We’re at a coffee house with free wireless (FREE!) and a playroom for kids to roam and play with new toys and moms can, in theory, drink and work quietly while the kids play.
This is the worst idea I’ve EVER had. To come here? I thought I’d like LB to have a chance to be around other kids. I thought it would be lovely, on this rainy day, to let her run and play and *I* can get some things done.
You know I used to teach Pre-K? Did you know I worked in Day Care just after college? Did you know this is why I don’t put my child in day care? Not because they are all bad (please read: I DO NOT CONDONE DAY CARE) but rather, because when I was in Day Care I was going to have my tubes tied and my vagina sewn shut for good. All the screaming. All the kids. All the insanity. My god, it’s enough to make a grown person celebate. And it did. For a while.
I’m here in hopes of writing and posting our items for sale, of getting some things done for the move. Instead, I’m in the middle of the most horrific battle of wills I’ve ever seen. I think that child’s head is about to start turning in 360 degree circles and fire will come out of his eyes that this one here is muttering something under his breath and I think I’m going to go up in smoke from some curse or something. This noise is making my head implode.
And my poor kid just got her toy taken away. I’m not sure what I’m teaching her here. I’d like to see her beat the crap out of someone who pushes her like that. Really, I’m sure that’s wrong. But see? His mom is STILL on the cell phone. So I don’t think I’ll notice if my kid fights back.
I’m busy typing. Go, LB, Go.
We ran in to a mom of an 8 week old last night at Borders. I became one of those, “OMG! You used to do that!” parents almost instantly. I can’t believe how much I’ve forgotten.
The 8 week old was making those baby noises. Remember those? LB used to grunt. Almost all the time. And gurgle. And coo. She didn’t used to just say “NO!” and “LB do it!” She used to coo. Of course, I love waking up and hearing her yell, “MOMMY! I AM AWAKE!” which was her first complete sentence she said. I am so proud.
She hit the 23 month mark and I wrote something lovely for her. ON paper. I’ll have to transcribe it so you can read it but really, it was one of those moments where I decided to use a pen and paper and do it all old fashioned like. Aren’t you proud?
We’re so busy with the move I can’t believe how fast life is going. Which is exactly what I kept telling that mom last night. “It goes so fast.. I can’t believe how fast its all gone, my god, has it been two years?”
I hear it doesn’t slow down any time soon. In fact, if you ask our parents? They’ll say, “My god, how did you get to be thirty?”
There are all kinds of analogies of a “greater force” or a “Universal Mom” or “Father Time” or “God”. So whatever is your belief, there’s some type of parent figure, some mystical Mom, out there watching out for you and caring what happens. Right?
Not if she’s a blogger.
I realized today as my child climbed on top of me whilst I hurriedly IMed and tried to post a few things, how thankful I am that God is not a blogger. Can you picture it? You’re up in your crib yelling, “Mommy! I AM AWAKE!” and she’s downstairs finishing up an email hurriedly trying to grab some kix and milk so you’ll be quiet for another few minutes while she reads just ONE MORE SITE. Or how she’ll log on to take a peek at her email because what if *gasp* someone needed a response? Like NOW?! And what if she was offline for an hour and didn’t know it?
And come on, you know God would have a pretty damn lot o’ emails in the Inbox. I send several a day myself. And that’s one person out of billions.
So, I think it’s best God stays old fashioned and gets offline. There are plenty of other things to do besides get carpal tunnel typing back replies to all the people wanting stuff and “have mercy on my soul” crap. Plus, can you imagine God’s blog? WHEEWWYYY! Talk about no time to read all of it… Oh, but wait you’re God. Right. Does she skim? Or comment?
Dear Mrs. Flinger,
Found you on another site and had to say hi. I hope you come visit my blog sometime. I think you’ll like it. You are very funny. But you talk about sex too much.
Just got the call: HCG is less than five. We can :: ahem :: resume “normal activity” and start trying whenever we feel comfortable.
I’m drinkin’ some wine tonight, baby! Bring on the BABY MAKING.
*upon hearing this news Mr. Flinger says, “Activity as normal? Can’t we do better than once a month? Come on, Man, throw me a bone.” He forgot about the the experiment already? Jeesh.
I’ve talked about how I’ll never win a spelling bee and how I over use spell check almost to a flaw. Not that it catches all my typos, mind you, but at least they are spelled correctly.
