I really wish I had more energy. I feel like I am always tired, but I never can sleep. I know I have to be up early in the morning, but I’ve postponed writing this because I knew I’d be sitting up late, wondering why I can’t sleep. I’ve never settled well at night (Please reference story a few days back about infant phenobarb) and I have a lifetime of memories that toss and turn. When I was a kid I used to imagine myself as the little match girl or Cinderella, sleeping in some desperately cold place, all alone and then as I pulled the covers up over me, letting myself feel so grateful for this rag of warmth while I slept in the street. I have no idea why this helped me sleep, maybe imagining a less hospitable scenario helped me to appreciate what I had, I don’t know. Maybe I was just a drama queen.
Whatever the reason, to this day I prefer to be cold, which is somewhat problematic given our relocation to Florida. My reasoning is that you can always get warmer by putting on more clothes, covers, what have you, but there is an absolute limit to what you can remove in order to cool down. Unless of course you are a little match girl who freezes to death on the street. But for most normal existence, cold just requires some flannel jammies and an extra blanket or two. I have actually slept with a cold compress on my head in extreme heat, but it isn’t quite the same thing.
I think I had a point when I started this but I seem to have lost it. Unfortunate. Looks like it is another day short of a page.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
The Project - Day 16
Oh no, no, I do not want to write, oh no, no, I do not want to write! That’s to the tune of They Might Be Giants smash kids hit “I Never Go To Work”. I’m tired, I’m crabby and I can’t remember what I was going to write about.
Part of my crabbiness can be attributed to the amount of reading I’ve been doing this evening on the subject of English education. That would be education on the subject of the English language and literature, not studies on education in the country of England. I am sure there is worthwhile information here, however I’m starting to think educators are nearly as bad as lawyers when it comes to inventing new verbiage. Apparently, writing about writing requires repurposing half the language just to describe how you will study it.
I hate words like repurposing.
It’s just one of those nights when a sleeping pill might have to happen. I have a sharp pain in my abdomen and instead of taking a tylenol like a normal person, I keep pressing my gut wondering if it’s cancer. Hypochondria is not my usual gig, but when I am tired and stressed, I’ll work any angle just to keep the drama flowing. Child missing bedtime? I am a horrible mother and he’ll be scarred by a lack of appropriate bedtime habits, of course. Still no word on any of my most recent job applications? I will be on the street by fall, forced to move in with my parents. Don’t stop me now, I’m on a roll!
This is what it feels like to have to write when you don’t want to write. It is like trying on everything in your closet and it doesn’t fit or makes you look fat and you end up with a bed covered in clothes that now have to be put away and you realize the one possible thing you could have worn is in the bottom of the hamper with a big stain. It is like the time in college when a friend and I wanted to make strawberry margaritas, but we had no fresh berries, no tequila and no blender so we tried to smash frozen berries with a hammer and mix them with peppermint schnapps. (Don’t try that, by the way, it’s disgusting.)
Okay, I’m out. That’s all I can fake for tonight.
Part of my crabbiness can be attributed to the amount of reading I’ve been doing this evening on the subject of English education. That would be education on the subject of the English language and literature, not studies on education in the country of England. I am sure there is worthwhile information here, however I’m starting to think educators are nearly as bad as lawyers when it comes to inventing new verbiage. Apparently, writing about writing requires repurposing half the language just to describe how you will study it.
I hate words like repurposing.
It’s just one of those nights when a sleeping pill might have to happen. I have a sharp pain in my abdomen and instead of taking a tylenol like a normal person, I keep pressing my gut wondering if it’s cancer. Hypochondria is not my usual gig, but when I am tired and stressed, I’ll work any angle just to keep the drama flowing. Child missing bedtime? I am a horrible mother and he’ll be scarred by a lack of appropriate bedtime habits, of course. Still no word on any of my most recent job applications? I will be on the street by fall, forced to move in with my parents. Don’t stop me now, I’m on a roll!
This is what it feels like to have to write when you don’t want to write. It is like trying on everything in your closet and it doesn’t fit or makes you look fat and you end up with a bed covered in clothes that now have to be put away and you realize the one possible thing you could have worn is in the bottom of the hamper with a big stain. It is like the time in college when a friend and I wanted to make strawberry margaritas, but we had no fresh berries, no tequila and no blender so we tried to smash frozen berries with a hammer and mix them with peppermint schnapps. (Don’t try that, by the way, it’s disgusting.)
