Frantic

I get frantic. It's what I do. I think, unfortunately, it's just how I am.

I get all jittery inside: like a pinball machine. Or, better: one of those bouncy balls my kids get out of coin machines. You know the kind...a tiny, rainbow-patterned swirl of rubber boing!-ing around all over the place. Your kid bounces it "just once," and then it's gone...each time it hits a surface--the wall, a kitchen counter, the TV table--it seems to gain more speed...and pretty soon it's going in so many different directions, you can't keep up with it. Until, someone finally wrangles it into containment. That is usually one of my little boys, pouncing on it, throwing his whole body onto that little extra-bouncy bouncing ball, as he giggles so loudly and uncontrollably that it makes the "It's-going-to-break-something!"-situation worthwhile.

Yep, that's me. The bouncy ball.

I'm working on the containment part.



Good. Bad. It doesn't matter. I get like this as much (possibly more) with Good Stuff, as I do with Bad. But the Good Stuff...it can be minor, silly, stupid stuff that really...really...does not need all this frantic, frenetic, bouncing energy.

My kids' pre-k graduations.
A Mother's Day show.
My favorite band's concert.
A vacation.

C'mon. I mean, these are all really awesome things. But I suspect that maybe, just maybe, I would enjoy them even more if I calmed down a bit.

And it's not like a logical thing. It's not like "Oh, I'm frantic inside because I forgot and did not get the tickets for the show." or "Oh, I'm only this frantic because there is a traffic jam and I may not make it to see my 4-year-old looking incredibly cute as he wears a teeny tiny cap and gown and walks down the aisle to the graduation march."

No, no.
I wish.

'Cause, really, then maybe it would make more sense. Like, I could actually explain why I'm all jittery inside. Then my friends and my husband may not think I was totally crazy. (Truth is, I don't care too much about that, but I do know that I am, in fact, a bit crazy, and it does, actually, drive me totally crazy.)

No, it's not logical. Sometimes, I don't even realize I'm all bouncy inside. And then, when I do--because I notice my face feels hot, or because my heart is racing, or I'm talking waaaaay too fast--I pause and ask myself "Why?" I check in to see what it is, exactly, that I have missed or forgotten to do or is still pending that has put me into this State Of Emergency Feeling.

And, the answer?
Usually?
Nothing.
Not.
A.
Thing.

'Cause here's the thing about me, too: I'm not just frantic. I'm Type A. ("Diligent" my therapist once called it, thank you very much.) And diligent people tend to get shit done in a timely and organized manner. So diligent people don't usually forget to buy the tickets. Diligent people take into account possible traffic jams when calculating the time it takes to arrive to a destination. Diligent people don't usually have a valid reason to be frantic for a big (good) event.

So.

At least I'm checking in on the bouncy ball frantic feeling, right? At least I'm asking myself what's going on? At least I'm catching myself and becoming aware and noticing the ball boing!-ing all over the place on my mental surfaces?

And so.

The containment part...

I'm working on it.

I had not been too successful in the past. I would either dismiss any accusations of unnecessary crazy, or defensively claim "That's just how I am!" (and secretly wonder, "Why aren't you like that too?").

"I can't help it." I would say, in fact.

"I can't help it"?!?

Really?  I really said/thought/believed that? Really?

Yes.

(Disclaimer: And sometimes, I still do.) But mostly, I have realized that more important than actually being able to "help it," is wanting to.

I want to help it.
I want to calm myself down.
I don't want to be in a nearly perpetual state of emergency and claim that it's my intensity or my passion or my writer's head.
I have realized that, for me, at least, there is no glamour or glory in this.

I used to like drama and all that. It made me feel, I suspect, important. Like: I must be pretty important and my life must be pretty important if I make this fill-in-the-blank THIS big a deal.

But who the hell wants to live like that?

Not me.
Not anymore.

I'm so much more into mellow, now.

(Another disclaimer: I'm not saying I am mellow--at least not most of the time--but I do like mellow.)

I have come to realize that I can enjoy Good Stuff just as much and get through Bad Stuff even better if I am mellow. Calm. Present.

So I attempt to contain the bouncy balls these days.

I breathe. A lot.
I talk to myself (in the good way). A lot.

I am not always successful. I have realized, too, that this really is "just how I am," but there is no judgment or beating myself up for being frantic. And although there are more times now than ever before that I can, in fact, pounce on it, throw my whole body onto that little extra-bouncy bouncing ball and stop it, there are also those times when the ball keeps going...gaining speed as it hits that damn kitchen counter or that living room wall.

But it's okay. because like my little boys, I will keep chasing after it as it keeps boing!-ing around, and I'll make sure to remind myself to giggle loudly and uncontrollably along the way, so that it's all worthwhile.

Still Stuck on the Move - Just Write

Brain dead.
Physically exhausted.
Overwhelmed with the chaos that is my house right now: boxes and Tupperware and drawers overflowing (literally) with clothes that are no longer even in any sort of pseudo-order.
The mattress on the floor is not too bad, though. With the exception of needing to put my knees practically up to my ears when I get up in the morning, the set up is surprisingly comfortable. (Maybe considering the fact that I am getting to the gym less and less these days, I should start counting that one exit out of bed each morning as a full squat/lunge.)
The original closing date for our current house was April 14.
Then it was April 16th.
Then it was "on or before April 30th."
Now here we are, living with a TV that has no cable; a kitchen containing only 6 spoons, 3 knives, 8 forks, one small pot, and one small pan; a refrigerator with only milk, eggs, left-over brie, 5 Coronas and one bottle of red wine; and we have no closing date.
Now we were told "it should be by this Friday."
I realize that this is not a Big Deal.
I realize that this is minor.
An inconvenience.
An annoyance.
But I'm really inconvenienced and majorly annoyed.
I am thinking it was a good thing we kept the beer and wine.

Join me and Just Write on Tuesdays! 

Boxes: Just Write

They are going to eat me pretty soon. Like the blob in that old tacky black and white horror movie from the fifties. The boxes, I mean. They are everywhere.

I am sitting on the sofa--the one that is perpetually stained, no matter how much stain remover and steam cleaning we throw at it--in the sunken-in part. (Why does it seem that I am always on the sunken in part of the sofa for Just Write Tuesdays?) My butt is dividing the two cushions...I feel like I'm falling in. Maybe the sofa is going to eat me, too.

I like my stuff pretty neat. Not like OCD neat. In fact, I relish a good chaotic Tupperware cabinet. But I have a hard time relaxing when shit is everywhere.

I thought I would enjoy my house these last few weeks, before the move. But really, who am I kidding?

 

There is stuff everywhere.

At first, I tried to contain it: boxes in one corner, garage sale items in the other; then, pick up the book bags, mail, lunchboxes, jackets worn for the day and tossed on the floor by the door. I thought it would help me relax--picking up the day-to-day stuff--still feel like the owner of this domain, still feel in control. Then I could still enjoy a movie or a book or a glass of wine or some sex....if I wasn't harping mentally on the piles and piles of stuff. But really, now, there is no more containment. It has all exploded.

