tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20928415599101770772024-02-07T11:48:37.293-08:00Mama Uses NeedlesAdventures in parenting, sewing, upcycling and the nearly perverse admiration for textiles.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.comBlogger169125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-64604943393401649312014-12-05T04:46:00.000-08:002014-12-05T04:46:40.291-08:00Poop On HandNo, like actually poop. on. hands.<br />
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I was going to do a series for this blog called, "WTF <i>is</i> that?!" where I posted photo documentation of every time I've encountered an unidentified piece of detritus on the floor of my house that, because of my declining eyesight, has caused me to hold my breath for a second, hoping it's not poop. Yes, like actual feces. Because if you have a few small kids, you never know when that brown Lego that you go to pick up will actually be a little rolly-polly of human waste.<br />
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They're like burs, you know- they can like, hitch a ride in a pants cuff and then jump out at any preferred stop. Hours, sometimes days after being excreted.<br />
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I was JUST thinking that I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. The twins are three after all. Almost human. Foolishly, I silently wondered, <i>am I free of the fear</i>? Can I now safely approach a small brown object from across the dining room and relax knowing that it is JUST LEGO HAIR.<br />
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But if I've learned anything (and I haven't) I know that as soon as you let your guard down there will certainly come baby shit. <br />
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It is a true story that I was just telling my friend Kristine during a playdate that the twins have regressed in potty training. (A move clearly intended for the sole purpose of totally unraveling my already fragile sanity). As I was telling, I said, "You hear that?" <br />
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"What?" She listened, concerned.<br />
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"Nothing, that's what. If Griffin is silent this long something terrible has come to pass and that is with 100% certainty. I have to go check the damage."<br />
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I go downstairs where the kids are playing and find him at the bottom of the steps. Pantless. He is wringing his hands, which he has covered to the wrists in an expensive mud mask from an Icelandic Spa.<br />
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After adjusting my slow-focus eyes, I calmly inquire, "Griff? Is that poop on your hands?" He nods. And my eye is led across the trail of destruction leading back to the training potty in the bathroom. Carnage. I briefly consider calling '911'.<br />
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Alas, we clean the poop and my friend Kristine, who is pregnant, does not throw up. I am so impressed. It must be her sturdy Swedish stock.<br />
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But I am thinking <i>THAT MUST BE IT</i>. My final Poop Interlude. Right?<br />
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ONE DAY LATER:<br />
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I have another playdate. (Because I am All Fun and No Joy, y'all.) and there are four preschoolers downstairs. It happens. A renegade nugget. <br />
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"Whatcha got there, Annika" says my innocent mom friend. My daughter turns over the morsel in her tiny fingers. Calico Critter accessory? Hmm. No Legos downstairs, so. "Honey, can you put that down?" <br />
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I veer dangerously close to it- like, my goddamn face is inches from the excrement and it is identified. "That is poop, people."<br />
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Here is a clip of what was going through my mind- Kyle McLachlan is playing me:<br />
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All I could say was, "When is it from?" like it was a charming historical artifact. "Yeah, when IS it from" my mom friend chimed. I grabbed a tissue and checked its density. "It new. Its from now" I reported. <br />
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We looked at all the possible suspects and then my mom friend says, "Barnaby. He doesn't have any underwear on!"<br />
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Barnaby smiles. <br />
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And so it goes. I am quite literally surrounded by actual poop and imagined poop and there is no end in sight. I cannot decide whether I get the glasses, or don't get the glasses. Maybe I don't want to see. I don't want to know. Like so many parts of being a parent.<br />
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In summary: don't accept playdates with me. My house is full of human feces. It will probably fall on your shoulder. Or be in your coffee. Don't say you weren't warned. The End.<br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-30947898860840058262014-11-07T12:52:00.000-08:002014-11-07T12:52:05.873-08:00Finally! A Sweater Pants TutorialIt's happening. I'm bringing my sweater pants sewing technique to the masses. (Okay, maybe not "masses", but like, 4 people. Still.)<br />
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You'd be excited by these, wouldn't you?:<br />
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Before we start, here are the Four Horses of the Sweaterpants Apocolypse:<br />
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1. Pin, pin, pin. It it isn't pinning right, it isn't going to sew right.<br />
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2. It's sweater you're sewing, so go slowwww. If you've got a ballpoint needle, you should use it.<br />
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3. Use a long stitch so your waist will have give. By long, I don't mean basting stitch of course, but like, longer than average.<br />
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4. Do not fear. Sweater pants can smell fear. If they smell your fear, you will make a Thneed.<br />
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(Also: for your entertainment, I will occasionally use my expansive knowledge of rap, hip-hop and lite rock lyrics to guide you along through this journey. You are welcome.)<br />
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<i>Pack it up, pack it in, let me begin.-- House of Pain</i></div>
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<i>I like big butts(eams) and I cannot lie-- Sir-Mix-A-Lot</i></div>
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<i>Tuuurn arouunnd...-- Bonnie Tyler</i></div>
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<i>Cut bitch, camera off, real shit blastin'-- Eve</i></div>
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<i>I put my thing down, flip it and reverse it-- Missy Elliott</i></div>
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<i>Baby what a big surprise. Right before my very eyes-- Chicago</i></div>
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<i>Pin that crotch seam one mooore time. Once is never enough-- Captain and Tenille</i></div>
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<i>Knowin'...that you LIED, straight-faced, while I cried-- Rod Stewart</i></div>
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<i>Smack it up, flip it, rub it down- Oh nooooo-- Bel Biv Devoe</i></div>
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I got nothing here, folks, but a sudden revelation: what does it mean that our American songbook is so anemic when it comes to turtlenecks. SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT.</div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Back, front back, fr-front back, ft-front back, side-to-side-- T.I.</span></div>
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<i>I got it mastered man, in the hood I'm like plastic, man. Stretch. -- 50 Cent</i></div>
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<i>Did you ever know that you're my heeeeero?-- Bette Midler</i></div>
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-27888007753138995912014-10-01T03:45:00.002-07:002014-10-01T03:45:50.521-07:00Why Are You Fighting?! You Don't Even Have A Kevin Bacon Poster!I was there. I have a brother less than a year older than me, and three other siblings too. But I don't remember <i>this</i>. The fighting. The constant, infernal, senseless fighting! <br />
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Here's a quick list of the things that my three kids will come to blows over. Like, hair-pulling, smacking face, UFC-style grappling blows:<br />
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1. <i>That</i> Lego. No, not that other goddamn Lego, the one that <i>looks</i> like this Lego, THAT exact Lego.<br />
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2. <i>These</i> inches of the sofa. The ones with my toenails on it. 'No, I will not move the toenails, you are OVER THE PROPERTY LINE'. I need a couch with carrels on it. 'Member those? Like this, only for the couch:<br />
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Also, for the porch swing, the dinner table, the bathtub and my bed. Anything that requires three small people to share space fairly. I need one for my house, yard, playhouse, playground. WORLD. I need a portable carrel that I can literally slot all three children into and move them through life with an impermeable barrier that prevents constant real estate disputes. <br />
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Julie says this is my fault because I never want to share my coffee with her. <br />
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3. Food snatching. My son acts exactly like an ape at Lincoln Park Zoo when the lettuce is served. He stuffs all his food down instantly and then starts a mad grab for the girls', curling it up to his chest and running away on two legs and one free arm. I am sorry, but I hereby confess to routinely playing the old "You're so lucky you have all the food you need," card. It's harsh, but I do it.<br />
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4. Me. They fight over me, constantly. It is a strange situation to be in- people fighting over your body. Aside from basically every third day in the Supreme Court, I am not used to people fighting over my body. There is no amount of closeness to my body that will satisfy the spawn, and when its time to decide which of them gets to sit next to me at dinner, it's like straight to cage match. I wish I felt that popular when I was single. (Thought I would have insisted on mud-wrestling to settle those disputes.)<br />
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I am so scared, y'all. Scared of when they actually have something worthy of fighting over. Like, for example a friend. Or a Kevin Bacon poster. When my brother f'd with my Kevin Bacon poster, I kicked him so hard in the jewels, an ambulance had to come. <br />
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I think I better make sure we never get any Kevin Bacon posters. You know, to preserve the bloodline. And no New Kids On The Block either, just to be safe.<br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-72732189084524608822014-09-07T11:55:00.000-07:002014-09-08T03:46:45.124-07:00I've Been Stress-Eating Jewish HotdogsAbout two weeks ago, I had an epiphany: if I want success, I must envision my successful lifestyle. I decided that the perfect way to see myself as financially successful is to test-drive a Jaguar (please see my <a href="http://mamausesneedles.blogspot.com/2014/05/heaving-heuchera-and-other.html" target="_blank">Mid-Life Crisis post</a>). It is my firm belief that if I drive a Jaguar (read: <i>my</i> future Jaguar), it will instill in me ambition, entitlement and resolve. It will! How can I know what I want (what I have wanted since I was 14) without ever actually experiencing a taste of what it would be like? <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">My new car</span></div>
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So I was grooving along imagining my future abundant in material goods, when Phinny had to go and start Kindergarten and f it all up. Suddenly, all the focus is on <i>her</i>, and I'm left obsessing over her each and every comfort. She's having what they call a "hard time adjusting" and I'm having what they call a "hamburger sized Klonopin" to deal with her stress. <br />
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Also, I am eating hot dogs a lot. Before you get all "Eeeew!", know this: they're not the Eyeballs-and-Assholes brand of hotdogs. They're Hebrew National. You know the Jews wouldn't be sitting there eating the eyeballs and assholes, so relax. But still, they feel indulgent. Like, I was having a stress attack last night and I straight up microwaved that little bitch until it was dripping with greasy salt water and then just ate it directly off the plate with my bare hands. That is the kind of stress we are dealing with here.<br />
