This blog is stupid. All I have to say is: ZOMG SO BUSY and then as soon as that busy thing is over OH WAIT NO STILL BUSY plus MY HOUSE IS A STY and MY PANTS ARE NEVER GOING TO FIT FTLOG.
Seriously. There is nothing else to say. BOR. ING.
This blog is stupid. All I have to say is: ZOMG SO BUSY and then as soon as that busy thing is over OH WAIT NO STILL BUSY plus MY HOUSE IS A STY and MY PANTS ARE NEVER GOING TO FIT FTLOG.
Seriously. There is nothing else to say. BOR. ING.
Oh you guys, I just wrote a million-word post on hair. HAIR. And what does it say about me that I can post million-word posts on anxiety and personality tests and churchy stuff, but cannot bring myself to publish the post that uses the word "inspired" about hair?
So I'm going to tell you about my photography consult instead, and maybe I will meander around to the word "inspired" because really, these were similar experiences. In my head. JUST GO WITH IT.
Last week? Two weeks ago? (WHO KNOWS? I am losing track of EVERYTHING.) I went for my photography consult (consult!) with the absolutely adorable Lindsay Kennedy. And I am not just calling her adorable because she is taking pictures of my family for free. Lindsay's short haircut? Pretty darn perfect if you ask me. (Go check out her website. She's in there somewhere, amongst all the other pretty people. Do you think she'll make me look pretty too?!)
Lindsay lives in this pretty fabulous downtown apartment, like, DOWNTOWN downtown, and here I am, dragging my baby into this fabulous apartment lobby and it's super hot and I'm super sweaty and Emma's kind of had it with me and WHATEVER. PICTURES. DOING IT.
We have done kid portraits at good ole JC Penney (I actually like those, so hush) and one time Phillip's dad got us a Groupon for Yuen Lui (is that just a local place?) and another time I bought a Groupon for a local photographer who took pictures of my kids in a park. That's about it for pictures. I've been pretty bad about portraits for Emma and, as you know, there's next to nothing of Phillip and me. No engagement pictures, hate our wedding pictures, one or two family studio portraits, that's it. Sad sad sad.
Except, I kind of hate having my picture taken. I'm just extremely aware of my un-photogenic-ness, like, NEGATIVE amounts of photogenic, and why bother? Also, in my head I look like a Disney princess and when I see my actual likeness in a picture I'm rudely awakened. I hate being rudely awakened.
But I should get over this, yes? And am I going to say no to an absolutely adorable local photographer offering to take pictures of my family? AWESOME pictures? (Have you looked at her website? My favorites are the mom and daughter at the library. SO SWEET.)
AAAAANYWAY, all this to say, I felt silly having a consult about pictures. The same way I feel silly writing about my hair. What difference will it make? So poor Lindsay is asking me all these questions: what does your family like to do together? What makes your family special? What kind of memory do you want to preserve? When you look at your pictures on the wall how do you want to feel? And I'm all, "Uhhhh, we like to... eat?"
But for Lindsay, clearly, expression through photography is REAL. A THING. It's beautiful and forever and it says something about you and your life and your world. And you know what? It was inspiring. The prints hanging in her living room, the crazy amount of care and time and precision in the materials I took home, the exquisite photo albums she creates... I just, it was super inspiring getting to participate in someone else's art. Someone else's GIFT. Really. That's what I felt like when I left. Well, that and some mortification over the fact that EJ dropped bits of cookie all over this nice lady's child-free apartment. GAH.
I left feeling like, "Okay! Maybe I won't feel like a total dork! Maybe I'll just hang out with the kids and this adorable little person will flit around in the background taking pictures of us and I just won't even notice!" And then, when it's over, I'll have something really beautiful for my home. Because that's what Lindsay was really concentrating on during the consult - not just the pictures, but the creation of something meaningful to hang in your space.
(And you guys know I have a lot of wall space.)
We're just going to do it at our house. We could go anywhere, but I chose our house with the brown carpet with the hole and the 1980s kitchen cabinets and the baskets of toys in every corner. Going somewhere else felt like acting. One of her questions was something like "what's the most important thing about your photos?" and "magazine quality" was one of the potential answers. And yeah, I would certainly not complain if Lindsay's magic produced magazine quality images, but mostly I wanted our pictures to be real. Playing with the kids. Making cookies. Shooting down the new slide. Watering the plants. Cutting and pasting and coloring. (All right, let's be honest: watching television.)
