Author Archives: powerskirstin

I am so done with—well, everything!

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Have you ever reached a point where you become so overwhelmed that you don’t want to do anything? You just want to throw in the towel and yell, “I QUIT!” at the top of your lungs? And then run away to Mexico?

Well, I am at that point now, and sadly, have been stuck in it, mucking about, for the past few days or so. Help! I cannot pinpoint the moment things went south for me. But I do have some general ideas.

Let’s begin with the children. The oldest has been enjoying nap-free, action-packed days with later than normal bedtimes. This has the effect of turning her into a bit of a monster. She has become overly sensitive and emotional, as well as grouchy and sassy. And I can’t tell her she’s tired because it will just end up in an argument. After 4:00 p.m., she seems to lose all control of her manners, the words that come out of her mouth, and the ability to remain upright without falling into something for more than fifteen minutes at a time.

The middle child is perhaps the whining-est child on the face of the earth right now. Truly. I have not met a child who whines more than she does. At first, I chocked it ip to teething. But, if that’s the case, the child has been teething now for over four months straight, and is showing no signs of stopping. From the moment she wakes up, until the moment she goes to sleep, and then, on into the middle of the night, it’s:

“Hold me, mama!”

“Nurses!”

“Arm!” (she wants to lie on my arm)

“Mom-MEE! Mom-MEE!” (spoken like Will Ferrell demanding ‘Meatloaf!’ in the movie Wedding Crashers)

And the baby. The poor, sweet baby. He is mostly quiet and pleasant and smiley. He rarely fusses. But he’s been in a poor-napping-during-the-day phase for some time. As a result, I end up spending much of the day either holding the baby, or trying endlessly to put him down for a nap. Our house is just too small, and the noise and distraction too much, that he wakes up time and again after being put to sleep in my arms.

Then, there’s the house. Besides being small, there is always, always the issue of child clutter on the floor. Lately, there have been tens upon tens of little colorful plastic bears littering the floor. I had to recently round them up and retire them to a secret hidey spot that NO ONE knows about. There is also always laundry to be done and folded and put away. And dishes in the sink or on the counter, or in the dishwasher waiting to be put away.

But then there is the recent stuff too. Like the landlord wanting us to buy the mower. Thankfully, we have put his ridiculous offer on hold for the time being. Or the hundreds of maggots I discovered in the garage once I moved a towel that was lying on the floor. They scattered everywhere in an instant. Normally, I am not afraid of bugs, but this was just too much. I told the hubs he needed to immediately come outside and deal with the situation. His solution—throw away the towel. But what about the scattering maggots?!

Then there are the flies that reside in our house these days, again, numbering in the tens upon tens. I swatted at least twelve yesterday. I’ve no doubt these are coming from the maggot farm in the garage. Also, there are small ants that seem to be building their den underneath the bathroom floor, coming and going as they please. I suppose it is nice entertainment to watch them while I’m sitting on the toilet, but I’d really like for them to build and destruct elsewhere.

Then, there’s the washing machine. That started giving us trouble weeks ago when it began leaking copious amounts of water onto the floor. Turns out the water valve was faulty and cold water was just gushing out all over the place. Lovely.

So we went for a whole week without the use of a fully functioning washing machine. This was especially trying since we need to launder diapers every other day. We were able to make it work for a bit, but I had to stay with the machine while it filled up, then manually turn off the water, then come back downstairs for the rinse cycle, turn on the water, stay until the basin filled up, and then leave again, on and on ad nauseam.

We finally got a refurbished one a few days ago—courtesy of the landlord—which of course, I just discovered is leaking water again, although gratefully, not as much as last time. Does the madness ever end, I wonder.

So this morning, when I woke up at 7:45 (thank you, husband, for getting up with the baby at 6:00), and just wanted a moment to sit on the couch with a cup of coffee in hand, but instead was met with a rambunctious four-year-old who wanted to build a block bed with me for her wooden doll family, a whiny two-year-old demanding, “Hold me, mama! Nurses on the couch!”, and a baby, who would very soon need to be put down for a nap, I really did want to run away to Mexico. I felt as though I couldn’t do it again—another day of the same old routine. Another day of swatting flies and cleaning clutter and dishes and holding babies and listening to “Mom-MEE!”

