Alone Again. Naturally.

Yes.  It is part of a song.  Perhaps a title.  I truly, at this moment, don't remember who sang it or wrote it or have a clue what year it came out.  Alas, I have no flipping clue how to do one of those enchanting games and give points in my side bar.  I also, at this moment, after a bit of vino, do not know if side bar is one word, or two.  Do you?  Okay, phewwww, I can still rhyme, a litte. Seriously, re-read that.  It totally rhymed.

It is nearly halloween.  So happy all's hallows to y'all.  Yes, y'all.  It is a valid word.  Regardless of what webster and blah blah may think.

Okay, I'm alone, again.  Love of our life, man of our dreams -- okay the four year old's dreams (one needs to sleep to  dream).  Yes, four year old girls believe that their fathers are the 'it' of all 'it's and it is a lovely thing.  Because, then said father believes he is the it of all its and you as the super-tired wife and mommy, well, you  don't have to do a blooming thing because the man's ego is intact!  She will see to it (daddy's car is bigger, daddy is stronger, I love papa, he is so smart, strong, has more money, I miss him... blah blah blah... nod, yes, yes, yes, he is, I know, I miss him too, sweetheart). 

When I am alone, I realize that I must do every freaking thing under the sun.  Work, pay bills, pick up, drop off, do science projects, create halloween costumes, make home made yummies for school parties, write notes and emails to teachers, fill out book orders, pay bills, do taxes, do homework, arrange after school schedules, ensure children brush teeth and eat semi-healthy, handle pre-tween outbursts and friendship traumas, manage four year old insanity, and deal with sick kids.  Hmmm, did I say sleep?  I don't think so.  Pretty sure that is not on the to-do list.

I think I'm tired.  Alas, however, I'm waiting up for a text to know that our loved one has arrived at destination two or three, or whatever... so then I can sleep for a bit.  And, can wake up and tell lovely children that their dear father is safely in (someplace other than freaking here) and that he loves them and misses them tons.  And, yes, of course, he is buying presents, but due to current airline restrictions, said presents are now tiny... but yes, great things come in tiny packages.  No.  Not like the blue boxes with the white ribbons that mommy likes with the gold key/silver lockets/diamond hearts inside, but more along the lines of a dsi game removed from its packaging.

I know Husbandrinka travels quite a bit and Marinka seems to handle it just fine.  I wonder, however, does her wine supply come in those big kegs they have at the winery? Vinyard?  Whatever.   Because mine just comes in those 750 ML little dinky bottles - and it ain't cutting it.  Or does it seriously get easier when the children are older?  I think I'm going to have to switch to white or start bleaching my teeth.  I'm thinking I need to whine to the housewives!  But, I have some narrowing to do.  Tonight my whine would simply sound like whah whah whah, cabernet, whah, whah, whah, chardonney, whah?

Good news, though: we have made record time this trip before I (ie my bedroom) was totally invaded. In other words, until tonight they were sleeping in their beds.  Tonight, eeek -- they are both in my room!  It is fine.  It is good.  They think it is one big sleep over party thing.  And we will make pancakes and watch Camp Rock or Fairy something or other in the morning... and it will all be good, right?  And will save electricity by all sleeping in one room, right? But, damn, this is a long trip.  Do you think I can convince them this is just a weekend sleepover?  A halloween weekend party?  That ends Sunday at 5 p.m. -- any chance?   Or, perhaps they can come to your house for a few nights and I can sleep and watch an adult show and shave my legs and, ummm, sleep?  Yeah?  Well, call me!

May your ghosts and goblins and fairies and princesses and pirates and vampires and butterflies and ghouls and witches and cowboys and ballet dancers and firemen warm your hearts this weekend!  My butterfly fairy and go-go gal are rocking my world!  Happy Halloween.  (And, if  you know where I put my coffee and my keys, text me, okay?   Hmmm, never mind.  I don't know where my cell is either!  Twitter on and I'll just sit here... alone, again, naturally!)

DInner Conversation.

We dropped the head of the house [yes, it is possible that he may actually read this] at the airport on Tuesday after school. After saying our goodbyes, we headed to music lesson for the girls. Lia’s lesson. Ten minutes of which we were using that day to introduce Gia to music lessons and see if she is ready. I’m thinking piano. And, when I walked out, Lia and Gia were both on the bench and, under the teacher’s guidance, Lia is showing Gia the middle C song -- I have lovely visions of sugar plums dancing to my darling duo’s carols on the keyboard during the coming holidays.