I don't know. I've been spending inordinate amounts of time thinking about how things LOOK lately. The kitchen, Emma's room, fitting into my clothes, whether or not I'm growing out my hair, getting a nose ring. I think Phillip wonders what is up with me. Is this my midlife crisis? What is this talk about dying my hair BLOND? Am I for SERIOUS?
But... I am. I think. Maybe it is a "gee, I'm getting older, let's switch things up!" or "let's do the things I didn't do when I was 20!" Maybe it is just boredom. But I think there could also be a piece of missing inspiration in there too. I want to be inspired by my space, I want to make art, and when I look the way I feel it's right somehow. I don't know if that makes sense. I was going to grow out my hair, but you know, I feel more like me when it's short. I don't know what that means either, but it's the reason I went to get it cut this weekend. And after a loooong conversation about going blond with my stylist and she said, "I think you'll be INSPIRED by it" I totally knew what she meant. I want to be me. I want to be inspired. I think I can do both of those things without feeling like a dork. MAYBE.
I'm having a string of ugly days. As in, the days themselves aren't ugly, but *I* am. It's unpleasant.
It's about not being able to lose 10 pounds - like seriously, I cannot shake them. I'm waiting until the fall, when I see myself having (finally) the sort of schedule where I CAN exercise on a regular routiney basis to say, "Hey, maybe the crazy pills aren't helping." I don't feel like I've done my best yet. I'm either exercising well or eating well, I have yet to be doing both at the same time, the three kids on three different schedules doesn't help me take care of my own self, so I haven't gone there yet. I'm open to the idea that the crazy pills make it HARDER, but not IMPOSSIBLE. I'm waiting on that one. I managed to lose most of the baby weight before I was on my full dose of meds, so it's a definite possibility.
It's about growing out my hair. The other day I said to Phillip, "I think I'm going to grow out my hair" and he got this look on his face that will make it very very hard to go back on that comment. My husband has never EVER said a single solitary thing about how I cut my hair or what I wear or how much I weigh (unless I'm asking him!) and he would never ask me to grow it out. But that look... I mean, you want your husband to think you look nice, right? And if he thinks I'd look nicer with long hair... EXCEPT GROWING OUT YOUR HAIR POSITIVELY SUCKS. It's only been a few weeks of "maybe I'll grow it out!" and I already hate everything going on on top of my head. People with super fine super straight hair should not be in a shaggy in between place. It seems like it will be eons before I reach the goal, which is my friend taking me to the Korean hair salon where they will put a very slight permanent wave in my extra long no-more-grays hair and I turn into a Disney princess.
It's about not getting outside. Emma's walking which is SO SO SO SO SO GREAT. I mean, it's super great. Everything is so much EASIER now that she's walking. But she's still not that confident outside so even when I want to go water the plants in the front yard I have to wait until Phillip gets home or she's super occupied with Molly inside, because she shrieks and hollers at me if I leave her standing alone in the grass. We can't go on the deck because it's not really a deck right now. We can't play in the backyard because it's full of dangerous deck-building things. We don't go for walks because our neighborhood is lame. And if it's none of those things it's raining.
It's about watching all the super fit athletic moms check their kids into childcare at the Y so they can go kickbox something or work on their ab definition. And I can't even TRY because my kid throws a holy fit if I leave her in childcare.
It's about realizing there's no stinking way I'm going to reach my weight loss goal (Fit Into Old Pants!) by our trip to Cabo in August.
It's about being the fat friend, the fat sister, the fat daughter-in-law. It's about how even though I used to be nearly 30 pounds heavier, I am ashamed and embarrassed that I can't lose another 10.
I hate thinking that the only thing that will make me feel better is losing the weight, finding a good way to wear my hair, fitting into my favorite post-Molly skirt. That there's nothing else, not my husband saying flattering things, not my friends looking at me like I'm crazy, not knowing that God is uninterested in my pant size. I hate feeling so vulnerable to this, Get away from me, Ultimately Not Meaningful Surface-Level Body Angst!
Two beautiful ladies.
Best day, you guys. BEST.
