Marriage and Tori Amos

We've been married 16 years, people.

I know. I know. I don't look old enough to have been married that long. Much less have a kid going on 15.

Note: Kid 3 in photo not the one that is almost 15.

Blame my husband. He's the one who insisted that we get married immediately after we graduated from college in 1995. I wanted to wait. I wanted to take my time planning a wedding. I wanted to live on my own for a little longer.

He won. Only argument he's ever won, if you listen to him.

The thing is, if you look at Hollywood, or television, or most pop references, you think marriage is this totally easy thing. Find soulmate. Marry soulmate. All good, forever and ever Amen.

It is so not that.

Marriage is work. I know, I know. A lot of you know this. It is a trite thing to say. But it is true.

Which brings me to Tori Amos.

We -- contrary to popular opinion -- have actually had rocky moments in the last 16 years. It has not always been easy. I can recall some ugly, ugly moments where things could have gone horribly wrong had we not worked at this whole stuck-together-for-life thing.

Tori Amos's China resonates with me. Listen to the lyrics. Married couple. Walls built up. Living their lives. No talking. No talking with listening to each other, at least.

Listening is hard.

It is also crucial sometimes to make things work. Listen to the wistfulness in this song, and you can hear how very hard it can be to break through the walls that are erected. It doesn't have to be hateful. Day-to-day life, living parallel lives and trying to work, care for the kids, deal with the house, the neighbors, the volunteer crud.

It takes a toll. You build walls without even realizing it. That doesn't even get into the misunderstandings, the differing priorities, in-laws, backgrounds, perceptions, life stuff.

I'm a reporter, but there are times when I have not been a good listener.

Tori's song reminds me of the consequences of not listening. It reminds me of the consequences of letting things build up to the point that you are strangers living in the same house.

Sixteen years. It's been worth every minute, the good, the painful, and the hilarious.

So, this.

Working Mom, with just-graduated-kindergartener

And scene:


University office building. Early work morning. Mom has just taken chairs from around office and used blanket that she normally uses to fend off the a/c chill from vents above and created a "tent."

Child in tent.

Mom at computer.

Dad at office, miles away. If blocked, have father off stage, reading texts as disembodied voice.


Mom types through scene, working. Child talks from under tent. Also can pop out at will, interrupting with new drawings, requests for highlighters to use as markers, and Nintento DS assistance.

As told through texts from parent to parent. May be read aloud on stage.


DAD: Woohoo! Page views are spiking this morning. It is a
good day. It's looking really good for us meeting the monthly goal.

MOM: Yay!
Kid is camped out in a "tent" made of my chairs and a blanket I have here.
I'm plowing through email.
Groan.


DAD: Enough room to bring the actual princess tent? :-)


MOM: No.


Sent at 8:19 AM on Tuesday


MOM: First meltdown over DS. Also, no stylus. Grrr.


DAD: Oh wonderful.


MOM: Sigh.
Three and a half more hours.

DAD: I'm starting to think we should have kept that
portable DVD. This is the exact moment it would be helpful.

MOM: Yes, but, she'll manage.


Sent at 9:04 AM on Tuesday
MOM: "How much longer 'til lunch, Mom?"


Sent at 9:13 AM on Tuesday
MOM: Just sent you a link to a pool. Thoughts?


Sent at 9:19 AM on Tuesday
MOM: annnnnddddd now we are pouting because I won't go home. Sigh.
I wish I knew a college student in town willing to earn some extra cash.


Sent at 11:30 AM on Tuesday
DAD: Very sorry.


MOM: She's just being a brat, albeit a quiet brat.

Sent at 11:45 AM on Tuesday
MOM: Hear that? That's the sound of silence. It is beautiful.


Truly, it wasn't horrible. Wasn't great. Can't wait for eldest to be done with finals so she can earn her pay as a sitter.

Three years left

That seems melodramatic, and yet it is completely true.

I have three years left with my eldest.

I was sitting at the band concert two weeks ago, suffering through three different bands' worth of music. Then we hit the A1 band, mostly juniors and seniors. They honored the seniors who were receiving scholarships.

One's earned the right to attend the Eastman School of Music. I started to tear up, and I don't even know the young woman.

It got worse. The eldest's band director has a 26-year tradition of playing "Stars and Stripes Forever" as the last song for the seniors. Each one stood up, walked to the front of the stage. They played their best. This included the seniors who didn't ever make A1 band; they came up from seats specially placed nearby.

I was crying. Seriously crying. I barely know most of those kids. The clarinetist I know best, because she eased the way for the eldest as a freshman this year.

My first thought: I have to bring a box of tissues three years from now, because I am not going to make it.

My second thought: Dear God. I only have three more years.

My friends who have been through this already have warned me that the high school years go so fast.

It is easy to forget that, as you struggle to get through each week with band, soccer, Scouts, church, obligations. You miss the forest for the trees.

In my years as her mom, I've fretted about this, and this, and this.

In retrospect, they weren't that big of a deal.

Three years. I'm going to try and make the most of them before she grows up, goes to college, and leaves us to become her own person.

The value of video games

I know, I know. They are evil.

But really, they aren't.

I bought Batman Lego for the kids last week. They've been learning the game. I won't lie, we've had meltdowns when the little one doesn't figure out the moves as fast as the others. (Mostly from the middle one, who has little patience for those who don't catch on to details immediately. He gets it from me. It's a tough impulse to squelch. We're working on it.)

They are learning logic, because Lego does a great job of setting up logic games in the bigger realm of the game.

They are learning to cooperate. The game goes faster if you work together.

They are learning patience. Slowly.

But most of all, they are learning to be siblings and deal with others who do not necessarily follow their worldview. After years of university work, this is an important skill, and one that many do not have.

That said, that doesn't mean they don't act like Bart and Lisa Simpson in mid-sibling rivalry throttle occasionally. But we're getting better. Really.

Train wreck

Ever have one of those days where everything piles up, from meetings to appointments to projects to kid pick ups to fundraisers?

Then one little thing comes in and blindsides you?

Then everything leaves the rails in a cataclysmic disaster that could best be illustrated by one of those multi-car train pile ups.

Like this:



Yeah, this has been one of those days.

They grow too quickly

So, today, I was chatting with a friend whose baby is six months old. She couldn't believe how quickly time passed. I couldn't either. It seemed like just yesterday she went on maternity leave.

It seemed like just yesterday that my baby was scooting across the room, crawling like crazy.

Then I chatted with another friend who bought our son's train table. Her son is much younger, and he and his sister have been playing with it nonstop. It did nothing but gather dust in our house.

I sobbed as I packed it up. I could remember the day we gave it to our son. He was 2. He was so very, very happy. He had the cutest golden curls, which he promptly got caught in the mechanical Thomas the Tank Engine.

Most of my friends have younger children. My oldest is now 14. She was fretting because a boy she likes at high school didn't send her anything for Valentine's Day. Knowing how young, brainy, slightly geeky freshmen boys are, we reminded her that he probably didn't even think of such a thing.

When did that happen? When did my baby start caring about BOYS?

I am so not ready to lose my babies. Can't I just keep them small? Please?

Helvetica

You know you are a font geek when:

• You watch a documentary on a font.
  
  
• Your kids look at you like you are insane because you are watching a documentary about a font.
  
  
• You and your significant other both look at each other when they interview Hermann Zapf and you both think "Dingbats" at the same time.
  
  
• You think that being international font marketer sounds like a cool job.
  
  
• You know Tobias Frere-Jones designed Gotham.

Why yes, we do own both wood and lead type. We also own a coffeetable constructed from old typecases and type. One of the best gifts we were ever given. Thanks, Brenda and Rob!

In light of recent events

So, um, where's the pink?

I got tired of it.

I switched to pink as my personal theme after my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer three years ago. It was a huge symbolic f-you to cancer.

I was ticked. My mom had none of your typical risk factors. It was only her insistence on the boob-squish that resulted in early diagnosis, treatment, and Thank you, God, a great prognosis.

My red hair and pink do not generally go together. But pink is the color of those who support the fight against breast cancer. So I changed it up. I blogged in pink. I wore pink sweaters and dresses.

Anyone who tells you adults can't be childish and petty hasn't met enough adults. We can. We may just display our childishness in strange ways.

I've mellowed a bit since that angry time. This past year I've tried to gain some perspective and figure out where I want to go from here. Note to my 20-something-aged readers: You don't ever really figure it out. You change, and you rethink, and you start over again.

So, in 2011, I've decided I've moved beyond pink.

Somewhat.I still have the pink sweater. Pink and red hair do go together. I say so.

I'm doing things for me. I am running in a 5K again, because I can. (as soon as I kick this nasty sinus thing I caught.)

I am lurking less on the dark corners of the Internet in the name of "research" and spending more time writing creatively. I miss that, and these past 18 months have been all about getting a job, keeping a job, and just staying afloat. Writing and running and piano playing and the things I enjoy just seemed to fall by the wayside.

I'm taking my life back.

I am going to land a job as an adjunct, because I miss teaching. That's a part of me that has been lost, too. I'm taking it back.

