La Casa Di Frigerio

The Birthday Party Conundrum

2012-01-21T08:00:00.000-06:00

I neverworried about birthday parties for Ant before we moved here. All of my concernwas reserved for K—who has a summer birthday. Having a summer birthday myself,I’ve always felt for him; I know that summer parties are an uphill battle. Ofcourse, K is “too old” for such trivialities these days, but we did havesuccess with the neighborhood kids when he was younger—back in the Lou.

Ant was bornright smack in the middle of the school year, so I always assumed that we’dhave no trouble with birthday parties for him—and we didn’t before we movedhere. Living in the Lou, where there were a multitude of options and a bigfocus on the celebration of your child’s birth, we attended tons of children’s’parties and held our own. Yes, there were plenty of Bounce U trips and gymparties and Chuck E Cheese and all that—but most of us picked a theme, bought atablecloth, made pizza and cupcakes, invited kids and their parents over to thehouse, sugared up the kids, and called it a day. It was a great way to get toknow the other parents (who always stuck around for a beer or coffee), and noone had any major qualms.

Long goneare those days-- it doesn’t work that way here. I’ve tried this approach twicenow, and Ant’s selected classmates rarely, if ever, show up. I know that it’snot that the children don’t like my child and don’t want to attend—although convincinghim of that on party day is an exercise in futility—especially when they tellhim that they want to come or plan to come. I know, deep down, that parties arenot such a big deal here, that options are limited, and that these parents justdon’t know us like the parents in the Lou did. It wouldn’t be such a big dealfor Ant if he hadn’t experienced six years of the exact opposite.

We’ve neverbeen invited to a house party here. I don’t think they exist. The few partiesthe boys have been invited to have been major affairs in a public venue. Oneparty K attended wasn’t even on his classmate’s birthday—it was held at the endof the year and I think the entire grade was invited. It was held at a rentedout park.

I can handlefeeding, clothing and educating my children with ease. I can coordinate dentalappointments and extracurricular activities and work schedules. I cannot,however, find the time or the motivation to join the PTA or be a room mother orthe holiday party planner or field trip volunteer. That limits my ability toget to know these parents and what they do. Or to schedule things with them andtheir kids.

I want Antto have an awesome birthday—so, as I prepare for Ant’s birthday next month, Iknow I have to try something new: the big deal—the drop a shit-load of moneyand have it somewhere-- party. But, as I said, options are limited. Ant will benine, so no little kid things, like Chuck E Cheese, will do. He’s a boy, sohorseback riding and pottery classes are out. I could have a bowling party(popular in the Lou), but if I’m concerned about the fact that someone got shotin the parking lot there last year, I bet others are too. This leaves me with three options: the movietheater party (assuming something will be playing), the Going Bonkers party(like Chuck E Cheese on steroids, it actually gave me a three day headache whenI took Ant to one party there), and the pool party at the indoor pool at theARC. Which is clearly the winner-- inboth Ant’s and my mind-- and the most expensive.

Oy.

Just thethought alone makes me want to curl up in a ball and call a couple of othermoms and beg them to allow their children come over for a sleepover to placateAnt’s birthday party desires. Except sleepovers are not that popular here,either. And there’s no school directory—and since no one has landlines anymore—youcan’t even look them up in the phone book. Damn technology.

So, what doI do? Do I go through with the whole shebang? Do I try (likely in vain) toredirect a nine year old to something else? Do I bribe him? Or the parents? Arewe trying to infiltrate a clique and I’m too socially inept to catch on to thatfact? Do you have any advice for me?

In otherwords, HELP!

Finding Joy

2012-01-19T02:30:00.000-06:00

January ishard. I’ve ~~nattered on~~ alluded to this before—it’s the cold, dark,dreariness and the natural letdown from the holidays. It’s a time when theworkload increases, things must be done, and problems arise (both at home andat work). It has none of the fun of spring bursting forth in blooms and the earthsmelling alive, or patio escapades in summer twilight, or crisp mornings ablazein autumnal color.

This January--despite the almost lack of cold temperatures and definite lack of majorschedule-crushing snowstorms-- has not been any different. Illness is running rampant--at work, at school. I sit in a state ofperpetual anxiety as to when the germs will descend upon our house. Other issuesneed to be taken care of. Problems arise.

Did I saythat already? About the problems? If I didn’t, let me tell you, it’s like we goon a problem hiatus during the holidays and then we play catch-up during themonth of January. Everyone forgoes problems in the spirit of holiday cheer andgood will and then we get slammed immediately afterwards.

Ourevenings, after busy days at work and school, consists of laundry and dishesand phone calls to sick loved ones. It involves changing schedules and dinnerpreparations and homework meltdowns.

I won’tdelve deeply into it now but the overwhelming consensus from Ant has been that thirdgrade is not enjoyable, and of all the things in third grade that are not enjoyable,writing is the worst. Granted, some of the older kids are now testing out theirmeanness, and topics of inquiry in 3^rd grade are less thaninteresting to him, but writing, by far, is the worst. What makes writing theworst? The surprise writing prompt. Funny—how I seem to enjoy writing prompts,and poor Ant’s mind goes blank as he stares at the unwritten page, trying tofigure out how he will wrap his mind around an in-class writing exercise.

It’s to thepoint that I fret and worry about his progress in school, and I hope thatsomehow, somewhere, we find the spark that gets him back on the right trackbefore detrimental consequences occur. I know in my rational mind that he willlikely be okay, but in my mother’s heart, I worry about him and how we’ve donea 180 on school this year. Our main goal has now become to get him through thisyear relatively unscathed—and we fight for it on a daily basis, let me tellyou.

This is thepoint where if we were having a face-to-face conversation, I would sigh and youwould sigh, and not knowing what to say next, we would give the topic themoment of silence it deserves and then go about our days, but there’s so muchmore to it than that.

Tonight, aswe sat down after dinner—when the dishes were going and the laundry was putaway and the homework was done—we had this moment, and it struck me that it wasa perfect moment; a joyful moment. K was playing guitar downstairs. I sat witha book. Ant was playing computer games with J. The TV wasn’t on. We were all inthe same room, we were all aware of each other: present in each other's company.It lasted for 30 minutes—perfectly comfortable in one another’s company. It’s THISthat sets my soul at ease and brings my nerves back from their frayed edge.

We hadanother moment like this on Sunday morning—when Ant and J decided it wasimperative that we attempt to grow our own cherry trees from the pits of eatencherries. The likelihood this will actually work—well, it’s not high. Still,all of us gathered to collect our supplies and google information and then actuallyplant. We now have four pots lined up on the ledge of the kitchen counter, justwaiting for something to sprout. It was joyful perfection.

I neverexpected—when I became a mother, or even when I was a mother to small children—thatthese small things-- simple, comfortable, easy-- would be what made it allworth it. Those small, unscripted moments when we can be ourselves with oneanother, with no additional expectations, are what bring me joy. I’ve spentplenty of free time trying to figure out what it all means and what it’s allworth; in life and in parenting. I listened to others say similar things and believedthem—even when I couldn’t see it from my perspective. Now I know it’s true. IfI could only have all of us in the same room-- that comfortable, that easy,that carefree—for every moment of my life, every moment of my life would bepure joy.

This post was written from the prompt, "What brings you joy in good times (and bad)?" at Mama Kat's Pretty Much World Famous Writer's Workshop.

Stop SOPA Blackout Day

2012-01-18T08:00:00.000-06:00

Today my blogis black (frankly, I’m too scared to wholly block it or make it completely disappear)as part of the many sites who are protesting SOPA. And PIPA. And OPEN. Butmostly SOPA.

Those sites?Wikipedia for one. Check out Google today. And Reddit. There’s censor barseverywhere, and it’s for a good cause.

We might needto get rid of piracy, but we cannot do it at the cost of censorship. If youhave not heard of SOPA, I strongly encourage you to Google it, and find outwhat it’s about. Or read about what's happening today here. Then call you congressperson (it’s fun, I promise!) or sign apetition against it. This violates our first amendment in a way that we cannoteven fathom.

Confessions of an Imperfect Parent

2012-01-14T10:00:00.000-06:00

"If only I had a doggie bed...nom, nom, nom"

On the interwebsthis week I read a post that detailed five ways to increase traffic on one’sblog. (If only I would write shit down, I might be able to attribute saidauthor of the blog post. FAIL.) The gist of the post was this: certain postsget higher levels of traffic. Posts that handle taboo subjects, or secrets, ortopics that are outrageous will interest readers far more than anything else. Ihave to admit; I filed this under common sense in my mind and forgot about itenough to not remember where I even read the damn thing.

And thus,the seed was sown.

The reasonwhy we read certain posts more frequently than others is because they resonate withus. We have secrets. We think about taboo subjects, even if we dare not talkabout them. We are drawn to amazing stories. We like a good confession session.So when someone does this on their blog, we flock to it.

