Confessions of a Baby Hogger

I used to tease my sister about this but now I get it. I see them everywhere I go and I just can’t help myself. They stop me in my tracks with their big eyes and gummy grins. I want to say “hello” and make them smile. I resist the urge to sniff their heads. I eagerly wait for an opportunity to hold them and it pains me to return them to their rightful parents. Those yummy, yummy babies.

Last week, I was able to visit with a friend and her newborn. I soaked in the feeling of his little head right in the crook of my neck and the weight of his infant self in my arms. As I was holding him so that he could look around, he turned his huge bright eyes onto me and smiled – a sweet gooey beam as if I were the best idea he’d ever seen. Tears sprang to my eyes and I felt a sharp pain in my right side as I spontaneously ovulated. I was overcome with the desire to have another baby and experience this all again.

Pregnant bellies elicit a similar response. I seem to be surrounded by the blossoming of early motherhood and it’s bittersweet. I wish to hold my hand where I might feel the baby kick. Instead I ask the mother how she is feeling and if she is sleeping well. I let her go ahead of me in line at the store or in the restroom. I try not to be one of those interested but annoying strangers that patronized me when I was pregnant. I saw a mother the other day at the museum. She was largely pregnant and trying to keep up with a toddler. She was walking in that way that made me know she was close to her due date – I could sense the heaviness of the baby on her bladder and the pressure on her cervix. I suddenly had to pee as if my own bladder were empathizing. So strong and familiar was that memory.

I feel like an old woman watching these younger mothers just starting out. I am a seasoned veteran. I am experienced in the arts of baby soothing, public nursing and acrobatic diaper changing. I can interpret the cries of even a stranger’s baby and tell if that child is hungry or just over-stimulated. I have all these skills that I no longer need.


There is no way to fully prepare for parenthood. So much of it, we learn along the way. We become the mothers our children need – a role that is multi-faceted and constantly changing. I can’t claim to know everything and the skills I need right now have yet to be learned. But what do I do with those skills for which I no longer have use? How do I upgrade “Advanced Baby Wearing” to "Remedial Tween Parenting"?

I didn’t expect the closing of the baby chapter to be so difficult. During my third and decidedly final c-section, I consented to a tubal ligation. I wanted family planning to be over and not to be tempted by a fourth pregnancy (which would be riskier for me given my history). Everything about Logan’s birth was relaxed and absolute. I savored each moment with him, instead of worrying if what I was doing were right. He was my third and my last baby and experience had already taught me how fleeting it would be.

I do know that I never want to be pregnant again, that my three boys are more than I can handle and that someday, there will be sleep again. I have many reasons not to expand my family. But those wistful pangs of baby newness are difficult to ignore. The days of containable children are over for me. The ease of being able to calm an upset infant with warm milk and a song is only memory. The joy of those first grins and coos pulled out as a “Hail Mary pass” by a young one after five weeks of not allowing me to sleep more than fifty minutes in a row is replaced by Big Kid delights. There is preschool, the transfer from diapers to “funderwear” and meaningful conversation. There is no baby in my future and babyhood is past.


“I’m addicted to babies,” a friend says to me. She wants to get pregnant with a fifth child. “You’re crazy!” I tell her. But secretly, I understand. “So borrow someone else’s baby for a day,” I tease. “No, their heads don’t smell the same. I only like the way mine smell.” I think to myself, I know. I know.

Is Susie Home?

It seems the longer I go without posting, the harder it becomes to create one.

When I was younger and kept a diary, I’d often start entries with, “Dear Diary, I am sorry it has been so long since I have last written.” I would then go on to explain what I have been up to so that Dear Diary might understand why I had been so neglectful.

I used the same tactic with my pen pal. Usually, months would pass between receiving and returning a letter. I would start each letter with “Dear Pen Pal, I’m sorry it has been so long since I have last written.” I would then go on to explain everything I had been too busy with so that Dear Pen Pal might understand why I had been so neglectful.