I'll still rock the pink. I'm just planning to be a bit more reserved and adult about it.

Death, you suck

You stole two classy ladies from us today. One would absolutely have some sarcastic comment to make about my comparing her with Elizabeth Edwards, but there you go. You don't deserve them.

You know what, Death?

Donne's way more eloquent than I can be right now. He says it best. So

Death Be Not Proud

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Been a while

Sorry. It's been a busy year.

I got a job.

I worked. A lot. And worked on a web redesign.

I got a new job. Worked. And worked on a new redesign.

I've been horribly bad. I'll try to be better. Promise.

It has been crazy

I'm beginning to think I'm never going to have a quiet week.

School started. Web redesign at work. iPhone app development. Band camp. Marching season.

So, um, sorry. More to come. Until then, a photo of our one quiet, relaxing weekend: A hole created by rushing water, Pendernales Falls, Texas. Sort of a metaphor for what I have to push through to get through the collection of things I need to accomplish lately. :-)

Squee!

I am such a geek fangirl.

My son started reading Philosopher's Stone tonight. :-)

The difference a year makes

So, one year ago we moved from Missouri to Texas.

To say our teen daughter was upset, full of angst, and depressed really doesn't cover it. She was pleading for us to stay even after the house was sold, the car and moving van loaded, and we were driving through Oklahoma.

One year ago this weekend, we packed her scared -- though she'll never admit that -- sad self into a church van and waved goodbye. It was a retreat/camp for young teens, and we figured that would be the easiest way for her to make friends. She hated us for doing it.

I worried and fretted the entire time she was gone, by the way. Would she make friends? Would she sulk the entire time? Would she get hurt?

She was radiant upon return. Not only did she make friends, she climbed some insanely high cliff, grabbed a brass ring, and rappelled down. She was one of a very few who did that.

It was the first time she had smiled in weeks.

This year, one year later, she stuffed her bags again. She checked in, was immediately hugged by her friend Mary, and then bounded off to help. All smiles from the start.

Amazing the difference a year makes.

Consequences

We've all been there.

You make a decision that seemed good at the time.

Then, things happened.

There were consequences. Perhaps unintended. Perhaps the kind you didn't foresee because you didn't investigate the ramifications of your decision before you went ahead.

This has popped up a couple of times this past month for us.

The eldest was bummed at her graduation for a bit because she wasn't winning any scholarships. Name after name was called to be honored, but not hers.

We explained later that she didn't receive any scholarships because she didn't apply. She was going to the awesome public high school, the one with the awesome band program and architecture program. No scholarships needed.

Middle child runs into consequences all the time. He recently had to pony up $10 of hard-earned cash to replace the DS cord he gnawed to smithereens. (We're actually lucky Mr. Oral Fixation didn't electrocute himself. I'm sure he was doing it while it was plugged in.)

Youngest is learning all about consequences these days. That baby attitude won't fly when you are a five-going-on-six kindergartener-to-be.

It happens at work all the time. I know I'm not the only lone voice crying in the wilderness out there. More than once, I'm sure, we've all tried to point out the consequences of actions taken, only to have to deal with the messed-up results later.

You could even say that we, as Americans, are all dealing with consequences.

Most of us idly sat by and trusted our government to do its job. We didn't ask questions. We didn't push media outlets to investigate more when the past administration was pretty buddy-buddy with energy companies. We didn't ask questions about how quickly the new administration might make changes.

Now, with the Deepwater Horizon disaster, we are all suffering from unintended consequences. We didn't intend for this to happen. Nor did the engineers involved, I'm sure.

It happened all the same. Now we have to deal with our mess.

CrazyBusy

This week was already a mess of meetings and social media session prep.

Add in a dead dryer. An injured cat. Last-minute help to daughter filling out Jr. National Honor Society application. Um, some other stuff I can't remember.

Hey, scientists: How's that cloning thing coming? 'Cause I could use one. Or ten.

Me v. MommyMe

It was the episode of "Parenthood" last week that really hit me. The mom was trying to explain something to the teen daughter, trying to prove that her voice had value. The teen was, of course, blowing her off.

It took the dad taking the teen daughter to the park her mom helped create during her years on city staff to prove that mom not only had worth, mom did some pretty cool things pre-kids.

That's me. That's every one of my friends.

It's like we live two lives, constantly in tension. There's the Us-Who-Do-Career-Things. We do damn cool work. I've put together textbooks, edited and written stuff that city planning students are apparently forced to read as coursework. I've edited websites and alumni magazines.

Heck, I just presented at a major conference last week as an expert in a session. Scary, I know. But true.

My kids are oblivious. They only know me as Mom, washer of clothes, finder of stuff, cooker of food.

I have tried to show my eldest that I do cool things. Meh. She won't even read my books.

It isn't just Mommies who get this treatment, apparently. My husband presented at a different session. We were gone four days. We came back, the kids shrugged, and when we mentioned at dinner how our presentations went, the eldest looked at us funny and said, "You presented?"

Perhaps that is how it should be.

I never knew, until he was too old to care, that my crotchety grandfather was apparently well-known enough to win multiple awards for corn production, that he was one of the men on the board of our church who rebuilt the structure from scratch (although I do wish now he'd stuck to his opinion that they needed 12 more pews in back and put the choir in a true loft), who fought the county commission and had them construct a real bridge, rather than an old-fashioned ford crossing, over the creek near our family's farm.

But it sure would be nice for the younger generation to see that we have more than one facet of our identity, kwim?

Family chaos crazy

Sorry folks. It's been insane lately.

It does not help that blogging non-work things is verboten in the current job, so by the time I make the commute home, make dinner, deal with kid crisis, laundry, and whatever freelance work is on my desk, I just haven't had it in me to write anything.

It isn't going to get better any time soon.

But we are alive. Easter was great. First Communion next. If you are in ACES, you'll be able to meet Mr. and Mrs. Mommy-Tracked, because we'll be in Philly presenting.

After that, it is home, 8th birthday party for the son, sleepover for the eldest. Then we crash.

So, maybe I'll be back. Maybe it will be May. But I"m alive.

Olympic-sized fans

My kids have gone nuts.

They have set up a schedule.

They watch the Olympic Games. Then they pull out Mario and Sonic at the Winter Olympic Games and compete in their own version.

My littlest is ahead. :)

Disney: A reflection

There was a time, not that long ago, when I would jump at the chance to see a Disney animated film. I could not wait to see Beauty and the Beast. Lilo and Stitch is among my favorites.

But there have been a lot more misses: Hunchback (which I have forbidden any of my children to see because of some scenes). Hercules. Pocahontas.

And now The Princess and the Frog.

Disclaimer: My youngest is princess-mad. Specifically Disney-Princess-mad. I've seen 'em all. Multiple times. I love most of the Princess movies, myself. I have issues with Ariel and her weak-willed self, but I can deal. (And of course the daughter LOVES Ariel the most. I'm trying to sway her to Belle, a better role model, IMHO.)

So we had to go to Princess and the Frog. I had high hopes for this one. I really did. The animation is beautiful. The storyline, not so much. The songs, not memorable.

When we came back from the movie, the older two asked me to say a few funny lines.

I couldn't come up with one. Not one line, not one moment that stuck with me. In Any Way.

That tells you where Disney is getting it wrong.

The story sells. The hook into our emotional core brings us back.

We re-watch Cinderella because the story is good and we want Cinderella to defeat the evil Stepmother. She's the underdog. Who among us hasn't been the underdog?

Coraline sticks with us because the story is good and we have ALL hated our parents and wanted something different. Up was funny, but it was true, heartfelt AND IT HAD A GOOD STORY about regrets. Who among us hasn't had regrets on things not done?

The Princess and the Frog had good storytelling potential, and Disney wasted it. The underlying theme of Up and Coraline is about family. They tugged at our heartstrings because they used emotion and made the story tweak our hearts.

Princess and the Frog is supposed to be about family. The importance of family over work or play. But you barely see the lead character's families. Heck, you see and know more about the dang Cajun fireflies and their family dynamic than you do the main characters' families.

You don't feel for the main characters at all. I'm not even sold that the main characters learned anything at the end.

That's where Disney falls down. Flat. Until they figure it out, Pixar and every other animation studio is going to crush them at the box office, and Disney's going to have to try and live by marketing the hell out of Princess crud to parents like me.

How long will we be buying if the story isn't any good? Will my daughters have fond memories of the movies out now?

I doubt it.

Advice from strange places

If you know me, you know I'm a book collector. We have hundreds of them. Some of them more than 100 years old. Among them, I kept a freshman year college text. Humanties 101 at Mizzou, shout out!

Seriously, I pulled out The Handbook of Epictetus just to see how my perspective may have changed. It has been 15 years since I've cracked this book. Whatever pompous thoughts I had at 18 surely have been altered.

I was pleasantly surprised to recall that much of what this old Greek Stoic rang true then and it rings true now. I sweat the small stuff of life, the petty stuff that gets us down. As a stoic, Epictetus tells you to let it roll. Duck, water and all that. At the end, what we fret about ultimately isn't important.