There’s this phrase that I’m reminded of time and again when I feel overwhelmed like this. 

Just start. 

Don’t think about everything that needs to be done, just put one foot in front of the other and do something. So, I nursed the toddler while drinking my coffee and watching the four-year-old play with blocks. My husband, bless him, sensing my unraveling, went in a little late to work so he could rock the baby to sleep.

After he left, I managed a shower. Next, I swatted a fly and killed it dead. Then, I started a load of diapers. Baby steps. Finally, when I felt I could do no more than that, I called my sister and told her that I was coming over with the kids because I couldn’t be trusted to be on my own with them today.

She laughed and took us in. We hung out and chatted. She put the baby down for his second nap. And then, she fed us and gave me a couple of glasses of wine. And it was just what I needed. A break from the monotony and confining walls of our home.

It’s funny. In the moment I always think, “Oh man. God is really testing me today. What with all the flies and maggots about.” And then, after the briefest respite, I suffer from the guilt of you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-God-is-testing-you, you’re-so-blessed-it’s-not-even-funny nonsense.

I guess it’s like my wise husband says: There’s always tomorrow. A new day. A chance to start all over again and make things better than they were before.

Aren’t we lucky?

Who’s out there?

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Hiya, fine folks. It’s me, Kirstin. This is kind of a cheat post, I know, but with all the mothering and caregiving going on these days, I barely have time to shower, let alone be creative. 

The blog’s been public now over six months! Hoo-rah (spoken like a marine, FYI). And, I’d love to know who’s following along.

So, if you’re feeling up to it, leave a reply. Let me know what you think of this space. And in the meantime, I’ll work on creating more content for your viewing pleasure.

Ciao!

Heard around the house.

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Nora: (upon waking one morning last week) “You know that everybody dreams?”

Liam: “Uh-huh.”

Nora: “Well, everybody except for Santa and God. Because they don’t sleep, right?”

Liam: “Right.”

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Our washing machine has been a bit wonky lately, so this past week I took the kids to my parents’ house so I could get some laundry done. My sister’s cats reside (mostly) in the laundry room there.

Me: (enthusiastically) “Frances, want to come with me to do laundry? We can see Titi Liz’s cats!”

Frances: (grumpily) “Me no like Titi’s cats.”

Me: (admittedly) “Me no like them either.”

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And Frances, on a similar monologue rant of all the things which she does not like, while she was watching me make guacamole.

Frances: “Me no like awacado. Me no like uh-mato, Me no like onion or gar-lit. Was dat?”

Me: “Lime.”

Frances: “Me no like nime.”

Me: “What do you like?”

Frances: “Me like chips. An cookies. An ice-peem!”

Trying to keep it healthy here, folks!

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Nora: “Mommy, when do you have to go back to work?”

Me: “August sometime.”

Nora: (disappointed) “Awww.”

Me: (thinking: ‘This is so sweet. She wants me to be a stay-at-home-mom forever.’) “Why?”

Nora: “I want you to go back to work tomorrow. And daddy too, so that Candace can watch us and Tella can come play.”

Me: (deflated) “Oh.”

Well, at least this is proof that we chose a great babysitter and that the kids love her. Couldn’t ask for a better situation than that! Ha!

Reading baby’s cues. Or, not.

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A couple of months ago, I went to a La Leche League meeting because I needed to talk with other moms about some breastfeeding concerns I was having at the time. Namely, tips for how to maintain my sanity amidst nursing my two littlests. I needed a support network. Badly.

However, while we were there, talk turned to interpreting our babies’ cries. One mother explained, “Well, you know how there’s the ‘I need a diaper change’ cry, and the ‘I’m hungry’ cry, and the ‘I’m tired’ cry?”

I looked around the room at the other mothers nodding in agreement, and I thought to myself: there must be something wrong with me, because I can’t read my babies like that. I only know the ‘I’m a little fussy/cranky’ cry, the ‘I’m really crying now’ cry, and finally, the ‘I’m losing my shit because I am so freaking pissed right now’ cry.

