Unknowingly, I wrote my last post the same day my college roommate was burying her 4 month old baby girl.  She died unexpectedly from SIDS.

When I got the news today, tears ran down my face--and when I tried to pray, all I could do was burying my face in my hands and sob for her pain.  There are just no words.

I really hate when someone takes another person's pain and turns it around so that it's about them.  "When I see what she's dealing with, I can't complain."  "Seeing that made me cherish what I have all the more."  "Really, I'm so lucky."

When I hear people tell stories of friends with special needs children, or marriage issues, or lost loved ones and how they are so thankful they aren't them, it makes my blood boil.  I hate pity.  And I hate people who use pity as a form of contempt--a way to feel superior to others and "blessed" in comparison.

So--please understand that I'm not trying to do that now.  No way would I twist my friend's devastating grief into a lame life lesson for me.

Instead, I'm seeing my last post as a mother one day wiser.  None of us know what tomorrow is going to bring, or when our lives are going to change forever with one phone call.  Or car crash.  Or illness.

I wish I could end this by saying that today I held my children just a little closer, or some other predictable remark.  Instead I cried until I felt sick and had to go be by myself for a few hours.

Work and exercise and me-time and hobbies are all fine, but if (God-forbid) something happened to my children, I don't want to pace in the darkness of my bedroom at 3 am hating myself for wasting time on things that are so meaningless in the end.

I want to live a life of purpose.  I want to go through life aware, not just sleepwalking.  I want to find contentment and happiness where I am, and stop striving for more.

I'm in the midst of soul searching.  Re-prioritizing.  And prayer.

Feeling Convicted

I'm doing waaaay too much (in case you couldn't tell from the silence around here) and I'm feeling that gnawing "I Suck" feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I see Elodie's toothless face light up when she finally sees me.  "Mommy!  Hey, I remember you!"

She's 6 months old now!  Can you believe that?!?  I'm a few months into my job, Elizabeth's 5th birthday is around the corner, and I swear I feel like I'm sleepwalking.  Wasn't it August like, yesterday?   

Where have I been?

At work.  Jogging the Couch to 5K program.  Attending (and hosting) crappy home sales parties.  Painting the family room.  Sorting too small clothes into super organized bins and storing them in the attic.  Keeping up on laundry.  Teaching Sunday school.  Going to Mom's group.  Going to choir practice. 

Where have I not been?  At home with my children.

I can jog for 40 minutes and my bathroom sink is all sparkly and I'm all caught up on my friends' gossip--but was I there when Elodie rolled over for the first time?  No.  Do I give her the last bottle and rock her to sleep?  No.  Do I tuck Elizabeth in and read her a bedtime story?  No.  Do I spend time with my husband?  No.  

I'm out running around a dark parking lot like a fool, acting like a stupid walk/run 5K is more important than my children. 

I totally believe that we moms need time to ourselves to have our own interests and take care of ourselves--but I have gone way overboard!  Kevin doesn't need to step up and help me more (because seriously? he helps so much more than most husbands).  I need to ditch the running and stick to my old elliptical in the basement AFTER the kids are in bed.  I need to put the home projects and giant chore list on the back burner.  I need to let the laundry go and toss the too-small kids clothes in a box in the corner.

I need to focus on my children and be Mom.

I Just Realized...

...Elizabeth's birthday party is the same day as my 5K.

...I can only jog for about 25 minutes and I need to be somewhere up around 45.

...I am incredibly sick of jogging around the mall parking lot.  In the dark.  Through puddles.

...Kevin doesn't give the kids baths on days that I run.

...I have to run everyday this week, so the kids will never. be. clean.

...I can't find hamster-themed party decorations.  (Really, Party City?!?)


...oh, yeah...Halloween...almost forgot that...

...My anniversary was yesterday.

...I started painting my family room because apparently, I enjoy the dramaz and felt like my life wasn't stressful enough.

...I don't know how I'm going to make a cake, clean the house, finish painting, prepare food, decorate, run a 5K, and then entertain 12 children at a birthday party.  WTF was I thinking?!?!

...Oh, and Elodie needs to fit in there somewhere.  Hmmm.

Trick or Treat! Smell My Lazy Feet! Give Me Something Diet to Eat!

Dear Neighborhood Kids:

I noticed last year that a lot of you lazy tubsters couldn't be bothered to walk the extra ten steps to my porch to let me hand you a Reeses.  Instead, you stared at my house in dismay and waddled over to my neighbor, sitting at the end of her driveway in a lawn chair with a huge bowlful of Tootsie Rolls on her lap.

If you were running down the street, dragging your candy bags and shouting, "Hurry!  We only have 15 more minutes!" I would laugh and walk out to road to save you time.  But when you're waddling at a snail's pace, whining "I have enough candy!  Can we go home now?" I'm going to park my ass in my chair and make you come to me.

