All I want for Christmas

I'm it!

I'm it!
Apparently, I have been tagged by the writer of this blog which I think is really great. I really admire Amanda Beth's ambition and commitment to style. Spend some time perusing!

I think being tagged means that I share random facts about myself and tag other people so they, too, can share. Here are the actual rules:

The Rules:
Link to your tagger and list the rules.
List 7 random facts about yourself.
Tag 7 people (and make sure you check back and see what they say).
If you're tagged, play along and pass it on!

1) Even though I can't sing, I once landed the lead in the musical "South Pacific." I lived in a very small town at the time so I think I got the part due to demographic default: I was the only one around who might possibly look like Nellie Forbush. After my brief career on stage, I retired permanently from musical theater.

2) By marriage, I am related to David Miller, star of "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes." (He is my cousin's husband.)

3) The colon (:) and semicolon (;) are my favorite punctuation marks; they are definately underrated.

4) I think Danny Elfman is underrated.

5) I considered dropping out of college to see if I could get hired to work on the set of "Wishbone." (I guess it's a good thing I stayed in school.)

6) I'm not a big fan of modern day celebrities. I prefer James Stewart, James Dean, Katharine Hepburn, Audrey Hepburn, Cary Grant, and Grace Kelly.

7) I prefer the old, curmudgeonly Martha Stewart to the post-prison kinder, gentler, friend-to-the-stars she has become.

I tag the following people:
Miriam

Jessica

Melissa
Kori
Ben
Chris
Laura
OK, peeps. Inspire us!

Coping With H.I.D.

In Utah, where I was raised, I was considered an old bride- almost an old maid. There was a collective sigh of relief from friends and family when my husband finally took me "off the market." I made it the first 27 years of my life single and unfettered. I have to admit, during those years, I often felt lonely and maybe even a bit jealous of my married friends. As happy as I am now to be a wife and a mother, I don't regret those single years. I had to accept that while many people are ready for marriage in their early twenties, I just wasn't. There was part of me that had to experience life on my own and learn to feel secure in myself before I could belong to anyone else.

During those single years, I bought my first car, rented several apartmets, dated and cried over break-ups, bought a dog, and established a career in teaching. Living alone in places where I started out knowing no one, I had to learn to depend on myself. There wasn't much I thought I couldn't do. I washed my own car, hung my own pictures (yes, usually on a trim nail driven into the sheet-rock with a high heel shoe), bought and assembled cheap furniture, painted walls, drove long stretches of lonely highway with only the dog and my stereo for company, and navigated my way (fumbling) through unfamiliar city streets.

I knew that when I met the right guy, he would love me for being established, secure, decisive, and independant. He wouldn't care if I was older than the average Utah bride, he would realize that my assests far out-weighed my age.

Now that I have been married six years, I wonder where that girl has gone. Not that I have lost my sense of self. Motherhood has convinced me more than anything I do have superhuman powers and a capacity to meet any challenge. However, I seem to be suffering from a terrible case of H.I.D. (husband induced dependancy). I no longer feel the need to be as intrepid as I once was. Where I used to do everything for myself, now I rely, very often, on my husband. Obviously, I can no longer so much as find the mailbox for myself. Brett is quite the handyman, so he doesn't even want me to attempt home improvement projects (he does them so much better.) His perfectionistic tendencies would never be OK with me missing the stud in the wall or with my shoddy painting skills. Am I insulted by this? Not in the least!

Most of all, I have lost all sense of direction while driving. I never was good at finding my way around, but I had to at least try. My H.I.D. has become so severe and acute that I am more than happy to let Brett drive while I sit shotgun and read a book. I no longer haul heavy objects, take out the trash, or open difficult jars. I will definately NEVER assemble furniture again. Sometimes, I miss the intrepid, independant girl I was, but I would never trade my present to have her back again.

Suffering from H.I.D.? Do share!

Re: Social Experiment

As promised, I am going to follow up on my checklist and provide my usual amusing (to myself only) commentary about my week without my husband. He returned bearing fudge so I decided to keep him. I was going to complete my report yesterday, but I was up grading papers until 2:00 AM the night before so I decided that if I tried to blog on that much sleep, more than my participles would be dangling. So, life without Brett:

I have to admit, it was nice to cut footloose for a few days. Overall, I did more shopping than usual (I had to fill those empty hours with something) and suprisingly, I found that some of my personal habits seemed to regress back to single life- not my pre-Brett single life, more like the single life of a bachelor. For instance, the day after he got back, Brett went out to the check the mailbox. He was met with an entire week's worth of mail that I forgot to pick up because he always picks up the mail. The idea that mail would still be accumulating in the mailbox even during Brett's abscence never crossed my mind. Also, I noticed that my dietary habits really took a dive without another adult to cook meals for. My kids ate an inordinant amount of pizza (frozen and otherwise). Meals were impromptu at best. Let's see what shall I serve the kids tonight? How about leftover pizza. What should I eat? Oh, vanilla wafers covered in left over frosting. Perfect.

