Sometimes I bail on blogging because I have nothing to say, other times, like now, I think of all of this fascinating stuff (hey, it’s all relative, right?) I want to write about all day long and when I sit down in front of the computer at the end of the day, it overwhelms me.
Holy carp! Did I just invite the entire internet to my house? I think I kind of did! Which is totally fine because all I have to do in the next four months is to completely remodel my house from top to bottom and buy some extra towels.
I have my first tomato! I am mired in irritation that the Inaugural Tomato is on one of the Home Depot My Evil Dog Killed My Seedlings Replacement Plants and not on one of the plants that I! grew! from! seed! but I am trying to let it go.
Yesterday I was swinging on the hammock in my back yard and it collapsed under me! How rude. And also shocking. Please be warned that there’s a killer hammock loose in Sacramento.
My sister in laws wedding programs – I am making them. They were, shall we say, labor intensive? But I am NOT allowed to complain about them, by decree of my own self, because I volunteered to make them and I conceptualized the labor intensive design and also my sister in law puts the fab in fabulous and I’d make her 400 programs, but I will just note that they took a wicked long time to do. But now please vote, A or B, because none of us can decide on bow versus no bow. Internet, the fate of Sarah’s programs lies in your hands, also please do not crash her wedding, stalkerish types.
Opinions, please, as long as those opinions are not “You are insane” or “How did you spend that long on those programs those suck.”
Did you know for Mother’s Day I got a new garage roof? Funny. Only not. We HAD to replace the roof because the house insurance people told us to LAST Junethat they wouldn’t insure it and to replace it within a year and time was running out and then we wouldn’t have house insurance and apparently that’s illegal and blah blah blah boring legal jargon. Anyhoo, Mr. E put the roof on himself and he started it the Saturday before Mother’s Day which meant that I drowned my sorrows over having to do MORE parenting than usual on Mother’s Day in mint chip ice cream cake but I can’t be mad because holy wah, the man roofed a garage, people! Look at the before and after!? I am in awe.
I am going to do a password protected post shortly, so if you see the post go up and you want the password, email me, but if you are related to me or know me in real life you aren’t getting it, sorry. Also, it’s going to be fascinating. No, seriously, it’s just should I wear outfit A or B to the wedding and I feel like a dork putting up clothes I am going to wear to a wedding for people to see who will be at the wedding, and Maggie suggested the old P3 and so that’s what I shall do.
The other day I was so hot and so tired and so sick of doing laundry and loading the dishwasher that when I opened the cabinet and a Nalgene fell out of it and bounced on the counter and narrowly missed my head I grabbed it and threw it in the backyard. Does this mean my meds aren’t working? Who can say. I am taking a wait and see approach.
I cleaned the garage out, the other day, and now everything is shoved under tables or below the work bench that runs a long one side, all sealed into large Rubbermaid bins – and then we’ve got all the heavy bulky awkward baby crap wedged on top of the bins – stuff like swings and gates and walkers. I haven’t needed anything out of those bins in the better part of a year and then of course as soon I got everything really wedged in there, I’ve had to dig in the bins about seven hundred times in the past week. Last night I was rooting through one looking for a black dress I thought maybe I could wear to the rehearsal dinner and I was sort of embarrassed at the amount of little baby girl clothing I own. Especially considering how many little baby girls I have. (Hint: None). It’s just things I found at garage sales or thrift stores or in Mexico that I couldn’t pass up, stuff I bought for my nieces or baby Elena and then couldn’t let go.
And then the other day I had the music from the Nutcracker in my head, and it reminded me of how much I want a little six year old girl to take to the ballet every Christmas. I am sure Elena’s mom’s would let me borrow her, and I know that if I never have a daughter, they’ll let me steal her, a lot, and she can be my really really spoiled fake daughter, but oh, it’s not the same. I really really really want to have a girl.
And also the black dress looked horrible. So I obviously need to stay out of the garage and also to quit buying pink smocked dresses.
I have the worst craving for beets lately. I blame Kristie, who claims not to like them. This gets me started on a long litany of delicious beet dishes (well, two. Salad and borscht).
I feel like sort of an a hole for bringing this up and I almost didn’t but it’s festering in the back of my mind so there it is. The other day I read a blog post by someone who is struggling with infertility and she said that she couldn’t understand complaining about your children, that “whining about a miracle” was something she couldn’t comprehen. And it just stuck with me, because lord knows I am not one to make any kind of judgment about the struggles of infertility, I haven’t been through them. But then I expect the same courtesy of you, I really do. I get to whine about my experiences because you get to whine about yours. Everything else aside.
But mostly, and here is my real point. I don’t believe that children are miracles, and I believe it does all of us a disservice to classify them as such. They are not little angels sent here to make you feel something about god or yourself or the truth about forever. They are human beings, just like you and me, with all the inherent flaws that make humanity so complicated and difficult and wonderful, all at the same time. Children are not a moral lesson. They are people. And sometimes they make you want to throw Nalgenes in the yard, and sometimes they make you laugh so hard you cry, and sometimes you want to talk about all of this complex and confusing business called being a mom, and call it what you will, I’ve been whining about my miracle since 2006 and I shall continue to do at every available opportunity.
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