Doctor Who comes to call. At the gym.

So I've started watching Doctor Who.

I guess that puts me in the dorky-but-totally-cool 'in' crowd, right?

I usually spend my cardio time at the gym listening to an audiobook I download from the library, but as I wait ever so long for the next Harry Potter book to become available I've been making do with books that don't even come close to sparking the kind of interest that Mr. Potter and all the Wizards do.

I know, I'm a little late to the whole Harry Potter Craze, but at least I'm here now.  Don't judge me.  I spent most of that time when I could have been enjoying learning about Quiddich and Muggles turning down my nose at THOSE BOOKS and considering them to be beneath my "I only read literature' persona that I'd convinced myself was true.

I was an absolute joy, of course.

It's hard work being this alternative. 
Note the battered guitar case, the long
denim shirt, the little makeup ...

Actually, it's not that I didn't read other books that weren't assigned by my English professors - I did.  It's just that for many of my younger years I thought that the only right way to be was outside of the status quo.  I wasn't going to read those intensely popular books precisely because they were popular.  The same thing applied to other aspects of my life - I didn't like popular music.  Or I didn't want anyone to know that I liked some popular music.  Whenever I was driving and heard the song "Livin' La Vida Loca" (oh - you know you can still sing all the words) I would listen to it and sing along, but also be terrified that I would crash and the people who came to help me would hear that song playing on the radio and judge me and find me incredibly unhip.  It was always a bit of a relief when the song was over and I could switch the station back to something I considered subversive and cool.  Like classic rock.

My teenage years were mentally exhausting.

I couldn't find the senior portrait I wanted, which was black
and white and included a black turtleneck and an old
camera, so I'm giving you this self-portrait instead. Laugh
amongst yourselves.

So I never read the Potter books, until now.  And I love them.  I'm completely hooked.  I'll listen to them with one headphone in my ear while I clean and take care of my children - half listening to whatever they are mumbling on about.  (But not really - my kids talk nonstop.  I have to tune some of it out.)

I'll listen to them when I'm trying to force Adele to take a nap by rocking her to sleep because we all know that if she doesn't take a nap then the afternoon will go to hell in the form of yelling and spitting of food and kicking.  Thus the books keep me distracted and calm.  We all win.


And most enjoyable of all - I listen to the books at the gym.  But because of a weird glitch I've been waiting an extra long time for The Order of the Phoenix.

And it's horrible, the waiting.  It's filled with depressing books that I have to stop a third of the way in because I'm trying to use them to get me energized to exercise, and listening to a story about a woman who has lost all of her family and is about to be swindled by some stranger is not my idea of energizing.  And then there's the cliche-filled book about wives getting even with their husbands for cheating - which I thought would be light and funny but in the end became annoying and just plain boring.

And so I've given up the books for now - until the next Harry Potter one, of course.

I'm much less annoyed and don't roll my eyes anymore while I'm working out, which can be a little disconcerting to see someone do multiple times in the gym, I'm assuming.  They probably think I'm having a seizure, much like the time another mother told the daycare workers that they thought Adele was having a seizure because she crossed her eyes.  (Did I tell you that story?  If I didn't then let me assure you that there was no seizure.  She just crossed her eyes.  The end.)

I don't know why I didn't think of watching Netflix on my phone before now.  It seems like the perfect solution.  I've often thought that if there was just something interesting on television at the gym my workout would be much easier.  Because there's only so much Fox News that I can handle watching - evening if I'm not listening to it.  I can just tell by their facial expressions that they are being extremely biased assholes.  (Yes, I totally see the irony in me being a biased asshole by putting down all of Fox News.  But COME ON.  They allowed Glen Beck to happen.)

So back to Doctor Who.  Remember when I brought it up many, many words ago?  I've been hearing a lot about it in the last couple of years.  So I thought, why not?  And I like it.  I don't love it yet, but I'm only three shows in so I have faith that our relationship will blossom and I will finally be a part of the group.  It's like, now everything is ironic and what's dorky is dorky in the best way possible.