Here is the run down of my week-without-Brett checklist.

1. Hit the Clinique counter at Dillards. CHECK!
I even ventured in with two two-year-olds. The toddlers were good just long enough for me to select my products and pick up my bonus days gift. We made it out of the store before we were asked to leave. I have my makeup and Dillards is still standing so, I would say I successfully completed that part of my to-do list.

2. Go grocery shopping with kids. CHECK!
Slightly less tricky than Dillards, but the same time bomb effect: shop as quickly and efficiently as possible and rush out the door before you can see anyone else's dirty looks because your three-year-old was rolling pumpkins across the floor of the produce section.

3. Make a giant shoe cake. CHECK!
Thus the leftover frosting. I wanted to provide a picture, but I don't have one just yet.

4. Find and hang new kitchen curtains. CHECK!
OK, I deserve very little credit for this one. My sister, Miriam, visited this weekend, so I saved this one for her. I am a cheapskate so I had to settle for some curtains from K-Mart's Martha Stewart line. What that means is they needed a bit of customizing. I am a notoriuosly awful seamstress so Miriam took over in the alterations department. Except, there was one panel that I thought I wouldn't need and them ended up needing later. Miriam had already left for home, but I had to have the project finished before Brett got home. Yikes! I had to sew!

Let me preface this part of my narrative by describing an existing snapshot of myself. There exists a picture of me sewing. (I am not going to share it because I am pregnant in it and I have really bad hair.) Anyway, in this picture it looks like I am hunched over the sewing machine with a cigarette in my mouth. I have so much anxiety about sewing no one would be surprised if it caused me to take up smoking. In fact, it is not a cigarette. It is a stitch-ripper kept handy because I end up spending more time using that than I do actually using the machine.

So I had to hem a curtain and I was literally in a cold sweat. My seam came out not nearly as nice as Miriam's or those done by nimble Chinese fingers, but I decided no one would look that closely at it anyway.

After I had my father-in-law hung the rods, the curtains were prepared to meet Brett upon his arrival home. I think Brett was pleased that I chose kitchen curtains with no apples or pictures of tea kettles on them.

5) Clean(ish) the house. CHECK(ish)

6) Organize the home office. Ha! ha! ha! hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

7) Fill the van with gas. I used just enough gas that the gas light turned on the morning after Brett arrived home. That worked out nicely.


So, I did accomplish most of what I had set out to do, but it really was more difficult especially since my two-year-old was despondant in the abscence of daddy and about day 6 my five-year-old asked me when things would go back to normal with tears streaming down her cheeks. My final analysis: Next time I'm going with him and leaving the kids with grandma! Perfect.

The Kind of Mom I'm Not or Please Pass the Milk, Please

I know that in my profile I mention that one of my three jobs is counseling breastfeeding moms. Between jobs, I have also been doing quite a bit of nonproductive blog surfing as a response to my post "Blogging about Blogging." I decided that if I ever want to gain a following as a blogger, I should probably be doing a bit more following of my own. Where to start? How about women whose interests are similar to mine? So, I searched profiles that mentioned breastfeeding. Inevitably, almost every mom who stated an interest in breastfeeding also incorporated buzzwords like "attachment parenting," "baby wearing," and "veganism." This is the part where I interrupt my current stream of thought for a disclaimer: please do not stone me for what I am about to say. I think these are great, altruistic mothers. They are clearly very involved and concerned parents. I do not relate to them.

I have heard the phrase "attachment parenting" before, but I have never really investigated what all "attachment parenting" entails. If it means having a two-year-old who has to touch you all night and drink a sippy cup while you're sleeping, count me in. If it means that you have to like it and admit that it stems from anything other than your parental apathy, count me out. My two-year-old still sleeps with me because I'm too darn lazy to get up in the night and deal with his tantrums. Period. End of story.

My kids don't eat organic foods and I have to admit there are some nights when they have had Pringles and fruit snacks for dinner. They eat a lot of candy on Halloween, too. They like McDonald's chicken nuggets. I guess I'm not in the "organic foods/ vegan" mom category, as so many breastfeeding moms seem to be.

I'm not sure about the term "baby-wearing" either. I am assuming it has something to do with slings. I used one once: when I took my 6 week old to Disneyland. (By the way, did you know, the "It's a Small World" ride is a great place to breastfeed? But I digress). I think I might be into baby wearing, but not in the sling sense. There is generally a baby attached to my arm, and often another trying to climb my leg. Once again, not my favorite situation.

