Ringing in the New Year "Alone"

Our plans for this fabulous evening kind of flopped and I've been in the funk all day anyway, so we're spending yet another fantastically exciting New Year's on the couch. Just another reminder (the day after my birthday, conveniently) that we're getting old. Well, I decided I was going to combat this funk with some "me" time. Hmmmmm...I have a portable DVD player and new bubble bath. Twilight and the tub were calling my name.

I arrive upstairs and am chatting with my newly neglected Matriarch cat while I park the DVD player on the sink. I reached down to start the bath water and realize I've been in this funk long enough to result in a really nasty film in the tub. Darn. There goes some of the joy of my me time, sucked right down the drain with the comet.

I finally got some scalding water running into the clean tub and was just about to start pouring the bubble bath when in bounded the offspring.

"Mommy! What are you DOING? I don't want to go to bed!"
"This isn't for you, it's for me." I replied.
"Are you going to take a shower?" She inquired.
"No, I'm going to take a bath." I answered.
"What?" This is how often I've had time to enjoy a bubble bath in the last three years. The concept is totally foreign to her.

"I'm going to watch!" She declared, quite proudly.
"Punkin, Mommy really wants to take a bath alone. And besides, this movie I'm watching will scare you." I mean, she's scared of Veggie Tales sometimes. Surely she won't endure Twilight, which was kind of the idea.
"That's ok, Mommy, I'll be alone with you." My hope of enjoying my bath was closely following the comet.

So I spent the next twenty minutes "enjoying" a bubble bath to the tune of Twilight in the background of a two year old "washing" me and throwing rubber ducks into my bubbles, accompanied by the intoxicating fragrance of "stress relief" mint bath foam. We ended our year's vacation with a "swim" in Bill and Connie's garden tub in our bathing suits, so I'm not sure why I expected to end the year any differently. Oh well, at least she's cute.

Oops...December got away

Wow. Joy Haser fussed at me last night for not writing (thanks, Joy, I needed that!) and I signed on to realize that I do indeed suck at life and have not written during the entire month of December. That is lame. Just want to throw that out there.

I guess the most interesting event for the month has been the new addition to our family. The offspring played us like a bunch of fools and was rewarded with a kitten for Christmas. Since Thanksgiving she has asked for nothing else. When I tried to convince her that Santa could not carry live animals on his sled and suggested she pick a special toy as a backup, she replied, "I don't really need any toys, Mommy, I already have a lot. All I really need is my own kitty." Player.

Friends tried to help:

Liz: "Gracie, you already have a kitty. What about Polly?"
Grace: "No, that's Mommy's kitty, I need my own."
Liz: "Well, you can have your own dog. Nobody else likes Daisy." (I'm sad to say that she nailed that one.)
Grace (complete with eyeroll): "I can't hold my big dog. I need a little kitty."

Thanks anyway, Liz.

So the days flew by (without any blogging) and I finally figured we were stuck and better get over to the pound. I realize the child doesn't have to have everything she wants, but it was real hard not to succumb when there was only one thing. Plus, I love cats. I mean, it's not like her request was for a pony or her own island in the Caribbean or something. So...the hunt began December 21 and ended with Diego on the 25th.



Who names a cat Diego? A two-year-old with a Dora fetish, that's who. How do you think Polly got her name? From her two-year-old previous owner, who apparently wanted a parrot. But in the grand scheme of things, Diego turned out to be a pretty good name considering all the alternatives.

See, the kid waited till Christmas Eve (after aforementioned male feline had already been secured from the local shelter, tested negative for aids/leukemia, and gone into hiding at Grammy's) to mention to us that she wanted a girl kitty. Through clenched teeth I muttered "You should have told Santa you wanted your kitty to be a girl!"

Christmas morning came, and when I heard the child waking up, I hurried to stuff the live present into its carrier and toss it under the tree. It hated this process and began screaming. Yes, I said screaming. And no, I didn't mean meowing. I ran the kid downstairs and she walked with wide eyes slowly toward the tree.