As we watched a movie Sunday night, I did a really good job of ignoring the 18 boxes piled next to the TV. Each one labeled in thick, black Sharpie. LOFT. WINTER CLOTHES (which, in South Florida, thankfully means a sweater or a turtleneck tossed haphazardly into a giant box). LAUNDRY ROOM. There's another box that Hubby labeled with BIKING CLOTH. I am sure he just ran out of space or time for the ES since I never would have married a man who can't spell clothes.

The family room was an empty space that we have barely used over the last 7 years except as a mini soccer field for our boys and a dance floor for parties. Now, it houses bags and bags (and not the grocery store reusable kind, but actual hefty sized garbage bags...some the kind you can only buy at Home Depot that say something intimidating on the box about Contractor Use) of garage sale items: The Excess. The stuff we've hoarded for all these years because we needed it except we never used any of it.

As I type this, sitting at my kitchen counter, my laptop and phone share the black granite space with two business cards of realtors we are not even doing business with, a post-it with 4 items all scratched off, three pieces of random junk mail, my son's pencil box covered in shiny animal stickers, a coupon for my favorite Mexican place, a 100-dollar-bill-looking eraser, some kind of army Matchbox-looking vehicle I've never seen before, and an index card with a chart depicting exactly how much we will save per month if we get the house on which we just put an offer. There's a towering pile of newspaper and tissue paper on the floor in the corner of my kitchen, waiting to wrap up my delicates. On the other kitchen counter, there's a box of random mail belonging to my husband, an opened bottle of Dreaming Tree red wine, coupons from my son's class, several print-outs of houses for sale, and a bewildering amount of old X-rays (the actual films and the CD's). The old stuff, in need of being tossed, sold, or packed is now mixing in with the new, daily stuff. It is this that is threatening to totally annoy and overwhelm me and send me into a mood reserved only for serious PMS days. I think about tackling some of it as soon as I finish this post. But then I think: Nah. I'm gonna bury my head under the covers for the night. (Isn't that better than running away screaming like in the movies?)

JUST WRITE with me (and Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary!) every Tuesday.

Discomfort: Just Write Tuesdays

The cushions on my side of the sofa have been lovingly beat up, smushed and flattened from years of little boys jumping and playing and watching too much TV on them. I feel myself leaning over, towards the right, where my husband is sitting, on the firmer, less-used side of the sofa. Tilting over.

The laptop is open in front of us on the chocolate brown Ikea coffee table. It is late, nearly midnight, and I am keenly aware of my chances of going to the gym at 5:00 a.m. slipping away: not enough sleep, a migraine starting, more excuses, albeit legitimate.

A map is open on the screen, dotted with little blue numbers. He clicks on several, and each one opens to reveal another house for sale. One is adorable: cute and full of character, and with plenty of space for a pool, but its asking price is pushing up against our budget ceiling. Another, cheaper and bigger, but with its red formica kitchen counters and brown laminate cabinets, it reminds me of a 70's porn film set.

He sees the possibilities with each click.

I see the possibilities for regret.

We both want this, I remind myself. This was our choice, our decision. We are not, after all, "house people." We are doers. We want to go and see and do. Less house equals more money. More money equals more trips, more adventures. This all, in turn, adds to a better life, at least for us.

Who downsizes?!?

People have asked me. I have asked myself. It makes me chuckle. Why am I surprised that people are surprised? We usually surprise people. They don't get us, sometimes. Sometimes, I wonder if we make people uncomfortable. I wonder if it just never occurred to them to do this, or try that, or consider this.

Why not?

Why not go after what you want?

That trip, that RV, that summer road trip, that new hobby...Why not?

My own discomfort makes me uncomfortable. I hate the anxiety, the fear, the paralysis, all brought on by risk, by change, by the What If We Tried This?

*This was another attempt at Just Write Tuesdays. Last week, I shared my homework assignment from Heather's course on free writing. Considering the fact that right now I can barely think about anything other than the For Sale sign on my front lawn, I knew I had to try the technique on this memory.

Perpetual Motion - Throwback Thursday

The only time I sat still today was in an MRI machine. Okay, I was lying down. But that was really the only time I was motionless. Even in the waiting room, while I "sat still," I was wiggling my foot, biting my lip, tapping my phone screen. I woke up at 4:40 in the morning, rushed to the gym (where all I can do, for now, is sit on a recumbent bike...hence, the MRI...and pedal and try not to be so bored I want to kill myself), rushed home, helped Hubby with the boys' breakfasts, rushed to get dressed myself, drove to work, stopped for gas, dropped off my son, made it to work in time for an early meeting, taught all day, rushed to an afterschool meeting, rushed my oldest to a dentist appointment while talking to my mother and then hanging up with her mid-call to answer a call from Ben's teacher about his recent not-so-impressive behavior, waited for Hubby to "relieve" me at the dentist so I could rush to my MRI appointment. (I'm out of breath just from writing all that.) I have not included, mind you, the post-MRI tasks of dinner, dishwasher emptying and refilling, washer-to-dryer transferring, and bad self-bikini-wax-job. You would think I was looking forward to lying there, completely still, with nothing to do (and no guilt), music playing through the headphones. But I wasn't. I was ready to get out before I even went in. What a waste of 40 minutes! I scoffed. And I remembered the following post...only the 9th post on this blog, back in 2009. I guess I haven't changed all that much. Neither have my knees, apparently.

I can only do Nothing if I schedule it in

Posted originally HERE on March 9, 2009

I love to run. As luck would have it (my luck anyways), however, my knees don't. So yesterday I had to get yet another MRI done on each knee. For those of you who have never had an MRI, let's just say that it's not exactly fun. If you are even a teeny, itty bitty, tiny bit claustrophobic, you're screwed. There's no other way around that. If you don't actually mind being pushed into a startlingly noisy, sterile coffin-like machine for anywhere from 15 minutes to over an hour and being told to "keep very still" although you are absolutely shivering because they keep that room set to like, oh, maybe 52 degrees, then it's, at best, just a pain in the ass.

My husband's suggestion: "Why don't you sleep?"

"Sleep?!?"

Apparently, that's what he did when he went in for an MRI a few weeks ago.

"It was nice," he said.

And so, as I was lying there "very still," I thought "Okay, maybe I can nap. Maybe I will nap! Sure, I will take a nap!"

Uh. No.
I forgot.
I don't do that.
I can't do that.

My husband is in an almost constant state of relaxation. He can nap in the MRI machine. He can nap (and snore) during the final relaxation pose of yoga class (which is why he was no longer allowed to go with me). I, on the other hand, am always doing something--even when I'm doing nothing.

While in the MRI machine, for example, I accomplished a great deal:

1. I planned this blog post.
2. I planned what I'd wear to work the next day.
3. I planned what I was going to make for dinner.
4. I learned many of the lyrics of today's top 20 hits. (They give you headphones in an attempt to drown out that crazy noise. It doesn't work.)
5. I calculated how much spending money I had left for the week out of my new budget.
6. I counted all the things I might need to spend my spending money on before the end of the week.

