I want to.  So badly.

But I’ve forgotten how.

Or maybe I’ve never known how.  Not really.

I’m blocked.  Stumped.  Stuck.

I sort of lost sight of it, and now I am unsure how to find it again.

I’m talking about blogging.

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I don’t have a clue why I have lost my voice, but I really want to know where it’s hiding and when it’s coming back.  I didn’t stop blogging for any of the typical reasons like losing interest or running out of things to say (that will NEVER happen) or not having enough time.  It’s almost as if when I slowed down on posting, which was unintentional, I felt like no one would even notice.  The funny thing is, even though it shouldn’t matter, it really does to me.  When I started on this blogging journey it was something entirely different from what it became over time.  It began as a way for me to journal.  Me, my kids, whatever.  What it turned into was a journey and an adventure.  I found a hotbed of people who could not only provide some much-needed adult conversation, but who could relate to things I was going through and whom I could relate to.  That’s a big deal and it mattered to me.

Now that I have been away for a while, deep down, I worry that trying to come back to that community would feel like fraud, not only to me, but to all of you.  Like no one would trust me not to run off again (and I might not trust myself).

So I hang back.  In the shadows.  Watching.  Reading.  Wanting it back.

Tell me how to get it back.

Let me just preface this by saying that what happened here in my community was nothing compared to some of the things that have occurred in other parts of the country, as well as the world for that matter.  If you have the ability please don’t hesitate to do whatever you can to help the victims of these numerous disasters.  I will definitely be doing something.  If you need directions to such a worthy cause please go here.  This group of bloggers is doing incredible things that will make a huge difference in Joplin.  Go Go Go!

My guess is that at some point in everyone’s lives, they have had to, or will eventually have to decide what is worth saving. What loss cannot be borne. In the case where one’s home might go up in flames, quick decisions must be made. What to take and what to leave behind.

When I walked into my back yard and saw the menacing sight above, I immediately had to make that list and make it count. In all honesty I believe this fire was no more than an overpass and a few short blocks away from my house.

When you read this next little bit, don’t think that I wasn’t worried or that I don’t know this could have been much much worse than it was. Believe me, I am not trying to make light of it. I’m just going for honesty here.

Here’s what I ran for the car with (in this order):

1) The 3 Kids – None of whom were wearing any pants or shoes. Well, I didn’t exactly have shoes on either. Forget the shoes!

2) Carton of Cigs – Duh.

3) iPhone – Seriously? I am working on getting three stars in all the Angry Birds Rio levels.

4) Camera – That thing was expensive, yo!

5) Laptop and power cord – I almost forgot and had to go back in the house to get it. Something like 15,000 pictures.

As I mentally went through my entire house, room by room, I decided there wasn’t really anything that couldn’t be replaced that was worth risking lives over. All the things that I did make it to the car with were pretty handy at the time.

We took off to my mom’s house. She has a pool, so if push came to shove we would just swim. Right. Anyway, as soon as I got there one thing popped into my head. I hadn’t thought of my $3,000 wedding album which was handmade in Italy. That could not be replaced. I wanted to go back so bad, but practical ol’ Mom wouldn’t let me. Yes, I have the husband in the flesh which is way more important than pictures, but STILL!

I want to send out a heartfelt thank you to all the brave men and women who battled the fires, saved countless lives and homes, and saved many a wedding album. From the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU.

If you were forced out of your home do you know what you would save?

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Above is a shot from downtown which I stole from one of the online local newspapers. Don’t worry, I’m giving credit where credit is due.

So, being down in that smoke was pretty scary. It was named the CEED Fire. Over 4,000 acres burned and not one home or life was lost. Amazing.

At this point in my life I am having a particularly hard time dealing with age.

My kids’.

My mom’s.

Mine.

I’m turning 27 years old in a couple of weeks and I can’t get over it.  I know when I’m much older I’ll look back and think myself silly for it, but right here, right now, it is scaring the hell out of me.  Only 3 years from 30?  This is the stuff of nightmares.  My youth is nearly gone and I don’t think I really enjoyed it like I should have.  Where did it go?  My debilitating fear of death gets worse all the time because I’m that much closer to it.  Is this something like a quarter-life crisis?  Everyone says your 30′s are the best years of your life.  I hope I can see it that way when it gets here.

The hardest part?  Knowing I can’t get one second of it back.

