Mumsaid

Mumsaid judge not lest ye be judged...or something like that

2012-01-28T22:12:00.000-08:00

"I am a terrible mother."
So very many of us mom-people freak out all to often and actually believe this statement.
Until the Supermommies strike and piss us off.

And here's how it happened:
Pattergirl had a snotty nose, the tail end of what was a couple of weeks of germy HELL in my house, and was going out in public, which included playing with Other People's Children. I called Pattergirl over so I could give her some decongestant. As my little blonde-haired, blue-eyed, pigtailed Pattergirl bounced over to me, this "Person-I-Once-Liked-turned-Supermommy" looked at me with horror...the scene changed to a dramatic slow-motion...while I squirted what I thought was a relatively "safe" OTC cold remedy into my little girl's mouth...end of slow motion...and Supermommy began her interrogation.

SM: "Did you ask your pediatrician before you gave her that?"

Me: "No. The dosage on the bottle for ages four to six says 2 teaspoons...she would fit into the 'ages two to four' bracket...but that doesn't exist so I halved the dose, which would be one teaspoon but is actually less than one teaspoon because of what remains in the squirter."

And I accidentally put the medicine dropper back into the bottle instead of putting on the cap, thus contaminating the medicine with GERMS. Strike two.

Me, babbling incessantly due to my nervousness about the obviously judgemental Supermommy: "I bought this stuff because the nasal spray works so well...and there isn't any aspartame, coloring, or other junk...and I just wanted her to not put snot all over the toys...little ones can't really help it..."

Supermommy stared at me while her Mini-#2 sat on the floor, green slime oozing from her nostrils.

SM: "Well, we never gave [Mini-#1] that without asking her pediatrician first."

I carried on with my Nurse Mommy duties...wiping Pattergirl's nose, washing my hands, washing the offensive medicine dropper, putting the evidence back in our Old Navy backpack. I looked over at the designer diaper bag, designer blankie and designer change of clothes spilling out. Supermommy wanted to hotline me, I am certain.

Me: "My sister's a nurse, so I call her for everything like this...and I remember giving [Green Warrior] some medicine where the bottle says 'under two call the doctor' but just giving him half the dose."

Green Warrior is autistic. Supermommy is now convinced I caused that. If she only knew of the teratogens I poisoned him with while in utero.

Me: "And my aunt teaches nurses at MoBap...maybe Big John's...or something like that...there's a lot of that in my family...so I trust their judgement."

Supermommy made a mental note to never again go to MoBap or Big John's, no matter how dire the emergency.

SM: "Oh."

Just like that. "Oh." WTF does that mean? "Oh Jesus I can't believe you were allowed to take your baby home from the hospital" or "Oh so you know what you are doing" or "Oh I didn't know that" or "Oh I have nothing else to say because all I do is stare at you."

Supermommy asked if I knew of a highchair they could use to feed Mini-#2. I offered to go get her one, stating that it would be a good idea to have them in a more convenient place. Supermommy sent Good Husband to fetch a highchair. I joked about making sure he picked the clean one, because there is one that I wiped down a little extra for Pattergirl to use. I honestly thought that might be helpful. Supermommy takes an Avent sippy cup from the designer diaper bag.

I try to ease the tension of the situation by making polite conversation. My mistake.

Me: "Those are the same cups we use. Aren't they great? I saved some from [Green Warrior] because I liked them so much. Except the new valves are so much better than the old ones. You have to check the old ones for cruddies after you wash them because there are more nooks and crannies."

SM: "We had them with [Mini-#1], but I didn't save them. The new ones are BPA-free..."

I was now finished with the conversation. I could no longer be cordial with this woman. I went to play with my daughter and the other Little One and be Myself, a terrible mother.

Mumsaid not to wade in the shallow gene pool

2011-10-30T04:58:00.000-07:00

Dear Self-Righteous Wench at the Library,

As I stated in our brief conversation, thank you for telling me what you needed. I will say this one more time: While I respect your right to quiet, I do not appreciate you telling me how to raise my children. You are lucky I didn't bitch-slap you. I am rather proud of myself for not even yelling.

Allow me to elaborate:
I brought my children to the library to offer them a developmentally appropriate educational experience while spending (please forgive the cliche) "quality time" with a parent. We haven't been to the library as regularly as we used to, and were very excited to be able to make the trip on this particular evening. My ten year old mildly autistic son requires help finding books because the number of choices on the shelves is completely overwhelming. He reads at least at a twelfth grade level, yet possesses social understanding that is far below that of his peers. This makes finding books rather difficult. I found a small selection for him to peruse while I supervised my Littlest One, a girl who is nearing two.