Of course...
The blog post took on a life of its own.
I totally did NOT wear that cute outfit.
I got take out.
I forgot all the lyrics.
I'm broke anyways.

When will I learn?

There is always noise in my head. I can't shut it off, unless...I plan for it. How screwed up is that?!? I can actually relax, do nothing, just sit...if it's scheduled. As in..."We have babysitting so let's go to the beach and do nothing." That's the only way. Don't get me wrong. I do things everyday that I find relaxing. I read. I write. I work out. I watch "Lost" and "What Not To Wear".

But these things are all part of My Plan. My Routine. And really, still, they are all activities, things I am doing, and therefore are deemed worthy of my extremely limited time.

In fact, I was recently telling a friend about my summer cruise, and she was saying "Oh, I could never enjoy that kind of vacation. I'm not good at just sitting." And my response was: "That's because you don't have kids! When you have kids, all you want to do is sit." That may be true, but apparently wanting it is not enough for me to break out of my screwed up, noisy little head to actually do it on a regular basis. Not even in the MRI machine.

All I Want For Christmas...is to stop

My birthday is next week. Christmas: a mere 14 days away.

And all I want most is to slow down a little bit.

Enjoy myself.

Stop with the to-do lists and pending items and general busy-ness.

The tree has been up for nearly 2 weeks now, and I have barely enjoyed it.

I have forced myself to listen to Christmas music twice.

The second time, I turned it off in a huff because it was just adding noise in my already-noisy house and I couldn't hear the shouts of: "Mommyyyyy....how do you spell 'Grandmaaaaa'?"  "Mommmmmmyyy...how do you spell 'been'?l"

 

I don't even do that much: my kids are not currently in sports. There are few afterschool activities. I have a small social circle, and thank God, no more medical obligations with family members.

I don't do that much.

I just do Life.

 

Life with 2 small boys.

Life as a teacher whose job feels more stressful and less pure everyday.

Life as a wife of a husband who I barely spend Quality Time with Monday-Friday, in spite of the fact that we work together.

Life as a woman who likes things "just so" and puts an awful lot of demands on herself on how things "should be."

 

I can't seem to keep up with the crumpled up list of pending Christmas Responsibilities that's mocking me from the bottom of my ridiculously messy purse.

 

How come all the Christmas commercials on TV are about hot chocolate and carols and family members in ivory sweaters sitting around the tree, lights flickering, laughing? Does anyone really live like that during the month of December?

 

And then of course, there is the self-inflicted pressure (I can probably search that phrase--self-inflicted pressure--on this blog and find it...repeatedly) of knowing that Christmas is coming...it's practically here!...and I have not enjoyed it. And that, perhaps, is at the heart of the problem: I want to enjoy it...like I did when I was a little kid, in my parents' house, an entire month of doing little else but anticipate and revel.

 

So for Christmas (and my birthday) all I want is to slow down. Take a few breaths. Sit. Laugh with my husband and my boys. Take it all in. Do nothing.

A letter to my pissy self

Dear You,

What the hell is wrong with you? You do know that no one wants to be around someone like this, right? What happened to all that talk about energy and optimism and choosing to be happy? What happened to the Buddhist books you read and the inspiring quotes you put up? I mean, seriously, what the F is wrong with you today?

Many years ago, you learned the Yiddish word "farbissina." That's a sourpuss, thank you very much. A bitter, frown-y, generally pissy person.

And that has been you...all day long today.

If it had just been today, then maybe that wouldn't be enough cause for a letter to oneself. But there were all those days last week, too.

And think about it: if you don't like being around yourself, what the hell can you expect from everyone around you?

Yes, work sucks right now.
Yes, you're tired.
Yes, school-age, homework-ridden children have now brought a whole new slant into the day-to-day.
Yes, the house has been in complete disarray for weeks now.
Yes, your foot is in a boot every night (and not the sexy over-the-knee Stuart Weitzmans you covet) due to your damned plantar fasciitis.
Yes, you find it harder and harder to have quality time with Hubby.
Yes, you want to write, write, write, but you can't seem to find the energy, energy, energy.

But so fuckin' what?

Get a grip.

Cause really, life is good.

Cancer is no longer the main topic of discussion when you talk to your sister.
Your children are healthy.
Your husband actually wants to have quality time with you.
And every day when you go to work and you are generally pissed off about the state of public education, you get to vent and laugh and eat lunch with your Friends.

Remember that article you read? The one about the couple battling breast cancer and how all they wanted was to have a normal day, to make coffee in the morning, and make lunches, and go to work, and deal with the everyday nonsense of nothing? Remember how much that impacted you?

Remember it.

And stop whining about the bullshit realities of everyday.
Choose to be happy.
Dance and sing.
Smile.
And you know that little post-it note you put up on your laptop at work? The one that says: "You are responsible for the energy you bring to this place"?
Apply it.

Now have a good day.

(Really) Sincerely,
Yourself

Back to School Lockdown

As a Floridian, I have lived through quite a few hurricane seasons. It is rare that a year goes by without at least one scare or another. For those of you unfamiliar, there are different levels of scares: there are "watches" (keep an eye out cause sucky weather might be coming) and "warnings" (get ready cause the sucky weather is coming real soon). There are "tropical storms" (sucky weather) and "hurricanes" (really sucky weather). These watches and warnings are intended to help people get prepared. When they are issued, you are supposed to go out and buy any supplies you did not already theoretically purchase back when the season started: batteries, canned food, a million water jugs. You are supposed to dig around in your closets and drawers and find all your flashlights and check that they are working. You are supposed to fill your bathtubs with water (in case you drink the million water jugs). You are supposed to put important documents and irreplaceable photos in Ziploc bags or other water-proof containers. You are supposed to close up your hurricane shutters or run out to the Home Depot and buy wood to nail over your windows.

In short, all hell is supposed to break loose, in preparation for the storm that will probably not hit, but could.

But of course, few of us down here ever do any of that in a timely manner. Unless...
...a hurricane warning is issued.

Then, all hell does actually break loose.

Traffic comes to a complete halt (as opposed to the stop-and-go we usually have). People come to blows over the last jug of water at the grocery store. Everyone sits around the TV, watching the endlessly repetitive and overly dramatized media coverage of the coming storm.

You are on lockdown, doing nothing else but waiting.

Waiting to see what will happen: will it veer off and we will be spared? Will it come in for a direct hit? Will it be as bad as they say? Waiting...waiting to see what's left standing at the end of the storm.

That, my friends, pretty much describes how it is around here the weekend before back to school.

Ain't time for no measly "watches" around here...We have been placed under an official Night-Before-School-Warning.

I swear, we hunker down more for the first day of school than an actual hurricane.

