Intangibles

You've read before about how I love me some numbers when I write. Nothing like cold, hard digits to prove you're getting somewhere. See? Look, I wrote 1000 words today. Can't dispute that.

The funny thing about life is you can't measure everything you do. Yes, I'm just figuring this out, but I'm a little slow on the life lesson stuff. They don't tell you this when you're in school and they definitely don't grade you on it. They really should put a number to it so I could relate.

This can't-measure stuff is hard for me to grasp. Isn't that what we're raised to believe, though? Success is something you can prove with grades, promotions, salary, house size, weight, etc. That's what the goal-making gurus always tell me, too. Don't make vague general goals like "be kinder to animals", because how will you know when you've succeeded? Your goals should be something you can tally up because then, to paraphrase George Banks from Mary Poppins, you'll achieve that sense of conquest.

He's right about that. I eat that stuff up. The fitness DVD I use has three levels. Yay! I'm super ninja kick-butt mama when I can graduate from one level to the next. Wow, I'm super-nerdy writing maniac mama when I put 1,000 words on the page. Huzzah, I'm super domestic diva mama when I put 5.5 loads of laundry in the dryer in one day.

But what about the things you can't measure? Like this week, for instance, when my CPs told me about some problems with my third-draft Rocky novel. The next step is, get this, to think about it. How do the characters relate to each other? How do they interact at school? What is their motivation in each chapter? Thinking does not add words to the page. But it makes the novel better. And knowing I need to think about those problems for this novel will make me a better writer because I'll have to think about the same things in other novels.

But how do you measure it? "I had 3.3 thoughts about my characters today"? You can't. And yet, that's where I'll make the most progress.

It's the same with children. Nobody counts how many hours I spent on the couch with my kids yesterday, trying to get them to stop screaming for no apparent reason. Nobody but them noticed the snuggles I gave them when it was dish-doing time. Yet those things matter most.

In the words of Einstein, "Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted."
Photo source
He knew what he was talking about. Though some moments of inspiration come when I'm typing madly away, many (the big, important ones) come when I'm in the shower, or lying around in bed, or doing nothing at all.
So if you see me this week and it looks like I'm sitting around being completely unproductive, don't be fooled. My internal genius is at work. Do not disturb.

Random feminist rant

So, lately we've made a few visits to the car repair shop, because we were starting to feel like we didn't get out enough, and what better place to party than good ol' Goodyear? They have--get this--vending machines. Now, if you don't think that's any fun, you haven't been trapped in a waiting room with two squirmy children for long enough.

Anyhoo, these vending machine explorations do not come cheaply. Shove enough toys (brought from home, of course) inside one of those and you could easily end up dropping a few hundred before long. Candy is getting more and more expensive these days. Must be inflation.

So I put a little more on the good ol' plastic than I usually do. Funny how metal and plastic don't mix, isn't it? And I started to get awfully close to my credit limit.

Now, before you all gasp in horror at my Big-Time Spending Habits, let me assure you of something: My credit limit is low.Photo source

Really low.

Low as in I can only return stuff on it because a positive balance is too high. Low as in sometimes my pocket burns when my credit card gets too close to Satan. Low as in limbo star.

I've called before to try to fix this problem. Why won't they increase my limit? Because my income is too low.

Being a (mostly) SAHM means, of course, that I don't bring in the bacon. Or the pork or the beef, but then I'm not a red meat eater anyway. The credit card powers-that-be worry their silly little financial heads that I won't have the means to pay them back, should my debts reach four digits.
Photo source
Guess what, financial heads? My ham (sorry, honey, you know I can't help the puns) of a husband might be the one who's issued a W-2 from his employer, but guess who controls most of the spending? That's right, me. I happen to have a wedding ring, and in most parts of the world (we're not sure about Mozambique), that means we are entitled to pool our money. Joint bank accounts, joint tax returns, etc. The checks have both our names on them. And if silly little SAHM barefoot (but not pregnant) me overspends, it has exactly the same effect as it would if Mr. Manly W-2 Bacon Man of the House did the same. We'd be equally broke.

So I told them about how I'm, you know, married, and live in the same house and share not just three squirmy vending machine-raiding children, but also a mortgage, a bank account (at their bank), and a whole lotta random junk.


