get there." I don't know where there is. I only know it isn't here. It is tormenting.

So, on my date with my man (he is SUCH a good man!) we talked about the time when we first met. Only days after we met, I found myself in the emergency room with a 103. 7 fever. I had just returned from a trip to the Adirondacks. I had just met my future husband, and had pulled an all-nighter (or two?) just to spend time with him, and then I fell sick. I thought I had been biten by a poisonous spider while I was camping because I had a welt the size of a lacrosse ball on my rear end.

When I got to the hospital, they whisked me inside, and all of a sudden, just like on tv, there were six people on me, poking me and proding me, and giving me ivs. They diagnosed me with MRSA, and coursing with antibiotics, they sent me home at about 3am.

I got in my car and drove to Wegmans, the giant 24 hour grocery store. They have a cafe inside, and there I sat, hospital bracelet on my wrist, eating eggplant parmasean in the wee small hours of the night. I chuckled to myself over the absurdity of it all.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU CALL ME!?"interjected my husband. "I would have been awake!"

"I only just met you! I didn't want you to see me. I had a contagious, life threatening disease." So, I waited until the next day.

What I remembered then, falling on my head like a bucket of rocks, was that I had no one. My ex was still in full-on attack mode. He had the kids half of the time. My family was all the way up in northern New York. I had no one to call.

Now, only three years later, my house is full. I have full custody of my children. I am married. I have lovely in-laws five blocks away. I have my aunt and uncle on the farm only 45 minutes away. I would never have to drive myself home.

So, maybe I am "getting there". Even though the pushing mantra plagues me, I have crawled up and out of the pit without even taking the time to look backward. I have built something. I have grown. I have evolved. I am not going to take a break and rest on my laurels, though. I've got a lot to do.

Vent

Dear Old People,

Old people irritate me. I know, I'm going to hell, but I want to address some specific issues with you "Goldie Oldies" directly.

Say that you are 135 years old, and you know that you are deaf. I know you know that you are deaf! Don't act like you don't know! You get the indication that you might be deaf when you have to say,"WHAT!?" every time someone speaks to you. Not sometimes. Every time. If this is your situation, Do Not Call Me On The Phone. It's ok to be deaf. I embrace your different-ness. It is time to step out of denial. You don't even have to go so far as to get Miracle Ear. WRITE ME A LETTER. Do not ever call me on the phone again if you cannot hear a truck load of elephants smashing into a glass factory.

Speaking of correspondence, don't act horrified if I ask if you have an email address. I have to ask. It's my job. I find it pretty funny too. I know you don't have email, but please don't act like you don't know what email is. Don't explain to me the reasons that you don't have email. Don't tell me who in you family has email, even though you don't. Don't tell me that you have never have had and never will have email, and that you feel that you are discriminated against because coupons are available on the internet. Your argument doesn't hold water. Sorry that you are old.

As a concession, I give you permission to continue making fun of my name. It cracks me up every time some person born around the time of Christ says,"What? WHAT!? Are you kidding me? That's your name? REALLY?! Your mother NAMED you THAT?" I laugh especially hard when you say,"What ethnicity ARE you?" and then, "Well, ok..." like you've just given me permission to have my name. Go to town. I won't name my kid Lois, so we are even.

Thanks,
The Management

My Husband's Stitches

There is a before stitches picture that is even worse, but I will leave that to your imagination.