We’re in major fall mode around here. Jane has already broken in one of her Halloween costumes, as you can see. Yes. I said that right. ONE OF HER COSTUMES. We’re in a vortex of Disney princess obsession.  The soul breaking whip of the Disney industry flog has made its way soundly across our backs. Thanks so much, marketing whiz people. Thanks to you my two and half year old insists on eating her peanut butter and jelly clad in Snow White splendor. It’s brought a whole new meaning to “dress for dinner.” Downton Abbey has nothing on us these days.

Yesterday I reached out to kiss her and she pushed me away, looking highly offended, and said, “NO, don’t eat my face!” That pretty much sums up October so far. Princess syndrome to the tenth power.

It’s also been time for my annual horror-movie-athon where I simultaneously enjoy myself and scare myself so hard-core that I start leaving the lights on in the closets at night.

So that’s October. Snow White costumes at the dinner table. Jane’s “don’t eat my face” mandate that effectively shut down my ability to kiss her, and my inability to cope with horror movies.

 

You guys. I. Am. Whooped.

But in the best way possible. It’s been a riotous month, with family visits and projects and fun with friends. Jane has spent tons of time with her grandparents. I’ve read FIVE books (which requires staying up until 2 and 3 in the morning for nights in a row). I went to see a band. I was out, amoung people and wearing makeup.

I love this month. But this break neck pace is reminding me of the schedule I kept in high school and college. I’m burning my candle at both ends.

The problem, now, is, my candle is 33 years old. This morning she put her hands on her hips, smacked me across the face a couple of times and said, “Act your age! You’re killing us here!”

And, as you’ve noticed, I’ve slowed way down on the blog. It’s been a very long time coming, and it’s amazing how much more freedom and time I have when I’m not trying to think up five posts a week. I miss it, but I don’t. Does that make any sense? But I’m not leaving, or quitting. I’m just readjusting my pace (mostly b/c I don’t want to be power-slapped by that candle woman any more, she’s got some guns). And truthfully, sometimes, there’s just things that don’t need to be written about.

So that’s me. I’m sorting Jane’s winter clothes. There’s light up pumpkins in every room. Last night I had to turn the heat on and it filled the house with that glorious burning-dust smell. This really is the greatest month of the year. I hope you’re enjoying it as much as I am. Or, maybe a little less, because I hope you’re more rested than I am. 🙂

Love to you all.

The stomach virus has struck our family. This means a lot of things. It means Jane isn’t happy, even though she’s the carrier monkey who brought this disease upon us. It means we eat repeat meals of baked potatoes. It means Mabel sensed the influx of bananas from the grocery store, and decided God preordained her to eat every last one of them or die trying. It means I end up washing the same load of polluted clothes five times in a row while sitting in the corner, rocking back and forth whispering, “We’re gonna need a bigger boat. Full of disinfectant.”

And then to add insult to injury, Mabel licks her feet and creates giant yellow saliva rings on  the bedspread. And then I flip out, like this week, and run around screaming, “IT’S ON MY HANDS! IT’S ON MY HANDS! IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT’S GOOD AND HOLY IT’S ON MY HANDS!”

Things have evened out and I realize that while I stress out about stomach viruses, and missing work, and Mabel’s incessant schnauzer nose-poking onto the back of my leg (her way of communicating she wants food, preferably bananas, now), it’s kind of nice to be at home on a week day.

The late afternoon sun streamed through the front windows, a fall breeze blew through the screen at the back door, and somehow I decided listening to the mice on Cinderella sing was kind of pleasant.

Being a working mom and dealing with a sick kid (not to mention my own migraine issues) is an ongoing challenge. It requires me staying at home, juggling sick and vacation time, and all the regular struggles of Tylenol doses and quilt wrapped cuddles. It requires being kinder, taking no vacations, and move a little slower.

But as I sat at my living room desk this week, and Jane congratulated herself by completing a puzzle (“Good job Jane,” she muttered and clapped for herself), I was happy. I was happy that I’m able to be her mom. I’m happy to skip vacations and juggle work loads. Fine, happy is probably too strong a word to describe a vacation-less year. But I’m happy to do it for her.

Someday I’ll get to take an actual vacation. I won’t need most of my vacation and sick days for migraines and stomach bugs and sore throats. But when that day comes, I’ll miss this just a little bit. I’ll miss staying home with Jane when she has a bug.

Me writing.

Jane wearing a tutu.

Mabel sulking in the den and dreaming of bananas.

 

I still do this. I still fall asleep in the middle of things, except now it’s usually in the middle of piles of laundry and not a super fun bin full of plastic care bear toys (note the cloud car). And I don’t fall asleep because I’m playing too hard. I fall asleep because I’m exhausted. And sometimes it’s not even sleep, it’s more like a catatonic state.

The sources of exhaustion are legion. Work. Debates with Jane over whether or not she can spit her food out to inspect it. Scary run-ins with insects.

Case in point.

I was walking into work today and a horse fly flew up my skirt.

I’ve been battling a cold, and just moments before the horse fly I’d dropped a completely full Mug Root Beer onto the ground. I live by a strict “no root beer left behind” policy and this hurt me deeply.

When the horse fly breached the atmosphere of my ankles and hurtled into my skirt space my first thought was, “Just let the horse fly live in there for a while. Lay down and take a nap immediately. I’m done with life.” But since it’s completely impossible to take a nap with a horse fly in your knickers on the concrete sidewalk outside a busy building, I did not, in fact, do that.

At this particular juncture I’d yet to discover a down side to maxi dresses. I mean, they’re perfect. You don’t have to shave. You don’t have to wear spanx. What could be better? But my horse fly experience illuminated one glaring flaw within the maxi dress design.

