jessclark.tv

the weakest link

2012-01-31T17:35:00.000-06:00

She looks at the plate skeptically. "I don't like this" she says.
"Yes you do," I say, overly bright. "You love it!"
She takes one bite and gags dramatically, causing me to rethink my own commitment to chicken pot pie.

I hold him on my lap, all diaper and rosy cheeks and chubby thighs. "You are a GOOD BOY," I tell him over and over. "You are NICE."
"DOOO BU!" he says, smiling widely as he slaps me on the top of the head. "Nasssss," poking his fingernail into the side of my mouth.

"Won't you feel great when this is clean?" I say. "It will just take a minute. Look, not too many toys!"
He grabs the sides of his hair, distraught. "This is SO MUCH TOYS! I WILL NEVVVVVER FINISH!" Two hours later, I check in to find a cozy scene, children curled up on rugs and beds with books and tiny ponies and scraps of paper cut into "designs". The room still looks like New Orleans after Mardi Gras.

"I have to do something about that," I think. "But.... ehhhhhh"

I hold fast on so many things. I have never given into a grocery store meltdown. I've never made a second meal for a picky toddler. I've never ignored rebellion, unless I think they didn't see me see... in which case I might feign ignorance. Still, with all these parenting victories, it seems I'm running into more and more capitulation. By me, I mean. Nobody else is capitulating.

So I tell myself, "You are capable of doing this! You can set the boundaries and then you will get off your duff and get up and enforce them! You are strong!" But sometimes, I don't believe me. "Maybe they will win," I worry. "Maybe they will be spoiled and disrespectful. Maybe I will be old and they will come by and steal money out of my purse and use it to buy cigarettes."

That does it. I am turning over a new leaf. A zero tolerance policy. Or maybe I will make a spreadsheet, with bullet points, about my new policy. And color coding. Things are going to shape up around here now. Or really soon.

one of God's tricks: mommy memory

2012-01-30T16:16:00.001-06:00

A great blessing of motherhood is a faulty memory. It's one of God's primary tricks for getting us to have more kids. You forget the pain of childbirth, to some degree. You forget the depth of the ache while you wait to get pregnant or adopt. Then you forget about toddlers.

It's all coming back to me now. I'm not saying I want out, like I'm going to hop in my van full of french fries and melted crayons and drive west indefinitely. I'm just saying I forgot about the part where they don't sit in your lap, because they are hanging sideways out of your arms, screeching to be put down, so you can put them down and listen to them shriek to be picked up. And though it was fairly recent, I forgot the part where they go to great lengths to spill drinks and break computers.

Lucky for them, God had more tricks and made them crazy cute. "Ehhh?" they say, tilting their heads to the side while juice pours down the wall. "No nonononono!!" they say, giggling while poking you in the eyes in your own bed, while it is still dark outside. "HAPP GUUUUTHDAY A OOOOO" they sing while tossing household items in the toilet. And so you cry sometimes, and you laugh, a lot, but inside, you know that you are insane.

And then it's bedtime, and your back hurts and you have peanut butter on all your pj pants and you haven't had dinner but someone is in your room, smelling strangely like sulfur and brimstone, while emptying your night table drawer, throwing handfuls of tissues and nail polish bottles, taste-testing small fancy chocolates and defacing library books. And for a minute, it's too much. You change the diaper, muttering to yourself, and dump the toddler in a crib and leave the room. Too much, you think. Go to sleep.

And for a minute, maybe it would work. You eye a Lean Cuisine longingly, sweep up a pile of bread crusts and start the dishwasher, ignoring the NEW dirty dishes. And then the whining escalates to panic, as the baby figures out you weren't just kidding. Maybe they'll go to sleep, you say, because you are a little nuts, maybe. Maybe I will ignore the noise.

And then he pulls out the big gun. "MAMA!" he screams, gulping. "Mamamamamamamaaaaaa! Mama!" And your tired, selfish heart leaps in your chest because you know, really, you are what he wants. And you give in and scoop him up, and cup his sweaty little head and listen to his frantic breathing settle into a contented purr. Your back still hurts, and the microwave will beep for a while, but it's okay. Because someday, maybe, you will forget exactly how this moment felt, and tomorrow he might be 5. So, for tonight, it's okay.

Hospital update

2012-01-25T12:34:00.002-06:00

UPDATE: they sent us home on a higher dosage of seizure medicine. He's sleeping peacefully now. Thank you all for your prayers. <3

It's like I'm handing out CASH

2012-01-23T16:03:00.000-06:00

We've been fairly quarantined here lately at the house of the damned. (Disclaimer: I gave a great deal of thought to that title, for the following reasons (a.) there are evidently many horror movies by that title, (b.) it looks like a CUSS and (c.) it's overblown, since we are not actually assigned to perdition. Still, weighing the options, I decided to use it, because I love it.) I mean, I tend to hunker in place during the winter anyway, but we've been cycling through the Mosaic plagues lately, with boils and blood, frogs, locusts and pestilence, and chicken pox and barfing. And other stuff. I might need a new house.

But you already knew about that. What you did not know is that I have been coming up with Very Good Ideas while in-house. I have had a lot of time to think, in the middle of the night while Tristan is screaming/doing somersaults. So here's what I'm going to do for you. I'm just going to throw all this brilliance at you, and then it will be up to you to invent this stuff and make millions. I'm not even asking for a cut, although you don't have to be a jerk about it, send me some free stuff, since I'm obviously the brains of this operation.