The Doctor

We can all embrace ourselves and our love of science fiction without everyone thinking we live in our parents' basement and eat pizza and stare at a computer screen playing World of Warcraft into all hours of the night.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Guys.  I'm finally cool for not being cool.

It's what I've waited my whole life for.

Motherhood and more: Weighing the workforce*

I’ve been contemplating going back to work.

Well, sort of. I mean, I want to. I do. Kind of. My kids are growing older. My son will start kindergarten in the fall, and my daughter will be old enough to start preschool.

It seems a good time to start looking. I like the idea of doing something, using my mind for more than worrying about my kids eating enough vegetables, contributing to the household funds, and in turn being able to go out to eat on occasion or buy a dress without feeling that I’m taking money away from my kids’ vegetable fund.

No, they don’t actually have a vegetable fund. But sometimes you need a pretty dress at the expense of a good grocery trip, you know?

(I’m joking.)

But, man. We’re coming up on summer, which is the best time to be a stay-at-home mom. We can spend all of our time outside playing in the little pool, making smoothies and digging in the dirt. We can ride bikes and grow tomatoes and blow bubbles.

Winters are hard because I’m not the best at playing and when we’re inside they both look to me to entertain them. Well, me or the Ipod, which they continuously fight over. And I spend a lot of time arguing with my son to wear actual long pants when it’s 10 degrees outside. And I fight with my daughter to stay inside when she isn’t wearing shoes or a coat or pants when it’s 10 degrees outside.

And then I fight against my urge to run away from home.

But summers are so much easier on everyone, especially considering that I don’t have to layer up myself and my kids in scarves and hats and gloves and, most difficult of all, pants, just to go out the door. And the kids are much better at entertaining themselves outside without my help. And there is less fighting because there is more to do.

I’ve been lucky to be able to stay at home with them for as long as I have. It most definitely hasn’t been easy — monetarily or mentally. And physically, for that matter.

But I’ll never forget the relief of not having to take my daughter to daycare. Of being able to just hold her and not hand her off to someone I barely knew.

I don’t know. Maybe I’ll find the perfect job that will help me edge back into the workforce with relative ease. Or maybe I’ll stay at home another year or so, spending my time trying to keep my youngest from aggravating her brother more than anyone ever thought was possible.

It just depends. Whatever job I find has to be worth it. It has to be right for me and right for my family. It has to challenge me but also be something that makes me feel like I’m working toward something, like I’m doing something meaningful.

And it has to be worth being away from my babies.

*This column originally published in The News-Enterprise on April 24, 2013.  

Self-perception dysmorphia is totally a thing because I just made it up

I think I learned something about myself last week.

I know, I know.  It's a little dorky and cliched and whatever to announce that in a blog, but give me a break.  I haven't been in this space for three weeks or so and I missed my blogaversary and I'm a bit nostalgic and also rusty.

I'm including this picture of myself because I feel
like I have a lot of wordy posts and maybe you'd
like to have something to break up all of the words. 
That's my backyard.  It has a tent in it.  And a dead
plant.  And over my shoulder you can see our raised
garden bed.  And one of the nurses at the hospital
said I had really pretty hair.  So you're welcome to
stare at it instead of the bags under my eyes.

And so - I learned something.  About myself.  Last week.

On Wednesday I had some, I guess you could call it exploratory surgery.  (If you are of the male persuasion or don't like to read about lady bits, you might want to pick up in the next paragraph.)  Basically I've had some random, excessive spotting that I haven't been able to get rid of for the past year and a half.  So my doctor figured it was time to take a closer look and see what she could see with a camera.  Like the bottom of the deep blue sea sea sea.

I don't know.  Rusty, remember?

I didn't have any pain, but I had to have anesthesia, which meant that all day Wednesday I was groggy and tired.  The kids stayed with my parents, who are pretty amazing for taking that on.  The were there all day Wednesday, Wednesday night, and all day Thursday.