As most of you know, we are an active family. We can barely stay still. We rarely have a day at home just hanging out. We are always doing Something. But the weekend before the first day of school? Nope. Don't ask me to get together. Don't try to arrange a play date. I want no part of any barbecues, and I sure as hell am not going out dancing all night and leaving my kids with the grandparents.

'Twas the weekend before school...we've got stuff to do.

Instead of batteries and canned foods and boarding up windows, it was labeling folders, lunchboxes, and journals. My boys sharpened every pencil in the house to a potentially-fatal point. My 5-year-old practiced writing his first, middle, and last name 5 times in row (okay, I admit it: I bribed him with a buck). My 7-year-old practiced his lunch number until he memorized it (sorry, but seeing as he knew it last year, remembering it wasn't worth a dollar). We read books about starting kindergarten and practiced what we could say to a new friend ("Hi, my name is Aidan Kai. What's yours?"). We laid out two sets of yellow and blue uniforms. My little one practiced buckling and unbuckling his new Shaun White belt. My older one folded and stored his new surfer hoodie jacket in the back compartment of his new backpack. Even I got in on the action: trying on and picking out my first day teacher ensemble, right down to the accessories.

I felt like I was in training all day. Or participating in some sort of religious retreat. Or meditating. This must be what it feels like to be a ninja in training: We are preparing.

And this isn't just me and my usual slightly-manic craziness. Even Hubby, Mr. Super Laid Back himself gets in on the action. He set the alarm so we would all wake up at a "reasonable" time today: not too early that we would all be too tired, but not too late that it would throw off our recently reestablished sleeping routines. He was the one who sent them outside to the pool for a little while to "burn off some energy" so they wouldn't be too nervous and they could sleep better. Even he spent time online preparing lesson plans and looking over the curriculum.

You see, when you are a family of 2 teachers and 2 students, you take Back To School to a whole new level.

I would assume it's sorta like if you are a meteorologist who is married to a meteorologist and you have two little kids who are going to weather camp (just go with it, will ya?): the minute they issue that first watch, even if it's just a tropical storm, you're gonna go out and buy those canned goods, and your flashlights are probably already sitting with brand new batteries in them, right next to the jugs of water. No need to panic, but you're going to be ready if that storm hits.

Well, that's just like us. No need to panic, but we're ready. Now let's hope that this school year is filled with sunny skies and calm winds.

On shaky ground with a noisy head

My house was broken into today.
My sister is having another (unexpected) surgery this week.
My friend is trying to repair a broken life.

I am exhausted.

I'm also quite shocked: my instinct has been to look for the good in each of these situations.

The son-of-a-bitch didn't get to steal anything. The alarm and a nosy (wonderful) neighbor scared him off before he could take a single thing.
My sister's surgery will hopefully prevent any further complications.
My friend is being brave and will come out of this better off in the end.

That is what I have concluded in each of these cases.
And anyone who has known me for a long time knows that it is a BIG deal that I even came to those conclusions all on my own...no tears, no hysteria, no panic, no Hubby or Dear Friend calming me down from That Dark Place I can go to in my head.

But I'm exhausted. I feel like life is shifting underneath my feet. Have you ever seen those crazy balance boards they have in gyms that look like skateboards with no wheels? You stand on them and try to balance without letting either side hit the floor? It's like that. Like I'm on one of those lately.

And although I do feel a bit spent lately, I am shocked how, on most days, I am just moving along, doing my thing, preparing dinners, packing lunches, making plans, going to work, fretting about those extra 5 pounds, just going about life. There's definitely been some weight on my shoulders lately, and yet I've managed to carry it at least somewhat gracefully.

And so now I am sitting here in bed, trying to go to sleep early, my body aching for the rest, but my head is spinning...a flurry of thoughts about my sister, my parents, my brother-in-law; my friend and her pain; my home and what could have been lost (not so much material...I have come to the realization today that except for a couple of TVs and a couple of cheap laptops, we have virtually nothing a burglar would want). There it is again: that head of mine...always full of noise. And as evidenced by this post, I have no point, no lesson, or epiphany to share...just a lot of noise drowning out my peace.

Where I am right now

"There's no real point in mourning
all the sadness and suffering in the world....

So this is my therapy,

to sing about the end of the world and dance.

We don't find solutions in despair--

we find solutions in the defiance of it....

Everybody needs a little horn section."

                                                                  ~Dave Matthews

Things I've Been Doing Instead of Blogging: My Life, in Lists

1. Starting a new school year for my 1st grade little boy (I can't believe he's in 1st grade!)
2. Starting a new school year for my pre-k little boy (actual homework!)
3. Starting a new school year with my students (48 fourth-graders, to be exact)
4. Moving classrooms twice in a three-week period
5. Stressing about work and the general state of public education
6. Ignoring my broken computer
7. Trying not to stress about my broken computer
8. Having to face the reality that my computer is broken
9. "Writing" blog posts in my head
10. Stressing about the blog posts that are not making it into the blogosphere
11. Trying to lose the 8 pounds I gained over summer vacation
12. Realizing that as I approach 40, losing summer weight is not that easy
13. Waking up at 4:35 a.m. to make it to the gym (see #s 11 and 12)
14. Going to bed at 10:00 p.m. (see #13)
15. Entering the world of Soccer Mom (Soccer practices are how many times a week for a 6-year-old?!?)
16. Entering the world of tennis (how cute is a 4-year-old who actually asks to take "tennis classes"?)
17. Missing summer

Desperate Dreams

We were never really the corner lot type.

When Hubby and I started looking for a place together, we looked for something small and near the beach. Once we learned that even a cardboard box near the beach was out of our price range, we switched to small and "with personality." Our first home was a small townhouse with cedar beam ceilings, a loft, and tons of character. We gutted it, made it our own, and loved it. We planned out our lives together: cheap cars, small house, big life.

This worked out really well until we decided we wanted a second baby. It had already been challenging to fit the three of us and all of our stuff into the tiny spaces of the townhouse: Hubby's racing bikes (note the plural) were often stored in the dining room; his rappeling gear and our camping equipment hung in the baby closet; the baby's playpen was more often a storage container than an actual area for Ben to play; and our kayak was stored in a relative's garage. There was absolutely no way we were going to be able to add another person to this adorable little box with character.

So we started to look for our first real Grown-up House. Due to some really crazy and serendipitous circumstances, we were able to buy our dearest friend's house from her ex-husband...the same house where we had taken our first photo together as a couple, the same house where we had celebrated our graduate degrees at a dinner party hosted by our friend, the same house we had seeked refuge in when we needed advice and our friend's guidance. The house was outdated and her ex had not really kept up with it after she moved out; we could not even consider living in it until we gutted the whole place. But it was way bigger than we ever dreamed we could afford and had a pool and a two-car-garage and was on a corner lot and had such special meaning to us from our early years of dating. So we swapped our Big Life plan for the Big House version and told ourselves it was still Our Dream--just a different one.

It wasn't that we wanted a fancy home. Anyone who knows us can tell you we are not fancy people. We just wanted the most we could get in a time when South Florida real estate was at its most ridiculous peak. And we figured if we were going to give up our big trips and our big outings and get ourselves into a massive mortgage, it may as well be for a place that held some meaning for us (a pool and an extra room didn't hurt, either).

