It’s Genetics. Do You SEE?!

(Here’s the what:  I just found this lost post. Yep. From, like, a year and a half ago. So WAY late to the party! Still, I’d forgotten this whole conversation, so I thought I’d better post it! You know, for posterity’s sake? So… okay. That’s that.)

After attending a friend’s Bar Mitzvah, Tanner came home chock full of wild stories of crazy chair dances and professional DJs and AWESOMELY delicious food and, oh yeah, how much freaking MONEY his friend scored when he turned thirteen. Because money is a BIG DEAL. I mean, think! That is a WHOLE LOT of Pokemon! Am I right? Huh? Am I right?

Tanner’s sisters were (to put it mildly) super impressed, all “Nuh-uh! NUH-UH!” and “No FAIR!” And Alli? I can only imagine she’s been giving the matter of Bar Mitzvah’s tons of thought, as evidenced by a recent conversation.

Alli had been sitting in my room with me as I read, an unusual, pensive moodiness about her. Suddenly, she broke the silence. “You know, if Tanner were Jewish,” she said conversationally, “he’d be totally rich right now.”

Tanner overheard. “I know, right?” he replied.

Alli shrugged a little “Well That’s That” kind of shrug and lapsed back into her broody silence.

I looked at my youngest daughter with my “Really? That’s That?” kind of look, but she didn’t notice. She was lost in her thoughts, her brows deeply furrowed behind her glasses. And those thoughts? Those she was lost in? Were some seriously mercenary thoughts, it turns out.

“We need our own coming of age ceremony!” she burst out a few moments later.

Tanner perked up at that. Because, hello? Money? And professional DJs?! And chair dancing?! And MONEY?!

Noticing Tanner’s interest, Alli began to expatiate on her totally BRILLIANT idea. “We could call it a… a… a Har Litzfah!” she said, her eyes dreamy and distant, “And we would… um… tell jokes instead of reading scriptures! And people would give us MONEY for being FUNNY! Because HAR Litzvah?! Like har har har?!” She clapped her hands, reveling in her brilliance.

And I was all, “Ooooh! Pun SNAP!” and there was a giving and receiving of high-fives all around.

In other news, that inappropriate-yet-impossible-to-resist punning thing? Totally genetic.

(Har Litzfah. Good Lord.)

Suppertime Non Sequiturs

ALLI: (out of the blue) I wonder who was the first person to ever do the pee-pee dance?

CAT: Okay… Because that’s a completely normal thing to wonder.

ALLI: (shrugs) My mind is a mystery.

We Don’t Need No (Sex) Education…

Alli, my fifth grader (I KNOW, right?!), has been enduring Family Life Education (FLE) class at school all week long. I say “endure” because she has been dreading FLE ever since Hannah went through it last year when she was a fifth grader. FLE is described as “a K-12 program designed to provide students with age appropriate knowledge, attitudes, and skills to make healthy, responsible, respectful, and life-enhancing decisions related to human growth and development, human sexuality, relationships, and emotional and social health.” So, really, FLE is just the school district’s sobriquet for, wait for it… wait… yes, SEX ED. And Hannah told Alli there would be PICTURES! Graphic PICTURES! And words like PENIS and VAGINA! And long conversations about S-E-X! And PICTURES! Mother of all that is sweet, the PICTURES!

So, Alli? Not on board with the whole FLE thing.

The first afternoon she walked into the house with Hannah and TGIM and silently handed me a colorful packet that contained a few sample feminine hygiene products and brochures with titles like “A Girl’s Guide to HAPPY Periods” and “Talking With Your Daughter About Puberty” and “It’s a HAPPY Thing!”

“I’m supposed to ask you about your experience, you know, goingthroughpubertyandstuff,” she explained with a strained, almost shell-shocked expression on her face as she handed me an FLE checklist I needed to sign.

My first thought, naturally, was… it’s a HAPPY thing? Okay, I dare the author of that pamphlet to say that to a woman during a few key days every month! I’m only saying. Honestly.

