I.

September 11, 2011

I’ve closed the news sites for now.
It’s 1:00 in the morning and I’m still so completely overwhelmed by the events of ten years ago that I am numb on the inside with goose bumps on my arms.
There’s a slight tingling feeling – as though movement is anticipated but impossible.

It’s addictive, looking at these stories.
So completely damned addictive because part of my OCD brain feels that if I look at all of them, every single one, that somehow that gives some closure to someone somewhere.  That I can HELP.
But that’s insane.
And looking is making me insane.

Ten years.

Generations from now they’ll study this in detail in history class the way I studied Pearl Harbor.
They’ll have analyzed and rewritten texts over and again and know so many more answers than we knew – know – now.
The longer term effects will be known.
The health problems of the responders will hopefully be covered.
Perhaps terrorism will be less of a problem.

I hope so.

For me now sleep seems impossible.
I wonder how many others out there are sitting at their computers feeling the same way.

Three weeks.

September 10, 2011

Three more weeks of Minnesota living.
Three weeks until I become a Chicago person.
What DO Chicago folks call themselves?
Chipeople?
Chicagoans?
Chicagoites?

Nick left this morning to avoid arriving tomorrow and starting work as a zombie on Monday morning.
Which left Molly and me here alone to finish up the job of packing and hanging out until the condo is ready at the end of the month.

I’d show you a picture of this place, but I’m too embarrassed.
Let’s just say this is going to be a JOB.
Especially since Molly is crawling like a spider monkey and her favorite thing in the entire world is an electrical cord.
And there is NO way to baby proof in a moving house.
And NO one within 14 hours to help me out.

This is going to be a LONG three weeks.

 

I’m having a hard time.
Every 4 years the flashiest sporting event comes around – yes.  The presidential elections.
And every year it gets a little harder for me to keep my mouth shut.

After all, how can people believe THIS or THAT?
Did they not do the math?
Not read between the lines?
Not spend hours fact-checking to make sure they had the facts of the matter before spreading their opinion around sheep-like?

And the emails.  Dear heavens.  The emails.
Political forwards, sent from family member to family member – and eventually to me.
Only.  I don’t agree.
I’ve never agreed.
I don’t believe that all immigrants should HAVE to speak English before gaining citizenship or residency status.  I’m rather glad my ancestors weren’t held to that standard or I’d have ended up in a completely different place.  How egocentric is it that folks feel that folks trying to make a better life for themselves should learn our language to make things easier on US?
And.
Yes.
Outbursts like that.

So I take deep breaths and mute conversations that get me too worked up.
I pass on responding to many comments that seem so ignorant to me.
Politics aside, people deserve to have opinions, whether based upon their research or not.
They can base it on a clown’s nose stuffed up a dog’s butt if they want to and you know what?
I still need to respect their right to voice their opinion without forcing them to swallow mine.

And that is what I’m trying like HELL to remember.

For weeks and weeks I’ve been sitting on a wooden plank.
No.
I’m not a masochist.
I’m just large assed.
With enough weight to flatten a $300 couch’s cushions.

You really shouldn’t expect much of $300 couches, I know.

But!
My husband was trying to be frugal when he bought it.
And its ugliness has served him well for many years.

I’m just saying that when you sit down and get splinters, the thing’s gotta go.

That agreed upon, I set out to find something that my husband might actually buy and enjoy.
Think ugly.  Very comfortable and very, very ugly.

Scratch that.  I googled “ugly couches” to give you an idea of what I meant and am now humbled by the crap out there that people will rest their butts upon.
Surely ugliness that pronounced will rend a sort of fungus upon those who rest upon it?

Ahem.  I digress.
Damn.
My entire train of thought derailed because people keep this in their house:

I need 6 arms.
Or more.
I may need more.

Never have I been so acutely aware of the fact that one child outnumbers a set of parents.

Perhaps I should have been alarmed when the doctor said, “She’s the busiest baby I’ve ever seen in all my years of practice!”
But mostly I felt proud.
Maybe I should have known something was bound to be wrong with a child that will eat anything put in front of her – she doesn’t turn her nose up at any kind of food.  It’s all fair game.
But I was just so happy she didn’t have the weight problems that some of my friends’ babies have.

But now.

Now everything she sees is Food.
Those with children are laughing, thinking that that’s how every baby views the world.
But no!  I can assure you!  I’ve done this before.
This is DIFFERENT.

