Time to Pay the Piper

It’s that time of the year. Lent is approaching. My Catholic friends amongst you may be contemplating giving up certain vices for Lent. Sodas…chocolate…alcohol…meat. I am writing today to implore you to seriously consider your Lenten sacrifice. Before you rashly make the decision to ward off sugar this Lenten season, please take a moment to listen to what I am about to tell you. This is of crucial importance and may very well change you life…

My daughter is selling Girl Scout Cookies.

That’s right. Girl Scout Cookies. Thin Mints. Samoas. Tagalongs. Starting tomorrow, I will have boxes and boxes of cookies at my house for sale. $3.50 a box. For the past couple of years, my loyal readers, you have received free entertainment reading this blog. Chuckling at the misfortune that is my life. Giggling at the idiotic antics of my brood. Thanking God above on a daily basis that they are not your children. As you know, we live in a commercial world. Nothing is really free. It’s time to pay the piper. That’s right…I am expecting you to buy Girl Scout cookies from my daughter in exchange for this blog. There is no limit to the depth of depravity I will sink to on my daughter's behalf. So please do not even try your petty excuses on me. But I live 750 miles away. But I don’t like cookies. But my neighbor’s daughter is selling cookies. But I am diabetic. Here are my answers to your flimsy justifications:

1. I will mail you the cookies. I will even pay for shipping. Just buy the damn cookies from my daughter.
2. Yea…right. You weigh 200 pounds if you weigh an ounce. Don’t even try to tell me you do not like cookies.
3. Is your neighbor kid as cute as my daughter? I don’t think so.
4. Diabetic? One box of cookies won’t kill you. Oh yea…it might. That’s okay. You will have died supporting a good cause.

In all seriousness, here is the low-down on the cookie sales. The proceeds from the cookies are going to benefit the Hennepin County Humane Society. The girls will be taking a field trip to the Humane Society to see all the cuddly puppies and kittens and present them with a check at the end of the cookie run. If you seriously do not like Girl Scout cookies (and if you are one of those people, I’m not sure I want to know you), you can still buy cookies to donate. The donated boxes of cookies will be given to the Joyce Food Shelf to help people in need. The girls will also be taking a field trip to see how the food shelf works and to learn about giving to those less fortunate than themselves. All in all, two very well-deserved causes and two causes I am proud to have my daughter support.

So really…there is no excuse. I expect orders to pour in. And to my family in Kentucky…how many times did I buy the cheap crap your kids were peddling? I love you and expect you to step up to the plate.

That’s all.
Tomorrow is the day.
Buy the damn cookies. Please don't force me to eat my weight in Samoas.

My Father's Daughter

When my mother found out my uncle had been diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer, she took to her bed in tears for an entire day. I have not shed a single tear despite adoring my uncle. I told my mother this past weekend that I was trying not to think about my uncle because it makes me sick to my stomach. So I try not to think about it. I try not to dwell on the savagery of a cancer that lurks in the depths of a person I truly adore. My mother responded by saying that is how I have always been. I shove things down. Ignore them. I got the feeling she was implying that was an unhealthy reaction. I’ve been thinking about that brief conversation ever since.

Perhaps it is true. Perhaps I am an emotional black hole. I admit to being rather stoic. No one would ever accuse me of being prone to histrionics. I am Even Steven. Calm, cool, and collected. When my grandmother died a few years back, my aunt wailed at her funeral. Literally wailed. Like you see veil-adorned women doing in footage from the war-torn Middle East. I remember staring at her in absolute awe. What is it like to be able to express emotion in that way? What is it like to carry your feelings so close to the surface? Ready to reupt at any moment. I am afraid I do not know. I have never wailed in my life. I can’t even picture myself wailing in my wildest imagination.

I think I am more like my father than I am like my mother. He was a quiet man. A stoic man. A good-hearted, funny, happy man, but an unflappable man. I remember my parents’ occasional fights when I was a child. I don’t think you could really call them “fights,” as they were really quite one-sided rants. My mother would scream and wail and rave and stew. My father would sit quietly and listen. Or worse yet, he would chuckle at her hysteria, which never failed to put her over the edge. He did not fight back. He did not get angry. He did not give in to emotion. Whereas my mother functions in a state of constant emotional upheaval, my father rarely showed emotion at all. I am afraid I inherited a bit of that from him.

It is not that I do not feel emotion. I do. It is just that strong emotion is disturbing to me for some reason. It upsets the balance. I don’t like the feeling of being unbalanced and upset. I don’t like it, so I avoid it. My mother tries to get me to read sappy, emotionally wrenching books. She adores stories full of heartache and tragedy and doom. She doesn’t understand why I don’t care for Jodi Picoult. She can’t fathom that I stopped reading Sarah’s Key as soon as I realized the little boy was locked in a cabinet. Why would I willingly--and unnecessarily--inflict that kind of sadness upon myself? Why would anyone?

There are times when I wish I were more like my mom. More like my wailing aunt. More open to all of the intense emotions inherent in the human experience. But that is simply not me. I love my family with my entire heart. I would do absolutely anything for my uncle and the thought of losing him is unbearable. But I am not going to take to my bed in grief. I am not going to wail. There is a very real chance that I will not cry a single tear. And I will feel like an emotional pariah because of that. But that does not mean that my love is any less real or my sadness any less true. I cope the way I cope. I don’t have it within my make-up to respond in any other way. I am my father's daughter.