Okay, I’m out. That’s all I can fake for tonight.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The Project - Day 15
This was not a stellar day for motherhood. My failures were compounded by the thought that my son is now old enough to start remembering his horrible childhood and the thought makes me want to crawl under the covers for a week. I realized how much up until now I’d been relying on the amnesia of babyhood. I told myself, as long as he feels loved and cared for, the little mistakes, they’ll all vanish in the wind. While its true I think that a bedrock of love and care goes a long way, we are now entering the age of the grudge. The kid has a memory and he’s not afraid to use it against me.
His increasing verbal skills aren’t helping any either. Whereas before he might have given me a clingy hug before I left home to work, now I get a full monologue. “Mommy, I don’t want you to go. If you go and leave me here I will be so sad. May I please go to work with you? I am big enough to go to work Mommy! Please stay and give me a snuggle for five more minutes.” I mean, really, how do you resist that? Ridiculous.
So, I’m exhausted from hours of singing and extra rehearsal tonight, a long day with a nap-striker and mentally shot from filling out job applications and sending out my resume yet again. All I wanted was my little pick me up kiss when I got home and the dude was sacked out snoring his head off, just like his father. I had to settle for lugging him into his own bed and giving him a kiss on the head. I even tried to wake him up accidentally on purpose but no go. All that fussing for mom during the day apparently wore him out for dad’s turn. Great.
Beyond my son’s blooming ability to mentally stockpile my actual deficiencies, he’s now started to add his own creations with the aid of his not inconsiderable imagination. While “mommy, you got mad and you YELLED at me!” makes me die a little inside, I wasn’t sure quite what to do when he assured both his teachers at school and his father that the paper cut on his hand was where “mommy cut me with a knife and a fork.” Um, WHAT? Yes, I regularly slice into my child’s hand, why do you ask? My only thought is that perhaps we had a discussion about safely using utensils (the boy tends to treat them like construction toys) and somehow this became attached to a particularly visible boo-boo? No clue really. I just tried not to giggle and said “I don’t think so, usually I just eat my food with a knife and fork, not your hand.” At this he looked at me very seriously and shook his head as if despairing of my mendacity. “You DID mama, you cut me with a knife.” I’m just praying that CPS doesn’t show up at my door. If nothing else, they could indict me for massive amounts of undone laundry.
I’m looking for the humor in all this but the truth is, it does concern me. My son is getting older and I want to have energy for him, to be organized, for him to be proud of his mama. My memory-free grace period is running out and the clock on his future memoirs has already started to tick. I have made some appointments with various health professionals this month and next in an effort to approach the physical deficiencies at hand. I’m hoping that part of this writing project will develop into some kind of focus and discipline for the mental and spiritual side of the equation. We’ll see.
His increasing verbal skills aren’t helping any either. Whereas before he might have given me a clingy hug before I left home to work, now I get a full monologue. “Mommy, I don’t want you to go. If you go and leave me here I will be so sad. May I please go to work with you? I am big enough to go to work Mommy! Please stay and give me a snuggle for five more minutes.” I mean, really, how do you resist that? Ridiculous.
So, I’m exhausted from hours of singing and extra rehearsal tonight, a long day with a nap-striker and mentally shot from filling out job applications and sending out my resume yet again. All I wanted was my little pick me up kiss when I got home and the dude was sacked out snoring his head off, just like his father. I had to settle for lugging him into his own bed and giving him a kiss on the head. I even tried to wake him up accidentally on purpose but no go. All that fussing for mom during the day apparently wore him out for dad’s turn. Great.
Beyond my son’s blooming ability to mentally stockpile my actual deficiencies, he’s now started to add his own creations with the aid of his not inconsiderable imagination. While “mommy, you got mad and you YELLED at me!” makes me die a little inside, I wasn’t sure quite what to do when he assured both his teachers at school and his father that the paper cut on his hand was where “mommy cut me with a knife and a fork.” Um, WHAT? Yes, I regularly slice into my child’s hand, why do you ask? My only thought is that perhaps we had a discussion about safely using utensils (the boy tends to treat them like construction toys) and somehow this became attached to a particularly visible boo-boo? No clue really. I just tried not to giggle and said “I don’t think so, usually I just eat my food with a knife and fork, not your hand.” At this he looked at me very seriously and shook his head as if despairing of my mendacity. “You DID mama, you cut me with a knife.” I’m just praying that CPS doesn’t show up at my door. If nothing else, they could indict me for massive amounts of undone laundry.
I’m looking for the humor in all this but the truth is, it does concern me. My son is getting older and I want to have energy for him, to be organized, for him to be proud of his mama. My memory-free grace period is running out and the clock on his future memoirs has already started to tick. I have made some appointments with various health professionals this month and next in an effort to approach the physical deficiencies at hand. I’m hoping that part of this writing project will develop into some kind of focus and discipline for the mental and spiritual side of the equation. We’ll see.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
The Project - Day 14
They say it takes two weeks of continuous behavior to make a habit, but I don’t feel like I’m there yet. Maybe missing the other night means my habit-o-meter has reset to zero? Nonetheless, I plod along.