I come back, forty-five minutes later. Lia is seated at the piano. When she finishes her tune, which sounds pretty darn good, I hear from the other side of the large room: Mommy! bam, bam, bam, BOOM. Guess who is playing the drums? And again: bam, bam, bam, BOOM. SMILE. “She likes the drums!” Lia exclaimed. Bam, bam, bam, boom. The teacher nodded. Hmmm.

We get on the elevator and decide to go eat in the restaurant on the top floor. It is a great place, good food, nice people and convenient [as it is five and I need to feed all of us, after a quick flash to me dragging everything into the house and cooking and cleaning, on top of getting homework and everything else done alone, upstairs is a no brainer]. A little special dinner to start our week alone off right. Perfect. We will be able to have dinner and we can see planes as they approach and leave the airport.

We get all settled, food ordered, girls’ smoothie/shake ingredients resolved. After just a few sips of her smoothie and just after the food comes:

Gia: Ummmmm. Mommy, I need to go pee. I’ll be right back, okay?

Me: Go ahead, I’ll be there in a minute to help you wash your hands.

Gia: [over her shoulder, as she happily scampers away] Okay! See you in a minute.

Me: aaah, [sip, sip. Guess what that was? Just water... for now!]

I slowly walked to the bathroom. As I open the swinging door to the room:

Gia: [overly loud from the first stall] Mommy, IS THAT YOU?

Me: Yes honey.

Gia: I’m not done yet.

Me: That is okay.

Gia: Ummm, Mommy?

Me: Yes Gia.

Gia: Mommy are you pooping?

Me: No Gia. [in a very low voice - remember, the door to the ladies' room, is a swinging bar-type door]

Gia: Mommy, you are PEEING!

Me: Yes. Gia, remember we are in a restaurant. Please speak quietly.

Gia: We are not in a restaurant. We are in the RESTROOM.

         Did you just flush?

Me: Yes.

Gia: Ummm, Mommy?

         I need to poop. You can leave.

Me: I will wait and help you wash your hands. The soap dispenser is very high in here.

Gia: I don’t need your help. I can wash with just water. I don’t need soup [her speech is fine. The babysitter’s isn’t.]

Me: When you wash your hands, you should always use soap. Especially after you poop use the toilet.

Gia: Oh. Ummm, Mommy? The poop is stuck in my butt.

Me: ...

Gia: It is okay. I can push it out. uuuhhhhhh!

Me: Gia. You don’t need to push that ...

Gia: It worked Mommy! [plop. plop.}

Ummmm, Mommy?

Me: Yes Gia.

Gia: There is a fly in here.

Me: What is it doing?

Gia: I am pooping. [plop.]

Me: [I’m thinking: we need more fiber in our diets] No, Gia, what is the fly doing?

Gia: Oh, the fly. It is bugging me!

Ummmm. Mommy?

Me: Yes, Gia.

Gia: What does bugging mean? [obviously a word she learned from her sister’s frequent use]

Me: Ummmmmmm, Gia. Bugging means that it is bothering you.

Gia: Ummm, Mommy?

Me: Yes, Gia.

Gia: The fly is bothering me. Hey! There is no toilet paper in here!

Me: Hold on. [gathering toilet paper from next stall; folding and passing three usable portions under the divider to Gia]

Gia: Thank you Mommy! Ummm, Mommy?

Me: Yes, Gia.

Gia: Why did you give me three pieces?

Me: Do you need more?

Gia: No. I mean yes. This poop is SOFT!

Me: [passing more folded tissue sections - soft?]

Gia: Eeeeeeew. Okay, all done.

Me: [thinking: sip, sip, sip. Yes, later.] Okay, are you coming out?

Gia: [flushing] Man, that was FAST! Hey! The fly is gone!

Me: [assisting in the soap acquisition and water regulation]

Gia: [jumping up to high five the automatic paper towel dispenser to get another paper towel]

Ummm, Mommy?

Me: Yes, Gia.

Gia: I’m hungry now!



Gia galloped back to the table and grabbed her fork and dug in. The waitress that was sitting with Lia just smiled at me. [Could you pack this to go please? ]


Gia: Ummmm, Mommy?

Me: Yes, Gia.

Gia: Isn’t that sunset awesome? What a beautiful day. Isn’t it a beautiful day? But it is going to be night. But it is still beautiful, right?

Me: Yes, Gia it is.

Gia: Ummm, Mommy? Is that papa’s plane leaving?

Me: [nodding]

Gia: I miss papa already.

Me: Me too Gia.

Lia: Me too.