"What is that, Mommy?"
"I don't know, Santa brought it, what do you think it is?" I asked.
"A cat."
"Probably so!"
"I'm scared of it."

Awesome. Maybe we won't need to keep up the Santa charade if she's scared of the gifts he delivers. Christmas just got cheaper! We finally let Screaming Mimi out of his cage and do you know what the first thing she asked me was? (That is, after the initial shock and terror wore off.)

"Is it a girl kitty?"
"No, baby, you didn't tell Santa you wanted a girl until he already left the North Pole with this boy kitty. What should we name him?"
"Maggie." I spent the next thirty minutes combating every girl name she could throw at me and trying to steer her in the direction of boy names. It finally came to this:

"Honey, these names you're picking are all for girl kitties. Can't you think of any names a little boy might have?"
The answer was epic:
"Yeah...ummm...casserole."

Seriously? It's been months since we've even eaten a casserole. Where on earth does she come up with this stuff? It seems by popular opinion that we should have kept the name. I just didn't think I could do it. Luckily my mom talked her into naming some boy cartoons she watches, since her brain is apparently void of all possible choices of male names. On this prompt she responded with "Diego" so Diego he is.

I'm sure this event in our lives will prompt many blogs in the future. Hopefully something will prompt more than I wrote in December...

It'll be 2010 in a little while...let's try this again, shall we?

Of new babies and dogdom

A friend of mine who has two daughters around my pumpkin's age just had a new baby, so today I was explaining that she was just born and next time we saw them the baby wouldn't be in her mommy's belly anymore. This was examined thoroughly by the small one.

"Will she be little?" she inquired.

"Yes, she'll be very little."

"Can I play with her?"

"Not really. You know how Elijah's little sister just lays in her seat?" (This is what I refer to as the "hotdog" stage)

"Yeah..."

"Well, the new baby will do that, too. But we can still go look at her when she gets big enough to come home."

"And I can sing her a song and play with her toes?" Now she's getting it. I encouraged this and other age appropriate interactions for a few more minutes and then she decided she had more questions to clear up.

"Is the baby Ryleigh's sister?"

"Yep! You're right!" I answered.

"Where's your sister?" She continued.

"Mommy doesn't have a sister." I start sweating.

"Where's my sister?" Now I'm sweating profusely.

"You don't have a sister either." The child has already asked for puppies and kittens for Christmas. I'm sure a baby is about to be next, and I just don't feel like discussing that one with her. She spent so long coming up with this reply, I almost threw up:

"I do have a sister. My bear is my sister." Phew. Works for me! And we're right on to the next subject:

"Mommy, was I little?"

"Yes baby, you were almost as little as Ryleigh's new sister."

"Awwwww," she replied. Then followed with: "And I used to bark when I was a dog!"

Wow.

Still Cruddy...

Well...the kid is officially tired of fending for herself. When I drug myself into her room to get her out of bed this morning, she said "is Grammy here?" When I replied "Nope," she said "Where's my daddy?" I informed her he was working, and she made me feel a LOT better:

"So it's just you?"

Thanks, kid. Thanks a lot. She at least asked if I was still sick and said she's get some cream to make me feel better.

I guess we'll be in front of the tv again today.

First Crud of the Year

Today was supposed to be an adventure. It's one of the last warm days that we're supposed to have for awhile, but I'm pretty sure I have the crud that the rest of my family has already had. Mom has been coughing up...well...everything (I think there was some lung tissue in there last time I checked) for about two weeks. It all started with a sore throat...which I now have.

So today our adventure consists of endless episodes of Little House on the Prairie and Veggie Tales. Oh, sure, we could turn off the TV and read some books. Still a pretty sedentary activity...except the part where I have to use my brain. Considering that everything from my brain to my big toe aches, I have ceased all activity that isn't life sustaining for the child. (Like throwing food at her occasionally.) It's a good thing she can "do it herself." Today I will not argue with that statement.