Today I was looking around, trying to be aware of things that piqued my interest that might be good fodder for the daily write. I know there were at least three subjects that got me going, although now I can only remember one. Perhaps it is time to go back to carrying the notebook of ideas with me, if I can’t keep a thought in my head for a mere 10 hours. I’ll blame motherhood, it’s so convenient.
There may have been some very deep, penetrating thoughts in there somewhere. . . oh wait, I just remembered part of one. To be honest though, I don’t much feel like riffing on Theresa of Avila right now, so I’ll go with the shallow topic knocking around my head.
There has been a lot of fuss in the press and the blogosphere about Disney’s upcoming Rapunzel film and it’s re-titling to “Tangled”, supposedly in an effort to be more inclusive of the young male audience. Apparently The Princess and the Frog did not crank out as much money as your average Pixar flick and they are now trying to de-princessify Rapunzel in hopes of having wider appeal. I didn’t think this was a big deal but apparently it’s an OUTRAGE. Even NPR has weighed in, which I would find funny if the author’s championing of iCarly didn’t make it so very sad. Beyond this totally offensive title change, it is revealed that there is to be a dashing character called “Flynn Ryder” who will be the male protagonist with much buckle and swash.
Confused as to why this is drama? Me too. While I would like to live in a universe where there is no gender stereotyping, that universe is currently in the science fiction section. I sold children’s books for over 13 years and I can promise you that while a girl will pick up a book with a boy or a girl on the cover without too much thought, but only one boy in a hundred will want to buy a book with just a girl on the cover. Disney is not in the business of remaking gender stereotypes, it is in the business of selling movie tickets. There is no sacred cow being slaughtered here, they’re just adjusting a picture to try and get a bigger audience, something that many other producers do with no comment made at all. This may be a good idea, it may not, I don’t really know.
What I do know is that the hue and cry over “desecrating” the original story (found in the comments to several blogs and in internet forums) is complete hokum, as is the idea that adhering to the “original” is a better idea for attracting boys to the movie (or girls for that matter). Yes, by all means, stick to the original. Let’s have Rapunzel get knocked up in the tower before she is cast out into the desert by the vengeful witch. Nothing says “Disney” like an unwed mother giving birth on the side of the road.
The Princess and the Frog strayed considerably from the original story as well and it was charming, funny and positive. Any boys who skipped it due to the title missed out on a great adventure where money doesn’t buy happiness and hard work can’t buy love. If a few more kids could have gotten that message by a changed title, I would have considered it well worth it. Get over it, people, this is not a big deal.
Today I was looking around, trying to be aware of things that piqued my interest that might be good fodder for the daily write. I know there were at least three subjects that got me going, although now I can only remember one. Perhaps it is time to go back to carrying the notebook of ideas with me, if I can’t keep a thought in my head for a mere 10 hours. I’ll blame motherhood, it’s so convenient.
There may have been some very deep, penetrating thoughts in there somewhere. . . oh wait, I just remembered part of one. To be honest though, I don’t much feel like riffing on Theresa of Avila right now, so I’ll go with the shallow topic knocking around my head.
There has been a lot of fuss in the press and the blogosphere about Disney’s upcoming Rapunzel film and it’s re-titling to “Tangled”, supposedly in an effort to be more inclusive of the young male audience. Apparently The Princess and the Frog did not crank out as much money as your average Pixar flick and they are now trying to de-princessify Rapunzel in hopes of having wider appeal. I didn’t think this was a big deal but apparently it’s an OUTRAGE. Even NPR has weighed in, which I would find funny if the author’s championing of iCarly didn’t make it so very sad. Beyond this totally offensive title change, it is revealed that there is to be a dashing character called “Flynn Ryder” who will be the male protagonist with much buckle and swash.
Confused as to why this is drama? Me too. While I would like to live in a universe where there is no gender stereotyping, that universe is currently in the science fiction section. I sold children’s books for over 13 years and I can promise you that while a girl will pick up a book with a boy or a girl on the cover without too much thought, but only one boy in a hundred will want to buy a book with just a girl on the cover. Disney is not in the business of remaking gender stereotypes, it is in the business of selling movie tickets. There is no sacred cow being slaughtered here, they’re just adjusting a picture to try and get a bigger audience, something that many other producers do with no comment made at all. This may be a good idea, it may not, I don’t really know.