Which led meto think about the secrets I have—the things that I would confess (other than Isuck at appropriate attribution. I teach people how to cite sources and evenwrite annotated bibliographies. Sigh). Most of my confessions—since I am ratherboring (whoops, another confession)—involve the things that go on in my house.

So, for yourSaturday reading pleasure (and not so much to boost traffic to my blog, but toinitiate a good weekend catharsis, or to make you feel better about yourself asa person), I give you the top five confessions of my imperfect parenting:

1) I am a badpet parent. Super-Sophie doesn’t even have a doggie bed. She did, once. And sheate it (literally) and I vowed that I would never buy her a doggie bed again.In my defense, she did refuse to sleep on the doggie bed in preference tosleeping on the couch (which she also snacks on). Instead of breaking thishabit, or moving furniture, or even buying a new couch, I just throw someblankets over it. When she starts eating holes in the blankets, I throw themaway and put new ones on.

2) Also, Jthinks that dogs should be fed when they ask for food, because they are dogs(and somehow this makes them less opportunistic about food?). I don’t buy this.I think dogs should be fed once a day, no matter how much Scooby-Doo mouthinessthey exhibit. Since I know that J caves every time she asks for food, I oftenrefuse to feed her. It’s not like she’s losing any weight (quite the opposite).And I figure that’s less dog poop the kids have to pick up in the back yard.

3) I make my kidspick the dog poop up in the back yard. Kids need to learn that someresponsibilities suck ass. Plus, I’m not going to be the one who does it. Also,I let them throw it over the fence into the common space behind our backyard.That is no man’s land, and that makes it fair game for dog poop disposal. It’snot like I’m throwing used appliances back there. Yet.

4) To make upfor my less-than-adequate pet parenting skills, I let Sophie pre-rinse all ofour supper dishes. I hate dishes, especially rinsing dishes with food still onthem. And I’m kind of lazy. Also, I often make the kids do the dishes. Especiallyif I had to cook the damn meal.

5) Speaking ofmeal preparation, our public schools are not the only ones who count pizza as avegetable. I do too. If it has vegetables on it (and I do make sure that itdoes) it counts, people! Also a vegetable: taquitos. Seriously. I buy the kindthat are similar to the southwestern eggrolls at Chili’s (although I do bakethem) and I figure that if they have corn and spinach in them, and I give thekids salsa, that is feeding them vegetables, people.

I’m sure thereare more things I could confess, but those are the five things I feel require confessionat this point (and by require confession, I mean that each instance happened inthe past 24 hours). So, what now? I’m not Catholic, so I don’t know protocolhere. How can I be absolved?

Whatparenting confessions could you make? What things do you do in your house thatyou wouldn’t normally share?

Please, Beyoncé, Let Us Help You!

2012-01-12T12:00:00.000-06:00

Dear Beyoncé,

First, letme start off by saying that I like you. I like your music. I even still havesome old Destiny’s Child CDs, somewhere. When you combine my enjoyment of youand Ant’s enjoyment of Lady Gaga, well, you can imagine the squeals of delight,the car dancing, the singing along (at the top of our lungs) that occurs when “Telephone”comes on the radio.

The way youannounced that you and Jay-Z were having a baby? THAT was awesome. “Oh, did thepaparazzi want to speculate about my baby bump? I’ve got your baby bump. Right.Here. Jerkfaces!”

Lately, I’veheard some very disturbing tidbits about the birth of your daughter. There’snothing wrong with her, but there may be something wrong with the way you are approachingthis whole mothering thing, however.

Now, don’t getme wrong—I am SO not into the judgey mother slap fight thing. I’m just not. Sothis is not an accusation of anything. I just want to give you some pointers. Iwant to help! I can’t imagine that you want to come across as a Competimom—orworse, so please let me clue you in on some things:

I see so many places that will be stained by blood, expressed milk, spit up, poop- photo from TMZ

First, it’snot cool to take over the labor and delivery unit. Ask any group of mothers,and you’ll invariably hear horror stories of the L&D ‘princesses’. Now thatI’ve seen the pictures of your birthing suite, I think the other moms mightturn on you. I understand that you didn’t want paparazzi flashing pictures of youin those horrible mesh hospital undergarments. I don’t know anyone who wants tosee any picture that might involve a lactation consultant giving you pointed adviceon cracked nipples. But ruling the whole L&D unit, including the NICU—not cool!

I’m notsaying that you should’ve gone the creepy, “my drug kingpin baby daddy set upan entire surgical suite for the birth of our child in a back room of our house”Nancy Botwin way. It’s just not appropriate to throw your birthing experiencein the faces or lives of others. Plus, none of that stuff really matters, youknow? You could give birth in the ocean massaged into hypnotic relaxation bygiant sea turtles while cormorants sang angelic hymns to you overhead, and theoutcome is going to be pretty much the same. Baby is born. That’s all thatreally matters.

Second, Jay-Zincluding your daughter on a new single just seconds after she was born? Thatpart is probably okay. Some people even think it’s cute. I’m sure he’s verymuch feeling the role of proud papa right now, and that’s fine. What would notbe fine is for you to compare (even in your mind!) your child’s ‘accomplishments’to others. I don’t even want you to think the words, “My baby was in the linernotes before she was even a day old. What can your newborn do?” Comparing yourbaby to others’ babies is not cool. Judging other moms or the things they dofor their children is also not cool, just so you know. All babies are special—yourbaby is perfect, and every other baby is perfect, just the way they are. Babiesdo what they do at the time they want to do it, and that’s the way it’ssupposed to be. Since you are in the limelight—please set a good example forall of us to follow!

Last, thename issue. I am not a fan of the name. It doesn’t matter what I think, though.There are always going to be people who disagree with the name, whether you areBeyoncé or not, whether you name your child Blue Ivy or Emma or T-Rex or La-a(where the dash is pronounced). That’s just the way it goes. There’s anadjustment period. The good news is that you found a name that both you Jay-Zcould agree upon! I know J and I had some crazy arguments over names (he spenta week wanting to name our second child Vincent, I kept thinking of morticiansevery time I heard it).

Could you—inthe meantime—just give us a nickname to go with? If you haven’t thought of amore conventional nickname, could you think one up quickly? We’d all appreciateit. I bet your daughter would too. She could use it for learning to spell her namein kindergarten. I appreciate the drive to come up with the unique name, but nochild wants to learn to spell their first name and a primary color in one fellswoop. And you might want to go ahead and research the court filing fee for alegal name change. Squirrel that money away. You could give it her on her 18^thbirthday. Just to be safe.

Otherwise, Ithink you’ll be fine. I’m sure you love your child very much. I’m sure the bothof you are so very excited to embarking on this journey. There will be ups and downs.That’s normal. What makes it worthwhile is watching that little person grow.The icing on the cake can be the deep bonds you make with other moms along theway. You can certainly have these relationships with some really awesome women,as long as we nip these Competimom urges in the bud, okay?

Hugs,

Sarah

World of Difference

2012-01-10T09:30:00.000-06:00

I wake up onthe wrong side of my body, the right side, and I know that in about two moreminutes the pain will register. Again, I’m wrong—as I count slowly the secondspassing I don’t even make it to sixty before I can feel the nerves to start tofire and the stiffness make itself known. My arm and shoulder shout at me. Theytell me that I should have done a better job of sleeping on my left side.

Two wrongsbefore I even get out of bed to start my day. I don’t have time for any morewrongs, so I jump up quickly-- ripping off the Band-Aid, so to speak. I standup beside my bed, and slowly raise my right arm above my head. I can move it,which is good.

The painstarts in my shoulder blade. I can feel it wrap around the curve of my scapula,move up my side, and into my armpit. My shoulder is stiff and feels as if it’son fire. The pain travels down the top of my arm to my elbow—also affected—and downthe side of my forearm into my wrist and fingers. My carpals and metacarpalsare slightly swollen and stiff, but the pain associated with moving my fingersor thumb is nothing compared to the feeling in my shoulder blade. I can stillmake a fist, although it’s nothing akin to the fist I can still make with myleft hand.

And throughall of this, I smile. I am happy. I am grateful. It’s just not that bad. NothingI can’t handle. If my joints were screaming, that would be one thing. But theydon’t scream—they shout, they huff and puff, they whine. They do not scream.

The lasttime I had an arthritic attack like this was three (THREE!) years ago. Itseemed to affect every joint in my body. I could hardly move. I was always sotired. I went to specialist after specialist. I had test after test and x-rayafter x-ray. What they agreed on: it’s arthritis. What they didn’t agree on:what type of arthritis it is. There are over 100 types of arthritis, and the doctorswere pretty sure I had one of three of those types. I did physical therapy and instituteda whole regime in my household dedicated to my joints and even took the RAdrugs for a while. Then the summer came, and the stress was alleviated and Ifelt better.