That's not such a terrible thing to be, is it?

Growing Up and Growing Old

Things are changing. And I do not like it. My uncle Chris—my mother’s brother—was recently diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer. It is not good.

I am afraid for my uncle. I love him dearly and do not want him to feel pain or know fear. I am afraid for his wife who I adore. I can’t imagine what I would do if it were Ruanita. I am afraid for his two kids. They are grown, but even college kids need their daddies. I am afraid for mom and my ten other aunts and uncles who have been untouched my loss amongst them. I am afraid of living in a world where people are struck down willy-nilly in the prime of their lives. Mostly—and most selfishly—I am afraid for myself.

My dad died when I was eleven years old, so I am no stranger to the fact that people die. It happens. People get sick and they die. Regardless, I have always thought of my mom and her eleven siblings as invincible. Somehow untouchable. Frozen forever in my mind as they were when I was a child. Brazen twenty-somethings splashing around in the water at Miller’s Lake. Playing cards and drinking beer. Tossing a football around at Legion Park. Idiots laughing at all of the Hardesty inside jokes. Forever young. Forever healthy.

Today, that facade is being lifted. Reality is setting in. My aunts and uncles are not the twenty-somethings I remember from my youth. They have become older and wiser and, in some instances, frailer. My heroes are aging. My protectors and biggest fans are not as strong as I once knew them to be. And it scares me. What does it mean for me? For my generation? For my brother and sisters? For my cousins? I am almost forty years old and have children of my own, but I don’t know that I have truly felt like a “grown-up” until this day. Adulthood is upon me.

I don’t like it.

Feeling Pissy Today

My uncle Chris—my mom's brother—was just diagnosed with cancer. I always thought all twelve of the Hardesty siblings were invincible. I am realizing now that might not be true, and it pisses me off.

When it gets really cold outside, the driver-side door on my minivan freezes. It will open, but will not close again. That is, until I trudge back into the house, get a pitcher of warm water, trudge back outside again, and pour the water on the door. Then, and only then, will the door latch shut. On a below-zero day—when I should expect it, but do not—that really pisses me off.

My dog needs a second surgery on her eye. I knew there was a chance the first surgery wouldn’t take, but it still pisses me off.

My eldest son is brilliant….but different. Schools are not equipped to handle smart kids who think differently. Ruanita was the same way as a child and grew up hating school and thinking she was not as smart as everyone else. That just pisses me off.

My cell phone will not display the correct scores on Words with Friends. No matter how many times I uninstall and reinstall it, it still lists wildly inaccurate scores on every game. That pisses me off.

I want to lose weight before our beach trip this summer. No matter how much I want it, however, food sings to me. Mexican, Chinese, American, Indian, Italian…I am not prejudiced against any nationality. I will eat it all. And I do. And that pisses me off.

My children are addicted to screens—computer screens, television screens, video game screens. And worse yet, I think it is my fault. That really pisses me off.

I have more gray hair than Ruanita despite her being eight and a half years older than me. That pisses me off.

The Godiva Chocolate Cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory has 1109 calories per slice. That is so wrong for something that tastes so right. And it pisses me off.

Third grade homework, as a general rule, pisses me off.

After giving birth to twins, I wet myself when I cough. Considering I am not even forty years old yet, that really pisses me off.

Parents who do not teach their children even the most basic concepts of respect and good manners really piss me off.

Pompous asses touting the merits of “traditional marriage” while cheating on their spouses and divorcing left and right really piss me off. Yes…I am talking to you, Newt.

People who give up and shut down when the going gets tough piss me off.

Money pisses me off. When you don’t have it, it sucks. When you do have it and everyone else wants it, it sucks. When you fight with your spouse about it, it sucks. When you try to save it, but manage to fritter it away anyway, it sucks. When you spend it on yourself and then feel guilty for weeks, it sucks. In general, money is a necessary evil that just pisses me off.

My Uncle Joey, who has been living with AIDS since I was a senior in high school (many, many years ago) isn’t doing so great. After decades of watching friends and loved ones die, he is still hanging on. Everything he has seen and everything he has been forced to endure really pisses me off.

I can’t button the third button of my winter coat without it gaping unattractively. Man, that pisses me off.

I do not like the people who go to Target on Sunday afternoon. People who are there at 8:00AM like me are serious shoppers. We adhere to proper shopping etiquette. We know what we want. We smile politely at one another as we push our carts at a reasonable pace around the store sipping our Starbucks lattes. Target is an oasis in an otherwise crazy world at 8:00 in the morning. Afternoons are a different story. Sunday afternoon shoppers are a different breed altogether. They bring their children along. They refuse to move said children when they stand in front of your cart blocking your way. As a matter of fact they, themselves, will stand in an aisle with their cart parked sideways blocking all traffic as they discuss the merits of chili beans versus kidney beans. They're freaking beans, for God's sake! They do not understand—or perhaps simply they do not care about—the basic social graces of shopping. Sunday afternoon shoppers piss me off.