As the mom of a 13-year-old girl, this passage hit true. More true than it did when I was 18. (Edited to swap "slave boy" for "teenager"):

"When you call the [teenager], keep in mind that he is capable of not doing any of the things that you want him to. But he is not in such a good position that your being upset or not depends on him."

AMEN.

Good advice to all of us with teenagers. Or those of us who will have teenagers. You can't make them do anything. It isn't you. Accept, move on.

Thanks, Honors Humanties Core profs. Sue Crowley and Bill Bondeson, I'm shouting your way. It meant a little something back then. It means a helluva lot more now.


BTW: The RateMyProfessors comment: if only they knew. That was true 15 years ago, right Paula?

Wii have an addiction

My name is MommyTracked. I have become a Wii Fit junkie.

Santa brought us one for Christmas. The kids have played with it more; heck, they play with everything more. However, the Wii Fit was for all of us, and in particular, to get my lazy rump off the couch on days I don't run. Ditto for my husband, only without the run part.

The exercises are fun, and the yoga section is amazing. I feel more balanced. My back is less tight. This is after 12 days, folks.

Even better, those smart computer programmers have found ways to get you to exercise and get your heart rate up without you realizing it. I have become an obstacle course/ski jump/island cycling junkie. I just "cycled" for 45 minutes trying to track down 22 flags on a fake San Francisco park. Oh, and the kids got to laugh their heads off as I fell off cliffs, into water, into the Pacific, and get hopelessly lost. But I beat that darn thing. I also burned 135 calories in the process.

Go game designers.

Go me.

Okay, so this working thing

has totally kicked my tail this time. I just don't have the energy to write or even think many days when I come home. The cooking/cleaning/chasing kids thing doesn't help.

New year, new leaf. I'm trying to get back into the swing o' things.

How did I do this?

I'm barely a week in "the real world" again, and I'm wiped.

Remind me, how did I do this five months ago?

So tired . . . but grateful

I landed a job! Yay me! I'm back in the editing game, and I'm starting to hit my stride again.

However, I'm wiped. After nearly four months of setting my own schedule, I was used to my second-shift sleeping. I now have to be out the door at 6;45 a.m.; it's not a pretty sight.

The kids, to their credit, are stepping up and getting ready by themselves. Hubby has an awful month of travel, but he's trying to help. His parents will be here soon, so that will help.

Alas, I'm really wishing I had Monday off. I don't. Bummer.

At least I have one week off in November and two weeks in December off that I can enjoy. Until then, I need to find a way to get back on schedule. Yeesh.

Swine Flu: Into the Viral Unknown

You'd have to be living under a rock in 2009 to not be aware of the latest plague to hit the earth. Earlier this year, everyone was freaking out about H1N1. It was new, it was scary, and youngish people were dying for no reason.

And of course, the Mommy-Tracked folks decided to move right to the heart of Texas, into the plague.

Summer was pretty calm. School was out. We were hermits, really, just unpacking in the triple-digit heat. We rarely left the house.

School started. Three weeks later, kids are dropping like flies from the flu. Mine included.

There is something so utterly frightening, something that works beyond your rational, scientifically trained mind, when you are facing an unknown. When my eldest came down with the flu (which we are pretty sure was H1N1, because the peds tell us that is the main virus ciruclating here), I was terrified.

Oh, sure, I tried not to show it. But I was pushing liquids and taking temps and checking the CDC website and the National Institutes of Health website and any other website that might, just might, have insight.

When her fever didn't break after day four, I was flipping out. Thank goodness for husbands with rational, cooler heads. He called the ped, we got a specific list of what to watch for that would result in an ER visit. Then, thankfully, her fever broke on day five.

Then our son got it. It ran the same course as hers did. It was a little less scary, just because we knew what to expect.

Then I got it. Again, not as scary. Knew what would happen to me. I was blissed out on Nyquil for days. I slept about 18 hours one day. I slept 15 the next.

So, I'm here to say: The swine flu isn't all that scary if you are healthy and have no risk factors. It's nothing to mess around with, and you should stay away from others, just to limit the spread. But, in my humble experience, I've had stomach viruses that laid me lower.

That said, I'm bleaching everything in sight and hoping my husband and my youngest avoid it.

Second-guessing

We all do it. You think you are doing the right thing, then later, hindsight is 20-20.

My poor husband has been doing this all year. He moved, we moved. It was the right thing to do for many reasons. But the fallout that our moving so far away from family and friends has been long-lasting.

Two of our kids still are struggling to find friends. Heck, I am, too. I miss my MO contingent who would happily go to lunch any time. I e-mail, FB and Twitter them, but it is NOT the same. Social networks are great, but your friends can't hug you online.

I'm still job hunting. The search is just wearing. It is a full-time job. I'm freelancing on top of that. Plus doing all the mom-stuff. Some days I just want to curl up and crawl under the covers and ignore the challenges that we still face.

Believe me, I'm grateful. We have a nice house, one that does not have termites or an RV parked next door. My husband's job is stable. My kids are healthy, and despite the lack of close friends, they are settling in well.

I try to focus on the good and not second-guess. But man, let me tell you, it is hard.

Why is it

that laundry seems to multiply in this house faster than I can wash it?

no one can empty/fill the dishwasher but me?

I have a cat who insists on pulling off her collar at every opportunity?

my cats have, in tandem, decided to rip up every rug I own?

south TX can't get a good rainstorm, yet every one of my FB friends bemoans the constaint rain where they live?

the concept of a hamper seems to be beyond my children?

ditto picking up toys?

you always step on the one Lego embedded in the carpet?

I can't decide what to eat for lunch now that I'm working from home, alone, so I just don't eat?

Answers welcome.

Procrastinating

I should be writing content for a couple of websites (including my own).

Instead, I'm on a cooking/cleaning/planting binge.

Yesterday, rather than chain myself to the computer, we knocked out back-to-school haircuts for everyone, a Target trip and groceries to replenish the fridge after my parents and brother left. One week of extra adults in the house does a dent on my food supply. :0

I cooked like crazy -- minestrone, which has been packaged for easy school lunches, is now frozen in my freezer. Nazilla, a recipe a friend gave to me that used the multitude of eggplant and squash from my mom, is now a collection of frozen vegetarian lunches for the eldest and me.

Today, I decided I'd make pesto out of the huge basil bushes I've managed to grow. I'd hoped the tomato plant would take off and I could have bruchetta, but alas, the south Texas drought killed it. The basil loves the dry heat. I have tons.

Later, I'll plant some of the iris that my mom brought. They are bulbs from my grandmother's garden; I need a bit of my ancestral home here, those lovely old plants will do just fine.

Tomorrow, I stop slacking and start writing. Promise.

I have achieved

school supply Nirvana.

I have everything. Everything. Bwahahahaha. Three gargantuan lists, from K4 to eighth grade. Including band supplies.

Read it and weep, kids.

Too quiet

I'm ready to have the older two back now. I'm tired of playing Mario Party 8.

I'm ready to go back to work. Someone hire me, please! My house can't get much cleaner, and my dh refuses to fund any more home improvement projects. Plus, I think he's scared I'll saw my arm off if I try to build a deck.

Camp Grandma

The next two weeks around here are going to be fairly quiet. Blissfully so.

My family has a tradition of Camp Grandma. It started when I was a child. My cousins and I would take turns staying together at Grandma's house; we were divided fairly evenly by ages. My older cousins and I (stairsteps, J's the oldest, then me, then L, then J2) would show up first, then rotate to each others' houses. Our sisters, all 4-5 years younger, would start at my aunt's house, then go to Camp Grandma.

The result: Our parents all managed a week of kid-free quiet; we had no siblings bothering us; we were able to hang out with girls our own age; and best of all, Grandma got her girls to herself.

We all have fond memories of those weeks in the summer. So when my oldest was old enough, I started lobbying for Camp Grandma to start anew. No cousins, alas, but bonding time with grandparents is always good. So is blissful quiet.

My older two are living the life of Riley now. They are on the lake house this week with my husband's parents, then they move to the farm with my parents. I'm enjoying some bonding time with our youngest. She's so used to being bossed around by the older two . . . now she calls the shots.

She's been playing Wii without interference. She's had me play Hungry, Hungry Hippos and Trouble. The cats are all hers.

Now, that's not to say she's not a tad annoyed that she can't do Camp Grandma this year. She's almost 5, but two weeks is a long time away from home. We moved further away, so unlike years past, it isn't a simple car drive to fetch someone who has gotten homesick.

Next year, we'll probably let her go. I'm going to miss my game-playing buddy, but everyone should have the memories made at Camp Grandma.

Stupid genes

I have, in the past month, figured out that I've managed to send some lovely genes down the line to my kids.

My eldest seems to have inherited the anxiety issues that run through my family in spades. So I'm teaching her meditation and yoga and aromatherapy. That's what works without adding meds to the mix, so we start there.