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So, sure enough, after cramming my pie-hole with responsible hotdog, I began to feel better. I drifted into my fantasy about the Jaguar again and took comfort in knowing that, yes, Phinny might have a nervous breakdown, but she'll recover, and then we can all roll up to Whole Foods together in my bitchin' ride. (Naturally it will be fitted with a custom-made device that administers a harmless electrical shock if their feet so much as graze the back of the seat.)<br />
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And then what happens?! I have a dream last night about <i>Living With Less</i>. Yes! So rude, right?! My jerk of a brain gives me this whole lecture in the form of a dream about having to move to this tiny, tiny plot of land next to a rundown "Title and Loans" joint. I'm sitting in my dream before a panel of experts from the city and they're grilling me on <i>why</i> and <i>how</i> I plan to live smaller, materially, and yet larger in my heart. I was all, "I'll get a Japanese architect! Why is this happening to me?!"<br />
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And so this post comes to a close with no discernible theme, except for blah blah some shit about achieving an understanding about the things that truly matter et etc whatever. <br />
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I'll just say this to the universe: I goddamn well understand what truly matters and I have every intention of moving through this life with intention, reverence and joy. ALL WHAT SHIT WOULD BE EASIER IF I HAD A JAGUAR.<br />
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The End<br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-23043231609289794112014-06-01T04:56:00.001-07:002014-06-01T06:22:56.817-07:00Why It Must Totally Suck To Be a KidI spend a lot of time thinking about how bad it sucks to have to steward these tiny terrorists through early life. Sometimes when there are three tantrums happening simultaneously about teeth-brushing/ he hit me/ you are standing TOO CLOSE TO ME, I completely surrender to the desire to wallow, deeply, in the feeling that it sucks so <i>so</i> badly to be me in that moment.<br />
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It occurred to me- OKAY, it didn't actually occur to me- it was Phinny saying, "I'm so saaad, because I never get anything I want!" that, occasionally it might actually suck for them too.<br />
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Mostly I like to tell them stories about walking uphill both ways to my one-room crulehouse as a child, and threaten them with replacing all their toys with a soccer ball made of loosely-woven plastic bags, but ONCE in a while, I have to look at the situation and wonder, how ultra pissed would I be if I was them? <br />
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Imagine being the subject in this scenario (You are the child. I mean, in this scenario):<br />
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"Mama, can I have a popsicle?"<br />
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"NO." And then some tall person hands you a motherflocking carrot instead. <br />
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Seriously. The indignity. If I were a kid and my mother ever did that to me, I would sharpen that carrot stick into a shiv and sink it into her jugular.<br />
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And now, this is happening to a kid like fifty times a day. And there's nothing they can do about. <strike>DO YOU HEAR ME?! THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT!</strike><br />
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It would be hard! <br />
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"You have to take a bath."<br />
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"You have to go to school. Now."<br />
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"Put your shoes on...." (5 minutes pass)..."Put your shoes on please"....2 minutes..."OH MY GOD, WHY ARE YOUR SHOES NOT ON?"... 1 minute and a dazzling Lego contraption that has been the subject of attention while ignoring about the shoes..."Look, mama!" Cue the voice of Satan, "THAT IS COOL! But now I have to take all your shoes away! Those neat little helicopter TOMS you love? Gone. They are going to Africa where a child will appreciate them! If you want shoes from here on out, you can sign up to receive TOMS from the TOMS company because you will be a shoeless child who needs shoes. Because I am taking all your shoes away. Okay? Forget putting on shoes. You have no shoes. Write to the company."<br />
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If Jules even tries to ask me to empty the dishwasher, I'm all "Don't tell me what to do!" yet I mete out directives all day long to these poor tiny people who just want to, you know, watch TV and be delivered a steady stream of snacks.<br />
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I feel bad. I need to pay more attention to what it feels like to be bossed all day long and have compassion for that, right? I need to walk a mile in their shoes. But I can't BECAUSE THEY HAVE NO SHOES BECAUSE I TOOK THEM AWAY FROM THOSE ENTITLED LITTLE CRETINS, and they will not get them back until they do what I say.<br />
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The End.<br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-77762376227838492672014-05-16T04:23:00.002-07:002014-05-16T04:23:48.685-07:00What To Be When I Grow Up, Part Two Damns, I have an itch. Well, I have that rash on my face and neck from the Euphorbia plant in the yard, but I also have another big itch, on a more life-scale level. (See, now that totally just made my neck rash itch. Wtf? Anyway.)<br />
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I need a job. I want money. I know, I know, "more money, more problems", etc. But also, better STUFF WOOT!<br />
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Now. What to be. I have culled some options from the last five years of being jobless (except that OH YEAH GROW, BIRTHE AND KEEP THREE HUMANS ALIVE JOB). <br />
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People are all the time saying I should be something. I will choose from this pool of suggestions in ranking order of frequency, then let's discuss pros and cons.<br />
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1. Writer: WELL I'M WRITING, AIN'T I? Where's my damn paycheck? I know people who've been writing for their whole career and they still rent railroad apartments in Roger's Park and cling to their only paid gig at "AARP Newletter, Midwest Edition" to pay the minimum on the liberal arts degree student loans. You heard me say I want MONEY, right?<br />
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2. Lawyer. Okay, we have the cash part wrapped up with this one, there's just that whole inconvenient law school issue and then the mammoth debt that comes with it. I'm told one can't find a job after school and if you do, you work like waaay too much. Forget that. Money: good. Actual 'work': bad.<br />
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3. Designer. Too vague. Except I did make this last week! It's a fairy house for the modern fairy who likes to travel. The kids played with it. Temporarily. I think it needs more "features". Just when you're thinking it's never to late to talk to your kids about the virtues of Scandinavian minimalist architecture you find out: it's too late. They no longer care. Still keeping Fairy Home Builder on my resume.<br />
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4. Developer/ house flipper: This one is my favie lately because I renovated the bathroom and it turned out well. I can just see myself on that show though, where people try to flip a house in Palo Alto and then they're up to their ass in old electrical (surprise!) and, like, termites or something and then the next thing you know, they have to move into the house in the Palo Alto with the termites and you sadly watch as their choice in kitchen tile goes from Italian marble down to faux-parquette laminate until they finally unload the place for less than they paid because they are in the process of a divorce borne from the terrible choice to flip a house. Hmmm. I'ma give this one more thought.<br />
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So, as part of my many-layered Pre-Midlife Crisis, I will add new career to the emotional melee. <br />
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Perfect. That's just great.<br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-19894401478237601982014-05-02T14:08:00.002-07:002014-05-03T04:39:33.146-07:00Heaving Heuchera and Other Fortysomething ProblemsI'm shattered. It has recently come to my attention that I have become, instantly- practically over f'ing night- totally... OLD!<br />
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It's like a shocking Dorian Gray moment I'm having here. So give me support. First: apologies for my sins:<br />
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I am sorry I smoked.<br />
I am sorry I made any guy listen to Sarah McLachlan for hours. I am sorry I made women listen to Beth Orton. For hours.<br />
I am sorry about never drinking water.<br />
I am sorry for the booze.<br />
I am sorry for nourishing my children through my boobs. MY. BAD.<br />
I am sorry for sun worship, but fuck you because don't make the sun so nice.<br />
I am sorry for anything bad I ever did.<br />
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Now can we please please PLEEEEAAASE go back to passing the Pencil Test? Pleeeaaase?!<br />
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The first thing I noticed about this accelerated aging was how I felt the distinct urge to apologize to Julie for how I look in the morning now. Before my very eyes I've gone from a morning look that was "rumpled, innocent" to "looking a little more like my dad's side of the family" to full blown Benicio Tel Toro after a meth binge:<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sorry, Julie</span></div>
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<br />
And yesterday, I was out in the yard doing actual GARDENING, which: thoughtful gardening= Old, and I was wearing tall rubber boots, stomping around, happily weeding out the squill when I heard myself say, out loud (!) "Oh hells no! Does this Heuchera have frost heave?" I panicked when I heard this disembodied voice of oldity and was all "Ohhh, shiiiit..." and ran in the house, "Jules! Hurry, open me a craft beer and put on some Jay-Z, I think I'm turning into Camilla Parker-Bowles!"<br />
<br />
But, people, I am a woman of action. Fear not. I got planz. Appointmentz.<br />
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When I am overwhelmed, it helps me to sort of chart course. Check it:<br />
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<br />
So, I am going to implement the above-shown practices and I will keep you apprised of my progress. <br />
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(It should be noted that I took a poll on Facie to see if I should grow my hair out. Errbody except a few of my dearest said "YES" and I was all ready to, you know BOOM start growing when Jules totally put the kibosh on it. She came home and said, "If your crisis is so pronounced that you are considering this crazy act, I will give you a Jaguar sportscar if you DON'T grow your hair out. She just skeerd people will think she's a lesbian. Whatevs.)<br />
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Okay, I have to go do, like a "peel" or something. Thank you. This sucks. Hold me*.<br />
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*If you are Emma Stone<br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-69086270144052061502014-04-27T03:24:00.001-07:002014-04-27T03:24:34.730-07:00I Think I Have Penis EnvyYou couldn't help yourself, clicking on "Penis Envy", could you? You had to click to see if this post- THIS one, in particular, was the indicator that I've come completely undone. You wonder, when the psychiatrists lock me up, will they scour my blog trying to identify when <i>exactly</i> I started to go bat-shit, in a clinical sense, and then will they tap the computer screen, "Uh huh, look: "Penis Envy". Bingo."<br />
<br />
Well, it's not exactly <i>that</i> kind of penis envy. Though I do need a penis. NO NOT LIKE THAT. Ohmagod.<br />
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I have this son. He is the only boy in the family. He has two moms and two sisters. Four women is a LOT of women when you're the only guy in the joint. He's two and he already sorts pads, pantyliners and tampons by the 'flow' color on the wrapper.<br />