First thing: Jack comes home from school and is telling my mom (who babysat while I went to the work lunch thingy) about his friend who had to go to the nurse's office. Apparently she ate something she was allergic to and she got sick. Quoth Jack, "She farts. She farts a lot if she eats something and she's allergic." Me, only after he'd said "farts" about forty seven times: "Jack, do you mean 'barfs'?" Jack, nodding: "Yes. Barfs."
Second thing: my deck is getting fixed. Finally! Turns out it doesn't look half bad under that plywood. (Check my instagram feed if you just went, "plywood? huh? what kind of deck IS this?") There are definitely rotting places, including a beam that is holding up a WALL, but apparently there are ways to fix this and the contractor tells me it looks good, and tomorrow morning we're meeting before Phillip goes to work to Discuss The Options. This is how it will go:
Contractor: Blah blah blah blah blah
Phillip: Blah blah blah how much blah blah what about blah blah
Third thing: remember I was all, "aiiiieeee my old boss just invited me to a THING!" So I went to the thing today and it was SO GREAT. I mean, it wasn't heaps of fun or super fantabulously interesting and I didn't even see half the people I would have liked to see, but it was so good to see the people I DID see and bringing Molly along was a touch of brilliance. I always had someone to talk to, I always had something to do, and eeeeeveryone wanted to say hello to Molly. I know this will sound weird and creep you out Internet, but the guy who sat across from us, who was just smitten with Molly, PICKED HER UP as we were leaving. If he hadn't said how much Molly reminded him of his grandkids about a million times over lunch I would have been, you know, uncomfortable, but instead it was just super sweet. Which is basically how I feel about everyone in this particular local industry. THEY ARE JUST SO NICE. I thought this when I worked for them too. There are the unpleasant ones, but at these industry get togethers everyone is so friendly and kind.
I used to go to this thing every year when I worked for my old boss. It's not fancy or a big deal, but it honors an industry person of the year and raises money for an industry-related charity and everyone supports it big time. So there are lots of people there and all the companies donate items for a huge raffle. The grand prize is always a TV and ONCE I WON THE TV. I did not have this blog then or I would have told you about it. My boss bought me raffle tickets AND THEN I WON THE TV. Phillip was super duper impressed.
I did not win the TV this year. DISAPPOINTING. But I bought a crap ton of raffle tickets just so Molly would win something and feel like it was worth her time and effort escorting her silly mother to this boring social event. WE DIDN'T WIN ANYTHING. 25 raffle tickets people and not even a HAT. Some dude who worked for the charity, though, he won FOUR TIMES. Super bad ticket pickers, right? ANYWAY. They finally pull the ticket for the TV and it's not us and it's this young kid who I assume is part of this other group and he's flustered and I'm all WHATEVER and getting ready to go -
then my old boss comes up to me and says, "THAT'S MY ASSISTANT. MY ASSISTANT WON THE TV. AGAIN." So. He's the one to take to Vegas. But! I'm leaving and saying goodbye and the assistant, who I will call College Kid, is standing nearby having absolutely no idea how he's going to get his new television home. He lives in the U District like a proper college kid and that's on my way so I offer to take him home. And you GUYS. This kid. He was a TRIP. He was the chattiest, cutest, flabbergastiest, chipper little guy in the WORLD. And I am not exaggerating when I say he was just like the Fred Armisen character on SNL who can't form a sentence. I shall quote from wikipedia:
You know that guy? OMG THIS KID. I couldn't tell if he's ALWAYS like that or if he was just SO! EXCITED! about winning a television that he couldn't emit a coherent thought. IT WAS ADORABLE.
Last thing: It was sunny. You seriously cannot underestimate the power of sunshine around these parts. I swear, there's forward movement on a house project, I caught up with a former life, my daughter was absolutely perfect, my mom was here helping all day, sunshine, GOOD WORK EVERYONE. Let's make it happen again tomorrow.
P.S. THANK YOU FOR THE DINNER HELP. I will write a Dinner Update, I just had to get that farts story out of my system first.
It all started when my parents would say, "OH, JUST IGNORE HIM!"
This in reference to my cretin of a little brother whose one pure joy in life was pushing all of my buttons, all at the same time, on a regular and maddening basis. How do you ignore such a thing, I ask you? HOW IS IT DONE?
I'm willing to let that go, I am. After all I'M a parent now and therefore deeply appreciative of the "OH, JUST IGNORE HIM!" as a go-away-and-leave-me-alone tactic. And there were plenty of times my brother actually DID get in trouble, like the time my dad actually DID leave him on the side of the road, and that other time when they told him he couldn't live with us anymore and my mom started packing his backpack - at age six or seven.