They had a solution for this most annoying problem. Get him to co-sign, they said. That's right, get Mr. Crispy with a Side of Eggs (and all this time I thought bacon was the side dish) to say he'll take care of you and pay for you and maybe even tie your shoes for you while he's at it.

I don't think so.

He's not vouching for me, a woman ten months his senior, because he sits in a cubicle all day. Just because he's a tech geek does not mean he can budget or clip coupons better than me.

I guess I could take my business elsewhere. Show them who doesn't wear the pantsuit in this family. Get a credit card somewhere else--I get enough offers in the mail. But I don't want to pay their interest rates, and I don't want to give in.

So I'll suffer and bite my nails to see if my credit card still goes through when it comes dangerously close to its limit. Groceries? Who needs them?

I can always buy snacks at the vending machine.

Why I want to be a child

Kids have it so easy. They do something wrong, they just get over it. They don't waste time stewing about whether or not it was their fault or how if they could have just done something differently, things might have turned out better. Say they hit their siblings. No problem. They mutter an insincere apology and 0.3 seconds later, it's forgotten. Say they don't wear their underwear to school. Why get worked up about it? Say they forget to turn off the water in the bathroom and cause a major flood leading to all kinds of damage to multiple rooms in the house (this is purely hypothetical, of course).



See the four hypothetical industrial-size fans hanging out, not in the theoretical bathroom upstairs, but directly underneath it? I couldn't get them all in the camera's view. There are actually five, if you don't count the dehumidifier. That makes six. That's only downstairs. There are some more monster-truck sized fans in the bathroom.
So repairing this damage is going to take a while. We won't know for sure what repairs are needed until Monday. But does mere money and inconvenience bother a child? Does it cause him remorse?
Not in the slightest! That's why I want his gig. Maybe I'll let my children run around naked all day (whoops, too late for that). Dinner? Who needs it? Being nice to my kids--why bother? I'm not going to let this guilt stuff interfere with my life anymore.
Because the next thing on my list might be killing children who leave faucets running.

New baby brother

We are so excited to announce the arrival of our new Brother. He arrived today at about 2:20 pm, weighing in at about 19 lbs.
The whole family is thrilled, of course. We expect to spend many fun hours together.

How I know my house was designed by a man

I think women are way underrepresented in the house design business. Actually, I really don't know the numbers, and like a true writer, I'm way too lazy to do the research msyelf. But I know there aren't many female architects. Call it woman's intuition, or call it common sense. Here I present my case.



1. See this lovely laundry room? That would be the one that shares space with a bathroom. In the basement. When the bedrooms are upstairs. Unenlightened men do not appreciate how much fun it is to carry peed-on crib sheets down two flights of stairs in a big, huge laundry basket along with cute, heavy sheet-peeing baby who cannot be left unsupervised while Mama loads the washing machine. So then baby gets a ride in the laundry basket full of peed-on sheets so that even the clothes she is wearing become drenched in eau-de-baby-pee. Woman's idea? I don't think so.

2. See this lovely window? That would be the one right by the shower. You'd think even a male architect would be clever enough (no offense, Jason and Sara) to realize that showers are wet, and that when you place a window in the shower, water drips out the window, down the house, and onto the patio below. That it accumulates as mold in the frame. But I guess I can understand that a man wouldn't understand that a woman showering next to the window wouldn't want to show her boobs to the world. 'Cause he doesn't care if the world sees his manly chest. Not like the world hasn't seen my boobs when baby rips off my shirt 'cause she needs her mama juice right NOW, but a shower is supposed to be private, you know, a respite from all that child-crazy unprivate chaos. Of course the window is frosted so you can't see details. But please, we all know what's under those pixels at the Super Bowl wardrobe malfunction. And I don't want my neighbors filling in the blanks with their imaginations. Especially if I decide to take a shower in the evening, when the house is all lit up from the inside. Who knows? Maybe those male architects have short wives, but those of us who are a little taller really don't want to show everything we've got.

3. See this lovely color scheme? Yeah, I know my house was built a few years ago, but I don't think a woman's taste would be bad enough even in the early 90's to put slate grey and dusty rose together in a bathroom.

Why women are better writers than men

Can we say multitasking? Here's me at a writing group meeting. One on the shoulders, one coloring behind me. You do what you gotta do.

We interrupt this writing blog once more...