On a related note, I also hate the check-out crowders. You know the people. The ones who are so very anxious to get through the check-out line that they will not wait their turn. As you step away for a brief moment to put your bags in your cart, they assume their position in front of the credit card machine. Refusing to budge. Even as you tap into your inner contortionist to try to sign your name on the little credit card machine without getting intimate with a total stranger, they do not move. Back the hell up, dude! Check-out line space invaders piss me off.

I hate having to parallel park my minivan in front of my own house. I believe the entire neighborhood should give my minivan wide berth. Anything less completely pisses me off.

Yea, I am pretty pissy today.

National Push Weekend

This weekend is National Push Weekend. Sounds kind of exciting, doesn’t it? Like maybe I get to push people I do not like off a tall ledge. Or I get to push all of my worries right out of my head. Or, in the immortal words of Salt’n’Pepa, I get to “Push it good. P-push it real good.” Alas, none of these are the case. Rather than anything provocative, or even moderately interesting, National Push Weekend is a work event.

National Push Weekend is an all-day event Saturday and Sunday dedicated to trying to tackle our backlog of cases and “push” through the work. That’s right. I will be working a full eight-hour day on both Saturday and Sunday of this week. It’s voluntary, of course. As a leader on the team, however, it is “voluntary” for me in much the same way as taxes are voluntary or breathing is voluntary or my eventual return to ashes (sorry…feeling a bit morbid today) is voluntary. Actually, I am sure I could say that I already have plans and my manager would be okay with it, but that certainly wouldn’t be very leader-like, now would it?

In actuality, I really do not mind going into the office this weekend. My business trip to New York was cancelled in lieu of this team-wide Push Weekend. Given the option of a few extra hours on one weekend or spending two full weeks away from my family working night and day, I will happily take the Push Weekend. Plus, the company is providing breakfast and lunch each day. What, really, is there to complain about? I anticipate I will be chowing down on bagels and rocking out to Florence and the Machine on my iPod while plugging away. Poor Ruanita, on the other hand will spend not two…not four…not six…but SEVEN entire long days alone with our children this week. And then turn around and do five more starting on Monday. I suppose she is really the one who deserves a bagel, huh?

A Grand Scheme

I am in the midst of a grand scheme. A plot I devised with complete confidence that it could not fail. It would not fail. Ruanita signed onto my plan, no doubt impressed by my innovative thinking and sexy bravado. Life was about to change on Columbus Avenue. My children were going to sleep in their own beds. After weeks of not one…not two…but all three children sleeping in my bedroom every night, I was completely confident that I could turn the tides. Our bedroom would once again belong to Ruanita and I. We would be able to sleep through the night without getting up and stumbling blindly to the bathroom to hand Sophie the toilet paper that was just out of her reach. We would be able to sleep through the night without getting up three times to tuck three separate children—who, by the way, spaced their arrivals just far enough apart to prevent their mothers from entering REM sleep at all on any given night—into sleeping bags strewn around our chair, loveseat, and bedroom floor. No longer would Ruanita, in a state of forgivable exhaustion, forget our agreement that the children were not allowed in our bed and lift Sophie’s lanky body over the edge of the bed and plop it right in the middle of us where she could toss and turn and kick and otherwise bruise me all night long. Once again, we would have a sex life. That elusive marital perk that has managed to evade us for so very long. Things were changing. Life was on the mend. I would not fail in my pursuits.

Confidence is an odd thing. It fills you with a sense a power. A sense that you are infallible. That your ideas are nothing short of golden. Confidence is a strong force. Unfortunately, the will of my children is a stronger force. And confidence can be shaken when it comes up against a wall as sturdy as that of my children’s resolve.

So what is this grand scheme that seemed so foolproof a few short days ago? It’s simple really. I decided to employ that most basic of parental tactics: Bribery. We sat our children down and offered them a deal. For one week, we would pay them to stay in their own beds at night. Cold, hard cash. For one week, we would offer them each one dollar for every night they slept in their own beds. At the end of the week, they had the possibility of earning $7.00 and on Friday evening, we would take them to Target to spend their money. One week would not solve all of our woes, but my belief was that, once my children slept in their own beds for a week, they would gain the confidence necessary to stay there for good. I was simply using cash to reinforce a behavior that we desired. Classical Pavlovian conditioning.

Lucas received a Skylanders video game for the Wii for his birthday. It’s a weird little video game that requires kids to buy small figurines of dragons and trolls and gnomes and other odd little creatures that are placed on a “Portal of Power,” thereby allowing the kids to play those particular characters in the game. Basically, a gimmick to make parents not only fork over $60 for the game, but also buy all of the additional characters their child is sure to want to collect. And, conveniently, the characters cost about $7.00 apiece. Did my children’s newfound obsession with this game figure into my fail-proof plot? Absolutely!

We began our trial run on Thursday evening last week. The first night, all three children slept in their own beds. My plot had worked! They awoke the next morning chattering excitedly about their hard-earned cash. I was a success! Success was short-lived, however. Friday night, Sophie cried hysterically at bedtime that she could not sleep in her own bed. Then she wailed that she would not earn a dollar and it “was not fair!” I explained that coming to mommy’s room or staying in her own bed was a choice. A choice only she could make. She was welcome in our room, but she would not earn a dollar. Needless to say, this was not a choice she was happy with and our struggle continued night after night with bedtime becoming nothing short of a hellish experience where Sophie was concerned. To date, she has earned $2 total. And the second one was a total fluke.