At the peds this morning, it came out that the middle guy has my nearsightedness. He's apparently had trouble reading the board "but only when I'm in the last two rows, Mom. It's ALWAYS fuzzy in the last two rows."

So when I make my eye appointment later this week, I'll make his as well. Poor tyke. Although I may have to do a video of him when he learns that tree leaves have definition and are not meant to be gobs of green. I still recall the moment I figured that out on the drive home from the optometrist when I was newly glassed.

Off to get a library card

This might not seem like a monumental thing, but it is Mommy-Tracked's sanity. Books. DVDs. Storytime. A place to take the kids where they won't whine.

I've moved multiple times in my life. I'm about to get my 10th. Every time I move, I keep the library card. It's my record of the places that kept me sane. Sorry, Plainfield. I'm not giving it back.

A shout out to all the libraries who have given me books, music and videos that have transported me out of the humdrum and into other worlds:

Scenic Regional Library

Daniel Boone Regional Library

River Bluffs Regional Library

North Castle Public Library

Pleasant Hill Public Library

Altoona Public Library

West Des Moines Public Library

Plainfield Public Library District

Springfield-Greene County Regional Library

I now know

what my medieval ancestors looked like. I'm dressed in princess regalia, watching Cinderella to learn "how to be a princess," -- or so sayeth my four-year-old.


My outfit includes a lovely hat that would do a 12th century lady proud, I'm sure. Cinderella skirts work better as head coverings at my age.

Surfacing from the stress

I took a tiny (okay, months-long) break there.

I had good reason:

We survived the move to Texas.

We sold the house (a minor miracle in this market) and bought another.

You can call me "Master," as I've earned my master's in communication.

Now I'm unpacking and arranging. I'm being Mom, which means being a taxi service (yes, I've learned how to drive like a Texan already, in a Mom Van, no less), a nurse, a photography model (our four-year-old likes to thinks she's Annie Leibowitz).

I've also been a psychologist of sorts. My kids are adjusting to leaving the familiar behind and embracing the new. They are scarred by years in Tornado Alley. The first week we were here, San Antonio had a nasty thunderstorm blow through; our children were convinced an F4 would blow the house apart. I think they might have attempted to dig a basement, had I let them.

Like so many out there, I'm job hunting. It is frustrating to be so well-educated and experienced, and not even get a call for an interview. I'm just starting. I have friends who are just as experienced and educated who have been looking for months.

On the upside, I'll be blogging more now.

Whew. Busy, busy, busy

I'm in the home stretch.

In the past few weeks we:

Sold the house.

Found termites in house. Treated termites (dead, they are).

Flew to SA to look at about 20+ houses.

Made a bid on one house. Was rejected.

Made bid on second house. Yay, got that one.

Worked on grad project.

Started job hunting.

Packing has begun in full force. We are T-29 days from being one happy family in one state again.

I'm ready to go.

I'm so ready for it to be June, for us to be moved and back together again.

I'm exhausted. I know I'm on the downhill slide; only a few more months. But the daily grind is getting to me. Every day:


I wake up.
I wake the kids up.
I negotiate the great cereal battle.
I cuddle with the youngest.
I dress the youngest.
I negotiate the next battle.
I try and shower and get ready.
I make three or four beds.
I clean up the bathroom.
I clean up the kitchen.
I negotiate yet another battle.
I spot-check the house for show-readiness, just in case a Realtor comes by.
I grab my cell, just in case a Realtor calls.
I grab my work stuff. Jackets.
Try to make the laundry area neat.
Negotiate the car battle.
Drive to school.
Answer at least four questions from the kids as we drive.
Drop kids at school.
3 out of 5 days, I cave and get coffee on the way in.
Work.
Run errands at lunch.
Work more.
Pick up kids.
Negotiate the homework/chore battle.
Make dinner.
Do laundry.
Feed kids.
Negotiate another battle.
Bathe kids.
Clean up from dinner.
Ask eldest to do some sort of housework. Half the time, she remembers.
Take out trash.
Tuck in kids.
Say prayers.
Spray monster spray.
Re-tuck kids.
Take my bath.
Check on son; remind him it is an hour after his bedtime; must put Fudge book down.
Try and do homework, give up, play on Facebook.
Crash in bed.
Try to sleep.
Some nights, fall asleep. Others, toss and turn for hours.
Get up, do it again.


Add in allergies, my class on Tuesdays, and then the constant running on the weekends, plus the pressure to keep the house perfectly clean, and I'm just wiped out. Can someone please buy our house within the next few weeks? That alone would remove a huge burden.

I have weird children

My eldest's entry for the Great Potato Contest for St. Pat's. Note the cannibalism:

Why I like my Senator

Sen. Claire McCaskill takes on a few of my reporter compatriots at the recent Missouri Democratic Days events:

Supersmart

In preparation for the move, I had C2 tested for giftedness.

I honestly had no hunch how smart he was until this September, when he suddenly had a switch go on. He started reading voraciously (like me). He started doing hideous math problems for fun (like C1).

Unlike C1, it wasn't obvious right away that he was gifted. C1 was freakish in her ability to conquer skills that most three-year-olds don't have. For example, do any of you know a three-year-old who will sit for hours and do 40-piece puzzles, one after another? Yeah, that's how I worked from home sometimes: I'd edit book anthologies while she was surrounded by puzzles. Three hours, minimum, of quiet.

Not normal.

C2 was very normal. Hyper, active, boy normal.

Then the switch went on.

Don't get me wrong, he's still boy normal. But he's also incredibly good at making disparate connections (something I do, as well). He will just pop out of nowhere with this philosophical stuff, something C1 never did.

So we had him tested for giftedness this weekend. Now I'm wishing I'd done it sooner. They fit him into the class right away. Even though it will only be a few months, he's completely psyched. He's been beaming ever since he found out he got in. He smiled when I dropped him off. He smiled all day, according to C1, who also attends the gifted pull-out program.

"This is the best day ever!" he announced when I picked him up to take him to aftercare.

I honestly have NO idea what we are going to do with him after we move. I suspect a very long conversation with the guidance counselor is in order first thing this summer. The gifted programs in Texas work differently than here, and as best I can tell, he has a long shot of getting in, despite IQ and test results. He needs a challenge, but he also needs to hang with other boys his age, socially.

Parenting is not easy. Honestly, I wish I had a guidebook for this stuff.

And I'm looking at C3 and wondering what freakish skill set she's hiding from me right now.

Wow, so where's she been?

It's been more than two months since I posted anything.

In that two months, chaos (good chaos, but still) has entered our lives.

My husband accepted a new job. One that's several states away. We've been communicating by phone and by Skype. Needless to say, that's not the same.

I've been parenting three kids essentially alone. Getting a house ready for sale. Trying to finish my master's degree this semester.

Oh, and my boss threw a monkey wrench at me, shuffled me to a different department, and for the past two weeks, I've been learning a new job. It's a good move (not that I think he meant it to be one, but it was).

I've had updates occasionally on Facebook, but for the most part, I've been keeping things to myself.

I've had to call in the help of family and friends. I'm not completely comfortable with that. I'm a pretty self-reliant person, to the point that I overdo. This time, I'm trying to call out the troops sooner.

So, I'll be posting infrequently. The house goes on the market tomorrow. I'm hoping for a relatively quick sale. If it sells by summer in this market, I'll be happy.

I'd like for our family to all be in one house again. Here's hoping this all works out the way we want it.

Okay, mea culpa

I've been busy.

I wrapped up my marketing plan for class; I wrote my thesis. Several hundred pages of writing, proofing and revising later, I just didn't feel like blogging.

Then I was sick.

I'm better now, and happy to have had a writing break.

Holidays are upon us. The Mommy-Tracked kids have:

1) Placed first chair at district orchestra competition
2) Lost several teeth
3) Gotten bitten by the "reading bug" (if you have old Encyclopedia Browns you want to get rid of, let me know. I have a six-year-old who would love them.)
4) Decided that they love all Princess stuff. And the "spicy" JoJos (also known as the seasonal Peppermint ones. Oh, ye who live in the land of Trader Joe's, if you want to get a cheap gift for the Mommy-Tracked kids, there ya go. Boxes of JoJoes.)

Other things are perking and brewing. I'm getting ready to pitch a book. I'm rethinking my freelance business and planning to retool it a bit. I have one semester of class remaining until my master's. Praise be.

If I don't get back on the blog before the holidays: Merry Christmas to all of you (and Merry whatever you celebrate, too). See you on the flip side in the new year.

Update: The car lives

Yay! A fix, a bill, and well, I have to live without AC for however long I drive this baby, but at least we don't have to find a way to fund another car payment.

No wheels

The trusty car I've had for 12 years is currently sitting at the dealership.

Nothing huge: A belt snapped. Said belt runs the power steering. YOU try driving a manual transmission without power steering. Not easy.

It is fixable; the dealer is backed up, though. It could be another day, though. This job is fussy and a PITA to fix. I cringe to think of the labor on this bill. The parts are nothing, cost wise.

However, it is tempting to consider a new car. I hate sinking $$ into an older car. I've been burned more than once. If the CR-V hadn't died last year, my car would have been replaced. Now, it has to hang in at least another two or three years. Maybe more, if this economy doesn't get better.

