Explanation for tonight's post: Phillip is working late

I've been designing my sister's wedding invitations. I wasn't going to do it (three kids! new baby!), then I decided why not (it's probably a better use of my Pinterest time, eh?), then I was going to use Kate's cafe lights, then I decided those weren't going to work, then I made my OWN cafe lights, then I hated them, then I went through several different versions of cafe lights, then I was unhappy with the text placement, then I sent my sister so many proofs she lost track, but I think this ninety-seventh version is the right one, or at least the done-is-better-than-perfect one... My sister and I occupy the far and opposite ends of the Caring About Invitations spectrum and where she is all, "Looks fine to me!" I am all, "But the lights aren't GLOWING RIGHT" and looking up graphic design courses at the local community colleges and budgeting for the proper software and despairing that I will ever EVER be good at anything EVER. 

Thank God the next step in the process requires only the fine motor skills necessary for applying rubber cement.

***

I'm re-reading Prep. Not for any particular reason - I just ran out of things to read one day and it was the only book on the Kindle that I thought would do the trick. But I kept reading it and I think I am as struck as I was the first time. I was talking about it with the FPC tonight and she said, "It was good, but it was so depressing, I wouldn't want to read it again." But for me, it's more that there are depressing things about yourself when you are a self-absorbed teenage girl, and this [still] self-absorbed [former] teenage girl continues to be absolutely riveted. 

***

Phillip wants you to read this article about Jeremy Lin. Also, he wants to tell you that he, too, was [still!] personally offended when Jet Li did not close the deal with Aaliyah.

***

My kids like this book and I enjoy reading it to them:

My sister, the one getting married, apparently got super bored that week everyone was snowed in and started buying books online for her niece and nephew. For a while we were getting a book every day. This was one of them. I think Minerva Louise is my new favorite book character. She is certainly my new favorite character who is also a chicken. Honorable Mention goes to Mrs. McNosh Hangs Up Her Wash.

***

Now I'm going to sit here and watch more of the Inspector Montalbano series (in Italian) (with English subtitles) that my parents bought me, my parents being the people who installed and encouraged my devotion to Italian murder mysteries. What is fun is that they are filmed in the town next door to the town I lived in when I was ten and eleven years old and I can practically taste the pizza. Excepting the fact that TV Montalbano does not look a THING like book Montalbano, they're half decent. In case you were wondering. Which I'm sure you were not. Fine then! Go have more fun than me on Thursday night!

In which I take super good news and turn it into a sob story about my pants size

I ran on my treadmill every day last week. I was feeling proud of myself until my future BIL was telling me tonight that he ran 13 miles today, just for kicks. And for you locals, his route (HIS USUAL ROUTE, BTW) took him from Wallingford, through the U District, down through Ravenna, up to the cemetery behind U Village (SO 13 MILES OF HILLS), then past Metropolitan Market and down to Sand Point, then into Montlake and along Pacific by UW, then up 15th to 45th, up to freaking NINETY-NINE, and THEN, if it's a WEEKEND, he throws in a jaunt around Green Lake. But if it's a week day he just goes home. SLACKER. 

Of course, most of you stopped reading at Future BIL and YES I HAVE PERMISSION TO TELL YOU MY SISTER IS GETTING MARRIEEEEEEED!!! (Hence the Pinterest board some of you have asked me about!) 

So there you have my Ultimate Weight Loss Goal: LOSE BABY WEIGHT BY SISTER'S WEDDING. 

This is not the FPC, by the way. (For you Skimmers, the FPC is my OTHER sister. Take notes!) The FPC is already married. BUT SHE IS HAVING A BABEEEEEEE!!!! EEEEEEEEEE!!!

I KNOW. There has been a LOT of Pinning lately. 

The FPC is due in May. I do not feel I have to lose any weight by THAT date. But the wedding date is mid-July and GOSHDARNIT I will be fitting into my old pants by mid-July. OR ELSE!

Last night I saw that I have worn my Fat Pants/Early Pregnancy Pants/Then Fat Pants Again so much that I have worn out the inner thighs and crotch. There are HOLES DOWN THERE, Internet. It's true that I've worn those pants through at least two pregnancies, BUT STILL. 

I'm at this really miserable point where maternity pants are no longer an option and my Fattest Pants give me Saggy Butt, but my OLD PANTS are SO FAR from fitting that if I even TRY I have to schedule a therapy appointment. I may have to actually go and BUY PANTS. WAH.

I've lost 16 pounds since I started keeping track. I have 9 to go before I hit my pre-Molly weight and 14 before I hit my pre-Emma weight. I don't doubt that I can do this, but it's taking me a lot longer than it did last time, for various reasons, and I think I am OKAY WITH THAT, but I am still worried about the PANTS SITUATION. 

It also did not help that Future BIL brought CAKE. Bah.