I don't reuse plastic grocery bags, bake wholegrain bread, or knit. I probably won't storm a business rumored to have employed someone who gave a breastfeeding mom a dirty look. I am comfortable breastfeeding in public, but I wasn't at first. I do own a Shu Uemura eyelash curler (which I use daily); I love how I look in heels. I would carry a Coach bag. I am even guilty of reading BabyWise (don't gasp. Once again, I was much too apathetic for Ezzo-ism).

Sterotypes aside, I think sometimes women choose not to breastfeed because they feel they don't fit "the mold." In my line of work, I hear all too often, "I'm afraid to breastfeed; I'm just a teenage mom." Or, "I'm not sure I can breastfeed; no one in my family could." Breastfeeding extends beyond stereotypes and race. For me, it's not about politics. It is about uniting mother with child and mother with mother. I am a woman and a mom, so I breastfeed.

Social Experiment: While the Cat's Away

For the first time in our six year marriage, my husband is going to be gone for an entire week. Not that I won't miss him; I'm sure I will. However, I'm wondering how life will be different while I'm alone. In my mind, I'm imagining how perfect everything will be when he first steps into the house after his travels: the laundry all neatly folded and put away, the floors freshly mopped, the children peacefully reposing in their beds and the intoxicating scent of chocolate chip cookies with notes of pinesol wafting out to greet him as he opens the door. A simultaneous display of love and my independence. Yeah, right!

The reality is I am further behind than ever. He'll be lucky if the acrid smell of dirty laundry and stale bacon doesn't knock him out when he arrives home. Because the real question is, how will I be able to get anything done with just me and these kids? But hey, I'm up for the adventure; this test of my independence. So to prove my own daring, I have arranged a checklist of things I am going to attempt while he is gone just to prove that I can make it on my own:

1) Hit the Clinique counter at Dillard's for Clinque Bonus Days with whatever kids are in tow. (I'm not sure what this proves except that I know how to use the debit card. But, he probably already knows that.)

2) Go grocery shopping with the kids by myself (gulp.)

3) Make a giant shoe cake.

4) Find and hang new kitchen curtains. (OK. I might have to find someone else to hang them. It doesn't matter, I just want them hanging there when he walks in.)

5) Clean(ish) the house. (I have three kids under the age of six so yes, this is a goal . Besides, it will show off the new curtains better.)

6) Organize the home office (this is very low priority. Dillard's or home office cleaning? See what I mean?)

7) Learn how to open the gas tank on our minivan.

Hey, it could be worse, right? He could come home to find our bedroom made over to look like Forks, Washington or that new Coach handbag I've been coveting hanging on the doorknob. So, I think he's getting off rather easy.

I'll report back on the completion of my check list one a week from now.

Update: So far my husband been gone 2 nights and the most fun I've had was staying up till 1:00 AM laughing hysterically by myself over cake wrecks. I'm not complaining; that really is my idea of a good time. What would you do if your husband were away?

Blogging about Blogging

I once edited a literary magazine. It was a small production so my staff and I couldn't afford to be too choosy about which submissions we would accept. Because our magazine considered submissions from all literary genres; we did have to be somewhat discriminating. Anyone who has ever worked on staff for a college literary publication knows all that post entails: occassionally striking gold with some refreshing, unexpected submission, but more often than not, slogging through manuscript after manuscript of overwritten, cliche. . . crap.

Poetry is definately the greatest culprit for crap contribution in the annals of rejected college submissions. Some of my college chums and I have a running joke about our most hated poetic theme: dead babies. There are a surprising amount of dead baby poems submitted to college literary magazines for some unknown reason. (Though I must defend Elizabeth Bishop whose "First Death in Nova Scotia," I am quite fond of. There are, as we know, always exceptions). Dead babies aside, our second most hated poetic theme was writing about writing (which actually William Carlos Williams pulled off with aplomb; also an exception, but hey, it's William Carlos Williams, so are we surprised?)

So even though I know I am breaking my own rules, I am going to blog about blogging because I ate hotwings last night (a big mistake) and, as a result, am not sleeping. Instead, I am obsessing which is something I am prone to do in the wee hours. So like all new bloggers, I ask, "Where is everybody?" "Is anyone actually reading this?"

Admittedly, I perused several popular blogs during my nocturnal foray on the internet. I discovered that some of them are better than mine. Some are not. Some are, as Tracy, my blogging consultant, pointed out nothing better than really bad reality television. So I ask myself, is there a place for me in blogging? Can I build a fan base beyond my own friends and family? (and by the way Mom, could you please disguise your name with something like Annie Dillard or Edward Gorey or Carolyn Keen so people don't know that I have to recruit family members to leave comments?) Anyway, whether there is or not, I have staked my claim on this little slice of cyberspace and, like all squatters, I am not going anywhere without putting up a good fight. Ignore me if you will. See if I care.

Having voiced my blog insecurities, I now realize why people HATE reading poems about writer's block and I now present the final quesion "publish or delete?" "publish or delete?"