Hooky
You know what I don’t like about working for myself? Constantly having to peddle myself, working at all hours, no free office supplies, sometimes averaging somewhere around a dime an hour because I’m either slow or a perfectionist or a slow perfectionist… ummm… this is turning out to be sort of a long list. Nevermind.
You know what I LOVE about working for myself? No annoying bosses, meeting cool people, working on all sorts of different things, and finally getting to make a living doing what I love.
And! Sometimes, when I work it right, I can just… take a day off. In the middle of the week. Or, say, on a Tuesday. Wooooooooooooo!
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Don’t worry, I have therapy tomorrow
Hello, and welcome to the new week! This week’s motto is “Can’t possibly be as bad as last week,” and so far it’s really living up to expectations!
Here’s a few ways you might be able to tell if it’s time to rejoin civilization:
1) The hampers are overflowing and the closets and dressers are empty;
2) The tree is half-trimmed and surrounded by boxes;
3) An earnest woman calls to ask if your child will be coming to her child’s birthday party, and you have to confess that you have a week’s worth of unopened mail and so you didn’t even realize there was an invitation;
4) The dishwasher is full of clean dishes and the sink is overflowing with dirty ones;
5) All of the above are true and you’re starting to even scare yourself a little.
So, uh, I was busy today. And almost sort of normal!
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A little child shall lead me
I am having a bit of difficulty getting into the holiday spirit right now. It’s not that I don’t want to, because I DO. I’m just finding it hard. I’m… too emotional. About everything. And so I’m either tearing up in awe and gratefulness that we’re actually all okay, or I’m beating myself up over my inability to just feel joy without it dredging up all of those less-than-joyful feelings that oftentimes follow.
Really the best I’ve been able to manage on my own is picking out and eating all of the peppermint bark squares in my Ghiradelli holiday assortment. I don’t know if it’s exactly filled me with the spirit of the season, but I’m full and my breath is minty.
The truth is, I’m just tired. Tired from lack of sleep. Tired from worry. Tired from my back hurting. Tired from trying to keep it all together for the kids. Tired from trying to force myself to just GET OVER IT already.
Tired of being tired of myself. It’s like the movie says, you know. No matter where you go, there you are.
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I need a new favorite pastime
I’m not really sure what the appropriate timeframe for post-traumatic stress disorder is, but I do know that I am so often INappropriate that this should be of no consequence to me, anyway.
Yesterday we enjoyed a snowday, my kidlets and me. We watched hours of mindless television! We didn’t get dressed until after lunch! We (they) played in the snow and we (I) cleared the driveway! We had grilled cheese for lunch and baked a delicious meatloaf for dinner! We decorated the tree, or at least a one foot square area where the kids hung most of their ornaments!
It was a fabulous day, albeit rife with extra exclamation points!!!
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Busy little bees
The children are upbeat and still enjoying all of the attention they are receiving. Normally I would expect the celebrity status to start tapering off, now, but no! It is always exciting to look like someone punched you in the face! And today was the day that they both started developing black eyes–more accurately, in their case (so far), green eyes–so the fascination with their survivor status has only heightened.
Chickadee came home from school with a new bandage on her head, as she’d felt the need to show off the actual stitches, and then of course had to go down to the nurse to be rebandaged. Naturally I have taught her to stagger around with her arms out screeching “BRAINS! I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAAAAAAAINS!” but I’m not sure if that was part of today’s demonstration. Probably I would’ve gotten a phone call if it had been.
Meanwhile, it turns out that injured children are stuffed animal magnets; in addition to the other creatures they’ve added to their menagerie since Monday (which was… what… 6 years ago? this is the longest week EVER), tonight my children declared their intention to leave me and go be raised by Kira, and I can’t say as I blame them. Just look at what she sent to each of them. It’s a bear! With expensive chocolate! It’s everything in the world they love best! (And I got my own box of chocolate, too. I think I’ll join the kids when they run away to Kira’s.)
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Recovering
Hello! Thank you so much for all of the kind words and well-wishes! I feel all warm and fuzzy, but that could be the muscle relaxers. No matter!
I’m pleased to report that both children are enjoying their minor celebrity status (I am told that Chickadee completely monopolized sharing time today, between the bandage on her head and the little stuffed bear whose head is wrapped in gauze, just like hers was when we left the hospital) and are back to bouncing off the walls with gleeful abandon. Children bounce. Thank God.