Yup, more crafts. It all started with an innocent-looking plaid sheet I found extra-cheap. Hmm, thought I. Curtains for our naked basement windows? I called up my SIL and begged to borrow her sewing machine. She obliged.

Then I thought to myself, Wait! I have a baby girl! She needs stuff! Like a crib sheet to match the Raggedy Ann painting in her room. It was easy enough for even me. I followed this tutorial.
Then, what's a crib sheet without a matching valance? Even easier. I found way easy instructions for the valance, too.

Then I just couldn't waste the squares of fabric I cut from the crib sheet, so I cut some more squares from the Raggedy Ann fabric, the contrasting valance ties, and the extra trim from the basement curtains. I sewed them all together and used an old baby blanket for the bottom of the blanket.

You might notice the seams are less than perfect. That's because I believe that pinning fabric is for fools with no sense of adventure.
Then I decided it was time to return the sewing machine. 'Cause I have about five other project ideas, and I'm afraid that if I kept sewing, I'd never stop. Though I did see a nice machine for sale at Costco...
Throughout all this, I've been revising my novel, too. That's the problem with crafting. It's addictive. I think I'll wait to do more projects until after the novel is done.

How to make a cherry blossom tote

We interrupt this writing blog to post about crafts. Why? Well, since we normally never have time for such a frivolous pursuit as crafting, when we do actually get to craft, we must celebrate it.

Step 1. Buy fabric tote.

Step 2. Allow children near fabric tote. Then see if they can create an impalement hazard.

Step 3. Go to hobby store. Get disgusted at their prices and lack of selection for replacement tote.

Step 4. Decide to make it yourself.

Step 5. Buy unfinished wooden totes on clearance from craft store.

Step 6. Look for Chinese or Japanese-looking scrap paper to Mod Podge to tote.

Step 7. Give up in disgust after searching several craft stores and decide to paint it instead.

Step 8. Look for paint to match living room. Remember there is still paint left over from second trimester nesting phase. Leave store empty-handed but happy with bargain-hunting skills.

Step 9. Inhale paint fumes while covering totes in two coats of red.

Step 10. Let dry overnight.

Step 11. Decide to paint cherry blossoms on totes.

Step 12. Google line drawings of cherry blossoms.

Step 13. Decide it can't be that hard to draw branches (no straight lines required) and cherry blossoms (five dots of paint in a circle).

Step 14. Give children their own totes to paint. Give children baths. Wash off table. Repeat.

Step 15. Swear never to do crafts again.

Somebody still has to wash the dishes

I told Mark all about my feelings of meaninglessness (see previous post). He mentioned listening to NPR's report about the Canadian military's efforts to rebuild an orphanage. I thought he was just talking about NPR because that's what he likes to do. Then he said, "You know, even after they rebuild the orphanage, someone is still going to have to wash the dishes."
I didn't get it at first.
What I think he meant was this: Months from now, when we don't hear about rebuilding efforts in Haiti in the news anymore, there will be lots of kids living there. And they will need to eat. And someone will have to clean up after them.
There won't be any news reports about them. So is their job any less important?
Of course not. Without someone to feed them, the kids would starve, and what use would the rebuilt orphanage be to them then? They still need nutritious food on clean plates. They still need clean clothes.
We don't hear about them. We probably never will.
We don't hear about the millions of people who wash dishes, clean laundry, and wipe up poop in day care centers, nursing homes, and hospitals, every day, for minimum wage. We don't pay them much, and we don't give them any attention. Just the opposite, in fact. We look down on them, because, after all, how much skill could it take to run a dishwasher or a laundry machine? Dead-end jobs, we think to ourselves. Boring, repetitive, mindless, dead-end jobs.
Those so-called dead-end jobs keep people alive. Nobody sees them doing those ugly jobs, though. I mean, the laundry facilities aren't on display in the hospital lobbies or behind the orphanage's front desk.
And nobody sees me doing what I do. It seems simple enough. Millions of mothers, cooks, janitors, etc. do it every day, so it can't be that hard, right? I'm only keeping people alive, after all. I'm never going to be on the news. Can't you just see it? Mother cooks dinner for her family. See it here at ten.
So it's repetitive, boring, and thankless. So my kids aren't orphans in Haiti.
But I'm keeping them alive. 'Cause someone's gotta do the dishes.
Thanks, honey.