I cannoteven begin to describe that feeling—the one where relief sets in where chronicpain once lived. It’s downright spiritual. What tempered it was that I then realized how much I had let the episode control me. I allowed the pain to keep me in bed, to keep my mind occupied with the most primal of thoughts, to keep my emotions on the negative side of the spectrum.

Now this.This is small, minor, an inconvenience. Even better—I know how to fix it.Before I make a move to do anything else in my day, I stand beside my bed anddo 30 one-handed (left-handed) jumping jacks, just until the blood starts tomove in my body. I head straight to the shower and jump in to water that is ashot as I can stand it. The tension starts to melt away. Throughout the day, Imake sure to watch my posture. I make sure to get up and move around for atleast five minutes every hour and a half. I try to do as many thingsleft-handed as I can. I eat healthy foods and try to keep from being cold—whichis a trigger and difficult in January—except for when I am soaking up sunlightfor the vitamin D. I come home and I take my vitamins and I do my special exercises from physical therapy and I drink copious amounts of water. I make sure to getenough sleep and I make J rub different pressure points to disrupt the nervesfiring down my arm each night before bed.

Mostimportantly, however, I stay in the right mindset. This time around, my mind has helped me keepthis attack in check, limiting its scope, and will keep it from lingering. Lasttime, the arthritis was in charge of me. This time, I am in charge of it. I’vegot it under control, and that makes a world of difference.

This post was written for Just Write.

Happy Blogiversary to You!

2012-01-08T09:00:00.000-06:00

It’s my twoyear blogging anniversary today! I’m so happy I actually remembered it thisyear (I forgot it last year) and it would be an excellent time for me to writea funny yet poignant post about this whole blogging journey and how awesome youall are for reading, and all that jazz.

But I’ve gotnothing. No, I take that back. I’ve got the Writer’s Block. Yep. Got that inspades.

So what doesa girl do for her blogiversary when playing WWF and pinning things just doesn’tseem to break down the wall between her and the most awesome post ever?

Well, shegoes out on the internet and she reads all of the funny things on there. Youknow the stuff-- the stuff that you share with your coworkers, but often onlychoose to read at home because people start to worry about you when you laughout loud in your office for no reason. Or because you do not want yourcoworkers to hear you snort coffee through your nose and onto your keyboard.

But thatdidn’t even get the juices flowing.

And that’swhen I realized the best blogiversary gift I could give to you this year is alist of the funniest shit out there… So you can see it for yourself! And I’mnot talking about Texts from Last Night, or Shit Girls Say, or even Damn YouAuto Correct. They are funny—I’ll give you that, but there’s of so much moreout there in the ether!

So here’sthe list of funny things (with some of my favorite bits) that I have speciallycompiled just for you on this—the beginning of my third year blogging:

1) The Bloggess. Yeah, I know about her, youknow about her (unless you’ve been leading a field expedition in the Antarctic),and you may have even seen JamesGarfield or Beyonceor Copernicusthe Homicidal Monkey, but seriously—it just gets funnier each and everytime you read them.

2) MamaPop. I came for the witty and oh-so-truerecaps of the Walking Dead, and I stayed for EVERYTHING. My secret desire isthat they will ask me to contribute someday, but I know nowhere near the amountthat these writers do about celebrities. Maybe they’ll let me write Californicationrecaps?

3) Oh, Noa. Now, I love just about everything thatNoa does—including Funny Bitch Fridays, but my all-time favorite posts are GettingYour Degree in Not a Terrible Person (I’m the department chair in BasicLife Skills and Noa increased tuition in order to pay me well and give me myown research lab) and I Don’tThink You’re a Boring Whore. In that order.

4) Sprocket Ink. Just go and check this out. Idare you to keep your visit to less than five minutes. These are the people who’vejust recently warned me about hybridsharks…

5) My Drunk Kitchen. I want Hannahto cook for me, not just teach me to cook while intoxicated via vlog.

6) Aiming Low. You know by now to expect goodthings from a place where the tagline is: Perfectly Mediocre.

7) Dads are the OriginalHipsters. This is one favorite that K and I share. I call that familybonding time. Plus, this one is interactive. If you have pictures of yourhipster dad, you can submit them.

And thereyou are. A nifty little list of funny stuff to celebrate another year ofblogging, and to also distract both you and me from the fact that I havenothing of note to write today!

Now, there was no way I could list everyone. I don't want people's feelings to get hurt. Did I misssome absolutely hilarious website? If so, share it with us in the comments!

Can Someone Tell Me Exactly What the Difference Is?

2012-01-07T12:30:00.000-06:00

Every sooften, it seems to spring back up on the interwebs. We’ll go through a periodof time where we’re not picking at one another, and then WHAM! There it isagain—which group does more? Who is the bigger martyr? Who is doing more damageto their children? Who has it tougher? Who is better? The stay-at-home-moms?The working moms? The hybrid moms? The robot moms?

Normally, Ijust ignore it. Anyone with a lick of sense realizes that stay-at-home-moms arenot relaxing the day away and using their children as an excuse, and theworking moms are not power hungry women putting the aims of their careers overthose small beings that were expelled from their wombs. We all do what we gottado, and more often than not, working moms work because they have to work andstay at home moms stay at home because they need to stay at home. More oftenthan not, it’s a matter of economics and meeting the needs of the family, andnot the pie-in-the-sky esoteric debate that we tend to try to make it out tobe.

I see we’reon the cusp of rehashing the debate once more. We like to come back to this timeand again. It made me think, this time around. I’ve been both astay-at-home-mom and a working mom. I’ve been on both sides of this fence Icurrently ride. And when I think about my experiences as both, I start to getconfused.

The long andthe short of it is this—I don’t see much difference in what I did back then andwhat I do now. I even read through some of my old journals this morning—from severalyears ago, when I was just starting my master’s degree, and Ant was just over ayear old. The one thing I notice—there seems to be a lot of overlap… Would youcare to see what I mean? Great! I made a table to show you my premise. I callit exhibit A:

Sarah’s Highly Oversimplified Typical Day
Time of Day	Stay-at-Home/Grad Student	Working (Like, Yesterday)
Ass crack of dawn	J is leaving for work early, because of problematic issue at work. I get up, make the bed, and start coffee	J is leaving for work early, because it’s inventory time. I get up, make the bed, and start coffee
Getting children ready for the day	K gets in the shower, I wake Ant up, change him, feed him, change him, clothe him, snarf down coffee, force K to eat breakfast, get myself around in less than 20 minutes	K gets in the shower, I wake Ant up, force him to eat, force K to eat, force Ant to get dressed, brush hair and teeth, snarf down coffee, get myself around in less than 20 minutes
School time	I take K to school, Ant falls asleep in the car, I run errands and piss him off waking him up, or go home and pick up the house or fold two loads of laundry	I take K to school. I run errands with Ant, or go back and pick up the house or fold two loads of laundry, then get Ant to school
Morning	Laundry. Try to read for class. Email. Email. Email. Laundry. Follow Ant around, everywhere he toddles, with my arms outstretched waiting to catch him when he falls for the 50^th time.	Late, again. Email. Work. Meeting. Meeting. Email. Email. Email. Work.
Lunch	I spend so much time trying to convince Ant to eat lunch that I forget to eat myself.	I realize at 2:00 that I forgot to eat lunch again.
Afternoon	Try to convince Ant to take a nap so that I can read and prep for class that night. Feel slightly panicky at the amount of crap I have to do.	See entry under morning—if classes have not yet started and the students are still out of town. Feel slightly panicky at the amount of crap I have to do.
Evening	Running late. K home from school. Barrage of random chatter. Homework. Make dinner. Eat dinner super early, due to class. Clean up dinner. Laundry. Wish J luck when he walks in the door. Go to class.	Running late. Boys home from school. Barrage of random chatter. Homework. Make dinner. Eat dinner. Clean up dinner. Laundry. Wish J luck when he walks in the door, as I escape for 30 minutes to myself. Exercise.
Night	Class. Home by 9:30pm. Promptly fall asleep on couch.	Read with Ant. Finally convince children to go to bed by 9:30pm. Promptly fall asleep on couch.

So, correctme if I’m wrong, but wasn’t I doing all of the same things? Well, perhaps withthe exception of exercising—which if you consider following my toddler around allthe time when Ant was a toddler and peeling him off of everything he tried toclimb—well, I think that counts as exercise. I don’t think there are anysignificant differences here… Which I think might be handy to point out thenext time someone tries to instigate a fight between the stay-at-homes andworkings…

What have yourexperiences been? Have you been in both roles with children? Have you ever hadsomeone try to pick THE fight with you? Do you have a good way of telling people to come off it if they intentionally or unintentionally diss you?

My Silver Ribbon

2012-01-03T20:30:00.000-06:00

Yesterdaythe Bloggess made what may seem like a startling confession. She bared her soul and admitted to the fact that she self-harms. You may know it by another name:self-mutilation, cutting. What you may not know—what I did not know until today--it that self-harming is not even a mental health disorder in the traditional sense.