I suppose I could do that here. “Dear Blog Reader, I’m sorry…” But to write about all the minutiae of my life for the last month seems like old news, even to me. Blogging has been the one thing that I have not taken the time to do during this time. Suffice to say, I have been living my life and drafting posts only in my head. It’s easier to post there anyway. Writing is a simple task where words flow freely. Seems to happen best while I am in the shower or behind the wheel. Once I have pen or laptop in hand, however, my world becomes riddled with doubt and interruptions.

Actually, that last statement is true about anything I have tried to accomplish lately. The other day, it took me over thirty minutes to start a load of laundry thanks to the presence of young children. I once told my husband that it would be easier to be a stay-at-home-mom if I didn’t have children. I suppose the same could be said for mommy blogging.

In some research on back-yard chicken keeping, I came upon a blogger who referred to herself as the Blurt Blogger (I tried to create a link but now it is password protected) as she tends to blog in a few posts at a time with several weeks in between “blurts.” One of her posts was titled, “Too Busy Living Life to Blog About It.” I thought that title was a pretty adequate summary to my own life.

So if there are any readers out there who haven’t given up on me, let me bring you up to speed:

1. The boys finished school and are in the middle of their incredibly short summer break. By the time I get into a manageable summer routine, they will be back in school – in two weeks to be exact. My best method of coping is to simply Just.Stay.Out.Of.The.House. And while I don’t like to be the type of parent who overbooks her kids, they seem to do much better with less downtime. I often feel guilty about not liking being home with them but there are some factors that make me lose my mind hanging around the house. For one thing, they are just not the type of kids to just go play independently. And if they are, it’s probably not GOOD. Secondly, getting anything accomplished is an infuriating chore (see laundry story above). When trying to get a business email out the other day, I found myself begging Jess to just give me five whole minutes without bellowing my name. Third, if I am in my house, I have an uncontrollable urge to try and keep it clean which you know what an unsatisfying task that can be with kids home. And after the third time of cleaning up the kitchen before lunch, I realize that I won’t need to clean it again if no one uses it. So we leave – for my own sanity.
2. I have decided to start my own chicken flock for reasons that I can’t explain. I’ve just always wanted chickens and so my husband gave me some for my birthday. This new endeavor has required much library and Internet research to learn about the differences in breeds, poultry health-care, housing requirements, etc. Not to mention the actual hands-on care of baby chicks is rather intensive.
3. I have spent a lot of time in the yard cleaning and rearranging my garden. Everything was doing quite well until this past week. Never before has our garden been hit by so many different pests in one season. Aphids, Japanese beetles, squash bugs, squash vine borers, some fuzzy white insect that I don’t know its name, fungi and deer (by God the deer) have decimated everything. Everything I tell you!
4. Each of my children seems to be coping with some sort of regression. Dean is afraid to go outside because of the flying insects. He believes that he is their number one target (he even has nightmares about them) and I hope this phase passes soon. Jess is stalking me, not letting me out of his sight for half a minute. If I leave the room or walk outside to check on the chicks, within seconds he is calling “MOOOOOOOOM?!” If I had a nickel for every time he has yelled for me… And Logan seems to wake up more at night now than he did as a newborn. We all wake up tired.
5. I am trying to jump-start my business but as a standby, I have been applying for jobs. Since my resume was part of the data that was lost (along with years of pictures) from my computer, I had to rewrite it. This is apparently not the best economy to be looking for a job in health/human services, no matter how awesome I think I am.
6. Can you still call it Spring Cleaning if you have been cleaning for months and now it’s summer? I have been clearing out, reorganizing, moving and shuffling stuff in a way that makes more sense for our needs. This also includes making trips to the thrift store to donate our cast-offs and then shopping for more stuff to organize the stuff that we are keeping.
7. Finally, I am trying to make more time for myself. Reading, taking pictures, gardening, baking and planning sewing projects. I usually only have a moment or two at a time, but I think the desire is a start.

So now you understand why I have been so neglectful. Happy Summer everyone. May your days be filled with bubbles and your evenings with fireflies.