Bring in the concrete

We're going to need lots and lots of concrete for paving purposes here. 'Cause my road to hell is gonna be really smooth--I've got good intentions coming out the wazoo.
I guess Haiti is partly responsible for getting me thinking, but my feelings of boredom today didn't help. I couldn't figure out what to do, so I went shopping. And it really bothered me. It's not like my baby couldn't use some more (very cheap and well-deliberated with plenty of guilt) clothes. It just seems like I could use my time so much better. Yes, I needed to get out of the house. But I'm just tired of the banality of it all. Isn't there more I could do to make a difference in the world, in the lives of my children, than buying cute little stripey girl shirts?
True, opportunities to make a difference are limited when there are three little demanding kids running around. I can't take them everywhere. They won't sit quietly while I bake bread or visit people. They enjoy beating on small animals. They get bored and whine about nothing every day. So yeah, it's a challenge. And yes, I'm making a difference by raising my children. Blah, blah, blah. I've heard it before. I know it's true.
But it's not enough. There has to be something else I can do.
I just don't know where to start.
There has to be something where I can bring my children, where they can see what really matters, where I can get out of the house, where I can contribute. Because I think if I hear my kids whine because it's not fair that they only got three granola bars that day, I'm going to strangle them. I don't think that would serve anyone, would it?

Silver lining

Our oldest child is what some child care experts refer to as a "spirited child". I could share all the crazy, difficult things about raising a child like him, but today I'm going to focus on the good things.
1. He inspires creativity. To keep boredom at bay, I need to think of things for him to do. I make chores into games, think of crafts and science experiments, and distract him with funny jokes when I just DON'T FEEL VERY @#*% funny.
2. He makes me feel grateful. I can see how I've been prepared to deal with his unique challenges by the people and situations I've dealt with before.
3. He challenges me to new levels. Patience? Oh, yeah, I thought I had that before he came along. Confidence? Mm, yes, I remember when I thought I knew something about parenting. Understanding? Comes in handy when your six year old is having a tantrum over cookie distribution.
4. He encourages me to reach out to others. Help! I don't know what to do! You don't know how to handle your kid either? Yay! Let's be friends.
5. He helps me develop communication skills. Empathy 101 goes something like this: Oh, you're mad at me, aren't you? You think I should have given you another cookie even though you already had twelve today and it's only 2 days before Christmas, don't you? You want to rip out my guts and eat them for dinner. Oh, that's too bad. That must be really hard for you.

Stress

Chalk this one up under "Things Nobody Warned Me About". Motherhood is stressful.
Who'da thunk it? I mean, don't mothers sit around all day in their housecoats and curlers watching soap operas? And since millions of women have done it for who knows how many years, it can't be that hard, can it?
Truth is, motherhood is more like taking a triple course load in a never-ending semester.
Let's discuss.
1. Money. Unless you finally managed to find a nursery that carries money trees, there is just never going to be enough. You can scrimp all you like, but your kids keep growing and eating and wanting toys. And they don't particularly appreciate it if you buy their shoes three sizes too big in order to economize.
2. Time. Another luxury triple-load college students hoard, judging by how little of it is left over for me. I'm not even talking about not having time for those cutesy little crafty hobbies those home-schooling mothers of eight seem to create out of thin air. I don't even have time to keep the house clean. I've been meaning to clean out the diaper pail for days, for example. And the dusting? There are some cabinets I haven't dusted since we moved in. When I actually have a moment to myself, the list of things to do is longer than the grocery check-out line. But usually going to the bathroom is first on the list. As I like to tell my kids, peeing is a priority.
3. Physical space. Sometimes, when I'm sitting at the computer, I move my elbows, just for the sheer joy of it.
4. Auditory space. When the kids are in bed and my ears stop ringing, I sometimes complete a whole thought in my head.
5. Oh, the pressure. Everybody thinks they know how to raise kids, especially magazine articles (5 simple ways to end temper tantrums) and people who don't have any. They also know how your house should look, how to produce the behavior you want, how to be a great wife, how not to lose your temper with your kids, how not to get them to turn out to be serial killers. So you feel like you don't measure up to the people who know better, even when "they" don't agree.
6. Oh, the frustration. How many times can you tell your child not to throw the toilet paper in the toilet until they get it? Why do you flap your lips up and down to suggest to your kid that telling you what's bothering him is far more productive than screaming? Why do you make dinner so that he can tell you how icky lasagna is and that you have to make him mac and cheese instead?
7. Oh, the built-up anger. See above. Then add kids whacking each other, bossing their parents around, pulling the cat's fur, biting you, and see how long you provide an example of productive ways to handle your emotions.
Then add cutesy little jokes from well-meaning clueless people about how little sleep or appreciation you get, how it's all worth it, how they wouldn't trade the time they spent at home with the kids for anything, etc. Really? That's too bad because if they want more of it, they can borrow a couple of my kids for a few hours.
Then take a deep breath (or a day off) and remind yourself that people who have actually survived parenthood say that it all passes, sooner than you'd think. Promise yourself that somehow you will live through it, too.