And mostly, I answer all of these cries the same way—breastfeeding. Not with naps, or diaper changes. Just here, take this boob. And be quiet, please. You’re hurting my ears.

Our friends —the thousandaires —a reneging landlord, and a garage sale that was a total bust.

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****I accidentally hit publish today before I had proofread and completed this draft—oops! Sorry if you read the unfinished version. This one should be a tad more finished!

Let’s catch up.

First, my very good friend’s hubby won a hundred thousand dollars playing fantasy sports online. What?!?! And, although it couldn’t have come at a better time for them (they’re getting ready to move), or happen to more deserving people, I still find myself thinking:

Man, wish we’d won a hundred grand!

Or: Hmmmm…what could we spend that money on? Paying off loans? Downpayment on a new house? Me not having to work for a year? Vacation abroad?

Or, alternatively: Liam needs to get a new hobby—stat! Like, gambling online at paying fantasy sports sites! Sheesh.

During dinner, when I told Liam about our friends, he was like: Man, we need to catch a break. (Again, let’s be real, here. We are talking about first world problems. Our lives are pretty darn sweet, and we know it.) But, still…

After dinner, Liam opened up the mail. In the pile was a letter from our landlord. Usually the only mail he sends to us includes utility bills. As I was watching Liam read the handwritten note, I noticed that there were no bills included. I also saw him chuckling. I asked aloud, hopefully, thinking this might be our lucky break, “What? Is he going to give us the house for free because we’ve been such outstanding tenants?”

“Not exactly,” he replied. He passed me the letter so I could read it myself:

Kirstin and Liam,

This is a note to inform you that I will not furnish or maintain a lawn mower any more. You will have to supply your own mower. I will sell the present mower for $120.00 for your use.

Sincerely,

(Name Witheld to Protect the Old Guy)

Before I get into the heart of the letter, let me first tell you a bit about our lawn. Our house sits on a corner lot and it has a lot of grass. It takes us approximately two hours to mow the lawn on a riding mower, which came with the house. Up until now, apparently.

And now, let’s get to the mower. It is old. Rusty red. Every winter the front right tire goes flat and the battery dies. We need to start the battery with jumper cables from one of the cars each time we decide the lawn needs a trim, which, given our schedules these days is about once every two weeks. The grass gets to about mid-calf sometimes, depending on the amount of rainfall we receive. It can get embarrassing.

Also, the riding seat is a major hazard. The bolts and screws have come undone no matter how many times we have tightened them, glued them, duct-taped them, etc. So, one side of the seat is safely attached to the mower, but the other side is not. If you drive it too fast on an incline, you might get thrown. Ejected. You have to perfect your lean on this thing, much like a motorcycle rider has to when making steep turns. Suffice it to say, the mower is a piece of shit. Hardly worth $120 big ones.

Onto the letter. I can understand why the landlord, getting on in years himself—much like our dear mower—might not want to maintain the machine any longer. It’s a lot of work. But furnishing the mower no more? Come on, now. It’s not like somebody else is interested in the piece o’ crap. And selling it to us? Does he desperately need that money? I don’t know. All is know is this. I agreed with Liam when, after reading the letter, he exclaimed, “This isn’t the kind of break I was thinking about.”

I guess his response was better than mine. My idea was to draft the following:

Dear Mr. Landlord,

This is a note to inform you that we will no longer be maintaining or mowing the lawn. 

Sincerely,

Your Loving Tenants

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So, the much anticipated neighborhood garage sale was scheduled for this past Saturday. The garage sale that was going to bring in hundreds of people from all over the place. The sale that was going to bring in so much cash that it would pay for two weeks’ worth of groceries, and maybe even allow us to treat ourselves to a dinner out.

And then, it rained. Postponed until Sunday.

Flash to Sunday. We had maybe seven folks drop by our house. And that’s being generous. Our house was the only one on our street selling anything, so we weren’t bringing in the traffic flying solo. Even the egg roll lady—yes, she did show up asking if she could sell on our lawn (I said yes); and yes, she does indeed wear a t-shirt proudly identifying her as ‘The Egg Roll Lady’—drove past, honked her horn and waved, and moved on to greener pastures, somewhere else in the neighborhood. To her credit, she did come back to the house at the end of the sale and offer us egg rolls. They weren’t free, but she gave us a discount.