Sigh. I love my car. I hate spending money. I really hate not having wheels to get around. Carpooling gets old when your husband doesn't get out of work before 6 p.m. on a good night.

The end is near

At least, it is for grad school.

My thesis is due next month. My marketing plan is written (mostly).

I registered for my final class today. I'll do the capstone during the winter 2009 semester (and try and get a publisher interested in my thesis). Then I'm done. Finished.

I have NO idea what I'll do next. I had toyed with the idea of starting a master's in education program, then decided that was insane.

The original plan was to hit the job market. In this economy, I'm not sure I'll get much interest. I'm going to try, but I'm not as hopeful as I was a year ago.

Know anyone who needs an overeducated editor who is an expert on Web 2.0 trends and social networking research? If so, send 'em my way, please.

RIP, Murray the Furry

You were a good dog.

You were fuzzy and you shed quite a bit, but you were also patient with the kids.

As a rescue dog, we wondered what we would get when we adopted you. We couldn't have picked a better dog if we tried. You were just the right speed for us: You didn't require much beyond occasional long walks, loving attention, dog treats and pets.

You hated to be brushed.

You loved rolling in the grass, leaves and snow. You especially loved doing it after I gave you a bath.

It is strange to not see your grinning face looking at me in the morning now. You could drive me insane, because I probably would have loved you more had you loved me less. But you were a good dog, even for cat people at heart.

We miss you already.

Love,

Your MommyTracked Family.

Gobama

My kids are thrilled beyond belief that Obama won.

I'm thrilled that they were able to see history being made. C1, sort of, grasps what happened. She was listening to John Lewis being interviewed after the election was called; his voice cracking as he tried to speak said more to us than anything he commented about in words.

C2 was impossible to wake, though I tried. The next morning, as I woke him for school, I told him. He woke up with a smile on his face.

My kids have friends of all colors and creeds. We've taught them that character is more important that the color of anyone's skin. I'm glad that I've been proved right.

I know there is quite a bit of work ahead for President Obama and his team. I don't have rose-colored glasses: I know we are in for some difficult times. But I honestly believe that for this moment, we picked the best person for the job.

M-I-Z,

Z-O-U!!

Family Mommy-tracked was up at Mizzou this weekend for Homecoming. Dad marched in the alumni band. Kids gathered gobs of candy at the parade, then hiked all over campus, climbed on the columns, donned Santa hats for me so I could get a picture for the Christmas cards, tossed a plastic football on the Quad while I basked in sunshine, and in general had a great time.

Things have changed: We bypassed the long line at the Berg for the Noodles & Co. next door. Quieter, food the kids would eat, and we got free footballs. There was whining about the wait for a game that started at 5 p.m., but once in the stadium, C1, C2, and C3 were all about the football.

We sat with the alumni band, next to Marching Mizzou. The eldest was watching not only the game, but also the clarinet section. I could tell she was thinking six years ahead. (Can you imagine?)

The last time we tried this, C3 was in a Snugli. C2 was 2.5. It was not pretty. This time around, it went better. C2 had to be told to not shout at the top of his lungs "You can do better!!' at the Mizzou defenders after a bad play. :0

C1 was explaining football to C2. C3 was all about cheering and checking out the cheerleaders (she was in her own cute cheerleader outfit). All three knew all the words to all the cheers. It was amazing how well they did.

It helped that it was a nice night, not too cool. It helped that the Tigers decimated Colorado, 58-0.

But I have to say, I think we made some great memories all around.

Col. McCormick is spinning in his grave

The Trib, bastion of Republicanism, just endorsed Obama.

Get the skates, hell froze over.

I heart Tina Fey and Dana Owens, part III

I heart Tina Fey, part II

Long month, bright spot

First, it was the cancer diagnosis.

Then, it was some idiots at my workplace who decided it would be brilliant to take their Bid Day Bash off campus to a rural area two counties away. They d@mn near killed a freshman from alcohol poisoning in the process.

Last, my son was diagnosed with eczema. We suspected he had it; a rash that never disappeared confirmed it yesterday.

However, I love our pediatrician.

As she's looking at the poor boy's itchy armpits, she asks about flu mist. I dither, like I always do, then remember, my mom's going to be immunocompromised for months, duh. Yes, I say, we need the mist. My mom starts chemo next month.

Our ped immediate stops what she is doing, and asks, "How's she doing?" Oh, she's fine, I say. She follows up, looking right in my eyes, "How are *you* doing?"

That's the sign of a good doctor. My well-being immediately reflects on the kids, because my stress trickles down to them.

After saying that while the diagnosis was a shock, I'm okay now, she says that if we need anything, she'll make sure it happens. She's going to make sure we get in for the second shot of flu mist ASAP. She'll have a chat with the eldest at her checkup in a few months, just to reassure her that because Grandma has cancer does NOT mean she'll get it. Our worrywart needs to hear this from someone other than me.

I love our ped. She's one of the best docs we've ever had. So, Dr. K, if you stumble on this, I just want you to know that we appreciate everything you do for us.

Cancer strikes us again.

Wondering where I've been? Well, grad school, thesis writing, freelancing and soccer season have kept me busy.

Three weeks ago, I added something heavier to the mix of stuff to do.

My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 58.

She's always been fairly obsessive about getting her mammograms. She had a good friend die after a long fight against breast cancer in the '80s. So when something didn't look right, she went to get checked three weeks ago.

One mammogram, one ultrasound, one biopsy later, she was diagnosed with early stage one cancer on her left side.

The good news: It is stage one. It wasn't in her lymph nodes when she had a mastectomy last week. It's a highly treatable form that was caught early; there's a 95% survival rate.

The bad news: She's going to have chemo. We're waiting on the path report and the oncologists' plan for what mix will work best and how long she'll have to take it.

So, to my girlfriends and other Mommy-Tracked mom readers out there: Go get your baselines done. Now. Today. Before the new year. And be vigilant. My mom's type does not present as a lump. Usually there is no sign. Unless you get it checked out, you could be a lot further along the stages than you'd like.

Add a pink ribbon to your social networking sites for us, and prayers, love and support are welcome. But we aren't going to let this get us down. It's not all bad news; a lot of it is quite good. It will not be much fun for the next few months, but it will be over with and dealt with soon enough.

Been busy, sorry.

Things have come up.

I'll post more later if I can.

Amen, sister!

"Because we want our children — and all children in this nation — to know that the only limit to the height of your achievements is the reach of your dreams and your willingness to work for them."


~Michelle Obama, Democratic National Convention, Monday, Aug. 25, 2008

Sniff. Sniff. Not ready. At all.

We just dropped our baby off at preschool this morning. She took her Dora "packpack" and her Tinkerbell lunchbox in hand, tugged my husband across the parking lot, and happily marched off to Mrs. McE's room.

Just like her brother, she practically shoved us out the door. High fives, hugs, kisses, then see ya.

Four years ago to the day, I was bemoaning the aches and pains of pregnancy; I was wishing she'd pop out and spare me misery. How on earth did she grow so fast? It's been a blur.

Her brother ran into his first grade room, hugged his teacher, and then went to hang up his backpack. I might as well not have showed up. I was a pack horse to carry school supplies, that's it.

Our eldest, all long and lanky and beautiful, raced up the steps to the level where the junior high is. She's a 7th grader. So not ready for this. It seems like just yesterday I was fighting with school administrators to have her skip a year. I wouldn't wish that back, because she's smart and witty and needs to be challenged academically. But she's so mature. So old.


They are still my babies, but they are so not my babies any more.

Nine down, three to go

Straight As.

I rock!

(Oh, and said paper that needed to be revised for a conference submission? Still haven't done it. Will do it tomorrow. Freelance work got in the way.)

I have three courses to go over the next two semesters. Two seated, one dissertation (I get three hours for writing it.) I'm really trying to crank up the energy to get through this, but I'm wiped. Summer session took a lot more out of me than I expected. Somehow, in the next 10 days, I have to get mentally back in the game.

I *heart* Google Scholar

I'm in the process of revising a paper to submit to the Midwest Communication Conference. I needed to find some very specific, on-point research. Research on a trend that is fairly new and hasn't been studied much yet, because it is so new.

I looked through the university database system and found a little, but not enough.

On a whim, I put the search terms in Google Scholar.

Ding. Everything I needed and more. Newly published research that hadn't hit the databases yet. I could search on terms within texts, have it highlighted right on the page, skim, determine if it would work or not, and then move on.

What would have taken me days in the old (or weeks in the old, old microfiche, Dewey Decimal System) way took me a matter of hours. Now I can block out time to revise the paper this weekend and be done with it.

Excellent.

What the hey?

When I was a reporter, we all dreaded heat waves. It was like everyone went insane when the temps topped 95. Woe to the poor schmucks working GA shifts during a heat wave. You might as well live at the cop shop, because the crime rate would spike with freaky stuff.

My cousin who used to be an ER nurse reported the same thing.