What I do know is that the hue and cry over “desecrating” the original story (found in the comments to several blogs and in internet forums) is complete hokum, as is the idea that adhering to the “original” is a better idea for attracting boys to the movie (or girls for that matter). Yes, by all means, stick to the original. Let’s have Rapunzel get knocked up in the tower before she is cast out into the desert by the vengeful witch. Nothing says “Disney” like an unwed mother giving birth on the side of the road.
The Princess and the Frog strayed considerably from the original story as well and it was charming, funny and positive. Any boys who skipped it due to the title missed out on a great adventure where money doesn’t buy happiness and hard work can’t buy love. If a few more kids could have gotten that message by a changed title, I would have considered it well worth it. Get over it, people, this is not a big deal.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
The Project - Day 13
Yes, okay, I skipped yesterday. I could fudge, I could try to write two pages today and pass one off as yesterday’s news, but the truth is I was tired as hell and I woke up at 3 a.m. drooling on my keyboard. It briefly crossed my mind to wake up and fight the good fight but then I remembered that was crazy and instead put my computer away and replaced it with my pillow.
I wonder if I’ll ever become one of those “other people”. Will I ever adjust my priorities so that I wake up early every morning, take my sprightly constitutional about the park, give my home a quick once over with my all natural lavender scented organic cleaning products and then write a journal entry over a cup of fair-trade french pressed coffee? I’d like to think that in 16 years when I’ve sent the boy off to college I might have a shot at this scenario, but I’m thinking I’ll still be staying up too late, sleeping in too long and settling for crappy coffee. I’ll never make it in assisted living, pissing people off by being on the computer too late and wanting breakfast at 10. I need to start taking better care of myself so that I can tend to my own cranky needs for as long as I am alive. Between my husband and I, I doubt there is a retirement facility that could (or would) hold us.
I was a night person even as a baby. Apparently I was so bad at confusing night time and day time my mother was on the verge of brain death from sleep deprivation. The pediatrician gave her phenobarbital to spread on my gums. I’m not kidding. It was the 70s after all. And thus, my dependency on sleep aids began. Of course most of the time I don’t like to take anything, but when I do, I actually sleep with some regularity and I find myself wondering, why the hell don’t I do this all the time? What is that? Why do we resist taking drugs for what we feel are inconsequential things? Okay, some of us resist. My husband loves taking drugs, but then he used to make them, so I suppose he can be excluded.
Seriously, why when something is helpful, do I try to find a reason why I shouldn’t take it or can’t use it or it isn’t important? I’m not just talking about drugs here. I’m getting better about it, but when a friend says “can I help you?” why is the first response “no thanks, I’m fine”? I suppose it’s partly protestant stoicism, that ingrained desire to never owe anyone or anything, to be entirely self-sufficient. Probably being a woman plays into it as well, don’t be a bother, put others first, really, suffering is just part of having a uterus, dear. Right? Hopefully this mindset is dying out with the current generation but it’s still got root in my brain, this idea that if I’m suffering on some level, that validates me as a woman and mother.
Wherever this martyred independence comes from, it needs to die. It benefits nothing to pretend I have it all together, when the only thing together here is the zipper on my pants, if I’m lucky. So pass me the sleeping pill, for in the morning I have to drop off my child at preschool (without guilt) and call the service about help with cleaning my house and mowing my yard!
I wonder if I’ll ever become one of those “other people”. Will I ever adjust my priorities so that I wake up early every morning, take my sprightly constitutional about the park, give my home a quick once over with my all natural lavender scented organic cleaning products and then write a journal entry over a cup of fair-trade french pressed coffee? I’d like to think that in 16 years when I’ve sent the boy off to college I might have a shot at this scenario, but I’m thinking I’ll still be staying up too late, sleeping in too long and settling for crappy coffee. I’ll never make it in assisted living, pissing people off by being on the computer too late and wanting breakfast at 10. I need to start taking better care of myself so that I can tend to my own cranky needs for as long as I am alive. Between my husband and I, I doubt there is a retirement facility that could (or would) hold us.
I was a night person even as a baby. Apparently I was so bad at confusing night time and day time my mother was on the verge of brain death from sleep deprivation. The pediatrician gave her phenobarbital to spread on my gums. I’m not kidding. It was the 70s after all. And thus, my dependency on sleep aids began. Of course most of the time I don’t like to take anything, but when I do, I actually sleep with some regularity and I find myself wondering, why the hell don’t I do this all the time? What is that? Why do we resist taking drugs for what we feel are inconsequential things? Okay, some of us resist. My husband loves taking drugs, but then he used to make them, so I suppose he can be excluded.