We probably made close to $40. For someone who is already thin on patience, I found it hugely disappointing we didn’t do better. It took a lot out of me to block out the morning—Liam’s only day off with us for awhile—set out and organize clothing by size, and wait for the gawkers and hagglers to do their gawking and haggling. Had there been more people, we would have KILLED it. I’m sure.

Around noon, I decided to walk to a neighbor’s house a street away to buy pulled pork sandwiches for lunch. Liam advised against this since doing so would blow our meager profits. Whatever. They were delicious. He agreed.

When all was said and done, we were about five pairs of shoes and twenty-five articles of clothing lighter, made enough money to pay for lunch and egg rolls, and still had some left for about half a tank of gas and an iced coffee.

I’ve been talking with some of the neighbors about either trying to have another Saturday sale, or get rid of some things online. After all, we are still hoping for a lucky break of some kind.

Maybe the next sale will be it?

Vacation withdrawal.

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The kids and I just returned from a five-day whirlwind vacation to a lodge on a lake somewhere in Georgia, about a mile and a half outside of Atlanta, for a family reunion of sorts with my dad’s side of the family. Whew! That was a long sentence.

And although I was happy to arrive home last night to see Liam, get out of the car (we logged about 25+ hours in that thing), and have access once again to the Internet, I discovered this morning that I had a bad case of the post-vacation blahs.

The kind of blahs that happen when you wake up to ninety degrees of humid mugginess, but realize there’s no longer a lake in which to jump in and cool off. That there is no high quality leather furniture in your house upon which to recline and snooze while other people hold and care for your children. There are no other people to hold and care for your children. No sleeping in. No insta-Keurig-coffee-drinking while looking out floor-to-ceiling windows at the natural beauty that surrounds you. No walking with your sister for miles and chatting about whatever. No middle of the day boat rides. No family style meals and conversating with other adults.

Just some whiny-ass kids (whiny because they spent eleven hours on the road the day before and didn’t go to sleep until after ten, and woke up prematurely at six), and a home full of shit that needs laundering and unpacking.

Highlights of the trip (according to me):

  1. Using call signs Eagle One and Sparrow One with walkie-talkies among the two traveling vehicles.(Each time we stopped to fuel up, my lovely, but impatient father, would drive off to hit the road before all of the passengers traveling in our vehicle were inside and ready to go. Someone in our car would inevitably shout, “Eagle One is out! Eagle One is out!” Then, we would all have to clamber inside the car, buckle up, and peel out to keep up with my pops.)
  2. An early morning walk with my sister talking about everything. And nothing.
  3. A late evening solo swim.
  4. A village to help care for my kiddos while I was able to…wait for it…relax!
  5. Catching up with cousins I love and hadn’t seen in awhile.
  6. Watching my kids and their cousins and extended family play and interact together.
  7. No one drowned, wrecked, needed stitches, fell off of anything or down anything, cut or scraped themselves too badly, or got hit in the head by a wild-swinging golf club (there were many of these).
  8. Also, the ride on the road with six young kids went great!! They were super travelers!

The girls’ highlights (according to them, but with some editing and rephrasing by me):

  1. Eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch each morning for breakfast (they woke up earlier than I did and someone else always got them what they wanted).
  2. Lake swimming.
  3. Boat riding.
  4. Getting stung by a wasp (OK, this was definitely a low point for Nora, but still memorable).
  5. Having the freedom to roam between houses (and floors of houses), and pretty much do as they pleased with little adult supervision.
  6. Riding in a golf cart.
  7. Bathing in a giant jacuzzi tub that held four cousins and likely could’ve held two more!
  8. Eating Gigi’s birthday cake (we celebrated my dad’s mother’s 90th!)
  9. Watching movies in the car.
  10. Eating snacks in the car.