1. Medicated diapers: come on, this makes perfect sense. Small packs of diapers pre-loaded with diaper rash cream, so moms don't have to get their hands all up in there. That reminds me of one of my earlier ideas...

2. Wipe gloves: A glove or mitten made of baby wipe material, so your hand is covered. Seriously. I have been changing diapers every day for over 12 years. I question why anyone would ever want to shake my hand, ever. And inventors: make that glove thick, like a baby wipe sponge glove. Trust me.

3. Bathtime apron/towel: Think about this, like a long sleeve lined terrycloth snuggie, with wide flaps to wrap around the small bathed person. This would be useful so that moms of boys, specifically, would not look like Shamu snapped and came after them, post-boy-bath. Also, some kind of floor mat that works like a fountain pump, sucking the water from the floor and running it back to the tub.

4. Home inventory scanner/finder: now, this one is tricky. What I want is some kind of system to identify stuff in your house, like a barcode or something that you can assign to keys, phones, wallets, books,SHOES, whatever. and then when you lose everything, EVERY SINGLE DAY, you can use an in-home GPS of sorts to locate said keys at the bend in the pipe directly below the toilet or what have you. Or library books, for gosh's sake. Because the cost of developing this technology would be less than what I spend on "lost" books every year.

5. Shopping cart umbrella: it is attached to the side of the cart with little clips, you just unclip it and lift it, open it, and then you and your baby or your chihuahua or your groceries can wander the Walmart parking lot aimlessly, wishing you had a GPS scanner for your car, but you won't be getting rained or snowed on. See? Oh, and a shopping cart that is actually designed for a carseat, because it's getting crazy with the upside down babies, Target. Zeriously.

I could keep going, I'm like a fountain of ideas that would make my ~~laziness~~ life easier. But that should keep you busy for a while. And don't make them expensive, because we mommies spend all our money on organic fruit strips for our babies to grind into the van floor.

away with your games

2012-01-18T15:23:00.000-06:00

I'm not a super competitive person. If I don't think I'll win, I probably won't play whatever it is that annoying people are trying to coerce me into playing. "Come on," they say. "You're a fun person! What fun person doesn't want to spend 4 hours sitting in a wooden chair pretending to take over other nations on a board game, with 1,435 rules? That's so FUN!" or "Come ooon! Of course you want to go out in the cold/hot/diseased air and run in the grass with bugs, to kick a ball, for NO reason!" But despite their totally logical arguments, the fact is, I don't like games or competitions.

Originally, this was supposed to be a heartwarming entry about how we want our children to succeed, and to ride on our shoulders, metaphorically, and be more than we are. But then I got all distracted thinking about people who play games, and now I have to talk about that. So now, instead of reposting me and spending a reflective 3 minutes thinking about childhood, I'm just going to make you feel weird about inviting me to baby showers.

Baby showers are the worst. You get dressed up and you buy a hooded towel or some other baby gimmick that NO ONE EVER USES and you go, and you're happy about the baby, and the mommy and all, but then there starts being all this pressure about putting down the mini quiche and the spinach dip or what have you, so you can wrap your friend in toilet paper or clip clothes pins on your collar or (God help us) eat melted candy out of a diaper. And the next thing you know you're enveloped in stress, paranoid of crossing your legs or saying "cute" in front of the jury of your peers, and you're transmitting all these hostile vibes to the unborn guest of honor, and isn't it fun? I think I'd like a baby shower where you just drop your present off at the door and give the mommy a hug, and she'd give you a goody bag with some hor d'oeuvres, and you could go home and eat them in your pjs.

As far as grownup parties, we don't drink and we don't have a game system, so games at our parties are pretty much limited to whatever board games our children have not desecrated beyond recognition. "We'll just use a nickel for a game piece," we say sheepishly. Anyway. At first it's fun, but then I remember that everyone else in the world really, really wants to win, really, really bad. Especially the MOG. In fact, he will humiliate children and end decade long friendships with his in-it-to-win-it-ness. And maybe I sneak away to talk to some queso, and then everybody's calling in that voice, "Jessic-uuuuuhhhhhh! You need to come draw using only chalk and your nostrils!" And my eyes are rolling way up in my head like I'm having a seizure, but it's just wasted attitude.

So I stand alone, a Sanguine island in the middle of the frivolity. I just want to eat stuff and tell funny stories, you know?

my babies and the devil's music

2012-01-16T12:24:00.001-06:00

Every morning, Toby and Brynn (and Tristan) turn on their clock radio and dance like heathens to whatever comes on. Some days it's country. One particularly loud day was Tejano music. (note to self: is it called Tejano here in the Midwest?) I have intervened a couple of times and switched the dial over to K-Love, since I don't really feel up to lengthy discussions of adultery and divorce (thank you, country music) or other topics inspired by rap or R&B. But then they say, "Hey, we don't like this Jesus music." And so then I'm busting out the rosary for them, and I'm not even Catholic.