I’m a big believerin serendipity. Have you ever had that feeling— where something you learn inone class directly impacts another class you also happen to be taking thatsemester, or how you overhear a conversation at work, and even though yourcoworkers know nothing about that problem you are having at home, theirconversation sparks the idea that helps you solve that problem? It happens tome all of the time. The connections- the patterns- they are invariably madeclear, and things fall into place and something momentous happens. Call it divineintervention, call it fate, call it whatever you want; it happens to each of usin our lives.

Serendipityis what happened to me today. I’mparticipating in what we call mental health first aid training this week, whilethe students are still on break. I registered for it weeks ago. The training iscompletely sold out—filled with faculty and advisors who deal with studentsevery day. This afternoon we spent time discussing self-harm, less than 24 hoursafter I read the Jenny’s post on the same matter.

Self-harm,again, is not a mental disorder. It can accompany a mental disorder (depressionand anxiety disorders are common) but it’s not a disorder in and of itself. It’snot a life or death situation. If a student told me that they had considered killingthemselves, I would break confidentiality and tell others on campus—like StudentHealth or the Campus Police. But self-harm is not attempted suicide. It’s notcrying ‘wolf’. It’s a coping skill, a defense mechanism. I also found out that about25% of college students participate in self-harm at least once during universityyears. Think of all of your Facebook friends that you gained during college,and divide that number by four. That’s how many of them that tried self-harm atleast once. Many of them started earlier than that—as early as 8-11 years ofage. Some of them may still be doing it. Most of them you would never evensuspect.

Peopleself-harm in order to stay alive, in fact. It helps them relieve stress andfrustration and sadness and horrible feelings that they are, otherwise, notable to cope with at the present time. Physical pain replaces emotional pain. Individualswho do it can watch physical ailments heal—but you cannot watch emotional ailmentsheal. Still others feel numb or wooden, and use self-harm to reaffirm that theyare alive. It may seem scary and completely outside of the norm. I know it wasto me when we first began to discuss it. Then, I realized, it is like so manyother tics that we all invariably exhibit when distressed. Toddlers pull theirhair or bang their heads or throw a tantrum. Others wring their hands or twirltheir hair or futz with their clothes. Still others have an extra drink orchain smoke. We all have some type of tic, some coping mechanism that we use.Self-harm is an exaggerated form of the normal human condition.

And it’s notall cutting. That’s a stereotype. Those who pick at themselves, those who pullon their hair, those who punch things—that’s all self-harm as well, and muchmore common than those who cut or scratch themselves.

If this isso common, then why don’t we know more about it? Why is there such a social stigmaassociated with it? Why is there social stigma associated with any type ofmental illness, for that matter? Because we are afraid of what we don’t know,what we don’t understand. Right now, we don’t understand what makes one personget depression, and not the other. We don’t understand why someone getsschizophrenia or anxiety or seasonal affective disorder. We have some ideas,but we do not definitively know why, we don’t know how, but we do know what,and we do know when and we do know how we can go about fixing it.

The onlything standing in our way of fixing it for everyone is the fact that we do nottalk about it. Those who self-harm are scared to admit what they do, and we arescared to talk about it for the fear that we would give someone else the ideato do it. We need to talk about it, however--the Bloggess’ follow-up post only goes to prove that. If we all talk about it—those who are currently in themiddle of it, and those on the other side of it, and those who support friends orfamily members suffering through it… well, can you imagine a world where allindividuals feel free to ask for help when they have mental or emotionaldistress? Where there are no suicides or violent crimes attributed to mentaldisability? Where mothers support one another instead of judging the onesuffering from PPD?

I can committo talking honestly about mental health until we live in such a world. I’llhappily wear a silver ribbon for mental health awareness and share what I canwith anyone who will listen until that day comes.

Respite

2011-12-29T08:30:00.000-06:00

Awake.

It’s theinterlude between night and day-

Predawn.

And I tellmyself to go back to sleep

But no.

Just becauseI can, I won’t

Rising.

Fromunderneath my eggplant coverlet and into

Lavenderlight.

The purplishcircles beneath my eyes have been

Erased.

It’s notbeen exciting or exotic or

Vacation.

It has beenexactly what I needed-

Respite.

This post was written to the prompt: Write a poem that incorporates the color purple, from Mama Kat's Pretty Much World Famous Writer's Workshop.

Merry Little Christmas

2011-12-28T09:30:00.005-06:00

We had alovely holiday—although it’s been so difficult to get in the Christmas mood thisyear.

There are many things that helped us along... Like chocolate as my treat when I finished all of the wrapping early...

And special rawhide Christmas bones for Super-Sophie...

And Nerf gun wars (an annual Christmas tradition in our house)...

Tangent: I want to take a moment to brag on myself here. I am awesome when it comes to Nerf gun wars. The four of us take it to a whole 'nother level. We lead ambushes and tactical operations and army crawl around the house and send out scouts and provide cover fire and... Okay. Yes, I know. Violence bad. But turning off the TV and playing with your children for several hours is good. Until someone gets shot in the eye. Which I did, last night.

And look at what the boys made for me (my Christmas present is always supposed to be made and not bought by the children-- that's our rules) without any prompting from an adult...

It was perfect. I hope yours was too!

Better Late Than Never

2011-12-22T06:00:00.000-06:00

He sat downdirectly in front of me, his face only inches away from my own. He grabbed myhands, which had been in my lap. I had been staring down at them for the pastten minutes as I talked—words spilling out of my mouth so fast, and yet, somonotone. In my head, I marveled at the quality of my voice, detached as I was.I often felt detached. I finally got the courage to look up to his face when hemade it virtually impossible not to do so. He was the best type of familyphysician. “Sarah,” he said, “If you do not let me help you, I am almostcertain that something very bad will actually happen to you or your son.”

It was inthis month, fourteen years ago, where someone told me that I wasn’t a badmother. I wasn’t failing. I wasn’t going insane. I was actually holding ittogether in a way that was unfathomable, given the circumstances. But I wassuffering from postpartum depression, and possibly postpartum psychosis. AndI needed to let people help me through this.

I’m surethat there is some sort of awareness month where all other media and bloggingoutlets discuss PPD. December, in part, and January, for sure, has always beenthe month when I think about my own experiences. This, combined with Jesse’s post about her own experiences the other day, has made me realize that we canno longer afford to only speak of PPD one month out of the year. Jesse is right—wenever talk about it when it is occurring. I didn’t talk about it then. I don’toften talk about it now. Even while Jesse struggles with what may be PPD atthis very moment, I still don’t tell her everything about the thoughts, thefeelings, the struggles I had back then.

I don’t wantyou to think of postpartum psychosis in the way that equates it to SusanSmith or Andrea Yates. I was in no way following the path of the family annihilator,and very few women ever follow that path. Instead, I wasn’t capable ofsleeping. I wasn’t capable of eating. I was suffering panic attacks so severethat I thought I was dying of a heart attack, every day. I was paranoid—literally.I envisioned people breaking into the house and stealing my son, I imaginedthat if I fell asleep that he would stop breathing in the night. I couldn’ttake him anywhere in the car for the fear that we would be killed in a crash. IfI ever did doze off, I had nightmares that I won’t even begin to describe.

My family haddoctor prescribed me the lowest dose of Paxil in the weeks immediatelyfollowing my son’s birth, but my blood pressure was so low that this minisculedose was enough to give me tunnel vision. If I didn’t sit down as soon as theworld started to gray in my peripheral vision, I would pass out. I stoppedtaking it after less than two weeks. I was failing at motherhood, they weregoing to take my child away—I was certain of that. I was even failing at Paxil.I didn’t tell my doctor that I stopped taking the drug—so then I was sufferingfrom PPP and antidepressant withdrawal.

It took somuch courage—sheer force of will-- to walk into the doctor’s office and tellhim everything that was going on nearly six months after the birth of my firstchild. Once I did, however, he swooped in. New meds, counseling, checkups,exercise plans, foods to eat. It took another six months to really feel likemyself once more, for the nightmares to stop, but in that time I started toactually sleep again, to eat again, to be able to engage with the world oncemore. Knowing what was going on—that wasthe key for me. Knowing that it wasn’t me failing; it was a simple failing ofchemistry in my body.

When I was pregnantwith Ant, I knew what to expect. J knew what to expect. My new doctor even knewwhat to expect. I talked about it a lot to the both of them, but not to anyothers. I was on the meds two weeks before I gave birth to him. I was alreadyimplementing the program my old family doctor had developed years before.Still, I got postpartum depression.

Two or threeweeks after a pseudo-emergency c-section with Ant I was once again on my own--family having returned home and pain meds for my incision forsaken in order todrive a vehicle—taking care of a newborn the size of a toddler and trying to doeverything I had done before with a kindergartener as well. I remember themorning where I struggled with the car—it was completely iced over, and Icouldn’t even open a door—and two kids in the parking lot. I was only trying toget K to school. I ended up slipping on the icy parking lot, falling right onmy ass. I called J (already at work) on my phone, crying. I couldn’t do this!What were we thinking? I was failing all over again!