Lucas did quite well the first three nights. Amazingly, his late-night claims of anxiety disappeared when cash was involved. No longer was he coming out of his room multiple times to tell us that he was scared to go to sleep. He put on his headphones, rolled over, and was snoring in no time. Who needs weeks and weeks of therapy when cold, hard cash is much more effective? That is, until Sunday evening. He had his birthday party on Sunday and, in addition to a bunch of great presents, he also received $20 in cash. Apparently, he did the math in his head and quickly discovered that he could buy three new Skylanders with his $20 plus the additional $3 he had earned sleeping in his own bed. Three Skylanders were enough for him. He was done with our grand experiment. He did not need more money. Once again, he was coming to bed with us.

Nicholas is currently our last man standing. With Christmas past and no birthday in sight, Nicholas’ only shot at earning money is to sleep in his own bed. As a future con man and master manipulator, money talks where Nicholas is concerned. Not once has he questioned the deal. Not once has he argued about going to bed. Not once has he tiptoed to our bedroom in the middle of the night. I even found him asleep on the living room couch one morning, no doubt awakened during the middle of the night but coherent enough to choose cash over his parents’ warm embraces. I have no doubt he will endure until the bitter end. Come Friday night, he will most certainly have $7 to spend at Target. And come next week, I am equally confident that he will return to my bedroom.

So…what to think of my grand scheme? A failure? A partial success? What lesson did I teach my children? That there are rewards for good behavior? Not a bad lesson, really. That there is value in earning money on your own merit? Again, a decent lesson for young children. That you have choices when it comes to your behavior and you must weigh the pros and cons and choose wisely? Perhaps a bit much for five-year-olds. Or perhaps the only lesson learned through this experience was that mommy could be bought and bad behavior, if continued long enough, will result in financial gain.

Okay…maybe it wasn’t such a “grand” scheme after all.

The Prodigal Blogger

It is me! The prodigal blogger. It has been entirely too long since I have written in this blog. My life is just very busy right now. I would like to say that I am enjoying the busy-ness. I would like to say that hard work and a busy schedule is proof that I am living a full and rich life. I would like to say that my lack of blogging is symptomatic of immense happiness that is impossible to express in mere words. Unfortunately, that is not the case.

In reality, I am just too damn tired to blog. The words do not flow from my weary brain the way they used to flow. My kids still amuse me. They still utter the craziest, most bizarre phases, but I can muster little more than a grin in their direction. I don’t like it. Writing used to be my saving grace. The final, thin thread linking me to sanity. Now that I am not writing as often, I miss it terribly. If the time does not exist in my schedule, I need to make time to write in this blog. It’s that important to me.

So…rather than putting you through any more melancholic drivel about a writer’s need to write, I will update you on my life.

Work is going well. It is keeping me much busier than I imagined. I have been skipping lunch and working non-stop from the minute I sit my butt down in the morning until I leave late in the afternoon. It’s probably not a healthy habit, but I have to find my rhythm. My supervisor will be leaving for her 12-week maternity leave in two short months and I will be stepping into her shoes in her absence. Am I prepared? Ummm…no. Not even close. But I am sure I will get there.

The children are doing well. Nicholas, my little savant, is reading up a storm. He reads constantly. Street signs. Cereal boxes. Commercials on TV. He reads anything and everything he can find. It borders on nauseating, but I admit to being a bit smugly proud of his aptitude with words. He’s a chip off the old block.

Sophie is also doing quite well in school. Whereas Nicholas is reading everything, Sophie is reading all of the words she’s been taught in school. She gets upset that Nicholas is able to take it a step further and apply his knowledge of a few words to a multitude of words. Though doing extremely well, she’s not able to expand on her word lists the way Nicholas does. She compares herself to Nicholas, which really isn’t fair at all. He’s always been freakishly adept at picking up on things quickly. Reading, math, computer games…you name it. He sees or hears something once and is an instant expert. Sophie, on the other hand, is a normal five-year-old. Granted, she is also extremely smart and does well in school. I have a feeling that Sophie is going to be my child who works incredibly hard and gets straight A’s, whereas Nicholas will be my child who puts forth absolutely no effort and sails through with B’s. We shall see, but I suspect we will have some academic rivalries in their very near future.

Lucas is still struggling a bit in school. Mostly with reading and writing. And his attitude about school, in general. He hates school. He hates reading. He hates homework. He was, however, put into an advanced math class this year. He is quite good at math. Finally, in third grade, he has a teacher who is focusing on his strengths rather than his weaknesses. So that’s a good thing. He is still struggling with reading and writing and gets extra help at school. I have finally accepted the fact that my son will never be a lover of books. I seriously doubt I will ever find him holed up in his bedroom reading the day away. It’s kind of sad when you discover that your children are not interesting in the things you hold most dear. But I suppose that’s life, huh? They are ours to raise, but they belong to themselves. He’s an amazing little boy….even if he chooses math and computers over reading and writing.