Fast forward 4 1/2 years.

The inside of our home, although not fully furnished yet (if ever), was airy and modern and inviting. The backyard was our Key West-themed tropical paradise. We had put it all into this house: money we had and money we didn't; time gutting it all and time replacing everything...it felt as if we had sold our souls in order to have The House. But despite our efforts, we still had not finished it. And as we sat at the sparkly granite bar counter of our sparkly remodeled kitchen in our sparkly spacious house, lists of bills and notes of pending projects confronted us, and we couldn't see how we could ever complete the rest. We had left the biggest and most overwhelming project for last: the front yard was a disaster and an embarrassment. Between the mortgage payments, the preschool payments, the debt we had gotten into because of the house repairs, we just didn't see how we were ever going to be able to come up for air.

For the first time, we considered the possibility of letting go of the house. We were tired of the mortgage payment. We were tired of pulling up to a house that looked like it had been abandoned. We were tired of giving up weekends away so that we could have a paved driveway. Facing the possibility of selling the house, I was overcome with emotion. I became unreasonably petulant: why couldn't I have it all? The house and the life we wanted (even if it had to be toned down a bit)? We began to wonder if maybe we had made the wrong decision.

This conversation took place in July.

A month later, Hubby applied us for "Desperate Landscapes," one of his favorite DIY network TV shows. The show does complete (and often over-the-top) facelifts to front yards that are the laughing stock of the neighborhood. And although we certainly qualified, the cynic in me didn't think we had a chance. So...I scoffed. I poked fun. I complained when I had to help with the application process. I even went so far as to declare to Hubby: "Okay, here's the plan: if we get picked for the TV show it will be a sign that we did the right thing with this house and we stay." Yeah, right.

We got the news that we had been selected the week after Thanksgiving. Hubby suggested that from now on, I just listen to him.

Hmmm. He might have a point.

Last Thursday, at 6:45 in the morning, the first of many trucks arrived at our home. By 8:00 am, we had three camera crews, a catering tent, a full production studio tent, the host of the show, 25 workers, and 10 of our nearest and dearest (who took days off from work, shuffled their children and responsibilites, and did what they had to in order to be there for us). By 4:00 pm, our front yard had had a $30,000 make-over.

Thanks to Hubby's optimistic nature, our friends and family, the DIY network, and perhaps a little of that What-are-the-chances-kind-of-luck, our house was suddenly finished. As I looked around, I wondered how the heck circumstances changed so drastically (and sort of weird-ly) in such a short period of time? It was as if the Universe had paid us back for our hard work.

In addition to all of this, right around Christmas time our mechanic (of all people!) told us about a new refinancing loophole. Hubby chased that tidbit like a maniac. We closed on that the week before the TV shoot. Somehow, we went from a mortage we could barely afford on a house that looked like a construction site to a monthly payment with breathing room and the nicest house on the block.

I'm not really sure how all of this happened. In less than 6 months, we've gone from total doubt and frustration to freedom. I am a big believer of the Universe, Karma, God, whatever, and I'd love to chalk it up to that. But really, I know that plenty of hard working, good people are stuck in houses they can't afford (or losing houses they can't afford), and are not waiting for a TV crew to show up and landscape. I understand how lucky we are right now. I am just sort of still in a daze...incredibly grateful that Hubby insisted on taking a chance, that the producer liked us enough to pick us out of 100's of applicants, that I had a boatload of friends and family members who dropped everything to dig holes and shovel dirt, that now when we make our mortgage payment we can actually truly afford it, and that somehow, suddenly, we no longer feel "desperate" about swapping a Big Life for a Big House.

P.S. I will post an update when I have the air date of the show....we are not allowed to post any before/after shots until then! So these are some of  the "durings"!


Being a star is such hard work....here we are filming the moment when the show's host, Jason, reveals the suprise plan.



And this is only a sampling of the people on our front lawn!




Between camera crews, catering (!), producers, helpful friends, trucks, dumpsters, equipment, they took up half our block and then some!



The producers' tent

 

Jason Cameron (the show's host), ME!, Tracy (producer & overall kick-ass person), Hubby

My Life, In Lists: Please Pardon My Dust

Currently under construction:


1. My body (again): It seems as if my body has been under some sort of renovation project so many times in its lifetime, that it's no wonder parts of me are starting to sag and complain and wither. I mean, really, how many times is one's tummy skin supposed to be expected to actually suck back in to its original smoothness and tautness, between all the preteen-chubby-years, adolescent crash diets, vacation-dieting, holiday weight gain, post-holiday weight loss, pregnancy 1 and 2, and now the official "Approaching-My-Last-Birthday-In-My-30's-And-I'm-Going-To-Paris-Soon-So-I-Wanna-Be-Ultra-Skinny-So-I-Can-Wear-Chic-Black-Cigarette-Pants" era...?


2. My backyard: My parents, who are the most amazing human beings in the world and cutest little old couple EVER, are celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary this weekend, complete with a renewal of vows ceremony. Yep. After 50 years, my dad says (and I quote) "if I were to be born all over again and start my life over, I would still pick your mom and marry her and do things just as I did." And my mom, who is still known to giggle and squeal when she gets excited about something, and still matches her lipstick to her outfits, will "walk down the aisle" in what I am sure is her first-ever designer dress, bouquet and all. And so where does my backyard come in? It is the place where all of this is going to happen. After 14 months of planning, Hubby and I are hosting this event on Saturday, and Hubby has literally done minor construction in order to hold up the 1000+ twinkling white lights he strung over the pool and throughout the backyard in honor of the "bride and groom."


3. My family room: Because of #2 (see above), my family room which usually houses 8 large bins filled with toys, a Little Einstein's Art Table, two computer desks and chairs, indoor soccer goals, an art easel, and whatever else happens to end up there, is now being transformed into a party room of sorts: plants, white drapes, a collage of black and white photos of my parents' original wedding, and a cake table. Seems minor, but when you've got that much crap belonging to 2 little boys, it's not.

4. My health: I've had this little stint over the last few months with some random and minor (but highly annoying and disruptive) medical issues. Doctors, unfortunately, sometimes pose as many questions as patients do: "Is it asthma? Is it bronchitis? Is it migraines? Is it GERD?" All of this has--much to many of my friends' and family members' politely restrained amusement--led to a persistent eye twitch. Yes. An eye twitch. For over two months now. So if you see me and think I'm winking at you or doing my best Elvis snarl, just ignore me. Or, point and laugh.

5. My personality: Yes, I have come to the conclusion that for my very own benefit, I am currently desirous of a slight personality makeover. A little therapy perhaps? Some meditation? Pondering dramatically by the seashore? Cocktails with friends? High quality conversation with Hubby over average-quality wine? Yes, please. All of the above. I need to get a better handle on how I handle everyday stress, everyday life, and live more in the moment. (This item on the list, interestingly enough, is kinda like #1...When it comes to my ass or my attitude, I think there is always room for improvement.)


