Stumbling Towards Perfect

By now enough of the world has gasped in horror over the (alleged) insensitive and offensive statement  Jillian Michael's made in regards to pregnancy. She's been quoted as saying a bunch of stuff ( no one really seems to know what the actual quote was ) that basically boils down to her decision that, while she wants to experience motherhood, she doesn't necessarily want to experience pregnancy. She wants to adopt. She's been quoted as saying she doesn't want to get pregnant because she couldn't handle doing that to her body. And the world has since condemned her very selfish desires, saying that anyone who puts vanity first should most definitely not be allowed to parent. Perhaps I'm alone in my ideas, but here's what I'm thinking: Good for you, Jillian Michaels, in knowing what your hang-ups and personal demons are. Good for you in being self-aware and knowing that if you did have a baby through a natural pregnancy you'd probably struggle

* Dotter participated in her very first public speaking (forensics) competition. She did not want to go. She did not want to talk. She did not want to be judged. She did not want anything to do with it whatsoever. But she went. Fear wrapped tight around her. She snuck her hand into mine and wouldn't let go as we walked through thousands of people crowding the hallways of a building she'd never seen before. If you don't know Dotter, you wouldn't know that she doesn't do well with the unknown. When it was her time she walked stoically to the front of the room. Performed her piece with all those eyes watching her. And she did beautifully! So beautifully, in fact, that she earned a trophy!! She was bummed; she wanted the blue ribbon because it was the prettiest. Go figure. * Big V played house dad all weekend. He watched the kids, did the laundry, made dinners and washed dishes. He picked up some groceries, organized a play date for Dotter, and made sure everyone took

I'm in another show. We open tonight. It's actually a compilation of monolgues and short skits that tie in nicely at the end, and have this running theme about women and relationships - totally my kind of thing. Except my co-actor in one of the scenes I was in decided she didn't actually want to do it because she had a lot going on so she quit. Worked for me - less for me to memorize, I thought. Except the director didn't think that way. She managed to pull together a last-minute replacement meaning the scene is still in. A couple nights ago I was sitting at a table before rehearsal with a couple other actors explaining how nervous I felt with opening night right around the corner. "I'm just not confident in my lines right now. I'm nervous because I haven't seen the set..." when suddenly New Lady comes running up to me from across the room, arms stretched out before her. Stopping suddenly in front of me she places both hands together in this litt

I'm finding it quite difficult to be in a relationship while raising kids. With my two girls it was just me. Me in charge of making enough money. Me in charge of deciding what bill to pay or what groceries to buy. Me in charge of laundry, and choosing a doctor, and deciding what time bedtime is, and when they should get a haircut (and how short). Me in charge of getting the oil changed in the car and the linens changed on the bed. Me in charge of choosing a bank, a dry cleaner, a vehicle, a school, a kitchen table, a set of dishes. It was on my shoulders to decide what kind of family traditions I would like to let go of, continue, and begin. I was the only one who decided if my kids would be the kind who went to the movies, or church, or the park, or a fast food restaurant. I've always been the only one to hold the remote. Hold my child's hand. Hold the new lease for the new apartment. Me, me, me. And now I've got this... this... this foreign relationship thing. Thi

Apparently it was burn-your-esophagus-with-chai day at Starbucks. Not that I don't love a nice, slow herbal burn, I was just expecting something a little less, uh, fierce. You know, more of the soothing, calming attributes and less of the "my throat is bleeding" characteristics. Disappointed? You betcha. This was just another notch in my PMS Sucks belt. I was never bothered much by my monthly "womanly duty." It would kind of quietly approach and quickly leave, never hanging around very long. To say it's ramped up some since I had the second kid would be a gross understatement. Now I find myself a sobbing mess trying unsuccessfully to pick out frozen pizza at the local WalMart. "... but I don't know if I like pepperoni... and I don't know what's cheaper... I can't do math... and I'm so fat! And my hair is stringy and gross and I want to move and how come I can't afford a new couch? My life sucks so bad !" Add to th