Seriously, why when something is helpful, do I try to find a reason why I shouldn’t take it or can’t use it or it isn’t important? I’m not just talking about drugs here. I’m getting better about it, but when a friend says “can I help you?” why is the first response “no thanks, I’m fine”? I suppose it’s partly protestant stoicism, that ingrained desire to never owe anyone or anything, to be entirely self-sufficient. Probably being a woman plays into it as well, don’t be a bother, put others first, really, suffering is just part of having a uterus, dear. Right? Hopefully this mindset is dying out with the current generation but it’s still got root in my brain, this idea that if I’m suffering on some level, that validates me as a woman and mother.
Wherever this martyred independence comes from, it needs to die. It benefits nothing to pretend I have it all together, when the only thing together here is the zipper on my pants, if I’m lucky. So pass me the sleeping pill, for in the morning I have to drop off my child at preschool (without guilt) and call the service about help with cleaning my house and mowing my yard!
Monday, March 8, 2010
The Project - Day 12
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Sunday, March 7, 2010
The Project - Day 11
I thought I wasn’t going to have anything to write about tonight. I thought I’d be typing out the lyrics to Row, Row, Row your boat for an entire page. And then someone pissed me off. Someone REALLY pissed me off. If you have loved ones in your life, spouse, children, you know what I’m talking about. When someone is not good to the people you love, the desire to be not good right back is overwhelming. Just in case it is unclear, when I say “not good right back” I mean the desire to say exactly what I think in all it’s unadulterated cruelty and in any way possible deliver a world of pain to those who would manipulate or hurt the people I love.
The problem with this of course is that it solves nothing. I know it won’t even make me feel better. Not much anyway. Selfish people are usually too self centered to know when you’re insulting them, so it tends to dull the satisfaction of a well-aimed barb. Usually I deal with difficult people in my life by trying to understand what life circumstances led them to such a personality deficit. I try to find sympathy for the emptiness in their lives that leads them to their poor behavior so that I can get past an angry response. I try to recognize that whatever is going on, when someone is abusive, manipulative or just plain not nice, that it isn’t about me, it’s about them.
Yeah, that is not so much working for me at the moment. The priest at my church gig asks every week if we are going to forgive the people that have harmed us, that have hurt the ones we love and that bring damage to our lives. Every week I respond with everyone else, “Yes, father.” I’m just glad I don’t have to give that affirmative for at least another week, because I’m hanging on to this one for a bit.
I’m also glad my son is too young to understand that sometimes people who claim to love you can also treat you like crap. I’m not looking forward to the day when I have to explain that sometimes our “loved ones” behave in extremely unloving ways. On the bright side, I am supremely glad he has the excellent example of his father in his life. My husband is an object lesson in exceeding the limitations of both nature and nurture. He’s far from perfect and he has his struggles, but he is my hero every time he makes a kind or thoughtful choice.
So yes, I’m mad. . .
Row, row, row your boat . . .
As in acting, it seems in writing, “angry” is not a terribly creative choice? Not sure. If I could be more specific in sharing my feelings right now, I could come up with some extremely creative vocabulary that would aptly capture my mood of the moment.
The problem with this of course is that it solves nothing. I know it won’t even make me feel better. Not much anyway. Selfish people are usually too self centered to know when you’re insulting them, so it tends to dull the satisfaction of a well-aimed barb. Usually I deal with difficult people in my life by trying to understand what life circumstances led them to such a personality deficit. I try to find sympathy for the emptiness in their lives that leads them to their poor behavior so that I can get past an angry response. I try to recognize that whatever is going on, when someone is abusive, manipulative or just plain not nice, that it isn’t about me, it’s about them.
Yeah, that is not so much working for me at the moment. The priest at my church gig asks every week if we are going to forgive the people that have harmed us, that have hurt the ones we love and that bring damage to our lives. Every week I respond with everyone else, “Yes, father.” I’m just glad I don’t have to give that affirmative for at least another week, because I’m hanging on to this one for a bit.
I’m also glad my son is too young to understand that sometimes people who claim to love you can also treat you like crap. I’m not looking forward to the day when I have to explain that sometimes our “loved ones” behave in extremely unloving ways. On the bright side, I am supremely glad he has the excellent example of his father in his life. My husband is an object lesson in exceeding the limitations of both nature and nurture. He’s far from perfect and he has his struggles, but he is my hero every time he makes a kind or thoughtful choice.
So yes, I’m mad. . .
Row, row, row your boat . . .
As in acting, it seems in writing, “angry” is not a terribly creative choice? Not sure. If I could be more specific in sharing my feelings right now, I could come up with some extremely creative vocabulary that would aptly capture my mood of the moment.
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