BUT. It was, indeed, my terrible misfortune to grow up sensitive, easily intimidated, beholden to a monstrous guilt complex with parents who were Tough, Did Not Suffer Fools, Not Afraid Of Confrontation, and valedictorians of the Eye Roll Master Class.
If I hated the basketball team so much why didn't I just QUIT? WHO CARES?
In a gross misuse of justice did Mrs. So and So publically lecture me in the senior hallway about something I was totally allowed to do? BLOW HER OFF! WHO CARES! YOU'RE GRADUATING IN TWO WEEKS!
I hurt someone's feelings and I may die of the shame and sorrow and failure to be the perfect friend? OH FOR GOD'S SAKE, MAGGIE, SHE SOUNDED LIKE A NUTJOB ANYWAY. GOOD RIDDANCE.
So yeah. I have spent the better part of 33 years trying to ignore, quit, not care, roll my eyes, and suck it up, and GUESS WHAT. IT HASN'T WORKED.
I am still the sensitive, easily intimidated, beholden to a monstrous guilt complex creature I've always been, with my giant nose stuck in multiple personality analysis books. I write about my feelings on the internet, people, and have been doing so for YEARS. At this point I might as well throw in the Suck It Up Towel and own the fact that when my neighbor rings my doorbell with no purpose other than to chew me out about how my guest has parked in front of her blessed mailbox, I WILL FEEL LIKE WARMED OVER CRAP. FOR A LONG TIME. AND WRITE ABOUT IT ON THE INTERNET.
It's not that I feel bad that my friend (OKAY IT WAS LIZ! IT'S ALL HER FAULT!) parked in front of the mailboxes, it's that I honestly do NOT understand why my neighbor's first response is "Spew Vitriol!" rather than "Apologetically Yet Firmly Notify!" Perhaps I should walk around with a sign around my neck: GUILT TRIPS WORK BEST.
We figured out the unspoken mailbox parking rule a while back, but the absolute very first time this particular neighbor mentioned it, it was when my parents had JUST driven up and parked and we weren't even out of the cars yet and she zooms into my own garage to tell me my parents better not park there. (OR ELSE.) So yeah, this was the second time, but she was mean about it the FIRST time and today it was like I'd spent my entire two years in the neighborhood spitting on her rose garden and BY GOD she was TIRED OF TELLING ME TO STOP!
And I'm also sad that we don't have any friends on our street. The one other family with children never appears and the others are a combo of never there/retired/renting/not interested. There is one house with an older couple who is VERY sweet and kind to us, but we rarely see them. I would LOVE to have good relationships with my neighbors, but I have NO relationship with my neighbors, for the most part, and it bums me out. So I'm sensitive to that too, I guess.
And also SHE LIVES NEXT DOOR! It's not really like I CAN ignore her!
I should, though. Except for the two Christmastimes where she brought us delicious cookies (and who knows what instigated THAT), she's been pretty unfriendly and/or uninterested in us. And once she complained about all the pine needles when she doesn't even own the trees and I was like, "Seriously? You're mad because you live next to my tree?"
CLEARLY THIS REALLY ISN'T MY PROBLEM. And in these situations I try to make myself feel better by reminding myself of True Things. Like "at least I am not so desperately unhappy that I am compelled to stomp over to my neighbor's house and complain that someone she knows has parked in front of the mailbox without so much as a howdoyoudo."
Should I let this sort of thing ruin my day? NO! Does it anyway? YES! Does kicking myself for being affected by someone else's crotchety mood help at all? NOOOOO.
And after 33 years I'm beginning to suspect that The Ability To Blow It Off is simply something you're born with. My parents? EXCELLENT blow offers. Me? The opposite. And it's not my fault, it's THEIRS for not passing it down. Maybe it would just be better that, having been sniped at on my own front porch, I crawl back inside and dedicate the next several hours to couch, television, and ice cream. You know? Just ACCEPT the fact that I will feel Crappy. And then write a cathartic blog post that will make my parents roll their eyes.