Big V didn't have to work yesterday. Instead of the usual humdrum he hung out with Cletus the Used to be Fetus. They were so busy visiting friends they weren't able to do any housework. No dishes. No laundry. No sweeping. That was all lovingly left for me upon my return of my busy day. Big V didn't have to work today, either. Instead of a repeat of yesterday he decided to spice things up a bit. Super Nanny hung out with Cletus while V went visiting his friends. But I know Super Nanny will do the dishes, probably some laundry, and most definitely will sweep. There's also a strong probability that dinner will be waiting. This is why I love her more than Big V. Don't feel bad; he's completely aware of my feelings. Of course, V is also incredibly competitive and doesn't like coming in second, so he tried to woo me this afternoon by asking me out on a lunch date. I like lunches, so I said, "yes." Reminiscent of my high school days he showed up giggl

My mother taught me quite well. Financial security is a must. In order to obtain financial security you must simply live below your means. Work hard, earn money, save money THEN buy whatever it is you were saving for. No money? You don't buy it. Need money? Get another job. Don't want another job? Stop spending on things you don't need. She taught me well. I just haven't learned very well. I've got the budget thing down. Our budget, it's like a work of art. The columns, the categories, the totals - it brings tears to my eyes it's so good. If we follow this budget to the letter we will not only have all the debt paid off in two years (including vehicles; excluding mortgage), we'll be able to ship both of the older children off to week long camp this summer. And that is much more motivating than having the car paid off. But, of course, we don't follow the budget to the letter. It's treated more like wall art than a working document. "H

Cletus the Used to be Fetus can crawl. I am the exact opposite of ecstatic. Coincidence? I think not. So it's not really a full blown crawl yet, but it's a hand, hand, hop-through-with-both-legs-like-we're-vaulting kind of thing. Really pretty cute, except that means he's mobile. When you're the first child mobile is awesome. "Six and-a-half months and crawling ?! He's an absolute  genius !" When you're the third child it's more like, "Crap. Now the kid is crawling. That means I have to actually sweep the floor on a regular basis. And probably mop." As Cletus grows it means I lose more freedom. No more plopping the baby on a blanket in the middle of the living room floor and walking to the bathroom. Now it's a choice: Bring the baby with and tell him no every time he tries to open the cabinet under the bathroom sink, or speed pee and hope to be back before he's pulled down the dvd player. I ran down to throw a load of cl

I worked with weird guy's mother. She was nice. Her son seemed nice. Kind of nervous. (At the time I thought it endearing.) Weird guy's mother convinced me to go out on a date with weird guy. I suppose I shouldn't give away the date by describing him as weird... We went to the movies. Even though he lived in a small city which had two functioning theaters, he figured we'd drive an hour-and-a-half south to meet up with his sister and his sister's boyfriend. Odd. It was snowing. I would've preferred to stick around town, but whatever. This would give us time to talk and get to know each other. (Or opportunity to drive to the middle of nowhere and dump my body .) So weird guy starts talking. And talking. And doesn't stop. I figure he's nervous. (Again, slightly endearing. I know. I needed professional help. I got it after this date.) So, weird guy is talking about his mom and his sister and things he did growing up and that the government wants everyon

I was going to go rock-wall climbing last night but by the grace of God that was nixed and an evening with the gals at the cottage was about to ensue. (Thank you, God, for realizing I am in no shape to climb up a wall.) So I sang my way home - yes, sang. As in, radio cranked with Lady GaGa as my duet partner right after Pink and I rocked the Nissan. Anyway. Jolly, I was, as I walked in the house, because what could be better than a glass of wine among friends? Especially when the significant other was tethered to the house with the teen, the baby and the kid in the middle. However, that jolliness did not last very long. "I just called you," Big V announced. "Sorry. I was working on my demo." "What?" "Nevermind." "The baby needs to go to the hospital." "What?! Why?! What happened?" "I don't know..." "You don't know? Is he bleeding? Can it wait about 3 glasses of wine?" "What?&q