But I'm starting to think, like... what if I DIDN'T lose the weight? I mean, I WANT TO and I WILL but there's this [GOOD] thing where I don't feel like my entire world revolves around this weight loss project (probably why it's going slower this time!) Like sometimes I think: maybe Hot By Thirty was as good as it was going to get for me, skinny-wise, and instead of feeling bereft and morose, I feel sort of... okay with it. Does that make any sense at all? It's not like I want to stay where I am or whatever, and it's not even that losing weight isn't as IMPORTANT... It's more like I am thinking that some day I will be 40 and 50 and 60 and I would rather be a WISE mother than a SKINNY one. Blargh. Will have to expound on this some other time.

Year In Review (Summary: TIRED)

2011, while ultimately a fabulous year, certainly kicked my rear end all over the place. Just REMEMBERING what this year contained made me tired. 

There was the Baby. We got pregnant in January and I was SUPAH EXCITED and my husband was SUPAH APPREHENSIVE and then it was like we almost FORGOT about it because (see below) 1. House and 2. Business Travel got in the way. I swear, if I hadn't been so freaking TIRED all the time I'm not sure I would have ever thought about it those first several months. I don't think I've ever napped so much in my life. The napping continued the entire nine months - turns out I was anemic! Fun times! What else about being pregnant? Wait, why do I even want to remember anything else? MOVING ON. Then we HAD the baby and I've briefed you on THAT event. We are all recovered, except the part in my brain that is all WTF, BODY? 

And the baby... I just love her. I just LOVE her. I am so happy to get to do this all again, even though it's hard and a slog and tough on my marriage and a bummer for my social life and puts a stop to pretty much everything I want to get done in my house. But I just love that Emma is EMMA, and I don't really know who that IS yet, but I will get to find out and it's all very exciting. Less exciting than the first time, because it's not the first time, but MORE exciting than the first time, because I know what's coming and I know how awesome it is. So very grateful I got a baby out of 2011. 

Then there was The House. We'd always planned to move sometime this year, just not QUITE as quickly as we did. I think the month where 1) we found out the landlord was selling the house and 2) we found a new house and 3) we dealt with people constantly coming to look at the rental house AND the landlord working on the rental house and 4) packing and 5) moving while 6) PHILLIP WAS ON A BUSINESS TRIP... (and also still in school, GAK.) I am not exaggerating when I say I think that was the hardest not-anxious week/month of my entire life. I suppose that goes to show how easy my life has been/is, but managing a house purchase, managing a move, packing every single box myself, managing a real estate agent who is selling a house that is NOT mine, all while solo parenting two children and anemic pregnant with a third... okay, I feel like finding a nice hole, crawling into it, and sobbing right now. 

That said, the new house was/is awesome and I continue to marvel at this huge HUGE answer to prayer. I prayed for "a big enough house in Seattle" for YEARS, people. YEARS. Because there was just no way that we would be able to AFFORD a big enough house in Seattle unless God magically made one appear. AND HE DID. It's not perfect. It's in a weird neighborhood, the layout is weird, it's got hideous 1980s cabinets, there's a hole in the carpet, and I will be waging a war against pine needles until the day I die BUT OH WOW IS IT BIG ENOUGH. So one of the more fun parts of my year has been organizing it, decorating it, fixing it up, and discovering a secret passion for spray paint. If you had told me this time last year that I would purchase a giant buffet with the intention of painting it white I would have laaaaaaughed! HA HA HA. But I am really excited about doing this stuff and investing in this place. 

There was Business Travel - not anything new, but made for a difficult couple of weeks here and there. For me. I still can't find a Perspective to have about this, one that works for me and doesn't make my husband feel bad. Blargh.

There was Preschool. I was unhappy with the decisions I made while realizing that I probably would have made the same choices all over again. I did the best I could with the information I had, basically. Things have worked out by now, but this was a major Sticking Point Of Failure in my head for a long time. That said, the preschool section of this blog post also contains preschool during the first half of the year, back when Jack was at the original school. And that one was awesome and completely perfect in every way and I'm so thankful Jack had that awesome introduction to Life Away From Home. 

There was the Nonexistent Eating Well and Exercising, which I am dealing with NOW. 

There were some pretty awesome times with my family. 

There were some fun trips with my husband. Grad school ended in June - PRAISE THE LORD.

There was that weekend at the end of March when my internet ladies stayed at my house OMG THAT WAS SO MUCH FUN I MISS YOU GUYS WHEN ARE WE DOING THAT AGAIN?

I met some really great new friends this year too, which is awesome because how often does that happen when you're a grown up, hmm?

And to use Tessie's sublime summary system: Happier/Fatter/Poorer (although the fatter and poorer don't really count since I'm fatter because I had a BABY and poorer because we bought a HOUSE, both TOTALLY WORTH IT, right?) 

2011 = Mostly Awesome With A Side of Major Exhaustion And Excruciating Pain (See 9/23/11)

See you in 2012! Next week on the blawg will be The Week Of 2012 Resolutions. You = WHEE!

Two Entirely Unrelated Topics, Yay Blog Storylines!

EJ is asleep! I know! I can type with TWO HANDS!!!

Tonight's first topic: My Name. (Because this website is about meeeeeeeeeeeee!!!) 