We call her Pattergirl. She is at the "drunken monkey" stage in her life and it can be either great fun or thoroughly frustrating. She is interested in everything she sees, from the wholesome goodness of puzzles in her room to the rank pile of turds in her diaper. The whole world is fascinating and wonderful, except for the demon that Momma calls "the vacuum." The library is no exception. Shelf upon shelf of books, movies, and music! Little chairs to drag around and a giant bean bag to jump on! And every last bit of it MUST be explored! THAT, my once-respected elder, is how she learns.

I sat on a stool, perusing DVDs and CDs, selecting media that would be tolerable (to my husband and I) and interesting (for my children). Green Warrior sat quietly on said giant bean bag and Pattergirl touched everything she could touch within the few minutes her attention span allowed for each section of the one-room library. I both verbally encouraged and verbally redirected her. I was unaware of your presence because my attention was focused on the care of my children and the protection of the things that Pattergirl explored.

Your approach was belittling to say the least. "I am trying to work over there, so if you could keep your voice down...she [your adorably inquisitive daughter] is not going to learn what a library voice is unless you teach her." I was rendered momentarily speechless, my entire being and surroundings frozen in surreal disbelief at the possibility of someone addressing me in such a condescending manner. I don't even know if I responded before you went to sit back down.

Once I shook off the positively awful feeling of having been scolded, I became enraged. My surroundings seemed to vibrate as my body was enveloped in what must have been a fight or flight response. Ears pounding, eyes blinded by the spinning of the room, arms tingling...I packed up our selections, picked up my Littlest One, informed Green Warrior of the security breach, and flew back to where you sat. "Excuse me, ma'am," I said, pausing to allow your head to turn towards me before I promptly bit it off. "While I appreciate you telling me what you needed and respect your right to a peaceful library, I do NOT appreciate you telling me how to raise my children." You attempted a retort, but I interrupted with an emphatic "NO. I DO NOT appreciate YOU telling me how to raise my children." I believe as I turned to leave you tried to say something about "our library" but I was finished with our conversation. Truthfully, I had to walk away before I said anything else at a volume that was anything but a "library voice." Green Warrior asked what was wrong as I walked purposefully to the checkout counter. (I think he actually had to jog to keep up. I told him I would explain later, which I did.) I quietly informed the librarian of my ill feeling and the exchange that caused it. I did not expect assistance from her, I politely explained, I just needed to explain my attitude towards her should it seem rude. (She followed me out to the parking lot, the dear heart, and told me how good my children actually were.)

I do not naturally speak at an offensive decibel, nor do my children. I do not yell at my children, nor do they yell at others. We raise voices when necessary, when a child is in danger to oneself or others, but voice level remains a non-issue. Perhaps you would prefer me to shut up and spank her, consequently teaching her to fear me and to equate trips to the library with dread. Perhaps you should shut up and leave the rearing of my children TO ME, given that my actions were not abusive or illegal. I have seen bad parenting. I do not claim perfection, but I certainly do not require intervention. Especially from someone so misguided in the area of child development.

At 23 months, a child is a concrete thinker. Voice level, a relatively abstract concept, is somewhat foreign. A toddler explores the environment with hands, feet, and the occasional taste bud. Pattergirl had no interest in loud conversation. She was interested solely in the "moo-fees" and books. Her interest being somewhat destructive (perfectly age appropriate behavior), I conversed with her about how to interact with library materials without damaging them. This, my uneducated patron of "our library," is a developmentally appropriate focus to the majority of our ventures into public arenas.

If you had simply said, "I am trying to work over there, so if you could keep your voice down please" I would have apologized, made fun of your hat within the confines of my own mind, and guided my daughter and her "moo-fees" elsewhere. I understand that I may have disturbed you. However, it was ME that you should have referred to, not the rearing of my children.