Basically it became a tent within which the horse fly lost his little mind. A veritable cotton blend insect insane asylum. I hardly blamed him. It’s not like he meant to fly up under there, trapped beneath fabric and pasty white legs with stubble. So there’s me, flapping my skirts, slapping my legs. There’s the horse fly, pinging back and forth, trying desperately to find a way out.

After my last close shave with spiders, I wanted to shake my fist at the sky and scream, “TOO SOON UNIVERSE! TOO SOON!”

Somehow the horse fly got out. Somehow I didn’t get stung. But my brain was totally depleted of all energy. I walked into my office, sat down at the computer, and instantly fell into what I can only assume was a Fugue State. All engines stopped. Even the little hamster wheel in the back of my brain slowed to a grinding halt. I just sat there, staring, motionless, like a zombie for over an hour.

It was refreshing, actually. I’d like to recommend a Fugue State every now and then to all of you fine, over-worked, over-wrought ladies. It’s almost as good as a trip to Jamaica.

My friend suggested he should patent underwear that doubles as a bug zapper. I’m sad to say such a product would have come in handy at least three other times in my life. But I don’t want to talk about that.

But my BRAIN. People. She’s like the Titanic of brains. She’s been submarined by ice bergs, and cranky toddlers, and deadlines, and chest colds and horse flies. Yesterday she found a piece of raw onion on her fast food sandwich even though she specifically asked for no onions and now she’s taking on water.

So like all sinking ships, I’m liquidating the excess baggage. I’m throwing off dead weight. I now identify with the sailors in the Bible who pointed to Jonah and said, “Him. That one. He’s got to go.”

Here’s my dead weight list.

1. Hairs on the bathroom floor. For some reason I’ve convinced myself that there can never, ever, be hairs on the bathroom floor. And in the ideal world this is true. But in my world there are four bathrooms in our house and the floor tiles and the hairs from my head are just going to have cuddle up and learn to love each other.

2. Clean clothes. While a luxury, they aren’t essential. I’ve discovered that a good spritz of body spray can revive even the mustiest pair of jeans.

3. Shopping. Of course I make time to buy new nail polish and the latest Sookie Stackhouse book. It’s the boring shopping that I avoid. The shampoo shopping. The toilet paper shopping. You can go a long way with Dawn Dish detergent and Kleenex.

4. Blogging. One week I’ll post once. The next week I’ll post four times. Whatever. This is completely in line with the “no more free rides, that means you monkey” sign that I now wear on my back.

5. To-Do’s. This is a big one. We need to re-caulk two bathtubs. We need to winterize the sprinkler system. We need to clean the hot tub. We need to switch out Jane’s summer and winter clothes. And change sheets. And buy a box of nails at the hardware store. And change the oil in my car. Nah-uh. I’m not doing one of these things this weekend. Not one. I’m taking a vacation from the to-do’s.

Hopefully I can avoid any more Fugue States. Or horse flies. Or raw onions on sandwiches (that might actually be the worst of the three). Because in all seriousness, I assign myself too many jobs. Too many chores. Too many To-Do’s. In order for me to fulfill my role on earth I really only have to provide for my family and raise Jane to run the penitentiary instead of be in it.

Everything else, the laundry and cleaning and side projects? They’re just dead weight.

 

“There should be no yelling in a home, unless there is a fire.” – David O. McKay

This past weekend I drug a box of Halloween decorations out of the closet under the stairs. Jane was enthralled. We stuck rat silhouettes on the dining room walls, hung spider banners, and plugged in orange twinkle lights. She was into it.

“Wook Mommy! I kiss the mouse!” she yelled at me, puckering up and smooching the rat silhouettes.

Then she skipped over the box and pulled out two glitter covered Styrofoam pumpkins. They were small, just the size to fit in her hands, and she was ecstatic. She arranged and rearranged them in the window sill.

“Wook Mommy! I decowate!” she giggled. 

And then she picked up the foam glitter pumpkins and rubbed them together with the ferocity of a diamond polishing machine. Glitter flew up into the air, fluttering all over the ground. 

Before I realized it, I was shouting.

“JANE! NO! STOP THAT!”

It wasn’t just a regular yell. It was a “mommy has a migraine and surging hormones and should probably give herself a time out” yell.

Jane stopped, eyes big, shocked. 

What happened? We were having such a good time. She was skipping and kissing mice and all of a sudden… yelling. She was doing what all kids do. Playing. She didn’t understand that glitter on the floor lives there forever and ever and ever and somehow gets on your face five months later.

I was instantly ashamed. I wouldn’t do that to a coworker, or even a person who cut in front of me in the Wal-Mart. Why? Because it’s socially unacceptable. But at home, by myself, with my sweet two year old, yep. Yelling.

I realize that our families bear the grumpy brunt of our moods and it’s just a sad fact. 

But it doesn’t make it right. 

So I apologized.

“I’m sorry Jane, Mommy shouldn’t yell.”

Her solemn little face spread into a gigantic grin, “I love you Mommy.” Then she gave my face a sweet pat and continued arranging her pumpkins on the window sill.

This was a major “shame on me” moment and also, an epiphany.

It’s not O.K. to yell at someone just because I don’t feel well or am short on patience. It’s especially not O.K. to yell at the people I love most in this world. But when I do, because I’m not perfect, I will apologize. I hope that not only will I teach Jane to interact with people respectfully, but hopefully I’ll also teach her that it’s her responsibility to own it and apologize.

God gave us a million ways to communicate, and yelling should be filed away for emergencies. Oncoming cars. Biting dogs. Hot stoves. 

Yelling because we’re frustrated, or tired, or have a migraine is not an acceptable way to communicate with children, or spouses, or people we love.

I agree with Mr. McKay. 

There should be no yelling in a home, unless there’s a fire.