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I had these grand plans to carve out some quality time with my oldest since she and I don’t get much bonding time at home these days, what with two needier little ones about. Instead, I discovered she didn’t really need or want much mothering from me (apart from the whole wasp sting thing). She and I would spot one another from time to time on the grounds while she was playing about, and wave wildly at each other, or offer big smiles. And that was it. Instead of being sad about it all, I’ll just be proud of the little independent person she’s become and becoming, and take the moments, large and small, as they come.

And, in the meantime, I’ll be busy thinking about and planning our next vacation. Because I don’t think we will make it on our own this summer, without another one or two thrown in over the next eight weeks, during which we can once again take advantage of “our village” and a setting more serene than that which exists within the walls of our own home. ‘Cause things are pretty wild and crazy here right now.

Top five signs we are living among elves.

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I’ve been collecting images on my camera of evidence of little elfish behavior in our home. I suspect the results are the work of elves because I never actually see or hear the little creatures going about their tasks. Instead, I am surprised by what I find. Sometimes I am mildly annoyed by what I see. Other times I am infuriated. Most times, though, I have to shake my head and laugh out loud at my discoveries. OK. So here we go, in no particular order.

#5: Every. Single. Time. I go to put the baby in either his car seat or his bouncy rocking chair, I find that someone, or some-two more likely, have fastened the buckles together. This one drives me crazy! Like I don’t have enough going on already. I finally get the baby ready to go out the door, lay him in his seat—after many, many minutes of schlepping out bags of random shite, and the two girls—only to find that I can’t get his damn arms inside the straps, because the elves have buckled them together! Grrrrrr.

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Trying to undo Mommy’s sanity, one freaking buckle at a time. (It’s working!)

#4: No matter how many times I remove the strings or hair ties I find attached to the puzzle cabinet doorknobs—essentially preventing the doors from opening—they always seem to reappear. Could be minutes, hours, or days later. This is one that falls into both the shaking my head and mildly annoying categories.
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Maybe one of our elves will be a girl scout one day. Or a sailor.

#3: I never know what kinds of things I am going to find in the various drawers in our home when I go to look for something or put something away. The other afternoon, after I had folded the laundry, I discovered these two babies, presumably napping, when I went to put the clothing away. Sorry to have disturbed you, babies!

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#2: This one is similar to #3. I guess I should have written, I never know what kinds of things I am going to find ANYWHERE. Like when I went to retrieve the camera bag and charger to get ready for our upcoming vacation to Georgia. I finally found the bag behind the rocking chair in my bedroom (it had gone missing from its spot on the desk), and this is what I discovered inside:

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Some felt bread and cheese, paired with a piece of lettuce, one mushroom, a pink plate, and a shakable jar of chocolate sprinkles.

And then, not to be outdone by the bigger pocket, I found hidden inside the battery compartment, two little wooden cookies, waiting to be devoured by someone at some time.

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And just last night, as I was adjusting my pillow, my hand stumbled upon a crumpled up paper airplane. I swiftly removed it from its hidey spot and tossed it on the floor.

The bed is actually a favorite dumping ground for our elves. I’ve been poked in the ass so many times by princess crowns, wooden veggies, and baby doll hands, I should almost be at the point now where I’m checking under the covers nightly like Fraulein Maria looking for spiders before the thunderstorm.

And the #1 sign we are living among elves: Stuff goes missing. All the time. When in doubt, we simply check one of the girls’ purses/tote bags/backpacks/baskets etc. Or, head down to the basement, where after a week or more of unsupervised play, treasures—among trash—abound.

Just this morning, I was searching for Nora’s backpack, in which to store some playthings for our trip. Again, when I finally located it, I had to dump out its contents to make space for the stuff I wanted to put in it. Among the stash—probably used for a recent make-believe game of school—was a pile of coins, several puzzle piece cubes, a James Joyce novel, some kind of prayer booklet, a stripey-orange stuffed armadillo, one sandal, and a bathing suit. Hmmmm. Must’ve been an interesting day at school.

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Flash Update: As I was typing out this post today, I had to take a break to retrieve the baby from his bouncy seat. After I did—and I mean IMMEDIATELY after—Frances, who was getting ready to come color with me at the table, said, “Hole on, mama. I be right dere.”

