Once Upon a Time

A couple of years ago I joined an online writing group that focused on a sub-specialty I was interested in. It was a big mistake. I've been a member of a really great group of writers for years and was used to the support and camaraderie I found there. This other group was nothing like that. The members spent a lot of time making sniffy noises about what great writers they were and how pathetic other writers were. Of course none of these so-called great writers ever actually wrote anything, while the writers they were putting down were actually published. It was all very annoying and I left the group after only a few weeks.

There was one member of that group, though, who was deathly serious about writing. He was painfully earnest about it, asking for critiques almost every day, revamping his stories according to the suggestions he received, then posting them again for further critique.

To give them credit, this group was very gentle with him, because what was painful about his earnestness was his incredibly bad writing. He had excellent plots, but just couldn't seem to put them down in a readable form. Even after doing several revisions his stories were horrible, the sort of stuff that you read and are hard-pressed to find something nice to say about it.

"My, you type so neatly."
"What an interesting vocabulary you have."
"You're certainly an excellent speller!"

He couldn't write to save his life.

The other day, we were at a store that has a large book section. Naturally, the preschooler dragged us over to look at the children's books. As I was browsing I picked up an interesting-looking book whose cover was dotted with bright and colorful foil insects. I opened it and read the first page.

What?

No!

Hurriedly I flipped through the rest of the story, then checked the author's name

Sure enough. It was him. The really bad writer. It was one of the stories he'd been working on while I was a member of that group. And it was wonderfully told.

Hooray for persistance and hard work!

I may have to hurt him.

I've been balancing our accounts and ran across an odd charge on the credit card. TEL ONE SWEEP.

Tel one sweep? Huh? I hate running across charges I can't figure out immediately. I'm paranoid about things like identity theft. I check every charge, balance every penny. Nothing is going to slip past me. When I first got telephone access to my checking account I practically wore out the buttons on my trimline phone (my very first phone!) calling the bank to see if this check or that had cleared yet.

All of which adds up to my plugging the suspect phrase into a search engine to make sure nothing was wrong.

Guess what I pulled up?

Cleaning supplies.

I have a really bad feeling about Mother's Day.

I think I can do this.

I kept hearing at the end of last week about the government's new food pyramids, but no-one was showing any pictures of them. Naturally I turned to the internet to remedy this, and found ... nothing. No pictures of the new pyramids at least. I did, however, find the government's website about the new pyramids and I have to say, I like it.

The site was pretty easy to use. You can track what you're eating every day and it will tell you how much of each nutrient you're getting, as well as how many calories you're taking in (and how many calories you should be taking in.) You can also track your physical activity and the site will tie the two together to tell you how the exercise has increased your caloric needs.

I've been doing this for a few days now and I've been surprised at how much I've gained from it. Oh, sure, I could do this without a website, or using one of the many diet websites there are out there, but this layout just works for me. I've actually been able to stick to it, instead of forgetting about it after the first day!

This morning I noticed that I was starting to think of my food choices in light of what they'd do to my calorie count for the day. I wound up having an apple for breakfast, and then some oatmeal, because of their fiber count and overall "healthiness quotient" (as I think of it.) I've always made food choices for the girls based on that kind of thinking, but for me I've tended too often to just grab whatever was available and would temporarily stave off hunger pangs.

I also learned some stuff about food choices that I never knew before. Did you know popcorn counts as a whole grain? Yes, it does! I can eat it and feel virtuous. (Just don't tell anyone about the butter and salt, OK?)

The only serious problem I find with it is that the food choices they give you are pretty general and not wildly suited to the way I cook. If you eat a lot of packaged food you're covered. If you cook from scratch a lot, the way I do, you'll get more general approximations of what you're eating. That's OK, though. I don't mind if it's general. It's still helpful. I think if it was more detailed it would probably overwhelm me anyway and then I'd wind up quitting it.

Things my kids have said lately.

OK, so when I said everyone was better? Wrong. So wrong. Very sick and unhappy little girls here. Much throwing up, much crying of, "Mommy, my tummy hurts!" Much cuddling with Mommy on the couch, watching TV.

So, to tide y'all over while I run around with towels and pans and ginger ale, here are a couple of funny incidents that happened this last week.

Said during dinner, while trying to get the preschooler to stay at the table instead of running around the room.

Daddy (who needs to lose a few pounds): "Sit down, before I lose my patience."