I am a HUGE Veronica Mars fan. I was SO disappointed when it was unceremoniously canceled. I've often wondered how they were going to end the series. Every time I see a bright yellow Xterra (not that often, but often enough) my heart goes pitter pat. But I have to say, I felt weird donating to the Let's Make A Movie Fund. I mean... I don't know. Maybe it's because Phillip and I have spent so much time talking about what to DO with money lately that it just seemed super frivolous. I would pay to see it! Shoot, I would BUY it. But to donate to get them to make it in the first place? IT JUST FELT WEIRD. (I donated anyway. My heart belongs to Logan Echolls.)
I have nothing insightful or halfway interesting to say about the new Pope. He seemed like a sweet little grandpa out there on that balcony. My only Pope Hope (haaa) was that it would maybe be someone NOT from Italy and also NOT from the US. I thought that would be nice.
But I loved watching the drama unfold. I was caught between noticing the ridiculousness of it - the Twitter smokestack account, the silly commentators, the eyes glued to a chimney - and the rah rah yay World spirit of it all. The not-Catholics were excited too! Breaking news! Suspense! Mystery! Fancy costumes! Twitter was super fun. I'm especially thankful to the Cardinals for making it happen during those few hours when the baby is napping and everyone else is at school.
My mom gave me a super great idea for Jack's teacher's new baby gift, but it involves a lot of organization and getting people I don't know to get other people I don't know to email me. So. We'll see how that goes.
Phillip and I are going to start watching House of Cards - the Kevin Spacey Netflix political drama - tonight. I am super excited. I just stopped feeling barfy about my financial crisis book and I need another example of political corruption to feel Despairing about. At least this one is fictional. (We hope.)
Last night @ebj123 sent me a link to a dress that, according to her, screamed MAGGIE CHEUNG! And it did, you guys, it did. Oh man I loved it. I just got the email telling me it's shipped. Hello impulse buy! Moral of the story: @ebj123 is evil. And! I cannot find the link! I think I got the last one! It will probably look horrid. Oh well.
I am reading a new Inspector Rutledge mystery! And I just finished the newest Inspector Montalbano mystery! And the two of you who care about post-WWI Scotland Yard drama AND modern day Sicilian crimefighting are WAY EXCITED.
My thoughts about the impending demise of Google Reader: welllll... I hardly look at it anymore anyway. (hangs head in shame)
OKAY THAT'S IT. I have officially emptied my brain of Wednesday. YOUR TURN.
Today's a weird day. Emma's thrown up twice, but doesn't seem sick. Other than absolutely everything she touches reeking of puke, I haven't noticed a change in temperament or temperature. And the big kids are lying down on the couch reading books, which I swear to you has never happened in the history of the Cheung family. Not at 4:45 PM, anyway.
And I am having one of those afternoons where I want to go to grad school for spiritual direction or audit a bunch of 20th century history classes or watch some documentaries or go to a big conference or otherwise LEARN something. I feel like LEARNING something right now. I want to KNOW more things.
I think, actually, what I really want is to be wiser. It seems like a far stretch to be wise, but I think I could shoot for wiser. I've always had this feeling like my true age, the age that I will feel most like myself, is Older. Maybe 47. Maybe 87. But when I hit that age I will just know most of the things I need to know, even if that means knowing that there's so much I don't and will never know.
But I would be okay knowing that. Which would be the point. I think.
I spent my Saturday discussing Life with two old friends from college. This weekend I am volunteering at yet another college student retreat. The weekend after that I am flying across the country to be with my oldest Internet friends and I am exceedingly hopeful for long and thinky conversations about Life with them as well. (Them: OH NO. CAN'T WE JUST GO OUT TO DINNER?) I am so looking forward to these things, so wanting to be talking about ideas and where people are and what's happening.
It's just one of those days, I guess.
Yesterday I was telling Phillip that my favorite thing about him is that when I get unnecessarily wrapped up in all the intensity and uncertainty and misunderstandingness of something, he just shrugs his shoulders and makes a flippant remark and then I remember: it's really not that big a deal. And how he's really the only person I ever want to talk with about Controversial Matters, because he makes me think about all the other sides, and how he continues to give the benefit of the doubt long after I give up.
I wonder if my kids will want to talk to me when they're older. Or maybe they'll be tougher, stronger, more confident people than I am, and not interested in talking something out. At least not with their mom. Maybe they'll think I'm a wackadoo church lady. Maybe they'll be pre-med and think I'm hopeless. Maybe they'll think reading books about personality types is a monstrous (and embarrassing, quite frankly) waste of time. But maybe they'll go out for coffee with me and tell me what God is doing in their lives.
