so here’s what happened

… I mean, it’s a blog for godssake — it’s not rocket surgery.

This is, roughly, the twelvteenth post that I’ve started to write since I got up on my little soap box and had my little verbal tantrum about the state of the public education system and my fears about what will happen to the Girl once the system gets her into its clutches next year. Apparently, after my small tirade, I sat down on my soap box, and have yet to stand back up from my little meditation. Why? Good fucking question. I’m not sure I have any concrete answers yet, but while I was writing and then NOT writing those other eleventeen witty little bits of … uh… blogginess, I did develop several theories regarding my soap box sit-in.

So here’s what happened… After I unintentionally abandoned my darling little blog due to the finally undeniable pull of the universe and the unfortunate incident with the sucking vortex that was the laundry monster, there were a couple of weeks were I actually had my shit together. I KNOW!!! Tell me about it! I was as surprised as anyone. Probably more so, considering I was the one who did all the work, and there was no bribery involved, no threats of … well, anything really. No reason other than an apparent need to defy the universe and exert my all-powerful mom-&-wifeness with a giant Fuck You, Natural Descent Into Entropy, I’m Cleaning My House. And then the last day of school came, and I decided to take the afternoon off, drink a beer (or two), and that’s how I ended up on my education soap box. I was not, however, expecting to actually get RESPONSES to the freakin’ thing. So, that sorta’ sat me on my ass right there.

Now, I said I had “several theories”, as in more than one. So theory 1: knocked on my ass by the fact that people are reading my blog, just by coincidence happen to be stuck on a soapbox at the time.

Included in those responses was one particularly affecting… erm… comment from someone both near and dear to me but is not, and this was the real surprise, my lunatic sister. (Who, btw, you should all know is NOT, in all reality an actual lunatic, clinically speaking anyway, just really really goofy at times.) So this near-and-dear, we’ll call her Professor, because she is (among other things), wrote me a really long, really heartfelt, really personal… response, really, that dredged up a lot of shit from my own frequently painful school years as well as making a lot of good points from a teachers perspective. Again, THUNK, on my ass, this time with my jaw sort of hanging open (but not drooling, thank-you-very-much) because 1.) the Professor reads my blog? Seriously?     !?!?!   and 2.) recalling various and sundry memories of the years between the ages of 10 and 17.

Now, the Professor comes from the Right side of my family. And by that I mean the side of my family that is always right. We have a tendency to not only speak our minds, but we are strongly opinionated and tend to speak in a manner which makes people think we know what we’re talking about even if we’ve no freakin’ clue. Can you say German heritage? So poor Professor, knowing that she had brought up a lot of that less than pleasant muck, was having clicker’s remorse about sending that particular message. (I know this because I ran into her and im’d about it that day.) But ‘cept I’m a growd up now, and have gained much perspective by having my own children. The decade plus of therapy may have helped too…

So as I continued to sit on my soapbox, I wrote back to the Professor, addressing her points, and making a few more of my own, because, as I said, although I was jaw-agape I was not drooling incoherently, just becoming slightly glassy-eyed and dizzy from the height of the soapbox. There was one more note from the Professor because 1.) she’s got the teacher’s perspective, 2.) she’s got a mother’s perspective, 3.) she’s seen 2 bright girls through the public school system and 4.) one of those girls did really well and one of those girls not so well. So she’s got a lot of wisdom to share, and I’m more than glad to be on the receiving end, even if it knocks me on my ass for more than one reason and renders me slack-jawed and just a little dumbstruck (okay, I admit there may have been a little drooling, but just a little!).

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to do housework from atop a soapbox, but it’s damn near impossible. I did some directing, but for the most part, I adopted an Om pose and let entropy have its way with me.  Which brings me to the final theory regarding my continued residence atop said soapbo, sitting upon said ass. It’s been less than a week since I took up my Om pose (a grand total of 5 days — 6 if you count that first day off) and while nothing is out of control, there are no sucking vortexes of laundry, no battles between dirty laundry and dirty dishes for domain over the hallway  or kitchen, and the only thing that is really in desperate shape is the Things’ room (that actually may be close to sucking vortex status, but I refuse to get close enough to confirm), my Om has become disgruntled. I am well aware that as a Toddler Life Coach and professional Military Wife, albeit the worst one ever, the cooking-cleaning-laundry schtick is supposed to be my bit. Yeah, I know. But dammit, I am NOT the only person with arms in this house! Other people ARE capable of working the broom! And the vacuum! Picking up toys! And doing it BEFORE it reaches a full entropic state, thank-you-very-much.

So the final theory? I’m a disgruntled housewife who doesn’t WANT to come down yet. There’s no laundry up here, the floors are clean, and nobody just throws shit on the floor rather than putting it away. I like my soapbox dammit. Now if only I could figure out how to get my bed up here…


naked by lunch

…unless, of course, he has preschool.