J chuckledas I wailed. He’s the only man in the history of humankind to ever get awaywith chuckling at his distraught wife. “Sarah, I think you need to talk to the doctoragain. I think it’s time to bump up your dosage! And for the love of God, stayhome! Go back inside, climb into bed with the boys.” He was right. I wouldn’thave been able to accept this if it had been the way it was when K was aninfant. This time, though, I knew whatwas going on. This time it was not psychosis, it was strictly depression—and thatwas because I had talked and asked for help. I could handle this with help—it couldbe managed. And better yet- I knew that it wouldn’t last forever.

That’s whatI consider to be the takeaway message: Talk about it—talk about it before ithappens, during, and after it happens. We should all talk about it, whether weexperienced it or not. We should talk about it with someone that we are worriedmight be experiencing it.

For thosewho think that they may be suffering from PPD: get help. You are not failing,and you are not admitting failure if you ask for help. It can get better, ifyou accept help. Every mother of a newborn—no matter if they have postpartumdepression or not—have episodes of feeling alienated and overwhelmed. Ithappens even under the best of circumstances. But, if you cannot stop crying orberating yourself, if you ever think of harming yourself or your child, or you find that you cannot do the simplestthings for yourself (like eating or sleeping on a semi-consistent basis), you arenot alone, and you deserve to be helped. Tell your spouse, tell your mom, tellyour doctor.

You deserveto feel better. Your baby deserves to have a mom who is on the upswing. Oursociety deserves to be able to discuss postpartum depression and psychosiswithout fear of stigma. So I ask you—if you think you may have postpartumdepression—take the opportunity this holiday to tell a trusted loved one or aprofessional that you think there is a problem. Take this opportunity to askfor help.

Imperfect Parenting: How Preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse will also Prepare You for the Holidays with a Small Child

2011-12-17T08:00:00.000-06:00

Photo by v1ctory 1s m1ne

Whereas Istarted early with my child-rearing (read: I’m more than halfway done,bitches!), many of my friends are just now having children. You know, thefriends who waited until a respectable age to get married and think aboutbabies. They now have small children: toddlers, preschoolers, and newborns. Ihave brooding teens and drama- filled school-agers. I can help them. I can tellthem what they need to do to survive the holidays (which are a whole newballgame with kids. I can provide a much needed service.

In the wordsof The Bloggess, “you’re welcome.”

The zombie apocalypseteaches us many things about survival, and these can be applied to wranglingsmall, non-verbal, overstimulated beings through the holidays. Let’s look atsome of the basics:

Be prepared:Have supplies on hand-

Every survivalmanual teaches you that you need to be stocked up and ready to go at a moment’snotice. When zombies begin to attack, things are going to get crazy. You needto have food and water and an ax and be ready to take out your stairs to thesecond floor. The same goes for surviving the holidays with a baby or toddler.Well, except for the ax. You need to have their needs covered, because nomatter how much your Nana says she’s got the snack thing covered (the organicfruit snacks and the Annie Mac and the 100% juice, and all the other accoutrementsof responsible parenting these days) it’s been a long time since she had tocover these bases, and it’s not really fair to ask her to get up to speed onthe past how many ever years of what parents should and should not feed theirchild. Also, you might think you can share a bed with your little toddler (Howmuch space can they take up, really? Ha!) but that’s crazy-talk right there.And the toys? And what about your irresponsible cousin’s kids? Not only do youneed to bring enough snacks and distractions for your child, but you better beprepared and have enough for the other kids as well. It’s like yourwell-intentioned but clueless neighbors. When the zombies start chompingbrains, you’re going to end up giving them shelter (because you are a niceperson), but they are the ones who thought your preparations were crazy, andthe next thing you know you are out of supplies (because you budgeted so manydays for your family alone) and you’re having to consider going out into thefray (a zombie-ridden urban center is a nice analogy for last minute holiday shopping)to get more stuff.

Don’t try tobe a hero: They get no respect-

You’ve seenit before. You likely know it from your own childhood. There is the one roomwhere all of the children are corralled. The relatively safe, controlled spacewhere there are less breakable heirlooms or knick-knacks. The children arerounded up and kept there. Inane holiday specials are on the TV and the levelof high-pitched sound in this room makes you want to puncture your own eardrumswith whatever’s handy. The parents of the small children end up there as well. Thelittle kids want to be around the big kids, instead of being politely silentwhile you make the rounds to visit with relatives that you haven’t seen allyear. The goal is to not be the last parent standing in that room—to not be theone left in charge of all the children while the other parents go off for fiveminutes or half a day of respite. You’ll be stuck there, making sure that thesesmall beings share their toys and don’t bite one another and that no one decidesto cut another one’s hair. Listen—if Rick Grimes from the Walking Dead can’t doa good job of being Rick Grimes, then what makes you think that you can be theRick Grimes of the kids’ room? There are no stand-alone heroes in the zombieapocalypse, and there are no stand-alone heroes in the kids’ room. You need toteam up (there should be at least two of you in there at all times). This way,there’s at least one other adult to converse with, and if someone needs to runand get help, you’ve got options. This leads me to my next point—

Teamwork: Ordon’t let the hordes overwhelm you-

Have youever watched a zombie movie? Who are the people who get eaten in a zombieflick? The ones who are alone, that’s who! There is safety in numbers. Employthe help of your adult relatives. You may think that you have your toddlercovered, and then maybe someone else’s toddler covered, but it’s just like azombie attack. Sure, toddlers are relatively slow, can be easily distracted,and in the midst of a fit can be picked up and hauled off, but if you have twoor more of them gang up on you, you’re going to have a problem. But what if youhave no choice? What if the others in your adult group have left you alone withthe swelling horde of toddlers and preschoolers? What do you do then? You keepmoving. You keep them guessing. You jump from one activity to another, and donot allow them the opportunity to attack you en masse. Example: K once foundhimself as the oldest person in the kids’ room last year, and only one of twoboys. The next thing you know, he’d been corralled into orchestrating a DanceParty competition, and then was forced to dance along himself. You want to talkabout one of the worst fates than can happen upon a teenage boy? Yeah. If hehad had reinforcements, or even if he had kept them moving in activities thathe selected, there wouldn’t be a video on my phone today of him Dance Partyingaway with a pained look on his face in the middle of a giggling group of smallgirls.

So there youhave it. Three things that you can do to make the holidays with small childrenjust a little bit more bearable. Of course, there are many other tips I couldgive you (although I really don’t recommend that you go all ‘Shane on Otis’ onthat crazy conservative uncle of yours, no matter how many times you may envisionit in your mind), but the final tip I will give you is to be flexible, andalways be thinking of a plan b (or second route of escape). No matter how muchyou prepare, something that you never expected is likely to befall you. Adaptabilityis key. Flexibility. The ability to laugh at it all.

And have a wonderfulChristmas!

UPDATE: Holiday 2011 Giveaway, Courtesy of Angler Fish Studio!

2011-12-13T19:30:00.000-06:00

UPDATE: After a highly scientific process... Oh, who are we kidding here? I used random.org to generate the number for our winner. The winning number was five! This means that Kristin from Taming Insanity is our winner! Congratulations to Kristin and a huge thank you to everyone who entered for a chance to win. Another huge thank you to Amber for offering a giveaway this holiday season. You guys are awesome.

It wouldn’tbe the holidays without a holiday giveaway, now would it? I absolutely lovedoing giveaways on my blog—especially for artists and those who make handmadeitems and especially friends. This year it has been a bit difficult to get inthe holiday spirit, but I’m super excited to host Amber from Angler Fish Studio.

Amber is oneof those friends who have known me for a long, long time. We went to the samemiddle school and junior high and high school. She can probably attest to thefact that I was that weird girl with the dyed hair in the back of drama classwho read Frank Miller graphic novels. Unless she had art class in fourth periodwhen I had drama class. Then she likely only has it on speculation…

Not muchdifferent than how I am today, huh? Me, with my zombie obsession and graphicnovels and penchant for handmade things and red hair dye…

In additionto making awesome jewelry and hand-bound books (and I think she even makes her ownpaper) and art, Amber works at a co-op (I love this) and is one ofthe most positive and grounded people to ever pop up in one’s Facebook newsfeed. I strongly suggest that you check out her website and like the Angler Fish Studio Facebook page. She also has an Etsy site. Seriously—check out herstuff—I’m certain that you will find a great gift or two for this holidayseason!

Amberoffered up this pair of earrings for the holiday giveaway. She made them lastweek. As she describes them, “They are mixed metal with copper and brass. Thebead is clear glass.” The earrings are gorgeous, and would make an excellentgift for yourself or someone you love! (As a big believer in giving yourself awesome presents, I vote that you get this one for yourself.) I wish I could enter the contest myself,because these earrings are right up my alley.