I think I'm a good listener. Until something reminds me of something I read in one of my war books, and then I'll get started on something and I become rather obnoxious. I'm sorry.
When I took the test in the StrengthsFinder book, one of my top five was Context. I see that now. "People strong in the Context theme enjoy thinking about the past. They understand the present by researching its history." (This means I'm boring.)
Okay, I have to figure out dinner and be a parent and do my life. I can't just sit here and be thinky dreamy all day. There's puke to clean up, giant messes to yell about, chocolate chips to try not to eat.
My kids stayed overnight with grandparents on Saturday to do this Chinese New Year thing except WHO CARES the point is that they stayed! overnight! and Phillip had orders to Plan Something Nice. I was expecting dinner and movie. I was NOT expecting:
After that Phillip did the dishes and I cleaned the bathrooms and the kids came home. NOT BAD, EH?
Things are, I suppose, not all that fascinating around here. Jack is counting out 100 marshmallows for 100 Day. Molly's bangs are too long. My hair is too short. (I trimmed the sides myself. Oh yes. And now I think I'm going to grow it out.) Emma is (steady yourselves) crawling up stairs. (You thought I was going to say WALKING, weren't you. HA HA HA. THAT IS NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN.)
The coffee shop idea is still Out There, but an unbloggable Thing (but nothing bad or sad or even very interesting, I promise) should be pursued first before we go price out more stuff and overwhelm the English major AGAIN.
Your thoughts on the Church Dilemma were duly noted (thank you) and I have created a Potential Church Spreadsheet, with notes from my interrogations of people currently attending those churches. I am nothing if not thorough.
I am back on the Weight Watchers bandwagon today. I realized that drinking coffee really helps me not scarf snacks all day. I drink decaf. If I make half a pot in the morning and slowly drink it through the day, I'm not so hungry. Is this wise? Am I exchanging weight loss for stained teeth? Oh well, my teeth aren't that awesome anyway. And I don't really drink half a pot. I sort of fill mugs and carry them around with me and drink maybe half of what's in the mug before it gets cold and I throw it out. #genius
Also gum. I am a big big fan of those Extra dessert gum flavors. I know this sounds gross to you. I don't care. I'm a gum chewer on account of my deepest wish to be Not A Nail Biter. But the orange dixie cup and lemon bar flavors totally float my boat. Yes, lemon bar gum. Shut up.
Oh, now Molly is counting out her OWN 100 marshmallows. Of course.
OH WAIT. We have a playdate tomorrow! Gak. Jack is buddies with The Cutest Little Blond Girl In The World and 100 emails with her mom later, she's coming home with us after school. It was my suggestion, which I definitely expected to be rejected since the mom has only really met me once and that was at kindergarten orientation. But she's totally cool with me driving her kid to my house and having her hang out here until she gets off work. I would... not be excited about Jack doing that. But I am more neurotic than most. Also I know that I am extremely trustworthy and nice and responsible and I have a pantry full of delicious snacks so the other mom has nothing to worry about. We are all very excited. Molly maybe most of all, since because Kindergarten Friend is a GIRL, she will automatically be Molly's friend too. MAKES SENSE!
Conclusion: everything is good! The end!
I know this is hard, very hard, but please TRY to remember that [lots of good, dark] chocolate in the morning makes you feel HORRIBLE for the rest of the day. Anxiety + nausea + shaky + terrified the meds stopped working = someone had caffeine for breakfast. Other people listen to their bodies and make adjustments. MAYBE YOU CAN TOO, FTLOG.
Wait a day before posting that blog post you think is going to earn you accolades and retweets far and wide. Maybe even just wait an HOUR. These are the posts that, as soon as you hit publish, give you nervous tummy for Trying To Write About Something Meaningful. Maybe just don't write these at all. People seem to like bats. Maybe get a pet bat for blog fodder.
Wait a day before posting that blog post you think is going to get you dozens of "YOU'RE HILARIOUS!" comments, because those are the posts that no one comments on. Better yet, don't post it.
Don't wait for your husband to stop tinkering with his computer and come upstairs to go to bed. Go to sleep NOW. Your baby will wake up at three and your husband, who went to bed at two, won't be much help.
You are the only person who feels guilty and thinks you are a self-indulgent terrible wife/mother for flitting about the country visiting internet friends. So stop it.