Yes, Lia was with us too. The gals there are great and know and love her and answer her questions and teach her to make smoothies and bring her extra of whatever she likes the best. She was at the table most of the time, eating and drinking her Guava milk shake and talking about the art on the wall with them. From five to six that night, it was our own personal restroom. Oh, I’m sorry, I mean restaurant. At home, after they were in bed, I poured myself a glass of vino and pulled out my french onion soup to re-heat. Oh look! She gave me foccacia to go with it. It was a beautiful day.


[In a more recent dinner time conversation, at our house this time thankfully -- "ummmmm Mommy, the poop won't come out!  It is okay though, don't worry, I can just pop it out!"] 

No! Look at mine first!

When my husband was recently at meeting on a Friday night, I had the honor of getting the girls ready for bed on a weekend night by myself.  I mean that.  A weekend night, a Friday.  Lovely.  A little more relaxing for everyone.  No school clothes to pick.  No arguments about wearing heels to school the next day because it is a 'special' day [someone's birthday, a spelling test, the volleyball game, pizza day, or any of a 100 other excuses to wear that little inch wedge!].  Friday, is a bit more silly for all.  More reading time, because who cares about them going to bed 8 minutes late on a Friday!  So, yes we can read that book and that one and oh, yes, that one too, even though they are all big books, for the four year old.  And, no, you don't have to read - to the nine year old - I will read to you, pick your book. And, yes, we can play two, no three, games of hide-and-seek first.  And, yes, it is Friday, so no you don't have to go to school tomorrow.  To myself, yes, there is a bottle of wine in the pantry to open and share after he gets home

So, we three girls piled into my bed, dog on the floor, pillows and books everywhere.  Negotiations were short as to which order the books should be read in and where everyone was going to sit, lean, lay.  Ah, lovely Friday.  The reading began with My Best Friend is Ariel (because she is MY favorite).  Only about 100 questions as to why would a mermaid wear a dress, when she should just have a tail and a bra, and why does Clarissa drop that, and why is Sebastian mad, and why does her Daddy have a trident, and why does Ariel lose her voice?  It is Friday.  I have more patience for questions that she knows the answers to -- on Fridays.  On to the next book.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lia feverishly tugging at her backside.  I wait.  I read.  Near ten year olds are whacko.  I'm thinking the jammies and undies are having a war down there that needs attention.  But call a near-ten girl on digging in their privates, or adjusting their underwear, or picking their noses too quickly and you risk a hummmmph and tears, use the opportunity to talk to them about hygiene and you risk a full on meltdown -- This age is bizarre.  I don't understand it.  I don't remember it, either.   Reading continues.  Hmmm, tugging turns to digging.  On my bed, ick.  I take a break and ask her to go wash her hands.  Although there were two layers of clothing between, ick.  I suggest a nail scrub and new underwear as well.  She says, calmly, I think I have itchy worms.  Ugh.  Itchy worms are what we call pinworms.  Ever had them in your house?  We have.  Twice last year.  Thank you to the then three year old's habits of sticking her fingers everywhere, 'cause you can.    "Do you want me to check?"  hesitantly.  Checking for pinworms can cause terror beyond all imagination.  But, alas, it is Friday and everyone seems relaxed.  Next thing I know, I have two strange yoga posers on my bed with bared butts in the air (did I mention, we were ON MY BED!) hands spreading cheeks and Gia screaming at the top of her lungs "NO!  LOOK AT MY BUTT FIRST!" then, remembering her manners, sweetly, softly: "Please, mommy."  [Because, uh, you want to have itchy worms too, just because your sister might.  Four year olds are whacko in a different way.  It is truly freaky]

It was a Friday night to remember. 

And, thank goodness they were both itchy worm free.  But Lia did need to take a quick shower, again; to remove a bit of tissue.  She is independent and showers herself (when I remember how I was told she may never walk or have control over bodily functions, I have that flash of relief, thankfulness, and awe that still comes wrapped tightly in a thin layer of pain) -- so, a refresher that it is actually important to wash one's body while you are in the shower conditioning your hair (again! the toilet tissue was not stuck in your hair little Diva) was in order.   Gia, then wanted to have a shower too.  Because, yes she CAN! do it herself and "LOOK AGAIN I have toilet tissue stuck too."   

Needless to say, they were more than 8 minutes past bedtime.  Lia comforted me by saying, it is a weekend mommy, it is okay.

Did you tell?

