This week will be heavy on the photos. It’s not that there aren’t wonderful stories of laughing, singing, and drinking to go along with them, it’s that there is so much laughing, drinking and singing going on that I can’t write them.

Not yet anyway.

So join me in what is sure to become “PHOTOBLOG WEEK 2008” among the blogosphere. Or at least in Flingerville.

Summer is backyard BBQ’s and Karaoke and Beer and Friends.

Some days, all at the same time.

This week’s post comes to you via Mr. Flinger and the Beard That Isn’t.

Personally? I love the beard.

You?

(And, I’m finally going to make a list of people to

germaphobia by posting a badge. If you wanna. That is.)

**** Code for Lick Button ****

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I have this group of friends that I love hanging out with. I usually see them, what, once? twice? seven times a week? Whatever, it’s a lot. I actually think I start to twitch and get bored when I don’t. They’re awesome. We laugh. We fart. We giggle at our kids and take fun photographs.

We also menstruate together.

It’s the oddest thing; someone will start their period and a few days later we’re all shoving chocolate and wine and Advil in our mouths. It’s been going on for some time now and we can’t figure out why we’ve all synced up.

I always said it was some sort of pheromone but nobody believes me. Sitting in a cubical back during my technical support days, every one of us gals in my group got whacked out to my crazy cycle. That’s right, I was blamed for making six women late each month.

I pee on sticks for a reason, people.

So consider my shock this morning when I start 8 days early. (Why YES, I am sharing this information with THE INTERNET. Is that weird or something?) Having never, in my life, been early for anything, much less a menstrual cycle, I can only think one thing: That BBQ at Laura’s house.

That betch threw me off my cycle.

This is a thing, right? Haven’t you ever read The Red Tent? Everyone gets in a tent and sheds their inner lining? I mean, come on, this goes way back before cubicals and playdates and BBQ’s.

I wonder if we’ll sync up online? If the mommy bloggers will all start PMS-ing at the same time?

Just get yer grubs off my chocolate. And pass a tampon.

As Mom, I have the ability, nay, the right to make up laws the family must follow. These can, and will, change at whim. This law, however, has been around since the dawn of our marriage, well before children and obligations and stress:

Law 2 section 1.2 reads as such:

If the sun is streaming in to the room and makes [watching tv] [being on the computer] [playing video games] too difficult, it is time to go outside.

Don’t break law #2 this weekend, kids. You don’t want to know Law #3.

Go forth and enjoy!

Last night Mr. Flinger and I had an hour and a half long discussion about the Supreme Court’s Ruling in the Child Rape Case. It started out something like this, “I couldn’t listen anymore because I swear to God if anyone EVER touched LB or Little Man O (of the former Baby O) I’d take law in to my own hands and end up in jail myself.”

It ended something like this:

“And then! Then we could stick ALL the murderers and rapists on one island.”

“Yea! Yea! And we could watch them like that Jim Carrey movie... what’s the name?”

“Right! Yea, and then we watch them for fifty years and we’re all old and decrepit.”

“Exactly. And we watch because they got nothing but sticks to defend themselves and maybe some coconut trees for food.”

“Maybe it’s a pay channel, like HBO or something. Like the ‘Hoping Butt-effers Off-themselves’ yaknow?”

giggle

“Right, nice. And then maybe in fifty years there’s this huge Tsunami and the whole island is wiped out so we won’t feel bad about not executing them.”

“YaYa. And we’ll turn it on and watch because we’re old and disgusting like that and maybe we’re eating soup at 3pm before bed.”

“Awesome. Let’s tell McCain and Obama that what they need for their campaign is a reality TV show called Convict Island.”

Last night I had my first, full fledged panic attack. I haven’t had one in years, not since our car was totaled passing through a green light by a 19 year old on her cell. I used to have them on and off for a full two years or so after that day. It was almost always related to driving and it was almost always short lived and managable.

Last night, at 1:00 AM as I crawled in to bed, I literally thought I was going to die.

My throat closed.

My heart raced.

My head spinned.

I ran through the list of possibilities: allergies? virus? heart attack?

I didn’t have anything odd last night, not even anything to drink. I had my usual Fuzze, cabbage soup and water. I worked until about 12:30 this morning laying out the foundation for time management over the next few months.

Then I checked on the sleeping children, listened to Mr. Flinger breath softly, and started to drift off.

I was jolted awake by death. (Or that’s what I said had you asked me at the time.)

Panic attacks aren’t fun, they are not logical, and they’re real. I hate admitting that I can’t handle something. I want to be the person who at least occasionally has her shit together. I’ve said it a million times, and I don’t know why I focus so much on it, but my goal in life must be: A) Spend time with family B) Get Shit Together C) Die peacefully in my sleep after watching grandchildren graduate college and get married and make babies.