Happiness and sleep are synonyms

For the last couple of weeks, Baby has gone to bed before 9:00. Let me tell you, there is major rejoicing around here. The extra couple of hours in the evening has allowed me to reclaim some physical space and some brain space. When she didn't sleep until 10:30, things were not so happy. How do you keep small objects out of baby's mouth when you don't have time to pick them up off the floor? How do you set the table when you don't have time to do the dishes? How do you send off magazine queries when you can't type your own name?

Easy. You just convince your baby that everyone would be much better off if she went to sleep at the same time as the other children. She complies, and life gets much happier.

Mark and I clean up the clutter and do the dishes. Then there's still time to write a page or two in my novel, email a couple of queries, and still more time to waste on Facebook. Not that I've mastered the art of getting up before the kiddos like I thought I would when the late night baby parties ended. But I'm starting to feel like a person again. So now I just have to convince the dishes that everyone would be much happier if they would wash themselves.

End of an Era

It was a sad week in our household. K. learned how to climb out of the crib.
I know, I'm lucky, he's coming up on three years old. It could have happened much sooner. But so could impaling myself in the eyeballs with a dinner knife. The Lord is merciful.
This means that when he says, "I don't wanna have a nap," he will get his way. I just don't have the arm strength to carry him upstairs and throw him on the mattress so hard the springs cringe when they see him coming. Not more than ten times in a row, anyway.
So now he has become a movie baby. I used to congratulate myself on what a good mother I was for keeping him away from the TV screen so much. Sometimes, two hours would go by without a single movie. But, alas, no more. Mama has deadlines. When baby falls asleep, it's TV time for K. I'm sure he'll have his head filled with violence, sarcasm, and materialism, and he'll be incapable of entertaining himself for life, and it's all my fault. I use the TV as a babysitter, I admit it. So if he's scarred for life, blame me. 'Cause you know what? When he's busy, I can write, and that makes me happy inside.

Jealous!

Two things happened recently which gave me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. The first one was in church. Some of the young women leaders were talking about their recent trip to girls' camp. These leaders have small children, I knew, and camp was about four days long. I don't know whether they were there the whole time or not, but they were at least there for most of it. I couldn't really listen to what they were saying because the whole time, I was thinking, Four days without the children?

Then I went to my niece's birthday party. My SIL just moved to a new house, which is a little bigger than ours. And again, I had this funny feeling. I knew it wasn't the house. I don't want to move right now, and I'm not coveting her house (except for maybe the closet organizers. Oh, I would love to have closet organizers).

It took me about an hour of talking about it out loud with Mark before I figured it out. "Do you want to leave the children for four days?" "No!" I said, because I really don't, not while baby is so little. "Do you want a bigger house?" "No!" I said, because then I'd have to clean it. Here's what they have in common: these ladies, though they have small families, figured out what they wanted and then did what they had to do to get it. It was important for these leaders to accompany these girls to camp, even though they'd have to leave their families for a while. It was important to my SIL for her family to grow up in a better house. And so, somehow, that's what they did.

And that's where I have trouble. Not only do I sometimes not go after what I want, I even feel guilty about wanting it. Sometimes I don't even know what I want anymore. So Mark and I had a long talk about what I want. I'm still not sure how to go about getting those things, because whenever you want something, there's usually some kind of sacrifice you have to make to get it. But seeing these ladies who went after what they wanted made me ache inside because of something I've been denying myself: the idea of possibility.

Children are the best excuse

I used to say pregnancy was the best excuse for everything. You can beg off almost any errand or responsibility by saying you just don't feel up to it. But you know, having a few kiddos around makes it easy not to have to do stuff, too.