Preschooler: "Lose weight, instead?"

Daddy (after Jennifer and teen have stopped laughing): "Well, there's nothing I can say to that."

Exchanged after overhearing the teen tell his little sister to, "Stop it!"

Jennifer: "What's wrong?"

Teen: "She's looking at me!"

Everyone is sick again.

It seems like as soon as one bug finishes with us, another one turns up to make everyone sick again.

With all the types of over the counter medication available, why is there nothing for nausea?

Why is it that, when children are so sick they can hardly move, they still want to play outside?

The toddler is playing with a toy. With dozens of other toys available to play with, which one does the preschooler feel she must have, or she will die on the spot? Switch the words preschooler and toddler several times during the day.

The toddler wakes up in the middle of the night, throws up, and goes back to sleep. She doesn't cry, doesn't fuss, makes no noise, in fact, except to cough every so often. I have no reason to believe anything is wrong. Naturally, I feel guilty when I go in to get her up the next morning and see the mess.

Having your preschooler crying while curled up in a ball, saying, "My tummy hurts!" and not being able to do anything about it is enough to make a mother feel a little frantic.

It's wonderful having everyone wake up the next day feeling better.

Waking up from a long and tattered sleep.

I find it interesting how, if I go a few days without blogging, I kind of lose the knack. I have to make a real effort to get back into it, and it isn't easy figuring out what to say.

I went to the doctor Friday. Not about the hand, about the depression. I weaned my baby-now-toddler about a month ago and while the depression has been getting better since then it hasn't been getting all that much better. The husband leaned on me a little (Husband: "Why don't you make an appointment to see the doctor on Friday? I'll watch the girls. Here's the phone.") so I went along. I'm on medication now and I'm already feeling better, which really surprised me. It's probably a placebo effect, but that's OK, because I laughed during a movie last night. I can't think of the last time I laughed. I mean, really laughed, out of joy and lightheartedness, not just temporary amusement.

It's ironic, how after I tried so hard and so long to get pregnant, now it's something I fear. I don't mind the physical aspect of it. I would love to have another baby. I'd be more than happy to go through the gestational diabetes, the 9 months of 24/7 nausea, the further destruction of my figure. It's worth it. It's the depression I dread. I don't even know who I am anymore. I've been barely functioning for months, and it's not like I've been up to making the best decisions in the world. I'm apathetic, constantly exhausted, almost completely emotionally detached from the people I love.

I would love to have another child, but I don't think I could endure this kind of depression again. And while it's a moot point, since we've already decided not to pursue pregnancy again, it's a realization that reinforces that decision for me. Another baby would be wonderful; another pregnancy would be a nightmare.

I wish it was otherwise, though.

Grumble, Moan, Whine and Complain

I managed to mess up my right thumb to the point that I can't even bump it against something without excruciating pain. (I was careless in the way I was holding my arm and hand while I was on the computer the other day.)

You know, I never realized before just how many times a day I use a pincer grip.

I will be offline for a few days while I baby my hand back to health. Check back sometime next week. I will do my best to stay away that long!

I used to believe

When I was a little girl, I used to believe that my dolls had the power to come to life. This was not a good thing, because I also believed that if I didn't take care of them properly, or if I showed any favoritism between them, they might kill me and my family in revenge.

So I took very, very good care of all my dolls, treating each of them exactly equally. No baby had better care from its mother than my dolls had from me. Which of course made all the adults in my world convinced that I was just the perfect little mother and that I needed more dolls.

More dolls.

Some nights it was a little hard to sleep.

I was reminded of that little piece of my childhood after reading through some of the posts on i used to believe a wonderful site about all sorts of weird and funny childhood memories. Believe me, I am not the only child who was afraid of my toys. Which is a rather comforting thought.

Some wonderful samples:

• The kid who believed that a wake was held to "wake up" the dead person and didn't understand why everyone was so quiet at Grandpa's wake. Maybe Grandpa was a light sleeper?
• The kid who thought Shakespeare was a bathtub vampire who would come up through the drain and kill you if you closed your eyes while taking a bath.
• The kid who believed that the inside of the banana was poisonous, but the peel was the antidote, so you had to eat the whole thing to survive.
• The kid who, when he was told he could grow up to be anything he wanted to be, decided he wanted to grow up to be the color orange.