And for the first time, as I glanced back over my shoulder (I almost didn’t bother to look!), I finally witnessed one of the elves at work. I strode across the room in an effort to reach the camera in time and—SNAP! Gotcha, elf! Totally busted.

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Should I be worried that my children are likely already developing compulsive behaviors???

How many t-shirts should one man own? Really. Please tell me what’s reasonable.

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My husband has seventy-two t-shirts. 72! (Yes, I counted). Granted, these include both long sleeve and short sleeve, as well as white undershirts. But still! He could wear a different t-shirt each day of the week for two-and-a-half months without having to do laundry. Ree-DIC-u-lous. Absolutely ridiculous. (Incidentally, when I point this kind of thing out to him, he always mentions how it’s kind of brilliant, given our tendency to fall behind with the laundry. What a wiseass.)

Now, I will be the first to admit that I love a good t-shirt. The super, super soft shirts. The ones you’ve had forever that are worn down just perfectly. The oversized ones that are great for sleeping in. The classic summer white tee. The tees that represent beloved sports teams or favorite vacation spots. I could go on, but I won’t. Because no one should own as many shirts as my hubs. As our four-year-old would say with a bunch of sass—seriously.

Here’s the thing. If we had a big house with a walk-in closet, or room in the bedroom for more than one DPP (dresser per person), I’d be OK with the outrageous number of shirts. But, as it is, we do not live in a mansion. We have a small house with two small closets and two small dressers which overflow way too easily.

Now, with the exception of the cloth diapers—Liam helps to wash these all the time, God love him—I do the laundry in the house. And, I fold and put away clothing too. Why is this significant?

Because when you try to stuff seventy-two clean t-shirts in drawers that are only meant to hold half that number, and you’re impatient like I am, you start to easily lose your shit when putting away the clean clothes. And then, you wind up doing wildly immature and nonsensical things when you, in fact, do lose your shit. Like throwing a stack of neatly folded tees into the deepest and darkest back corner of your husband’s closet, after you’ve asked him nicely, forty-six times, to please, for the love of all that’s holy, pare down the collection because it’s driving me INSANE. 

Every now and then he will start to look through the shirts in an attempt to get rid of a few, but he never does. The man doesn’t hang on to much, but he does love him some shirts.

Why does he feel the need to hang on to every running race shirt he’s ever received? I don’t know. Or all the sports ones, many of the same teams. Or the ones from all the pubs and taverns in every town he’s every lived and likely visited. If he’s so attached to the words on the shirts, surely some of the plain color tees could go out to the curb? Or bring us a buck or two in the upcoming yard sale? I mean, come on!

I’ll give him credit. A time or two he has removed some shirts and relocated them to a bin in the basement. His plan was to keep them on some kind of rotation. That never happened. 

I probably should just start sneaking some into the trash now and then when he isn’t looking. See if he misses them. I’ll only take from the way bottom of the drawer. Grab the ones that haven’t seen the light of day in a year or two. Because even in our darkest laundry moments, when I’ve neglected the growing mounds for well over a week—maybe two—the man still had two drawers nearly full of shirts. 

I mean, is this normal? Is this just a guy thing? If so, somebody please let me know, and I’ll try to be more tolerant. Or, find alternative spaces in our home in which to store the damn things. Or, alternative uses.

Off the top of my head, I’m thinking replacements for hand towels in the bathroom. Pillowcases maybe. Dish rags. Blankets for the girls’ baby dolls.

Guests in the home mention we are nearly out of toilet paper? Here, use this shirt. It’s OK. He’s got a duplicate. Yes, I know. Isn’t that silly, hanging on to two of the same shirt? Please, use it. Your ass will just love it. 

Keeping priorities straight: It’s not an easy thing for me to do.

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When I started the ‘Roost’ back in January, the purpose of the blog was to create a space for intentional ‘daily’ writing practice. And also, maybe, along the way, to record some anecdotes for the good old family memory book.

The blog got off to a well enough start, but creativity and productivity have stalled somewhat in recent months. I guess that’s to be expected, given we have a new baby in the house. There’s really not a lot of free time during which I can just run off to the local coffee shop to sit and stew with my thoughts each day, typing away at the keys. What with swim lessons, and nursing sessions, and inconsistent nap schedules—and—have I mentioned I’m now a mother of five two-to-three days a week, since I’ve agreed to help my sister by caring for her two kids this summer? (They are actually quite pleasant and helpful, so, so far, it’s been a pretty nice arrangement).