6. This blog: Well, I don't know if I can honestly drape this place with the "Caution: Construction Zone" tape, since I'm not here enough to actually justify wearing a hard hat. But this little blog, my little blog, is still here...and I'm still here...rebuilding, remodeling, reinventing.

Potty Training Boot Camp (or: And So I Turn To The Merlot...)

Potty training stinks.

There is no faster way to suck the joy of summer right out of you like dirty superhero underwear.

Hubby, the boys, and I were all officially "off" for summer as of Friday morning. By Sunday afternoon, we were officially "on" for Boot Camp. We had done it with Ben when he was this age, and after only a few days, he had caught on. We figured, after months of plateauing on the potty, it was time for Aidan too. We know the boot camp method is a controversial one. We know it doesn't support the whole "the child needs to be ready" philosophy. But I sorta know my kids, and sometimes you have to push them a little (shove, really) or they might end up in college with Depends. They are both just the kinds of kids who would rather be playing with Hot Wheels or watching another episode of "Sponge Bob" rather than be receiving stickers and accolades for their bowel movements. My boys, it seems, can not always be bothered.

So, we figured we would jump in head (butt?) first, and do the intense potty training immediately. We had a window of time before the grandparents would be babysitting, and we knew it was now or never. After a visit to Target for Thomas and Marvel underoos in a 3T, we literally waved goodbye to all the diapers and Aidan proudly dumped them into the garbage (and then we promptly pulled them right back out and hid them...just in case...and mainly to be renamed as "nighttime big boy pull-ups"). Before the first 10-minute timer had beeped, in the midst of, apparently, a very intense game of Hot Wheels Monster Truck, I noticed a smell. "Aidan, do you have to go potty?" I asked, my voice pitched a bit too high already. Sure enough, I was initiated into the first hour of Boot Camp 2.0 with poop smushed right into Spiderman's face, and then, thanks to much wiggling, rolling out onto the bathroom tile, rug, and, just for good measure, smeared onto the Elmo Potty Seat.

The last 4 days have been filled with urine puddles and droplets, endless loads of laundry, cheers and stickers, timed potty runs (he's like Pavlov's dog when he hears the bell), and powdered laxative. Oh yes, our little champ decided he was not going to poop. At all.

Combine all of this with the stress of packing for a vacation and the number of children in the house doubling to 4 because of cousin sleepovers and two adults who need to get out of the house every day or else...well, summer ain't fun yet.

P.S. About an hour after posting my above entry, the following occurred:

~Aidan had a stomach ache and a fit and refused to go potty.

~While said stomach ache and fit were occurring, I tried to happily and cheerily encourage (read: force while still smiling) him to sit on the potty. This resulted in no bowel movement, but a sudden and unexpected stream of pee shooting out of him and onto me, my pink fuzzy slippers, the newly-washed bathroom rug, my newly-bathed, shaved, and moisturized leg, and the Eric Carle board book I was attempting to use as entertainment while he supposedly sat.

~Ben became The Obnoxious Version of Himself which sometimes makes an appearance and has been spending way too much time around here since school ended, and messed up any joy possible while preparing Father's Day gifts and cards (surely, a blog post to follow on this one).

~I drank waaaaaaay too much Merlot on an empty stomach, making me waaaaaay happier than when I started this post and making the title waaaaaaay more appropriate than I even thought possible when I wrote it.

Wanted: Rabbit's foot, horseshoe, four leaf clover, magic crystal, and any other hocus-pocus, superstitious, good luck crap

I tend to get anxious.

I'm not one of those crazy neurotic people, but I get a little tense when stuff goes awry...especially medical stuff.

Over the last 2 weeks, we've had 3 emergency visits to the pediatrician with Ben, 1 follow-up to the pediatric ENT, 2 emergency visits to the pediatrician with Aidan, one emergency visit to my eye doctor, and one trip to the emergency room for Hubby (this does not include one routine visit to the dermatologist in the mix).

Each visit was minor, as far as emergencies goes, and they all ended well (actually, I'm waiting on Hubby's return as I type this), but it's enough to put a person a little on edge.

Put this all together with two weeks of nightly interrupted sleep to check on: high fevers, chronic coughs, sore throats, fractured fingers, and general discomfort (sometimes theirs, sometimes mine)...well, I'm not in the best of places this week.

I literally feel like I've been jinxed...like maybe that slightly sociopathic student in my class who wrote an essay about how much he hated me and threatened to kill a classmate over the weekend just might have gotten himself a blond voodoo doll and found himself something to do over his 10 day suspension for throwing a punch at a teacher who was visiting in my class (that teacher happened to be Hubby).

Perhaps I should be looking at the bright side: nothing serious in any case....could be worse...just bad colds...small fracture...infected bug bites...all that stuff. But really, I just feel like I've been walking around with a black cloud of bad luck literally hanging over my family's heads and if we cross the street a grand piano or an Acme safe is gonna come crashing down on us.

My chest feels tight, I have a pit in my stomach, and every time I think: "Ok, that was it...certainly that was the last doctor's visit/middle-of-the-night scare/hammered finger/scratched cornea/possibly toxic insect bite," something else pops up. And right now, until Hubby comes home and gives me a full report on the bite on his leg that looked like something straight out of one those scary, disgusting chain emails they send around, I will not be at ease.

*Morning-after update:
~So after lots of antibiotics, minor cutting-open, and a wound that made me (literally) woozy, Hubby should be fine.
~Aidan yanked off his own splint so it wouldn't get wet in the bath, and then again before bed, proclaiming he "wouldn't sleep with it today."
~Ben is sick of his white-out-consistency antibiotic, but keeps taking it like a trooper and doesn't show anymore symptoms.
~I woke up this morning to discover that we had actually all slept straight through the night--a whopping 7 hours.
~I gave myself a pretty tangerine-colored mani/pedi late last night and woke up to find that I didn't get any those bedsheets lines and smudges on them.
So...hopefully the tide has turned (for a while anyway). But just in case, I'm gonna avoid ladders and black cats (and pianos) for a couple of days.

Replaced

I've already forgotten her...

that girl from summer

the one who didn't take herself so seriously
the one who didn't care if her jeans were a little too tight
or if the kids were up too late

The one who smiled
and laughed

a lot

How could I have misplaced her
so quickly?

I miss her.
I think everyone else does
too.

It takes a village to screw up a child...

Disclaimer: I know I am incredibly lucky to have an entire network of people who help me raise my kids. I know that without these people, I would be lost...or at least, completely and utterly in despair. I know that it is because of these people that I am able to go to work and not worry about who is caring for my baby. I know that without these people, I would not have any of my Date Nights or Getaway Weekends. I know. I know, but...

Sometimes having family that involved can make things complicated.