No, really. Did I tell you I am going to Palm Springs in January? With two friends? And my baby? I am going to Palm Springs! ANYWAY. One of these friends is buying our plane tickets tonight and she called me to verify my Official Details. And while I was spelling M-A-R-G-A-R-E-T she was saying, "That is SO not your name. I could never call you that! That is not your name!" 

AND YET! IT IS! No one has ever CALLED me Margaret, not when they weren't trying to be cute at least. But it's there on all my documents. There were times when I thought I could reinvent myself as Margaret - going to college, for example. A new job. And I sometimes think that if I ever write a book I will splash MARGARET all over the cover. But for right now the Margaret is pretty useless. 

My mom has a name which is often a shorter version of a long name, BUT. The shorter name is HER NAME. Apparently this drove her crazy all her life, all these people saying, "Now, MILLIE, is that short for MILLICENT?" (note: my mother's name is not Millie) so when she decided to name me Maggie, she also decided I would have the Full Version. 

(My mother is now reading this and saying, "THAT'S NOT HOW IT WENT" but that is the version of events with which I am familiar!)

I've never been a huge FAN of Margaret either. I am hearing my name on the playground occasionally (both Maggie and Margaret) and several of YOU have little Margarets... I can say I've never been a huge fan because it's MY NAME, right? Anyway. Where do you fall on giving someone a name no one will ever call them? I mean, it's not like how Lizzie is pretty obviously from Elizabeth (or Millie from Millicent!) and people use both (ish). Then again, it's not as much of a stretch as PEGGY... I sort of like having an Official Version, you know. For when I meet the President, maybe. But I can't ever imagine telling friends and family to call me Margaret. Even when I'm an old lady! (BECAUSE MARGARET IS AN OLD LADY NAME!) (SORRY, READERS WHO HAVE MARGARETS!) (HEY, I NAMED MY KID EMMA! ALSO AN OLD LADY NAME!)

All right, Topic Number Two. Preschool. 95% of you just fled. BUT STICK AROUND! THIS IS INTERESTING!

At drop off today, Molly started to cry. She has never cried at drop off. She has not always been super enthusiastic about GOING, but she's never CRIED and I've ALWAYS been able to talk her into it. But today she kept giving me excuses ("Mommy, I have too many coughs!") (except she's no sicker than she was last week or the week before that - stupid all-through-winter runny nose!) Anyway, she was having none of my Preschool Cheer and the tears started falling. Then her teacher came over and picked her up and talked about the fun things they were going to do that day and I quickly slid away. 

But I stuck around. In the stairwell. Listening to my daughter BAWL. 

So I kind of tip toed back and looked in and she didn't see me. She was still sobbing, the teacher still trying to engage her and I just felt HORRIBLE. I walked back in and told the teacher I was taking Molly home. The teacher told me she's never seen Molly act that way before (which is good! right?!) and maybe she was sicker than she seemed, or the Thanksgiving break threw her off. 

It could be one or all of those things, I suppose. I decided not to run the handful of errands I wanted to do and instead came home and did a Christmas crafty thing with Molly. Then she played in the playroom while I used the treadmill. We had snacks. We played with Emma. We walked to pick up Jack and then had lunch. A pretty nice morning. 

And now I am thinking... what if she didn't go to preschool? I mean, she's not in preschool because I am bound and determined to make sure she can skip ahead to second grade or anything. She's there because JACK went when he was three and ALL LAST YEAR she would say, "When I three, I go to preschool!" I also thought it would be a good break for me, to just have the baby. Also I thought she would LIKE IT. You know, make messes without getting yelled at by her crotchety mother. 

But... I am wondering if she does? She's never cried until today, but she's never seemed to enjoy it as much as Jack. There are a LOT of kids in her class and most of them are older. She's never super excited to go. Then again, she seems to have fun! She likes her teachers, she likes the projects, she talks about it. Just... not as much as Jack, who really LOVES going to school. 

Would she be going to preschool at age 3 if she was my first kid? I don't know. Molly mostly likes to hang out with ME. 

So right now I am strongly considering taking her out. She's only THREE. If she's not loving it, then I don't want to pay for it! And having her home with me wouldn't be a hassle. She's SO much easier to occupy than Jack - plus she always wants to help me fold laundry and she always wants to go shopping, the two things I tend to do during preschool time. Today I even used the treadmill with her in the next room. So it would be fine to have her home. 

??????????????????

 

Stylebook

My in-laws often show up at my house with new clothes for my kids, a practice I strongly support. There are times, however, when I don't especially love what they buy. Which is fine! I am not really a clothes snob and my kids often look like urchins and I would rather Not Do Laundry than Be Particular About Their Clothes, so it all works out. 

So a few weeks ago I was talking about how I needed to get the kids new coats - I was just making conversation, I wasn't trying to get them to buy my kids coats because *I* actually wanted to pick out the coats, but I knew that "my grandchildren are coat-less in this harsh freezing weather!" would take root in my father-in-law's brain and there was no stopping him after that. 

