sabbatical

It occurs to me on this rainy Tuesday that I have become somewhat of a delinquent blogger. It's not that I don't like the idea of updating and maintaining a blog, I honestly just refuse to take the time right now.

Taking time to blog would mean staying up unnecessarily late to do so or pretending that I have free time during the day. If I'm going to stay up unnecessarily late, I'd much rather be re-learning how to knit or teaching myself how to piece a quilt or just sitting and zoning out on a TV show for an hour or so. And I don't call free time "free time" during the day, I call it much-needed and much-cherished kid time. Because when I'm not doing the things that running a home a caring for a family demands of me, I'm enjoying playing and holding and rocking and teaching and hands-on loving my children much too much to sit down and stare at a computer for any significant amount of time.

So, while the idea of keeping up with a blog that people enjoy reading is nice and having a set-aside place where I can keep my creative juices flowing with the possibility of real live feedback has been great... I just have to be realistic and say it ain't gonna happen with any great frequency at this point in my life.

And so, while I have no plans to shut my blog down or anything highly dramatic that's going to show up in next weeks OK! magazine, I am officially acknowledging to all the 2, 3, or maybe 4 on a good day month that I'm not updating my blog as often and probably won't be making any new blogging habits anytime soon.

Because right now the only habits I'm successfully cultivating is brushing my teeth before bed and showering.

Occasionally.

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2 Poetical Notions by Megan

Ode to Dryer

Oh, thou ancient dryer rusted

With thine heating coil now busted

This alone is my excuse

My laundry obligation is loosed

(At least for tomorrow)

Amen.

---

Dryer, Revisited

Thou sittest askew in my laundry room

How could I have realized this impending doom?

Alas, a load of whites I must start

In anticipation of replacement parts.

Sigh.

Grumble.

The end.

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2 years in the rearview...

September 4... two years ago... at 7:20 PM... I met my little man.

I fell in love instantly because... well, just look at this face!

And then I blinked and this happened...

I didn't give him permission to fly in on all that growing business, but we were singing Happy Birthday to him just the same.

I decided to never blink again.

But I did... and now we're singing Happy Birthday to him again. And he's all grown up and painting rockets...

And feeding french fries to ducks...

And stealing my heart over and over again.


Happy birthday, dear one!
You may be Daddy's big boy, but you'll always be Mama's baby.

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lunch in 17 steps

1. I fixed my kid a Kid Cuisine lunch thing despite the salt and preservatives and grossness factor and blah blah blah. And no I didn't feel guilty about it.

OK, maybe a little...

2. I scraped the chocolate pudding out into a bowl because he naturally wanted to eat that/paint himself with it before eating the chicken nuggets, mac 'n' cheese, and corn (all of which happened to be the same color, by the way).

Nope, no guilt here.

3. I went on a mad hunt searching the cabinets for food for myself, having exhausted my own processed, over-salted, and flash-frozen food supply and finally settled on a grilled cheese.

4. I noticed that my child had eaten all of his macaroni 'n' cheese, two bites of his chicken nuggets, and none of his corn.

Me: "Is your chicken good, buddy?"

Kiddo: "No."

Me: "Do you want something else? Do you want a grilled cheese?"

Kiddo: "No. Unh?" (Interpretation: "No. I'm finished. I don't want a grilled cheese. Hand me that pudding.")

5. I continued to not feel guilty as he ate his pudding with star sprinkles.

6. I made myself a grilled cheese and stood in awe of the evenness of it's perfectly grilled golden goodness.

7. I got some pickles and some ketchup and a Diet Dr. Pepper, my vice for which I might need some professional intervention, and I sat down with my Gooseberry Patch catalog to eat and peruse.

8. Kiddo: [pointing to my plate] "Unnnhhh?"

Me: Do you want a grilled cheese?

Kiddo: Uh-huh!

9. I give him my grilled cheese and get up to make myself another one.

10. Kiddo: Bob, Larry? (Interpretation: "I want to watch Veggietales."

Me: "You've only taken one bite of your grilled cheese. Don't you want some more?"

Kiddo: "No."

Me: "If I turn on a movie in your room, will you take your grilled cheese and eat it in there?"

Kiddo: "No."

Me: "If I turn on a movie in the living room, will you take your grilled cheese and it in there?"

Kiddo: "No."

11. I grab the kiddo to rinse his hands in the sink, let him dry his hands with a paper towel, and send him on his way.

12. I go to turn my grilled cheese. Totally charred on the first side. Oh well, I'll eat it anyway.

13. The kiddo grabs my hand and starts grunting and pulling me away from the stove.

Me: "Not right now, I'm going to eat my lunch."

Kiddo: [whining, weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth, etc.; no tears]

14. I go to get my grilled cheese, which is not done enough to be removed from the skillet and therefore folds up under itself.

Totally charred on one side, folded under itself on the other. I'll eat it anyway.

15. I sit down to eat as the kiddo continues his prolonged agony beside me and tries to climb into my chair.

Me: "No... if you want to sit down, you sit in your chair and eat your grilled cheese."

Kiddo: [continued drama as he climbs into his chair]

16. I eat my retarded grilled cheese as the kiddo eats some of his corn (with his fingers), the rest of his pudding (fingers and spoon), and some ketchup (spoon only).

17. The end.

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dressing for leprosy

In the spirit of it being Friday night, I thought I'd write an everything post.

I have just counted 16 bug bites on my legs. Yes, SIXTEEN. Mosquitos love me because I am sweet and precious. This is a trait that I have apparently passed onto my firstborn and the approximately 942 mosquitoes in our yard like using him as an appetizer before feasting on me. They like his ears and my ankles.

And I like it when they die.

Would getting a bat box be going too far?

So, yes, 16 mosquito bites. And I would assume that the general public is repulsed by the sight of me in shorts or a skirt except that I've started to realize that the general public is far too caught up in their own neuroses to notice that I'm a leper, which is convenient since I've heard that lepers aren't all that popular.

Which brings me to my next point...

That certainly makes things sound a lot more organized than they really are.

Anyway... my next point. I was at Dillard's a couple of days ago trying to find a dress that is A) long enough to cover my lesions, B) flattering on my 3-month-postpartum pudgy-and-not-springing-back-as-quickly-as-it-did-the-first-time body, C) not a solid color but not too busy, and D) not spaghetti strap or boudoir revealing. I'm not picky. I just a very vivid idea of the exact dress I want.

And it doesn't exist, but that's neither here nor there for now.

So, I happened upon a long dress with a nice pattern in subtle colors and while it did look like it would require some type of special undergarment, it didn't look like I would have to worry about the girls flying out if a kid or two decided to swing from the neckline. So, I was checking it out and trying to decide if I was ready for my first post-pregnancy trip to the fitting room when a small flock of college age girls wandered over to the area.

They were tan and ponytailed and were overusing the word like like a lot and I couldn't help but overhear their conversation as they were crowding around me.

"These dresses are pretty but they are like so long."

"Yah, why would anybody even like want to wear these... they do nothing for your legs."

"Yah, and your legs are like your best asset."

(they had clearly never seen my mosquito buffets)

"Oh, if you like one just do what I do... chop it off and like hem stitch it."

"I'm like totally sure I have no idea how to do that..."

And blah, like blah, blah blah...

They made me feel old and pasty and frumpy and... ugh. But as I walked away, I couldn't help but thinking of Tawanda. TAWANDA! Righter of wrongs!

"Face it girls, I'm older and I have more insurance."

Oh, and I didn't buy the dress. Because I'm so tight I squeak.

Amen.

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