**Side note: I'm so lucky that I have a two-year-old that loves Little House. And she really does. She knows all the characters by name, much of the plot line, and can even sing the theme pretty accurately. (Which is more impressive when you consider that it has no words.) I really appreciate this about my child, because I would watch it all day long. Wait...I have watched it all day long before. Dad bought mom the whole wagon of DVDs last year for Christmas, and me and mom have watched them straight through to season seven. I don't know what I'll do when we finish season nine. I think a little piece of me will die. I mean, it's such a good show, and in the words of a dear friend, "that Michael Landon sure isn't hard to look at either." Anyway...

Back to my original ramble: My soreness was tripled this morning when I fell down the last four steps of our staircase on my way to the kitchen to throw a poptart at the kid. I was carrying her at the time (of course.) But she fared quite nicely, because I landed on my knees and elbows with her cradled safely against me, baby bjorn style. I don't think her robe even touched the ground. Of course she cried anyway. Not that I can blame her. It must have been terrifying for her, considering I didn't even know I was falling until I realized "Man! My knees hurt!" and then noted my odd position. "Hm. I must have fallen. This isn't what I normally look like when I finish coming down the stairs."

Maybe today will be adventurous after all.

The Veggies are wrapping it up. Time to change DVDs and throw some cheese and raisins. (I wonder if she can reach those herself?) I may have to drag myself back upstairs and dry my hair. I can't decide which is worse...the ridiculous weight of my wet hair or the effort it takes to hold a hairdryer. One thing is certain: this upright position at the computer is going to have to stop.

Trick or Treat!

The wonderful sugar high holiday we all used to love finally came for the little one. This is actually her third...but I don't think she was aware I was using her to get the goods the last two years...

We went on our traditional trick-or-treat through our neighborhood on Thursday. She went as a "mama" giraffe because I found the costume at the flea market for five dollars. Even though she wanted to be a monkey (that junk cost 25 dollars!!), she was adorable and had a great time anyway.

Our neighborhood was PACKED OUT. I bet close to 500 kids came to our house. I was very glad my mom joined us, because our little giraffe was almost trampled by a herd of big kids more times than I care to count. I felt like knocking a few of them out and yelling "HEY! We're walking here!" Maybe if I had made an example of just one...

And the sweet little giraffe had the best attitude about it. She was saying "excuse me" (and NOT in the same way I was saying it in my head.) to the hoodlums. She was going very carefully and saying "I have to wait my turn" while fifty middle school kids cut in front of her. While the other kids were running by so fast they could barely complete the phrase "trick-or-treat", Mama G was stopping on each old lady's porch to say "I like your pretty flowers." or (the best) "I like your pretty goose!" (You know the ones...they make clothes for them...)

My highlight of the evening (besides the massive amounts of candy scored!) was my little pumpkin reading a word. Seriously. We walked by a house that had blow up ghosts in the yard, and each ghost was holding a letter. As we walked past, she said "Mommy? Does that say 'Boo'?" After I collected myself off the sidewalk, I agreed that it did, indeed, say 'Boo'. Upon further investigation, my mom and I learned that the ghosts were holding the letter 'B' and after that came 'o,o'. Whoa. It was quite a moment. I kept waiting for something to ruin it, like a favorite comedian of mine who rejoiced over his toddler son's declaration of his wishes to be a doctor. In half a breath, the dad was crushed by the follow-up statement, "or a DINOSAUR!"

I drug my poor little accessory all over creation for the entire two hour trick-or-treat window. Five minutes prior to cut off time, we were already back in our block when I noticed a house we had missed with the light still on. I asked my sweetie if she wanted to go there before we went in and she replied:

"No mommy, that's ok. I have enough candy."

Who is raising this child? I mean, really.

Cat in the Car

Yesterday was a busy day with many errands to run and preparations made for the Husband and me to go out of town this weekend. (Still not finished with that, but had to tell this story!) While waiting in line for one such errand, the two-year-old native became restless, so I proudly produced my iPod for her to play Peek-a-Boo Barn. (Because every once in a while I get smart about this parenting thing and prepare ahead.)