I also believed what a friend told me - that the purplish seeds that came from a grass-like plant that grew around our neighborhood were vampire eggs and that if I went into her family's barn the vampires would get me. I was terrified of overgrown grass all the rest of that summer.

I wonder what odd things my children are already believing?

If you have to point out your age to prove you're mature, you're too young.

I just finished up a looooong conversation with the teen. His birthday is coming up. What he wants is something that we are never going to give him. (Long story, involved, and rather esoteric. You don't want to hear it. Suffice it to say that what he wants is entirely impossible considering his behavior over the last year.)

He feels that he should be trusted, that we should let him have this opportunity so that he can prove he can be trusted with it. We disagree. So we're left with this fundamental disagreement, one that will never be subject to compromise. He wants more freedom and independence, and we feel that he's asking for more than he is yet able to handle. Maybe in another year, given an improved pattern of behavior, but not right now.

We're going to be dealing with a running battle for several weeks over this. He goes after things like a bulldog, never giving in. He tells me whenever we get into these debates that he'd rather be dead than wrong. I told him tonight that he needed to be careful that he didn't sacrifice long-term goals in his focus on short-term goals. When he challenged me to give him an example I pointed out his effective loss of this school year. By sacrificing this year he's not only risked his ability to graduate on time, he's lost all sorts of opportunities for a free education. After he graduates from high school everything is going to cost him money. He should be taking advantage of this to learn everything he can, not refusing to participate. That made him stop and think - for a moment.

Of course, in the course of the conversation he pulled out that old chestnut, "But I'm almost an adult now!" I had to turn away for a moment to hide the grin I couldn't repress. I can still remember how silly I felt when I was old enough to realize that the very fact you're using that phrase undermines your entire argument about being mature. (It hit me that truly mature people don't need to point it out.) He'll figure it out in about five or six years I figure.

And summer's not far behind.

Things are growing like crazy all of a sudden, leading me to the conclusion that it must finally be spring.

Aren't I clever? *bats eyelashes*

Thursday afternoon, when we got home from bringing my eldest daughter home from preschool, the neighbor was outside mowing his lawn with his little son (pretending to be like daddy with his toy lawnmower.) Naturally, the preschooler wanted to go over and play, so we went through several minutes of sobbing and pleading until the mower was shut off and I could safely let her run to where her friend had abandoned his toy and was doing his best to lure her over. (He is very shy and won't come over to our yard.)

I kept an eye on them as the neighbor was putting everything away. While I watched them I looked over our lawn. Did it need to be mowed too? No, it didn't, I concluded. There were a couple of green patches, but the majority of the yard was still the straw brown of winter hibernation. It was going to be at least a week before we needed to get our mower out.

Friday morning I woke up, looked outside and realized we probably needed to mow the lawn right away. The lawn was not only green, it was starting to look shaggy. Overnight!

I looked over at our other neighbor's yard. His lawn hadn't started growing yet, but the tree over there was starting to come into bloom.

The ultimate surprise came when I went to dress the toddler. I decided to put her in her pink jeans, which are not only cute, but sturdy, perfect for a hard day of playing outside. They were too short. I'd had them on her only two days earlier. They'd fit fine. Friday morning they were more than half an inch too short. The hem was just above the top of her socks and the waist wasn't quite meeting the bottom of her watermelon shirt. The watermelon shirt is not short, either.

Springtime has gotten entirely out of hand. It's enough to make a mother swear off it forever.

Is that what you call it? Because I was thinking of another word.

You have got to go over and read this over at Chez Miscarriage. If you don't laugh, it's because you've had the good fortune to never date a guy like that.

But I bet you'll laugh.

After reading it, I just had to come back here and share a tidbit about the guy I wrote about here, (the one I was engaged to, not the husband.) He was just like the kind of guy she describes, all sensitive and understanding, disgusted with the behavior of other men, awed at feminine wisdom and strength.

Yeah, right.

To really grasp the full humor of what happened, you have to know that both the ex and I were members of a church that teaches sexual abstinence until marriage. (I still am. I don't know what's happening in his life.) So even though we were engaged we weren't sleeping together. Unfortunately, as much as he claimed to believe in the importance of chastity and fidelity, his actions ... well, you can imagine.

My reaction to his cheating was understandable from a primal viewpoint, if not quite in line with my convictions. He slept with another woman? But I was the one he was engaged to! I was the one he was supposed to want to have sex with, not anyone else! Why her? Why not me?