It is miserable hot right now where we live. In the past few days, it's been 90+ with humidity to steam you as you walk outside.

As a result, it seems like there's more crime stories than normal; all seem odd:

Tied-up victim

Tiger attack

Shooting

And then, to prove that even politics goes nuts:

Blunt and ice cream

"Say, Mom and Dad

Did you notice that it is a lot quieter without C1 around? Without her here telling us everything about everything?"

So sayeth our son this evening. Soda really hurts when you snort it through your nose, btw.

His older sister (C1) is away at camp. C2, our son, is right, it is quieter. Pleasantly so, because he and she fight like cats and dogs over every fact known to mankind.

For the next four days, the boy is top dog (or cat). He's loving every second of it.

I'm enjoying the silence in the car and at the dinner table. It's nice not playing factual or logical fallacy referee.

Homework panic!

Amazingly, me. Not the kids.

It was midsummer break in my grad program. We had the week of the Fourth off. I looked at my online course assignments, then blissfully went to Hot Springs and crashed at the in-laws' place.

We came back. I dove into work. I finished one project.

The other, I would have sworn, was due on Saturday at midnight. But Friday night, after doing laundry and dinner and chasing kids off to bed, something niggled in my brain. I booted up the computer. Looked at one class. Nope, I was good in that one. Looked at the other class.

Dang. Due at midnight Friday. As in, 2 hours and 40 minutes away.

I somehow managed to pull together a short story in record time, and post it with about 20 minutes to spare.

I hereby promise to cut my kids one night of slack when they forget a homework assignment this fall. Humbled, thy name is Mommy-Tracked.

Glug.

Homework has got me down. Thank goodness I'll only have three classes left after this, and none will be online. I'm tired of writing.

Very tired for this former Red Fed

I'm back from Girls State.

I only did four newspapers in two days. Whew.

I pulled off a newspaper with several 17- and 18-year-olds from across Missouri as we covered the creation of democracy, building it from the wards on up to the state level, with the final announcement of our Senators who will go to Girls Nation next month.

No clue how some of those women (some much older than I am) manage to pull off that schedule for seven days. I'm wiped.

It was inspirational. It was fun. It was exhausting.

I might even go back next year and do it again.

Bugs.

We've been invaded by ants for weeks because of all the rain. So we've got ant traps everywhere. We'd spray, but it isn't dry enough long enough to be able to spray.

A new menace cropped up this week. Lice. Blech. One of the kids was infested at the Y camp. We caught it early (bless you Terri, my hairstylist who spotted them).

So, insecticide and combing. And laundry. And more laundry.

I hate bugs.

Tired. So. Very. Tired.

I don't even understand why.

We did our annual staff retreat yesterday, and while it was sitting in a conference room, it was a conference room that looked out on a lake. I watched Great Blue Herons fish while I was half-listening. We went for a walk during a break.

It's not like I had a hard day. Yes, I worked out for a bit after work. I took the kids to swim lessons and read grad school stuff while I was there. None of it was what might be termed "exhausting."

I guess once I arrived home and finished making dinner, then did a few loads of laundry, flipped and vacuumed our mattress, okay, yes, that was physical labor. Again, not really out of the norm.

Yet when I woke up this morning, I was wiped out. So were all of my co-workers. We can't figure it out. It wasn't really hard, what any of us did yesterday. Yet we are all walking zombies today.

I have to slog through one more interview and one more meeting, then grocery shop, get the kids, go home, make dinner, get through piano lessons, finish laundry and maybe finish a proofing project. That's all more exhausting that yesterday was, as a whole.

Just strange.

Surfacing, then sinking

Sorry, we went on a longish vacation after grades came in, and hubby and I made it a point not to do ANYTHING. No computer. No news. Just slugging around, swimming, golfing, running (okay, well, me running), and relaxing.

It was wonderful.

Sadly, I'm back at work. Classes start tomorrow. We're carpooling, so that means that I'm stuck downtown longer than usual. On the upside, this forces me to actually make time to work out at the Y. On the downside, no one in this family eats dinner until after 7.

The next few weeks are busy. Beyond work and coursework, I have a freelance story to finish, a consulting gig to do, and I'm helping out at Missouri Girls State. I'm an alum, Crowder City 1993. I finally live close enough -- and have kids old enough to leave behind for a few days -- to help out.

So I'll post. Just not as frequently as usual (not that it was that frequent).

Enjoy the summer, folks!

4.0, baby!

Grades are in.

Seven classes down.

4.0 average.

Five to go.

My brain is mush. It really needs to get back into shape by next Friday night, when my short-term course starts.

Thankfully, we'll be on a short vacation at the in-law's place soon. I need the easy access to running trails, coffee, and wine.

If all goes well, by this time next year, y'all will have to call me Master Mommy-Tracked. ;)

Wow. Just . . um, wow.

Let me preface this by saying that if I find out that any of my children do this in college, I'll throttle them for the profs.

I'm sitting here, on my lunch hour, frantically working on finishing my final project for marketing grad class presentation tonight.

Phone rings.

Undergraduate--who is not my student, btw: Um, hi.

Me: Hello, UC, can I help you?

Undergrad: Um, I heard that you have the capability to TiVo stuff.

---Aside: We do. We have three of 'em hooked up to record stuff for our news archive.---

Me: Well, what exactly are you looking for?

Undergrad: Well, um, like I'm working on my final project for a paper, and I need clips of the governor's races commercials. They are supposed to air for the first time, tonight. Can you clip those for me?

Me: Well, we do have TiVo, but we have it set up to clip items that we need for work. We don't have anyone on staff who can set this up for you right now. Currently, all of our student staff is gone. (This is true. The last techie left yesterday. We're slammed with work for commencement/board meeting. I'm not helping this guy out.)

Undergrad: Well, but I have no way to save those commercials to my computer.

Me: Sorry. I can't help you; there's no one here who can do the clips right now.

And I hung up.

This annoys me on three levels--

1) Who has the nerve to call an office out of the blue, on a long shot, and ask for a major favor like this? I don't know this guy from Adam. I might do it for a student I know and trust, but even then, I'm not trusting our glitchy TiVo setup to just anyone.

2) This guy acted like I would help him, if he just explained why he was in a hole. Not. My. Problem.

3) This guy should have, I don't know, PLANNED OUT a way to get the clips if they are so important to his paper.


I get that we are to be supportive and all, but I didn't bail my kindergartener out last night when he had to redo homework. I'm surely not saving some undergrad's skin when I'm frantically trying to do my work + my homework.

Miss Independent

My little one has become the most stubborn, willful, independent child in the past month.

She started pushing me away a month ago, when she told me, "I dwess myself" in the mornings. Then the morning snuggles stopped a few days later in favor of playing with her siblings. Then, she decided cuddling while watching TV was passe.

I love that she's becoming her own person, but darn it, I wasn't ready for this yet. I thought I had at least another year. Her brother was still having me dress him when he started kindergarten and I had to force him to dress himself.

I managed to persuade her to cuddle with me this morning for a few minutes, under the ruse of "help me wake Daddy." Those minutes were precious, because it showed to me how much she is growing up. She no longer easily fits curled into my body. She's half my height now (okay, that's not much, but still). She's a bouncy little kid, usually pretty cheerful, and well, she just doesn't want to need me much right now.

After months (years, really) of being clung to and needed, all three of my kids are pulling away at various degrees. My eldest was flirting with an old friend at a band concert last night (that's scary). My middle guy is proving that he's a perfectly capable person when it comes to doing things around the house (if he choses). My little one is practically shoving me out the door of her room most days (because, really, Miss Independent Fashionista doesn't need help).

It's bittersweet, I tell ya.

For Mother's Day, I want the following things: Art made by my munchkins, that I promise to frame and thirty-minutes of cuddle time with each of them -- with their undivided attention -- so I can enjoy those precious moments before they slip away completely from me.

Prayers for friends

who lost their firstborn last week. He was due to be born in July.

Instead they will be having a funeral on Wednesday.

Sometimes, without knowing the rhyme or reason, life just sucks. How is it possible that teen starlets (I'm looking at you, Ms. Spears x 2) can have kids, and good people who would be great parents don't get the chance?

Political commentary: Baseball and Politics

Done by a friend of mine who wishes to remain anonymous.

Attack of the new screen door

It was a blissfully beautiful Saturday morning. I was making great progress getting ready for the son's birthday party with eight of his friends, ages 5-7. Dinosaur cake was good to go. Ice cream purchased.

I stepped out onto the porch to tell the eldest something. She was cleaning up the yard in preparation for the burial of plastic dinos in our sandbox. I turned back inside.

And learned that the newly installed screen door moves a lot faster than the old screen door.

Four hours at urgent care, 12 stitches, and much gratitude to my husband, my daughter and her friend, who herded the little boys for the first hour of the party, I managed to limp back and enjoy the rest of the day.

The party was a success. Our son proclaimed it "The best birthday ever!!!"

I'm still limping. And I'm hoping that door doesn't go all Stephen King-Christine on us. Let's just say I'm a lot more cautious around it now than I was Saturday at 10 a.m.