For all of the non-parents and parents of children old enough to enjoy actual games, this one involves a barn with a "knock, knock" sound, followed by an animal sound, at which point the child is supposed to guess the animal name before using the touch screen to slide the barn door open and check their answer. Of course, my child never takes the time to guess an animal because she is too busy sliding her finger back and forth as fast as she can between animals to get the door open as quick as possible. But it was a good thought on the distraction thing, right?

Back to the errand, we finished up and headed to the parking lot. I strapped the child in to her car seat and climbed back over the passenger seat to get out of my two door VW Beetle and walked around the car. I flopped with the weariness of an errand running mom into my seat and started the engine. All the sudden I heard "MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!" coming from somewhere in the general direction of my hood. I slammed the key back over as quickly as possible, but I immediately began to feel my stomach lurch. I knew I had just made cat salad under the hood of my car, and that's not what I had in mind for lunch.

I could still hear the cries when I cut the engine. Relieved that the cat was only mangled and not dead, I thought maybe it was just UNDER the car. So I jumped out and looked. No cat. I got back in the car. Still a cat crying. I got back out. I heard the child call "Mommy! What are you doing??" Checking the trunk, of course. Because a wayward cat could definitely navigate its way into my trunk! What have I been teaching this child that she can't understand her mother's illogical thought process?? My thorough search of my trunk and all of its contents produced no cat. (Throw me a bone here and at least ACT surprised, will you?)

I got back in the car, and to my dismay, heard once again the cry of that deranged feline. I was starting to think I had lost my mind, when the child finally said something that made me feel better. "Mommy? Is that a cat?" Phew. She hears it too. There was one last search I hadn't ventured yet, so in the spirit of Austin Powers (why not?) I popped the hood and got back out.

When you pop the hood of a new Beetle, it's almost like a funny joke. The hood opens a little, and the release latch pops itself out at you. With the qualities on the front end of the car already being face-like, this action causes the car to look like it stuck its tongue out at you. I giggle every time, including this one. (In fact, I'm convinced that one day I'm going to break down in the worst of circumstances and the highway patrol is going to find me along the side of a dark highway clutching my revolver and giggling hysterically at my release latch. Please bail me out when this happens.)

After a nice fit of giggles, I began to picture a really mad cat cooped up under my hood and his reaction to my reaching for said release latch. I held my breath and stood as far back as was possible for me to still clasp the latch, and with much reserve, threw the hood open. This produced another fit of giggles, because I started to realize the absurdity of the suggestion that a cat might fit under my hood. A piece of paper can't fit under the hood of that thing. And yet, here I am, peering under and wondering what I'm going to say when some nice stranger comes and asks if I need help.

I stood very still and listened hard. No meowing. Hmmmm. I can only hear the cat when I'm inside the car, and I can't see it anywhere outside the car. Somewhere in my life I was taught to reason that these facts meant the cat was in the car.

No way. I'm crazy, but I'm not blind. I refused to believe a cat climbed in my car without my knowing it. However, I had run out options, so I closed the hood and slid back in the car. "MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!" I leaned over to look in the floorboard of the passenger side. I couldn't believe I was actually looking there. I listened a second, because it seemed louder from that position. I also noticed that the cat had perfect rhythm...and that it was apparently meowing AND knocking...on my purse...

I dug through my purse on the passenger's seat and pulled out the iPod and turned off Peek-a-Boo Barn. The worst part? My child laughing at me hysterically from the back seat. Ok, I guess she was laughing with me...but she didn't stop there. She went right ahead and kindly stole my story.