If you areinterested in entering this giveaway all you need to do is comment below.Please make sure to log in to comment (meaning that I have an email address) orinclude you email address so that I can contact you when you win. Also, if youtweet (making sure to include @ssfrigerio) about this giveaway I will give you extraentries! The giveaway will close at 5:00pm on Friday, and I will pick thewinner via a random number generator. I will announce the winner here on Fridaynight, and email you for your shipping address.

And once more, go and check out Amber's websites!

In Which Ant Learns ‘More’ About Santa et all

2011-12-12T12:00:00.000-06:00

Disclaimer: You may not want tohave your children read this. Especially if they have not gone through theSanta ‘exploration’ phase that Ant has recently encountered…. Or any othercharacter exploration. Come on, you know the ones. You’ve been warned!

When K was eight,he approached me purposefully after school one day—and never one to mince words—blurtedout the question, “Is Santa real, or is he not?”

Nothing likegetting this bomb dropped on you in the carpool line.

K is a no-nonsensekid, and so I retorted, “Do you want to continue to believe, or do you want tohelp make it happen?” He thought about it for a few moments, and then informedme that he would continue to believe for one more year, and then he would helpmake it happen with the rest of the enlightened adults. To him, this was one ofthose rites of passage into adulthood, and since he was born I swear he’s beenchomping on the bit to tick all those rites off his checklist.

That was theextent of the conversation with K. I knew that Ant was going to be a differentstory.

Ant lovesbeing a kid. He revels in it. He’s the oldest soul I know, and yet stillinnocent, still imaginative, still caught up in the magic. Ant was likely tostart asking this year, and I didn’t know if I could handle it the same way I didwith K. In fact, I was fairly certain that I would not be able to handle thatway at all.

Two weekendsago, Ant approached me. “Well, I want to know,” he stated, “if Santa is real.”I looked at him for just a split second, and he leveled his gaze right back atme. I knew there was no way to get out of this one. So I asked him if hethought he could handle the truth. It was very reminiscent of A Few Good Men. He countered me withsomething I never thought he would catch on to, but in hindsight, was likely tobe our downfall.

“Well, overthe years,” Ant explained (and yes, those were his exact words—I kid you not), “I’venoticed that the fonts change.” At this point, I have to admit that this had mescratching my head for a minute. Fonts? What?

“You knowthe fonts!” Ant’s elaboration here was not helping me. “The fonts! At our houseSanta writes in block letters and at Grandma’s house he writes in cursive.”

I get it now,kid. I see where you are going with this. So I ‘fessed up; I told him—about SaintNicolas and Sinterklauss and how one little idea that shows us all how good wecan actually be as human beings took over a good chunk of Europe and then came over here and iscelebrated 1700 years later. He loved it. Ant ate it up. As a pure-bredhumanist, Ant thought this was one of the greatest triumphs of human existence.Except, somehow, something got lost in the details.

Later thatnight—as I was out with friends, and before I could tell J about the discussionAnt and I had earlier in the afternoon, Ant decided that the dinner table wasan excellent place to announce that he knew Santa was dead. Because MOM hadtold him. That Santa was dead.

I wish Icould have been there to see J’s face. Especially when Ant asked J is Santa’sghost is the one who delivers the presents.

Then, lastweek, Ant had an epiphany while watching a commercial on TV. I think it’s theone where the kids everywhere are running into their parents’ bedrooms on Christmasmorning and waking them up at some ungodly hour. Suddenly Ant exclaimed, “Oh! Iget it! That’s why you are always so tired on Christmas! You have to stay up tomidnight to deliver the presents.” This was following on the heels of the conversationwe had with Ant to detail how Santa’s ghost doesn’t deliver the presents.

Yeah, nothingto do with you being up at four in the morning, kid, or the scotch your fatherand I drink while wrapping the presents at the eleventh hour (literally) becausewe don’t get it done in a timely fashion.

Then Antasked me how many other houses we deliver presents to…You see where this isgoing, right?

Last night,Ant lost a tooth. It’s the fifty gagillionth tooth he’s lost this year. The kidcan’t eat an apple, for heaven’s sake. He started the tooth fairy preparations(and I didn’t plan on bursting that bubble unless I had to) and then abruptlystopped. “Who really is the tooth fairy?” he asked. I raised my hand. “And the EasterBunny?” This time K pointed at me, answering on my behalf. “Oh, come on!” Antreplied, disgusted. He walked into the other room shaking his head andmuttering to himself about the horror of it all.

To top itall off, I then promptly forgot to do the tooth fairy routine last night onceAnt went to bed. Yeah, that’s right: Motherof Year right here. For the second time this year. Email me to get my homeaddress so you can send me my trophy.

Ant woke Jup this morning demanding his dollar from the Tooth Fairy. He was unwilling tohand over the tooth until he had said dollar bill in hand. Once the exchange occurred,Ant stared pointedly at J and said, “Thanks a lot, Tooth Fairy.” J then came andput me on notice, given my transgression. The way I figure it, this is a redletter day. Never again will I be stumbling around in the dark, risking a Legoembedded in my foot, trying to find a tooth under a pillow.

I’d feelsome sadness about losing this piece of childhood with my kiddos if it wasn’tso comical. And it is comical—especially when you consider that I might have afuture in ruining those magical moments from childhood.

Grieving, Holidays, and Revelations

2011-12-09T16:00:00.000-06:00

I didn’tfinish my NaNoWriMo novel. At first I felt awful about this, but I’ve learned tolet it go. It just wasn’t in the cards this time around. I had no control overthe events of the past month.

My last post—theone about the crazy schedules and the like—was right before my husband’sgrandmother took a dramatic turn for the worst and then died, and hisgrandfather went into the hospital himself with something as of yet undiagnosed.

That throwsa lot of kinks in things. Like novels. Or blogs. Or holidays. Everything wassupplanted in order to travel, to comfort, to grieve.

An aside: Thankyou to all of you who sent us well wishes and deepest sympathies and even reallife cards. CARDS! In the mail! That is a cultural phenomenon I think all of usshould revive.

Thanksgiving(which had never been my favorite holiday anyways) was much less than a holidaythis year. The following week was marred by cold temperatures and stress and afuneral. Everywhere Christmas exploded around me but I did not feel it. I couldhear the songs and smell the smells and see the shoppers but I could not getexcited.

I waswallowing, and what took me too long to realize is that sometimes it’s okay towallow. When I first started this blog—shell-shocked from our dramatic turn ofeconomic events and moving and sore from the sale of our first home and fearfulthat everything could slip away once again (and would at any moment)—I thoughtthat I needed to stop wallowing. Now, with months between me and the immediacy ofthose fears, I am beginning to realize that sometimes wallowing is healthy. Wallowing.Grieving. Mulling. All of these emotions are actually okay.

Once Ifinally realized this, it was as if the proverbial giant weight was lifted. I wasno longer Atlas—at least for the moment. The room to breathe has allowed me achance to get excited about Christmas—at least a little bit. I can still be sad—Ican still have those moments. I can also have moments of humor and ofhappiness. They do not have to be mutually exclusive.

I’ve got ashopping date tomorrow. It’s going to be whirlwind day, and if we are actuallyable to follow my schedule, it’ll be one for the record books. I have a lot of catchingup to do. My decorations are now up (with the exception of the lights for theoutside that I bought, but my husband has been working too hard to find thetime to put up). And I have big plans for some holiday giveaways here! I’mtrying to work out the details now.

So, staytuned. I never disappear for long. Plus, I have a wonderful story about Ant andhis discovery of “Santa” on deck.

And the next thing I knew a week had passed…

2011-11-16T17:00:00.000-06:00

Yep. Thatpretty much sums it up.

There was a conference,and a meeting and a lecture and another meeting and a stomach bug runningrampant and notifications of chickenpox at the school and an email server crashand the next thing I knew I had lost a week of blogging, a week of writing, aweek of house cleaning, etc.

There werealso visits to grandparents and an awesome concert and shopping for books at thebook fair. There were parent-teacher conferences and books coming off hold at thelibrary and averting a near crisis with a cold sore. There were lunches withfriends and my husband making four quarts of homemade pasta sauce. In otherwords, I’m not complaining.

I am desperatelybehind in writing for NaNoWriMo (What? You didn’t see that coming?) But I dohave another guest post for Imperfect Parenting, and another one I’m thinkingof writing about (but will not tell you about quite yet). Thank you to everyonewho helped out and thank you to those who came and read each one!

Maybe I’llbe able to catch my breath around Thanksgiving. Or maybe I’m deluding myself.Eh, does it really matter?

The Challenge

2011-11-09T11:00:00.000-06:00

I’mfrustrated and have been in a horrible mood for the past forty-eight hours, alldue to some silly writing challenge. NaNoWriMo. I keep trying to tell myself that it doesn’treally mean much of anything to me, but that’s not the truth. It does meansomething, and it’s not silly. I scoff and degrade it in my mind because it ISimportant. It means breaking down abarrier that I’ve contended with during the entirety of my writing “life”; Istart something, I am excited about it, but that excitement quickly wanes. I abandonthe project in the search for the next new thought.