I asked him that. His response was priceless, although much funnier a decade and a half later than it was at the time.

"Well, I respect you."

More stepmom agonizing. Skip this one, it's boring.

In some ways, it's like living with an alcoholic. I went into the teen's room today to retrieve dishes. That's never a good thing. It's hard to find a place to put a foot down, there are so many clothes, papers, books and miscellaneous junk on the floor. I remember, though, when my room was that way, when I was his age, so I can overlook it (to a point.)

What really bothered me were the empty food containers all around his bed. I hadn't even noticed the container of hot cocoa mix was missing. The plastic bag that once held the animal cookies left over from the day we handled snack time at preschool was there, as was an empty package of Jello brand gelatin that I never got around to making into Jello eggs for Easter. There were scores of candy wrappers, an empty two liter bottle of soda and more.

I feel like we don't dare allow anything containing sugar into the house. It disappears as soon as it comes in. I want to get some chocolate syrup, to lure the toddler into drinking milk (she hates the stuff and throws her sippy cup across the room when I try to give it to her) but if I do the teen will get most of it, and believe me, he doesn't need it. He's stopped losing weight. He isn't gaining anything back, at least, but he's not slimming down at all and he still desperately needs to.

It's so hard to watch him make such bad decisions - school, eating, the way he treats his sisters - knowing what the consequences will probably be, and yet have to mostly just stand aside. We have so little control over him anymore. There are so many places in his life that he is starting to have to make his own decisions, with no oversight from us. I really wish he was making better ones. Sooner or later he's going to have to pull out of this. I sure hope it's before he's gotten himself in so deeply that he can't get out. I hope it's before he's flunked out of high school, developed diabetes, or taught his sisters to hate him.

Huh?

BTW, why is it that when you search on this string at Google I'm the first result? I keep seeing it in my stats and finally went and checked it out. I searched that page. I search all my past entries. In the past year and more I have never even used that word once in any entry. Nobody used it in the comments on that page. But I'm the first result?

Ooookay.

Until I started this blog I had no idea just how often the word "galore" gets used in search strings of a certain type. I disappoint a lot of people. And now Google is helping me to disappoint even more.

All better now.

The toddler's runny nose cleared up this afternoon. At one o'clock she was still needing to have her nose wiped every few minutes, at two o'clock I realized I hadn't wiped her nose for awhile. She's been fine ever since. She even went to bed without protest, which hasn't been the case for the last week. She's hardly been sleeping at all, in fact, waking up a few hours after bedtime and refusing to go back to sleep until the wee hours of the morning, sobbing with misery the whole time.

Isn't this where I make a witty quip about a barrel of monkeys? Nah, I don't think so. They couldn't possibly be more work than she's been.

I need to catch up on my sleep. I'm not terribly coherent right now.

Just a quick hello.

The preschooler is all well again, but the toddler is just miserable. She spends lots of time sobbing and crying out, "Mommy! Mommy!" Then she won't let me hold her. A very sad mommy here and a sadder little girl. I sure hope she gets better quickly.

It's hard to read a novel when someone keeps sneezing on the pages.

I am bored out of my mind right now. It's all in a good cause, but. Nevertheless. I am nearly to the point of pulling out individual strands of hair, just for the change of pace.

The toddler is just wildly ill at the moment. She won't sleep unless either the husband or I is holding her (which means ME! As it would be nice to have money to keep a roof over our sick child's head.) She won't eat. I can get her to drink, but only if what I'm offering her is slightly sweet (diluted fruit juice is working out well.)

Most of the time I've just been sitting around, holding her draped across my shoulder as she cries and fusses and suffers through her virus. Poor little thing. I hate it when they're sick.

The preschooler has been watching way too much TV as I try to keep her happy so I can spend my time comforting the toddler. My brain is starting to leak out my ears from so much children's programming.

And it's an incredibly beautiful day outside. If everyone was well we could go fly the preschooler's kite, or play with the sidewalk chalk I got them (incidentally, the preschooler can't seem to figure out the word chalk. Instead she keeps calling the stuff "tacos" and "porkchops." As in: "I want to go draw with my tacos, mommy!")

I could eat chocolate, I suppose. That's always entertaining.

No, I don't want to hear any reasons why I shouldn't, thank you.

So there.