And they did, indeed, show up with new coats the following week. A big puffy Hello Kitty number for Molly and a lightweight jacket and big heavy coat for Jack, all purchased at Ross, where you get name brands for cheap. So Jack's big heavy coat was blue and yellow and spelled NIKE across the front. And I hated it. 

There wasn't anything WRONG with it. I'm not big on clothes that say things or spell out their brand names, but again, that's not something likely to keep me from using a Free Winter Coat. But I had this SUPER STRONG aversion to it and I JUST FIGURED IT OUT. 

When I moved to the Air Force Base In Italy That Shall Not Be Named, I was a sophomore in high school and all the popular boys, ie: the JOCKS, wore Starter hats and Starter jackets. Do you guys know that brand? Was that a Thing in the states? I don't remember it being a Thing at my old school, although there were maybe fourteen people in that school, and I don't think it was a Thing when I went to college (pop. 40,000). But ALL the cool boys wore Starter brand stuff, and the ESPECIALLY cool boys had giant, puffy Starter jackets. A type of coat to which Jack's new coat bears a more than strong resemblance. 

Those boys were... well, I have a LOT more grace for those years and those people and that place than I used to, but I think it's still fair to say that the majority of them were Creeps and Losers. Except you didn't really KNOW that they were creeps and losers, because they were all athletically gifted, to the degree that the sports teams at my school dominated every other school in the league, and that meant they were better than everyone else. Athletic prowess was the only currency that mattered at my new school. If you weren't on a team, even the cross country team, you were a nonentity. There just weren't enough kids to have Drama Geeks and Skaters and all that - you either played sports or you kind of did nothing. 

I caught on a few months later and joined the basketball team and it all worked out because I actually really LIKE team sports and I finally made some friends, but that first year was dark and confusing and when I think about the kids that year I think about sad angry girls and jerkface boys wearing Starter jackets. My kid is NOT going to look like a jerkface boy. 

Except for today, because he didn't have anything else. But as soon as I find a new one? BE GONE, DISCOUNT NIKE COAT THAT BRINGS UP BAD MEMORIES!

Relatedly... there was a woman at preschool drop off this morning who I haven't seen before. Maybe a friend or an aunt or a stepmom? Anyway, this is slightly embarrassing, but I couldn't take my eyes off her. She wasn't really beautiful, although she did have the perfect short hair haircut and the kind of pixie face to go with it. But she was wearing the kind of clothes I would tell you I long to wear, the look I long to go for, if I could only articulate it. And because she did it for me...

Dark brown mid-calf boots, weather-worn, on the clunkier side, like someone said, "make me cute wear-with-everything boots and make sure they can stand up to the rain and mud and falling leaves." Brown tights with just a hint of a colored pattern. Some kind of coral jersey skirt. A long open sweater in a lighter brown, thicker and chunkier than a grandpa cardigan, but still fitted. I couldn't see what she wore under the sweater, but I'm sure I would have wanted that too. 

The rest of us were wearing jeans and rain jackets and whatever shoes we could slip on so we wouldn't be late dropping the kids off, but this woman didn't look dressed up, at least not in a way where you'd be all, "Who's she trying to impress?" No, she looked comfortable and warm and easy and like she wore a skirt every day and didn't think twice about it. She looked like the women in the Boden catalog, with a Northwesty spin. I WANT TO LOOK LIKE THAT. 

Of course it helps if you are a Skinny Little Thing like her AND you don't exclusively shop at Target. I've already promised myself a Boden outfit once I've lost the baby weight, but I wonder if I'm really entranced by the clothes so much as the woman who wears those clothes. There's a difference. 

In which my 19yo self cannot comprehend the Painting As Relaxation concept

It's just Emma and me in the house right now - Phillip is on his way home from picking up the big kids at his mom's house. I meant to have a lovely afternoon getting a few things done, but Miss Gassypants here was all, "You must be joking." So much for getting started on painting the entry way and addressing Christmas party invitations. I can't even do not-fun stuff, like laundry, because I don't think I can get the clothes out of the dryer without dumping the baby into the laundry basket as well. 

She's on Zantac, but I'm beginning to suspect that the real Fuss Culprit is gas. Lots and lots and LOTS of gas. So much gas that I am seriously considering avoiding milk and cheese (and this has NOTHING to do with getting out of eating low-carb, OBVS). Also, she's six weeks which I hear is Prime Fussy Time. (And DUDE - six weeks?!) She's eating every two hours at night, which is not something I can sustain forever... although honestly, I'm not doing too badly in the sleep deprivation department. Even with the fussiness I feel okay. Tired and irritated because I can't do my own thing and stunned by the amount of spit up laundry and maybe a little nervous abut how this Increase in Fuss is going to affect the whole delicate preschool system we've got going on, but overall? I really do think I'm doing well. 

Might I mention I've completely weaned myself off the crazy meds? BOO YA.