I fix thingsother people cannot and finish things and tidy up loose ends in all otheraspects of my life, but when it comes to the thing that I’ve always enjoyeddoing—the thing I’ve always wanted to take more seriously—the place in my life whereI WANT to grow… I cannot seem to break that barrier.

It’s notthat I can’t keep up with the word count—I know that the word count can be abig issue to many others, but the word count part of this is fine for me. If Ihave an idea and a direction, I can write until the cows come home. I don’t anguishlike some others do; I don’t have to struggle for hours over a paragraph or asentence. The problem is that I’m doing nothing but writing crap. I look at it,and it’s just crap, and even though I try to push through it and tell myselfthat it’s supposed to be crap, that it’s supposed to be a shell of story, thatI’m supposed to go back and edit and revise and that this is all part of thePROCESS…I get frustrated and angry and I stew over it. I’m to the point that I layon the couch of the evenings with a deep scowl on my face and my arms crossedover my chest, and the boys look at me with the question “If it makes you this angry,why are you even doing this?” hanging in their eyes.

It makes mefeel like some tragic, brooding artist cliché, and this pisses me off even morebecause I don’t like that cliché. I think you can be happy and content andcraft something wonderful at the same time. I think you have to be a goodstoryteller, a good listener, a good observer; not mentally unstable or torturedor lost.

My husbandsays things that he considers to be supportive, like “Just keep going with ithoney, and see where it takes you,” and “It’s okay if you don’t finish, no oneEXPECTS you to finish,” and this leaves me even more frustrated. It’s not hisfault that he doesn’t have the right words to support me in this endeavor—this isnot his goal, this is not his forte. He doesn’t understand what would make mefeel better, and I don’t think that there’s much that could be said to make mefeel better. I think to myself that I would feel better if I could dedicatemore time in the day to the endeavor, but in the same minute I know that thisis not the truth—I would just spend more of my day feeling like this.

I lay in bedwith the thoughts spinning around my head so fast that I cannot even grab oneto pick it out of the mix and examine it up close. I feel the frustration inthis writing challenge spinning out into other areas of my life, and thequestion “What am I doing?” no longer applies to the writing challenge, but tomy life overall, as the negative thoughts grow out of proportion and sneaktheir way into other parts of my brain.

Then, out ofall of this, my great-grandmother’s voice comes into my head, clear and strong.You don’t know this, but I am writing about her, in a roundabout way. The way Ienvision her would be a better description, I suppose. This somehow conjuresher, and she is speaking in my mind—in the middle of the night—telling methings that soothe me, then telling me that it wouldn’t be worth it if it wasn’thard. That nothing in the world that is easy is really worth anything at all.It comforts me to hear her again—I can almost smell her—and I know that what Ihear is the actual truth, the main point, and finally, I can turn over and fallasleep.

In Which the Post Office Restores My Faith in Humanity

2011-11-08T12:00:00.000-06:00

If you hadtold me that I’d have 200 posts to this blog, or be dedicating my 200^thpost to the USPS, I would have laughed at you. I know it’s cliché, but it’sthat simple. Point and laugh; it’s my go-to.

This is my200^th post. I know! I usually give up on a writing project well beforenow. I’m currently struggling with the NaNoWriMo, for example, although it’sstill quite the accomplishment, since I broke my standard 20-page barrier infiction and made it to 40 pages so far.

But, Idigress. My novel writing challenge is blog fodder for another day.

Let’s discusshow awesome the United States Post Office is. I know this is straining thecultural stereotype that has been firmly established in your mind. I’ve beenthere, too. I’ve waited in a line 10 deep just to buy stamps because the stamp machineis out of stamps. I’ve shown up at 8:00am to drop something off for shipping,only to have the person who opens the storefront only come out of the back at8:25.

This time,well, they saved my zombie books, and for that I cannot thank them enough. Especiallysince I had writer’s block last night and needed some inspiration- in the formof zombie books.

I’ve decidedto read The Walking Dead comics, to find out the ‘other’ storylines—the onesthat are not going to appear in the television series. Also, I get a sneak peakon what might happen in the television series. Then there’s the added benefitof finalizing my zombie apocalypse survival plan.

Tangent: Ifyou want to survive the zombie apocalypse, I strongly suggest that you avoideverything that Rick does, both on the show and in the books. As to not giveyou any spoilers, my example will be Carl being shot on the television show.Seriously, Rick? You thought it would be a good idea for you to take your sevenyear old son out into a zombie infested post-apocalyptic world and hunt for theOTHER child you lost? The mother in me wants to punch you in the mouth for yourstupidity. And if you think that’s bad? Wait until you see some of the stupidcrap he does further in to the story line.

Okay, backto the books. I decided to purchase the books because I’m not the only one whowants to read them, and the library has a hold list that rivals a post officeline the week before Christmas. I went through Barnes and Noble because 1) theyhad the cheapest price, and 2) I could order them online, and then pick them upat the store that day. Sounds like a good deal, right? Wrong. Because theassistant manager at the store doesn’t want to honor the online price (which isnearly half of the store price) WHICH. I. ALREADY. PAID. So, I go homebookless, and then cancel that order, and set up a new order to be shipped tomy house with free shipping.

That was acouple weeks ago. My books shipped on Halloween, so I was expecting to get themby the end of last week. Cut to the chase—I didn’t. I then had to try to trackthem down. Cut to another chase—Barnes and Noble didn’t put the shipping labelon the right way, so they only had a partial shipping address. DHL (the uglystep-child of the shipping world) said, “Eh. Screw it.” and dumped it on theUSPS to figure out. That’s where the trail ended.

So my zombiebooks were out there in the netherworld of lost shipping packages, and all I hadwas a DHL tracking number and a partial shipping address and some unhelpfulBarnes and Noble people, who I had already yelled at over the phone. I decidedto try the post office next.

I calledfour different numbers until I reached M, who apparently is a specialist in thismatter. M went through a whole bunch of computer screens with me on the phone.Then he went through a bunch of tubs marked ‘return to sender’, with me on thephone. It was tedious, but I actually felt that he was trying. That was betterthan DHL or Barnes and Noble at that point. Finally, I had to get off the phoneand return to work, so M took my cell number, in the event that they found it.He wasn’t hopeful, and neither was I.

When I gothome last night from work, guess what was sitting on my kitchen table (havingbeen brought in from the rain by the brooding teen, who then opened up apackage addressed to me, or not really addressed to me, depending on how youlook at it. He then used this as his main justification in the argument that I amobsessed, but what does he know…)? My package, wonky shipping label and all!They had found it!

A littleover an hour later (yes, it was way past closing time at this point, I’m sure),M called me to confirm I had received it. To give me the scoop on how he foundit. To tell me how he convinced our mail carrier to make a special trip to ourhouse to deliver it. In the rain, of course. To apologize on behalf of theother companies.

Yes, that’sright. M saved the day, snatching my books out of the return to sender pile justin the nick of time. He then got them delivered to me so that I would not haveto wait one more minute to read my zombie books. When I thanked him profuselyand apologized for keeping him late at work, he told me that it was no problem,as long as he made it home in time for Monday night football. He is my new hero…and I bet he could single-handedly save the USPS, if given the opportunity.

I bet he’dbe handy to have around in the event of zombie apocalypse, as well.

Thank you, Mfor being a good human being and fixing other people’s problems. Thank you fordoing the right thing.

And thankyou, readers, for being listening to me natter on about my zombie books andother such nonsense for the past 200 posts!

Imperfect Parenting Guest Post #2: Because I Said So!

2011-11-07T08:00:00.000-06:00

Our second guest post on imperfectparenting comes to us today from Steph, who writes Musings of a Sarcastic Mind.If you have not yet visited her blog, you absolutely must do so. Immediately! Well,read this post of hers first, and then head on over there. I think she and I arelong-long sisters, sharing an affinity for smartass-ness, Doritos, andSnuggies. Also, best relationship advice, ever. It’s like she knows my husband.In fact, this relationship advice is so good, that I read it to my husband, andhe tends to agree with her. Now tell me the last time your spouse agreed withyou on anything!

Admit itparents of the world, you’ve used this line. Probably more often than you’d like to fess up to…. The dreaded “I’vebecome my parent moment” when you use the time-honored, frustrated-parent,standard reply of, Because I Said So.

When I was anewbie momma, I swore I wouldn’t use it. I was all, if my wonderful,angelic, practically perfect child ever asks me “why?” I will get on her leveland explain my reasoning so she understands my motivation and respects mydecision. She’ll respect me and I’llrespect her and I’ll win at Mommy of the Universe and we’ll have the healthiestrelationship EVER. Isn’t that whatall the feel good child development experts say to do, give your kids arationale to your answer? Don’t they saythat we shouldn’t automatically raise our children to think all adults deserverespect and not to be questioned because there are often bad adults who makebad decisions? That kids should havefull and detailed explanations so they can learn life lessons every single day?