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Being the perennially hopeful ignorant that I am, I was thinking we could totally skirt this whole "Dad" thing. I am proud of our family, and I have no trouble understanding that we will do well without the dad part of the equation. It's just that there's going to be <i>times</i>. Times where there's questions about... BALLS. I have helped manage my anxiety by creating three simple balls categories. I think I've got this all hammered out. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Balls 1</span><br />
The football. There isn't a big burly dude (or even a smallish dude) with collarbones stronger than his moms' to throw him around and play a little game of tackle in the yard. As it is now, he gives me one good crashing hug when I get home from grocery shopping and I'm all, "GAAAAH, YOU CRUSHED MY UTERUS." So there the whole physicality of it. He thrives on what his OT calls "Prioperceptive Input" which is a sneaky way of saying 'roughhousing'. I do some of it. Thanks to my big brother, Steve, I know the game "Steamroller" where you just roll over someone smaller that you until they scream. So I do that to Griffin. Until he screams. Also, Julie and I can both throw perfect spirals, so we will drill into him the belief that the game is all about finesse, not brute strength. <b>Balls 1: solved.</b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Balls 2</span><br />
How will we coach him on the art of asking someone to the Spring Formal (I know, a stretch on the "balls" theme, because they call them "dances" unless you're in the South, but go with me). You know, who will teach him the ways of women and romance? I'm not so sure he'll listen to us when we give advice! Our gender is the source of his future anxiety (yes, I think he's straight, probably), so he will either be smart and come directly to the source, or he will avoid us like the plague and desperately wish he had a guy he could talk to about it. In any case, I give this advice, which should cover it: Griffin, do not keep trying, OVER AND OVER, to hold a girls butt at the 8th grade formal during the longest version of 'Stairway to Heaven' that has ever been played. <b>Balls 2: Solved</b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Balls 3</span><br />
And here's the part we've all been waiting for. Actual balls. What if they get itchy when puberty hits?! What if he gets Elephantitis and he's too afraid to talk to us and we only know because he starts to insist on wearing not one, but two, then three pairs of sweatpants at once? What if the balls don't work? What IF THEY WORK? <br />
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I have a plan. I've started accumulating power tools and other accessories of the well-appointed Dad. I'm learning how to repair things, build things and know the difference between a chop saw, miter saw, circular saw and table saw. (Oh, and yes, Jules, we do need ALL of them.) So the plan is to basically lie in wait for a literal balls-related question to hit and then distract and dazzle using all my other knowledge of dad-ish things. Here's an example of how it will go- tell me if you think it's solid:<br />
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G: "My new hair is making my balls itch."<br />
Me: "JESUS, would you look at those peoples' fence? They obviously didn't sink the posts six inches below frost line and bed the hole with gravel first before pouring the cement. Losers." (/throw bottle of Triple Goldbond. Run)<b> Balls 3</b>: Solved. <br />
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(Okay, maybe Balls 3 could use a little polishing. Wait, you're not supposed to polish balls, are you? Like, there isn't special ball lotion that we should buy when he's twelve or something, right? Oh my god. Helps us. Zach Wahls, HELP US!)<br />
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We're simply going to have to muddle through. <br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-26755290116919949132014-04-24T03:35:00.000-07:002014-04-24T03:35:33.238-07:00"No Tattling" Rules. Oh REALLY?!I got this little guy, Elijah here (on the left- that's a Really Big Guy on the right):<br />
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He's my nephew and he's 6 years old. <br />
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He's having a hard time at school and he's chronically in the "yellow" or the "red" at the end of his Kindergarten day. Because he goes "off task". (You know, like a rat in a lab maze.)<br />
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The other day, my sister-in-law took him to school a little late. When they got there, Elijah was immediately greeted by another little boy who started insulting and badgering him- that's right, with his Mama Bear right there. Bold. <br />
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But the teacher would step in at some point, right? Not so much. She didn't even say 'hello' to Elijah.<br />
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My SIL was so freaked out! She had the urge to shuttle him right back out of there, but you know: jail. So. <br />
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This is what he was showing up to every day? No wonder E is having such a hard time.<br />
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You see, his teacher (and school, on the whole) has a 'No Tattling" policy. FOR KINDERGARTENERS. The fuck?!<br />
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Aunty Bear is in the house. <br />
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I need to say, I don't get to see Elijah very much, and so I painfully admit I don't know him deeply well. But I know this little guy in this second picture (On the top- that's a Very Little Fish on the bottom):<br />
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That's my little bro- who grew up to be the lovely, giant man in the top picture. I know, hard to believe, but true.<br />
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And I remember when he was Elijah's age. Him, I did know deeply well. He was really big for his size, just like E, and he struggled in school too. People thought he should act older than he was and he came home defeated at the end of the day. A lot. He was bullied in our housing projects by other kids his age, and he was drilled by others on being "tough" all the time. Stop being sensitive, use his size and "whoop some ass" they said. <br />
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Then he came to my bed when he was scared at night and I told him stories about Mickey Mouse to help him sleep. I did not need or want him to be "tough". I wanted him to be himself.<br />
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So, I know, just like my sister-in-law knows, there's a soft little six year-old person there. Not a miniature man who needs to buck up. He's been going to school and being harassed and prodded by another (maybe more than one) other boy, and no one is helping him. He doesn't tell or ask for help. Because it's not allowed.<br />
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I have heard of these "No Tattling" rules before at schools and have wanted to write about it. Now I'm all sorts of cats-in-a-bag pissed so I probably am not being clear. Mostly I feel a resounding desire to say this: Any school or teacher who has a "No Tattling Policy" is a lazy, bad, teacher or school. What a terrible, terrible message to send little kids "Shut up and put up". Great. "Sort things out on their own".<br />
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Six year-olds have not learned anything close to the skills they need to "sort out" complex social situations like bullying. The only way they can deal with it is to <i>react</i>. This puts them in "yellow" or the "red" that serves the purposed of leading them down a very well-defined path of fractured self-esteem and disregulation. Period. Thanks, "No Tattling" policy. You're an asshole.<br />
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I mean, I get not being a hover-mother every time kids are playing. Even at two, they need to <i>start</i> working out sharing trains and taking turns, yes. The key word is "start". They need guidance to learn all this stuff. But that's what we're here for. I am sorry, teacher with a "No Tattling" Policy if you are busy and overworked, but teaching social and emotional skills is a huge part of your job. Buck UP, right? Fat lot of good it will do if we churn kids out of school with a few higher numbers on the math tests when they cannot even get along with other humans.<br />
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Okay, I'm obviously fired up. But this is important! When you tell a child "No Tattling" instead of teach them what they need to start working on versus what they should always come to a grown-up for, you are setting them up for real harm. You are setting a lot of young people up for a lot of real harm. <br />
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I shudder ( I mean, my skin actually crawls) when I imagine the things kids who are constantly told "no tattling" might not actually tattle about. Barfhatekill. I'm so mad.<br />
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I hope my sister-in-law wasn't ever told "no tattling" because I want her to tattle. She has enough finesse to deal with the situation the right way, no doubt. But so many parents would feel intimidated, or not ever have the chance to see this damaging dynamic in play like she did. <br />
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I hug you, kids in "No Tattling" classes. You can tattle to me any time you want.<br />
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Grrr.<br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-28720448101508183252014-04-07T13:35:00.000-07:002014-04-07T13:35:58.501-07:00The Aamazing Aardvark- My Messy Beautiful<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I want to tell you a story that is very painful and hard and scary. It's not for faint-hearted ladies, no. There's no funny sewing anecdotes, nor tidbits about home remodeling. So you'll have to be prepared for that.<br />
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I want to tell this story in detail because there are other people who have been through this and when you tell your story to one of these people- and I mean <i>really</i> tell it- you are drawing a circle around them and you. You draw this circle to show that it's not just <i>them</i>, it's not just <i>you</i> now: it's <i>us</i>. <br />
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I am drawing this circle around my friend Rose and I today, and along with it, I am drawing a bigger circle around all the other people who know what it's like to lose a baby before you've had a chance to be its mother out in this world.<br />
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After Phinny and before my twins Annika and Griffin came, there was another little guy. <br />
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The pregnancy wasn't strong, according to the glamour shots of his yolk sac that Drs. began taking at the moment the pregnancy was confirmed. There was a mysterious fragility, according to the numbers and the measurements. In defiance, we named our little embryo the "Aamazing Aardvark" after Julie's "AA Grade" eggs (so labeled in the petri dish before implantation).<br />
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Week after week, he grew just enough to amaze our favorite ultrasound tech, Elizabeth, who hugged us and told us, "she had seen it happen", she had seen little ones like this make it. With her smiles, hugs and hope, Elizabeth drew a light, <i>cautious</i> circle around us, every week. Amazing Aardvark grew for a couple more weeks and showed us his fluttering little bean of a heart. He grew for a few more and he showed us on the screen that he was tiny but mighty- that he could move in there! The geneticist told us Aardvark was a boy. On the same day, which was the same incredibly early week Phinny had given me the sign- I felt him move inside me.<br />
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When I was three months pregnant, on the way home from IKEA, I started to bleed. Badly. I knew it wasn't good. I went to the bathroom as soon as we got home.<br />
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Of course, Amazing Aardvark let go. He just died and then came out into my hand. Against all reason, he was born there suddenly without any blood <i>on</i> him, without any amniotic membrane, without his cord. He would be leaving that with me. He was just laying in the palm of my hand, perfect. He had ten fingers and ten toes already.<br />
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When it happened, I made a sound that is unlike any other sound on earth, I think. It's a sound stored in a particular cockle of the heart and it is reserved only for this one terrible occasion. Julie had been outside in the garage and had heard the scream and come running up to the bathroom. I couldn't speak- I just held up my open hands and slid to the floor.<br />