Ruanita is also doing well. She’s studying very hard for her upcoming licensure exam in April. I bought her an iPod for Christmas and we put all of her study CD’s on her iPod. She listens to it constantly. Walking the dog. Cleaning the house. Taking a bath. It’s been well over ten years since she was in graduate school, so she has had plenty of time to lose a lot of what she learned. She is intent, however, on hammering that information into her brain. I am vey proud of her.

So there you have it. An update on every member of my family. We are all doing quite well. I plan on making the time to write in his blog more, as it is my sanity. Sad, but true. Stay tuned for more crazy stories from the Pierce-Ralph household…

Tripping

It looks like I am going to be heading off on my first business trip here in a couple of weeks. My manager wants me to help tackle a rather large backlog in our New York office. Before you get incredibly excited for me, please note that it is Kingston, New York. Not New York, New York. Despite the less-than-stellar location, I admit that I was initially excited about a trip. Three or four days without kids. Three or four days of expense account meals. Three of four days with sole control of the television. Cable television. Three of four days of peaceful sleep in a king-sized bed with no children to interrupt my slumber. No dog to steal the covers. Three of four evenings spent with my nose stuck in my laptop with no comments from the peanut gallery about my internet addiction. Sounds an itsy bitsy bit sublimely blissful, huh?

But here's the thing. It is not going to be three or four days. It is going to be closer to two weeks. Three or four days is blissful. Fourteen days is lonely. Cold and lonely. In Kingston, New York. As a matter of fact, those are the exact words my supervisor used when trying to talk me into taking the trip. Way to sell it, Sara.

My family's reaction to my upcoming trip was strangely divided along genetic lines. Ruanita was visibly upset. It could be the fact that she is being left alone with three children to care for, however, I prefer to think that she was wracked with emotion because she would miss me dearly. She does not sleep well when she is alone in bed. She worries entirely too much. I have no doubt that she will spend every moment of my two-week absence obsessing over the ways in which I will meet my untimely demise hundreds of miles away from her. She made me promise that I would no go into the city alone (NYC is 90 miles south of Kingston). Have I mentioned that we haven't spent a night apart since she was pregnant with Lucas?

Speaking of Lucas, when he overheard Ruanita and I talking about my trip, he began to cry. Rather hysterically. He wailed, actually. Out of the blue. “You're leaving, momma? Are you coming back?” Of course, I assured him that I would only be away a short time. But that did not assuage his tears. He blubbered for quite some time about how he loved me and would miss me while I was gone. It was equal parts incredibly touching and sadly pitiful.

Sophie and Nicholas—the lucky children who possess my genetic material—simply stared at me blankly. There were no tears. There were no declarations of love. There was no need for hugs and kisses and reassurances. There was, however, palpable disdain directed at their whimpering elder brother. Otherwise, they were completely dispassionate and disinterested. They only perked up and showed the tiniest iota of feeling when I promised Lucas that I would bring back presents from my trip.

It feels good to be so loved.

Superfluous Goals

I just realized today, on January 5th, that I did not make any New Year’s resolutions this year. That is very unlike me. Typically, by January 5th, I have already made and broken at least half a dozen New Year’s resolutions. What is wrong with me this year? How did I get to January 5th without a single reflection on the upcoming year? How did I manage to make it to the fifth day of the year without a marathon goal-setting blog? In the spirit of tradition, I present to you my superfluous and entirely dispensable goals for 2012:

1. Get down to my birth weight. Okay, maybe not my birth weight, but at least my post-seven-months-of-puking weight I had reached after the birth of my twins. That would me nice—minus all the puking, of course. I am taking my children to the ocean this summer, and I am far—oh so very, very far—from being swimsuit ready. I seriously doubt, even if I starved myself, I would be swimsuit ready by June, but at least maybe I could avoid wearing a MuMu if I started working on it now.

2. Start writing my book. Yea…yea…I talk about it all the time. “I am going to write a book about my experiences in the trenches of parenthood.” One day I will. This may very well be the year. Then again….2020 sounds like a nice round year to write a book.

3. Read more books. I got a nice Nook Color for my birthday this year and I absolutely love it. I find myself, however, spending more time playing games on it than I do reading. I could easily become a professional Globs player, if such a thing exists. Don’t get me wrong…I do read. I have read several books since getting my Nook, but there are a ton of books on my wish list that I have yet to tackle. In 2012, I definitely want to read more.

4. Unplug. In 2012, I would like to spend less time on the internet. Less time with my nose in my laptop. Less time surfing the web. Less time on Facebook. And Etsy. And eBay. And Pinterest. Over the New Year’s weekend, I was without internet because the power cable to my modem had gone bad. My internet provider shipped me a new one, but not in time for my four-day holiday weekend. I was a bit crabby, to say the least. As a matter of fact, four days without the internet put me into a funk that was both pathetic and moderately disturbing. No one should be that addicted to something as expendable as a laptop.

5. Eat at home more. This one actually goes hand in hand with #1. If I ate out less, it would most certainly be a step in the right direction away from the beach MuMu. The problem is, as a working mother of three children, I am just too damn tired to cook sometimes. A lot of the time. Eating out is convenient. It is easy. It tastes better than what I would likely cook at home. There are no dishes to wash. I can focus time and energy on things more important than cooking. All in all, the restaurant is one of humankind’s greatest creations. Am I right? See…odds are stacked against me. With all of the perks of eating out, it is difficult to focus on the reality. The insane amount of money better spent elsewhere. The burgeoning waistline. The processed food taking the place of the fruits and vegetables my kids are not eating. It’s an atrocious habit, really. A tough one to crack, but one I plan on tackling in 2012.

