Nervous Girl

I came back to tell you I'm gone.

And ten points to the first person to identify the song I'm paraphrasing in the title of this post.

So, I'm back, with my first post in, what is it, something like two years? What do you mean, you weren't paying attention?

Me either, to be honest with you. We've all been busy. Trying to survive a recession, mostly succeeding. Starting law practices, raising children, getting really good at games that end in "-ville" on Facebook¹. Because let's face it, practicing law and raising kids can get a little dry at times. But all the lawyering and alleged "parenting"² and gaming didn't leave a lot of time for the blogging.

I know that there are hundreds of thousands of people out there who hold down full-time jobs, raise lovely, well-mannered children, children who memorize the Periodic Table instead of the entire Disney Channel lineup, and  yet manage to daily write witty, relevant blog posts.

I am not those people. I am the people who leave the clean laundry in the dryer for two days until it has more wrinkles than a nursing home. I consider it highly ironic that I'm married to someone who has "Productivity" right in his job title. Yeah. I don't multitask well. I'm not even all that good at unitasking, if you want to know the truth.

So, obviously, something must have gone away if I'm blogging again. I'm relieved to say it's not the children, because I can still hear the Disney channel downstairs. Although sometimes they do leave the TV on when they leave the room. Hang on a second.

Okay. False alarm. The children are still definitely there. Out of curiosity, is "catatonic" still a thing, or is it not medically correct to use that term anymore?

Also, Facebook is still there. I checked. Several times in the last hour, if you really want to know. Hey, don't judge.

The thing that is not there is my law practice. Because I closed it. Not because I didn't like it (I did), or because it wasn't profitable (it was, marginally) or because I could no longer fit into my suits (Again with the judging! Dry cleaners do too shrink things). No, I closed it because my husband got an awesome new job. It came about so quickly and smoothly that we could only conclude it had God's fingerprints all over it, and that therefore we must acquiesce. You know, like the good people do in the Bible, the ones who don't get ingested by huge sea animals or turned into pillars of salt.

Ordinarily, my husband taking an Awesome New Job wouldn't cause me to shutter a practice I'd spent two years lovingly building. Except that the ANJ is in another state. A distant state. A state of which it has been said, "I'd rather live in his world than live without him in mine.^"3 That state.

So, I'm leaving (leaving!) on a midday plane to Georgia. Despite the upending of my career, I'm actually thrilled. Georgia is beautiful, and warm, and friendly, and we have found a lovely home. I just have a few⁴ teeny, tiny anxieties about the whole thing.

And now I'll have plenty of time to write about them all.

 

¹ Just kidding about the -Ville games. I've really been playing Bejeweled Blitz and Zuma Blitz.

² Did you like that whole "alleged" thing? See how I did that? And the quotes? I learned that in lawyer school. Also, the footnoting.

³ No points for that one. Too easy. However, contact me if you'd like to become one of my backup singers. The kids continue to resist my efforts to refer to them collectively as "The Pips."

⁴ Not a few. You read the name of the blog, right?

New Year's Rationalizations

So. I came to the decision today that I am going to treat my New Year's resolutions more like the stock market and less like a dance marathon. To wit: I am hoping to just finish the year in a better position than where I started, rather than disqualifying myself altogether if I fall down once.

Yes, I realize that this is rationalizing my inevitable breaking of resolutions.

And yes: I've broken a boatload of them already.

But hear me out: There were 23 of them to start with. I've been keeping some of them, like #1, "Begin each morning with prayer." Although sprawling across the bed with one arm flung across my face, moaning, "God, please don't let disaster come crashing down on us today," as I reach for the snooz button with my free hand, was not exactly what I had intended when I wrote that one.

I've been doing a little better with #12, "Encourage and support kids in reading daily," if you are willing to count my vivid depiction of the future of the child who doesn't read as a bagger at Kroger, carrying groceries out to the BMWs and Jaguars of his former classmates.

Number 23 was "Blog at least one time per week." So what if it took me almost the entire first week of the year to do this blog post? (And don't ask about #2, "Write for at least 20 minutes every day. There's a reason that one's called "#2.") I haven't even approached #9, "Get and keep bedroom clean and uncluttered."

I tried to make a start on #22, "Give blood at least four times," but the nurse at the Red Cross said my hemoglobin was too low. The receptionist at the front desk offered to give me a sticker that said, "I tried."

The ship has already sailed on #14, "Send thank-you notes within a week of receiving gifts," although technically Christmas was last year, so the thank-you notes I've failed to write as yet for those gifts shouldn't count against this year's resolutions, should they?

It's too early for #20, "Plant and tend a vegetable garden." Hoping to accomplish #21, "Get a job," in one week would be optimistic to the point of foolishness.