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We called our friend Chrissy. She came, so quiet and so calm. She helped get me into bed. I needed her to see our baby, to help make him more real, so I opened my hands and showed her. She cried and then silently drew another circle around all of us. She called another friend, Abby, who came and drew another circle, one that showed us that our tribe will always arrive in times of need.<br />
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An hour later, Julie convinced me to set the baby in a tiny silver box with an 'S' inscribed on it, lined with royal blue velvet. Who knows what that box was from originally, but it was perfect for a three month old stillborn baby from our family. We went to the hospital to be sure I wasn't going to hemorrhage <strike> </strike>and when the doctor asked if we had brought the "fetal material" I opened the box. He covered his mouth and rolled back in the chair a little. "Oh." was all he said. <br />
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We went home, me holding the silver box in my hand and I slept with it on the table beside me. In the morning we called to try and find out about burial plots, and I called my mom to tell her. I called my older brother, Steve, who lives an eight hour drive away, and I said, "I need you. Can you come here, right now?" He said, "Of course."<br />
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Then was the most terrible day. A day in which we had a dead baby in our house. <br />
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That morning, I looked at him and he was still perfect- translucent and peaceful. We had made a plan to bury him on the grave of Julie's maternal great grandparents in a cemetery nearby, but we had to wait for my mom and sister and big brother to arrive at the end of the day, then go through the night before the burial morning. A full twenty-four hours away. <br />
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And here's the really hard part to write. <br />
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I was worried the baby would dry out. I put a few drops of water over his glistening body once that morning and I checked him frequently. But by noon, my anxiety had grown and I worried frantically that he would dry out and start to...change. Maybe smell. The thought of it terrified me so much that Julie and I decided together on a horrible, horrible thing. <br />
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We put him in the freezer.<br />
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Julie will read this and she will cry. So hard, like am right now- an actual torrent of water coming out in broad sheets across my face. She will say, "Please don't tell people we put him in the <i>freezer</i>."<br />
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But if I am to tell this story, if I am to draw a strong circle around us, friend, reader, and sisters who have lost a baby, I want that circle to be <b>true</b> and <b>continuous</b>. No gaps.<br />
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My family came and they were beautiful. My keepers. We drove to the cemetery and found the plot.<br />
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And then another awful thing occurred to me. <br />
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We hadn't brought a shovel.<br />
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How do you bury a baby without a shovel? I can tell you how. Your big brother digs a hole with his bare hands. Steve said, "It's okay, Lis, I think I can just dig it," and we sat there while my brother dug and scraped and pulled dirt out of the earth for me to put my impossibly tiny baby in. <br />
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"Do we think that's deep enough?" <br />
"No," I say, "But you don't have to dig anymore, you're going to break all your fingernails. It's okay." <br />
"I can go deeper. I will dig as deep as you want, Lis." he said. He dug a few more inches, just for my heart's sake.<br />
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In that act, my brother drew a beautiful, <i>unforgettably</i> strong circle around us. It was awful- and blindingly beautiful. We put the silver box in and he covered it so softly with his big, dirty hands, because he knew it hurt to see dirt going onto that silver box. He patted it gently like he didn't want to break any dirt apart in front of me.<br />
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And then we walked away.<br />
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After that, I let my heart and body bleed for some time.<br />
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And then I stood up straight. <br />
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In a few months I got pregnant again*...<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*And was willing to squat next to a pig sty at 7 months pregnant with twins, for the benefit of my child. Warrior.</span><br />
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...and I breathed shallow for months until these two showed up*:<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Sorry about Boobs on Blog, but I like the look of calm confidence I have about just birthing two humans in this picture. We haven't seen that expression since.</span></div>
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And the reason I was able to breath at all, was AND IS because of the people in my life who show up day after day, drawing circles around me. Showing me over and over that I am not alone in whatever happens. That I am not alone in grief, or joy, or stupid hard work and all the messy stuff that makes up every day with a family.<br />
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And after an excruciating loss and beautiful, immense gains (along with UNBELIEVABLE number of diapers), we're still standing. Because of those strong circles.<br />
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So today, my sweet warrior friend, Rose- after a happy and hopeful morning message from you, I draw a bright circle around us and make a wish for you and Dan that your little person finds you soon and joins us in it. <br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-61122376704405294932014-04-07T04:21:00.000-07:002014-04-07T10:11:17.768-07:00A "Pre-Post", If You Will...Do you know Glennon Melton? If you don't yet, and you are a mother, or sister, or friend, or HUMAN, for that matter, you will be enjoy very much much finding out who she is. Here's this bad-ass book she wrote:<br />
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She is the writer of the well-known website <a href="http://momastery.com/" target="_blank">Momastery</a> and she is a mighty warrior, indeed. <br />
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I was invited, along with countless other writers, to participate in Glennon's "Messy, Beautiful Warriors Project". So I am to post an essay on my blog and then it is linked on the Momastery site. So exciting, right?<br />
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There's one hitch though. The purpose of the project, and let me see if I can get this right, is to reach out to others through the power of truthful storytelling. Glennon is inviting us to share the hardest hard parts for the whole of humanity to see, so that we might make connections and grow a web of strength and resolve and all that. BALLS. I'm thinking tales of my bathroom renovation isn't the Eternal Link of All Sisters, so I decided I need to dig a little deeper.<br />
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I decided to write an essay that is so deeply personal and difficult that it's going to be really really hard to push that 'Publish" button. And I wanted to tell you, not to build anticipation or anything, but so you aren't gobsmacked over the radical shift from musings about drywall and sewing placemats into something profoundly serious and whatnot.<br />
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I guess this is a buffer post:)<br />
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But it has caused me think a lot about what my blog is for and who my blog is for. And at the very great risk of sounding SUPER cheesy, I decided that I think my blog is for <i>us</i>. I mean, I could always just keep a diary, right? Or post my creative projects on a private Pinterest page or something. But I am an inveterate Sharer. (Or Over-sharer, depending on who you ask.) And I get a feeling of being, I don't know, <i>useful</i>, when I think someone might read what I write and be inspired to make something, or share themselves more or laugh. The more I tell the truth, the bigger that feeling gets for me. So wait, it IS about Me. Dammit. <br />
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Anyway, maybe you'll come with me on this one tomorrow. That is all, pretty people.<br />
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Eep.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-59658263526659550692014-04-04T14:06:00.000-07:002014-04-04T14:06:56.893-07:00My First Renovated BathroomYou see that title, and you noticed it said "My First..." and you became scared. Scared that I would knock down a structurally significant wall in my house and the whole thing would come crashing down. And you are right to be afraid.<br />
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I have been bitten. My lust began when I was introduced to a sledgehammer and has followed due course, ending with me and a hydraulic nail gun. (There is really no way to make that sound less dirty.) (Okay, I guess if I didn't end with the nailgun part. Or start with the lust part.)<br />
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ANYWAY. <br />
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2 months and here we are:<br />
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Lastly (and please don't forget all that dastardly white tile and plaster and lathe!)...</div>
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Voila! :</div>
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Party, right? <br />
<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-53274690492588859752014-03-25T04:22:00.000-07:002014-03-25T04:22:09.441-07:00La Chupacabra<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>La Chupacabra</i>, 2014</div>
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I would like to talk about why my teeth are flat in the front on the right side. They've been ground into one short, sheer meeting line by way of powerful clenching day after day after day. Of parenting. My teeth are getting flat because of:<br />
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<b>Putting on toddlers' mittens. </b><br />
You can try to not shuttle the thumb into the thumb part, sure, but you will suffer hot lava when that kid can't hold an ice chunk outside because of no useable thumbs. You suffer now, or you suffer later. You suffer.<br />
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<b>Property Dispute, Case No. 32456 of the day. </b><br />
This shit is about to go Mao's China up in here if I hear one more argument about what's "mine!" The screaming, the collapsing, the tearing of the clothes in anguish over that fucking play stroller. Soon, little children, I am taking all your precious stuff away and giving it to orphans who will appreciate it. I show my kids pictures of soccer balls made of twine and plastic bags and they still don't get it. I think I should make them a soccer ball of twine and plastic bags and THEN give all their other toys to the orphans.<br />
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<b>Teeth brushing. </b><br />
They really need to develop a home anesthesia for this. It would save my teeth to not have to brush their teeth, because they act like jerks about it almost every time. It is all I can do not to replicate the sound of a dental drill as loud as I can in their ear. To remind them why we are here. What I am trying to save them from. <br />
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<b>Glennon Melton said it first, so I feel safe: Bedtime is altogether a Journey Into Hell. </b><br />
I love you if you are the parents who cuddle and kiss and gently click out the light over a quiet, smiling face. I also think you have one child. And you are drunk. Also, rich. You'll probably go back to bed and have sex with your spouse. "Good for you".<br />
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<b>"Dinner".</b><br />
I submit a referendum to rename dinner: "That time during which you spend a half hour trying to figure out what to feed three different children, fully knowing they will complain and not eat and then fall on the floor begging for graham crackers and you will be all, "how did it come to this?! Why won't my children eat whitefish and capers like the ones in the creche and what did I do so wrong and WHEN IS THIS WINE GOING TO KICK IN, and then after storytime, 'Mama, I'm hungry in my belly'. 'Aww fuck, here's a graham cracker!'" (See section entitled <i>Bedtime; A Journey Into Hell</i>)<br />