I’m a person who thrives—creatively—only when she has time to herself. Moments of quiet in which to daydream, or simply, process. The moments don’t need to be very long, but they do need to happen. Otherwise, I get cranky. I feel stale and overwhelmed. Defeated. Which is how I feel now.

I find it terribly disappointing when 8:30 p.m. rolls around on any given day when I haven’t written, or at least thought of something to write for the blog. Because by that time, if it hasn’t gotten done, it’s just not going to happen. Sleep is way more necessary than writing is important right now.

The truth is, I probably do have time each day to write. I just don’t make it my top priority. I choose to spend my time doing other things instead, hoping I’ll be able to write later. Always later. How is it that the things that quite possibly nourish and fulfill us the most—in my case writing and exercise and meaningful time spent with my kids—get pushed to the side in lieu of other, less important, but still urgent-seeming tasks nonetheless?

It’s like I have this mental checklist of things I need to accomplish before I do the things that I find pleasurable. 

Take a walk with the kids in the morning to get fresh air and much needed endorphins to start the day? Nope, gotta start in on the growing laundry pile. Play house with the kids, or make art at the table? Not yet. Kitchen’s a mess. Gotta clean it up. Get out the computer and write while the kids nap? Or, better yet, take a nap myself? Are you kidding? That’s the only time I have to tidy up the place and run the vacuum across the floor.

Liam has always tried to help me see straight. “Sit down and rest. Does that [insert meaningless chore] really need to be done right now?” Of course it doesn’t. Don’t people always advise: The vacuuming can wait. Right? It will always be there.

That’s the problem! It will always be there! So, it needs to be taken care of! Immediately! Every time! 

For only when the floors are clean, the dishes put away, the laundry folded and stashed in dresser drawers, can I permit myself the space within which to write and create, go on walks, to sit down and breathe.

Pretty effed up, huh? This is the way I work. The way I rationalize and compartmentalize. It’s compulsive, I know. So, as life with three little ones is extremely messy and loud, and relatively inescapable, you can understand why it’s been awhile since I’ve written, and why the posts have been infrequent. I’m trying to work on the priority thing.

I’ve started setting the laptop on the table in the mornings as a gentle reminder that I should sit and write whenever I have the opportunity. And, I’ve been trying to carve out some time to play with the girls a bit each day, to let loose and just have fun with them both. And, to talk to, make smiley faces at, or simply stare at the baby (he’s getting so big!). I even let myself give in to reading a nearly 500-page John Grisham paperback this past weekend. It’s pretty much all I did from evening Friday until I finished it on Sunday afternoon, thanks to the hubs for picking up some major parenting slack.

I do know how to relax, you know. It’s just that I have to do about thirty-seven things first, before I’ll let myself cave. I’m working on reducing that number substantially, or simply being able to say to the girls, “You want to have a tea party for the next five hours straight? You got it! But what about that mess in the living room? Oh, don’t worry about that, sweeties. In fact, fuck it all! Who’s pouring first?”

Well, minus the whole ‘fuck it all’ part. I imagine that part I’ll say in my head. You get the point, though.

Heard around the house.

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Me: Nora, what did you have for snack at school today?

Nora: Pretzels. They were yellow. Circles and sticks. They were gluten.

Me: You mean they were gluten-free?

Nora: No, I mean they were gluten, not free.

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Nora: Mama, have you ever seen or heard of a scooter without handles? ‘Cause I just saw a brown shirt boy riding by on a scooter without handles.

Me: Yeah, it’s called a skateboard.

Nora: Oh. (giggles)

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Me: Frances, where’s Baby?

Frances: (sadly) Dunno. Me lost her!

Me: Oh no! You did?

Frances: (looking around, spotting Baby) Me find her!

Me: Oh good! Where was she?

Frances: She hiding. Under book.

(Love me some cave girl speak!)

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Frances: I ludge you, mama.

Me: I ludge you too, Franny.