Just a few weeks ago I made the decision to go au naturale with my hair.  I made the decision, started the process and BOOM!  My cycle, my monthly, my menses,  my aunt flo --or whatever you want to call it, went whacky.   I just don't get it.  I was actually just finishing up when I made the going grey decision.  It was a Monday, ah, I remember it well.  Still needing a panty liner, but all the ugh coming to an end.  Then, just 8 days later:  Seriously, what the hell?  On a Tuesday.  Yeah, only 6 days free from freaking Flo (never called it that before).  Full on cramps (I thought I had food poisoning); a spot; and, then hello! The period from hades that lasted for-fucking-ever.  I've had things go a little whacky before, but this was just wrong. 

How in the name of all glorious padless days did my uterus find out that I was getting old?  It can't be a coincidence, can it?  Did it read my blog?  And now it is jealous of the follicles atop my head and wants equal page time?  Did you tell it?  Did it look at my passport and suddenly realize it had been hoodwinked by my youthful appearance and healthy lifestyle?  More likely that they put something in hair dye that acts as a uterus preservative?   A reason to go back to my coffee latte locks from a box?

No, don't say it.  Don't say it is time.  It happens.  It is natural.  It is a part of the glorious cycle of being a woman.  It is a transition to be treasured.  Don't break into the song from the Lion King either.  Just don't.

Oh and since I'm on the topic of body parts-- what is up with calling a full grown man's penis "little [insert name here]"?  Do people really do that, other than on television?   If my husband, or any man I wanted to have sex with [yes, we are using that in a past tense sort of way just for emphasis], referred to his in that way, I would crack up laughing and tell "little" Tom, Dick or Harry that he should just go play with "big" Tom [yes,that is exactly what I was thinking]  by himself somewhere.  Alas, there would be no sex.  Considering my uterus has decided to spring sporadic leaks, whenever it damn well pleases, who wants to let it engage in sex anyway.

Off-kilter.

We live in a wonderful place.  It has its issues, like every place does.   Some of ours are greater.  Some of ours are lesser.  The water, the salt air and the laughter of my family feed my soul.  At times though, it is hard to remember to keep my heart filled with the fortune and the love that is mine, even when it is right in front of me. (perhaps like when your four year old says she hates you and wants a different mommy and you consider agreeing with her instead of appreciating, uhmmm her growth, or when same said four year old keeps you up all night with hives cause she needs you, and in your exhaustion the thought of that alternate mommy enters your mind, or when your fourth grader is acting too much like a junior high kid and she isn't even 10, and you really want to yell that at her, or when you think your husband doesn't realize that you haven't been kissing goodbye or hello or goodnight recently and are totally lonely, till you think in your fog filled brain, wait, was I kiss-available? or was I flying by in an exhausted ranting frenzy for the past three days?). 

Today, for me, my heart was a deflated balloon and my soul was hungry.  A strange exhausted sadness was smothering me, making it too difficult for me to begin the work that was sitting right in front of me.   You know, one of those tasks that you have to do, it isn't exciting, isn't terribly difficult, but is time consuming and needs to be done - today.  Well, I could not seem to get past stacking all the papers that I needed to get started, so, I stopped.

I opened up a photo file and flipped through these:

First, I felt the breeze.

Then,  

I remembered what was important,

I felt the joy,

I heard the laughter,

and I was overcome with their pure love.  

Now, here I sit, my heart swelling, thankful for my life, the memory of the laughter feeding my soul. Knowing that I will hear real laughter later, again and again. The task awaits, patient little task that it is.  I've tucked what was smothering me in a bottom drawer. I've been righted.

When you get thrown off-kilter by lack of sleep or exhaustion or work or obligations or the day-to-day drain, I hope you have some memories handy, so you can get back on track quickly.

Transitioning to Grey: A Colorist Dilemma

When I was 16, we had our family Christmas at my oldest brother's house.  At dinner, over turkey and dressing and salad and monkey bread, my oldest sister reached across the table and with great glee plucked a white wirey hair from my head!  Yes, 16.  Christmas dinner!  I blame her for the daunting numbers of white hairs I now see along my temples, arching above my forehead, and down my part, no matter where I place it.  It is her fault.   As far back as I can remember, my mom had grey hair.  She had always said her hair was grey because she pulled the first one out and so more grew in to replace that one.  Old wives' tale? Perhaps.  Still, she was always grey.  So, I shall stick with the story that my sister, that fateful Christmas afternoon when I was still in my teens, doomed me to an early onslaught of grey hairs feverishly growing in to replace that ONE! 