Love Makes Coffee

Seventeen years ago today, I thought I had a plan. Finish the papers, take the exams, graduate, find a job, plan a wedding… It was the last half of my last semester in college and I was trying hard to focus. The workload was overwhelming and I used it as an excuse, as a protective cover to hide behind rather than face my doubts and fears about the future.

When my long-distance boyfriend (let’s refer to him as Christopher) would call, I would whine, “I can’t talk right now, I have two papers due tomorrow.” But he’d want to know what I was doing and with whom. I was feeling suffocated by his constant need for reassurance. It turns out, he had good reason to be worried.

Seventeen years ago today, I liked the idea of having a plan. The plan was sensible. The plan meant security. If I could just focus and stick to the plan… But I was distracted by some nagging emotions. Christopher was having a career crisis of his own so he was coping with his own doubts. When we talked about them, he would describe his dreams and goals. In one pivotal conversation, I pointed out to him that when he spoke of his future, he neglected to mention where our prospective children and me might fit in. He was stunned by his own omission and admitted that he wasn’t sure he wanted to have children. The plan was cracking.

And then there was Luke. Luke lived downstairs and visited my room often to see my roommate. A few weeks prior, they had gone out on a date leaving me inexplicably jealous. I was confused by this emotion. I had no right to be interested in Luke since he obviously liked my roommate and especially since I had Christopher. So I tried to ignore those twinges. I tried not to notice how the party was more fun when Luke was there, the card game was more interesting when he was playing, that dinner tasted better when he sat at my table. Instead, I always had a project to research and a paper to write.

Seventeen years ago today, I wished out loud that I could spend St. Patrick’s Day properly, in a pub or café with a mug of Irish coffee. But there was no pub and no time.

Seventeen years ago today, Luke knocked on the door and asked me what he needed to make Irish coffee. With the typewriter in one hand and Christopher on the phone in the other, I shut the door with my foot and grumped that at least someone would be enjoying the night. A couple of hours later, Luke knocked on the door again - this time with a coffee maker and a bottle of Jameson Whiskey. Other friends joined us after we had already consumed a few mugs. I finished my paper with shaky fingers as a party built around me. Time sort of suspended after that. It’s needless to say that I was up all night, what with all the coffee and a steady stream of visitors. We played card games, had intense conversations, drank and I read James Joyce out loud. Aided and abetted by caffeine and alcohol, I allowed my heart to take the lead.

Seventeen years ago today, I wasn’t looking for love. That was not the part of the plan. But love doesn’t make plans - love makes coffee. And he’s been making me coffee ever since.

May all your St. Patrick’s Days be as lucky as mine and Luke’s have been.


*photo credit to Flickr.com

Did I mention that the Dishwasher is Broken?

One of the ways that I uphold my fragile sense of organization is by keeping lists. I have lists for things I need to do (pick up dry cleaning), need to buy (dog food), want to buy (area rug for family room), need to do soon (get tax stuff together), need to look into for the future (summer camp for kids), and the list of lists goes on…

I have no problem making lists. The problem I have is in getting anything from those lists accomplished. You see sometimes, a single item on the To Do list requires a complicated series of other To Do’s - which can make completing a simple task exhausting. Take, for example, item #4 from my current To Do list: “Get prescription filled.” Sounds simple, right? In actuality, getting the prescription filled requires calling the doctor’s office to ask them to write the prescription, wait appropriate time for request to be filled, drive to the doctor’s office to pick up prescription, sign forms saying that I am picking up the script, take script to pharmacy, return to pick up prescription after appropriate waiting time, find out that the pharmacy was actually out of that medication, then make faces at pharmacy staff person when I am asked if I would like to take my prescription to the pharmacy across town to see if they can fill it there and then FINALLY pick up the prescription. And so, “get prescription filled” takes three days.