That's right. My two year old infringed on my copyright. We took lunch to her Daddy (Ha! I just realized I could say my child came from the mailman...oh...that's GOOD.) and as we sat picnicking on the sidewalk of his mail route, I began a dramatic reenactment of the event. I wasn't even to the trunk yet when the Small One barged in and threw out the punch line:

"And mommy got in the car and outta the car and in the car and the kitty said "meow" and mommy looked and guess what daddy? IT WAS THE HIPOD! HAHAHAHAHAHA PEEK-A-BOO BARN SAID MEOW!" She laughed out loud hysterically as I sat, stunned, wondering if my own mother used to be a wonderful story teller until I barged in and took over her stage.

She always has been my "first baby of the stage." I guess we're in for a wilder ride than I originally guessed.

What's Your Name?

Since we moved we have been hopping around from church to church, still looking for a place to call home. This suits our little social butterfly just fine. Each new nursery or Sunday School class we take her to is a new chance for her to throw us out of the room. She loves this.

While we embark on this journey, we are trying to take the opportunity to teach our little pumpkin the "polite" way to address and speak to adults. She will chatter anyone who will stand still to their grave, but sometimes it happens much like a drive by shooting. She speaks rather well for her age, so she doesn't understand why people can't understand her spewing out a paragraph at top speed as she runs past.

Part of the etiquette she clearly needs to learn is to stand still and slow down. Since her mouth is generally about four feet away from the receiving ear, we've also been working on looking way up as she speaks. She's picking all this up pretty well, and she LOVES to talk to anyone who will listen, so we thought, hey-why not add a few conversation starters in there while we're at it. I mean, how cool is a two-year-old who can say "so, Mr. Jones, what do you do for a living?"

She constantly asks me "Who's that?", so I thought an age appropriate conversation skill would be to ask someone their name. I thought we had this down tonight at home group when some new people came and she walked right up to a college boy and said, "Hey! What's your name?" He answered accordingly and she came back with "I'm Gracie. I'm two and I have a pretty dress on."

Is she hitting on a college kid!? Lord!

A while later, she finally moved on to a little boy her own age (phew) and that we actually already know. I can't expect her to get it all right so soon:

"HEY! Elijah! What's YOUR name?!" Daddy found this quite hilarious.

He Doesn't Need Me To

Anyone who knows me has probably figured out that I don't enjoy change. Even good change. I usually go in kicking and screaming. Even if it's a change I really need to make, I just can't handle the movement of the status quo. These days I feel the dramatic tremors of a pre-status quo quake. It makes me sweat a little.

I've been discussing this with the Lord (a step in the direction I really need to head), and I'm pretty sure He's shaking his head in exasperation at me. I know He loves me, but I sure end up heading in the wrong direction pretty often for someone who doesn't like to change her path. Based on my disdain for direction change, and the fact that I've been heading in the right direction before, I should be the equivalent of a female Billy Graham by now...I've yet to solve this problem.

Anyway, as I was saying, I was discussing this with The Man today while I vacuumed:

"Lord, I just clearly can't stay in relationship with You. I mean, have I learned anything in my whole life?? I can't even keep a house as well as my mom."

Still, small voice: "I don't need you to."

"You would think by now I would have at least picked up some of her parenting skills."

Still, small voice I'm still ignoring: "I don't need you to."

"And I'm never going to be a wife as selfless as my pastor's wife."

"I don't need you to."

"And I'm never going to be as wise a wife as my last pastor before him."

"I don't need you to."

"I'm never going to be as encouraging as my best friend."

"I don't need you to."

"And I'm never going to be as patient as her, either. Or as funny as my flute teacher."

"I don't need you to!"

"Or as faithful as...well...pretty much any example would do here. I mean, even the garbage man has it out for me, Lord! I know he does! Every time it rains, I look outside after pickup and all the other cans are upside down on the sidewalk and mine are right side up, collecting rain in the middle of the street! I just clearly cannot be as sensitive to others as my former student when I can't even keep the trash man happy!"

"I DON'T NEED YOU TO!!"

'What, Lord? Did you say something?" This is where I imagine the exasperated head shake.

The gist of what I received from Him after I finally realized He had something to say was that he doesn't need me to be all those other people. That's why he made them "them" and me "me". And he doesn't need me to "fix" things with relationship with Him. He's quite capable. I just need to brace myself for the shifting that is undoubtedly about to occur. Maybe I have learned something in all this time after all.