She Jedi mind tricks the world around her into shedding the normal physical rules that define it.
The basket across the room containing all of the things I must pack for our move – because we are moving – what a better time to move than JUST after your baby has become mobile… But that basket?  The one with the Things?  The Things She Cannot Have Without Threat of Death?
You blink and it has crossed the room to her.
There is no other explanation to explain the handfuls of the Things protruding from her mouth.
For she has not moved.
You know she hasn’t.
You’ve been staring at her the whole time.
Except for the involuntary blinking that comes with having eyes and eyelids to blink.
But surely no MORTAL baby could have moved so quickly?

But she has.


Note the paper that she has brought over to her toys.  The blankets in the background that she has dragged around.  The box that she dumped over and unpacked.  And this is just the Mostly Untouched side of the room.

Oh.  Did I not mention that this wonder being was SICK while she was running around so crazily?
Note the snot.
Today was only half speed.

Lord, help me.
I’ve given birth to a Tasmanian Devil on speed.

Mama said, Mama said.

July 20, 2011


But!  Before this, there are moments like these that make it all worthwhile:

 

This child may grow up to be a Holy Terror – but at least she’s fun to play with.

 

 

 

 

Father’s Day 2011

June 28, 2011


I’m so thankful for my little patriotic child of awesomeness.
Today’s been a rough day, so I’ll just post the picture and thank God that she’s alive, healthy and so darned happy.

My children are my reasons.

I passed some Komatsu equipment this evening.
It wasn’t moving at the late hour, of course – it just sat there waiting for Monday to come back around.
But it made me want my Daddy bad.

I’m 31 years old and I want my Daddy.
I think I’ll always call him Daddy.
That he’ll always be Daddy.

He can still calm me down by telling me that everything is going to be okay.  Even if my brain says otherwise, my heart believes him and because it calms me down, things ARE always okay.   He can still put me to sleep by rubbing my head.  He can still make me laugh and light up and feel silly and young and lightweight…
He’s my hero – my knight in shining armor – my first contact in a time of need.

I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with not being able to see Mama and Daddy on a regular basis – whenever I want.

I love Nicholas.
I love Molly.
But I can’t help but feel that being this far from your support system is detrimental to a marriage and to your children.
I realize that I am supposed to be okay with Nicholas becoming my support system.
But that’s not how I was raised, nor how the people who raised me were raised.
My family lives within a hundred miles of where they’ve lived for 400 years.

My family is such a rich and wonderful part of the lives that they touch that not having that for Molly or for my family is weighing down my heart.

I have trouble understanding how other people compartmentalize this sort of thing better.
I just want to sit in a hot tub of water, read a book and eat a tub of buttercream icing.

The plight of the SAHW.

June 20, 2011

I’m waiting for it to rain.
It’s in the forecast, it needs to happen.
No, it’s not so hot here that I need the rain to cool things down.
I just feel better when it rains.  More settled.
As though the water washing over everything will help cleanse me and my cluttered thoughts.

Everything seems so cluttered lately.
I’ve lists of things to do in my head but very little motivation to accomplish.
Every time I pick something up, wash something, vacuum something – it’s a very short amount of time before it’s messed up again.
Plates left on tables that end up on the floor because I think I’ll wait him out – wait for him to pick up the plate… and the dogs get to it first.
Clothes dropped by the front door throughout the house.
Empty water glasses everywhere… up to 3 a day.
As though the setting down of those things makes them become invisible to all but me.

Even now I find myself sitting at the corner computer desk in my youngest daughter’s room – the corner that was supposed to simply BE a corner in HER room has become a computer room that I store some of her things in.

I need a nap, a rest, a break.
This staying at home thing is such a blessing and I don’t mind being the one in charge of the chores and cooking and cleaning.  I mind the simple lack of respect that I’m getting – it’s so easy to pick up after yourself.   To not make things harder on someone.

C’mon, rain.  Hurry.

Whoa.  What a month.
The Lord saw fit to grant me another birthday on this Earth, which is wonderful.
31 years.
That sounds like a lot longer than it actually has been.
Just yesterday I was riding my bike with the neighborhood kids and drinking root beer with my grandfather.
You hear that life is short, but that phrase doesn’t cover the sheer bitness of it.

Abbey surprised me with a visit to Minneapolis.
Mols and I were lazing about and I hear the door open.
I thought Nick was sick – something HAD to have been wrong for him to come home in the middle of the day.  Instead of his face, the smiling face of my eldest came running through the door.
Best. Surprise. Ever.

Life is just better with both of them around.

Things are hard on that front, but adulthood tends to be hard.  Hard and rewarding.
It would be nice if someone would tell you at the beginning of an uphill battle if the effort was going to be worth it.
for instance, homemade chicken and dumplings from total scratch?  Good, but not worth it.
Homemade chicken dumplings made with rotisserie chicken from the grocery store that I don’t have to bake myself?  Totally worth it.

You just need a guide – a scale.

Dang it.  Now I want some dumplings.