collections…

little d turns over the box of every toy he gets/buys to see what other toys he can collect on the back. It drives me crazy because he hasn’t even played with the one he just received, and he’s already plotting to get the next one. Is he being greedy, or just expressing the human need to surround ourselves with stuff? I doubt he’ll become one of those hoarders with stacks of newspapers up to the ceiling, but he *does* also ‘collect’ random toys and cast off things from the playground at school. He’s horrified when I make him throw away the broken hair ties with balls on the end. Even if I wanted him to share hair cooties with his classmates, neither he nor miss poopypants have enough hair to pull back artfully into a ponytail.

One of my favorite bloggers posted today about her own collections, and given my ongoing dismay at little d’s hoarding future, I figured I’d try to come up with my own list and see if he gets it from me. Here goes:

1. Fiestaware. The old kind (though our everyday plates are the new Fiestaware). Yes, I know the difference. You can’t fool me. My first major collection, it conjures up memories of my sister trying to help me escape from my mother’s grasp on occasional Sunday mornings in high school. I may have been the only Thomas Jefferson Jaguar buying a platter at 8:30 in the morning.

2. Oaxacan wooden carvings. The colors go perfectly with my dishes; I first happened upon a blue alligator in a bead store in college and am still pissed that I can’t find it today (the alligator, not the bead store). This local store is too tempting for me to go in more than once a year.

3. Folk art. Usually to match the above color explosions of dishes and roosters. My current favorites are either a painting of a big old car from Cuba brought back by a friend, or my gourd/nativity scene. (sort of like this, but not nearly as cool. I may need to up my collection of gourd nativities now!)

4. Shoshona Snow Ceramics. See above for dish-matchy-matchy feelings. Plus I’m supporting a young and very talented artist in this country, not just other countries. Nobody buy the vase with the turquoise top, I may need that for a Christmas present this year.

5. Art that makes you scratch your head. Also known as oddities, politically motivated art, planner art, whathaveyou. We have these guys flanking a large portrait of my great great grandmother; a painting of Baltimore rowhouses done by a local artist/public health professor whose research tracked him to the woman who lived at the center of the row; a 4′x4′ painting of acrobats juggling bombs, grenades, and the world; we’re considering purchasing something by this local artist; and we both absolutely drool over this artist’s work. Haven’t yet figured out what to hang in our bedroom, but we’re pretty much out of wall space otherwise. Sounds about right for a woman who lives with Big D, who is currently getting a tattoo of the Statue of Liberty as the grim reaper.

6. Quilting fabric. Though I haven’t really worked on any of my unfinished quilting projects in about three years, I can still fondle a fat quarter with the best of them.

7. Fiction. A recent organization of the books in our office shows that Big D has way too many books about the Nazis; I have way too many novels that I haven’t yet read but can’t seem to discard.

8. Globes. A small collection of three, but it’s bound to be growing soon. I also have a fabulous map of a portion of France that happened to be in my grandfather’s attic. Yes, I am a planner. I am a geek.

9. Mid-century costume jewelry, especially Lisner. Jewelry from my grandmother sparked this particular obsession. I was devastated when my house was burgled in the midst of moving after graduate school and I lost her autumn leaf bracelet.

Hmmm… yeah, he gets it from me.

paranoia and lilypads

I must have done something horrendously awful in a previous life on November 1st. The past three years, I’ve been paying for it.

This year, I was in the local children’s hospital emergency room with little d, who insisted he felt well enough to trick or treat to 6 of our neighbors’ houses. Yeah, not such a good idea. Turns out H1N1 Boy also had the accompanying pneumonia, and was on oxygen for almost 4 days. Laying around the house and lots of sleeping lasted for about another week. Thankfully my employer practices what the Man preaches, and I could work from home for up to two work weeks to minimize exposing my coworkers.

My paranoia-induced productivity while at home amazed even me. Because of an ill-timed online altercation of Big D’s, I used my ’smoke’ breaks and lunch hours to bust my hump in our decidedly cluttered house. The carpet that smelled like an old lady in little d’s room was the first thing to go. You know he’s feeling better when he decides to use the new rugs as launching pads, lilypads, and swamps that will suck you in so you can’t step on the green ones, mommy.

We still need a few more; little d’s holding out for orange. But those $7 and $10 rugs may have been the best purchase ever. Until he comes crashing through the floor.

Speaking of purchases and purchasing power: guess how much money I have in my hot chocolate guilt fund! Guess. Seriously, guess!

OK, I’ll tell you. Drum roll, please…..