Only one resolution have I followed scrupulously, every day: #15, "Speak up when I think I'm right about something."

I think it's going to be a great year.

The Importance of Being Disciplined

You've heard the saying, "If you fail to plan, you plan to fail?" Right. So I decided that just meandering through my days, doing laundry only when I'm out of underwear and have to borrow G's only when it suited me, drinking coffee and playing Scrabulous, was the wrong approach. I am a serious woman. I have dreams, goals, aspirations. I have gifts, and I want to use them to accomplish things in this life. So I decided to establish a routine.

It makes sense, right? If you have a prospective client, and you want that client's business, you make time to meet with her. You make time to prepare for the meeting. So why should you treat the things you want to accomplish any differently? You want to be a writer? Schedule time to write. Want to be fit? Schedule time to exercise. In other words, be disciplined enough to make appointments with yourself.

Here is the schedule I follow now. I must say, I'm getting a lot more done.

• 6:00     Wake. Pray.
• 6:15     Yoga.
• 6:45     Shower and dress.
• 7:15     Breakfast for kids. Pack snacks for school.
• 8:00     Begin laundry, do breakfast dishes and other housework.
• 9:30     Play with Libby, give Libby asthma treatment, do homework with Libby.
• 10:30   Fold laundry; other housework.
• 11:30   Prepare lunch for Libby and eat lunch.
• 12:00   Get Libby ready for school.
• 12:15   Take Libby to bus stop.
• 12:30   Begin walking 2 mile circuit around neighborhood starting from bus stop.
• 1:00     Return home; check and respond to e-mail, work on writing.
• 2:30     Volunteer at school (MWF) or run errands.
• 4:00     Walk to bus stop to pick up kids.
• 4:30     Snack and sharing time with kids.
• 5:00     Prepare dinner
• 6:00     Eat dinner, clear dishes and tidy kitchen.
• 7:00     Help Julian with homework
• 7:45     Bathe kids and get them ready for bed
• 8:30     Tuck in kids.
• 9:00     Check and respond to e-mail. Read, spend time with G.
• 10:00   Pray. Go to bed.

Anyone can benefit from a routine like this. Plug in the things that are important to you. Really think about your time wasters. I used to waste so much time playing online. Lately I've cut way back. Finally, I'm accomplishing things. Omitting commitments I don't really care about. Opening my schedule for things I do care about. Living instead of just existing. Sweet, huh?

And if you REALLY want to know the secret to my success, look at the first letter of every sentence in that last paragraph.

Another idea that was not as good as it sounded in my head

"You know, I could probably save a lot of money trimming my own eyebrows with these here manicure scissors."

Summer vacation: The Rules

1. You don’t get to watch TV until you’re dressed, your teeth are brushed, and your bed is fixed.

2. You may then watch as much TV as you wish, so long as you have spent an equivalent amount of time reading or doing math worksheets.

3. Otherwise, TV time is at the sole discretion of the mother.

4. Your father spends 70 hours a week slaving to pay the mortgage on a house that has a big, safe yard. If you’re bored, go find something to do in it.

5. Speaking of slaves, I am not one. So don’t be throwing your toys, Popsicle wrappers, and sandwich crusts on the floor and expecting me to pick them up.

6. Speaking of Popsicles: the song of the ice cream truck is not a mandatory call to worship. I’ve got the same ice cream pops in my freezer. If you need music with your ice cream, I’ll be happy to sing “She’ll Be Coming Around the Mountain” while I make you wait for one.

7. Just because you don’t have to be up at 7:30 anymore doesn’t mean you get to stay up and watch Letterman. Deal with it.

8. You have one living sibling, and I’m not making any more. Please do not push, pinch, bite, grab, maul, slug, shake, hit, punch, scratch, stab or otherwise injure your sole sibling, or you alone will be responsible for changing my Depends when I’m 90.

9. If you are displeased with the conduct of your sibling or an edict from your parent, please express your displeasure with respectful words and carefully modulated tones, not with grunts, whimpers, or, God help you, whining.

10. Screaming is allowed. But only by me.

Jiggler

Way back when I started this blog, I listed making jell-o shots as one of my hobbies.  I had happened upon a jell-o shot cookbook, of all things, and started experimenting. Whenever any of my party-loving neighbors threw a shindig for the rest of their party-loving neighbors, I'd bring the jell-o shots.  Bright blue ones with champagne in them for a holiday party. Two-tone ones for a 40th birthday. Watermelon-kiwi jell-o shots for girls' weekend out. People loved them. People loved me. I was sure that jell-o would be the key to the popularity that has eluded me all my life.