Just this month, merely a few months short of three decades later, I'm investigating hanging up my rainbow of colors to see what my un-painted locks may look like.  I really don't know.  I've had glimpses during my pregnancies. Of course, I am insane while I am pregnant (in all the good ways one can be insane) and big chunks of memory left with each placenta, I'm convinced.  So I don't remember.  Really.  I know there are photographs, but I had long hair during both pregnancies.  I ponied and french braided a lot.   Plus, my first pregnancy was a decade ago -- although I do remember the first time I left Lia sleeping sweetly on her daddy's chest as he watch football was to steal away for a cut and color (and probably a pedicure).  My last pregnancy was five years ago.  So, even if I could find a photo that didn't have my roots conveniently cropped out of the picture, five years is a long time.  Especially for hair after forty.  

Last weekend I read about the options: transitioning. going cold turkey. chopping it all off.   I called my sister.  Not the evil hair plucking one that caused this problem in the first place but the other one. My younger, older sister.  She still celebrates anniversaries of her 39th, so I've been 'older' for quite a while now.  I told her my thoughts about going grey.  In a very supportive, loving manner, that only a sister could master, she said.  Oh, no. No.  You are kidding, right?   

Well, enough of seeking support with live people.  Back to the internet.  Where all wisdom, support and answers can be found.  When transitioning, all articles concurred that a consultation with a colorist versed in going grey was where to start. 

For the last few years, I've given up salon color and have been doing my own at home with Garnier.  Inexpensive, easy, good color.  I could do it after the girls were in bed at the first sign of roots, or lack luster, or boredom.  I could go up or down a shade or two or golder or asher with the seasons.  But, alas, when you do your own hair, you do not have a colorist to consult.  I tried, though, but the gal in the mirror knew nothing, zip, zilch, zero, about transitioning to grey. In fact, she sounded about as supportive as my sister on the subject.  I looked around, called around, talked around, chatted up a stranger at the grocery.  There was not a colorist to be found, around here, that seemed to think going grey was even an option.  So, I went to someone that worked with the person that colored my hair years ago (she does not live here any more, although I doubt she would think going grey was an option either) -- and told her that I was going to transition to grey.  That it was not up for discussion.  That it was happening and I needed her to give me highlights.  Not color.  And no, I didn't want a typical highlight job.  We discussed, at length, the fact that I did not want heavy highlights, that I only wanted enough to blend so the roots didn't look so obvious right now, to give them a chance to grow out without me losing my willpower.   When I was convinced she would listen to my wishes -- 

Bring on the bleach!  Viola!  

See the really white parts? They do match my roots.  I like it. But, as I go cooler (as they say): Any thoughts? Ideas? Suggestions? Knit hats? Bright lipsticks you no longer need?  The articles suggested brighter makeup and clothes [allegedly to make up for the lack of warmth... Hmmm, does that mean I'll be more of a cold-hearted witch?  Perhaps, if someone mistakes me for a warm-hearted granny.]  My theory is that wearing peacock bright colors on my body and face will disorient people and they will simply be dazed, if not totally bedazzled.  More likely, if that person is like me, it will simply give the observer somthing to make fun of other than, or in addition to, my hair].  Frequent haircuts were also recommended.  Something about cutting off more of the colored hair that doesn't match the grey.  [Because I suppose if you have two inches of roots that are white and four inches of colored hair instead of five or six or seven, it is less obvious?  I don't know about this one.  Maybe it psychologically helps... if you whack it all of, viola, you are 50% grown out instead of 20?  I'll probably get haircuts often, just so I feel like I'm doing something.]  The articles also seemed to all say "grey can be aging" -- Really? I mean, I always automatically think: my look how young that old person looks!  Don't you?  Well, I need you to get prepared.  Start working on your compliments now.  In fact, you can send them now, that way I can grow acustom to them and will have time to work on accepting all of them graciously.

Need to work on keeping my warmth somehow! 

Aging schmadging!  Grey here I come! Or rather, come on grey, I'm waiting!

Special Needs: A Disclaimer

I have been known (i.e. told by therapists and doctors) that I use humor to mask.  In reality, I use every tool in my toolbox to mask.  Masking pain, helps keep my pain at bay, or at least partially hidden.  Masking vulnerability, helps me deny that vulnerability exists, or at least keeps me from breaking down in front of strangers or at work.  Masking weakness --and being weak when I am suppose to be strong, sucks-- is sometimes the only thing I can do to prevent crumbling into chunks on the floor.  Besides, I do look really, really good in masks. 

My life has been touched by what some people in the world call special needs. I do not like the term special needs.  I have heard it too many times.  As terms go: I think it is lame; I think it is a cop out; and, I think it sucks.