Now, if only I could remember to drink my tea before it gets cold.

How Tea Changed My Life

My child is the best sleeper in America. At two (and a half-as she is likely to inform should you ask) years old, she is still sleeping a solid twelve hours every night, with a blessed three (sometimes four! Woo!) hour nap during the day. This is what I refer to as "happy hour(s)".

As an infant, she slept wherever you put her. She refused to be rocked or otherwise fussed over, and would scream this sentiment at any unsuspecting bed-putter until they got the clue and laid her in her bassinet and walked away. She slept so much that we did whatever we wanted. We carried our little hotdog around in her carrier and had it not been for my Postpartum Depression and lingering marsupial pouch, no one would have suspected much of a life change.

She started sleeping through the night (and by "through" I mean 8-10 hours) at 8 weeks. Her preferences for her sleep habits have matured, but certainly not changed. Now instead of screaming when you don't leave her alone at bedtime, she walks to her own crib with all appropriate paraphernalia in hand and says "Mommy, put me in my bed please." If you linger too long: "Ok Mommy, you can leave my room now." Basically I spawned the greatest sleeper of all time.

That was until I moronically introduced her to tea.

You see, our friend brought us a delicious jar of Russian Tea as a housewarming gift. I am already a tea drinker, and I'm also hooked on many harder forms of caffeine, so the content in tea never phases me. So last night I innocently thought an excellent family night would be cups of tea all around and "The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything". The movie ended (thankfully! The mouthed cheese puffs were starting to freak us all out.), and we shuttled the lowest girl on our totem poll off to her bed. That was nine o'clock. When I came upstairs to go to my own happy sleep haven at 12:30, this is what I received:

"Hey Mommy! You goin to bed? Can I have a one drink?"

I peered through the door and saw 22 pounds of wide eyed energy standing erect at the side of its crib. I shrunk to the shadows, terrified. What do I do? I'm not one of these parents who ever had to deal with bedtime issues!! Maybe she's a T Rex and if I stand real still, she won't notice me...

"Hey Mommy? What are you doing at my door?"

Darn.

I tiptoed in, still holding my breath.

"Can I have a one drink?" she crooned, ever so sweetly.

"You don't need a 'one drink', and why are you awake?!" I splurted.

"Cause. Inano. (Two-year-old Appalachian word equivalent to the phrase "I don't know") Then can I potty?"

"Do you need to potty?" I studied her quizzically for a truthful response. Turns out it wasn't necessary:

"Nope." She answered plainly.

"Then why do you want to? And why aren't you ASLEEP!?"

Her eyes were still bulging like some kind of zombie when she gave her response that indicated both of our understanding of the situation:

"Mmmmm...Inano."

I told her to lay down and go to sleep and went on to my room, where I lay listening to her sing until 1 am. She woke up at nine completely refreshed. I found this odd, but shrugged it off and braced myself for a day in a house with an ill-slept toddler. Only later in the morning did I realize what had happened. I was fixing my morning cup, and the slight mini-me came in and ever-politely asked for her own cup. Delighted with her liking for something I'm so fond of, I immediately began scooping tea...into...her...cup...including...its...caffeine. oh. Oops. Good thing I'm not going for any awards here.

It Doesn't HAVE to be this way

As a teacher, nothing bothered me more than kids blaming their shortcomings on disabilities. However, the older I get, the easier it becomes to do just that. I'm sure that I should have been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder a LONG time ago. I can remember being sectioned off from the other students in the Gifted Program so that at least somebody would be getting work done. Parents just didn't medicate kids back then like they do today, so I was never lucky enough to be able to blame the disease.

To date, my life is one full of incomplete projects. I have boxes of journals in my attic that have 15 used pages. I write in them for a couple weeks and am overcome with embarrassment two years later when I realize it has been two years since I last wrote. Somehow, purchasing a new journal and starting over "for real this time" fixes the problem in my mind. Yet thirty two journals later I have yet to discover which time was real.