From this encounter, my children will learn. They will learn that the library has a plethora of books, "moo-fees," and CDs from which to choose. They will learn that you may speak up for yourself, but must remain polite in doing so. They will learn that bitch-slapping someone for being an uneducated wench is unacceptable. They will learn that you can call people any name you want when you are no longer in public. They will learn that using a more sophisticated vocabulary when telling someone to "fuck off" is often more effective than the actual profanity itself. They will learn that anger is valid but must be controlled, even if that makes you melt into a sobbing mess afterward. They will learn that melting into a sobbing mess is acceptable and appropriate when you are no longer in public. Aaand they will learn that someone who seems intelligent might actually turn out to be an uneducated wench. They will also learn that uneducated wenches might have sadness that causes them to be self-righteous and rude, but that doesn't make self-righteous and rude behavior acceptable. They will learn that even though you call someone a "stupid bitch" you can still ask God to take care of her, just don't refer to her as a "stupid bitch" when asking.

I hope you were able to get some work done after us big noisy hoosiers done lef' the liberry. And I do hope to see you again. I am very passive-aggressive, you know, and I just might teach Pattergirl a thing or two about how to use resentment to one's advantage.

See you soon!
Caryn

Mumsaid he is as good as gold

2011-09-11T13:56:00.000-07:00

Eeyah, GreenWarrior, The Boy...the Incredible Human I Get to Claim as My Son

Note: Ten years ago, in the chilly wee hours of a February morning, I gave birth to my firstborn, whom we refer to online (usually) as Green Warrior. However, my second child, The Girl, affectionately named him "Eeyah" though I am fairly certain she is capable of correctly pronouncing his first name. She is nearing two, he is ten. I do not "get" the Green Warrior reference completely, so I, for ease of use, hereby declare the title of his persona in the World Wide Web...Eeyah. I think I might type Eea for short. Just thought I'd clarify.

Eea is amazing. Incredible. Unbelievable. And sometimes just damn confusing. His startling intelligence and loving disposition make up for the amount of frustration I feel when doing what I refer to as my "mom job."

I know most parents are supposedly biased and tout their own offspring as the smartest, cutest, sweetest, most talented, best of the bestest humans in the universe, but I am often told that my son is brilliant. He was given the educational diagnosis "autistic" last year, a label which resulted in a resounding "well, duh!" from yours truly. I simply learned to care for and educate this little human to the best of my ability. I move out of the way when he begins bouncing and flapping his arms with excitement. I gently confiscate his Ipod when he becomes hyperfocused on watching videos of British kids playing Minecraft and I politely ignore when, at this very moment, he runs from the living room to the kitchen repeatedly as if he too was involved with the characters. I helped him overcome his fear of automatic flushing toilets after plugging his ears for him while he went about "his business" until he was about eight years old. With a friendly yet growling stare, I dared other women to look at me with scorn as I allowed my obviously potty-trained, walking, self-feeding son to follow me into the ladies' restroom. Go ahead say somethin' you ignorant b!+ch, I thought, in my usual ghetto meets West County language. You see what happens. Though I am still not quite sure what would have happened, it is definitely the image necessary to defend one's young in the somewhat primal world of Motherhood.

Yet as he gets older and school gets harder and peers get more socially aware and responsibilities get more numerous...my ability to assist, encourage, monitor, remind, and teach this savant-like child gets weaker...at least in comparison. At least it feels like it.
Tears well up in my eyes as I type. That's not what I had in mind for this entry, so the rest of the story that involves The Fight to Raise Eeyah will have to rest for now. Just understand that this child is, for lack of a better word, special. In every way imaginable.

I dusted off the url of this blog today because my son, while cooking spaghetti squash and noodles with me, told me about butter. The label on the stick of butter marks each tablespoon, and it was only a day or two ago that my husband explained to him how to measure said ingredient. I usually eyeball the measurement, and am usually correct. Today Eeyah made a stick of butter much, much more than a quarter pound of (delicious) saturated fat necessary for delicious (fatty) cooking. In lieu of video (I asked if he would let me record him explaining butter and he declined. If I could only record every waking moment...that would require a LOT of editing. If I don't have enough time to manage two blogs and the accessories that accompany them, I won't be able to keep up with video editing. (Will have to devise some other plan for exploiting the intelligence of my offspring...)

I will try to explain what I learned from this afternoon's math lesson:

Two tablespoons of butter is a cube, meaning that a stick of butter is exactly two tablespoons tall, and two tablespoons wide. (The height being the shorter measurement, dear readers. The length is the part where we measure tablespoons. Well...some of us measure that way.)
Two tablespoons tall = 1.25 inches (He went and found a ruler.)
1.25 inches = 3 cm (Umm...how many 10 year old boys immediately think of using centimeters because their measurement wasn't in "exact inches?")
Two tablespoons of butter = 27 cubic centimeters (Cubic centimeters immediately came to his mind after converting inches to centimeters. Doesn't everyone think like that in fifth grade?)