No one is as interested in your war books as you are. Maybe stop telling everyone what you're LEARNING.
Don't read the news story about the violent attack on women. Don't look at pictures of concentration camp victims. Don't watch the war documentary. Don't get sucked into news about a national tragedy involving children. Just don't. Find other ways to honor those people.
Err on the side of being weird and chatty in groups of people (and you will be weird, since you are not naturally chatty) instead of hanging back and listening. Even if you are simply hanging back and listening, EVERYONE will think you are a cold standoffish you know what. And you are not! You are nice! You are just socially inept! Better to be thought weird than mean, eh?
You are not a bad person if your bathroom is dirty.
You are not a bad person if you eat chocolate chips for breakfast. (Just dumb.)
I am averaging about a half a bag of chocolate chips per day. I want to totally ignore this fact AND never speak of it again OR refer jokingly to the pudge I continue to add to my middle as "my winter weight! HAR HAR!" At the same time I want to write a lengthy, angst-ridden, self-diagnosis of my inability to stop eating chocolate chips and the utter depression consuming me re: the pudge I continue to add to my middle. However. I've decided to do neither and simply eat more chocolate chips while I think of something else to write about.
I held a seven-week-old baby at church this morning and OH. Heavy sigh. I never want to be pregnant again and I'm still half-terrified of giving birth again and even if those things weren't true my husband is already well out of his Children Comfort Zone. BUT BUT BUT. I love babies. No, you guys, I love babies. They are the smooshiest most wondrous little things and if I think about it too much it absolutely kills me that my own baby is rapidly becoming un-baby-like. Maybe this is why she isn't even close to walking, maybe she knows!
ALTHOUGH. Pregnancy is, in my opinion, a totally valid reason to keep a chocolate chip habit.
Honestly, I think I keep eating chocolate chips because they're THERE. I start baking pretty early on for Christmas festivities and this year, as you already know if you follow me on Twitter/Instagram, I went hard core with the cookies. My freezer is packed. But I still have plans for more and that means Cookie Supplies are everywhere. I finally did get a handle on the amount of goodies I was consuming directly out of the freezer, but those chocolate chip bags are the devil. Delicious devils.
AAAAAAANYWAY. Is there really nothing else to say? Must this blog always be waxing poetic over chocolate?
I suppose one good observation I can make is that I consume (or want to consume) the same amount of chocolate in good times as in bad. Last week? Quite possibly the easiest week of my Mom Of Three Kids Career. Phillip's new job started, but only kinda sorta. He was doing this online training thing Monday through Thursday. It started at six in the morning (lame for him) but meant that he was off around three (awesome for ME.) He did this from home, so he was around during the afternoon witching hours! He picked up Jack for me! He was just HERE! And I have to say, I got used to that pretty quick. So much so that when he finally went into the office on Friday, it was a long afternoon. Even though he came home at FIVE. He NEVER comes home at five! But apparently everyone else left early? So he did too? What I'm saying is I could maybe get used to this new company. The culture appears to be... decidedly different.
In the meantime I am doing a crazy amount of online shopping (while eating chocolate chips) and fussing about my house (while eating chocolate chips). I am DYING to decorate for my Christmas party, which isn't for two weeks. (By the way, you're invited.) So far I've refrained from giving into that madness, but I'm also annoyed because the decorating I HAVE done is constantly being messed with by CHILDREN. Also, they think my present wrapping supplies are theirs for the taking. No. I will guard that last tape dispenser with my LIFE.
DEAR GOD THIS IS THE MOST BORING BLOG POST EVER. I feel like if you are still here reading this I should hurry to your house and pour you a handful of chocolate chips as thanks. I need a jumpstart for this blog. Or something. I can't keep writing about Jobs and Children and Weight I Could Clearly Not Be Gaining If I Made Any Effort Whatsoever. I'm trying to think of a SERIES. One time, long long ago, I wrote a bunch about how I became the Lackadaisacal Yet Mostly Devoted Churchy Person I am today. One time I wrote about how I go grocery shopping and feed these people I live with. I need to think of something I can be obsessive about for a week or two. The only thing I've thought of so far is: Which Nashville Character Would I Rather Marry: Fake Tim Tebow or Gunnar The Sweet, Sensitive, and Swoon-worthy Singer/Songwriter. SIGH.