$1,278.30. And that’s with me needing to dip into it once or twice over the past year and still owing myself about $150. Not bad for not missing a hot chocolate a day!

it’s always something

It seems fitting, oddly enough, that something else has the potential to go wrong this week. It’s always something – and has been for the last several years. Just when one thing seems to be resolved, or cleaned up, or dealt with, here comes another thing to crack me over the head until I see stars.

I’ve had a steady stream of unsettling issues to deal with, and quite frankly, I’d like a moratorium. Not a long one, like ten years, or the rest of my life, but six months to a year of mundane existence would be welcome right about now. Of course, that’s not how it works.

So here I sit, on the eve of my birthday, knowing that we don’t have the time to actually celebrate, and I’m coming to terms with that. I’m an adult, I don’t need the confetti and the goodie bags and the Chuck E Cheese tokens. I’d much prefer to not have to deal with those at all, but little d and miss poopypants probably wouldn’t let me get away with that kind of a moratorium. But that’s not all. I sit here, on the eve of my birthday, fervently hoping for good news tomorrow morning. That the something that is wrong isn’t really too bad, or if it is, that’s it’s easily fixable.

There’s a lot they (whoever “they” are) don’t tell you about being a parent. Having your heart grow three sizes is just something you can’t describe, even when you’ve experienced it. Having a piece of you walk around outside your body, happy and joyful with scabbed knees and adult teeth half-grown-in, makes you feel both bulletproof and incredibly vulnerable. And having something potentially wrong, really wrong, with the scabby-kneed ninja who’s sleeping upstairs is quite possibly the most overwhelming, heartwrenching feeling of impotence that I could possibly imagine. I’m entirely too practical to not be able to fix something when it’s broken. And when it’s your kid’s heart that’s broken, you want to fix it. RIGHT NOW. And there’s no way I can do that without handing him over to people I don’t know and hoping they know what they’re doing.

Mommies are supposed to fix everything, to kiss every boo-boo and make it believable when they tell you everything is going to be ok. I can’t say that convincingly tonight. Maybe, hopefully, I’ll be able to say that tomorrow. That would be a great birthday present.

silent auction this week!

I just crafted this for a silent auction at our church – and it turned out well enough to share, I think. Feel free to come and bid!

Strong Back; Weak Mind

Although he’s not as young as he used to be, [Big D] is built for labor. He makes lifting 225 pounds over his head look effortless, and he’s been known to move many large, heavy pieces of furniture with ease. Since he grew up on a farm in North Carolina, [Big D] is also skilled in such areas as shoveling manure, throwing hay bales, and digging holes. He’s handy enough for basic or intermediate yard or house work.

But wait! There’s more. Not only is he skilled in manual labor, he’s great for entertaining, philosophizing, or heated political debate. [Big D] is a former conservative who “saw the light” and now considers himself politically progressive. However, he debates like Bill O’Reilly’s minions and can poke a hole in any argument. Working on his Master’s degree in Public Policy, he can discuss the price of tea in China or the rising natural gas prices in Turkmenistan.  [Big D] is particularly proud of his Arnold Schwartzenegger impression.

Up for auction are two hours of [Big D]’s back, [Big D]’s brain, or both. If you want to chat about Nazi Germany while getting your front door painted, [Big D]’s your man! Bid price is per hour; depending on your project, more hours are available if needed (or if you really like to talk).

two and a half weeks of chaos

I love back to school season – the air cool enough at night to close the windows and actually use the blankets, the smell of freshly sharpened pencils and new shoes and looseleaf paper. It’s even better when your kids are the ones going back to school, so it’s not you that has to get on the bus and look around with trepidation at who’s going to be nice enough to you to let you sit next to them. Your stomach still does the flip-flop, but this time, it’s only in sympathy.

This year, though, I am the only person in my house not going back to school. However, Big D didn’t get The News until the first week of August – as one does when one has applied for graduate school at the absolute last minute. The first day of smiles and relief and celebration was quickly replaced by the realization that 1) we have nowhere to put Miss Poopypants, 2) we have to fund a lot of out-of-pocket expenses for Big D’s grad school startup costs, 3) and the scheduling is horrific. I’m surprised my hair hasn’t fallen out yet, what with all the pulling and rending and gnashing currently happening.

Miraculously, 1) is now under control, and Miss P started on campus daycare last week. Other than the fact that she took a 14 hour nap on Sunday to catch up on her Very Busy and Important first week of daycare, she’s happy as a pig in mud. 2) is more or less worked out with the help of half.com, and 3) is becoming more livable. Big D’s Big Day is today, and the freshly sharpened pencil smell has gone to his head. The world’s largest backpack has successfully put the world’s largest smile on his face. The juggling continues until the end of next week, when Little D gets back into his rhythm of trepidation, but hopefully being a first grader will give him some street cred at the back of the bus.