It brings the whole thing to the forefront, the topic that I have tiptoed around for all of my life. See, at Piney Woods Christian School, we didn't listen to "secular" music. It wasn't done. I grew up on a steady diet of Amy Grant and Michael W Smith, Petra, Sandi Patty... you get it, right? Unless you were raised in a GODLESS home. Kidding. But my dad, he had his music, which he listened to privately, and on occasion we would all listen to some musical "breaker", a generational catalyst like the Beatles or Jimi Hendrix, and I knew that their music had changed the world, and not all for the better. But they had moved people and music, and they would always be part of the landscape of history, because of MUSIC.

I've pretty much just stuck with Christian music and I've been pretty content with my bands, my 950 songs on my iPod. At the same time, I hear popular music everywhere, TV, public places, youtube, whatever, and there are songs that I like, that I know, that I sing. I just won't buy them.

I'm just facing myself on this, the "why". I watch "secular" movies, as long as they don't breach my moral code. I read "secular" books, same criteria. But when it comes to music I just hold back, and it's probably part righteousness and a larger part tradition and guilt. So that's religion. Still, I don't want my kids singing about sin, celebrating sin like many songs do. I don't want them copying pop culture in their manners, their speech, their clothes. On the other hand, I want them to be aware of the world around them, to not grow up in a holy bubble. Or do I? Maybe I do. Oh, and so much Christian music is weak, musically. I want them to know music that makes their hearts ache, to feel the beauty of music.

And I know the Christian music industry is corrupt, in many ways, and unChristian. That doesn't change the fact that most of the lyrics are Biblical... that is still life, going in via ears. Plus, I kind of live off the Christian music industry, although we're on the outskirts, technically.

Look, I want them to be lovers of God, to be pure, and to be separate, while still being aware and welcoming to people around them. And I really want them to be real, genuine, motivated by love, not performance or an unholy standard. And I want them to be musically gifted, inspired by God to make music that moves the hearts of people. Sheesh. Is that so much to ask?

the Very Bad Thing

2012-01-13T16:57:00.000-06:00

I went to the movies last night with some pals, and came home to find Tristan sleeping in a pool of his own vomit, like a tiny frat boy. He's been fussy for days, with teeth sprouting all over the place (you know, in his mouth), and he hasn't been sleeping, which means that I haven't been sleeping, and the MOG has been sleeping, unless you ask HIM. But the puke, that was surprising. Over and over again. And then the other stuff, which I don't like to talk about. My house smells like the gates of hell.

Being the woman of faith that I am, I sat Brynn and Toby down this morning and had the don't-think-you-can-mosey-to-the-toilet talk, because I know this stuff. They will pass this around like a beach ball, like a filthy bacteria-ridden snot-covered beach ball. And no one will vomit or do anything else in an authorized location, because that's so typical.

So I'm waiting. Tristan's got the worst of it, walking around with a siren-whine that is pitiful and adorable at the same time. R2 is definitely a little under the weather, and Brynn's showing some signs of contracting the plague as well. I'm feeling decidedly, perpetually queasy, but that's probably because I am living in the bowels of the underworld.

The MOG is helping, although his primary contribution is evacuating soiled linens and spraying EXCESSIVE amounts of Febreze on people, as well as in the general vicinity of the Terrible Stink. May God have mercy on our souls.

snoooow thank you

2012-01-12T13:12:00.000-06:00

You might have missed this: I'm from Texas. Snow is like Kryptonite to us. Like beautiful, deadly Kryptonite. If you don't know what Kryptonite is, put down your dadgum iPod and go pirate some old school Christopher Reeve movies. I can't do everything for you people.

Anyways, when it snows, the MOG and I shut it down. Neurosurgery? Cancel it. House fire? Reschedule. We will be indoors until the law makes us come out. And we live on a little slope, you know, our road is slightly hilly. So the first thing I do with new snow is make a cup of tea and settle in to watch the cars slide down the hill. BZZZZZTTTTTTT, they say, wheels spinning to no avail. They lean forward in the driver's seat, intent. BZZZZTTTTTTeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, down the hill they go. I sip my tea and cackle like a 90 year old. Every now and then one gets through and I sit back, disappointed.

The kids get suit up and go out for a while, but eventually the cold air activates their brain cells and they come back inside, where humans belong. I have done a few basic survival tasks, involving peanut butter sandwiches and folding clothes, and then I pulled a sweet Mr. Rogers and changed into my daytime PJs and have returned to my post at the window, waiting to see what Captain Intrepid (our mailman) is wearing today, and if the neighbors are going anywhere. It's gonna be a great day. Unless we have to go outside.

haircuts and the fall of womankind

2012-01-10T16:36:00.002-06:00

I have always been pretty flexible about my hair. I have friends and family members who have a psychiatrist on call to talk them off the ledge after every haircut, but I'm more of the "Eh, it'll grow" school of thought. I spent a good portion of the 90's going around half-scalped in an effort to look like Winona Ryder or Meg Ryan, but, you know, I was happy. I looked ridiculous, but I didn't even know. So I like to change it up, experiment with color and cuts and live a little.

When Toby was about 2, he observed of the MOG, "Daddy don't have any hairs. He only haves a HEAD and TEETH." And this was, and is, pretty accurate. He had hair until he was about 22, and then it started escaping because of all the anointing and brains and stuff, and after a long battle with denial, he shaved the remaining hairs off. Since then, he has become fairly proprietary about other people's hair, if you catch my drift. "I think I need bangs," I said, a few days ago, envisioning an elegant swoopy bang. Immediately, he goes here in his mind:

And he has this whole thing, like, "You look terrible with bangs! They're always all like this," he says, with splayed terror fingers across his forehead. "And you looked like a zombie/fire victim/fallen angel* for ALL of 1997!" he worries. And I mean, I had bad haircuts on occasion, sure. But I seem to remember a tremendous amount of positive feedback in 1997, specifically in regards to my hotness. Specifically from him. A tremendous amount. Sometimes in front of everyone. My hotness was a continual topic, if I recall correctly.