It's Halloween!  And it only lasts for an hour.  If you're winded after 40 minutes of walking around your neighborhood in 55 degree weather, buddy, you have issues.  Should I pass out protein bars and cans of Diet Coke?

Tween girls:  Just say no to the slutty costumes, 'kay?  There are like, two registered child offenders in the neighborhood.  Srsly.  If you're old enough to wear hooker boots, you're old enough to run to Sheetz and pick up your own Reeses.  And a pack of Virginia Slims.  

Also?  Say thank you.  I don't owe you a thing.

Jaci

Best Sunday School Lesson EVER!

I’m not gifted to be an elementary school teacher.  I mean, I’d probably be fun.  Or at least inappropriate and big on fart jokes.  But actually teaching children lifelong lessons?

Uhhh…not so much. 

I battle with Elizabeth to write the letter A the correct way.  I keep telling her to start at the top point and go down both sides and she screams, “This is how I make my A!!!!” while starting at the bottom of one side and looping up and around.  And when it comes to Z’s?  We’re in cat-fight pose—ready to grab hair and claw eyes out.

Homeschool won’t work.  (Unless we’re studying Debate.)  I try to “gently” guide, she argues, I get irritated, she starts to whine, and then we’re both yelling at each other and throwing pencils around the room.

So when our church asked all the parents to take a month teaching Sunday School, I wanted to die.  Me?  Teach Elizabeth’s class?  4’s and 5’s?  Have you seen how I interact with my child?!?! 

On Sunday I braved the classroom with a copy of the teacher’s manual and a nervous stomach.  That hour and a half of Sunday School is freaking long.  Do you know the attention span of 4 year olds?  They are done with an activity in like, 2 minutes.  Literally.  And you have to be ready with something else because they can smell fear and before you know it they are tearing around the room screaming and smearing markers on their clothes and you’re standing there wishing you could scream, “SHUT UP AND SIIIITTTT DOOOOWWWN!” in your best Satan voice.

But you can’t because it’s church.  You have to be evil creatively. 

The lesson was Jesus walking on the water, and the manual wanted me to have the kids stand up and pretend to be in a boat while I said a rhyme about:  “Rock, rock, rocking gently.”

….

G-hay.

I’m not about to have a room full of screaming kids covered in Expo Markers.

So I improvised with a big fitted sheet and told the kids “Look!  A boat!  Climb in!” and then we shook the crap out of it while Kevin frowned in a white sheet and “walked on water” with his “I-can’t-believe-you-made-me-do-this” evil look.  (Which wasn’t a very Jesus-y thing to do, Kevin.)  The kids loved it and we had to tell the story over and over and over again as each kid pretended to be Jesus and the rest of them screamed and cracked heads together in the fitted sheet.

I encouraged them to scream and really get into it and at one point I yelled, “Argh!  JESUS!” which if you think about it, probably sounded really bad to anyone passing by.

They shrieked so loud that everyone in church could hear them and I’m just waiting for the call telling me that I’m relieved of my teaching duties.

Like Butter Scraped Over Too Much Bread

I stole my title from Bilbo Baggins.*

Elodie has a double ear infection and I have to shoot 4 ml of pink goo into her face three times a day.  I shoot, she spits, I try to push it back into her mouth, she screams.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  She refuses to eat solids, still hasn't mastered rolling over, and likes to "talk" in a loud squeaky voice at 1, 2, and 4 am.

The weather is colder, so I can't just throw a pair of flip flops at Elizabeth and run out the door.  Bring on Sock War 2010!  Why she can't point her toes and pull on a freaking pair of socks I'll never know, but each morning it's drama!  tears!  woe!  And...so it continues with everything she does for the rest of the day.  She also wants me to die so Daddy can marry my friend Myndi and then she'll have the best. mom. EVAH. 

I'm training for a 5K on November 6th.  3-4 nights a week I meet a group of friends to run--and it's turning into a huge time suck.  My house is a disaster, I never cook, I'm out of groceries, and my kids haven't had a bath since Sunday because I'm sucking wind around the mall parking lot.

Kevin's new job drama.  Homeschool Preschool.  Church.  Mom's group.  Play dates.  Work.  Washing my damn hair.

I'm doing too many things, and trust me, they are all half-assed.  (I mean, you should see my hair.  And my blog.**)   

*Giving credit because I blog with integrity, damn it.


**Shout out to the handful of people who unsubscribed after I wrote a positive glass-half-full kind of post.  You prove my point that the internet luuuurves misery/drama/angst.***

***But only if it's real.  The internet will lynch you if you make up the dramaz.  Like all those fake sick baby/dying baby blogs?  Oooooh!  Lawd!!!