So when the first-grade class mom called and hit me up for a contribution to the Valentine's party (apparently I'd volunteered one back on curriculum night; perhaps I did. Who can remember?) I readily agreed to make the Jell-o Jigglers she suggested.  Easy peasy! I am the Queen of gelatin desserts and libations. Jell-o bends to my freaking will. (Well, being gelatin, it's pretty bendy. It probably bends to everyone's will. But still.) Seriously, though, notwithstanding their slightly pornographic-sounding name, how hard can Jigglers be?

Apparently, I had no idea.

Another mom of one of Julian's classmates gasped when she heard I'd agreed to make the Jigglers. It seems Jiggler-makers are a rare and valuable commodity among grade-school moms, and I had not been the first mom tapped for the job. The first declined because she had issues converting a single recipe to a double, and her Jigglers, while edible, came out too thick. The second siimply couldn't get her Jigglers to jell.  I'm now told this is a common affliction among the Jiggler-phobic.  The third candidate, the patsy, was me.

So now I've got to come up with 48 just-right wiggly, jiggly, heart-shaped chunks of gelatin joy for Tuesday morning. I'm thinking of doing a practice run this weekend. After all, it's not just my popularity, but my kid's, that's riding on this batch. Reckon he'll still be able to get a prom date in 11 years if I screw this up?

On the other hand, if I do a good job, I bet all the cool ex-cheerleader first-grade soccer moms will invite me to their next party with all the ex-football player first-grade soccer-coach dads.

The Wheels on the Bus

The Wheels on the Bus (to the tune of, oh, never mind, if you can't figure it out, you're worse off than I am)

The wheels on the bus are coming off,
Coming off, coming off.
The wheels on the bus are coming off,
We've lost control.

The daddy on the bus just works, works, works,
Works, works, works.
The daddy on the bus just works, works, works,
He is a slave.

The mommy on the bus has PMS,
PMS, PMS.
The mommy on the bus has PMS,
She weeps all day.

The boy on the bus just can't make friends,
Can't make friends, can't make friends.
The boy on the bus just can't make friends,
Poor social skills.

The toddler on the bus has O.D.D.*,
O.D.D., O.D.D.
The toddler on the bus has O.D.D.
Just hear her scream.

The fishy on the bus floats in his tank,
in his tank, in his tank.
The fishy on the bus floats in his tank,
I think he's dead.

The wheels on the bus are coming off,
Coming off, coming off.
The wheels on the bus are coming off,
Happy Monday.

*O.D.D. stands for oppositional defiant disorder, which technically the toddler in question is too young to be diagnosed with. Also, the full name of the disorder wouldn't have scanned in the song--obviously.

Come back real soon to hear our rendition of "Mary had a Little Gin!"

What I learned before my vacation

Sorry for abandoning my faithful readers for nearly a week. I hope the four of you weren't worried.

No high drama here, just a lot of housekeeping, literal and figurative. For those of you who've been keeping score at home:

Dad is improving. He's now in an acceptable rehab facility--not as shiny and new as the one that nearly killed him, but the staff is far better, and he's happier (read: less grumpy).

My brother assures me that my niece's boyfriend Scott will not be joining us for our excellent Florida adventure, for which we'll be leaving in less than twenty-four hours. Scott's job won out in the end, so now we have a whole week to discuss a family policy on future condo guests. My vote: If you're not related to them by blood or marriage, send 'em a postcard, 'cause they ain't coming with you.

In other news, Julian had his twice-yearly appointment with a neurophysiatrist. I don't actually know what that is. But for us, she functions in the role of a developmental pediatrician. I initially took Julian to see her because I was concerned about autism spectrum disorder. He was echoing a lot of speech, and he did a lot of hand-wringing and rolling. Not to mention his other language issues. Dr. Y didn't think ASD, but we go in every six months just to check development. This time Julian was fabulous, maybe better than I've ever seen him. Fluent, articulate, made sense, offered details, stayed on topic. I discussed with Dr. Y my concern about him socially: he seems content at school, and has friends there, but has only been invited to one birthday party and no playdates all year. All year! I know it's afternoon kindergarten and that chops up the day, and I know many of his classmates are immigrants and maybe their parents don't grok the playdate thing, but come on!

Dr. Y asked me if maybe Julian's an introvert. For sure, I said. She asked me if I was an introvert. Yup, I told her. She told me to break out of my shell and get up the nerve to call somebody and invite their kid over. In other words: "Your kid's okay, Nervous Girl. Get over yourself." I like that in a doctor.

Anyhow, Julian's in love with her. He's been drawing pictures of pretty blonde doctors for two days.

So, there we are. Now I have twenty-three hours to clean my house, host the playdate I recklessly scheduled for the day before we get up before dawn to drive to Florida, go to the bank, and pack. Yes, my friends. I am driving to Florida with my beloved G. and our beloved offspring. For twenty hours. But it's okay, because I get to relax with twenty of my closest relatives for a week as soon as that's over. Um, okay.