But he never remembers. "I love your hair now, don't change it." he always says, even though when I suggested this new color, he was all like, "Well, I like it now. I guess you can do whatever you want, I (siiiigh) guess." And then I go dye it, or I cut my own bangs, or whatever, and he's always against it. Always. Then after like 2 days, he figures out that I was right, and can I just keep this hair, please, for 6 months or something, he requests, because, come on. Hot.

So now, I'm tired of my current "Mommy Hair" and I threw out the idea, maybe a little color boost, some bangs... maybe a LITTLE trim. He sees this:

...

What I'm going to have to do is go get my hair cut, without permission, exactly like some kind of rebellious sister-wife on her way out. Then he'll hold his tongue but react with his eyes, looking all alarmed and then crushed, and then he'll like it. That's the plan.

*exaggerations

more than just okay

2012-01-09T18:11:00.001-06:00

Sometimes I wake up and I think, "I hate everything." And I don't, you know. I love lots of things. But every night I'm like "Wooo party!!" and watch things and read things and eat chips and act like a teenager on summer vacation, and then the morning comes and it hates me.

And the children, who I begged God for, who I would walk through fire for, should that unlikely request ever come up, those same children are so awake, and so loud, and so childlike, in the morning. So the challenge is waking up without having a deep heartfelt prayer that it already be bedtime again.

It's not what I envisioned, with the dreams of morning baby cuddles and healthy breakfasts, lying together in a pool of sunlight, talking about our dreams for the day. Instead, I lurch around, make impassioned pleas for quieter voices, pour off-brand cereal and look for a corner to curl up and mourn in, but am usually sidelined by someone needing a diaper change, immediately.

About 10:00, life begins to look up. I do homeschool, Lord willin, and that rolls into lunch time, which rolls into our strictly enforced "quiet time" (not quiet, per se, but in another room, so quietER). Then it is 3:00, and no one is going to bed until 8:30. So I pilot through those hours, trying to be kind, to be welcoming, to be present, but I know I'm faking it, a lot.

I want to do it differently, to really enjoy my days. I have seasons like that, where I don't feel loopy and tired and my back hurts and I'm desperate for space. I'm sure it's part discipline, with sleeping the right hours, and part dietary, where I eat disgusting things that HORSES would eat, and part spiritual, where I have a deeper life than just googling spiritual mysteries to explain to my 4 year old, because she "needs to know". It just seems like work, so much work, to be disciplined.

I used to hate it when people talked about stuff like this, when I was waiting for a baby. It felt so ungrateful, in light of my loss and dreams, for lucky moms to gripe about their blessings. That's why I've got to throw in the disclaimer that this is my dream life, and I love it. I love every day with my kids. But sometimes I'm too tired and grumpy to think about how much I love it. I love it.

open adoption: 1 year visit prep

2012-01-06T17:25:00.000-06:00

I've been meaning to write two meaningful pieces here, for the ol' blog. But I'm not. I mean, I could say, because blah blah blah molars, the sun was in my eyes, whatever. It comes down to not doing it. So. Soon.

We have a visit planned tomorrow with Tristan's birthfamily, and as always, it has plunged me into thought. I wonder what they feel like when they see him? I wonder if they miss him every day? I wonder if they're still glad they placed him with us, still glad to see he fits so well? I doubt we'll ever have that conversation, it's not really my place to ask and it wouldn't be healthy for either one of us. So I have to accept that they really are okay, and choose not to worry about their mental health. Which is a little strange, since I regularly take on the burden of total strangers, i.e., "I wonder how Sandy (Bullock) is coping with the divorce and all..."

So there's that mental gymnastics, which has no bearing, and is almost disconnected from, my relationship to Tristan himself. Tristan is my son. Fully, completely, forever my son. In my heart, my emotions, my days and my mind, there is no difference between him and the children who came from my body. Sometimes I'll remind myself that I didn't give birth to him, and do a little internal heart-poke to see if that bothers me, and it never does. He is mine.

So we'll visit, and we'll all enjoy him, how beautiful he is, and how happy, and how confident. For them, I'm sure it will be bittersweet. And then we'll say goodbye and we'll all go back to our lives, lives that are irrevocably connected and deeply richer because of a little boy who was given life.

frugality and neurosis

2012-01-04T15:05:00.001-06:00

I think of myself as frugal. "I'm frugal!" I think, and then I feel a little better. But really, at the core, I am afraid I am a cheapskate. Like, I have kind of a hangup about it. I should probably sit down and argue with myself at some point and see if we come to an agreement.

It probably has to do with my parents. Or the toxins in the environment. Because it is rarely, "I'm so broke I should just buy a 4-pack of toilet paper." (Which means I will have to go buy toilet paper again in 30 minutes) It's just this thing where I think, "Why spend $12 on toilet paper? So expensive! I'll come back later." Or I buy cookies and eat as few as possible so they won't run out, and they get all weird and stale. Stuff like that. If I were in a 1900's novel, I'd be stingy with the candles and my horses would be sickly.