What is it about grandparents that makes them absolutely and completely clueless about important things like discipline, follow-through, tantrums, and candy as a food group? I would not have an issue if they told me, straight out, that they are grandparents now and they do not need to worry about those things. I would not have an issue with them telling me that their job as grandparents is to spoil and love and provide M&Ms for dinner. I would embrace this. But this particular group of grandparents (on both sides, mind you) really, truly, absolutely believes that it is okay to have the child rule.

They seem to think there is absolutely nothing wrong with a four-year-old yelling "I was not talking to you!", complete with eyebrows furrowed for dramatic, angry emphasis.

They seem to think it is absolutely acceptable for the child to determine when it is time to leave the park/playground/any place of fun.
Example:
Me: "Hey Mom, how did it go today at Chuck E. Cheese with the boys?"
Grandparent: "Oh, it was great. They had a lot of fun. The only problem was that we had to keep getting more tokens because every time we ran out, Ben got upset and demanded more. And when it was time to leave, he refused, and kept saying 'No', so we had to stay an hour longer than we had planned."

Aforementioned boy does not pull any of these stunts with us, ever (at least not these, in particular). When he responds rudely, he goes to Time Out or loses a privilege or has to repeat the sentence in a "normal voice." When it's time to leave wherever we are, we tell him he has 5 minutes left, and at the end of those minutes, we go; no exceptions. He knows this. He knows what we expect. And it's not just that we demand this because it's the "right thing", but also because, quite honestly, it makes our lives easier. I would dread going anywhere fun if I knew the minute we had to leave, all hell was going to break loose.

I have tried to explain this to the grandparents, who spend a great deal of time with the kids. It would just be easier for everyone concerned if the kids learned to respond appropriately at least most of the time. But they don't seem to get it. It doesn't matter that they see it work when they're around us. It doesn't matter that we both have master's degrees in education and work with children all day long, 26 years of experience between the two of us. It doesn't matter. Their responses are always the same: "That's just how he is" or "That's how kids are" or "He's not controllable" or, the absolutely most frustrating of the responses, when they simply laugh it off, like it's a cute personality quirk.

I know what you're thinking: What do you care?

And you're partly right. If they don't care, why should I care that my kids run all over them?

But when the grandparents complain to me that one of the boys gave them a bad day because of this kind of lack of control, or when Hubby and I have to spend 2 days re-teaching our expectations because the kids spent a weekend being allowed to do and say whatever they want, we care. And how can we expect our kids to keep track of who allows what, all of the time? Sometimes, I can tell: he snaps or reacts inappropriately and then catches himself, realizing he's not with the grandparents.

And then there's the other aspect of all this: They seem to think it is perfectly all right for a child to, say, punch another kid on the playground, and that any consequence more severe than "Don't do that again, honey; now have another lollipop" is bordering on abusive. It just makes the hard parenting decisions all the more stressful when you know the rest of the family members who are involved day in and day out in the children's lives are not going to be supportive. Few things have frustrated me as much as the day my dad asked me if "maybe it was possible" that the teacher "just doesn't like Ben" and is "making up lies about his behavior."
Yes, Dad, that's it. The preschool teacher sits around all day, plotting how she will set up the 4-year-olds in her class who she doesn't like. That's why she got the low-paying job at the Christian preschool, after all: to mess with the kids.

I don't want the grandparents to be parents. I know that's our job. I want them to enjoy being grandparents.

But I can't help feeling that sometimes they make my job that much harder.

Even writing that, it's difficult. I feel like I'm betraying them, because they do so much. Their biggest crime is wanting the kids to be happy. But things can get volatile when you mix the inevitable dysfunctionalities of family with the complications of raising two small children.

I don't mind, really, that the kids eat Sour Patch Gummy Bears for lunch most days. I don't care that they are allowed to watch endless hours of TV. I don't care that they (literally) spoon-feed them although they are both able to feed themselves. I don't care that they wipe my 4-year-old's butt when he goes to the bathroom even though he's been wiping it himself quite successfully now for quite a while. It's all good: spoil away. But when it comes to the parenting stuff, the hard stuff, the actual shaping of human beings, I just wish it'd be a little easier to all get into it together...one big happy family.

Maybe I'm asking for too much. Maybe I should just shut up, drop the kids off for a night of babysitting, and go have a drink.

I think I need to go on hiatus

During our recent getaway weekend to South Beach, Hubby and I were enjoying over-priced calamari and even more over-priced cocktails when we were distracted by a sudden frenzy of slightly important-looking people whizzing by, stopping to set up cameras, lights, and generally techie-looking equipment at a table a few feet away. Since stuff like this is quite the norm on South Beach, we weren't too surprised by the activity, but were curious as to who this was all for. That's when we saw Khloe and Khourtney Kardashian, along with Baby Mason, strolling down the sidewalk, all glammed up and shiny-looking, pretending to spontaneously select a table at a sidewalk cafe for lunch.
.



I know a lot of people can't stand the Kardashians, but I find them slightly amusing (and, due to my own childhood traumas, have a particularly soft spot in my heart for Khloe, a.k.a. "The Fat Sister"), so I stood around for a few minutes when I was done eating and watched them film.

The two of them mostly chatted while adjusting their hair, but every once in a while, they'd pause and look over at the crowd that had gathered. I could be wrong, but they seemed almost surprised by us gawkers. And every time they'd look over at us and turn back to each other, each one would fidget a bit, adjusting her blouse or sitting up just a bit straighter.

I read in a recent US Magazine article (Yeah, so? I read Jane Austen too, okay?) that the Kardashians are in the spotlight so much that every once in a while they tell their people to "take them off the books for two straight weeks."

Even the Kardashians, queens of fame without talent, lovers of all things Hollywood, who've made a career (sorta) of getting attention, need a time out. Even they get overwhelmed by it all.

Sometimes even all the good stuff is too much stuff.
.
Recently, I mentioned to a friend that I thought I might have a vitamin deficiency. When he asked me why, I explained how tired I felt all the time, how it didn't matter if I slept 4 hours or 12, how every day I needed at least 4 cups of caffeine just to make it through the afternoon. His response? "You don't have a vitamin deficiency. You have two kids under the age of 5 and you still try to do everything you used to do before you had kids."
.
It's true, I guess. I refused to stop living my life when I had children, so that means that I somehow had to figure out how to squeeze in the raising of 2 human beings into an already pretty full life. Date nights dancing 'til 5, working out at least 4 times a week, reading the stack of novels on my night stand, hanging out with girl friends, spending quality time with my family, a full-time teaching career, general household duties....all of this has to be smushed in with turning two little boys into happy, wonderful grown men (and enjoying it while I'm doing it!).

There is a lot of good stuff in my life. Adventures, activities, and play. There are a lot of wonderful people around me who need (and to whom I want to give) my attention. When I am advised to "cut back" or to "do less," I can not find one thing that I am willing to give up. All of it makes me a happier, more fulfilled person. All of it is required for me to feel like Me. And to be honest, there is a whole list of things and activities (writing courses! mountain biking! girlfriend night outs! belly dancing classes! play dates!) that I wish I could add to my Must-Do's.