You all have this story, I’m sure. You do, don’t you? The one where an email gets sent out to the entire office with some misspelled work that spell check caught and changed? Or you turn in your thesis to your advisory committee and on page 289 you have the word incontinence when talking about student perception’s of online education. Because, you know, you meant inconsistent but spell check guess incontinence and it was late and you spent four months on that damn paper and by page 289, you really didn’t notice.
Everyone have that story or is it just me? Me? Ok then.
Mr. Flinger always brings home the most fun work emails. His asian co-worder wrote a lovely letter regarding some concrete something or other and stated, after a long winded paragraph “Bra Bra Bra” in place of BlahBlahBlah. I have numerous emails from students that I’ve forwarded to coworkers because I giggle so hard I spit a little on my keyboard. And then there’s the email Mr. Flinger forwarded last night.
To: the entire office that covers six states and two countries
Re: Your Input
BlhablHblahBlahBlah. Long winded stuff I really don’t understand dealing with construction (I think) or other things. And then here it is. All by itself. “I’d like your opium.”
One can only assume as meant opinion. But picture the president of the company getting an email: I’d like your opium.
Awesome. And I wasn’t even the one to do it (this time).
I’m trying my version of reverse blog. You know how EVERY EFFING TIME you blog about your child’s schedule that she totally doesn’t nap? Or how when you blog about how wonderful your life is the Universe turns around and craps on it? Well, take this BlogGods.
I love how my child never naps. I love it when she’s up ALL DAY with her wining incessant dreary needs. I love how she can’t talk yet so she yells when she wants something. I love how she gets tired and angry and throws things. I love how I still have no idea what I’m doing with my career and how we’re barely making it each month. I love how I have no quiet time and how my husband works late. I love that he works so hard that I get to put LB down most nights and I love how I get to stay home and not make any money. I love that the job I’m so excited for might not work out and I love that I lost the job I love.
Take that BlogUnivese. Do what you will with it. Bring it on. Muhahaha
Mrs. Flinger: Manipulating the BlogGods.
I?ve taken a series of pictures of my house in it?s current ?State of Affairs.? As I sit here, on the couch, writing, watching Grey?s Anatomy Season 2, fighting the gray hair I found budding from the crown of my head, I?ve decided I care too much about the house. I?m too anal. I?m too in to having the dishes done, the bathrooms clean, the laundry unwrinkled. For today, this one day, I will let events go as they will and live up to the call of SAHM. I will show them what would happen if I lived to the stereotype (damn, I already took out the laundry so it wouldn?t wrinkle, clean out the fridge and purchase the food for dinner. I?m already ahead of the curve). But today, on my seventh 14 hour shift of ?MomAlone? in five days, I?m going to not care.
We?ll see how long that lasts. The child isn?t napping again and, well, I don?t even know what BonBons are.
**Updated** I couldn’t do it. I had to clean. I did the dishes, folded laundry, made dinner, went to the gym, picked up, and started a new design. Good lord. So much for SAHM stigma. Of course, you’re not surprised, are you? The apple doesn’t fall from the tree.
Here for your viewing pleasure, we have Mr. and Mrs. Flinger blaming the missing DISH DVR programming card on the SheChild, which really, is a pretty good guess since it stopped working around the time she was sitting with her feet on it and mommy went to the bathroom. Although, as you can see here, she has no idea what we’re talking about but gives a valiant effort for a good seven minutes (Read: A very large file and very long if you’re not sitting with a coffee). It’s chalk full of her talking and being all cute, even if she was up at 11pm on a thursday night after (allegedly) removing a very important programming card. Later she was found innocent. She is feeling much better now, thank you.
We all remember where we were when big events happen in our lives. For our parents, it is “Where were you when Kennedy was shot?” For a while, for me, it was “Where were you when the challenger exploded?” and I’d say, very specifically, “I was in the library in our elementary school, just miles from NASA, watching the liftoff on TV. When the explosion happened, the teachers cried, we all got confused and scared and there were camera crews and people doing interviews within hours. We were told not to talk to anyone. I was in fifth grade. I was sad. I wasn’t sure why.”