Well, now it's hours and hours later... I don't know why I'm so focused, so WRAPPED UP in "doing stuff" right now. I feel like everything I write here has to do with "sure I have a six-week-old baby but I CAN and I WILL [fill in the blank]." Paint. Plan a party. Lose weight. Redesign the Blathering website. Make plans with friends. Find the perfect pendant lamp. Move Jack into his new room. Write! It's so HARD for me to not do stuff. I have no problem taking a cheery contented baby to Home Depot and Target and setting her up in the bouncy chair while I tape off trim or write a blog post or (ha ha) use the treadmill. But having to hold a FUSSY and GASSY baby ALL AFTERNOON... I just start TWITCHING. Sigh. 

So I don't know why we decided to spend our whole Saturday afternoon at a CAMP, a CHRISTIAN camp where we planned to crash our old college fellowship's yearly fall retreat. I KNOW. It sounded kind of losery to me too. We are in our THIRTIES. We do not hang out with spry and overenthusiastic COLLEGE STUDENTS. But one of the Meaningful People from our years in the NDCF was the fall retreat speaker, and Phillip really wanted to attend one of the sessions. I wasn't planning to go. It sounded weird. It sounded uncomfortable. I thought for SURE I would come home with ISSUES. Not least of which would be: I am REALLY OLD NOW. 

But then I thought: hey! This could be sort of fun? Maybe? Because it sounded sort of nice to ditch the big kids with grandparents and spend the day with my husband and my baby in a peaceful lakeside retreat and see old friends. 

So I went! And lo, it was good. Mostly. I mean, I DID feel super old. And I think I spent more time Observing than I usually do. It was neat to see the staff worker side of things (one of my best friends is now the entire NDCF Powers That Be in Western Washington, which is how we got to invite ourselves in the first place, oh yes, you need college ministry hookups - I have them) and we got to hang out with the speaker and eat junk food in a warm cabin and not stress about having an Intense and Important Experience like we did when we were students. Turns out things aren't always such the big deals we thought they were...

But we got home at midnight and Emma was up every two hours and did I mention we are OLD NOW? Someone asked us if we were planning to stay overnight at the camp and attend the Sunday morning session and we did our best "YOU MUST BE JOKING" Emma impression. 

Now it's back to the grind, yes? My biggest hope for Monday is that Emma naps while the kids are at preschool and I can paint my entry way. And this was my biggest reason for not really wanting to go to the retreat: what in the WORLD would my 19-year-old self have to say about my biggest hope? She would die a thousand mortified deaths, that's what. 

The perfect is the enemy of the good

The first chair I re-covered took me God knows how long because I was DETERMINED to have PERFECT CORNERS. By the sixth chair I was folding hospital corners and calling them good. 

BEFORE:

Stained hideousness.

AFTER:

I may need an aqua intervention.

A million years ago in college I was the assistant to... I guess you could describe him as the West Coast representative of a national lobbying organization. It was just him, me, and his golden retriever in a tiny office in a nice building downtown. My job was to be Girl Friday. I answered the phones and wrote position papers. I filed newspaper clippings and organized events with elected officials. I made travel arrangements and built databases. (This was also the job where I discovered blogs, since the boss was OFTEN out of town and I was OFTEN very bored.) 

If nothing else, my job was to be the nitpickiest person on earth. Which, luckily, I am close. I edited everything he wrote, I kept track of his crazy calendar, and because my boss was also in the top five percent of nitpickers, we cackled over The Opposition's ugly flyers and typos and other administrative messes. Without a doubt, my aversion to imperfections was a huge HUGE reason he kept me around. 

AND YET. I don't know how many times he would stomp over to my desk, ask me where I was with something, and half-shout, "Maggie! Done is better than perfect!" 

This was... A TOTAL AFFRONT to my ENTIRE WORLD VIEW. I am not a true perfectionist, you know. There are many many trillions of things I am happy to do and perform imperfectly. Bathroom cleaning, anyone? But official documents and printed materials and any article I was given the opportunity to do myself - oh, I AGONIZED over those things. He'd tell me to draft up a press release about something completely boring, but boring or not, I was going to write the Best Damn Press Release EVER! ... until an hour later he'd march over, see that I was struggling over the opening sentence, and bark, "Maggie! Done is better than perfect!"

I'm better now. I still have arguments with Phillip about whether proofreading is next to Godliness and whether someone who uses the wrong 'their' in their resume deserves a job at all. (Phillip is MUCH nicer than me.) But whenever I'm doing something that I'm having trouble getting RIGHT, I have to think about whether it's more important to be PERFECT or mostly good and DONE. 

This weekend I met up with a friend and her brand new baby - remember when I said that right before my water broke I was texting a friend who thought she was going to the hospital to deliver that night? Our babies were born on the same day! (Mine was two weeks early, hers was one week late. NUTSO.) We finally found time to get together and spill all the gory details. It was interesting, because she'd always wanted to experience natural childbirth, whereas for me, the natural route wasn't something I ever REALLY considered. Turns out we both went epidural-free with these babies - something she chose, while I just didn't have the opportunity.

What was interesting was how my friend, in a way, seemed to give me more credit than she did herself, because I had the "primal" experience. Her labor was longer and involved a drug or two, and in describing her experience she would always QUALIFY things, reiterating that she DID have medicine in her system. But for ME, I felt like SHE had the more authentic experience, since she had to keep actively forgoing the epidural, CHOOSING to do it that way. It just HAPPENED to me, you know. Where's the bravery in that? 