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Anyway, so that whole "Let It Be" Lisa is flailing right now. I should be honest. I am stressed out over here and I'm not sure I can handle the Atomic Mess. <br />
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Now that I've let off some 5:30am steam, I am taking one big suck of air, and getting ready to start again. Everyone is adorable in the morning.<br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-50835951503346976032014-03-12T03:57:00.000-07:002014-03-12T03:57:35.918-07:00Motherhood and The Great Identity Crisis"Oh, wow!"<br />
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That used to be the response from people when I told them what I did for a living. (And by living, I mean "living".) Whenever someone would ask what I did and I would say "I am an art dealer," they would always get a very particular look on their face- like they were satisfied with the answer. Like, "Okay, that is solid." It was my identity. (And to other people, it seemed accomplished and glamourous. We can talk about the gruesome realities some other time, if you like.)<br />
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But it was very easy for me to identify <i>who I was</i>. Being an art dealer was the natural culmination of my work starting in college and lasting until I had Phinny. 12 years of a career that I seemed well-suited for. Totally respectable.<br />
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Then I turned into a nobody.<br />
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WAIT! I am somebody's Everything! Actually, I am four peoples' Everything. I am a mom and a wife. And I can tell you with steely certainty that waking up to this every morning is infinitely more satisfying, real, and accomplished than anything I ever did in my career. <br />
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Still, sometimes I feel lost without the handy Identifier that is a career. I can't shake this feeling that when the kids are all in school, I'll get my identity <i>back</i>. I'll "Do" something again. In some ways, this stretch of life seems like a weird time out. I'm sorry! That sounds terrible! But y'all have counted the hours in a day, right? And you've witnessed my inability to focus on anything substantial aside from the beautiful little need machines, right?<br />
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Now I feel bad. Let me clarify: I am really happy and so proud of this life. When someone asks me what I do and I get to say I am with my family full-time, it feels right, and good. It feels like an amazing privilege. (Thanks, Jules the Rockstar.) It's not that I am unfulfilled. But I've never been good at being just one thing. Remember my art dealer/ birth doula stint? Yeah.<br />
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So, about a week ago, I found myself in Dick Blick Art Supplies (A name almost as bad as "Doc McStuffins"). I was there to get...art supplies. I didn't really know what to get, and man was it a far cry from the days when I was a painter (before the art dealing) when I would sling a giant bolt of canvas onto the counter and say, "I'll take whatever is left, and these", unloading a passel of giant 750ml tubes of oil paint onto the counter.<br />
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I found myself wandering the store aisles aimlessly. Like a foreigner. I was sure they would think I was plotting to shoplift. <i>Watercolor? Not oil- no way, no time for that. Markers? Markers are fucking expensive! Like, really really expensive (the real kind, that is). Okay, paper. Just start with paper. And a backboard. And some sizing tape. And a pack of brushes. </i><br />
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I came home and sat down the next morning in front of a blank piece of paper, and started to paint.<br />
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A seismic shift and a loud click.<br />
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That is what I felt. <br />
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For the first time in fifteen years, I had found myself obsessing over some ideas for paintings- and this sitting down, with intention, to put them on paper was all it took for me to feel like an Artist again. After all this time, all these years and this roundabout path in life, I came back around and suddenly felt, distinctly, like Myself again. <br />
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I guess I've been doing this all along. When Phinny was born, I started sewing, and designing and writing...it's all been there, but I never felt entitled to call myself an artist. I guess now with a paintbrush in hand, it seems more legit. Whatever, I'll take it. Being an artist and a mother seems perfectly compatible. It means I have to get up before 5am, but still. It feels so so good.<br />
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As is my custom, I feel like I sound a little too grand about all of this, and need I say, <i>embarrassed</i>, to be in a perpetual state of evolution- even identity crisis as a parent, but this writing it down is all part of working it out.<br />
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After all, when people ask my kids what their dead mother was in 40 years, they will probably say, "Oh jesus, who knows. She never did anything really well, but she did everything she loved." I will laugh in the Great Beyond. Or in the ground. And when you're a rotten corpse and you laugh, it shakes the worms off. <br />
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See, even in death, I will multi-task!Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-6674061248673099342014-03-01T04:50:00.001-08:002014-03-01T04:51:00.971-08:00Adopting the Position of a Professional Bowler, I Am Still Able to DrywallA few people have asked how the bathroom remodel is coming along. You know, the <a href="http://mamausesneedles.blogspot.com/2014/02/cabin-fever-defined.html" target="_blank">room I tore down</a> with a sledgehammer because I can't stand one more fucking day of the Polar Vortex?<br />
<br />
It's coming along fine. I did terribly injure my knee doing it, but I'm just trying to ignore it. I'll get it fixed when I'm done. I have developed an unusual technique for continuing to work while not being able to move my leg. I use a stool and then sit on it with one buttcheek, leave my hurt leg extended, then fold my other one OVER the hurt one and twist forward, allowing me to clear the way for using my upper body. Incredibly, Julie refused to take a photo of me doing this because she thought it looked too pathetic.<br />
<br />
Whateve, she still mad that I tore down another wall in there when she thought it was salvageable and I promised not to remove it when she was at work. She said "DO NOT take down that back drywall".<br />
<br />
Sorry, honey. (I had our babysitter take this picture to text Julie. If there's one thing I learned from high school is that its easier to get forgiveness than it is to get permission. Plus, big cartoony gloves always make you look innocent and friendly, no?)<br />
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<span style="text-align: left;">Then I had that meniscal mishap. But we're still cooking. Joists replaced, plywood subfloor in, substrate installed, drywall up and taped. There will be a person coming to set the tile, sadly. It was the part I most looked forward to, but I cannot swing it, knee-wise. Oh well. But see here the progress:</span></div>
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Pretty sexy looking, right?</div>
<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-60969104853517402952014-02-26T04:42:00.001-08:002014-03-01T04:50:35.731-08:00Take My Baby To Kindergarten and I Will Kill YouPhinny starts Kindergarten in the fall. I am scared shitless, witless and purple. Like, really terrified. <br />
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Sending her to full day school like this seems like tossing a baby seal to the sharks. I know that is dramatic, but I can't shake it. Petrified.<br />
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Please see here this photo and tell me if you would allow this little human out into the cold, hard world on her own. NO. YOU WOULD NOT. UNLESS YOU ARE A BARBARIAN.<br />
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But herein lies one of my grand lessons of parenthood. If I can get ahold of this concept, we'll all be better off: expect a kid to fail, and they will fail. Expect that they can do great things, and they will.<br />
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It is just too hard to imagine <strike>my</strike> her four year-old self navigating those scary halls on <strike>my</strike> her own. <strike>I</strike> She will be so desperate to see <strike>her</strike> me again that <strike>I</strike> she won't be able to focus.<br />
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What if <strike>I</strike> she gets bullied?<br />
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What if <strike>I</strike> she falls off the monkey bars?<br />
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What if<strike> I</strike> she feels awkward, alone and different?<br />
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You see what is happening here. I am projecting. In fact, I can tell you right now that I just now couldn't write for like thirty seconds because I was biting my nails thinking about my own experience of starting school.<br />
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But Phinny is not me. I didn't have a particularly stellar time in grade school. I started and stopped at different schools almost every year, making me the perpetual New Kid. I was at times the Cootie Kid. I remember a lot of awkward, alone and different. <br />
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But Phinny is not me. She is bright, beautiful and doesn't feel the need to re-invent herself every semester to try and carve a comfortable niche time and time again. She has security. (And the latest in blingy girls gym shoes.)<br />
<br />
You know, everyone loved hating on Amy Chua for her book "The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother" a couple of years ago, but I found one concept in her parenting philosophy (a distinctly Chinese part, according to her) to resonate soundly. It's that we as parents tend to subconsciously believe that a child is likely to fail if we don't protect, bolster and prod them ever closer to the top. Chinese parenting takes the opposite view: that children are self-equipped to do well, and our energy would be better spent helping to guide them along what was given them in the first place- the right and the ability to achieve whatever they aim to achieve. <br />
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Okay, now there's a lot of parts of that book that taste real bad- the fact that Chua's kids never seemed to have one minute of fun EVER, and that what Chua's kids aimed to achieve were really the parents' dreams, BUT I want to just surgically adopt this one particular concept. <br />
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Phinny can handle it. She has surprised me at every turn. I was, like, one heinous slip-on-the-deck away from leaping into the pool during her swim lesson last week when she sputtered under for a nano-second, but then there she was, popping up out of the water, shaking it off and grinning like a fool- so proud of herself for not giving in to fear.<br />
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I wooted, clapped and yelled, "Go, Birdie!" The ever jaded lifeguard looked at me like I really have <i>a long way to go</i>. In letting go.<br />
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She's right. (Even though I think she's a stone cold bitch, bless her heart.)<br />
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Phinny's got moxie. Swagger. And wings and a Santa hat on top of a bear hat, as well as a chinese costume vest over a princess dress. Also ladybug bag full of whoop-ass.<br />
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So this summer I really have to kick it in. Steel myself for the start of school. Stop dreading the Fall. Start looking forward to the Rise.*<br />
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*<span style="font-size: x-small;">(That little turn of phrase right there just sort of happened naturally. Was it too much? I'm sorry.)</span>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-44702418375289240092014-02-21T04:25:00.000-08:002014-02-21T04:26:08.640-08:00Hubris Will Melt Your Wings...And Break Your KneeRemember when I was all "Hooo wee! this is SO easy. I hath broken the chains of mothering and I am whistling Dixie out every orifice because I. GOT. THIS!" I reported merely three weeks ago that I had been yell-free, in fact pretty much anger-free for more than a month. Wasn't that awesome?! <br />