7 Year Itch? Nah. Not Me.

Maybe it’s the Lexapro talking, but I feel like the days of toil and struggle and misery are behind me.  Well, behind “us”. 

Kevin got a job offer, and while he isn’t doubling his salary or anything crazy, it’s a nice raise.  Even better—it’s giving us hope that our future isn’t always going to be paycheck to paycheck.  Hope.  Real hope.

I can’t even tell you what a difference that makes.

Last night, it finally dawned on me that we’re established.  We own a house that I love every inch of.  (It needs work, but that’s part of the love.)  We’re making it a home with every kid-stain on the carpet and new picture frame making yet another nail hole in the plaster—it’s ours.  It’s home.

We have our two girls, and we know that’s all we’re going to have.  Our family is complete!  No more surprises.  No more vague plans for another girl or a boy or maybe just an only child…  It’s Elizabeth and Elodie from now until I die, and that’s comforting to me.  I can picture pastel bedrooms and Barbie dolls and Bonnie Bell lip gloss and PMS and mini-skirt battles…and I wouldn’t change a thing.  I love our girls.  I’m so content with our girls.

We have our group of friends and our church and we’re settled in our community.  It took five years to reach this point, but we’re finally here, and it feels so good to belong.  We have roots in our area.

Even this new job offer…maybe this is it?  Maybe this is where Kevin will stay for the next 15 years?  Maybe this is where he’ll build a nice pension and family vacations and his job will just be there.  Solid.  Secure.  Dependable.

And even though I’m not where I want to be career wise…or artistically…or personally…or however you want to phrase that…it’s not weighing so heavily on me anymore.  I don’t have a degree?  Eh.  I’ll get there.  I’m only a receptionist?  Oh, who cares!  It’s a job.  My writing is just a blog?  Well...it’s a process.  I’ll get there eventually.   I’m 30 pounds overweight?  *shrug*  I’m the only one obsessing over it. 

Our 7^th anniversary is coming up, and rather than feeling the 7 Year Itch, I’m feeling the 7 Year Relax.  This year, I think I’ll make my Joy of Cooking French Onion Soup (ah, to die for) and sit on the patio with two glasses of wine, the old comforter, a couple candles and look back on how far we’ve come.  How much we’ve accomplished.  

And where we’ll go from here. 

I Love Working

I love getting 15 minutes of shower-time in the morning and not bowing graciously out of the bathroom to make way for The Workers of the World (a.k.a., Kevin).  

I realize that as a SAHM I have a right to shower, but the reality is that my appearance was treated like a privilege by everyone—including me.  Just like the stained Christmas tablecloth that’s been lying on my laundry room floor since…2 Christmases ago…my shower was last on the list.  Jaci’s still in her faded ELHS Class of ’98 T-shirt and underwear at 8:30 am?  Oh, well.  There’s always the 2 pm nap.  Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go!

I love the quiet solitude of work.

I hate loud restaurants.  Clubs with music blaring.  Concerts with people screaming and smashing into me.  Amusement parks.  Crowds.  Wal-Mart at the 1^st of the month when welfare checks hit the mail.  And screaming children.

I never knew I had anxiety issues until I had children.  Good.  Lord.  It doesn’t take more than 10 minutes of screaming before I’m chewing my face off.

I love being sick at work.

Elodie has a cold and can’t lie down without gagging and choking on her own mucus.  She had to be held, around the clock, all weekend long.  It sucked.  

I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since…uh…last Monday?  I’m so exhausted I almost wrecked the car driving to work this morning.  My hair is wild, I’m getting the cold, and I have baby puke on my sweater.

But I’d rather be sick and miserable here than sick and miserable and responsible for two kids at home.  All I have to do is slump at my desk and slowly plow through paperwork while my co-workers say, “You sound awful!”  At home I’d be rocking and holding and entertaining and fetching snacks and disciplining and doing all the normal shit moms have to do—sick or not.

I hate weekends.

Okay, here’s where I reveal how crazy I really am.  It’s not that I don’t love my children or I don’t want to be around my family—that’s really NOT it.  But I dread weekends. 

You want to know why?  Here’s what happens:

Elizabeth freaks out because MOMMY AND DADDY ARE BOTH HOME GO CRAZY! and melts down.  I start screaming.  Kevin yells at me to back off and talks to her in his sing-songy, Danny-Tanner-talking-to-Michelle voice.  I get royally pissed at him for butting in and allowing her to regress to a two year old.  Elizabeth pushes more and more and more while I walk away and think, “What’s next, Mr. Therapist?  Baby talk?”  Finally, he snaps and screams at her just like I did 5 hours earlier.  Elodie fusses.  Elizabeth whines.  Kevin and I tell each other to F-off.

So…yeah.  Rip roaring good times at Jaci’s house!

Hmmm.  Maybe I should go full-time.  Or find a weekend job.