But sometimes it all gets to be too much. Even the good stuff.

This week has been one of those weeks. I have nothing to really complain about: I had an amazing weekend "away" with Hubby, my 4-year-old had a successful and relatively painless surgery, my students completed their state tests. But I feel spent. Burnt out. Raked over coals. I feel like the noise and the chatter and the excitement and life in general is drowning me. I feel out of sorts and I just want everything and everyone to stop.

Stop the world; I want to get off.

But I don't have "people." I can't tell anyone to "take me off the books." And the truth of the matter is, I don't think I'd really want to. I like the stuff my life is filled with. I like the people I'm surrounded by. I like planning and doing and playing. It's what makes all the hard stuff easier. And so, I guess, Khloe and I have more than our weight issues in common...we both sometimes fidget with all the attention, but we can't really get enough of it.

Happy Birthday to me...

I used to have a Birthday Month.

It's true. A full month.

We'd start celebrating on December 1st. It was an on-going thing with all of my closest friends and family members. I'd have a romantic birthday outing with Hubby (ahem, I mean Chris). I'd have a girls-only birthday celebration. A dinner with my parents and in-laws and sister was usually required, too. And often, I'd have another major bash out with everyone. I'm a pomp and circumstance kinda girl.

Today is my birthday. And when I woke up, I didn't even remember.

Yep. The girl who used to have a BirthMonth forgot it was her birthday.

Oh, yeah, and the Hubby who has, in the past, planned everything from full blown scavenger hunts to trips to shopping sprees to surprise parties, forgot too.

Okay, we only forgot for like 15 minutes. By the time the coffee had brewed and the baby had wailed his first "Maaaaammmmaaaaa!" we had both remembered. But still. From 31 days of birthday partying to "Oh yeah, today's the day."

This, I believe, is a good example of how life changes when you have children...snotty-nosed sick children especially.

Yep, the plague has continued. 3 pediatrician visits this week alone. 103. 5 fever at 3:00 a.m. last night. But oh, I am not complaining. Nope. Not me. See my big wide smile? No bitterness (I swear) around here.

We leave today...for a trip that has been planned for a few months. Just two little nights. Two nights in Savannah, a few hours away, holed up in a lovely hotel, quietly (or loudly) celebrating my birthday. Just Hubby and me. Just us. Ben is staying with his favorite pseudo-aunt and her granddaughter. He is probably more excited about this weekend than we are. He's got big adventures in store: Reindeer feedings, night zoo hikes, hay rides through Christmas lights. Baby Aidan will be with the grandparents at home. The pediatrician assured us everyone was okay to go..."They'll be fine. Just pack the Motrin and the thermometer. And oh yeah, here's yet another antibiotic prescription...just in case."

So we will go. And I will relax (dammit) and try not to think about the boys except when I make all those phone calls to check on them. And I will hopefully forget for a couple of days about the stress and chaos we've had around here for the last 3 monoths. Everyone will be fine. This, I have been assured by everyone from my husband to my parents to my pediatrician. Yes, everyone will be fine, but it is hard to kick up your heels and be fancy-free when you've had fevers and doctor visits every time you turn around.

But hey, it's my birthday, dammit. And I'm a pomp and circumstance kinda girl. So I will be fine too.

And if I'm not...I'm pretty sure a few cocktails will help me forget my troubles (and remember it's my birthday).

I WILL enjoy the holidays, DAMMIT!

I am exhausted.

Exhausted and sick and discouraged and stressed.

And feeling guilty about it.

It is The Holidays. I love this time of year. It's my favorite. Christmas has always been a big to-do around my house, ever since I was a teeny little kid. Add my birthday to the mix...exactly one week before Christmas...and well, December has always been good to me.

And I'm big on the gimmicks, too. On my mental To Do List every year is: watch holiday movies, drink hot chocolate, take pictures with Santa, wrap presents together, count down the days on the advent calendar, participate in every Secret Santa available, buy extra special gifts for everyone on the list, send out cool Christmas cards, take kids to a snow day event (we're in Miami, people), listen to Christmas music, decorate the house, go to a holiday park....the list is endless. This year? Um, we've managed the tree, some lights outside, and maybe a Rudolph movie or two (but not really to enjoy as a family...more to get the kids to sit still and be quiet for 28 minutes).

When I complain about all of this to Hubby (oh, wait, sorry, I mean Chris), he laughs: "What do you mean, 'We haven't done anything this Christmas'? Sure we have...we've done pink eye, multiple ear infections, throat infections, bronchitis, stomach viruses, fevers, colds....We've done plenty this season!"

Funny.

I realize I shouldn't take it so seriously. I understand that what we've been dealing with is nothing...simple, inconsequential, annoying stuff. I know that we are incredibly lucky. Just this morning I found out about an acquaintance of ours, 42 years old, an athlete, a competitor, a health nut...died last night from stage 4 colon cancer. 42 years old. I realize his wife and family would give anything to be dealing with colds and ear infections and eye gunk. I should not whine. I have no right. And that's when the guilt kicks in. And then I'm more stressed because I think I'm so damned ungrateful and whiney.

But...
I am exhausted.
Sick.
Discouraged.
Stressed.

I think the lack of sleep is finally starting to affect me. It's been a couple of weeks now, and my head is in a perpetual fog. Even now, as I write, I have all these points I intended to make...these themes I planned on writing about...but now, I feel like I'm still participating in the Half Drunk Challenge, because although I'm sober, I'm pretty damn sure I'm not making any sense.

Even this blog (and all those I love to follow and comment on)... it has become yet another thing to be stressed about. I have no time, no energy, no...zest.

Yes, that's it. Zest.

My zest has been all zapped out of me. And I'm usually a zesty kinda girl, you know? I like things big. I like things loud. I like things fun. I'm all for the whimsy, the silly, the metaphorical tinsel. But I feel like we're running on empty around here. It's been 10 weeks now. 10 weeks of colds and infections and fevers and complaining (mostly, mine). I'm sick of hearing myself talk about it, write about it, think about it. I just want to enjoy these next couple of weeks...my upcoming birthday trip, Christmas Eve, Christmas morning, my family, the kids, us. All of it.

So perhaps I have to force myself to let go of all of those things I think I am supposed to be doing in order to enjoy the holidays, and just...enjoy them. Maybe the less pressure I place on myself, the more I will actually get out of all of this? It always comes back to the same stuff...whatever our issues are...they keep coming back at us in different scenarios. My issue has always been letting go, surrendering, just existing. And it creeps into everything I do: work, losing weight, relationships, blogging, traveling, even Christmas. It's no wonder I'm exhausted. It's not the kids making me so tired; it's myself.

I guess this is evidence of how important writing is for me. It really is cathartic. Just by writing this all out, by going almost stream-of-consciousness, by complaining and venting and explaining it, I almost snap myself out of it. I remind myself of everything I need to learn: surrender, stop stressing, stop demanding perfection, be grateful. Breathe.
Let go.