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Then I got cocky, lost sight of my triggers, quit keeping up with my touchstones and flew too close to the sun. Lesson One after first falter on my path to better parenting: Don't Get Comfortable Being Awesome. Because perfect isn't real and even though I didn't feel like I was faking it for that six weeks that I let all the irritations and challenges roll off like water from a ducks back, it isn't sustainable in that form.<br />
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Here, I made a short poem for you to describe my fall into the ocean.<br />
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(Note to readers: In this poem I take the role of both Icarus and Daedalus. And yes, that is why I see a therapist.)<br />
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<b>My Perfect Parenting Failure As Told Through The Myth of Icarus and Daedalus</b><br />
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Look at these amazing wings I made. I think we're up and out of here!<br />
I can't believe it, it looks so simple! Why wait another year?<br />
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Take it easy kid, it's harder than it looks. <br />
Fly too low you drown, too high and your wax wing cooks.<br />
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Keep it sane, in the middle lane- slow and steady wins the race.<br />
Hold your head up high, but avoid the sky and soon we're outta this place.<br />
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But the people! Look! They love our miraculous trick!<br />
I feel so great, I just can't wait to soar above the clouds!<br />
OH SHIT MY WING'S ON FIRE MY WING'S ON FIRE!!!!<br />
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(/splash.)<br />
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That's what you get when you're fueled by hubris and ignore all signs of reason.<br />
Now, I'ma let you finish and pick ya' ass up out the water, we'll try again next season.<br />
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When I say it's not that easy, please don't act all breezy, like you're the star of a parenting show.<br />
Just try to get through with minimum grace and take it nice and slow.<br />
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Ahh, Greek mythology. So handy.<br />
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Now, the nuts and bolts, as they are in the here and now:<br />
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All it took for me to revert back to the more anxious, impatient, infuriated parent that I was a couple of months ago was a few well-placed stressors and an inattention to my goal of staying present.<br />
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In one week, I enjoyed a little surprise pre-cancer, a horribly painful torn meniscus and a visit with Phinny to the dentist which revealed she has a cavity. (I could pause here and describe at length the psychological turmoil I experienced upon hearing this news. Maybe you could let me know if you're interested and I could send you the book I wrote about it.)<br />
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This, combined with months of weather like we live in fucking Oymyakon, Russia, nearly pushed me over the edge. Then, (yes we are still in the same 7 day period here) I went to the dentist myself. Five cavities. The FUCK? It seems my 35 year old fillings are all going to pot at once. Thanks, silver. No wonder everyone wants gold.<br />
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Never underestimate the drastic effect on mood that a little period of chronic pain and relentlessly inhospitable weather can have upon one's ability to keep one's shit together. If you should be so lucky in all of this to run into PMS, well, it would serve everyone well to put on a helmet and just do what is asked. Like, immediately.<br />
<br />
Anyway. Back on the horse. While I do LOVE to overanalyze, I'm going to skip the paragraph about self-hating for my slip back into asshole mom. Here's a dummy paragraph about it:<br />
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_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________. And then I had to get a ring of twenty-two rabies shots. The End.<br />
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Onward. <br />
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Today, I am going to:<br />
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Breathe. <br />
Start Over.<br />
Forgive Myself for lapse.<br />
Speak Gently.<br />
Read some support.<br />
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(Also, BUILD BETTER WINGS.)<br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-31137547713697487912014-02-14T05:19:00.001-08:002014-02-21T04:26:19.279-08:00The Voice of Perfection is Dead to Me. (Almost.)Okay, there is actually only one way in which I am a perfect parent. Its when I use the kids' foot as a telephone to place an urgent call to various businesses in Britain, India and Australia in my quest to order 16,000 pounds of tofu for eating. In these calls, I am forced to repeat myself ad nauseum in an effort to convince the party on the receiving end that I am speaking correctly, "Yes, 16,000. That is correct. No, 16,000 pounds- 1200 stone! Hello?! I'm afraid we have in insufficient connection, sir. I said sixteen. thousand." and beg them to believe that it is for eating and that yes, I will eat it all. <br />
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After haggling with several restaurants and suppliers, I become increasingly indignant that noone stocks this perfectly reasonable amount of tofu without special order and my accent grows more heavy as my mood devolves into total, desperate disbelief that I am not going to be able to purchase the full amount of tofu from any one vendor.<br />
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The kids love that.<br />
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Elsewise, I sort of suck. The kids never eat quinoa. They rarely go to bed on time and I am frequently overhead saying, "No matter how many times you ask, I will not say 'yes' followed by me saying 'yes' thereby undermining stability, authority and any reliable boundaries I have only loosely cobbled together.<br />
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As you know, I have been on a quest to be a better parent and have made no raising my voice in anger the goal. I did that super flawless for about a month and then I fell off the wagon one night about a week ago. My record of perfection was doused. <br />
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After wrestling with a recently lotioned Griffin over brushing his teeth (an event to which we are granted cheerful acquiescence or complete rubber-bone collapse and general two year old assholery). He was screeching and sliding all over and I ended up snapping at him and hoisting him up off the floor with just a tiny bit 'o' yank.<br />
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I felt awful! I mean, I didn't hurt him or do anything that most parents don't end up doing to a two year old on a regular basis, but it marked the end of my Fairy Parent 2014 stretch and I was really sad that I got to that point again.<br />
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I went to bed in miserable defeat. Julie was incredulous. "You haven't <i>destroyed</i> your record, honey. That's silly. You can't be perfect, you know."<br />
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Okay, so that is true. I can't. Too bad, because perfect is just what I was after. (Also, sixteen thousand pound of tofu.)<br />
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Now I am settling for Good Enough. Good Enough is my new Perfect. <br />
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Even that is hard. The Voice of Perfection is a persistent beast! It is nasty and punitive. I mean, look at this picture of me with the ugly internal Voice of Perfection hovering over: <br />
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(That's when my hair was blond. Also I was SO exhausted that night!)<br />
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And I don't know who that horse is, but it looks like Alfie Kohn to me.<br />
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Anyway. That Voice is going Down. Down, I tell you. <a href="http://mamausesneedles.blogspot.com/2014/01/ms-judgy-judgington-apologizes.html">Voice of Ariane</a> is in the house now. You know, there is a famous child psychologist named Winnicott, who built a career out of researching the notion of the Good Enough mother. The central thesis is very academic, and hard to understand. It is this: your kids will thrive if you hold them. Have an open lap and they will be happy. Be the place they naturally go for comfort and stop sweating all the Modern Parenting details. The End.<br />
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I'm down with that. But I'm still going to try not to yell. Because, I mean, look:<br />
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Yelling at these little peanuts is like punching a newborn giraffe. So I'm going to stick to that goal. Wish me luck.<br />
<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-1911623429527061462014-02-10T04:52:00.000-08:002014-02-10T04:52:05.787-08:00Cabin Fever DefinedI interrupt this message about better mothering and tedious self-improvement to announce this:<br />
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I have lost my mind. I don't know, I mean between the cabin fever and trying to make sense of the Woody Allen saga, I am beginning to think I have lost my grip on reality.<br />
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I demo'd my first floor bathroom. <br />
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I was tired of seeing those yellowed marble tiles every time I pee. That, combined with a few ill-timed session on the elliptical at the gym- when I was forced to watch home improvement shows on HGTV that show lots of inexperienced people tearing apart their homes, I got the idea that if I wear a tight henley and look cute doing it, I might be able to swing this.<br />
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<i>That's fine, you say- she must have some experience doing this, right? Otherwise she would never demo a whole room without having proven skills that she can put it back together properly, right?</i><br />
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Here is my resume for professional renovation:<br />
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I patched drywall in the basement once.<br />
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DONT DO IIIITTTT!!!! You say.<br />
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Too late. My bad.<br />
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One day and an 8lb sledgehammer...<br />
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And I'm up to my 'nads in plaster and lathe...</div>
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But WAIT, before you call my mom and tell her maybe she should talk to me- see here! I am a very mechanically inclined woman and I truly believe construction is 100% common sense. (Though I did have to call a sturdy Mexican guy to lift the 200 lb. tub out of its spot). Watch me as I chronicle my choices and tell me if you're concerned at any time that I will fall through the floor to the basement.<br />
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How do I turn around a 130 yr. old door? Why, I remove the catch latch casing and open it up. I am able to flip the mechanism inside the box, and replace it into the door. Naturally, undoing the brass doorknob reveals that the set pins in it need to be replaced, so I get longer ones with an alan head. Then I chisel new hinge placements and pound the hinge pin back in, upside down of course. Isn't that what you would do?<br />
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I'm sorry. That sounded braggy. But before you judge me, understand that four days ago I was a person who had never attempted such things, and today I am woman who can repair floor joists and replace the missing subfloor in an old Victorian. So grant me that one?<br />
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Stay tuned for the next episode, "Oh SHIT. Bee's Nest! RUUUUUUNN!"<br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-39081340032588539172014-02-06T06:12:00.000-08:002014-02-21T04:26:40.257-08:00So Much Confession!The other day, down here in the momming rabbit hole, my wife told me I better stop it. She said I needed to look at all that I am posting and think about my purpose. Think about what it means to share all this really personal garbage on this blog, and then go one step further and post that I've posted on Facebook. Or, as she thinks of it, "Lookatmelookatmelookatmebook". <br />
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Julie, you see, is not a braggart, nor an open book, nor a neurotic and compulsive indulger in self-help and self-improvement like I am.<br />