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Crumple zones
This morning I dragged my children out of bed, nagged at them to hurry up, probably yelled at them during breakfast, threw my coat on over my pajamas, and finally got us out the door more or less on time.
Half a block away from Monkey’s school, I drove the car into the back of a very large dump truck. No, not on purpose.
And we will all be fine, we will all be fine, we will all be fine; I have to keep saying that over and over and over in the hopes that it will somehow block out the flashbacks of the moment when I stood on the brakes, or the moment when I turned around and locked eyes with Chickadee and realized she was bleeding, realized her forehead was completely split open down to the bone and that I was about to vomit or pass out and that I could do neither because I had to take care of my babies.
And somehow I got out of the car, got the kids out, calmed and comforted Monkey’s hysterics and pressed a wad of napkins to Chickadee’s head and exhorted her to please keep talking, please don’t close your eyes baby, talk to me, I’m here, keep talking until they come to get us, baby, please.
And the police came and the ambulance came and God bless every one of those workers and all the other people who stopped and helped and the man who lent me his phone so I could call my ex to meet us at the hospital. The time from getting out of the car to shortly before we were discharged from the hospital is all a blur. All but the part where I was supposed to walk Monkey around a bit while my ex stayed so they could start stitching Chickadee up, and despite the sedative and anaesthetics she shrieked and shrieked and I thought my heart would explode if I could not find a way to calm her.
So I kicked my ex out to the hall to walk with Monkey so that I could hold her–she had to lay flat on her back, so I laid my head on her chest and wrapped my arms around her sides–and wipe her tears and whisper that I was sorry, and I was there, and it would be all done soon.
Monkey has an impressive goose egg, but this did not stop him from advising the ambulance driver on how to drive, charming the entire nursing staff, devouring a package of pop-tarts, coloring for a while and deeply considering which stuffed animal would make his sister feel the most better, and playing an elaborate keep-away game with an inflated purple glove that one of the EMTs gave him.
Chickadee received 20 stitches. I watched them all. She has a smile-shaped wound across her forehead and told me tonight that it should really be a frown. I agreed. I did not tell her how much worse it looked before they closed it up, or how I had briefly wondered how I could possibly survive if she’d died in my arms on the side of the road.
I am battered and bruised and basically having one continual panic attack in waves that wash over me.
And we will all be fine, we will all be fine, we will all be fine.
Some day, my prince will come
Yes indeed; some day, a rugged, handsome man with bulging pectorals will ride up on a white stallion. I will be standing there, gape-mouthed, probably wearing jeans and sporting several zits, and he will swing down off his steed and tower above me in all his glory. In one swift movement he will scoop me into his embrace and dip me low to the ground. His mouth will skim across my neck and come to rest just a hair’s breadth above my ear. While I gasp for air and try to regain my wits, he will whisper tenderly,
“I cut hair like Nick Arrojo, and have the perfect haircolor right here in my pocket.”
At that point I swoon and pledge my eternal love to him. We live happily ever after and my hair is FABULOUS.
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The power of pie
My plan was to embark on the next installment of How Can I Screw My Hair Up NOW? tonight, with a whole new attempt at coloring it without turning myself into Elvira, but I am too tired. I’m sure it will make a fascinating tale when I get around to it. I don’t want to give TOO much away, but it will involve some fairly non-standard equipment, which will no doubt cause even greater misadventure than normal. What can I say; I’m a very slow learner.
Instead I filled myself to the brim with leftover Chinese food and put on my jammies, and I’m now sitting in bed with my laptop and trying to stay awake. I am a party animal, I tell you. Woo!
Actually, I’m happy to have a night to just… be. Just digest things a bit. I have been doing a lot of eating the last few days.
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Even more controversial than MOMMYBLOGGER
Whatever you do, don’t call yourself a MomWriter(TM) unless you have the fundage to back it up!
Please read Joshilyn’s excellent assessment of the imminent death of the MomWriters(TM) Yahoo! Group, particularly if you’ve ever been or were considering becoming a member.
In the midst of the half-a-dozen other ways in which my life was blowing up yesterday, I couldn’t organize my thoughts over this particular issue in any meaningful way, so I’ll leave you to Joss’ take on it, and add only: It sucks.