Anyway. I recognize it's kind of a neurosis, so I am attempting to not pass it on to my children, which has never been an issue, because they've never had any of their own money. But this year for Christmas, they got $25 each and so I've been trying to be all homeschool-y and teach them saving and budgeting and whatnot. Brynn blew through hers, but Toby's been hoarding every cent, and doing extra chores around the house and such for cash. He picked a couple of specific goals and saved everything he needed, and today we took his $22.01 and Brynn's $1.00 and they bought stuff.

And I'm standing there in the Hot Wheels aisle, feeling that kind of sick, worried feeling, because I know it's going to take ALL of Toby's money, and that is freaky. So I'm trying to hide it and say cheerfully, "Now, this will be the rest of your money. You won't have any left. But you'll have this GREAT toy!", and I can hear it coming out all high-pitched and worried and I am telling my brain to modulate my tone because I am messing up my kid. Luckily, he is male and not listening to me anyway.

Brynn picked a variety of 35 dollar items before we relocated to the dollar spot, where she got a plastic pig that the MOG will throw away when he finds it sitting on top of the toilet or in his shoe. Toby checked out in front of me, holding a sweaty fistful of dollar bills. "I'm not here alone," he told the lady in front of him. "I live with her. She's my mom. But this is my money."

So far so good, I guess.

thanks

2012-01-03T15:25:00.001-06:00

Thank you so much for everyone who gave and cheered us on! We went and bought the iPad today, and his first request (via button) was "I want to watch TV." So we let him. :)

We are so blown away by the generosity and response from all of you. He's a lucky little guy to be so loved. We are learning the ropes of the communication apps, and he seems very interested in the idea of telling us things. I still can't believe that the money came in one day, in a series of hours. I can't thank you all enough, so I will spam my social networks with pictures, in gratitude.

As for me, I've been too excited to eat for like 24 hours now, so this might work as a diet plan, too.

Thank you again, seriously. A new world is opening up for Richy, and for us.

Help R2 tell us what he WANTS

2012-01-02T10:54:00.001-06:00

** UPDATE ** WE MADE IT! THANK YOU FOR YOUR KINDNESS!! **
(donations over the goal line will be put in an R2 account)

R2 reacts!

Most of you know R2, either in person or from the ol' blog here. For a recap, he was born at 24 weeks, and suffered severe brain damage as a result of his prematurity. He's amazingly functional, despite having large gaps in his brain and being legally blind.

One of the hardest things for us has been his gradual move towards being completely nonverbal. In the last several years, he went from being able to answer questions and talk in brief sentences to where he is now, totally non-verbal except for the occasional grunt and, on bad days, screaming.

We've been researching communication options for a while, and the old technology would have cost thousands of dollars, so we never considered it an option. When the iPad came out, we started hearing stories about breakthroughs in communication with autistic kids, and that research has been growing. There are a lot of apps designed specifically for this purpose- giving a voice to special kids!

We were able to get his school to allow him to use one on campus, with good success at expressing his needs; he's skilled with computers. Now we're hoping to continue his success by buying an iPad and apps to use at home. I can't tell you what it would mean to be able to communicate with our son again, and to be able to teach him.

Over Christmas, 2 people spontaneously gave donations toward an "R2 iPad Fund", which surprised and blessed us, since we've been trying to find some way to budget for this and have been unsuccessful. Our goal is to raise $800, for the iPad, the heavy-duty case, and several apps that have been recommended. If you want to be a part of helping us reach this goal, you can email us for a mailing address or give online through ChipIn.

toby is six

2011-12-29T14:07:00.000-06:00

I forgot to sit weepily by Toby's bed Tuesday night, although it's my custom the night before his birthdays. I sit there by his sweaty little boy-self, mismatched pjs or sleeping in his jeans; and I think, "this is the last night you will be _." and then I cry a little. But this year, we drove all day and then I stayed up, staring resentfully at a giddy Tristan, tearing around my room until the wee hours of the morning.

I kind of felt like weeping when Toby came in my room like 6 hours later, but that was a different thing. Once I recovered from my daily crushing disappointment in being awake, I was so happy to see him, with his hair sticking up and his giant smile. We had a date scheduled for he and Brynn to go to Walmart with his Christmas money, and he was so excited about that that he forgot it was his birthday.

The highest aspiration of his life has been to have a Happy Meal. He had one once, when we randomly happened upon a $1.99 sale, and ever since then he's been planning on the next time. He was going to get one with his cousin, but then he moved away and so Toby picked Brynn to be the other recipient. They used their OUTSIDE VOICES throughout the meal, to express their excitement in finding their own TINY FRIES BOX! AND APPLES AND A TOOOOOOOOY! I don't know if they ate anything, but it was awesome and totally worth my $7.00.

Then we took their Christmas money from a great-grandma ($25 each) to Walmart and they were hilarious as they looked through every toy, basically. They did awesome, choosing good things they liked and staying in their budgets. In fact, Toby spent about 2 hours and only spent $9. That's me, y'all.