Using that information, find out how many cubic centimeters in a stick of butter. Ready...GO!

Got it???

Here's his answer: "27 x 4...7 x 4 is 28...28 + 80 is 108. 108 cubic centimeters."

He didn't write anything down. He was building with Legos, and said, "Look, a tetrahedron!" as he held up his creation. Then he said he "couldn't think" so I grabbed a pencil and began writing what he said, a strategy I often use for homework. That is EXACTLY how he came up with the number of cubic centimeters in a stick of butter. Building something with Legos, standing up, walking around, calling out equations.

That, people, is my son. The Boy. GreenWarrior. Eeyah. And he's incredible.

Mumsaid have fun

2010-08-08T21:59:00.000-07:00

Tonight I went dancing. Not the "fellas at the club" type of dancing, but the "promenade and swing and try not to run into anyone and onetwothree onetwothree will the room ever stop spinning" type of dancing. It was amazing. It was uplifting. It was refreshing. It smelled a bit, but I loved it. I had no idea that my calves could sweat.

One apple and some peanut butter later (how many days now without an Extra Value Meal?), I lay here in my bed, head throbbing, listening to GreenWarrior snoring, and experience, for the second Saturday in a row, the exhaustion that comes from pure exhilaration. Pure, absolute-my abs hurt from laughing and my legs hurt from dancing-exhilaration.

Why on God's Green Earth didn't I do this before? I seriously need to go contra dancing again. No one ever told me that I could feel this completely and utterly tired and yet happy at the same time. I could completely pass out yet I am still high from all of the Good Clean Fun.

I am thankful Lynnea insisted that I join her and for encouraging the Young One from church to join us. I am thankful for the conversation I had with the Young One on the way home. I am thankful for the many understanding regulars that helped me learn the steps. I am thankful for Germ-X and fans. I am thankful that on Friday night my friends allowed the hysterical, tears flowing, sides splitting laughter that came as I (attempted) to tell the story of how my flatulence disturbed my fellow Wal-Mart shoppers. I am thankful for Family Feud and temporary tattoos. (Ask my children about that one.) I am thankful for this week-end, and the beginning that comes along with it.

Onetwothree, onetwothree...balance...and swing...courtesy turn...

Mumsaid take care of yourself

2010-07-27T19:30:00.000-07:00

Today I went to a well-known day spa in our fair city and had an aloe and herb body wrap. I was scared, ashamed, scared, unsure, curious, excited, scared...you get the point.

You may be wondering, "What's the big deal? Why is Pattermomma so damn scared?"

Well...

Two children and various stages of using food or the control of food as medicine have left my body in not the most attractive of states.

I am the heaviest I have ever been (maybe...I think I might have dropped a couple pounds this summer), and had my youngest in November. It takes some of us mommas a little longer than others to return to what is now the New Normal. My belly is floppy, my breasts are suffering from gravity, and what the hell happened to my ass and thighs? Since when did I start looking like...God bless her...my Mother?

I often thank the Fates that I am no longer the naive youngun' I was in my early twenties, but I also curse those same Fates for removing the physical perfection along with the naivete. And why the hell did I think I was FAT then? If I only was able to see what was coming...

In the words of the wise sage, Joni Mitchell, "You don't know what you've got til it's gone..."

Seriously, Pattermomma, since when did you become so superficial? How un-Pattermomma of you.

See, the interesting twist to this self-scrutiny is that I don't hold others to the same standard as I hold myself. I love my friends and family and students, no matter what form. I love them skinny (though I may be a bit jealous as any normal girl would...and I may tell them to quit bitching because if I looked like them I'd run around naked ALWAYS) and I love them fat. I don't look at them with those adjectives. But you bet your buns of steel that EVERY time I look in the mirror I detest what I see.

Pattermomma? I know what happened to your ass and thighs. And your belly and breasts...I know what happened...I mean, besides the Ben and Jerry's.

Across the room is the sweetest and smartest Boy I know. Yes, I love my students and nephews, but this Boy is something special. I made this Boy myself. This Boy is fascinated with all things mathematical and scientific, especially geometry, physical science, and chemistry. This Boy is more intelligent and observant than most adults, yet can still find Joy in Play Doh. This Boy could recite "Twas the Night Before Christmas" at age three. This Boy would rather read a science book than play video games. This Boy understands that sometimes Momma is Just Plain Sad. I could go on forever...but to sum it all up: This Boy is special. I call him GreenWarrior.