Watch this space. I'll post the minute I get back. If the post is even less coherent than usual, please rush over with a cold compress and some tequila.

The Stopper

My friend Janine is pregnant with her eighth child. Not her eighth pregnancy; she's had one stillbirth and at least one miscarriage. This will be the eighth actual live human who will have passed through her pelvis to reside in her home.

I think this is marvelous, by which I not only mean that Janine is a terrific mother, but that the birthing and raising of eight children is literally something at which to marvel. I could never have eight children. Never. Not only because my snippy little uterus sees fetuses as foreign objects to be rejected like a Boston Democrat in the Bible Belt.

No, I could never have eight children (or, for that matter, three) because I have given birth to a Stopper.

Everybody's met a Stopper. Many of us are related to them, and some of us have been them. A Stopper turns off the lights, pulls down the blinds, and cancels the newspaper subscription on her way out of the uterus. She knows nobody's going to travel that way again.

A Stopper is a child whose name everyone on the airplane and in the checkout line knows, not because she's so friendly, but because her mother is repeatedly screaming it--first, middle and last--in connection with phrases like, "put that DOWN. NOW!"

If you have a Stopper, and your OB/GYN asks at your annual exam, "So, what are you using for birth control?" you shudder mutely and point your stirruped foot in the general direction of the toddler using a speculum to scale the venetian blinds.

My daughter Libby is a Stopper. Libby came after two crushing second-trimester losses, my long-desired daughter. I believe this made her reckless, secure in the knowledge that, however close I might want to come, I would never actually kill her.

In the past week alone, Libby has:
    -decorated the wall of the spare bedroom in indelible red ink;
    -stuck a toy chopstick in her ear, giving new meaning  to the expression "easrsplitting screams;"
    -used a series of vertical kitchen drawers like steps so that she could stand in the top one, perfectly poised to dump a two year supply of fish food in the unsuspecting Nigel's tank;
    -made her way onto the counter where my knife block lives and grabbed a Wusthof with a four inch blade, refusing to yield it except by said blade; and
    -snuck upstairs to flood the bathroom while I was downstairs madly vacuuming minutes before Julian's first playdate with a new pal, and could therefore not hear the water running.

Don't get me wrong. I love this child with every shred of my being. I'd throw myself in front of a bus for her, which is good because she'd probably throw me in front of a bus for her, too.

Hey, there, Janine. Good luck with the rest of the pregnancy. And if you're wondering what to do about birth control afterward, I've got someone you should meet.

Thirty Days in the Hole

I think I have been depressed lately.

I say "I think" because I haven't felt depressed. I haven't felt sad, or irritable, which are the two chief emotions I usually experience when I'm depressed. But I know a lot about depression. I used to get paid, when I worked in a psychiatric emergency room, to recognize signs of depression. One of these is a lack of interest in activities the patient typically enjoys.

One of the activities this patient typically enjoys is knocking back jello shots at neighborhood parties. I live in a great neighborhood. A lot of us are in our mid-thirties to mid-forties and have kids around the same ages (as each other, obviously; not as us). There have been a lot of fortieth birthday parties lately, and a lot of frolicking and jello shots. Those of us in the hood who are stay at home moms (or SAHMs, or shit-@ss ho motherf*ckers, if you prefer) live for these parties. We take care of very short, usually ungrateful people day in and day out. The neighborhood parties are our chance to howl at the moon.

Last Saturday, I couldn't even whimper at a streetlight. (And not just because this neighborhood doesn't have streetlights). I was at a party with many good friends and I couldn't even make conversation. I didn't feel like drinking. I only did two jello shots. I simply could not, comment se dit, get it up for this party. I left before ten thirty, even before some of the other guests arrived, hours before the police showed up.

I was exhausted. I was not only okay with G. going back to the party after he walked me home, I insisted upon it.  I wanted to be alone. I wanted to lie in my bed and read a book without anybody pestering me for a peanut butter and  jelly sandwich or sex or a Veggie Tales video. (I'll let you guess who in the family constellation would want which of those items). This is what it came down to: a once-a-season chance to swill gin and shake my groove thing, or peace and quiet, which feels like an even rarer commodity.

I think I know why. Raising little kids, even sweet, wonderful, funny kids, can make you feel like the only mole in the Whack-a-Mole game. All you can see above you every time you get back up is those little cherubs taking turns with their big rubber mallets of need. Sometimes, just for variety, other people sneak in with their mallets, too. There's no time to duck, no place to run. All you can do is scoot back in the hole.

Maybe I'm not actually depressed after all. Maybe I just need a little more time in the hole. About a month ought to do it.