I'm no longer obsessing over Emma's birth (and when I WAS obsessing over it, it wasn't BAD obsessing, more like I just had to PROCESS it). I'm not upset or bummed or really anything about it. It's just the way it happened and now we are moving on. (My baby is ONE MONTH OLD. !!!!!!!!)

But I did have to inject a whole lot of "Perfection is the Enemy of the Good" into my whole memory of it. I didn't do it perfectly, but I did it well enough. And that's all that matters. Is there really any way to give birth PERFECTLY anyway? Is there really any way to prepare PERFECTLY? To know PERFECTLY how to work with your nurse and your partner and to know exactly how to manage what you're feeling, both physically and emotionally? How can I possibly hold myself to such a standard? 

Your comments were so incredibly helpful in figuring this out. Just knowing that other people felt ambivalent too, that you weren't a bunch of rah rah natural birthers, that maybe you fought it too, that it didn't go quite how you expected, that you didn't get a high. One of the best comments was from Kimiko, who I haven't seen since ninth grade, but is still one of my very favorite people in the History of Me - SHE didn't get the natural birth high either. And because Kimiko IS perfect, this is such a relief to me. 

This weekend, in my attempts to ignore the whole Blathering Going On Without Me deal, I threw myself into house projects. Playroom! Extra bedroom! Toy purging! Picture hanging! But these chairs were bugging me. I didn't want to deal with them because I knew I couldn't get perfect corners. Soon I had a giant mess in every room in my house, because I was starting so much and not finishing. Then tonight I had to give myself an intervention and re-introduce myself to the chairs. And you know, hospital corners are not so bad. 

Just one of the reasons I should be in therapy

I continue to be Unimpressed with myself. 

Your comments on my birth story post were incredibly helpful for me to read. I feel like I have a broader perspective on my experience and at some point I want to tell you what clicked in my brain. I'm so glad I wrote it out here and you told me what you were thinking. 

But now I am Unimpressed with other things and I am wondering if this is just going to be a new state of being. 

In case you are new around here, I like to do things right. I'm not so much a perfectionist as I am a Rule Following, People Pleasing, On Top Of Things, Knows What To Do Before You Tell Me-ist. I hate - hate -to look stupid. Or foolish or out of touch or confused or lost or anything even REMOTELY close to stupid. I've even become rather skilled in faking already-knowing-everything, so much is my need to be perceived in this way. 

I am really fun to be around!

But I failed at preschool this year. I mean, I FAILED. I think your average un-neurotic person would just swear a little, take a deep breath, put it behind her and soldier on, either deciding to suck it up and deal or create a new plan. I waver back and forth between both of those options, but most of the time I am berating myself for being so dumb in the first place. I should have known! What was I thinking?! 

I am embarrassed to find myself in this predicament. I'm embarrassed to tell other people where I went wrong. Everyone must think I'm such an idiot. Everyone must have known this was a hugely bad idea and just didn't tell me because they knew I wouldn't listen! Because not only do I need to do things right, if you tell me I'm not doing something right I will keep doing it my way just to prove you wrong! DON'T YOU WANT TO BE FRIENDS WITH ME?!

Anyway, all the solutions to my preschool problem - which amounts to Two Different Schools With Two Different Schedules Is A Giant Pain In The Butt - involve 1) asking for special treatment and/or 2) admitting I was wrong. Two things I am REALLY BAD AT. 

Admitting I was wrong - that's sort of a standard thing to be bad at. I might be worse at it than most people, but still, it's pretty common and you know what it entails. 

But the special treatment stuff... basically I have asked three people now to bend the rules for me. This is painful. Every time I've done it I've had to take many deep breaths, pray, write a bunch of drafts, and then remind myself that I'm a parent now and I've got to do what's right for my family, even if it makes me redfaced, even if people might make tsk tsking sounds. 

So first I asked Jack's school if they would consider letting a three-year-old into the four- and five-year-old class. Even though I was pretty sure the teacher would not like it. I was also pretty sure they wouldn't allow it. And my email to the principal bent over backwards to acknowledge that this was Unorthodox. Because God forbid they roll their eyes at me when I can't see them! 

Request denied. 

Then I asked Molly's school to take Jack! But they're full. And the look I got from the preschool director was somewhere between Pity and I Told You So and What An Idiot, possibly because when I was enrolling Molly she tried extra hard to get me to enroll Jack as well. Quoth me, "Oh, I really don't want to have them in the same class!" OH STUPID ME!

After heaps of Internet Research I finally emailed the principal of my parish school to see if THEY had openings. Because, unbeknownst to me, their school has the perfect schedule. Why hadn't I considered them in the first place? Because they weren't in my neighborhood. And I was all about Being Part Of My Community. OH I WAS SO STUPID. I no longer care about community, I care about how many times I have to haul the stupid baby car seat in and out of the van. THERE. I SAID IT. 