And in the other room is a sleeping angel who just arrived straight from the Hand of God. She has the bluest eyes I have ever seen along with a laugh so infectious she could crack up the Queen's Guard. She is a sponge, absorbing every bit of information that surrounds her and processing it faster than anything Intel can come up with. Her job, at birth, was to Observe. She then took on her new assignment: Move. She is tackling that assignment with fury (quite literally, actually) and adding her third task: Explore. Everything has a Taste. Everything has a Touch. Aaaand everything can make sound when patted or smacked together. Everything is Learning. Learning is Good. Her intuition is astounding. She knew that when we received news our friend was murdered this summer that it was time to be quiet, observe, and heal with Touch. She knows when we enter a room if her favorite people are there, particularly Daddy. She knows if something is going on that she wants to be a part of it. Sleep be damned! There's a World to Explore! She knows so much. I call her Pattergirl.

That's what happened. And that's why I stood naked in front of a total stranger who is in much better physical form than I, and let go of my fears.

This body has a story to tell. It's been through a lot. And it deserves to be taken care of.

I left the spa feeling like I had won the lottery on a beautiful spring morning and never, ever needed Zoloft again. I renewed some part of my physical self, I am sure, but more importantly I nurtured my Spirit. That's the Self that Mum must have really been talking about.

Mumsaid you're allowed 15 minutes

2010-07-24T11:24:00.000-07:00

Patterbaby was born November 3, 2010. She is beautiful and perfect and healthy. Everyone thinks she is so wonderful. She is. Everyone thinks GreenWarrior is the Best Big Brother Ever. He is. (My own personal Big Brother holds that title as well, but seriously? GreenWarrior has helped us SURVIVE at times. That necessitates the passing on of the title, doesn't it?) I have fought the Darkness rather valiantly, I believe, and to most Outsiders (Dear Friends included) I am flourishing. Doing Great. Fantastic.

But sometimes it's all I can do just to get up.

Sometimes I am pretty damn proud of myself when I just Keep Going.

Cyberspace was Hungry

2010-07-23T09:09:00.000-07:00

Post published 16 February 2010 on Patterville:

Some weeks ago, when I was feeling antisocial, I went to UCity BreadCo for church. I took my laptop with me, hoping to wax poetic about my battle with depression. What I wrote was quite eloquent, I thought, and helped to soothe the demons raging within. I went to save, and the Internet Nazis at said BreadCo had kicked me off without any warning. All work was sucked into a black hole, never to be seen again. I dug myself further into my Personal Pit of Despair as a result and have not written since.

I intended for this blog to have a lot more entries, and to be much more interesting. Upon review, I have found it to be a rather accurate portrayal of what I do when I am depressed: nothing.

I want nothing I feel like nothing I like nothing nothing nothing nothing. It is akin to a large corporation's hostile takeover on the Little Guy, only more oppressive. I am currently on a Long Climb towards the rim of my Pit, hoping to escape it without sustaining too much Damage.

I feel that sharing this journey will not prevent me from getting a job, as They Who Fear Social Networking so often warn, but instead will lead to more healing through openness and discussion. After all, sunlight cannot warm the Darkness if the shades are drawn...

The end...or is it the Beginning?

2010-07-23T09:08:00.000-07:00

Post published on 3 January 2010 on Patterville:

Today is the last day of my maternity leave. Tomorrow is the beginning of second semester. Feelings include: guilt, fear, apprehension, fear, worry, fear, guilt, a crushing sensation in my chest, fear, guilt, and sadness. You get the picture. I leave my baby in the capable hands of a babysitter, and then rush off to serve the social and political democracy in which I live. Or something like that.

What I really want to do is cry.

I am taking steps forward to do what I really want to do when I grow up, yet somehow I still feel stagnant. The Whaddifs and Youllnevers come in and take over. They drag my lifeless carcass to the Doldrums. I put up a fight, but sometimes it's just not Enough. Sometimes I need to fight harder. And sometimes I just don't care.

I think I'll listen to the rain and snuggle my baby. I can't teach with puffy eyes.

Less than one day to go...