My youngest will be turning 2 years old in September.  Friggin TWO.  Not cool.  I remember wondering for 3 months whether I would ever see the day that she didn’t have to wear the Apnea monitor.  She grows so fast I can’t keep her in shoes.  She’s still small for her age (getting closer to average percentile in height and weight every day) but she seems so big compared to the tiny little thing I held in the NICU.  Too big.  Way too fast.  I am so thankful that she has developed so well when things could have been very bad, but I am dreading her birthday.  Dreading it.  Isn’t that awful?  It likely has something to do with the fact that I am not having any more children.  She’s my baby.  Is it normal to abhor the thought of your child turning two?  What kind of mother does that make me?  I just want to keep her little and soft and sweet for a little while longer.  But we all know that is not going to happen.

Quite bittersweet.

My oldest is starting Kindergarten in the fall.  ::falls over into a dead faint::  I don’t need to elaborate right?  You feel my pain?  Kay.

My mom.  She turned 55 in March.  In my mind she is the embodiment of youth.  In the real world she ages just like everybody else.  She used to be unstoppable, but lately it’s like the number itself caused an avalanche of things that I can’t wish away or ignore.  Don’t get me wrong, she looks fantastic for her age and she still has oomph to spare, but things are different.  And so suddenly.  I absolutely hate it.  By the end of the day she’s exhausted and has to rest.  My mom resting is a foreign notion to me.  Even just a year or two ago, I would have pitted her against the Energizer Bunny any day of the week.  Apparently I don’t do well with change.

I have a dark cloud that hovers over me constantly.  It goes by the name of “Time.”   I should not be dwelling on the things to come, but instead enjoying every day because I am so lucky to be living the life I am.  I have it so good.  There is absolutely nothing that I should be complaining about.  Still, Time hangs there suspended, taunting me.  So I dwell.  And dread.  Which inevitably makes the moments fly by faster than they should since I want so badly to hang on to them.

On a lighter note, I guess if the Rapture occurs today, I won’t have to worry about it anymore.  Hee.

I’ve been wanting to try out TRDC for a while now.

When I saw the RemembeRED prompt, this post was the first and only thing that came to mind.  Hitting the publish button was one of the hardest things I’ve done as far as blogging is concerned.  Since my entire existence is one long string of memories looking strikingly similar to the picture, I thought this post was fitting.  So, here you have it:

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From Archives: May 2010 “Where Do You Draw The Line”

I’m sitting here thinking about how I leave gooey lung chunks all over the screen of my laptop when reading my favorite blog.  It makes me laugh to the point where I start hacking and gagging and crying.  For normal people laughter is the best medicine.  For me?  Not so much with the smoker’s cough.  Tell me if you’ve heard this one before – “Careful.  You might cough up a lung.”

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ANYWAY

Here’s the thing.  Some people are all loosey goosey about nicotine.  Maybe your everyday social smoker, or one of those who are all “I only smoke when I’m drinking.”  Then there are those that can smoke for years and just all of a sudden quit with no problems whatsoever.  Well, let me tell you I am NOT one of those people.

This is my story.  When I think about quitting, I tend to have small panic attacks.  You know those things where you’re chest gets all tight and your mind races and you find it hard to breathe.  Yeah, that’s just when I think about it.  Bet you’re dying to know what happens when I actually give it a shot…

Even if you aren’t, I’m gonna tell you anyway.  Here goes.

I have made the attempt numerous times.  Even with outside assistance from family, friends, prescription narcotics, patches, gums, lozenges and being hypnotized, among other things, I have failed miserably.  One person who has seen first hand the negative effects of my withdrawal is my mom.  She has seen the worst of it.  Others may have caught a glimpse, but my mom has gotten to witness the horror uncensored more than a few times.

The most recent incident was when I was in the hospital on bed rest for 3 weeks while pregnant with my last baby.  And yes, I smoked while I was pregnant.  With all three kids.  I’m not proud.  We’ll get to that later.  Anyhoo, needless to say they don’t let you get your smoke on in the hospital.  They basically had to drag me kicking and screaming to the labor and delivery unit.  I didn’t wanna go!  You can’t smoke in there!  (sick right?)  Once admitted (should have been the psych unit), I was okay.  Sort of.  I kept thinking to myself “it’s ok.  you don’t need one.  they’re bad for you and the baby anyway.  this is good. this is good. this is good. GET ME THE HELL OUTTA HERE!!! this is good.  AT LEAST KNOCK MY ASS OUT!!! I’m gonna lose it on this chick if she tells me one more time that she’s sorry she can’t stop blowing my veins and digging with the IV.  I’m gonna freakin lose it.” Instead, I’m smiling and joking and assuring the nurse that I don’t mind, I’m used to it.  I ask if they could possibly see if the doc would prescribe me some nicotine patches to take the edge off.  I got my patch, and for about 5 solid minutes I didn’t think about mutilating any innocent bystanders.  Meanwhile, my mom, who brought me to the hospital, has tears running down her face because she knows.  She.  Knows.  She cried while EVERY NURSE ON DUTY tried to start an IV.  She held my hand while they did it.  She cried and held me when I cried because of the withdrawal and my inability to hold myself together.   Yes, I was crying because I was crying.  There were lots and lots of tears.  I felt so incredibly ridiculous because I was going on like this for something like 3 days and nights.  How can anyone be this upset because they can’t have a friggin cigarette?  Why is it that I just can’t be a big girl and get over it.  So my mom stayed right there and held my hand and petted me and soothed, like only she can do.  I would try to stop the blubbering when a nurse would walk in the room, because I didn’t want to look like an ass, or a whiner, or get a pity party.  I am well aware that there are others out there who have WAY bigger problems.  I didn’t wan’t them to think that I believed my problems took precedence.  But, as soon as they would ask me if everything was okay, the floodgates were blown open once again.  My poor mom.  Those poor nurses.  My poor doctor.  So the days dragged on and on.  I crocheted, I sudoku’d, I iPod-ed, till I was blue in the face and close to stabbing someone in the eye with the crochet needle.