Too many hats

Right now, I think I'm going slightly nuts with the number of hats I'm wearing. Yesterday:

Mom hat in morning
Work hat after 8:30
Student hat at 1:30
Back to work hat at 2
Mom hat at 3:15
Freelancer hat at 4
Mom hat at 5
Student hat at 6
Mom hat at 7
Student hat at 8
Wife hat at 10
Sherrie hat at 11
Sleep.

Career guilt

It's time for some professional development, some professional bonding, and maybe a bit of networking to get outta SWMO.

In 24 hours, I'll be hanging with a bunch of people who are even more grammarian geeky than I am.

The American Copy Editors Society conference starts Thursday. I'm just glad to be with people who understand the entire concept of apostrophes, capitalization, and can debate the use of the serial (or Harvard) comma.

I have mixed feelings about going. It's the mom conundrum: I want to do something for me, for my career, and by extension, will better my family. But I don't want to miss my kids for three days, miss a soccer game, miss the possibility of my eldest winning a regional science fair award (she finds out on Thursday). I hate to leave hubby in a lurch, trying to get all three kids hither and yon on his own. I did ask my bro to help out (thanks, bro!), but I feel guilty that I did that.

I swear, does the guilt end? Ever? I'm trying to not feel guilty about this, because I know I shouldn't, and because my boss is (quite frankly) making me go to this. But I still feel guilty leaving my family because I won't be there to help make things go smoothly.

Heck, I know they'll survive. They can cook. Two of the four people normally in the house know how to operate the stove and can do laundry. But I know how much harder it is with just one parent there, and I hate leaving hubby to juggle it all on his own, even for a few days.

I hate knowing I won't be there to fix the hurts, the slights, and help with homework. I won't be there to cheer on the eldest at either the game or the science thing.

Head . . . throbbing . . . again

I hate my sinuses.

That is all.

Slingbacks, candy and other things

Kids can be like living with a Vulcan. You can have a reasonable explanation for something, but if it isn't linear logic, you'll lose the battle.

Point No. 1:

We're rushing to get to church on Friday night. I shout that the kids should have shoes and socks on and get in the car. My three-year-old looks at me, wearing her white patent dress shoes and no socks, points at my feet, currently shod in black slingbacks (sans socks or hose, of course), and says: "You not wearing socks."

We were late. I wasn't even going to try to explain fashion to a three-year-old. I let her go sans socks.

Point No. 2:

It doesn't matter how many times you tell the eldest that she should leave the easy candy (as in, the candy on the ground) for her younger siblings. If she sees it Easter morning, it is hers.

Point No. 3:

It doesn't matter that you are putting the finishing touches on Easter dinner. If the three-year-old wants to lug her basket around the house and gorge, there's not much you can do that won't result in a screaming tantrum over sugar.

Point No. 4:

It doesn't matter how many bribes, begging lectures, cheers, and discussions you can have about poop with a three-year-old. It will be the weirdest thing that you never thought of that will finally get through her head and result in her being fully potty trained.

In our case, it was the fact that another kid at daycare got an ink stamp for pooping on the potty. Kid 3 wanted one, too. The teacher didn't cave, but told her to go poop, and she'd get one. Boom. That's it. She walks in the bathroom, does her thing, and then continues to do it for the rest of the weekend.

Never in a million years would I have thought an ink stamp on her hand would be the thing that convinced her to do her duty.

Sheesh.

Oh, and the cosmic kick me sign needs to come off.

Not only did my basement flood, but I got a call from my administrative assistant at 5 yesterday.

At first she asked how my day was (knowing I was battling with Lake Mommy-Tracked in the basement). Then she informed that it was a good thing I wasn't at work yesterday, because two ceiling tiles came crashing down on my desk. There is a leak in a window on the second story, and apparently the low spot in the subfloor is over my desk. Lucky me.

that was sarcasm

I can now see into my building's heating system and despite the best efforts of our janitor, I'm still finding gympsum bits all over my desk and paperwork.

Really, I'm starting to think God is trying to tell me something.

Welcome to Lake Mommy-Tracked

dock your boat right over there, please.

Oy. Rain is good, but not in the amounts we've been getting.

If you've seen the news, you know that torrential rain hit the Ozarks yesterday.

We at Mommy-Tracked were a bit busy trying to keep our basement from becoming a lake. Yes, we live on a hill, but the water table is now so high that the torrential rains not only filled our crawlspace, but also sent water cascading through our basement at a rate of more than 2.5/gal a minute at times. (Yes, I timed it. My Shop-Vac holds 2.5 gallons, and I was swapping it out every minute there for a while.)

Lake Mommy-Tracked is now at a manageable level--as in a huge puddle under the pool table. I've never been more thankful for the icky linoleum that is in that basement than I was yesterday. It is fairly indestructible.

We managed to save pretty much everything. Our only losses were a few baseball posters, the dog's bed, and all of my Missourian clips. Sadly, I'll no longer be able to read over the details of Ray Beck and Woody Cozad through my own news stories. All in all, not a horrid loss, especially considering some of the damage folks are facing today.

That said, if you have an ark, we might need it. More rain is predicted for the weekend.

We're back

I'm just swamped. Work, school, family life. It is chaos. Soccer started. NCAA Div. II rounds of b-ball hosted here. Paper due. Too.Much.To.Do.

And yet, the best thing ever was coming home. Our kids wouldn't let us out of their sights. My husband was hugged by our son. Twice. He never does that.

I think they missed us. And that's nice. They drive us nuts, but apparently we are better than grandma and grandpa, and they love us to pieces, even if they don't show it all the time.

We're off!

Headed to the Big Apple and areas thereof for the divine Ms. G's wedding.

See y'all next week.

Pray that the kids don't drive the grandparents loopy.

Overheard

I give you a one-act play: Misinterpretation by a Three-Year-Old


Context: Our youngest still is resisting the potty for No. 2. We had some success, but we've backtracked. To the point that we are now stirring Miralax in her juice to prevent her from holding it for a week or more. We can tell she's holding it because she stuffs her hands down the back of her pants and holds her cheeks together. And walks around like that. It would be funnier if it weren't so frustrating.

Setting: Hubby and I are upstairs working and watching TV. Kids are downstairs eating snack.

Middle child, age 5: Hey, do you have to go to the bathroom?

Younger child, age 3 (presumably with hands down back of pants): No. I fine.

Middle child: Are you sure? You look like you need to poop.

Younger child: NO! I NOT NEED POOP!

(cue parents upstairs valiantly trying not to laugh)

Middle child: It looks like you need to poop. You shouldn't hold it in like that.

Younger child: I fine. I not holding it. See, my hands are cwean!!!

(cue parents, losing battle not to laugh upstairs, and realizing they need to be a lot more specific in their wording with the youngest.)

Yup. It's been fun. Who said being a parent wasn't great? Riiiiiight.

I'm betting no one else in my grad class had to disinfect a tub that had been pooped in last night before proofing a research paper.

She'll figure this out, right? Right?

Into the ether

that seems to be where some of my posts went. I can see them, but you guys can't.

Let me know if you can read anything after Eulogy, 'kay?

I HATE winter

We have ice. Again. There's a tree down in our back yard, a tree looming over our house, and branches everywhere.

We just bloody did this, and now we have to clean up the mess again.

Groan.

What happened in Kirkwood last night

could happen anywhere.

The tragedy isn't as unlikely as you might think, as any city council reporter could tell you.

In my younger reporting days, I'd seen more than a few city council gadflies who seemed around the bend. They'd get up, rant for quite a while, until someone from the council, usually the mayor or city attorney, managed to cut them off. Some cities imposed time limits during public comment just to make sure they had a legal way to shut the mikes off.

Honestly, I'm not surprised this happened. I was stalked by a gadfly who was convinced I was the answer to all of his troubles, if only I'd listen to him and his issues. And not that he didn't have issues or a justifiable complaint, but it wasn't truly news. Or verifyable.

Quite frankly, the fact that he was convinced the power lines in town were a form of mind control impugned his credibility. In that case, the very police I was investigating escorted my pregnant self from City Hall to my car twice a month after meetings. It was only about 50 steps, but this guy would stalk my every step, then try to follow me home. I had cops sitting near me in meetings to protect me. I didn't ask for it, but they didn't trust him, and they worried about me, even though I was doing investigative reporting on their department, which was in the midst of a horrible scandal.

I'm not sure what the answer is, but know this: Every elected official takes a risk by putting themselves out there on the dais to make decisions. Some people take those decisions much, much, much too seriously. When that happens, the potential for a mass shooting in a council chamber is there.

Oh, how I hate the carpool line

I rarely pick the kids up in the carpool line. We pay for aftercare; I work until 5.

But today, we had an appointment, so I had to pick the eldest up in the line.

I get that some parents get there 30 minutes early to be first in line. I tried to do that today, but alas, I was only 15 minutes early, and thus 10th in line. No biggie.

But man alive, I HATE the parents and grandparents who think they are more important or more rushed than the rest of us. The line is supposed to circle around the perimeter of the playground, out the gate, then north on the street.