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She well enough likes herself just the way she is. And she needs not tell that to anyone. True story: for the first two months of an acquaintanceship in our old neighborhood, new friends of mine thought Julie was deaf. Because she just doesn't do this thing I do where I immediately paw all over people with my social tentacles and start talking about how I had lice like three times in fifth grade approximately three minutes after I've met them.<br />
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That is SO COOL, Howard Hughes! <br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Here's a picture of Julie's ass.)</span></div>
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Wish I was that way. You see, I've thought and thought about this over the last few days and at first I felt reeeaaaallly icky. Like, "Hey, yeah, who am I to think anyone wants to read this self-agrandizing dribble and constant, tiring self-examination?" <i>Be more like Jennifer, or Kristen, or one of these other friends that is super smart and well adjusted and feels no need to advertise their experience of simply being alive thank you very much</i>, I say to myself. <i>Be more self-assured</i>. Or something.<br />
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I understand the desire not to be exposed, I guess.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small; text-align: center;">(Julie's ass)</span></div>
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But then of course, I decided to think about her concern in a more three-dimensional way (because she is generally supportive and does, for reasons that haven't become clear, seem to love me) and realized that she was just encouraging me to be sure I had a purpose for all this sharing that went beyond simple self-involvement and an uncontrollable bend toward emotional diarrhea. <br />
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I decided I don't. Blog Over.<br />
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Bye.<br />
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(Here is where you are like, <i>can she do it? Can she go one fucking day lately without sharing her 'journey'? She can't! Watch her, she can't do it. Old girl will have to go on and on talking about all her chest-fluffing parenting successes and then fall all over herself whining about the failures too. She can't do it...watch...Shu. Girl needs to send us all a $20 copay)</i><br />
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Oh, hi! Were you just talking about me? That's so weeeeird, because I was just talking about me!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjulNnu4A8dVp-QfnGytV0xYGbteoCv149tFeFtmeQoXtJzecXjkvbIvrjpvGgQQFoE1tSNE-P5oDOFm49oiZdUrgJovlSGUfWCF6w-lCPupEvEQXTgkrdkhVBqlTQdxif_kpKzwFn_ZLoW/s1600/IMG_0747.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjulNnu4A8dVp-QfnGytV0xYGbteoCv149tFeFtmeQoXtJzecXjkvbIvrjpvGgQQFoE1tSNE-P5oDOFm49oiZdUrgJovlSGUfWCF6w-lCPupEvEQXTgkrdkhVBqlTQdxif_kpKzwFn_ZLoW/s1600/IMG_0747.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(And Julie's ass.)</span></div>
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And I think I might keep on talking about me. And all this. All this great big gorgeous mess I've created around me. Here's why:<br />
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I am parenting From Scratch and it is really hard. I do NOT know what I am doing. So I am looking to others, like the really great writer and human being Glennon Melton from Momastery and seeing how they get through this. One way they get through is by writing and by sharing with other people in the same situation all the humor and horror that goes with this being a parent thing. I find I have a similar mechanism to find clarity through writing and sharing. And sometimes it makes people laugh, or cry, or feel like we are all in this shit together. So I am going to keep on doing it. Sorry Howard. I love you. Here's a Kleenex.<br />
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P.S. Thank you to Phinny for all the handy pictures of Julie's ass. You will be named in the court documents as a party to the dissolution of marriage.<br />
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<i><br /></i>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-77685923515392820912014-02-04T04:08:00.000-08:002014-02-04T04:08:47.885-08:00It's Happening Again. Terrible Hats 2.0Aww, poor little guy thought I was over that embarrassing thing where I work on winter hats an make the children try them on when they're in the pattern fitting stage. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0hgT4jXwQTMU1o84TPbvsP1_FdO6uVs5yjGrAFKioWHptamPjFCEFplXMbeXrvQ6qRMrGAKyKIWOf7e0i1xNTLox-yuKa-N22vWh5RMoS9RPQbiGPeMNbjG_S_1b_Q3LjDi92-rQ-SWY/s400/DSC02470.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0hgT4jXwQTMU1o84TPbvsP1_FdO6uVs5yjGrAFKioWHptamPjFCEFplXMbeXrvQ6qRMrGAKyKIWOf7e0i1xNTLox-yuKa-N22vWh5RMoS9RPQbiGPeMNbjG_S_1b_Q3LjDi92-rQ-SWY/s400/DSC02470.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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He looks at old pictures like this one of Phinny and laughs, thinking <i>ha ha, you really got the worst of mom's bad sewing didn't...WAIT! WHAT?!</i>:<br />
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Sucka.<br />
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Who's laughing now?<br />
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Your sister, that's who.<br />
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She comforts you, gently whispering, "It's okay little buddy, she won't make you wear this out in public- it's just a rough draft. Just a rough draft, little buddy. There there."</div>
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This hat is yet another expression of my inability to believe in the limitations of old sweatshirts paired with double-sided fleecy whatever that stuff is called. I will update you on further <strike>humilations</strike> iterations of this hat.</div>
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Isn't it just terrible what I do to my children. Terrible. But when you force a fifth grade tomboy to wear a handmade approximation of Annie's orphan dress and participate in a "Little Orphan Annie Personality-Alike" contest and she wins a Jackson Browne LP and a coupon for unlimited Mr. Turkey hotdogs, this is the result. It seeps down through generations. </div>
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No one will ever be safe from Mr. Turkey.</div>
<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-20828817691816337402014-02-02T05:08:00.001-08:002014-02-02T05:55:41.360-08:00One Month CleanIsn't that what recovering persons say, "I'm one month clean."? Or is that outdated?<br />
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Well, whatever they say, that's how I feel. It's been one month since I began my effort to be a calmer, more present, and more open-lapped mother. <br />
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But, just like smoking, or whatever other vice one uses as an emotional steam valve, one has to keep on quitting. I think it takes a very long time before being totally calm and present is the natural state. At least for me. It's a beast that had really taken up residence in my heart for a while- the distracted, secretly tight-wound claustrophobe that I turned into. A complete eviction may take some time.<br />
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Like, in the last week, I've noticed certain elements of my distracted mom self creeping back in. Those times when I desperately want to be released from the constant responsibility of these beautiful, mewling little people. I grab a quick look at e-mail, or Facebook just to stretch a tentacle out into the world at large. It's like taking 'just one puff'. I'm just checking out for a <i>second</i>.<br />
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But then seconds turn into minutes, and then there's just one more thing I want to read on the computer, then I put on just another quick show to buy myself a little more breathing room, and then...the zombies come. They want me, so they crowd around me like seagulls pecking at me like I'm french fries. Then I get annoyed and then they say they want more yogurt and then I'm all, "Where are my slippers!" and they are like, "More yogurt, mama!" and I'm, "You JUST had yogurt!' and they go, "More!" and they paw at my lap and begin wrending my clothes and I'm like, "Your bowels are going to seize like hardened concrete if I give you one more cup of yogurt!" and they say "Kefir then! Mama, I'm hungry!" and I bark, "That is IMPOSSIBLE! You are not hungry. It is not POSSIBLE that you are hungry!" and they say, "Maaaammaaaa, yoooogguuuurrt" in that terrible gravely whine and I say, "Oh fuck, PLEASE with the constant dairy!" and then "Will you LET. GO. of my pants please!"<br />
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(/march to kitchen, fill cups of yogurt- silence the seagulls)<br />
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SO. I see what's happening here, the slippery slope of distraction and the desire to escape. It requires constant vigilance, constant maintenance. Here's what I have learned in the last month of staying calm:<br />
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1. Know your triggers. One of my triggers, for example, is children. So I moved out. Things are much easier. No, just kidding. But I did come to terms with the fact that there is just ALWAYS going to be the whining, the Needing, the fighting. I am, like a person getting sober, learning to cope with the loud constant static of life with children, without relying on frequent spacing out and escaping.<br />
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2. The frantic begging and exasperation approach doesn't ever work. I can say with certainty that spazzing out when the children behave as mongrels, always makes the situation worse. I am practicing what I call the Lebowski Approach. When Griffin colors all over the wall with non-washable crayon on a wall with specialty-80-dollar-a-gallon paint that we have no spare of, I say, "Dude. You just did that." And then I look at it and I nod for a moment. "You totally colored all over the wall, little man." My niece, Logan, has a tattoo that says "Let it Be." I thought it was a little silly when she got it, now I think it's genius. A needed reminder that things just are. They <i>just are</i>. <br />
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3. Sing it out. Sometimes when a person pisses you off, singing in an exaggerated opera voice is the most appropriate thing to do. The loud, high sound and concentration on hitting the right pitch is a perfect focus for free-floating rage vapor. Try it! "Meeeee me me me me! You are whiiiiiniiiiing and it makes me want to throw you down the staaaaaiiiiirs but I love you very much so I woooooon't! Because then I would have to drive to the emergency room in this snow-ho-ho-ho-hoooooooo."<br />
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4. Be sure I have scheduled, protected, REAL time to myself without the marauding crowds. That is why I have been waking at 4:45am every morning to be sitting here in the quiet of this room. It is critical, I tell you, to maintain space before welcoming the zombies. I have to store up a lot of open space before they can come and fill it up. Then I can pour myself into them during the day, without the desperate need for a little escape. Because I know the zombies won't give it. I have to take it.<br />
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5. Last but certainly not least: see how much better I like myself. When I get through a situation like, oh, I don't know, someone just spit a mouthful of chewed up crackers and cheese onto my bedspread because, you know, their mouth felt crowded, and I can say, "So you did that. Thank you I LOVE wiping up pre-barf, you adorable little thing," I feel a lot more like <i>myself </i> than I have in a couple of years. It makes me feel like Lisa, instead of an overwhelmed parenting machine straining at the gears.<br />
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It's not been easy, this last month. You remember my post for a couple of weeks ago, "<a href="http://mamausesneedles.blogspot.com/2014/01/saying-yes-to-atomic-mess.html">Saying 'Yes' to Atomic Mess</a>"? Where instead of letting insignificant battles lead to explosive frustration, I'm all, "Suuure, you want to take a few extra things to nap? Sure, honey, here. Let me make you a boat to set them in so you can carry them up the stairs easier to your crib."<br />
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And I go to grab her favorite book and return to this:<br />
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Seriously. Give them a inch.<br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-71822500121547823942014-01-31T04:27:00.000-08:002014-01-31T04:27:29.349-08:00A Quiet Japanese CouplePerhaps by now you're craving a palette cleanser for all the emotional posting that's been going on around here- an antidote to my cathartic oversharing.<br />