One morning, my doctor came to see me during her rounds.  As soon as she walked in the door I lost it.  She had seen me lose it before, so this was nothing new.  She looked at me and in a hushed whisper told me that she was going give me doctor’s orders to get 15 minutes of fresh air every day.  She told me with a wink that it would help with the “cabin fever”.  We both knew this was not my issue and we both knew that I was not going to get any “fresh” air.  How bad off and completely psychotic do you have to be to inspire your doctor to give you orders for smoke breaks. (Rhetorical there.)  I thought I was hiding it pretty good.  Guess not.

Ok, so I’m going on and on and on here.  Sorry.

The crying and inward badgering and self-loathing, that doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface.  Everything I do, everywhere I go, everything I see,  every move I make is associated with smoking.  In the car (not with the kids, I’m not quite that ignorant), after a meal, after a diaper change, after a movie, after waking up, after sex, after feeding the baby, after washing the dishes, after going to the bathroom, after taking a shower, during makeup application, while on the computer, and so on and so forth.  If it is possible to be smoking, I am.  Without fail.  I also tend to get really, really mean.  Not your normal I -just-quit-smoking kind of mean, either. Frighteningly mean.  I am so very much not a mean person.  In fact, I’m a bit passive agressive.  I avoid confrontation like the plague.  But without nicotine I am a monster.  Also, if an opportunity presents itself where I can’t smoke?  Opportunity missed.  Going on a long road trip?  Two cars.  One for me and one for the rest of the family.  This is all so pathetic and sad, and yet so true.  It will be a miracle if I press the publish button.  I don’t want people to know how hopeless and pathetic I am.  I don’t want to be that person who lets something as petty as a cigarette control their every move.  I certainly don’t want to air my dirty laundry for sympathy or criticism.

On to the smoking while pregnant thing.  I know it’s f-ed up.  I know it’s wrong.  I know I should have quit.  I know the damage it can do.  I know that it made people think that I didn’t care about my unborn children (which couldn’t be further from the truth).  This is what the drug does.  It makes you believe that everything will be okay.  It tells you lies.  It gives you the wherewithal to make excuses for yourself and what you’re doing.  And I am a certified professional at making excuses for smoking.  (see entire post)

I know what you’re thinking.  ”Two of her kids were pre-mature.  Obviously it was because she smoked.”  I would really like to believe it wasn’t.  There were so many factors that caused their prematurity I’ll never know for sure if it was partly my fault or not.  For instance, the Pre-eclampsia, Toxemia, Pulmonary Edema, Pitting Edema, stroke level blood pressure, excessive weight, stress, withdrawal,  migraines from dangerously high blood pressure, etc.  I will never stop kicking myself for it.  EVER.  It kills me to think of how selfish I was.  How selfish and stupid.  Water under the bridge.  I thank God every day for looking out for my babies when I didn’t.  I thank God every day that he gave me the privilege of having healthy happy babies when it was the last thing I deserved.

And still, I sit here typing with a cigarette burning in the ash-tray.

Gimme a W!!!

Gimme a T!!!

Gimme an F!!

My apologies for the not so fun post today.  Actually I’m not going to apologize.  I take that back.  I hope somebody sees this and uses it as an example of how they don’t want to end up.

I know it’s sad.

Me trying for some kind of comeback and only posting pictures of my kids.

Maybe words eventually,but for now, just typical mom pictures you probably care nothing about.

Muahahahah!

I’m pretty sure all the halloween decorations are taken down and put away.

As for the Christmas mess?  There are a few random things hanging around that need to be addressed, but the only real thing left to do is take down the lights on the house.