We had parents pulling in and parking in the middle of the semicircle. We had them parking three deep in the middle of the semicircle, which makes it dangerous to even pull up in the semicircle when they are trying to unwedge their cars and get out before the rest of us.

I saw one woman squeeze her huge Dodge Durango in a spot wayyyy too small for her car. Still not sure how she didn't manage to clip either car in front or behind her. Then she nearly clipped the person who was first in the line and trying to pull out as Ms. Dodge was backing up to rush out of the lot.

Seriously, the whole line moves through in 15 minutes, tops. Usually when I do carpool line, I come 15 minutes after school is out, because the line is gone and I can wing in and wing out. Alas, today, our appointment was at 3:30, and we'd not be able to pull it off if I'd not gotten there right as school let out.

What are you teaching your kids, presumably at a Catholic school to learn values and ethics, when you place yourself, your time, and your safety (not to mention the safety of other people's children) ahead of others at all costs?

Legacy

Walking into the Catholic church where I've spent many a major family event, where I spent Sundays as a kid with my grandparents in the front pew on the right-hand side, in the church where just eight months ago one of my cousins was married, I followed my grandmother's casket.

Standing there in the pew, looking around at my family, I was thinking about the legacy she and my grandfather left behind.

Six children.
Sixteen grandchildren.
Eleven great-grandchildren.

All good people. We have our problems, like any family. We have our difficulties with each other. But we are all strong, confident, trustworthy people. Every one of us you can rely on in a pinch.

I looked at my sister and our other female cousins and saw a group of strong, confident women. Each one of us has a different profession, from homemaker to engineer to nurse to teacher and everything in between. But we are all, each one of us, confident at what we do and who we are.

I looked at my brother and our male cousins and saw a bunch of guys who I would trust with my life. Each one of them, in his own way, is the type of guy you'd want your sister to marry. (There are still a few single ones, folks. :)

But the best legacy my grandparents left was laughter.

We are a family who teases constantly. In any situation. That can take outsiders a bit to get used to. I'm pretty sure that most receiving lines at funerals do not have people telling the bereaved: "I'm so sorry. Truly. Very sorry you have to stand next to him." (Insert person pointing at one of my mom's brothers, the one who is the family cut-up; his friends are very like him.)

Sitting in the funeral home's family room, trying to help my youngest cousin write a eulogy, all 16 of us were laughing like loons at our memories of our grandparents.

The cookies hidden in the Tupperware container in the dryer.

The fact that my grandmother would mix both chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin cookies together, so well disguised that you couldn't tell the difference. You had to take the first one you picked. I was unnaturally good at picking the chocolate chip oatmeal cookies -- they are slightly flatter than the raisin ones.

My grandmother chasing the dogs away from Easter eggs so the younger grandkids could actually find a few.

My grandparents loved to laugh. And they passed that ability along to all of us. Somehow, I think that's among one of the better legacies they could have left to us.

So, in honor of Tillie and Bill, do me a favor: Laugh with someone you love today.

Eulogy

Last night, I lost the woman who most made me who I am today.

My grandmother's been slipping away from us for a while. She lost herself to dementia last summer, and it has been hit or miss whether we would see her lucid or see her in some decade long past when we'd visit.

We had a complicated relationship. She had very traditional views on what a girl or a woman should be. I fought against those at nearly every turn. While she and my mom were in the kitchen, cooking supper, I'd try to sneak out and go hang in the living room and talk politics with my grandpa.

She attempted to instill the "womanly" arts on my fellow female cousins and me. We were given embroidery kits for Christmas, and we were expected to learn how to do it. We were taught to quilt. We were taught to cook and how to maintain a garden during our week-long visits with her each summer.

Looking back, I loved the gardening and the cooking, heck, even the cleaning, but that embroidery still makes my fingers hurt. She'd make me pick out numerous stitches and insist I do it right.

She was very focused on what was right and proper. There was a *right* way to do things. That's part of why I think I'm so obsessive compulsive about things (especially cleaning) today. She taught me the *right* way; to me, that's the only way.

And yet . . .

I fought back against her ideas of how to be a woman at every turn. I didn't want to be relegated to the kitchen. I didn't want to sew. Heaven knows I hated every embroidery stitch.

It took me years to learn that in her world, the gossip with her friends over coffee that I so disdained was her way of consolidating power and keeping control of her world. My grandmother was a bit Machiavellian, honestly.

I love her, and yet . . . I rejected her at every turn, because what she wanted me to be I just couldn't be. I had to get away. I was stifled by living in a place where everyone not only knew everyone else but also knew every family scandal going back five generations, back to freaking Prussia, and carrying those grudges and stereotypes and misperceptions through the generations. I turned my back on that, and opened up to other people from other places, other backgrounds.

When I married someone who wasn't Catholic, you would have thought I'd completely rocked their worlds. Maybe, in a way, I had.

I was the first to go away to college.

I was the first to marry (and no, none of us saw that coming). The fact that I married a Methodist took them some getting used to.

I was the first to keep working outside the home once my kids were born.

She made me that way. As much as she tried to force me into her mold, I'd fight back so hard to do the exact opposite.

Neither of us were right. There are different ways for different people. That's a lesson I've learned, and she was the one who, inadvertently perhaps, taught it.

For a minute, I was in Chi

It was an illusion, but a nice one.

A stiff, warm gale was blowing -- the kind that will knock you over when you turn a building's corner -- as I walked along a main thoroughfare downtown. Two city buses rushed by me, and I watched a window washer ply his trade on the second story while he dripped on first-floor retail/restaurant customers passing on the sidewalk below.

Just for a minute, I felt like I was back in Chicago. The wind. The buses. The window washer. The retail/mixed use configuration of the buildings. It all took me right back. I just felt at peace.

I love big cities. I love being anonymous and melting into the crowd on city streets as I walk by first-floor retail and gaze in windows as I rush home.

I had that feeling again . . .and then, when I crossed the street, and the buses were gone and the window washer behind me, it was gone.

I really need to move. This place, as one of my grad school professors aptly put it, is the biggest small town you'll ever live in. I can't go anywhere and not see someone I know. Some people like it, but I find it stifling.

I need more Chi moments around here.

Super Tuesday, here I come!

This was fun. Confirmed what I already suspected, but fun all the same:

88% Barack Obama
86% Mike Gravel
85% Chris Dodd
85% Dennis Kucinich
85% John Edwards
84% Hillary Clinton
83% Joe Biden
74% Bill Richardson
41% Rudy Giuliani
32% John McCain
23% Ron Paul
23% Mitt Romney
22% Mike Huckabee
21% Tom Tancredo
11% Fred Thompson

2008 Presidential Candidate Matching Quiz

Oh, happy day

The youngest decided to do No. 2 on the potty last night.

We praised her and gave her tons of Skittles.

If she does it again, we're going to Mr. Bulky for a mass jellybean purchase.

The days of not needing diapers and PullUps are at hand, folks. When that happens, I'm throwing a party.

So. Very. Serious. about the party.

I *so* rock

I just found out that I won an award for my Bob B. press packet.

Oh, and my designer and I won something for the Cindy S. stuff, too.

Oh, and our team won a sweepstakes award (most points).

I really, really, really needed that news today. My ego is back where it should be (not too big, but not three sizes too small, either).

Look, redesigned Mommy-Tracked!

I finally took a few hours to update the site. It's a bit more like my real-life personality now.

I've been tired of the green bubbles for a while. I started playing around this summer while I was in grad school, but I never had the time to do what I wanted.

With a little assistance from Mr. Mommy-Tracked in deciphering Blogger's style sheets, I now have it set up the way I want it. Almost. I still can't get the news feed to work.

But I have a few new features besides the new color scheme and layout.

Note on the right that you can now go to my Facebook and LinkedIn profiles. Connect with me!

I've also officially put on the legalese to copyright my work. Note the button at the bottom from Creative Commons. That's the fine print, folks. You can link to me, but if you want to use my stuff in publishing, you have to credit me when you quote my stuff in fair use, or contact me for details on how to publish my work.

Want to use me in an anthology or journal article? Awesome.

Pay me.

I'm a writer. I live by my words. So sorry, you can read for free, but if you want to publish me in print, you have to talk to Mommy-Tracked. Or Mommy-Tracked's cousin--the lawyer--if I catch you busting my copyright.

We're fine

Our worst damage is a large tree branch down in the yard. But we had two that came really close (as in, within a mile).

There's a Home Depot/Expo kind of place across the expressway from our university, and its roof was obliterated. I had to pick my way around sheet metal and lining to get the kids to school.

It was a long night. To quote child three: "Tomadoes freak me out."

No kidding. And I like stuff like that. But that was too close for me.

I like warm January weather

because it means I can Rollerblade in short sleeves.

I dislike warm January weather because it means we have a chance for tornadoes tonight as the cold front blasts through.

Relentless

There is nothing more determined than my youngest at 8:30 a.m. when she's convinced that her mom should get up, vacation or no vacation.