2009-11-02T12:46:00.000-08:00

I am spending the day doing small chores around the house and playing on the internet. I say "playing," but really I am doing some planning, reading, and renewing.

Yesterday my Babydaddy came home telling me of a frightening, yet rather grand, idea:

Paper Christmas.

No decorations from the box. Paper and paper only. Handmade decorations. I am not sure about gifts. (I hope it doesn't include gifts because I have already started my Santa-ing.)

My first reaction: I MUST have Christmas lights. The lights create warmth in a cold season of darkness. They are Pagan, Christian, AND Jewish in origin. Must. Have. Lights.

He agreed. Lights and paper. I thought, "Now THERE'S a visit from Eureka Fire Department waiting to happen. We haven't had them over since the gas leak. I'll whip up some cookies and get ready."

I have been researching "green" crafts, and I am not a fan of the Uber-commercialized Winter Holiday Season, so I am no stranger to this idea. However, when Babydaddy has an idea, I fear the extreme. Besides, this will be Jenna's first Christmas, and the only one for years where she won't be able to pull over the Christmas tree or stick her fingers into the extension cord octopus. Aidan and I were going to build his Lego train around the tree. What about my obsessive color coordination of the decorations? I have worked for years to collect ornaments in shades of blue, green, and hot pink for the living room, and pink and silver for our bedroom. Aidan's tree is metallic red, with ornaments of his choosing, sans my "artistic perspective" on his choices. (Heaven forbid the living room tree have two same-colored ornaments anywhere NEAR each other. Don't you people understand visual balance???) Since the addition of a husband and cat (and now baby) to my household, I have less room for the "Gaza Strip" sized nativity scene that I have acquired over the past 11 years. (Seriously. I have the entire war-torn Middle East in my living room at Christmas. It is a little intimidating to set up due to the lack of square footage we have in our humble abode.) So there are some things that could, and should, be simplified.

The lights are not one of those things.

I would like to share some links to sites I have discovered that promote "Simple Living," whether at Christmas or all year round. If things like Morgan Spurlock films offend you, DO NOT CLICK. I, however, find "What Would Jesus Buy?" very inspiring, if not somewhat obnoxious. (The film can be viewed in it's entirety online.)

http://www.buynothingchristmas.org/

http://down---to---earth.blogspot.com/2008/09/homemade-christmas.html

More to come...

Two days to go...

2009-11-01T09:19:00.000-08:00

Wow. It's been awhile since I posted. After two false alarms, gestational diabetes, and a serious stumble into SAD, I am being induced on Tuesday.
I had such big plans for this blog. I guess I'm still not finished with it. Tim has created Patterville, our very own family site that will basically be my blog/craft adventure outlet, so what to do with Mumsaid? Hmmm...

My purposes for this blog:

1) Mumsaid I am a Writer
After an upset with my place of work, I hesitate to speak freely about anything, so my writing career will have to be put on hold until I actually quit working in "the social and political democracy in which we live." (This is a catch phrase from my college years. We were taught to be liberally-minded educators at the ready for when our country needed us. It turns out that our country is so completely litigious that freedom of speech isn't exactly guaranteed.) So, writing anything and having an actual following will have to wait.

2) Mumsaid I am an Artist
The whole Idie Craft Scene intrigues me. It is like a siren song, calling to me from deep waters, knowing that I can't exactly swim without a life preserver. If I was to pursue my Craftiest Dreams, I could use Mumsaid to promote/document/share my creations and perhaps sell my wares.
Now for the SAD part...every fall I dig myself into a nice comfy ditch (figuratively speaking, of course) and pretty much refuse to come out until spring. So for at least six months of the year, I become completely and totally depressed. I am pretty good at "faking it" when need be, but that just compounds the issue when I return to my den to hibernate. It started this year before my maternity leave, and seems to be intensified due to my status as a human incubator. (Hence, the past two days in pyjamas until noon. I know my parents caught that while I was on Skype with them.)
What does this have to do with Mumsaid I am an Artist? Well, the depressive thinking patterns I indulge myself in often center around self-defeat. In thinking about a creative future, I often begin with "never." For example,"You're never going to (be a working artist/craftster, succeed, own a shop, sell your baked goods, etc.)" This beginning can be very limiting.
After a good while wasting time mentally beating myself into a pulp, I find it near impossible to take that first step towards fulfilling my dreams. I forge on working for The Company and "the social and political democracy" for yet another day. And for yet another day, I put off doing what Mumsaid.