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And so I give you "The Quiet Japanese Couple", a textile series I've been working on in the studio. (SEE, there is still the sewing! And you thought it was going to be all that touchy-feely stuff all the time.)<br />
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They are chambray fabric backed by some kind of freaky starched poplin I had in the studio and then thin batting in between. Follow by sewing for ten thousand hours each and here you go. They're really just placemats, and I planned to make a set of six, but they are so lovely as a pair, I am torn! (As I usually do you the courtesy, I will note here that I refrained from more than one joke about "looming decisions", etc.)<br />
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I want to offer you the chance to admit that you too *swoon* when faced with chambray selvedge. When marrying the selvedge of nice chambray becomes legal in the eyes of the federal government, I will be there. Marrying the selvedge of nice chambray.<br />
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The Quiet Japanese Couple is a set of two panels that are inspired by Japanese boro textiles, which I just cannot get enough of. You feel the same way, no doubt. I mean, look at these muvs!:<br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-65530738256777957272014-01-30T04:12:00.001-08:002014-01-30T04:12:40.720-08:00Ms. Judgy Judgington ApologizesYou remember Deb Cohan. She's the woman who started a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uPdheFjRm4E">dance party in the OR</a> before her double mastectomy. I had the incredible joy of getting her response after my blog post about it. She wrote that I am a "wise mama". (Coming from her, I'm feeling like <i>Damn. I better be acting like it then, right</i>?)<br />
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I was invited on Facebook for this Friday to her Virtual Gratitude and Love Mob ( thank you Brit< Deb). What a better time to use the invitation to show love and gratitude to someone I haven't shown nearly enough to over the years. My little sister, Ariane. So here we go, Frog. May you someday soon be a dancing nurse in the OR:)<br />
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Phone rings, it's Ariane.<br />
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A: "Hello. What are you up to?"<br />
L: "Not much. Driving to the grocery store. What are you doing?"<br />
A: "Oh I'm just between Surgery class and Pharmacology and I had a minute to call and say 'hi'."<br />
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!!!!<br />
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Seriously? Just between surgery class and pharmacology and had a minute, for <i>me</i>? <br />
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My sister has seven kids. They range in age from 1 to 20. The four youngest are boys.<br />
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And girl found a minute in between surgery and pharmacology class to call me.<br />
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This is remarkable for many reasons. Today is a good day to tell you why. It's a good day to apologize and show off my dark underbelly of Big Sister Judginess. (Don't worry, it's been dying for a while and is cold, hard dead now. But we can think of my judginess as a huge sea creature slain by my strong, smart sister- and I think she deserves to stand by with the dead carcass and have a victory photo snapped.)<br />
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You see, my sister was a little bit the fuck up. I was, on the surface, the success story. Sorry, but that's how it looked for a while. I always knew she was smart, and I always knew her heart was huge, but the truth is those qualities got buried in the haywire journey of youth. I was busy fiercely driving toward some notion of success that was unfamiliar to my family, and I viewed my sister with judgement, frustration and worry. I was mad about her teen years, and, in a way thought she was taking the easy way out as she built a family and I moved through life racking up a few superficial achievements.<br />
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Now here we are. I am a mother too. And something very peculiar has happened. I am watching my sister still, yes. Observing how she parents and watching how she gets through life, which has handed her some Grade A bullshit lately. And I am not judging anymore. <br />
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I am taking notes.<br />
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Hear this, little sister:<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Remember when I borrowed your car when I was home once a few years back? I was shocked at its condition! McDonalds bags abounded and I think I had to move my feet around on the floor to get any room for them to touch bottom. Just because you had a bunch of kids- you couldn't get your damn car cleaned?</span><br />
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DECEMBER 2013: I literally could not get my car cleaned because it was too messy. That's right- there was too much crap strewn about for the cleaners to actually get to the dirt, so I passed the carwash again, promising myself to take a load in the house when I got home.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Remember when I breezed through college, furious that you couldn't figure out a way to finish high school?</span><br />
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JANUARY 2014: I wanted to take a class at the local community college this semester, but couldn't make it happen. You know, between my three children and my part-time nanny. Just can't swing the commitment yet. Call me between Surgery and Pharmacology so I can moan about it, eh?<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">And most importantly- this last Christmas when I visited home. Your kitchen was a mess, woman! I couldn't find a coffee mug.</span><br />
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And here, I cry.<br />
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I couldn't find a coffee mug, because you were too busy...hugging your baby Donavin. Your one year old baby. Fuck the dishes, there you were in a room full of kids and a catastrophe of Christmas toys, calmly letting your baby climb all over you. You were smiling that natural smile you always have with your kids. You were tuning out a little and talking baby talk to little D while he cooed a gummy smile at you and flopped lazily back into your arms. And then little Spencer came by and you offered him some sweet words about where he could find a missing toy.<br />
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I've got it now. And I'm so sorry. Because you're teaching me so much about what is important. Your kids are confident and happy. (Even though- zip up their coats!! God!). They are one hundred percent sure and confident that you can be relied on. They come to you and climb up, never worrying if its the right time. <br />
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This is a thing that I have only recently started to learn. My heart has not been totally open and I've struggled with patience and calm so so much. But something clicked after Christmas and things are changing. A good part of it was from watching you.<br />
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I've seen strength in you this last year that blows. my. mind. <br />
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As you lay in a hospital bed in Ann Arbor, on the verge of giving birth to your seventh child, and your forty-one year old husband lay in another bed down the hall trying to recover from a stroke <i>and</i> a heart failure, your other kids together, taking care of one another, I was beyond stressed for you. All I could do was send pizza.<br />
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Yet you never cracked. You just Got It Done. As you always do. <br />
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I see deep intelligence, an amazing sensitive heart and worry and frustration all living together in you. It's all there and you still have a smile and an open lap for your kids.<br />
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For all the successes that I experienced along the way, this parenting thing has seriously kicked my ass. And it's only the most important thing I've ever endeavored to do. I have many times complained on the phone to you about how hard it is. I've many times been calmed by your advice. <br />
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And after all these years, I can honestly say,<i> I wish I was more like you</i>. I am <i>trying</i> to be more like you. (Well, except the kitchen. I will FREAK the fuck out if I can't get to a coffee mug fast. But we have discussed how important the kitchen is on the list of priorities, so I'll work on that.)<br />
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So that should do it, Frog. Hope you like my Virtual Gratitude and Love Mob:)<br />
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Congratulations on making it through your first semester of nursing school- a feat that seems literally impossible. I love you very very much and am so proud of you.*<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Though, at some point, we will need to discuss the time you stole my Benneton rugby and lost it. Maybe when you graduate or something. But your not off the hook for that.</span><br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2092841559910177077.post-43296017290151201522014-01-22T04:24:00.001-08:002014-01-22T04:24:49.626-08:00Saying Yes to Atomic Mess<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Starting at age 4, Phinny was released into the wilds of self-styling. We never mandated what she wore before that, we just provided her with comfortable clothes and she didn't object. When we officially gave up the reins, she embraced the task with gusto.</div>
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She wears some seriously jacked up ensembles. In public. Like this one- that's a princess crown on top, flipped back for a better view of the random muslin hankerchief tucked into the front. Fashion glasses, dress on backward, etc. </div>
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She wore this all day, even kept the glasses on while we perused the planetarium. I think you will agree that she is TOTALLY BADASS. People were staring of course. Smiling, giggling, admiring. She did not care a whit. She did not care that she was repeatedly massacring the word "Physicist" as she announced to me over and over her desire to be a "nurse physisisitht".</div>
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That opportunity was brought to her by the simple power of the word 'yes'.</div>
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I am making it my practice to saying 'yes' to everything short of "Mama, can I play with food coloring on your bed?"<br />
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"Can I take 3 stuffed animals, extra shoes and this gigantic and cumbersome book with us into the car?"<br />
Yes.<br />
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"Can Nora come over?"<br />
Yes.<br />
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"Can I have hot chocolate?"<br />
Yes.<br />
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"Can we watch Dora?" <br />
OH HELL NO.<br />
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I do a draw a line. Anything that might cause me brain injury, such as letting them play that horrible, horrible Tolo trumpet for more than 5 minutes for example, is off limits. For the sake of my sanity.<br />
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But the experiment of saying 'yes' before my inner scaredy-cat of mess and inconvenience has a chance to revolt is producing really excellent results. I realized that there is a unique opportunity here. Life becomes <i>harder</i>, but it becomes <i>happier</i>. When the babies are happy, I am happy. I don't know why it took so long to realize that wiping up a spilled mess after a science experiment is infinitely easier on my psyche than calf-roping a screaming toddler. Also, if I participate in the mess-making, I actually have fun. <br />
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These little moments- where I struggle out to the garage trying to carry Griff with an armload of what I see as completely unnecessary crap- bring a lot of happiness to these tiny people. Afterall, they have a whole kids life with that menagerie of stuffed animals. Just because I don't, doesn't mean they aren't important.<br />
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So I'm going to keep up this experiment. Because I don't want a house where I'm the Dictator. I want a house that is full of fun. Comfort. Excitement. <br />
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Also: the world would benefit from more four year-olds wearing tutus on their head in Target, don't you think?<br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16788227694264932758noreply@blogger.com1