At night, he gleefully climbed into his rightful place on the top bunk, having denied it to himself for over 6 months now. I love my happy little geeky rule-keeper. What a gift he is to me.

merry happy Christmas

2011-12-24T15:04:00.000-06:00

the beach, and why I'm writing about not writing

2011-12-22T16:01:00.001-06:00

I'm sitting in a hotel room, where it is quiet, except for the humming of appliances and the screeching of passing seagulls. We had hotel reward points saved up and got a free room, which we will relinquish momentarily, once the MOG comes back from the jetties, where he is no doubt encountering God in a way that only happens here, by the ocean. I married a mystic.

As for me, I am just starting to feel relaxed. Somehow it takes me a day or so to let go of whatever I'm thinking about. I wrote an article for Moral Outcry yesterday, and then I read a story of a violet-eyed dance-hall girl turned goldminer, and how she found love instead of gold. Sometimes I wonder why I'm not writing books. It seems pretty easy, if you catch my drift. Maybe I'll write an Amish fiction series, about Elisabeth Yoder and the Englischer who saves her Mam's life and captures her heart, but he plays the guitar and has a rare blood disease. And BAM! I'm in.

And it's not like I really have an excuse. Women with much busier lives than me write books. Also, women who write books would probably have never let ^ that sentence slide. It comes down to discipline and organization, I think. I think about this all the time, actually. How I could get organized and put my thoughts together and find something for the kids to do and then sit down and write something longer than 300 words. But then I just have a snack and do something else.

I will do it, you know, eventually. I take great comfort in the advanced age of many beginning writers, people who had their first book published in their latter years, which is not me- I mean, I am 33. Still a puppy. So soon, very soon, I will collect all of my books about writing books, and my special laptop tray and all of the other stuff I've purchased instead of writing, and I will write a book. And when I do, you better buy it.

for this I endured 4 months of labor

2011-12-19T15:11:00.000-06:00

I read parenting magazines with this kind of detached arrogance. I mean, I think they're wrong about basically everything, but I would kind of like to know how to make a cake like a pirate ship, and it gives me a little boost of security to hear how some of their jacked-up philosophies are not working.

That's right, I'm a parenting judger. I probably don't judge your parenting, IRL friends, because I know we've all got some pieces of the puzzle. But in a magazine, heck yes I judge. And I seriously doubt anyone has ever done weight lifting and crunches using their infant as weights, for more than like a day. Yeah, you tried it once. Doesn't count. Judging. And after you leg pressed your 3 month old 100 times, you ate a sleeve of Oreos, so quit judging me for judging you.

Where I was going with this, is, one of the things I always roll my eyes at is when a parent (in a magazine) is all like, "What do I dooo? My 3 year old said they hate me and I don't know what to do! Should I buy her a pony?" And I'm always like, "Uh, you're the parent. It doesn't matter what your kid thinks. Be a man, lady." And I have these whole rants in my head about people who let their kids run everything and don't reign them in or parent them, because of their emotional need to be accepted by a FOUR YEAR OLD.

But then today I was super-parenting my way through a loaf of bread and a vat of peanut butter and such and some paper plates, Toby watches me yawn and says "I wish you'd sleep forever so you wouldn't bug me about my computer time." And I'm standing there making a sandwich for the little ingrate, and I am trying to think of what is the appropriate parental response to this. a) drop the knife and go on strike until he took it back or b) burst into tears and lay on the floor until he said he loves me and knows he owes me his LIFE.

In the end, I made some kind of vague comments about how much he'd miss me if I slept forever, and he looked stricken for a moment, WIN for me, until he said, "But I'd need my Webkinz code!" and rethought his plan to send me into hyper-sleep eternally.

One of these days I'm going to go check into a LaQuinta somewhere for 24 hours and watch Dr. Phil and Sandra Bullock movies all day and turn off my phone. Then we'll see how much everyone loves me. And I will take the Webkinz code with me. That'll show 'em.

Media fast day 5: Quitsville

2011-12-16T09:48:00.001-06:00

Day 5:

I don't know if I went in with the wrong motivation... I just know I was done yesterday. It was a good fast, in that I had a difficult week and dealt with it in realtime, instead of my normal mode of dealing with it "later", which may or may not happen. It was totally worth it, because, come on, even if I took a week off entertainment and social media for NO reason, it would be a good idea every now and then.

Now, the MOG and I have done many fasts together, and I, being raised in church and Christian school, understand that breaking a fast is a greased slide to hell. He, being raised in a meth lab (this is a joke), understands grace and forgiveness, and also tends to go on random and ferocious fasts, which he then thinks better of and bails on. I barely ever fast, because once I commit to one, I tend to stay in it, even if I die.

So we rarely fast together these days, since I fear becoming a son of Hell and he has no use for legalism. But we did this one and then when I wanted to quit he said ok, probably because there was some documentary about underwater alien species and the threat of the scuba diver that he wanted to watch, I don't know.

So it's over and now it is CHRISTMAS. Texas next week, woot woot!

day 4: quackers!

2011-12-15T09:00:00.000-06:00

Housewife log, day something, losing perception of time

This is Day 4, I think. Wednesday night, as I'm typing this. I am becoming more sure as the days pass that social media is valid and valuable. I would have already argued that before, but now I seem more legit, right? Look at me, all legit.

Valid and valuable. A true form of communication and community with friends who live far away, or for mommies (or whomever) stuck at home without a car, whatever. It's a valuable tool to maintain long-distance relationship. But, like food, the fact that it is good and useful makes it good and useful to fast, too. I am coming face to face with myself, since my favorite form of technological medicine is taken away. So I have to see I'm bored and lonely and lazy, and I have to deal with that. So, social media is good, and taking a break from social media is good. But I'm not becoming anti-networking, any more than fasting food makes me anti-fajitas.