Let us muse over my scrapbooking career. Ten thousand pictures: check. Books: check. Basic supplies: check. Paper galore: check. Case for supplies: check. Actual pages even begun: hmmmm...oops.

Photography career: Camera: purchased. Digital Photography for Dummies read: half. Cute subject: birthed. Number of actual worthwhile pictures taken: 7ish.

I'm sure most readers will notice a pattern at this point. (Seems that I should notice by now.) My students even noticed it right away. They knew this pattern so well that eyes would roll every time I spouted off an enthusiastic description of a new project.

It's not that I don't want to finish these projects. It's not even that I never finish projects. I went to college. I married a wonderful man. (Though the actual ceremony was something of a "skin of my teeth" affair, even after a two year engagement...) I even graduated college. I got a job as a high school band director the day after I walked. (In December! A life dream and hard to manage in the middle of the school year!) My husband and I even spawned one of the cutest creatures on earth. Of course that project only took about ten minutes. Beyond that, I was finishing it whether I remembered I was supposed to or not. (Now. If I can just remember to leave WalMart with her each and every time I come that way.)

When I was younger, it was the actual projects themselves that held me up. Being a big dreamer doesn't combine well with being distracted by fireflies. When I was eleven I was sure I would play on the US Olympic Women's Volleyball team in 2000. (I also always wanted to go to Australia. Two birds, one stone. That's smart for eleven!) The problem with that goal wasn't desire or motivation. The real problem was that I didn't grow after eleven. I went to high school with 95 pounds on my five foot two inch frame. Not much of an Olympic athlete.

No, it's not desire that stops me. It's not even usually the height of the lofty dream. It's remembering and distractions. For example, early this morning I decided that today was the day I would start this blog. My darling child spent last night with her Grammy, and husband was off at work. I got up and headed for the computer, but detoured to the shower because I was freezing and needed to warm up first. Then, I headed downstairs, but instead of hanging the left for the computer, I hung a right for the kitchen. Breakfast in hand, I finally made it to the computer. Thirty-seven minutes into my facebook ritual, I remembered that it was story hour day at the library and rushed off to collect the offspring. Time spent writing productive prose: none.

The whole day went by, and at child bedtime, that nasty little guilty conscience started nagging me. I sent the husband to oversee the pajama and toothbrush ritual. I collected the cold tea I forgot to finish and delivered it to the microwave. I walked in to the computer and started pulling up appropriate screens. Upon the realization that my house feels more like a meat locker than October, I headed upstairs to find my hoodie. Then I remembered that I had just pulled it out of the dryer. (ADD and multilevel homes are excellent fitness tools.) Back at the computer, I had just clicked the cursor onto Word when I heard, "MOMMY! CAN YOU TUCK ME IN?" Blare through the baby monitor on my desk. My child is adorable, but she can't seem to understand that you don't have to YELL to be heard through the monitor. Hoodied and childless I finally sat down to write this.

Then I remembered my tea...which, of course, was cold again.

My friends keep demanding published stories. They can't understand why I laugh at this suggestion. It took me three and half hours to write a 1000 word blog post. I did, however receive the most wise advice from one of my youngest friends last week. I was musing over the mere idea of myself actually completing the ENORMOUS project of publishing to this friend (a former student, now in college-NOT one of the shortcoming blamers). I rattled on about being a mostly average writer with a slightly humorous subject and the memory of a gnat standing at the bottom of Mt. Publish in hysterics over the thought of lifting one foot to actually climb the thing until she finally interrupted me and said,

"It doesn't have to be that way, ya know."

Humph. Darn it. She's right. It might take me twenty years, but it doesn't have to be "undone".

So welcome, new friends, to my journey. Committing all this in front of the world is going to help force me to get it done. Some day my baby will have her life chronicled. She may not be seeing too well when her kids give her a copy in the nursing home, but it's the thought that counts, right?