So, it was no surprise to me today that I wasted a LOT of time trying to tackle item #1: “Make Insurance Claim.” When I was rear-ended two weeks ago resulting in some scratches to my bumper, I naively thought that I would simply just call my insurance agent and give him the information and he would make it all better. I was also naïve to believe that the guy who hit me had given me the correct information I needed to file the claim. You know where this is going, right? After three phone calls with my insurance agent, four different conversations with the guy’s “alleged” insurance company, two conversations with a police officer (not to mention the three calls it took to get to the officer I needed), one Google search, one Whitepages.com search and one “What the hell, let’s try Facebook” search, it has been determined that the man who hit my car does not actually exist. Neither does his car. Nor does his insurance policy. In fact, the only proof I have that incident even occurred are the scratches to my rear fender and to my pride. It has taken many steps and about two hours to learn the hard lesson of ALWAYS get a police report. And I still can’t cross out #1 from my To Do list. Sigh…

The other way that I uphold my fragile sense of organization is to not let my dishes pile up. It’s a simple thing, really. Each day, if I am only going to accomplish one household chore, I at least reboot the dishwasher. The clean dishes get put away, the dirty ones go into the machine - you know how it works. The empty sink and clear counters give the illusion of a clean kitchen, even for just a few moments out of the day. You know where this is going, right? Last night, I loaded the dishes, filled the soap dispenser, and turned the dial. After a few moments, there was a loud, awful grinding sound - the sound of money about to be spent on fixing or replacing a major appliance.

So, as I sit here in my kitchen full of dirty dishes considering taking another mental vacation, I will instead move “Call Repair Guy” to the #1 spot on my To Do List. I better rest up for that one.

The Article That You Will Never See Published in the Journal of Aging and Health

As a child development specialist, I tend to be tuned into children everywhere I go. I often regard my own as well as the children of others with a scientific eye, silently evaluating and noting their actions and emotions. Observing adults in this way is not something I often do but on our recent visit to our parents’ houses, I was awed and fascinated with these older grown-ups the same way that an animal behaviorist might take an interest in a species never before studied. Here are just a few of the new facts that I learned about our parent’s generation:

First of all, the grandparent set loves plastic bags, especially of the zipper variety. They also have an odd attachment to paper plates and duct tape. With the use of these three items, there is nothing that can’t be stored, preserved or repaired. This ingenuity comes in handy because they also do not like to throw anything away.

It seems that all knick-knacks are precious. The value of these items is directly proportional to whether or not the gift came from a child (even if that child is let’s say now 38 years old) or if the giver is now deceased (even if let’s say the giver was never actually liked). These treasures must be displayed and kept safe from the roaming of toddler fingers. In the event that one of these whatnots accidentally gets broken, one must not throw it away – no need when there are plastic bags and duct tape available.

Apparently, once you are retired, the body requires very little sleep. An older person can be the last one in the house asleep and the first to rise leaving them capable of reporting every cough and movement of the other sleepers in astonishing detail.

Our parents live in a bubble (possibly made from a Ziploc baggie) called The Way That It Is. Outside of this bubble is Everything Else. Everything Else is different and threatens to force change within the bubble. Everything Else is not welcome because it is not The Way That It Is. There is no perception of our way and your way and their way. Life is simply divided between the worlds of The Way That It Is and Everything Else.

Finally, the older generation loves condiments. No matter what the food, there is a matching condiment. And it is perfectly acceptable to have more than one jar of the same condiment open in the fridge at the same time because condiments last forever, especially when sealed in plastic bags. And that is The Way That It Is.

Reason #37 to Home-School

Before our babies are even conceived, we start making lists of all our hopes and dreams for their lives. What they might look like, what schools they will attend, what careers they may choose… And we make another list of all the things we hope our children never experience. This list has sub-categories such as Things My Parents Did That I Will Never Do, Things My Friends Do That I Will Never Do, Things That I Did That I Will Never Let My Kids Do, etc. Of course there are the major things that you hope your child never has to go through first hand: life-threatening illness or serious injury – neither physical nor emotional. You hope they never have to cope with danger, tragedy or pain. And you hope they never, ever get a case of head lice.