Holy. Moly. Fajitas. I forgot all about you. My apologies. I will be in Texas in like a week and you will be mine.

I miss my friends. Even my friends who I've seen today. I miss the minutiae.

In other news, we had a baby shower today for Han and JM and baby Fridencrouserschniztel (names changed to amuse the semi-innocent). My attractive single friend Liz and I stepped on preschoolers all afternoon, as they felt the most advantageous location to be directly in the center of the kitchen floor at all times. It was a good party, now baby Friedinheimer can show up any time, as long as the grandparents have enough notice.

Day 4 in the can, 3 to go.

Media fast day 3: therapy

2011-12-14T09:30:00.000-06:00

How many self-portraits can one take of oneself reading in 5 days? Stay tuned!

Day 3: Tuesday night

Tried depriving Tristan of sleep all afternoon yesterday in an effort to provide myself with a less angsty wee-small hour of the morning. It would have worked if it weren't for the 3 other kids. Brynn had a bad dream, and then I had a bad dream about her kicking me repeatedly, (in affection) and jumping in and out of my bed at o'dark: thirty, and then being carried, at first gleefully and then with growing horror, back to her own bed; and then R2 awakening the dawn with screaming for no discernible reason, 3 times, 15 minutes or so apart. All this woke Toby up, who obediently stayed in his room until 8 am, and passed the time by playing drums and practicing his rebel yell. Then Tristan woke up. So. No time for introspection.

Until 8, that is, when I went to my very first therapy session. Do not be alarmed, I am not in a deep depression or a crisis of faith. I've just run into my heart coming and going and somehow life got complicated. It was a great appointment, where she did psychologisty stuff like making me argue with myself until I agreed with Self 1 or 2 and it worked. I actually figured out how I feel and what I should do. Amazing.

So today was productive, what with the emotional relief and then some random sporadic cleaning, because, obviously, no internet. Also, I've started journalling again and I forgot how much I both love it, because I get to write my thoughts on a paper, and hate it, because someday my grandkids will read it and think I was a gripy, grouchy woman. Dear grandchildren: read this blog instead, where I mostly say upbeat things and never complain about your grandfather, whom I love. Oh, wait...

Is this thing over yet? I need to watch some Christmas movies.

Day 3 in the can, 4 to go.

media fast, Day 2: lonely

2011-12-13T09:30:00.000-06:00

Housewife log, day 2: Planet Your Mom

You know when it hurts? At 4 o clock in the morning, that's when. After I convince Tristan to go to sleep and I am lying awake in the dark, wondering if I'm failing the people that need me, if I'm destroying my body with Oreos, if I'm doing enough, saying enough, being enough. And my escape hatch is right there, a portal to a world full of beautiful things and funny people and people who think I'm funny, and I could click it and hear that I'm okay. And then I'd go back to sleep with a beautiful picture of a wreath made out of burlap in my head that I got from Pinterest and I will make it, one of these days.

But now I am on day 2 of an intentional media fast, and I keep running into my real self. That was the hardest time, that 4 am time, when I alternated between praying and worrying and listening to the rain. I talked to God, but there were no burning bushes, just the rain and the sound of my baby breathing and the ache.

Do you want me to write something funny? I bet you do. Maybe you should go on a media fast. I kid. Don't do it, it's awful. I'm probably growing and all, but at what cost? At. what. cost? Kidding, again. Kinda.

I drove around today, ate too many sweets, spent too much money. (relax, MOG, I just mean too much for me, not what normal people would call too much. what a lengthy disclaimer this is!) Here's what's developing in my mind. I don't think social media is a bad thing. I think it is a great thing. And everybody has their own vices... so I won't say this IS what's wrong with it. So don't throw the baby out with the bathwater. But I am realizing that I use it as a distraction, an escape, a crutch, and that's no good. The other side, where it is inspiration and encouragement and community and relationship in a global way that was never possible before, that's good. So. Can I have my Facebook back?

Day 2 in the can. 5 to go.

media fast Day 1: the shakes

2011-12-12T09:30:00.000-06:00

Housewife’s log, day 1, Planet of Not Even Pretending To Know Star Trek Lingo:

The 7 of us residing in this house have embarked on a media fast this week, for a variety of reasons. The MOG has multiple spiritual quests, which I am also on, and in addition to that, I recognize that I am struggling with sadness, which typically plunges me into all-day Facebook refreshing and too much TV and movies via interwebs. I think it will be healthy for me to actually deal with my sadness instead of self-medicating via technology. The Artsy-teen-in-residence and all the miniclarks don’t have a choice, because we literally unplugged the internet.

Despite being raised by a techie geek and having most of my relationships and friendships online, I want my kids to learn how to live in an analog world. So maybe this week of ~~misery~~ cutting back will help us relate to each other more in a real way. Don’t be too quick to congratulate me on cutting off the virtual world, because a) this blog is on the internet and b) it’s just a week.

I’m writing this on Sunday night, end of day 1. I definitely feel a little jittery and anxious, and am continually picking up my phone to check Twitter or Facebook, wanting contact with somebody besides my immediate relatives here. I am so used to sharing my thoughts and pictures every few hours, it seems strange to talk to my kids or watch them play without making mental 140 character notes to be posted later tonight.