Now I just have to figure out how to surreptitiously take a picture of Big D’s first day of school…

couple friends… almost as good as propaganda

As much as I love all my friends, there’s a special place in my heart for the couples. Those people who get along with my entire family unit, not just me, or not just Big D. Added bonus if one of the set is an old friend of one of us and can have heart-to-hearts as needed (ie, when one or the other of us is being an idiot).

But, the couple that takes the cake? When both of you get along with both of them, you all have the same sense of humor (or can appreciate same), and one half of the couple can plant seeds in the other half surreptitiously. So when Big D has a man-date with an old friend, both of them can take the other to task for shit they’re pulling in their respective relationships, and both boys can come home and treat their women like gold. Not that I had anything to do with talking to my female counterpart about certain issues, or vice versa. Or that we casually mentioned said problems to our partners. Or that we may have suggested subtly bringing issues up in conversation if it leads there.We’re just worried about our friend and maybe, just maybe, their relationship needs some work.

Completely innocent, I tell you.

All capitals = unnecessary preaching

Have you noticed that the yuppie-friendly corporations are preaching a lot these days? Most frequently in all caps, block print, presumably to get your attention. For example:

A little bit preachy, mostly informative, and making the consumer feel good about themselves for recycling. Or, on the same bag:

A slightly more pointed reminder of plastic bags floating in the middle of the ocean and trapping innocent fish and birds across the board. Upping the guilt quotient quite a bit.

These days, I have one particular all caps word staring at me more than I would like to admit:

Um, no, I’m really not. I am a pioneer in using way too many recycled cups. And YOU are making me feel darn guilty about it, Mr. Recycled Cup. I don’t particularly appreciate that.

My ongoing problem reared its ugly head when I brought a bag that used to be a plastic bottle home from work full of pioneering recycled cups to re-recycle. And then I noticed how many of them there were. Let me rephrase: I work three days a week in my office. And in the course of about a month and a half, I bought beverages in this many cups:

Twenty-one. That’s not counting the ones I drank in the car, or got on the weekend, or sucked down while on vacation because I got 6 hours of sleep the night before, or treated myself after dropping off little d at school on my work from home days. That’s *only* the ones I drank at work and brought home to recycle.

It’s a good visual representation of my stress levels this month, and appalls me that I have such a crutch. But, I’m so dependent on it that I need to wean myself off now – caffeine-withdrawal headaches are once again part of my vocabulary.

Thankfully, I don’t have any major things planned for the rest of the summer, other than cleaning up the house, enjoying Big D, little d, and miss poopypants, and remembering what I like to do. What makes me tick. What makes me happy and rested and not overly bitchy. It certainly isn’t caffeine.

In the meantime, I’ll be putting $86.52 into the guilt fund to remind myself that I shouldn’t be able to make a pyramid out of my paper cups anymore. I don’t think I got enough pleasure out of that pyramid to make it worth $86.52 of my time and energy.

my latest excess: unreasonable expectations

Most people think I have my shit together. And on the surface, it certainly seems that way. I have a job that I enjoy that pays me a handsome wage, a happy and fulfilling relationship with Big D, two gorgeous and crazy little ones, a comfortable house, newish car, leather couch from IKEA that my dogs have not yet ripped apart, new Apple with a screen that goes on for miles. What else could a girl want?

Time to think, for one. I’m anal retentive and neurotic and a professional planner. That means I need to be organized and have a plan in place for everything – monthly bill-paying, home renovations, meal planning, you name it. And under the best of circumstances, I would take time out each week to update, manage, and assess the plans for efficiency. It’s a great system. Now if life would only let me use it.

Because even though I have my shit together, my spectral aura must be screaming out “Dump more stuff on her! She can take it! She’ll rise to the challenge!” So since I’ve become an adult, I’ve had to:

• move out of my parents’ house without their knowledge to maintain my sanity at age 17
• manage being the primary support for a suicidal relative
• see my father wither from Parkinson’s disease for over a decade
• marry someone I thought I knew, but didn’t – *really* didn’t
• care for a dying relative for three months while in graduate school
• put my then three-year-old son through a divorce (thankfully, an amicable one) and start out on my own all over again at age28
• deal with becoming unexpectedly pregnant five months into a new relationship
• manage my mother’s pitiful financial situation while my father lay dying
• integrate Big D into my household, which was interesting given our respective baggage
• pop out my second baby over nine pounds, without an epidural (or any wish to have one)
• have my mother spite me one more time by dying unexpectedly less than one year after my dad, on the day I was moving into my new house
• deal with three houses and three cars and two kids and two dogs for a solid six months
• and and and…