Yep. Head lice. Now that I am on the other side of the mountain of laundry, I can talk about it. But it was traumatic at the time. Last Tuesday, Dean tentatively described to me these tiny bugs he was finding on his clothes and my stomach lurched a bit. Upon closer inspection, my fears were confirmed. One trip to CVS, two poison treatments (the first one didn’t work), one serious allergic reaction to the shampoo (me), two missed school days, one magic hot oil treatment, 48 loads of laundry and countless hours of combing later, I finally feel confident that he just might be the only family member to host the little bastards. That hasn’t stopped my neurotic scratching and head checking or my lectures to “keep your head, your coat, your clothes to yourself fortheluvaGod!”

A friend who recently dealt with this same issue with her own child laughed (at) with me. “It changes your whole perspective doesn’t it,” she said when I gasped to see my son wearing some of the freshly cleaned dress-up clothes – on his head. When I saw his head bent close to his brother’s while they worked on a project together, instead of saying, “Awwwww,” I said, “Ewwwww!” Is it going overboard to have him change his clothes as soon as he gets home from school or to look around his classroom with an accusing eye – who else is scratching? Whose head is the head of origin?

During one of our lengthy combing sessions, I found that I was silently debating which would be worse, stomach flu or lice? Both cause extreme housecleaning and extra laundry. Both result in someone staying home from school and major changes in my routine. Both make me become an internet expert on the subject. Both allow me to play that subtle blame game unique to parents "I think he got this from your child". Both make me do that complicated math equation in my head: # of days of incubation x the # of days of infection + the # of days of contagion x the # of family members = the # of days until Mom can rest assured that we are in the clear (which also equals the number of glasses of wine that may get consumed). Too close to call.

Hang on Tight!

Oh, that’s right! I have a blog! I had almost forgotten. Actually that’s not true. I just haven’t been able to complete a whole sentence, either spoken or written. So I feel that I have much to tell you.

First, I never meant for this to be a politics blog. Who knew that I could get so caught up in all of it that I’d dedicate several posts to the subject? Or that I would meet so many new friends with different ideals than my own? Blogging indeed makes this a small world. But alas, the election is over and it’s time to put the Christmas tree away and wonder what we had ever had in the corner before this. It feels so empty now. A friend asked the other night, “So now what do we talk about?”

Exactly, it’s a good time to contemplate the future – including the future of this blog. When I started this site earlier this year, it was to give myself a place to put my thoughts, snippets and sound-bites of what goes through my mind. I thought that if I had a defined space and perhaps an audience to hold me accountable, I would make the time to formulize these thoughts into the written word. And reaching out to you and having you reach back, has been the most wonderful outcome.

I knew I wanted the blog to be about how I feel about my life and the players in it. I wanted to use At Home With Me to talk about all those things that I often talk to my friends about or wish that I could. With some posts, the words come easily. I am inspired by something I read or experience and create a post in short order. Mostly though, I struggle with the words. It can take hours, sometimes days, to craft a piece the way I want it to be or often, to only come up with a paragraph. Those are the subjects I most desperately want to write about but find it’s too difficult.

I’m still working out some details. I still haven’t figured out where I stand on the subject of anonymity. There are some subjects that I tend to avoid based on the idea of who might be reading it. I have invited some folks from my personal life to read but I still feel so shy about it. And because the readership is so small, I have considered giving up the blog entirely. But you have been so encouraging. You tell me I still have a voice and a story to tell. And I do. So I will. I thank you for your patience.

The past two weeks have been a bit of an emotional roller coaster. I’ll feel perfectly fine one minute and then something will happen and I will hate everyone. My husband noted this about himself last week and I thought he was being overly dramatic. But now I know what he means. I’ll be singing to myself as I load the dishwasher and then see out the window that the neighbor’s lawn care crew has herded all the leaves from the neighbor’s yard into mine. I become an instant grouch. Today, this has been especially true. There have been several annoyances and finally, the conversation with the pediatrician’s nurse left me to lose it completely. I called and asked the Doctor to call me back so I could discuss a question of my son’s medication with him. I was told I needed to make an appointment because he doesn’t talk to people on the phone. I started to argue a bit and then I started to cry. “My entire family has been coming to this clinic for ten years now and you are telling me he doesn’t have time to speak with me unless I spend an hour in the waiting room first?!” She kindly said she would give him the message and maybe he will make an exception. (I can see the message – “Dr. Don’t Have Time, Please return hysterical mom’s phone call.”)