What my life has really been touched by are my children.   Do the circumstances that my children live with touch me?  Oh my yes.  Have they change me?  There is no doubt.  Has that change been good?  Would I have preferred my life to have not been so touched, changed?  Well, that would then change who my children are and who they will be -- so I must say no.  On the other hand, if you had a choice to remove any pain, no matter how slight, from your loved one's life, what would you choose?  What would you sometimes, perhaps secretly, choose?

I have felt pain and heartache and hatred and love that I never thought I would have.  I am, however,  lucky beyond all measure, blessed beyond all belief, and fortunate enough to have witnessed, and continued to witness, life's miracles.

Writing about my life and, perhaps, the lives of others that I have been glimpsed, I will talk about things in a way that will offend many.   I will use bad humor, bad language and bad writing to express what is truly inexpressible.

I know there are people in this world that possess, exert and show more strength and love and courage and patience and grace in a flash of a moment as they deal with, or celebrate, what the world might perceive to be the smallest thing -- such as washing hands or an eye blink response -- than I have in a month, a year, a decade, a lifetime.  I, in no way, mean to dishonor them or be disrespectful.  They deserve acceptance, appreciation, and, perhaps, awe.  Mostly, they deserve simply to remain unjudged by those walking on this earth.

So, to any one that has in any way been touched by a child or an adult with a need the world has termed special, I hope that my words do not offend you.  To the rest of you, I really do not give a flying pig's tail hair what you may think about my views on this subject.

Firsts.

I made my first leis earlier this year for Lia's first hula performance. The leis turned out pretty, right? I also made my first ti leaf skirt.  Lia was beautiful and the performance was terrific! The younger girls were adorable. The older girls and women were graceful and talented. The boys and young men were energetic and amazing! The musicians that played were fun and creative!

Waiting to go on for the Aloha Wave

You can make a lei too! I used a long needle, waxed dental floss (stronger than thread and the flowers go on easy) and lots of flowers.  It seems the picking of the flowers can be extremely hazardous, however.  I ended up with a fat lip when I was picking the flowers from the school yards (both of the girls' schools have plumeria trees growing in the play areas).  Gia was helping me pick the flowers for her sister's leis (and yes, I made one for her too).  I was holding on to a branch above my head and picking only the flowers Gia was excitedly pointing to.   Not paying enough attention to the branch whilst trying to figure out which flower was "that one mommy!  The pretty pink one!" [note: it was a pink plumeria tree, so all the blooming flowers were pink] --- cccrrraaaaaccccckkkk.  OUCH!  Fudgesicle and pop tarts! (and maybe another word or two slipped out that I won't admit uttering in front of her). 

Caveat: the branches of plumeria trees (frangipani) are not very strong.  But, if you ever break a branch and end up with a fat lip (or not) be excited because you can now start a brand new tree of your very own in an old bucket on your lanai!

Thank you to Melia for teaching hula to my girl!

Has $1 ever sent you over the edge?

My girls are funny, beautiful, smart, sassy, stubborn and their wills and imaginations are limitless. And, I love them both with all my being. That said, for the love of Pete(r), Paul and Mary they are materialistic and senseless. I know, they are 9 and 4 and they are products of ME. So, whose fault is it? Can I totally blame their father? I can, right? He definitely contributes to it. He loves them unconditionally and really does not have the power to match either one of them. I mean he holds them to safety and social standards that we have agreed on and makes them brush their teeth and go to bed timely and attend (mostly) to their school and other chores. His powerlessness does not mean that he is weak in any way. As I said, they are products of me. The three of us, but especially the girls, are made of whatever kryptonite equivalent it takes to render our superman powerless. When in such a state he will bend to the will and wishes of the power-zapping sweetness of the smaller creatures. I seem to have lost much of my kryptonite-ish makeup somewhere in the last decade ... my theory is it that portions of it came out with each fetus and the rest went with the placentas. Maybe that is why some people save theirs or eat it or make tea from it. [I was in an interesting prenatal class my first go around. Needless to say, we didn't follow all of the midwife suggestions, even though she gave us pages and pages of instructions and alternate ideas and was so keen on us doing any of these things she volunteered her help to dig the holes or preserve the placenta til I was ready to ingest it.]