Aaaand, request denied! Well, we are waitlisted. Then several people told me to email the priest, to see what he could do, and I just felt like... EW! I mean, it'd be one thing if my kids weren't doing well and I was desperate to remove them. But this is all about ME screwing up. I'd be asking him for special treatment because I messed up. Oh, the shame! DOES NOT COMPUTE!!!

But I did anyway. Because I do think this would be the best scenario. But you better believe I stressed over that email. How to beg without sounding like I was begging? Or even asking for anything more than information? I believe in fairness and inclusivity and taking your lumps, I DO! But I am asking anyway and he'll see right through me and then he will probably do his best to help me, because he knows us and he's all about getting parish families into the school. 

I imagine a lot of you cannot believe I managed to crank out a post about my crippling SHAME over my failure to set up the ideal preschool scenario before the baby was born. I can see you composing your, "OMG GET OVER IT" and "You SHOULD be ashamed of yourself you WACKADOO" and "UR BLOG SUX" comments right now! But maybe some of you know exactly what I'm talking about and are ALSO the sorts of people who would rather die than expose your failure to succeed. And who also know very well that equating "ideal preschool scenario" with "personal success" is all kinds of messed up, but who are too busy beating themselves up about it to change. 

 

 

Persimmon Red

Last night I dreamed about paint. I have to say, that's one of the tamer things I've dreamed about lately, but still. PAINT. 

You know Phillip is out of town, right? And I get... I don't know. Antsy. The kids are being pretty good and we're hanging out with friends and all that, but naptime is long and before-bedtime is long. I get antsy and it turns out that what is keeping me occupied and sane-ish has to do with PAINT. 

Luckily my kids are awesome at entertaining each other (when they're not bickering me to death, that is) and I've done a LOT of painting. Well, I suppose that's relative, but for someone who put "painting" up there with "running" as the two things she would only ever do under extreme duress, my 30s have certainly surprised me. 

It COULD be nesting? Maybe? I've spray painted I don't know how many things now, large and small, and painted my dining room and hallway. Yesterday I dragged the kids to Home Depot and picked up paint for my bedroom and - get this - a small can of coral red paint for a seven dollar chair I bought at GOODWILL. People, I don't even know myself anymore. 

Last night I lightly sanded that chair, sprayed it with Killz, and covered it with very careful brushstrokes of Martha's 'Persimmon Red'. And it was one of the most calming experiences I've ever had. I honestly don't know how to describe it. It wasn't that I'd had this miserable day with the kids or anything, but Phillip IS out of town and I am responsible for everything, from morning till night (and also through the night as we know) and it was just sort of peaceful to let the kids hack the lavender bush to death in the backyard (I HATE LAVENDER) while I patiently painted my chair. 

I AM NOT PATIENT! I think that's the weirdest thing. And it might have been different if I was painting, say, Phillip's giant dresser. (Which is on my list.) But here I was ACCOMPLISHING something. And I was doing it in a halfway correct manner. By myself. On a day when it was not too hot or too cold on the deck, when the kids were happy and leaving me alone, and I kept thinking: this will look so NICE with my new white desk! 

I can't run anymore. I probably could have kept running for a long time, but I didn't, and now even walking a few blocks in Portland gave me sharp pains. I'm often out of breath going up the stairs in my house. ANNOYING. And I can TELL that I haven't been running in forever. Not just physically, but mentally, which I have to say was an even better benefit than the help with weight loss. It just DOES something in your brain. I have never written more than when I was running. 

But there was something about engrossing myself in that stupid paint project that was similar and I just found myself feeling like... like I've really MISSED something. It made me feel like me for a while. Even though, come on. PAINTING?

I have grand plans for my bedroom, which is usually the last room in the house I think about fixing up. I don't think I made my townhouse bedroom cute until the last year we lived there, and that was with having to sell the house in mind. Now I think it's about the fact that new baby will be in here for a while and I won't be able to do anything painty or too strenuous or time consuming with new baby around, and I want it to be PRETTY. I've picked out paint and new bedding and I'm scheduling a dresser and two odd tables that function as our nightstands for their own paint jobs. I want these last few moving boxes out of here and all the random stuff off the floors. The only thing is that Phillip and I are thinking of getting a king-sized bed and we might not be able to shell out the cash for that right away, meaning I can't buy the BEDDING right away... But still. I have plans and they make me happy and perhaps that's shallow and boring and GAWD who cares about PAINT but you guys I feel useful and creative and like I'm not JUST a swollen kitchen maid. 

Party Post-Mortem

Last night I hosted a ladies-only murder mystery party and I don't think it went very well and I've been fuming about it ever since. 

The regular party details - food, drink, excellent guests - were in fine form. So at least there is that. I was not embarrassed to serve the pizzas and meatballs and caprese bites and other "Italian-ish" fare (the mystery was set in Venice) that was actually cooked by ME, and dudes, I MUST recommend this punch: 1 can limeade, 1 2-liter bottle of Sprite, a couple scoops of vanilla ice cream and raspberries. I pretty much had my face in the punch bowl the whole time. 