See what I mean? From perfectly happy to pit of despair in ten seconds or less – there is no in-between state of mind. The chiropractor broke up with me and told me we can see other people – Yay! Husband’s company sends out letter stating there may be no bonus this year – Doom and gloom! My mother-in-law sent fudge – Celebration! That bitch cut me off in car line again – Misery! And so forth…

All this craziness already! The holidays are right around the corner. There will be school events (three different kids means three different “Thanksgiving Feasts” on three different days), musical performances, field trips and then the Christmas parties. Then there is the fact that the kids are out of school almost two entire weeks before Christmas. Don't forget the birthdays. And there will be the traveling. I don’t think I’ve discussed here my love/hate relationship with traveling. We will leave that one for another day.

Autumn Falling

Remember last time I mentioned that Fall comes late here? Well, it’s here now with colder weather (we have had warmer winters) and the typical dose of nostalgia. I’m not sure why changes of the season evoke so much wistful reminiscing in me. Perhaps it’s because they are often marked with so many endings and beginnings – the end of summer, the beginning of school, the end of what has been and the beginning of new experiences. In autumn, I always find myself quietly remembering the past and imagining different endings to those stories. At the same time, I try desperately to stay in the moment lest I miss any of what is right before me – kids jumping in piles of leaves, Halloween costumes to imagine and create, the sweet scents of the season…

To prove that I really do think this way each October, let me share with you something I wrote two years ago, in the days before the blog.

I received a surprise in the mail this morning – a CD from a dear far-away friend that she compiled herself. She titled it “another season” appropriately enough on this crisp autumn day. Also appropriate, is the melancholy quiet nature of the all the songs. Appropriate because while the rest of the world is waking up from the steamy sleepy summer to the cooler colorful change of season, I find myself nostalgic and contemplative. It’s the way that seasonal transitions mark the passing of time – another three pages torn from the calendar and another wardrobe of clothing outgrown by the kids. Not to say that I do not take joy here – in fact, fall is my favorite time of year. As soon as the temperature dips below 70 degrees, I get the urge to warm to house with hearty soups and pumpkin bread. October brings a whole new host of opportunities to embrace my inner Martha Stewart. But instead of baking right now, I sit here with my newest son, skirting the border between contentment and sadness. Last year, this baby was not even an idea and next year, he will no longer be a baby. All too soon, he will be gone – replaced by an older version of himself. Each season brings new joys and milestones leaving behind moments that were equally as joyous and will be missed. So now, I simply sit and drink him in. I try to memorize every detail of his face and the way his little chubby hands make a fist while he sleeps. I breathe in his sweet baby scent and sigh deeply. So while you are raking leaves, you can find me slow dancing with my baby to “another season.”

The passing of another season is also yet another reminder that being a stay-at-home mom is temporary employment. Even though Logan is only two, there is the subtle pressure to be thinking about my next career move. But I can’t think about it, I don’t want to think about it. I want to stay here in the season before the future, where I slow dance with my babies while the pumpkin bread bakes in the oven.

An Open Letter To Susie's Spine

Dear Susie’s Back,

You and I have been a team for many years. Since about four weeks after I was conceived, you have been my frame, my core. I would not be where I am today without you. For everything I have done in my life, you have been right there – holding me up. You bend with me, pull with me, push with me, lift with me – all with out question or complaint. I know I have taken you for granted and I am sorry. I just always assumed we would be a team that worked like a well-oiled machine. But last Friday, as we wrestled a toddler into his car seat, you cried, “ENOUGH!” You made your displeasure painfully clear.

Admittedly, I have not been as kind to you as I should have been. In fact, the massage therapist used the word “abusive” and totally took your side. The lifting and carrying of the 30 pound toddler, the hauling of the laundry, the constant bending and stooping, and the contorted sleeping positions to accommodate the nursing baby have been too much for you. I suppose three pregnancies where I gained 45-65 pounds each time took their toll. As well as those two back labors. And the keeping of 30 extra pounds, lack of decent exercise and the years of bad posture and improper body mechanics have added up to some serious wear and tear. So while it should be no shock that you are out of alignment, I am a mom – my body is not my own and I thought you understood.