For a week before the surgery I started getting excited, thinking about all of the uninterrupted time to myself I would have.  I never have time alone, and I absolutely never have time alone where I don't have a million things that I have to do.  And with this, I physically wasn't able to do anything, so I was ordered by my doctor to do nothing.  To sit around all day.  DOING NOTHING.

I spent all of Wednesday laying on the couch watching television.  I did attempt to knit a little bit, but my mind wasn't able to focus.  And on Thursday I tried to get up and clean a bit but got dizzy and had to sit back down.

I thought I would be in heaven.  It was all I thought I wanted.  Time to veg out.  Time to do nothing.  Time to not worry about anything but running out of television shows to watch.  (I totally ran out.)

But I hated it.  HATED IT.  I was so bored and lonely and just all around done with doing nothing.  My body didn't know how to relax.

I spend so much time running around all day that when I was forced to relax I was miserable.  The TV was ridiculous and irritating.  I read, too, which was nice.  But all I wanted to do was stand up and vacuum or wipe something down or knit something or sew something.  I wanted to DO something.  Or if I couldn't do anything, I wanted my babies back home so I could break up their arguing or fetch a cup of milk or play outside.

I wanted this so much that I made Chris go pick up the kids on Thursday when I probably should have taken another day to recover.  I was by myself all day with the kids on Friday and in that time I made bread and pizza sauce and pizza dough and mozzarella cheese and ice cream and I fixed lunch and I carried my daughter around because she wasn't too happy with me for leaving her for so long.

And I loved it.

It was exhausting and even a bit painful, but that's normal, right?

I struggle over and over again with feeling like I fail at motherhood or fail at keeping the house in order.  I feel like I'm lazy and unproductive.

But on Thursday, when I was begging my light-headedness to go away so I could do some laundry, I realized that I've got this.

My house may not always be spotless (HA!) and my kids may spend too much time playing games on the ipod - but I'm not lazy.  Or unproductive.

So shove it, self-perception dysmorphia.

Go somewhere else.  I don't have time to deal with you.  I'm too busy.

(Here's a link to my first blogaversary post.  Maybe for my third I can get it together to write something super awesome.  One can hope, right?)

Darth Maul is a part of the Easter Story, right?

Spring Break has only been officially happening for five hours and already I've thought about locking my children in their rooms 12 times and thought longingly about shipping them off somewhere for a couple of weeks 18 times.

So I'm not going to put much thought and effort into what goes into this post today. 

It's not all that different from what I normally do, only smaller.

Here are some pictures from our Easter weekend.

On Saturday Chris' brother and his wife took the kids to a egg hunt/party at his work.  Here is how my son came home:

That's Darth Maul, in case you didn't know.  Whatever you do, don't call him Spider-man.  You will be the worst mother in the world and also a little dense and subject to heavy sighing and disappointment.

We attempted to dye Easter Eggs that aftenoon, however it lasted 45 seconds, until Adele got mad that we wouldn't let her drink the colored vinegar water and attempted to dump it all out.

 

I didn't sleep well Saturday night.  I think it was because the Easter Bunny put the kids' baskets outside of their bedroom doors and so I was worried that Sebastian would get up to pee in the middle of the night and stumble upon the baskets.  Because for some reason that would be the worst thing that could ever happen and Easter would be ruined.  (I don't claim to be completely sane.)

I shouldn't have worried because Sebastian is his mother's son, and he got up early, noticed the baskets, but didn't touch them because it wasn't technically time for him to get out of bed and start his day.

We had a great day visiting family, and I even got to take a short nap, which may have been the highlight of my day.

Here is the best picture of my children on Easter.  Those white spots are rain.  Because of course.  Notice Adele rubbing her neck:

That's because in all the previous pictures Sebastian had her in a choke hold.

 It was my fault, really.  I told him to hug her.