Blame aside. Lia, the nine year old, asks for things. Some big, some small, some necessary, some some some some some... it never stops, is how it often seems to me. Gia, the four year old does too, but I haven't had her around as long and she isn't nine and a half (which is some magical grown-up age, in case you didn't know, that is somehow equivalent to being 21 or 50), so it isn't quite as agitating. Yesterday Lia wanted me to 'order' lunch for her at the snack bar in the building, because the teachers do and it is only $3.50. They are both in summer school in the building where my office is. I considered it for an entire minute, as I thought how lovely it would be not to have to pack lunch, which seems to always be more effort than one could imagine for some bizarre reason or another. After that little dream of not having to tote lunch boxes, I woke up and saw the pitfalls of the $3.50 lunch order. (always including white rice, some meat substance that might be tasty, but most likely would be something they wouldn't eat or I wouldn't want them to eat, the fact that we couldn't know what the lunch was until we got to the building and ordered it, so it could be something they didn't want, or I didn't want them to have, and I'd have to run back home or to a restaurant and buy them something, defeating the goal of me being able to actually work from 9-2, while they are in class and doing crafts and music and computer and reading and math; that they would each need a lunch, doubling the tempting $3.50 to $7.00 for some white rice and two hungry kids that have my phone number and would have no qualms about going to the school office to call me and tell me they were still hungry, and then all that food being picked on and thrown away and me having to bring them granola bars to satiate their hungry bodies and minds.) Ran it by my husband, just to be sure I wasn't warped and he simply said, no you are right. Lovely. So packed lunches. That was yesterday's topic.



This morning, while I was packing lunches, Lia came into the kitchen [to help] and said:



"The snack bar also has drinks for only a dollar, like lemonade and other stuff, not just sodas."



As I was pulling grapes off the stem and packing them in their containers, I turned and started:



"Only a dollar? Lia, if I bought you one drink a day every week day for a year that is $260. That is like a new bike for you and Gia. [Lia does not have a bike her size and we have been discussing resolving that 'need' soon]. Plus those drinks are all full of sugar that doesn't need to sit on your teeth all day before you come home and brush them."



Before I could continue my rant and talk about the value of the drinks and saving the planet by not buying all the pre-packaged stuff. Okay, I admitted it was a rant, didn't I?

Out of no where, in bounds Gia:

"I want a new bike! That pink princess one at the store!"



Gia just got a bike, last week. A new-to-her red radio flier bike with a bell, which she loves. But alas, it is not pink and does not have a princess anywhere on it. So I stood there, grape stems in hand, rant totally derailed and speechless. Arrrgh.



***In my defense, my conversations with Lia had already included full on sales pitches regarding two new videos that are now available on DVD Bluray, or perhaps we could just rent them; signing in on the computer to the contest on a package to add up points to "earn" a guitar; getting toothpaste that a friend has because it is better for whitening your permanent teeth than the new kind we just bought the last time, which Gia could finish using because she is little, wherein we heard from another room (yes exceptional hearing in that one) "I am NOT little I'm FIVE now!" [she is so not even close to five]; new shoes because feet are growing; particular styles of school clothes necessary for the fall; and yes, this was all well before 8 a.m. and the lunch packing drink discussion! Needless to say, as soon as the elevator door closed and I was safely on the other side of the big steel door after dropping them on their floor for class, I called our superman and blamed him. It is his fault, right?

Viola and Oopsie!

I've read insightful and informative (totally hilarious) posts about starting a blog by Marinka. Perhaps I should have taken notes. In my defense, I read them when I was not even considering starting this blog-o-mine.

My nine year old was able to text on the cell phone I gave her to contact me if there was an emergeny at the sleepover she was headed to about 10.2 seconds after it was first in her anxious little palms. Before she came home from the sleepover (early the next morning, becasue, yes that is the kind of mommy I am) she had accomplished texting, photography, videography and had an address book full of nine year old's numbers. Point being, I'm thinking blogging: old dog, new trick? No problem. I'm sure I can do anything, right? Who says those 30 year olds in the job market now competing against those, um, us "more experienced" folks have an advantage? Oh yeah, just about everyone. But that is opening a new can of worms.

Ah lament. I wish Marinka would have said, "YO, newbie blogger-to-be check the date thingy! and watch out! You can publish something without knowing what you are doing and the world will forever know and will laugh and poke fun at your sorry duggan for eternity! Okay, not really eternity, because you are not worthy!" Okay, she doesn't live here on my lagoon, so she would never say duggan. Pretty sure she would've used the equivalent NYC lingo when warning my sorry duggan though. Actually, she very well may have warned against such inexperienced blog mistakes in her posts. Again, I didn't take notes. (I know, I know, it is still there, I can still go take notes. Perhaps I should. I read her posts whenever they pop up on my reader. Okay does that sound to sin*gle wh*te fem*ale? movie plot-like? That is probably another blog faux pas too. Damn, why didn't I take notes?)