Officially in Third Trimester...am I brave enough to post pics? I'll think about it.

2009-07-18T18:19:00.001-07:00

Pretty cool ticker from The Bump. Now to see if it actually keeps track over time. Either way, it's cute, and I certainly have my priorities....

Reading for Mommas...Yes, There is Time for That

2009-07-17T07:56:00.000-07:00

During these lazy, hazy days of summer, my 8YO and I have traveled to as many of the St. Louis County Libraries as possible. (More on that later. Til then, browse here: http://www.slcl.org) I have found two books thus far that are worthy of posting, as they have made me laugh out loud while lying my beached whale self on the couch. (Ok, I admit, that's all I have read so far, excepting the craft books that serve as eye candy while a certain neighbor a couple doors down isn't mowing his lawn with his shirt off.)

In no particular order, might I recommend a couple books to the momma's out there?

#1: Not Tonight Honey, wait til I'm a size 6 by Susan Reinhardt

For any momma who understands the need for a little....ah....support. You momma's know what I mean. Pay particular attention to the chapter titled, "The Uterine Comptroller." I was laughing out loud at that one. Note: This author is southern through and through. Though not all of us worry about what the Junior League thinks of us, we certainly can relate to having "Others" frown upon us for not being "enough." Go ahead, pick up a roasted chicken from Schnucks, put it in your own casserole dish, and claim it as your own.

Find it at SLCL here.

#2: The Sweet Potato Queens' Guide to Raising Children for Fun and Profit by Jill Conner Browne

Oh. My. Gawd. This is my first Sweet Potato Queen book and I am devouring it as if it were the blessed tuber itself drowned in brown sugar and butter. I am on chapter 12. To all the mommas out there who are just sick to death of "Others" tell them about how it is important to let the baby "cry it out" and fall asleep while the "Others" don't have to listen to the agony theirownselves, please refer to chapter 9.
I love how the author writes as she speaks, including words that spell checks don't accept, like "herownself" and "theirownselves." And to just about anyone out there who loses all sense while conversing with a pregnant woman? (Actually, that includes the majority of the human population. Why it is not required by law to read that chapter I will never know.) Please refer to chapter 3, "How to Talk to a Pregnant Woman."

Find it at SLCL here.

I'll post more when I am able. The Boy is hungry and it is time to show him some Love.

Supermommies

2009-06-03T04:17:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago, my Patterfamily and I attended a diapering class at Cotton Babies. www.cottonbabies.com It was an introduction to cloth diapers and the variety of choices now available to those interested in an alternative to disposables. Two moms in attendance caught my attention, as they were just too perfect to be pregnant. I try not to judge others, but that night I don't think I tried hard enough. Where are their swollen feet? Their tired, puffy faces? Surely they put pillows under their shirts and came here for a laugh. I was near growling when one of them took out a notebook and began writing, in detail, the ins and outs of dealing with infant excrement.

These creatures are the unfortunate product of parenting magazines, I thought. Newbie moms attempting to be Supermommies. They will make sure their offspring have everything their little hearts' desire, all the while scheduling playdates with neighborhood children, ensuring that said offspring remain in acceptable social circles. I tried to focus on poop disposal rather than their perfect pedicures framed with designer flip flops. (I mean, really, who pays more than 6 bucks for flip flops? Not I. Now Birkenstocks...that's different. I have forked over $140 for a pair of those.)

I began to stress. I am overcome with "what ifs" as I type this post. What if I can't keep up with cloth diapers? What if it stinks too much? What if I get pink covers and it's a boy? What if it's just a road paved with good intentions? What if my baby cries all the time? What if I cry all the time? What if I can't do this? And worse whatifs follow...I can't even type them.

All of this stems from someone else being better than me. Where THAT comes from, I don't know. What the hell do I care about Supermommy's Perfectly Pregnant self? Someone will always be thinner, richer, more polished, better dressed, better organized, cleaner, etc. etc. etc. In short, someone will always be more.

I remember how happy Aidan's giggle made me when I first heard it, and I am happy all over again when he enters the room with his loooonng legs and gap-toothed grin. He doesn't mind my support hose and shorts outfit, nor does he care whether or not I wear makeup. This baby won't care, either. And neither does Tim. Those who matter to me don't really care about the imperfect shell that houses me...

....so why do I care so much?