Until you went on strike, I had no idea how much I depended on your cooperation. It seems I was calling on your services so much, I didn’t even realize. I had no idea how many times I bent over to pick things up off the floor or load the dishwasher. Or how many back muscles are used in the changing off a diaper. Or how much back is required to lift the laundry basket and pull the wet clothes out of the washer, or in the walking of the dog, or in the making of dinner. And since I haven’t been able to do those things in the last several days (at least not without complaint from you) and I have a new appreciation for just how tenuous our relationship actually was.

At first, it was kind of nice to take a break from my regular duties and ask for help. “Honey, will you take of care of Logan’s poopy diaper?” “Sweetie, will you take the dog out for Mommy?” “Can someone take the chicken out of the oven for me?” But now it’s Wednesday and the house is a wreck. The laundry is backed up. The dog has gotten fat. I don’t even know what that spot is on the floor and I can’t get close enough to clean it up. Logan’s not been able to play outside because it’s too hard to physically restrain him and his tricycle from going out into the road. It hurts to sit on the floor and play with my kids. It takes me ten minutes to put on socks. I haven’t been able to use conditioner in my hair because the bottle has fallen onto the shower stall floor. Between the constant pain and the not being able to go about my daily business, your little demonstration is on my last sciatic nerve.

I want to be sympathetic, I do. But this wasn’t really a good time for you to go all Prima Donna on me. And while I pledge to not take you for granted anymore, I do need you to get over yourself and pull it together. We have shit to do. I don’t know what it means to take better care of you. Am I not supposed to catch a toddler in mid-flight as he falls from the monkey bars? Since I can feel you spasm when I only look at the vacuum cleaner, am I to assume that I will no longer be vacuuming? And what about the laundry? Am I to kick my two load-a-day habit? I’m hoping the chiropractor will help us to work out our differences and get back to our pain-free selves. The whole family is counting on us. So until that appointment, I will continue to respect your need for space. I will continue to take a load of pain medicine in an attempt to subdue you. And if you could just let me get into a position comfortable for sleeping, I would be very grateful.

Respectfully Yours,
Susie

What Has Susie Been Up To?

Trying to crack hairdresser code. You heard about Logan’s first haircut and how well that went so I thought I’d take the other two boys for a little trim. Jess was thrilled. He loves to get his hair cut and if I don’t take him when he feels he needs one, he cuts it himself. In fact, the front of his hair was finally growing in from his last attempt this spring. So up into the chair he went and I explained that I only wanted the sides and the back trimmed and to leave the top the way it is. She started cutting and just didn’t stop. Jess is happy with his military-style but I of course, am left wondering what language exactly do I need to speak to get hair cut the way that I want. I mean, why ask me what I want anyway? He’s going to Kindergarten, not BOOT CAMP. Geeeez.

Then it was Dean’s turn. Now Dean has been sporting a trendy surfer-boy shag that looks really good on him. And I promised that we would only get it trimmed so that he could see and not change the style at all. He flat out refused to get in the chair. This annoyed me at first because he used to do this when he was four and for an entire year his hair never got cut. But after looking at Jess’ hair, I really couldn’t blame him. So we left it alone for the time being. After all, it didn’t really look that bad. But when we got home, Dean cut the front of his hair himself so he wouldn’t have to go back to the salon. This was a very bad idea - I’m sure you can imagine why. “But this is what you wanted!” he protested. I countered with, “But don’t you see, now you have to go so they can correct this?” We haven’t yet. You can see why I have little faith that his hair will get cut in a way that we have requested.

And don’t even get me started on my own hair. If you know me at all, you know how I have been know to walk out of a salon looking like a displaced 80’s pop star. One time, I cried all the way home because I took my long, thick post-partum hair to get trimmed and came out looking like Reba McEntire circa 1980-something. Seriously, feathers? It’s one thing when I leave the house with my hair looking terrible because this is the South and it’s humid here. No one can blame me. But walking out of salon looking like I meant to do that with my hair is just embarrassing. I am old enough to know that hairstyle is out of date, not “retro.” And I’m young enough to give a damn, thank you very much.