So, when I just published my debut blog post! I was all smiles: Viola!! Oops!

Although I do take great comfort in that my lovely friend Stacey -you may know as AnyMommy - had it happen to her recently (not the date thingy, just an oopsie, there goes a post into the world that wasn't quite ready to be cast out there) and she is smart and is a phenominal writer, person, mom, friend, wife, everything! And, she has been blogging for quite a while and is much younger than me too. So, I guess it can happen to any one. Even the young, pretty, smart, phenominal writer, more experienced blogger ones.

Oh, but look - I fixed it! I contacted my wonderful, talented and sweet friend Deece and she said, "hello, edit it" -- actually, she calmly said, you can edit it and then told me how! Love her! (Yes, she is also much younger than me, but we need to stop dwelling on this age thing.) I also love all of her lovely handmade items and ideas at Ayorata and her Etsy shop too! As for the comma in my title, I can edit that too, I know. It does look funny and should probably be deleted, maybe, but, it does separate everything nicely. So it shall stay, until I obsess about it again and rethink it and, perhaps, change my mind.

To Comma or Not to Comma?

Welcome. I would like to introduce myself to you. I know it is the polite thing to do when I meet someone new. Afterall, I did, mostly, grow up in the South. Before we get to the 'my name is' part of this post, however, I just want you to know that the title of this post pretty much sums things up about me. You see, it is about the comma in the description in my blog title, which I just wrote prior to writing this post: Midlife, Motherhood, Miracles, & Madness. You see the comma in question, right? The third one, (yes 3rd) the one that follows miracles, the one before the '&' -- you see it now? Yes, that ONE. Should it be there? Should it not? Dilemma.

Yep, that is the sum of me at times. Not the comma. Although I often do pause when I shouldn't and proceed too quickly, or forget to pause when I should just pause (and, perhaps breathe). See, I stress about the "shoulds" and "should nots" in life. Incessantly. I can, and often do, stress about nearly anything, large or small. Now should I stress about such things? Who knows. Probably not. See? Stressing about stressing. I know, I know, looney, right? Exactly. That is me. A Loon. A Loon, living on a lovely lagoon. (ah, what is there to stress about again?)

Now, there are enough large things in life to stress about and the small things should just be water off a duck's back (me being the duck in this scenario -- as although I am sure water runs off a loon's back just as well, it just doesn't sound right, does it? Water off a loon's back? No. Anyway. -- the little things, like the commas and whatnot, being the water). I totally agree. Totally. I have had some of those large things in my life, and still do, that demand and deserve my full stress attention at times. Don't we all? But, I wanted to make this disclosure up front and now, so you would not be caught aback by the ramblings over the small things in life that you may see. Okay, you will definitely see them if you come to my lagoon. They constantly come spilling out of me and I'm certain many will land right here. Afterall, small things do make up much of life, right? And, sometimes maybe it is necessary that we give the small things attention, so that the big things aren't able to fully infiltrate our souls and suck the last living breath we have right from our chests and leave us crumpled on the floor. (Oh, I justify too. A lot. Just about anything that I need to justify, especially when it comes to my girls. Or chocolate. Or a good friend.)

So, other than being a bit of a Loon that justifies her actions, thoughts and compensatory behavior, who am I? Hmmm. Well, I am only midway through this life, so I am not sure I have an adequate answer to that question. Although, I am working on figuring that out. Funny, a quarter of a century ago, I was certain who I was. There was not a doubt in my mind.



For now, and until I totally figure out who I am (or you do and let me know), please just call me Nadine, as many dear dear people on this planet already do. Or, if you prefer any other term of endearment (that is truly a commonly accepted term of endearment among adults, i.e. not poopoopeepeeheadyou, which is being voiced, allegedly, as a term of endearment in our home right now).

I am pleased to meet you. Thanks for visiting -- and just ignore the absense of the second comma in that other paragraph up there before the 'and' like I am right now. Seriously, you don't have a red pen in your hand, do you? If so, I hope it is a sharpie!


Y'all come back now, ya hear.

[If you are manuevering midlife too, then you probably know what old tv show that is from. Well, maybe, if you have already had your coffee and all pistons are firing. Tell me, those of you that may be sitting pretty with me in the middle -- you don't feel comfortable in clothes like *she* wore in that sitcom any more, do you? At least not when you are around another fellow, be the fellow male or female, human, right? It is lovely here in the middle of life, watching.]