It didn't start out that way. At first, kids were the reason I couldn't do anything. And really, it's true. No, I can't help you move. I'm kinda busy scraping baby food off the walls and floor. But then I got so used to not being able to do anything that I forgot that I ever could.

Let's take conversation, for example. There was a time, in my pre-pregnancy days, when if I said something stupid or didn't say anything when I really should have, I didn't have anyone else to blame. Then kids came along and I couldn't get more than five words out of my mouth before I had to feed baby/change baby/break up fight/scrape kids off the walls and floor. I would just sigh (because sometimes I really wanted to hear what people were saying) and go take the knife away from the two-year-old fingers around it.

Most of the time, that's how it really is. I'm too busy with Heimlich prevention to comment on what other people are saying, or else my brain is too fried to think of something to say. Like if someone in my writing group has their book reappear on the bookstore shelf, multi-syllabic words like "congratulations" elude me.

Don't worry about it, I tell myself. It's just mommy brain. It will go away eventually.

But what if it doesn't?

Sometimes, let's face it, I do silly things. Eventually, all the kids will be in school and I'll have all the time in the world. Will I finally be able to write tons of articles and novels, or will I see clearly just how much I procrastinate? When the kids move out of the house, will it really be cleaner or will I see just how much of the mess is mine? When I don't have to worry about being home in time to put the kids in bed, will I have friends again or will I discover that my anti-social tendencies are just part of who I am?

So I guess my message to myself is to enjoy my life, and not to use my kids as an excuse to be a bum. Maybe I'll blog some more about that later. After I feed the baby.

The "M" word

I was cashing a check the other day and the teller used the "M" word on me. That's right, she called me "Mrs."

I should have cashed in my youth card along with the check. I have been married for nearly eight years now. I have three kids, a minivan, and a mortgage. But still, I actually checked my reflection in the minivan window after I loaded the kids in. Were my laugh lines laughing at me more than usual today, to make the teller address me in such a matronly way?

Maybe it's because we live in the twenty-first century, when people are less formal and don't use their last names to address each other much anymore. Or maybe it's because the less familial status-charged title of Ms. has become more popular. Or maybe it's because I think of myself as "Kaylie" rather than "Mrs." Whatever the reason, it was jarring, to say the least.

"Mrs." is what they called my mother when I was growing up. Not me.

Besides, truth be told, secretly I'm not a thirtysomething mother of three. Oh, no, I'm actually a wild, independent college girl in my early twenties (masquerading as a woman with a couple of grey hairs hiding underneath the brown). That's honestly how I think of myself. And I probably will forever.

I remember a story my mom told me about my grandma. Grandma was in her late eighties, crossing the street. And a couple of construction workers called out, "Hey! Watch out for the little old lady crossing the street," and Grandma looked around to see who they were talking about.

She was probably still adjusting to being called "Mrs.", too.

Ow, my aching...everything

I've visited more than one doctor over the last couple months. But I think I'm done...for now. I've been having these weird body aches, like I'm getting the flu, but then it goes away and I feel fine again. Thankfully, my symptoms have improved lately (I think I'll cancel that appointment with the fibromyalgia specialist). I'm not sure what caused them or why I have only a downscaled version of them now. But I'll tell you this: I visited my chiropractor and he said, "Motherhood just messes your whole body up."

Amen to that. Aside from the damage children inflict by jumping, kicking, and otherwise abusing you, typical TLC can affect even the most athletic body. When I went to the chiropractor, he tried to adjust me, but he found this huge knot in my shoulder, so he decided to use electric stimulation on it. It felt great for a while (even my elbows were tingling), but less than a day later, I'd already undone the $40 I spent to see him.

Here are just a few typical motherhood tasks that make huge demands on a mama's body:
-nursing fifteen pound baby with disproportionately large head ten to twenty times a day
-picking up fifteen pound baby in fifteen pound car seat, heaving pair of them into van
-throwing thirty pound two year old in crib when he's having temper tantrum
-carrying heavy diaper bag on whatever shoulder happens to be free
-waking up every three hours in the night to feed baby
-listening to three children scream in your ear (stress)
-trying to chop vegetables while children demand to know when dinner is, if they can have a snack, if they can have friends over, and why you always make food they hate (triple stress)

After wasting my money at the chiropractor's, I decided it would be better to treat the cause of the problems by working on my posture. I found a youtube video with an Alexander technique exercise you can do at home.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iehtr8X3qMc&feature=PlayList&p=CB1850E7A1FE1ADA&index=0
I tried it and noticed an immediate improvement in my shoulder tension. Then I nursed the baby and guess what? Back came the arm tingles. Apparently baby has been cutting off my circulation at the elbow. But the girl does insist upon eating, so I guess I'll have to find another way to nurse her. And a mute button for the other children.