Prepping the Kids for the First Day of School. I spent an hour yesterday filling out all the forms that go with the first day of school. Mind you, I just filled out a tree’s worth of paper for kindergarten registration but apparently our school system does not own a copy machine and I had to refill out all the same forms for the classroom, PE teacher, and cafeteria. I also had to fill out three different forms for each child regarding how they are getting to and from school each day. And a fourth one for emergency closings – this does not include the one required by the bus company. And then I filled out several forms all asking how to get in touch with me in case of an emergency. Mind you, this info is required on all of the other forms. Not the most efficient system. Condensing all the info into one form and then making copies for all the appropriate departments would save time and resources. Just a suggestion.

After the paperwork was done, we went through the supply lists like we were having a scavenger hunt and packed our backpacks with our almost $300 worth of school supplies - but not before labeling each and every item.

Pruning Back the Piles. Taking advantage of camp and babysitters, I have recently taken some time to de-clutter and reorganize a few things. I even cleaned off the top of the fridge, which oddly gave me a huge emotional boost. And if that wasn’t fabulous all by itself, some charitable organization called saying they would be in the neighborhood the next day and if I had any donations to please leave them on the front porch. To which I replied, “Why yes, my new best friend, but please pick up my stuff before my kids see it and schlep it all back into the house.”

Reading this Book. Translation: dieting. The title caught my eye because I feel like my emotions are completely out of control most of the time. I have no patience for my children unless they are doing everything that I want them to do every minute of the day, and really, what are the chances of that? I feel like I am PMS’ing all the time and I’m tired of feeling like crap. So I’m willing to try something that promises to improve my mood. The principles of the diet are sensible and easy to follow. It’s called balanced nutrition. The key is to spread out your intake of carbs, fats and proteins out over the entire day. It’s not as restrictive as some diets I have explored and I’m not feeling hungry at all, probably because I am eating all the time. It’s a lot like the diet I followed when I was pregnant which is really the last time I remember feeling good. But just like when I was pregnant, feeding me is now a full-time job that costs a lot of grocery money. I’m not sure if I am in a better mood or not (Dean says I am) but I do feel like I am doing something healthy for me. Now the diet is also supposed to promote weight loss but I’m not hanging a lot of hope on that. The last time I purposefully dieted, I gained several pounds. I have pretty much maintained this same weight (with the exception of being pregnant) since my second child was born so I don’t see that changing much. I’m right at the one-week mark so I’ll keep you posted on my progress.

Catching Up on All of You. I’ve been trying to catch up on all my usual blogs and some new ones. But you’d be surprised to find out how many times I might get interrupted trying to read a one-paragraph post so I don’t always comment. If I haven’t left a comment on your blog yet, it’s just because I was distracted by something noisy or I haven’t thought of something witty to write.

Speaking of comments, I was reading all the comments left for Erika regarding this post. I love reading the comments and this post’s comment section did not disappoint. I found about 20 people I have flagged to go back and read. And while I risk giving the incident anymore thought and time since it already got way more than it deserves, I just have to ask, “Why?” I agree with a lot of what folks were saying – that you can’t be nice all the time and still be authentic, that you can be not nice while not being hurtful for no good reason, that you can have your own opinion and twitter it all you want, and so forth and so on… So Blogger A can totally share her opinion that Blogger B is a poser – but what was the motivation do so? Can someone less naïve than me explain? Was it for attention? Was it for the blog traffic? Was it just to agitate the waters and provoke some thoughtful commentary? I don’t get it.

One of the reasons we blog and read blogs is for the connection to people like ourselves. We search for that commonality. So with over 70 million blogs out there, undoubtedly there are some that are similar in style and those are the ones to which we are drawn. No one has the market cornered on wit, style or clever, my friends. You can blog about whatever you want and I can choose to read it or click away. Ah, America.