That’s Tim’s job.

Yeah, now that I’m getting around to finally posting something again, I’m kind of overthinking.  There are so many things I want to document but I’m afraid it will turn into a big sloppy mess of a post about all the stuff I did that I’m proud of (and some stuff that I said I was going to do but didn’t.  To be honest, I just didn’t give two shits.  Whatever).

I guess if it’s a mess, it’s my mess, so here goes.

Remember that post I did about my “to-do list?” I’m proud to say that most of that junk got done.  That’s right.  I’m a bad-ass.

Here’s your proof:

I believe I took down the halloween decorations somewhere in the comment section of Call Me Susie.

I got Christmas cards mailed out to everyone I wanted them to go to in a timely fashion.  It was my first time doing them, too.  Uh, not sure how to prove it though…

I had the stew made in time for Tim to take it with him the next morning.  And it was fanfrickintastic, I tell you!  (I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I don’t cook.)

Ahem.  Tim washed his own socks and underwear.  If he had waited on me to do them he’d still be waiting.  Ahem.

The cupcake liner wreath?  Yeah, I still have all the stuff to do it hanging in a bag on one of my barstools.  Just couldn’t find the time or inclination.  Maybe sometime soon I’ll do it and stash it away for next year.  HA!!!

I MADE 36 COOKIE MIX IN A JAR GIFTS.  NO SHIT.  So yes, you can call me Susie.  Because I am all-awesome.  Look!

My mom and I teamed up and made two batches of the coolest cookies ever for Colton’s class Christmas party.  From scratch.  They were totally peppermint flavored.

I sorted the boys’ jeans but haven’t made it to the shirts yet.  The really big deal on this one is…wait for it… I actually did get their old/broken/unwanted toys sorted out and donated.  YAY ME!!!

I really did seriously consider the eye-ball gouging and toe shooting.  During the two weeks before Christmas, I think I got a total of 6.5 hours of sleep.  That juice box straw was looking mighty tempting.

Even though we own a synthetic pre-lit tree, I got a wild hair up my ass and decided that we needed to buy a real living Oregon pine tree.  It was 11′ tall and I think the funniest thing that happened all year was Tim trying to get it in the house while I stood and watched drinking my coffee.  He’s such a lucky guy.  Am I right?!

And yeah, I kinda decorated it.  With the cool doo-hickees the boys made at school.  Because I’m lazy.  It was ugly, but whatever.  It smelled good and it was very very large.  What in the world do you need lights for when all you can see when you walk in the room is tree, anyway?

Um, since then I’ve had some kind of allergic reaction to my new anti-depressant, all the kids have had some sort of stomach bug, and I ended up spending this last weekend trapped in the bathroom with the mutated version of the virus that the kids had.  Just lovely.

So there you have it.

Much love.

Right now, December 20 – December 28, my bitty boys are both 4 years old.  We take a picture like this every year at this time.  Flippin adorable.

This one was actually taken on Brandon’s (the kid on the right) 4th Birthday.

They have a strong hold on my heart with those tiny 4-year-old hands of theirs.

Update: Natalie suggested I post the rest of the pictures. When they were 1 that picture was pretty near impossible, I have no idea where the one is from when they were 2, but here’s the one from when they were 3. This one’s with my step-dad, aka PaPa:

My On-Going To-Do List:

• Take down Halloween decorations (shut up)

• Stuff, address and mail Christmas cards

• Make stew for Tim’s hunting trip this weekend

Shit! I forgot to start the stew in the Crock Pot.  Don’t go anywhere!

::calls Tim to ask him where the Crock Pot is stashed.  Gets the Crock Pot out of the attic.  Goes to the store to get the stew meat she forgot last night. Spends a really long time and a lot of money in the store instead of just getting the stew meat.  Returns home, washes the cobwebs out of the Crock Pot, seasons the meat and dumps it in, turns the knob to high.  Sits down at computer::

Okay so I promised Tim I would make him and his hunting buddies some stew for their trip.  They’re leaving in the morning.  Apparently, I bit off more than I can chew.  Like usual.

Proof that the stew meat is cooking

• Wash socks and underwear for Tim since he has none

• Make a wreath out of Cupcake liners. (How in the hell do I get myself into these situations?!?!)

• Make 36 “Cookie-Mix-In-A-Mason-Jar” gifts (see above in parentheses)

• Make Christmas cookies for Colton’s class party

• Sort out old clothes and toys in the boys’ room

• Gouge eyeballs out with a juice box straw

• Put up and decorate Christmas tree

• Shoot self in big toe (at least that would take care of the ingrown) with Tim’s deer rifle

• Make a more appropriate to do list…