Since I had the baby six months ago but still look very much pregnant (I could seriously get contracted as Buddha's belly double) I decided to force myself into doing something other than sitting in front of a computer, or a television, or a chocolate cake. I organized the Office Climb, which is pretty much me and my two male co-workers talking a lot about wanting to reduce our belly size, but doing very little about it. (The one guy keeps hauling in donuts and Coke. He should be forced to scrape up my crumbs with bamboo under his nails.) Every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday we vowed to climb up this super duper high hill across the street from our office. There's a bike path that defies gravity, so it's perfect for a wanted calorie burn. Except today is Tuesday. And an election. And election days mean two things: (1) you vote, and (2) there's an awful lot of food in this office. Election Officers like to eat. And they eat good. We're talking donuts and orange juice

I sent Dotter to school today. With a zit. That's right. The poor 8-yr old had a huge pimple on her chin. I tried not to draw attention to it. What the heck is a pimple doing on a second grader's chin? And it was a pimple. It wasn't a bug bite. Or a pimple you could convince others was a bug bite. It was a pimple. Plain and simple. And ready to pop.

I get giddy when I see an envelope in my mailbox with a hand written return address. It usually means a thank you, an invite, or anything other than a requirement to send in some money in exchange for heat or electricity. Imagine, if you will, the overflowing excitement I experienced when I came home to find a HUGE BOX on my doorstep. A BOX, people. A really big box ! Now I know I've told you about the pending arrival of a jar of salsa... I thought I was getting one jar of feisty fun. One. I thought I hit paydirt with a singular jar of Feisty Mama Salsa  ... But, oh no - this box was way too big for a single little jar.... This was a party in a box! Invites, plates, napkins, a cute, adorable tunic to wear at the fiesta, and thank you's. The only thing missing was the mustache & sombrero!  (And here I thought I was waiting for a jar!) BUT WAIT!! That's not all! There was more! Much... much... more! CAN YOU STAND IT?! Twelve jars  from the Mama herself.

I like how accommodating the Easter Bunny is. He's so in tune with different family traditions and that's why there are so many variations on what happens with all those eggs. In our house we hard-boil eggs and decorate them. The dye gets spilled on my only unstained dish towel that I own. Fingers look like a judicial booking gone bad. Everyone complains because the purple looks more like khaki. Good times all around. Then the eggs get stored in the fridge until the Easter Bunny tip-toes in, while we're all sound asleep, and hides those eggs in silly spots around the house. Although it's not so funny when you can't find one of those darn eggs and the rabbit didn't even think about leaving a stupid map and you know in three days that still hidden egg is going to start smelling something fierce, especially with this warm, sunny weather we've been having....

Car squeals into parking lot; slams on brakes. Man in white shorts and pastel green polo shirt jumps out of car, runs into building: "Where's your bathroom?!" he shouts. "All the way down the hall, through the....." Man takes off running, yelling, "Gotta go or you'll have a mess on your hands!" Way too much information, sir. Way too much.

Most days Ms. Rosie comes to our house to watch Cletus. I do nothing but say good morning and go on my way. We have Ms. Rosie - except on Thursdays. Thursdays are a free for all. Thursday mornings are hectic; due only to the fact that I am held personally responsible for packing the baby up and delivering him safely (and somewhat on time) to whoever happens to be watching him. Today Grandma got the goods. I'm too unorganized and unmotivated to pack up diaper bags the night before and I'm too lazy to get up early to do it, so I'm left with chaotic franticness, attempting to get both Cletus and I ready and out the door at a time that will more than likely make me late for work anyway. This morning was no different. I cursed having to take a quicker shower, cursed not being able to find a pair of socks, and cursed having to open up a pack of diapers because there weren't enough on the changing table. I shoved a change of clothes and bottles and formula and bibs into the