And my friends... oh, my friends are so lovely. I just think all of them are the bee's knees. Because the MYSTERY part of the party was a DUD and they played along anyway.

So the MYSTERY... okay, so I could only find games for up to 6 or 8 people in stores, but there were downloadable games for many more party goers. I was expecting about 12, and between the number of guests, the fact that we were all women, and the relative professional-ness of some of the download sites, I ended up picking this Venetian masquerade game. Also because my parents are in possession of tons of Carnevale masks (they used to buy one on every trip to Venice, SIGH) and I thought those would make good decorations. (And I can sort of pull off Italian food.)

But it wasn't very good. It was poorly written. It was full of typos. Sometimes it mixed up character names. There was way too much reading aloud. It was not entirely intuitive when it came to what you were supposed to share with the group and what you should keep hidden. Also there were a couple of riddles and puzzles and they were silly. The one where the answer to a riddle looking for a "ferocious beast" was PIGEON was probably the Height of Party Hilarity. (I wanted to die. Of course.)

It was confusing and awkward to get started, and because of typos and character mix-ups and poorly written-ness it continued to be somewhat confusing and awkward. EVEN THOUGH my sister and I had gone through the entire mystery so it would go as smoothly as possible. I separated out all the chapters and pieces of "evidence" and thought about how to work around an incredibly stupid puzzle at the very end. Thank goodness for my sister, who played her Crime Investigator role to a T and several of my friends whose tombstones will eventually read EXCELLENT PARTY GUESTS, but I was still disappointed and the ending felt a bit incomplete and BAH. Failure! 

Here I will again bust out my enneagram mumbo jumbo and say: I AM A THREE. I need to succeed. If I fail, no one loves me. And here I had invited a bunch of people who had never been to a mystery party before and now they would NEVER GO TO ONE AGAIN. Especially one thrown by me! OH THE HORROR. No really, I stewed about it all night and stewed about it all day. 

Then tonight I was fixing dinner for the kids and getting the table and ready, and oh, what's this? A stack of papers? That look like they were not used? A stack of papers that say CHAPTER FIVE CLUES? Hmm. OMYGODDIDIFORGETAWHOLECHAPTEROFCLUES???

If you know anything about me you know that it is taking a MASSIVE amount of character for me to admit to this Abect Screwup on my personal website, in front of God and Country. The mystery was not entirely to blame. IT WAS ALSO ME. And not just because I picked a dud of a mystery! I am not even kidding you, when I saw that stack of clues I thought I would crawl under a rock and never ever ever come out. 

So! I highly recommend throwing a mystery party and leaving out a good chunk of the mystery as a way to feel like the lowest class of moron. I read through the clues and yes, a lot of our issues at the end of the story (possibly all the parts where we were like, "Hey! I didn't know that about myself!") might have been worked out, it was still confusing what you were supposed to share and keep hidden. Either way: I AM SO SORRY, PARTY GUESTS. I owe you all about two hours back. I have punished myself by sitting around wondering what sorts of things you are saying about my crappy mystery party to your husbands. MOAN.

That said, it was a "learning experience" (that's my mom talking, who I had to call today to vent, obvs) and here is what I've learned:

1. I LIKE the cheesy murder mysteries with the silly names and sillier costumes. This one advertised itself as being a mystery that people wouldn't feel dorky about, but honestly, that's a part I ENJOY. I once threw one of these for my siblings on New Year's Eve several years ago and we STILL laugh about the picture of us in costume - me in a Marilyn Monroe wig, my sister in a French maid outfit, my brother wearing a vaguely pedophile-ish mustache. I think it's more fun to "own" a certain character, instead of this mystery which was more a bunch of socialites gathering for a masquerade, with nothing in our dress to make us funny or distinguish us from each other.

2. I suspect it might be more fun with fewer people. Maybe not. Maybe if I'd picked a good one I'd say the opposite. But it was difficult to "question" each other in a large circle. We were SUPPOSED to be walking and mingling, but again, the way the clues were written, it wasn't very intuitive and I'm not sure mingling would have worked. I don't really KNOW, but it just seemed that way at the time.

3. More drinking might have helped.

4. No reading aloud! I mean, there has to be SOME reading aloud, but because you weren't ever quite sure what you were supposed to be saying (POOR WRITING) a lot of us eventually ended up just reading off our clues. Eh.

Anyway. My INSTINCT, as a THREE, is to immediately plan a follow up party, a REDEMPTION if you will, to prove myself as a party thrower and murder mystery games as actual fun. But, ah, I realize normal people are not so obsessive. And they probably wouldn't attend anyway, having already been through one of THOSE before...

I think next time (OF COURSE THERE WILL BE A NEXT TIME) I will buy one in a box from the store, as it seems it might have gone through an editor or two to be printed out and put in a box. Yes? But even then, it's not like you get to read the whole mystery ahead of time. Even my first successful party had a sort of stupid ending. We just didn't care! 

BLAH BLAH BLAH whatever it's over and YAY PEOPLE I KNOW because if nothing else, I got to have all my favorite girls around eating cake. THE END.