If you ask anyone where they were when the trade towers were hit, they can tell you exactly what they were doing and how they found out. I was in a bus in Edinburgh, Scotland with my G’ma and my Mom. The bus driver came on the P.A. and said the towers were hit. I was confused. “Twin Towers? As in New York?” Being on the other side of the world, I felt confused and scared. “What’s going on? What is going to happen? Who? What? Where?” Even on the other side of the world, this struck my confidence and scared the shit out of me as a traveler. I didn’t know anyone in NY. But I cried as if I’d lost a dozen friends. I cried to God because he was ignoring us. I prayed with my G’ma, who lived through Perl Harbor, and told me stories of her own fears in a war so long ago. This was my first political lesson. It was a hard one to understand.
Since then we’ve gotten catty and diminishing. We’ve become demanding and angry and bitter at the family. We’re like the extended family members at a Thanksgiving dinner arguing over potatoes and gravy when the big picture is that we’re a family. We’ve shoved the cranberries on the table and been pissed because they’re not jellied when the truth is we’re having a lovely dinner, we’re together, and we’re thankful for our lives.
As a country we’ve gotten off track somewhere. We were attacked. It was a personal attack. It was not political. It was not religious. It was personal. It was against you. And you. And you. And me. If you are fortunate enough not to have lost someone on that day, and I am thankful a billion times over that I am, there are others who are not able to say the same thing. And for those family members of our country, we fight, we pull together, we hold their hand. We’ve all gotten up off the dust and cleaned our knees off but it doesn’t go away because we choose not to look. It’s there. It’s the big hole in the heart of our country that people stand over and fight about. And why do we fight with each other? Who is it we blame? Each other? Or them.
Let’s stand together and fight. Let’s hold the hands of those people who lost loved ones, of those who lost their confidence to fly, of those who lost the ability to trust. Let’s be there for each other because it’s what we do. Let’s get off our knees, brush off the dust, and be brave enough to look at the hole. But let’s not fight each other. Especially not today. Or tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that, or after that….
Be sure to go here in the memorial project (I was too late in joining) to remember those who lost their lives that day. And, let’s remember and not forget. Where were you then? And where are you now?
I didn’t forget. I remember. Do you?
I’m feeling angsty. When I looked up angst in the WiKiPedia, I realized I’ve had this word floating in my brain that is so fitting, so perfect, so exact for how I feel. I didn’t even know I knew what this word meant. Surprise! I’m not an idiot. Sometimes I amaze even myself.
If I’m being honest, and since when am I anything but?, I’m finding, even after almost two years, the transition to motherhood doesn’t end once you leave the hospital, or wean your child, or switch to solid foods, or get bold enough to shower each day (mostly) or start sleeping through the night. Nobody tells you that even after two years you’ll still struggle with your new life, your old life, and finding the place in the middle. The thing is, I like my new life. I really do. Most days. But I find my irritation and frustration and the string that holds it all together is just a tiny bit more fragile. The radio station named “KFUCKED” by Anne Lamott plays more often and it’s a long battle to change the channel. I didn’t know when I went to get help at three months post partum that the newness of mommyhood wouldn’t disappear in the first two years. I don’t know if it ever does. You can lose the babyweight. You can wear your jeans. You can see your old self in the mirror at times, but something has changed. Something is not the same. And it’s not visible, it’s not obvious unless you know what you’re looking for.
I’m sure not all moms feel this way. I know people just love being a mom. And I do. Really. I love it. I love my daughter. I love my husband. Ok? So, I’m not trying to be full of negativism and family bashing. It’s not that. It’s deeper. Maybe it’s the PPD showing it’s ugly lil’ head, just a little bit, and talking ugly things in my brain about how unfit I am, or how I’ll never be a better designer because I don’t have enough time, how there aren’t enough hours in the day to do laundry and dishes and clean and why the hell would I want to do that anyway? What happened to dreams? They’re there. They’re just buried under five loads of laundry and boxes to pack and menus to make.
I want to be a writer. I want to be a designer. I want to be a professor. I want to be a mommy. I want to be a nurse. I want to be an astronaut. I want to be a fireman. I sound like a four year old when asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” And what I really want to say? “I want to be a kid when I grow up.”
I don’t want to have checks bounce. I don’t want to have the earnest money returned. I don’t want to fight with a toddler or take the car in to the auto repair place and I don’t want to cook dinner. But someone has to. And I sort of signed up. I have an autographed copy of my life and it’s hanging on the fridge right next to the domino’s pizza number.
Pizza. To which KFUCKED says, “Calories. Fat. and Money.” Sometimes I can’t win.
9 guests here now.