6. Say no. As a good little lapsed Catholic girl, I have a lot of guilt. I carry guilt around like an infant in a sling, closely cradled to my bosom. I nurture it. I hold it tightly. I talk sweetly to it and kiss its fleshy, rotund cheeks. It is my baby. In 2012, it is time to kick that baby’s ass to the curb. I cannot be everything to everyone. As a modern woman, I try desperately to be exactly that. As a good little Catholic girl, I try to be perfect in all endeavors. As the eldest child in my family, I try to take care of everyone. As a Libra, I strive for harmony and peace in all interactions with all people. It’s exhausting! It’s time, at the ripe old age of 39, for me to learn to say no. Let go of all the guilt. Do what I want for a change. I am responsible only for myself, my children, and--to a lesser extent--my partner. I am not responsible for the happiness of anyone else. In 2012, I resolve to remember that fact. And to say a resounding “No!” when my guilt is being put before my own happiness.

There you have it. My goals for 2012. I can’t help but notice that they are eerily similar to my resolutions for 2011. As I explained above, I typically scrap the resolutions by mid-January, so it comes as no surprise to me that my goals are reminiscent of this time last year. Therefore, finally, I give you Resolution #7:

7. Stick with your resolution until at least February 1st. A lofty goal, no doubt, but one I hope to reach. I’ll let you know how I am doing in 27 days.

Cruel and Unusual Punishment

Parenthood is brutal. That's no secret, of course. We all know it's brutal. There are days, however, when its brutality can take your breath away. You are endowed by some miracle that can only be described as awe-inspiring with this tiny little creature to care for. You come to love it more than you love anything on this Earth. More than you love chocolate. More than you love books. More than you love the internet. More than you love yourself, even. You want nothing but the best for your child. You want that child to be the strongest. The bravest. The smartest. The fastest. The cleverest. The happiest. You want your child to be everything you are not.

As your child grows, you come to the realization that your child is not the strongest. She is not the bravest. She may not even be the happiest. No, she is you. She is more like you than you ever expected. More like you than you would ever have wanted her to be. More like you than you would wish on your worst enemy.

My daughter, Sophie, is the spitting image of me at five years old. From her long, skinny legs to her stringy dirty-blond hair, she is me. I am amazed on a daily basis how very me-like she is. Last night she was particularly me-like, and I’m afraid that “me” is not what I want for my beloved daughter.

We had our second Daisy Scouts meeting last night. At the first meeting, Sophie did surprisingly well. She joined the group right away with no encouragement needed. She sang songs. She crafted crafts. She recited the Girl Scout Promise. She appeared to be in her element. We did have tears toward the end of the meeting when she did not understand what she needed to be doing during a certain art project, and subsequently was the first one out at a rousing game of musical chairs (how is it that my child has made it to the age of five without ever learning how to play musical chairs?!). Despite the tears, she did amazingly well considering her usual modus operandi.

Last night, however, was a different story altogether. I felt as though I was re-living the whole ballet nightmare all over again (remember when I had to join the circle and clumsily pirouette my way through ballet class?) Sophie did not want me to leave her side the entire night. I was not allowed to join the other mommies happily chatting and knitting (God, I wish I knew how to knit!) at a table on the sidelines. No, I got to join the Daisy circle. I got to sit in a chair directly behind Sophie while she buried her face in my knees. Despite my encouragement and constant whispering of, “You’re fine. You can do this,” Sophie was terrified. She repeatedly told me that she was scared. Scared of what? It was Girl Scouts. They are about as non-threatening as any group I can imagine. They are five-year-old little girls and perky moms. They are encouraging to the point of near nausea. What in the world could my daughter have to fear?

Unfortunately, I know the answer to that question. Everything. Everyone. Sophie is shy. Painfully shy. She doubts herself in social situations. She is terrified of failing. Of making a fool of herself. Of the judging eyes of others. I know this feeling all too well. I was the same way as a child. It’s heart-wrenching to see my daughter suffer through new situations the same way I did. I want so much for her to join in with the chatty, giggly, vibrant little girls that make up her Daisy Scouts troop. Instead, she hangs back. She clings to me. She wants desperately to be like those girls, but she doesn’t have it in her. She wants nothing more than to be something she is not. And it kills me. Why does she have to be like me? Why do genetics have to be so cruel? Why does her self-talk have to be a litany of disparagement? I lost count of how many times I heard her say “I can’t” and “I’m not good at that” last night.

The girls played a game of hopscotch last night instead of the heinous musical chairs that destroyed my daughter’s tiny psyche the week before. I thought to myself, Sweet! Sophie plays hopscotch at home all the time! She is going to ace this! Unfortunately, my Downer Debbie of a daughter proved me wrong. She tried it once, had trouble picking up the little turtle that was used as the “stone” on one foot as she was supposed to, and immediately ran to me extremely upset. She refused to try a second time because she “didn’t do it right.” She didn’t notice the other girls flopping around like epileptics in their attempts at hopscotch. She didn’t notice that most of the girls hopped on two feet the whole way down and back. She didn’t notice that she may very well be the most athletically gifted girl in the group. She didn’t see any of that. She only saw her own imagined failure.