I haven’t had time to assess whether I’ve kept my shit together or not. Frankly, I’ve jumped from one crisis to the next, always reacting and trying to put out the next fire. 2008 was a particularly stressful year, because miss poopypants came along, I started an intensive leadership program, moved, lost my mother, and gained massive amounts of paper to push at work. I’m quick to cry when easily frustrated (though less now than six months ago), haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in over a year, and am more or less caffeine-dependent after being off the stuff for a good six years. Hobbies? Don’t even remember what they were. Books? Good for the bathroom, and that’s about it. I can’t stop moving when I’m at home, for two reasons – 1) there’s always something to do, and 2) if I stop moving, I fall asleep. Thank goodness my biological clock is aching for more babies, otherwise I’d never have enough energy to get laid.

And yet I still expect more of myself. I expect that I can be a better partner, mother, employee, housekeeper, and do so while being thinner and eating healthier and cooking all meals at home and attempting to be frugal….. and I don’t know why. My expectations of myself and my abilities are still framed around my time in college, I think, when I took a tougher-than-average courseload, worked a part-time job and had an internship, and still had time to paint and go to flea markets on the weekends and plenty of time to navel-gaze. Why don’t I have any free time now? Why can’t I get the house cleaner? Why can’t I clean out the garage and finally park my car inside?

My expectations are probably the most excessive – and destructive – part of me. So maybe I shouldn’t obsess over every expensive drink I consume, for the money or for the caffeine level. Because when I cut back there, I compensate with sneaking old Halloween candy and coveting little d’s Easter bunny. Or if I cut back there, I can’t stop thinking about guacamole. My rewards for dealing with stress aren’t awful – a latte here or there is certainly better for me in the long term than drinking alone – but I’ve come to the conclusion that my high stress levels need to be the first thing to go. They are truly excessive and in the end, the most harmful thing for me. I’m working hard not to obsess about the sink full of dishes because the kids that dirtied them won’t be kids forever. The laundry on the bedroom floor is truly less important than enjoying the reason why it was tossed there. My family keeps me grounded, keeps me sane, and deserves my best – not half of my attention while my eye is on the dirty floor.

grunt translation #1: laundry

I’m not so sure what’s hard about doing the laundry. I’m not talking about the folding part, that’s a royal pain. But the actual cleaning of the clothes – inserting into the washer, transferring to the dryer, and retrieving from said dryer – is not difficult. Especially if there’s a laundry chute involved. Then there’s no worrying about transferring the smell of baseball on a Saturday morning or sweaty just-from-the-gym feet to the relatively clean clothes you’re wearing.

So, if laundry is not difficult, why do some men have a mental block about doing it (and by some men I mean the one with whom I live)? These days Big D is hanging out at home with miss poopypants and little d full time while I bring home the hopefully non-swine flu-infested bacon. The offers to do laundry abound, but the follow-through is less than stellar. My repertoire has ranged from nagging to cajoling to bribing to offering sexual favors, and at most I’ll get a load or two if I’m lucky. Piles, nay, mountains, of clean laundry have lived in my living room for 2-3 weeks until I got fed up with digging for little d’s socks for fifteen minutes.

This morning, while I was explaining that I had to put on crusty, damp, kinda funky pants that had been laying on the bathroom floor (waiting patiently to get thrown down the chute) to take little d to the bus stop because all of my other pants were dirty (waiting patiently downstairs to get thrown into the wash), I realized that Big D doesn’t really care. He has probably a month’s worth of boxers and undershirts before he gets worried. I, on the other hand, have been a bit more frugal with my clothing choices and only have at most two weeks’ worth of reliable clothes that fit me before I need to do the wash. Of course I’m going to get frustrated before he will, he has a bigger supply and, frankly, lower demand. The houseladies on the playground don’t know that he’s worn the same shorts three days in a row.

So, because laundry really *isn’t* that difficult, I continue to chip away at the laundry mountain when I take a break on the days I work from home. And secretly plot to hide the clean boxers and feign ignorance when he’s running low. Baby, I love you, but if you can tell me what you think I want to hear and never follow through because you know I’ll just get annoyed and do it myself, I can be the queen of passive-aggressiveness. Sorry, but I need clean underwear to go to work tomorrow.

I had absolutely nothing to do with it…

…but I’m so glad the previous owners of our house loved spring flowers.