Gratitude List #1

2009-05-02T04:16:00.000-07:00

That for which I am grateful:

a husband who cleans the bathroom in the middle of the night
an 8 year old boy with a darling stitched up face and cheerful disposition
the unfailing love of my family
the gift of sharing other people's children (big and little)
hugs and offers of help from said children just when I need them
Saturday morning
the little peach-sized baby in my belly
new Birkenstocks
the somewhat feral cat that calls this house "home"
the little feet I hear coming back to see me on the computer

I know there's more...if you, dear reader, care to add your own "Thank You's" by way of comments, please do.

OM

2009-03-29T16:48:00.001-07:00

I just got back from a weekend yoga retreat in Golconda, Illinois. (More info on that below. Great place.) My darling Sarah and I were the "pregnant girls" in the group. All weekend I felt high as a kite and yet was as sober as can be. It was fabulous. A yoga class and cookout on Friday, two yoga classes, one circle gathering, one philosophy class and a yoga nidra class on Saturday, one yoga class and one circle gathering on Sunday, fabulous meals, Christian Icons all over the place, Kentucky farmland across the Ohio River right outside my back door...it's no wonder that I am crashing upon my arrival home.
I was snotty to my husband on the phone, snotty to my husband about the chaotic state of our home, and snotty to my husband while he baked us bread, grilled chicken to last a week, and grilled veggies.
Why?
What has happened?
Where did the Om go?
I was so certain that everything I was experiencing was "authentic" and everyone I came in contact with was "so real...down to earth...God gave me these people for a reason."
What I am finding to be very real is the unidentifiable crunchy crumblies on my kitchen floor and the laundry STILL sitting there from last week.
I have a serious aversion to unidentifiable crunchy crumblies.
But what is wrong with me that I feel this is "all his fault" as usual?
Why can I not vocalize this to my husband?
I keep telling him that I don't want to fight. We don't fight, really. Maybe we ought to. Maybe I should forget my manners and start yelling. Maybe I should let my Bitch out. She gets kinda pissed once in awhile, and tends to hold it all in until she explodes. And the thing is, I know this. I know she explodes and yet I keep doing the same thing to her. I shut her up and let it go.
But really I shut her up and keep it in my stash, waiting until the stash is full and cannot possibly hold any more. Then the damn thing overflows and....crisis.
This sucks.
I was so wanting my son and my husband with me at San Damiano. (sandamianoretreat.com) I want to visit again.
I am so tired of the same old battles (both inner and outer) under this squat little house. And yet I couldn't wait to get home to my own bed. And my own boys.

The Origin of Mumsaid

2009-03-21T03:49:00.000-07:00

When I was very young, there was a phrase we used to mean, "You had better listen and obey, because Mom told you to."

If a statement was preceded by "Mumsaid," it was immediately turned into a directive. For example, "Mumsaid to go change the laundry." That implied that the laundry was to be changed from washer to dryer, a new load started, and the clean clothes brought upstairs immediately.

If you questioned any direction and heard "Mumsaid" as your answer, no further explanation was given or necessary...that word was Law.

Self: "Why should I go change the laundry? I am reading/playing/drawing/watching TV."
Sibling (usually older): "Mumsaid."
Self: "Awwww....but I don't want..."
Sibling: "Mumsaid."
Self: "Fine." And Self stomps downstairs to complete the chore, mimicking the sibling saying the Law.

As the youngest, it was with pure spite that I enforced the "Mumsaid Law." Orders passed through me to my brother and sister were delivered, pigtails bouncing as I joyfully skipped from one end of the house to the other, with a somewhat evil grin, knowing that my older sibs were required to do what I said. Upon delivery of the message, however, I was subject to Older Sibling Justice: tickle, pinch, punch, or the dreaded Indian Sunburn. This sort of justice could be avoided by delivering the message from a safe distance, prepared to run away to the safety zone marked by proximity to my mother's eye.

As I embark on the journey of motherhood for a second time, I ponder the use of "Mumsaid" in my own home. My children will be almost 9 years apart. I can just see my littlest, at five years of age, grinning wildly as he or she trumps my oldest, then fourteen, by telling him "Mumsaid."
Passing on this Law is inevitable. It seems almost necessary to have such a directive for the sake of the Household and it's smooth operations.

But seriously? Am I really the "Mum" who "said?" When did that happen? I swear I was just a kid, sorting my Smurf figurines after my brother brought me a new one from The Pharmacy.

Time does indeed fly.