I always get hung up on “B”.

So there you have it. Judge if you will. Last night I laid down and swore to God I was going to die and never see my children go to Kindergarden or graduate or learn to drive. Sounds silly in the light of day, doesn’t it?

Silly. But very very real.

There are some things in my life now that are so familiar, I can recall the smells and sounds as if I’m standing there, ten or twenty years ago. Others are so new and wirey, I can barely choke down the change before time is up and new smells and sounds arrive.

This morning on my jog, I turned the corner to the downhill in front of our street and saw the Cascade Range. It exudes summertime right now with the blue shadows and dusts of snow. It is one of those familiar sights to me while running that make this place home. I’m nearly 19 again running in cross country or gearing up for the season the summer prior staring in earnest at the finish line.

The thing most unfamiliar is the stroller I push and what it carries.

For some reason, the mister and I have taken note, adjusting to the second child has been even more difficult than the first. Even without postpartum depression and all the new-parent anxiety, it still has been a hard change in our marriage and in our family. Our bodies are older. We aren’t as fit. We need sleep more. Our minds are engaged elsewhere.

I’ve joked about why being a teen parent is a good idea and I’m really only kidding. Except that I’m possibly wondering about that alternate reality where we had children a few years earlier, say at 25 instead of 30, and maybe we’re shuffling kids off to school and gymnastics instead of naptime.

The grass, it is always greener, isn’t it?

So this morning on my jog, the one place I feel the most in touch with the me that was Me before I was Mom, I thought perhaps instead of my body failing me, I’m failing my body. That instead of this whole parenting gig failing me, I’m failing the parenting gig. And maybe instead of trying to hold on to was I was, I should embrace the Who I Am Now.

And I would. If I knew who that was.

If I am going to be Brutally Honest with you today, Internet, let me tell you this:

I do not feel like blogging today. Blogging can suckit.

The cop that gave me a ticket in front of our friends because I was driving three miles over the previous speed limit prior to the change on a down-hill can suckit.

The thirty minutes I spent looking for my keys can suckit.

This Monday can suckit.*

Your turn.

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*(That’s what he said)

Taking my new addiction just a little too far:

I submitted my own omnomnomnom.com photo.

That’s right. I’m a geek.

*hat tip to Karen for the

link and to Sweetney who I think twittered it where Karen found it. Or something like that.

**I’m compiling a list of people to lick so please Go sign up if you haven’t already!

I’ve mentioned on perhaps only a half million occasions, that I have a slight tendency to hypochondria. :: GASP :: I know! Right? Like you had NO IDEA I’d be this way.

It’s true.

So when I smacked my head on the kids’ bunk bed tonight, I immediately turn to Mr. Flinger (who turns 34 today) and ask, “Are my pupils ok?”

Because hi, that is the natural next question.

I spent the next two or three hours playing with my eyeballs in the bathroom mirror. :: click light on :: pupils contract! :: click light off :: pupils dilate!

So far, so good.

Then, for no reason what-so-ever that I can figure out, he asks what we’ll be doing with the children if anything was to, gulp, happen to us. “Why? Why are you asking that tonight of all nights?”

“Because I’m turning thirty-four and we need to have this figured out. We need a will.”

Now I’m obviously dying.

So we talk about it, where do they go? How do we decide? My parents in Texas? My Mom, who’s a preschool teacher and my Dad who’s a college dean/Professor seem like a great option in my head for our children to have the best chance at an education. Mr. Flinger, though, wants a more rural atmosphere for the kids to romp and play. So we argue. Around and around. “Then so-and-so would be upset we didn’t pick them and so-and-so would hate us for doing this..”

“Aren’t we dead? Why do they hate us if we’re dead? And who cares. It’s about the kids and what’s best for them.”

The following twenty minutes was an ugly conversation.

I have no idea how you decide these kinds of things. We used to have two dogs. We had to give them to a better home when we moved to our tiny tiny (tiny TINY) condo in Seattle. One went to my parents, the other went to my Aunt and Uncle.

Seems like if we can decide that with two dogs, kids shouldn’t be much harder, right?

Wrong.

Welcome to thirty-four, Babe. Start praying we never die soon.

- If you like this post you may, or may not, like the following hypochondria related posts -

What Do You Get When you Cross A Hypochondriac with An Engineer
Sleep Deprivation Won’t Kill you But Hypochondria Will
Have I Told You I’m A Hypochondriac? And This Can’t Be Good.
How to make me hate shopping (and that’s hard to do)

———- (The real joy here is to see how many ways I can mis-spell hypochondria over the years. I’ve counted seven so far… )————