What do I do with a child who is so much like me? How do I make her believe that she is beautiful and smart and clever and capable? How do I make her see the exquisite beauty within herself when, at the tender age of five years old, she already has a constantly running tape recorder in her head telling her otherwise? I don’t know the answer to these questions. I only know that I adore my daughter. I adore her with every fiber of my being, despite being so much like me. Perhaps even because of it.

Parenthood is cruel and unusual punishment.

Defenders of All Things Decent and Chaste

It has come to my attention that many readers of this blog, including myself, are suddenly having difficulty accessing my blog at their places of employment. Somehow, for reasons unbeknownst to me, my blog has quite suddenly and inexplicably been categorized as “porn” by the software that a lot of companies employ to block such sites from their employees. I do not know why my blog has been categorized as such, as it is SO incredibly far from porn. My blog—and by extension, my life—is so non-sexual these days that I could very well be initiated into nun-hood. I think I would look good in a full-on habit. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about my stringy hair anymore. And black is quite slimming, I am told.

I can only surmise that the word “lesbian” is what is tripping the software to flag my website, as people are able to access their other friends’ blogs. Though the word “lesbian” is not in the title of my blog, it can be found dispersed among my blog entries. I realize that there are pornographic websites that employ the use of “lesbians” as sex objects. But come on…do I look like one of those so-called lesbians? No, I am a real lesbian. A true lesbian. A sit-around-in-my-sweatpants-and-eat-Ben-&-Jerry’s-while-watching-Gray’s-Anatomy sort of lesbian. A sit-in-a-cubicle-all-day-to-pay-the-mortgage kind of lesbian. A haul-the-kids-to-Girl-Scouts-and-swim-lessons-and-school-carnivals lesbian. A love-my-family-and-honor-my-parents kind of lesbian. A rule-following, in-bed-by-ten-o’clock lesbian. A struggling-to-raise-good-kids lesbian. A married-the-love-of-my-life-only-to-find-that-marriage-is-hard-work lesbian. A despising-third-grade-homework-but-doing-it-anyway lesbian. A too-often-doubting-myself-but-trying-to-feel-comfortable-in-my-own-skin lesbian. A lesbian who is also a rabidly devoted mom. And a loyal and loving partner. And a daughter and a sister and an aunt and an employee and a reader and a writer. As a matter of fact, I am a lot like all of the other lesbians I know. In other words, we are just like the rest of you out there. Trying to survive parenthood and partnerhood, and maybe have a few laughs along the way.

Definitely sounds pornographic, doesn’t it? It is heartening to know that there are companies out there protecting their employees from the likes of me and my obscenely scurrilous writings. Way to go, guys.

Keep up the good work, ye defenders of all things decent and chaste!

A Year In the Life-2011

In the spirit of the upcoming New Year, I wanted to write a blog entry that would encapsulate everything that happened to me in the past year. The mundane and the life-altering. I wanted to write a blog entry that would sum up the craziness that was 2011 in a nice, tidy package. Alas, my thirty-nine-year-old brain has trouble remembering what I ate for breakfast yesterday, much less what I was doing in February of this past year. Therefore, in typical lazy blogger form, I am presenting you all with “A Year in the Life” via Facebook posts. These are actual status updates I posted on Facebook in the year 2011.

Nicholas just came out of his bedroom to ask me the following: “Did you know that in real life your pee is the things you drink and your poop is the things you eat?” Apparently, Lucas is doling out biology lessons in their bedroom this evening.

Thinking about busting into the Bailey’s. Is that completely pathetic, all alone on a Thursday night? Or it simply a little sad? I can live with a little sad.

Monday confession: I live in fear of accidentally hearing a Justin Bieber song and liking it.

Mailing off Ruanita's last graduate school student loan payment today. We are officially a student loan free household now. Woo-hoo!

Holy Jesus! Lucas is fever free and going back to school tomorrow! Praise the Lord! Can I hear an Amen?!

To the chick at McDonalds who inadvertently gave me ONE boy toy and TWO girl toys: Thank you for the hell that is unfolding in my house this evening. Try as I might, Lucas is simply not buying that a My Little Pony is a super cool equine super hero.

Do a handful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and a glass of Bailey’s constitute a well-balanced dinner?

I think my cat just uses me for food. I feel absolutely no affection coming from her. As a matter of fact, I am pretty certain she despises me.

Bad headache today. I think I am going to lie on the couch and let the children run rampant around me. As long as there is no bloodshed, I should be able to manage them from my horizontal position on the couch. I hope.

Happy Fat Tuesday to all my fat friends. Finally! Our very own holiday!

It is taking every single ounce of mental fortitude I possess not to strangle my children this evening.

Only in Kentucky will they hand out suckers for the kids at the drive-thru liquor store. I love my homeland!

My eight- and four-year-old sons just beat Super Mario Galaxy 2 on the Wii today. Got all the way to the end and saved the princess. Not sure if I should be proud or mildly disturbed.