That’s allgood in theory, and likely the truth (what do I know, I’m not a childpsychologist. I did take psych incollege but skipped class probably once a week minimum, so that’s a strikeagainst me in the field of therapy right there), but when you’re faced withyour bajillionth (YES it’s an actualnumber) snot-nosed, whiny “WHY???” of the day, you have no urge to go into aself-esteem and parent-child relationship-boosting discussion. It’s because I freaking said so, that’s why. I’m the parent. I’m the grown up. I pay all the bills and cook all the food andclean all the poop. I clothe the littlebodies and make sure they have what their little hearts need and often don’tneed, but simply desire. I’m 33 friggingyears old. I have stretch marks and acrooked csection scar and I’m the mommy therefore it’s because I said so. Why do we need to always justify our answers,which are quite often no because that’s the answer that gets all the “whys” toour children? Shouldn’t they learn thatsometimes, you just have to follow directions? That life isn’t always fair? Thatsometimes we have to just grin and bear it? That your parents have the final say? Otherwise, we find ourselves raising generations of entitled littlebrats who want the world handed to them on an iPad (because platters are SO1980s) that they don’t have to work for. Wait. We’re already in that boat,aren’t we? I don’t want selfish entitledkids. I want healthy and happy kids whostill like me at the end of the day. A“because I said so” here and there won’t hurt them, I don’t think.

I think if Ihad to sum up my imperfect parenting advice it would be this: to do the bestyou can, take it day-by-day, do whatever you must to not totally screw up yourkids, don’t be so hard on yourself, and it’s perfectly ok to be imperfect. Also, it’s not technically wrong to take thebest candy out your kids’ Halloween candy buckets. You’ve lived longer, eat the goodchocolate. Because I Said So.

Momentary Break from NaNoWriMo: The Stereotypes Stop Here

2011-11-05T11:00:00.000-05:00

The news (ifyou consider Kim Kardashian news, which I don’t, so assume I’m using the termloosely) of the past week has not been lost on me, despite my efforts to writea 50,000 word novel in 30 days. The events of the past week, both in the newsand personally, have left a swirl of emotions in my mind that I just cannotclear out unless I write it here. So, I will write it here, and hope that thereis some spark of serendipity that makes this coalesce.

When I was achild about Ant’s age, I asked my Nanny what being an Indian Giver meant. I hadheard the term several times in school—with girls swapping trinkets and toys. Iknew that whatever an Indian Giver may be, it wasn’t good. Nanny, possessing aquick wit and a quicker tongue, didn’t tell me the truth. She told me that theterm represented what the United States had done to American Indians—given land,signed treaties, made proclamations of sovereignty and then taken it backwhenever the mood possessed them.

I learned asan adult, the term is a derogatory slam against American Indians, disparagingthe cultural systems of reciprocity and shared ownership. Native populations(and let’s get this clear; there were over 550 different tribes, or sovereignnations, on this continent before Columbus, and they did not share the samecultures, practices, languages, or even styles of houses or dress, despite whatyour 4^th grade teacher may have mis-taught you) took pride in givinggifts, of maintaining protocol, of ‘making nice’, for lack of better term. Thiswas an important practice, and greatly misunderstood by European settlersduring the time of first contact.

Which is whyI take offense with the stereotypical response Kris Jenner gave on national TVconcerning her daughter’s two million dollar ring. She “hates an Indian Giver.”She should apologize, immediately. It is not native people’s fault that theEuropean settlers had a different concept of ownership. Perpetuating this lineof thought is egregious; I don’t care how much of a celebrity you are or arenot, or how you got there.

Honestly, Idon’t even know how they got to be celebrities. Was there a sex tape orsomething? Isn’t that how Paris Hilton got famous? I just cannot keep up withthe celebrity-reality-TV crap. But, I digress.

Stereotypesseem to be the theme of this week in our household. I suppose it got kicked offwhen I was re-reading some of Redneck Mommy’s posts around Halloween. One ofthose posts was from last year’s Halloween. For those of you unfamiliar withTanis Miller, her third child, who was disabled, died suddenly a few years ago,at around the age of five, I believe. Ultimately, her child’s death and heradvocacy of the disabled community led her and her husband to adopt anotherchild, also disabled. In that post from last year, she chronicles how her sonis invisible: no one wants to give Halloween candy to a child in a wheelchair;no one wants to see what severe disability looks like, up close.

It struck morethan a chord with me. When I was in college, I spent a year working in special educationin the public school district. I worked with non-communicative autisticchildren. I worked with the profoundly impaired. I worked with students who hadlearning and behavioral disorders. I worked with children as small as three andchildren as old as nineteen. I fed and changed and held and rocked and soothedand cared for these children. I remember the first word one autistic childspoke, and cried along with that child’s teacher. They had worked with thischild for years, literally, and then one day that child pointed to the maple inthe schoolyard, ablaze in red with the autumn, and said, “tree”. It was one ofthe most significant moments of my life.

Which is whyI was so heated with Ant yesterday evening, I suppose. I’ve since apologized tohim for my diatribe last night, but it caught me off guard, and I cannot, willnot, tolerate stereotypes or mockery in our house. We were watching the news asI cooked supper, and there was a piece on Gabrielle Giffords, and the book she and her husband has written about her recovery from a nearly fatal gunshot wound last January.Part of the coverage described how Gabby has had to re-learn speech; not ableto say any more than the word “chicken” in response to the Bush’s when theyvisited her months ago in the hospital. I’m not a doctor, but I know that thiswoman has suffered a traumatic brain injury. I know how important the leftfront cortex is for speech. I know how hard individuals have to work tore-learn speech without the benefit of the brain plasticity we each have assmall children (when we learn language for the first time). When Ant laughed atthis; likely something he’s learned from his third grade peers (seems to be thecommon age for playground politics, doesn’t it), I literally saw red. Why inthe world it was reported in the first place, I will never be able to explain.

We had nothad to discuss this with Ant before. I think it’s safe to assume he now knowsthat it is unacceptable to take any individual who differs from you lessseriously than you would take your best friends or your family.

It alsoreminds me of the young woman who posted the YouTube video of her father usinga belt on her seven years ago. Now, the vast majority of that story is a postfor another day (and boy, do I have a lot of thoughts running through my mindabout that man) but the thing that got me is that once it was mentioned thatthis woman had cerebral palsy, the media latched onto it like this was thestory. It was not the story! Does it make what he did any less despicable ifshe did not have cerebral palsy? No! The only thing that has come out of thatfather’s mouth that makes any semblance of sense in the aftermath of that videois the statement where he said, “As multiple media appearances clearlydemonstrate, Hillary Adams is articulate, possesses a superior IQ, and iscapable of functioning as a productive adult in today’s complex society.” Ifthis horrible man sees past her disability then why the hell can’t the rest ofus?

I couldn’tsleep early this morning, and decided to give up tossing and turning in bed andgo downstairs. As I drank my coffee I flipped through channels, hoping to findsome extra-cheesy movie that would make my early morning travails worth thetime. I found the Crucible—which details the events of the Salem Witch Trials(with some artistic license, to be sure). The story of the Salem Witch Trialshas always astounded me; it was the perfect storm. There was the possibility ofergo, and a hard existence with coming winter. There was pettiness and jealousyand irrational fear. Then there were accusations, and ultimately death. Oldwomen- widows. A child. A few men. Why did all of that happen? The only reasonthat makes any sense to me is that those who were different, separate, strange,outside the norm, whatever you want to call it—those individuals were removedfrom society (by death) because an unchecked and irrational sense of what is normal and what is not normal overtookeveryday citizens. A mob mentality that I highly suspect was started withsomething akin to stereotypes.

We coulddescend into something akin to the Salem Witch Trials again. I see thepossibility with the Occupy Wall Street detractors. “They don’t want jobs.” “Oh,they are rioting and vandalizing, and raping.” “They give the real unemployedpeople a bad name.” I sometimes wonder if the people who make these commentsactually know someone who is protesting, or even more than the nightly soundbite they hear on the news. Perhaps they should keep their opinions andspeculation to themselves, if they don’t know the whole story. Or, if not theprotests, then perhaps political speculation? Or fear of different ethnicities?Or the harassment of immigrants, illegal and legal?

Because itis all based in fear, in not knowing, in not understanding, in not being ableto make sense of a situation. That’s allit is. You do not know the answer, you feel uncomfortable, and then youfall back upon some useless and incorrect stereotype. You do not want to feelweak. You do not want to be wrong. You do not want to be mocked. So you putsomeone else in that place. Stereotypes are nothing more than the confessionsof ‘witches’; naming others as ‘accomplices’ to take the focus or danger off ofthemselves. It’s time we stopped relying upon and condoning stereotypes in our society.