Thanks a lot, Heather!

My friend Heather tagged me, so I'll be gullible and I'll fall for this one. I hope everyone's amused, because I hardly ever do these (doesn't everybody say that?). Oh, well, it gives me something to blog about.

8 things I'm looking forward to:
1. The kids all being at school. First thing on the agenda will be sleeping for a week.
2. Meredith being able to sit up unsupported. My arms will be grateful.
3. Nana meeting Mer for the first time. She was born the day after Nana left.
4. Someday replacing my icky carpet.
5. Seeing what kinds of people my kids grow up to be.
6. Going to SCBWI conference next year, I hope.
7. Wednesdays. Babysitter comes!
8. reading this year's new books by James Dashner and Shannon Hale

8 things I did yesterday:
1. sat on the lawn with the kids
2. broke up fights between the kids and the neighbor's kids
3. read one and a half chapters of Harry Potter 6 to Liam. We're trying to finish before the movie comes out.
4. watched two episodes of As Time Goes By while feeding Mer.
5. tried to remove macaroni from Kyle's nostrils with tweezers. It didn't work, by the way. He needed a good nose pinch and a big sneeze to remove all the pasta.
6. sent a query to The Writer about ergonomic office products
7. wrote a couple of sucky paragraphs in my novel before giving up for the day
8. had a discussion with Mark about whether The Great Mormon Novel can ever be written

8 things I wish I could do:
1. grow perennials instead of killing them
2. finish my novel and get it published
3. earn a good living from writing
4. put my kids in cloth diapers and make their clothes
5. find time to scrapbook. Liam is the only kid who has a scrapbook. The others will just have to think they didn't have any childhoods.
6. visit France and England
7. go out with Mark more often
8. make my sisters move close by

8 shows I watch:
1. Battlestar Galactica
2. Doctor Who
3. As Time Goes By
That's it. I can't stand commercials, so it's all about downloads at our house. I watch As Time Goes By while I feed Mer so I don't get angry that she's keeping me awake.

Worst Parent in the World Award

I nominate myself. OK, I don't really believe that, but the way I beat myself up about my parenting mistakes, you'd think I did.

Kyle ingested a few extra vitamins today. I don't really know how many, but by the time I called Poison Control, counted all the vitamins, and checked the date of purchase, I figured out it was probably less than 10. Don't laugh--the lady at Poison Control made me count them. I'm sure no one else's kid inhales poisonous stuff, right?

I was playing with Meredith in the next room when Kyle came in going crunch, crunch with his teeth. He's very good about reaching high places. He just pulls that chair right over to where he wants to go. I think I might have left the vitamins on the counter. Or in the pantry. I don't even know. Now, if I hadn't been playing with Meredith, I probably would have been feeling guilty about neglecting her. But anyhoo...

By the time I'm finished discussing how many vitamins Kyle might have consumed, I'm the one being consumed. With guilt. Because I'm picturing my poor baby turning blue and taking his last breath, as I always do when the slightest little thing happens. Of course nothing bad happened. Kyle had no symptoms at all. But it could have gone wrong. And that's where my imagination takes over. I have a really good imagination for disasters that never happen. I should put it to good use and create some fiction with it.

And I swear I will never have any more children and never leave any of my children alone in a room again because obviously I can't take care of the kids I have. It would be better for them to have their mama hovering overhead than lying sick in a hospital bed, right?

Of course nobody else ever makes colossal, could-have-killed-them mistakes. I'm sure I'm the only one who does. I'm the one whose story will end up in a parenting magazine with the caption "It happened to me and it could have been prevented".

Isn't that the worst fear of all? Your child gets injured or dies because of you?

People sometimes act like motherhood is a no-brainer job because so many women have done it, because it doesn't require an education, etc. But I think with as many things that can go wrong that don't, it's amazing that so many mothers have raised their children to adulthood. If you haven't had any near misses with your own children yet, beware. This parenting gig is not for the fainthearted.