I think that people who drive around without insurance and then cause wrecks should be arrested. My $1000 deductible and I are just sayin'.....

Watching a documentary called “Cosmic Collision: the Birth of a Planet” with Lucas. Help me. Please. Anyone?

All three of my kids have new electric toothbrushes they are incredibly excited about. I can’t help noticing, however, that they haven't quite mastered the art of the electric toothbrush. All three brush their teeth with their mouths wide open. There is a foamy drool-fest going on in my bathroom at 8:00PM every night now. Ick.

Just saw a rabbit in the back yard and told the kids the Easter Bunny had his minions out in full force tonight watching them. They are cleaning their bedrooms as we speak. Tee-hee.

Lucas just asked me if I know how to hot-wire a car. I am concerned.

Spent all afternoon putting together an iron gazebo thingy in my back yard. I would like to apologize to my family, my neighbors, and anyone walking down the street within ear shot of my cursing. It got a bit ugly there for a while, but the detestable thing is assembled and up now.

I need to do laundry so I have clean underwear for the Rapture tomorrow. I would hate to meet my maker in my holey skivvies.

Talking to my kids just now about the proposed constitutional amendment to ban same-sex marriage, Lucas turns to me and says he wants to vote NO because when he grows up, her wants to marry his brother, Nicholas. Hmmm....better not let the evangelicals hear that one.

My daughter wants a princess backpack for kindergarten. I am looking at them online and they are all hideous. Sparkly, gaudy, glittery, Pepto-pink bags. Do I really have to spend my hard-earned money on one?

Selling the kids' double stroller. As era has passed...kind of bittersweet.

So out of the blue, Lucas asks me this afternoon, “So if Minnesota votes yes and girls can't marry girls, will Nicky and Sophie still be my brother and sister?” He was actually, genuinely worried. I am one pissed off momma right now.

If my daughter does not stop following me from room to room telling me how BORING all her toys are and that she NOTHING to do, I am going to sell her on the black market. I swear I am. Then I am going to buy myself an iPad with the proceeds.

Just bought a piñata for the twins' birthday party next weekend. I am taking bets now on which child will get hit in the head with a baseball bat.

Heading out for Mexican food with the family tonight. Celebrating my twins' 5th birthday with margaritas. It feels wrong, but it's going to taste oh so right.

Lucas: So we're going to Pride today?
Me: Yep
Lucas (looking a tad worried): “Pride” isn't a fancy word for church, is it?
Me: Ummm....no.

I think Polly Pockets are the work of the devil.

Tried to lie on the couch and take a nap with the windows open and the awesome breeze coming through. Apparently, my children can only survive without me for exactly 23 minutes.

Ruanita will appreciate this. I had to vacuum the living room tonight and couldn't figure out how to turn the damn thing on.

I have a dirty little secret. I like watching Phineas and Ferb.

Sophie is no longer a terrible two. And she hasn't yet hit puberty. So I don't really know how to explain my five-year-old's tearful, moody, somewhat bitchy PMS-like symptoms today. Personality disorder, perhaps?'

So is it an act of blasphemy or devotion that my son just made a new character on the Wii and named him Jesus? Looks freakishly like him, too. My kids are just odd.

As we were answering our usual “What was your favorite thing you did today?” question around the dinner table this evening, Lucas answered with, “I loved every freaking nanosecond of this day.” Me thinks he was being sarcastic.

I can no longer watch my youngest son eat hot dogs. Without a bun. Holding them horizontally in his hands. Corn-on-the-cob style. Blech.

Filling up the ice cube trays will NOT cause brain damage. Just an FYI.

My dog just chased down and killed Thumper in my back yard. Ruanita refuses to go out there. I am going to have to take care of it. I think I might be ill.

My mother is moving into my house today. Please pray for us all.

I have strep for the first time ever in my life and I truly think I am going to die.

I am taking a poll. Is it sadder that I went to Target today with the intention of purchasing a Phineas and Ferb Christmas CD? OR...that it was sold out?

I HATE rush hour traffic. I am packing up my kids and moving to Mayberry!

My eldest son may not survive this long weekend. If he calls one more person this house “butt-cakes,” I am going to go all Ninja on him. He doesn’t realize I am a woman on the edge.

Please, for the love of God, go to bed. I love you more than anything on this Earth, but I am just really tired of your faces today and do not want to see them again until tomorrow. Good. Night.

I believe my five-year-old daughter has, without my previous knowledge or consent, converted to Pentecostalism. She refuses to wear pants to school anymore. Dresses ONLY.

So my twins have their kindergarten play tomorrow. Their class is doing “The Three Little Pigs,” and Sophie and Nicky are—wait for it—brick walls. Obviously, they impressed their teacher with their acting skills. So all day, Ruanita and I have been singing Rick James’ brick house to them. Loud. In stereo. They do not think we are nearly as funny as we think we are.

They are capable of driving me absolutely insane, but there are moments when I am mad, crazy in love with my little family.

There you have it. Despite driving me mad—despite the screaming and fussing and ludicrous phrases I am forced to utter on a daily basis—I love my little family. This year, like so many years in the past, they have been my rock. My strength. My saving grace. In 2012, as history has proven, I know all things will be possible with my family by my side.

Here’s to a phenomenal New Year!