I’ve read 2 novels today and I imagine I’ll be mainlining some cookies in a minute, so it’s not like I’m filling the empty space with prayer and meditation. I have so many coping mechanisms, I’ve just cut off one, which has been my primary form of community and communication. Maybe I’ll make some progress there, I hope.

Day 1, in the can. 6 to go.

checkmate, tree.

2011-12-09T07:49:00.001-06:00

Every year, the MOG and I battle it out over the appropriate display and duration of Christmas cheer.

He would very happily skip decorating altogether and sit down on Christmas morning with non-seasonal music playing, for a peaceful exchange of gift cards, after which we would independently text holiday greetings to our family members who live 12 hours away. In fact, Richy, I bet you're reading this and thinking how nice that would be.

If I had the money and the manpower, I would cover our entire roof and every one of our trees in lights. It would look like the Galleria in my yard, and I would have a chuckling life-size Santa on my porch to greet passers-by. Inside, it would be more lights and Christmas music and an 8 foot tree in the living room with a couple of smaller trees, like 6 footers, in various locations around the house. We'd put the trees up the day after Thanksgiving and have presents wrapped and stockings stuffed by the first week of December, and Christmas music would start and play continuously as soon as temps dropped below 70. Couple of dancing Santa dolls. Eggnog fountain. You get the drill. I'd dress the kids up in sweaters with snowmen on them and we'd get our pictures taken. Cookies for the neighbors. And then I'd teach the kids Christmas carols and make them put on a show, which I'd video and put on the internet. And then we'd drive to Texas for a week of reveling and salsa.

We're lucky we agree on the important stuff, like honesty and Apple products. But every year, it's a battle, because it's cold outside, and trees are expensive, and sticky and poky and needles everywhere and you have to put them in the tree stand and water them and so on. And I always wail and say MY DAD IS DEAD, GIVE ME A TREE, which is the way a mature woman communicates her felt needs. And then we get one and put it up and it's great and beautiful. It's just the process that he hates. I guess. Or happiness.

This year, the MOG is a cripple of sorts, as his back has slipped, and he looks kind of like a candy cane man from the side, leaning to one side with his hip all jacked out of place. 34 and 33, y'all, and we're all like, kidney stones and back failure. Maybe we should go to a home.

Anyway, we have plotted for days the way to drug him and drag him around, so he can stand long enough to get a tree, and so we executed the plan, arriving at Lowes exactly as he reached the pinnacle of his pain. So maybe we're not the smoothest planners, shut up. Then, Lowes was out of tree netting. yougottabekeedingme. So we hobbled back to the van and drove over to Walmart, who no longer carry fresh trees, and the MOG was strongly considering biting down on his arsenic tablet, and all the kids were like, are we going to get a tree? times one million and R2 was starting to get worried because now we a) ate dinner b) went to Lowes and c) went to Walmart, and he still wasn't getting a tree, which was concerning him very, very much, and he indicated this by pointing as insistently as possible at every Christmas-related item in the store, which were LEGION.

In the end, even though my DAD IS DEAD, I surrendered and accepted a fake tree. And I like it. A lot. It is very, very tall, and I don't have to water it, and it looks great, and everyone is happy. So, there you go.

Now, to pick just the right gift card...

maybe Jesus isn't into Christmas.

2011-12-05T13:12:00.001-06:00

It's December, y'all. That means it is FULLTIME Christmas cheer from now till December 26th. In fact, I started early this year, and the MOG has offered only mild protests to the round-the-clock Christmas tunes pouring from the ol' iPod. He's weakening, see, because of these mini-humans around here. R2 has a black eye from beating his head into the bus wall, in an attempt to communicate frustration, but even with his Rocky face, he is giddy, jumping around everywhere and pointing insistently at the Christmas tree I drew on the whiteboard. And Toby and Brynn are just enchanted, by the music and the decorations and the plans. The MOG and the ATIR (artsy-teen-in-residence) make feeble little Scroogey statements but are silenced by the cuteness. So.

And I have this homeschool guilt that I haven't made Christmas that much about Jesus, although they know the Nativity story and whatnot. But I put most of the emphasis on decorating and family and tradition, and presents, (not gonna lie) and eggnog. But my relevant-slightly-hipster-question-~~everything~~-some-things side is all like, "Uh, does Jesus care about Christmas? Like is it His for real birthday and it hurts His holy feelings when I mostly use it as a year-end party for friends and family?" Because I don't know if He cares. You know?

I mean, His birth story is important, it's key to our whole faith. I just think sometime we make Jesus into this petulant man-child, sitting up in heaven with His feelings hurt because we get more excited about football than church. Do we have our priorities screwed up? Heck yes. Does He want to be God above everything? Yes. But is He sulking? I don't think so.

So what happens if I never make Him a birthday cake? What if I try to teach my kids to love Him, and to honor Him all year, and to love people, and to welcome them into our family, and maybe we water down the soup a little so more people can eat it? And we listen to each other, and we learn to honor each other and give gifts that build each other up and celebrate our differences? And what if we sit inside on a snowy night and laugh at the baby dancing, and drink hot chocolate and make traditions, because that's heritage, and history, and family? What if we learn to love like Jesus, to share like Jesus, to lay our lives down for others like Jesus?

I think that might be a party He'd come to.