After breakfast the other day, my budding nudist announced that his clothes were too dirty to wear and therefore he would have to be naked for the remainder of the day. Now, had this been a school day, there would have been at least some urge for me to put up a compelling argument for getting back into some form of acceptable clothing so that there might be something to show for the ridiculous tuition The Husband shells out each month. But it was a Monday. And Mondays are not school days. Add this to the monstrosity that is the dirty laundry pile and the notion of adding yet another set of socks, underpants, jeans, and shirt times 2 for just the boy for just the one day… yeah, I think you can see where this is going. Naked kidlette wearing nothing but giraffe slippers, running around, all day long, chasing his sister, bits and pieces flopping about. And here, I will share a picture from my real life, simply because the giraffe slippers must be visualized in all their spotted glory.


We’ve been calling him Naked Man. He seems to like it. Although he has been asking for a cape…

how do I love thee, mommyhood… let me count the ways (edited)

… but the experiment is only asking for five so,  I won’t be needing the abacus for this one.

While I was avoiding the laundry in the hallway that seems to slowly be growing sentient, and possibly carnivorous, I finally sat down and caught up on a few of my favorite blogs.

 –In regards to the laundry, I’ve developed a new theory that, given a high enough concentration of socks and other foot apparel, the pile of dirty clothes will develop motility and move itself into the washing machine. Consequently, I’ll be picking up some socks later tonight for the kids to wear to school tomorrow.

As I was saying, when I hit the end of one of my favorite blogs, there was a little note asking interested mommybloggers to participate in this rather expansive experiment of co-ordinating a global playdate: Around the World in 80 Clicks.


My kids would so cheat on me with Her Bad Mother. I mean, okay, wow. I have trouble coordinating a playdate with the kid down the block. But this I think I could actually do, since it doesn’t require me to magically produce some play space in our closet-sized house, nor do I have to clean up the oatmeal that has been drying on the floor/wall/table for the last (insert a number – ANY number) days. All I need to provide is a list of five things I love about being a mom. That, I think I can handle. So off we go!

  • I love that my kids make me laugh so hard I lose my breath and my eyes tear up when I tell my mom about whatever it was they said/did over the phone. And that she does the same.


  • I love how my baby boy, who is not so much a baby these days, crawls into my lap when he’s sad and says “I want to go home, mom,” when we’re sitting on the sofa in the middle of our own living room. Because I know exactly how he feels, and nobody else has ever empathized with me with the exact same words I feel.
  • I love that I now have an excuse for the stretch-marks I’ve had since junior high. The scars of motherhood – I came pre-marked. A little odd, I know, but there it is.
  • I love knowing that these two amazing little people are in the world and that I had a hand in their making. I know that MY world is much more Technicolor for their being in it, and from what I hear, they seem to have the same effect on other people, too. I feel like the world in general may be a little bit better for the addition of these two amazing, beautiful, brilliant, as yet untainted little bits. And if I can love them the way they need to be loved, without trying to compensate for what I didn’t get when I was little, if I can not try to undo my childhood knots through their years, then these amazing little people might just grow up to be incredible adults – the kind who really make a difference. And I love that I will be a part of that.


  • And most of all, very most of all, I love how the tears come unbidden when       I try to hold all of that love in my heart. The love I have for them, from them, and the strange, magical combination of the two that only mothers can feel, even if we don’t quite understand it. I am theirs, and they are mine, even if my dominant genes stepped aside and let the recessive blond hair and blue eyes run away with the show so that they look nothing like me. And no matter how much we dislike each other, no matter who says what, or who made who cry, I am their mother, they are my children, and we will claim each other. Always.


Although, The Girl does really like her daddy

And now, as per experiment instructions, here’s a link to another one of my favorite mommybloggers, this one from across the pond: whoopee 
And domestically, in sunny CA: Girl’s Gone Child 

lemmings unite

I blame my sister for this. Not that she’s a bad person, I love her in fact. But she’s the one who started all of this with her shit about how I should sign up for facebook and be mainstream and bite the bullet because everyone’s doing it and why am I so reluctant anyway. So instead of doing the laundry, which is still threatening to invade the kitchen after it fully conquers the hallway (I give it another two days, maybe less — I wonder how it will cross the mighty mountain range of dishes and cutlery to reach the borders of the livingroom…), I turned on my laptop and started wandering around the blogosphere like some drunk kitten.

It was like… oh good god it was so tasty. Finding all of these intelligent, witty (WITTY!!!) posts that not only made me want to write again, I mean actually write for godssake, but pointed out repeatedly that I have been blogging ALL OF MY LIFE. Just not as such. I’ve got boxes and boxes and notebooks and folders and scattered pages of the same kinds of stuff that I’ve been reading. Maybe other people will read it, maybe not. Maybe I will invite family and friends, maybe not. Maybe I’ll be less than anonymous, maybe not. But I’ve already walked to the end of the plank, why not just-