When Momma ain't happy . . .

I've been trying to get in a better frame of mind before posting again.

It hasn't happened. This year has just been so hard. The kids have been sicker than ever. The collarbone incident hasn't helped.

Family members dying. Newspaper acquaintances dying.

Yard all torn up for massive city project. Entire 15-foot swath of trees gone out of our backyard, creating a road to the neighbors'. The entire neighborhood has taken to walking through our yard, and we can't take it much more.

Kids can't play outside because of constant construction and constant presence of backhoes and bulldozers.

Work isn't fun. It is just hard. I'm finding it very hard to stay motivated day in and day out. Not sure I like the direction my job has lurched into because of new leadership, either. But no real options for escape.

Husband's job responsibilities are changing. He's stressed. I'm stressed.

I've been morose and cranky for about two weeks. If you can think of a way to cheer me up, post away.

On Madame Pomfrey

Like every other geek in the land, I spent my weekend reading Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. I started at 12:30 a.m. Sunday, slept for about four hours, went to church, then finished around 7 p.m. Sunday night.

By 7:30 p.m. Sunday, I was wishing I had Hogwart's doctor Madame Pomfrey's magical powers to heal any injury.

Especially broken bones.

My son was goofing off, like he always does. I was nursing my youngest. My older daughter was zoned out on the couch by me, watching some show on TV.

My son loves to sit on the coffeetable. He's been all over it since he was one. I've long since given up trying to keep him off of it.

He was sitting on it. He moved to scoot back. He scooted diagonally. Lost his balance. Fell. I watched in horror. Tried to unlatch my little one and toss her at her sister to catch him.

He landed right on his left collarbone.

I just knew, watching, that he'd broken it.

My son has a high tolerance for pain. It's one of the reasons we can't keep him out of daredevil trouble. Normal bumps and bruise never faze him.

This was no normal bump.

He cried for almost 30 minutes. We gave him Motrin right away. My husband made banana milkshakes to calm everyone down. We called our pediatrican.

By the time we reached her, we decided the best thing to do would be to put him in a sling, give him more Motrin, and try and get some rest. First thing in the morning, he'd go to the doctor.

That's what we did, and the doctor confirmed it: Broken left collarbone. We have the films to prove it. He snapped that sucker in two.

So, now he looks like a little linebacker with his brace (because you can't put a cast on a collarbone). I bought out Target's collection of 4T button-down shirts a mere two hours ago.

All in all, he's fine. He's even bonded with Dad, who managed to break his left collarbone no fewer than three times as a kid.

And yes, the genetic jokes and like father, like son jokes have been running rampant around here.

Doesn't change the fact that if I had any magical powers at this very moment, the ones I most envy are Madame Pomfrey's.

Blind as a . . .

Criminy, this has been a bad week. I went to my opthomologist, and it was confirmed that I need bifocals. Joy. At 32, that's not what you want to hear.

He informed me that the best thing to do for my eyes would be to quit my job. Editing puts too much strain on them, and I have a family history of macular degeneration. So my chosen profession is probably among the worst for my genes.

So, that's just great. Find a new job, or be blind as a bat someday.

Having watched my grandmother slide into almost full blindness over the past three years, I'm pretty sure I don't want that.

But all in all, as bad as that news was (and devastating to me), at least I have the option of getting a second opinion. And I will. And if the news is still bad, well, then we'll figure it out, I suppose.

I'll take my news over the news that my sister-in-law's brother got recently. He was in Iraq once, now he's back. Check out Gabe's blog (My Beautiful Vacation), and find out what it is really like over there.

Worldwide Mommy

I hear about the London attacks on NPR as I was driving to work Thursday morning. In order, here are my thoughts:

1) Dear Lord.

2) What sort of world have I brought children into?

3) Oh, please, please, please let my bil/sil not have taken a jaunt down to London without telling us.

4) Oh cr@p, do we have students in London this semester? Where the hell is that uni that they study at in relationship to this mess?

Much, much later, once I've confirmed that we don't have any students in London this semester, I find out that a good friend's brother was in London that day, headed to a professional conference. I don't find out until Friday that he's okay, albeit in the general area at the time of the attacks.

Mommies worry. It's what we do best. Thursday, I spent a good portion of my day worrying about people I'm not even a mommy to.

If you haven't been there, you can't know

Like most of the nation, I've watched the Tom Cruise public meltdown into brainwashed Scientology lunacy.

I wish our news were focused on something important, like say the stalled nomination of John Bolton for U.N. Ambassador or the seemingly deliberate move to undermine public broadcasting, but there you go.

So Tom's been amusing, at least. But his attack of Matt Lauer on the Today show was disturbing, and his derision of postpartum depression was disturbing. I mean, the man adopted two children, he's never seen what can happen on a hormonal roller coaster ride after childbirth.

I've never been diagnosed with PPD. I might have had a mild case of it after my first was born, but we moved, and the old ob didn't pick up on it, the new pediatrican wasn't watching for it, and hey, eight years ago, no one really took the baby blues as seriously as they do today.

I had suicidal thoughts at moments, though, and I really never connected with my older daughter until she was a toddler. Those are two huge red flags now that every ob and pediatrican we've had since has asked about after the other two were born. Thank God we muddled through okay.

I have had friends who were diagnosed. It isn't pretty. Vitamins, as Cruise so cheerfully offered up, won't fix it. It's a dark, dark, dark place to be.

So I'm glad Brooke Shields called him out today in The New York Times.

Take a read here