TGIM, who was sitting across the room, asked, “Hey, did I ever tell you guys how Papa Neal taught me about sex?”

“YES!” we all yelled.

Undeterred, TGIM continued, “He said to me, ‘Son, have you seen the bulls with the cows out in the field?’ I said, ‘Yes, Dad,’ and he patted me on the back and said–”

“‘Good talk, son’!” we yelled in unison.

“Oh,” TGIM said, eyes wide with feigned innocence, “have I told that story before?”

Hannah, ignoring her father, asked, “So, did they make you yell ‘vagina’?” She rolled her eyes. “They made us yell ‘vagina’.”

“Yes,” Alli said and shuddered dramatically. “And penis, too. It was disturbing.”

I did my best to assure her that using those words should not be disturbing, that they are just words to describe parts of the body, like “mouth” or “knee” or “elbow,” but I must admit that the vision of a room full of fifth graders yelling “vagina” and “penis” over and over again was a bit disturbing. You know, just a scoche.

As the week went by, a pattern emerged. Alli would approach me after school and, with a deer-in-the-headlights expression, hand me yet another parent-child FLE conversation checklist to sign. I would gamely buzz through the questions, Alli would stare glassily ahead, I’d sign the checklist, and with a gusty sigh of relief Alli would shove it into her backpack and run off to play.

Friday afternoon Alli came home and told me that they had discussed making babies in FLE, which, first of all, gross, and second of all, GROSS. “I mean, the pictures, Momma? WAY too detailed. I get it! I did NOT need to see that!”

Hannah patted her on the back. “I know, right?” she agreed with sisterly camaraderie.

That night there were no more checklists. Yes! Happy day, FLE was behind us! We had made it through FLE relatively unscathed! Yay, us! So there we were, sitting on the bed in my room, just playing… a game, NOT Pokemon or anything, just a normal, age-appropriate, not-Pokemon game. The companionable silence of a mother and daughter sitting and playing said game which was not Poke– Okay! It was Pokemon! Soul Silver! FINE! Shut up!– was interrupted by a sudden revelation from Alli.

“Hey, Momma?”

I paused my game. “Hmm?” I looked over at her and I was immediately intrigued by her serious expression.

“You know what I’m going to do when I grow up?”

Oooh! Life choice! Fun! “What?” I asked, curious if she was still dead set on being an actress and/or astronaut.

“ADOPT.”

In Which Cat Defends “We Are The World 25 For Haiti”

Yes. I’ve heard the criticisms. But to me, this is a heartfelt remake of the original USA For Africa version, and for a selfless cause, to boot! Sure, they could have written/produced a new song, but hey, there’s a reason this one’s a classic. I’m only saying. Plus, the rap portion is pretty fantastic, and Wyclef Jean singing the song as translated into Creole? Beautiful.

(Although I do have to wonder how many people were like, “DUDE. What the hell does ‘hi-uh-tee’ mean?!” Because I am sometimes prone to strange and random wonderings?)

As a side note, I will admit, the posthumous Michael Jackson tribute almost turned me off– due to the Singing Along With Video Footage Of Dead People Totally Gives Me The Wiggins factor? which is MY issue, clearly!– but I decided I liked the inclusion after I overheard TD explaining to TGIM how seamlessly they were able to incorporate MJ’s part: “Yeah, see, they had some lady dressed up to LOOK like Michael Jackson, and she sang with him.”

Poor Janet.

In any event, my kids were moved by the video, especially the footage from Haiti, so I bought the album at iTunes. I figure it’s just one more little way we can give hope to the people of Haiti, and to the world.

Think about it.

Random Dinner Conversations at the Cheesecake Factory

Random DWM family conversations overheard at the Cheesecake Factory:

TGIM: Okay, while we’re waiting for our food, let’s talk about something. How about taxes? Who can tell me a situation in which you would have to pay taxes?

Allison: Thanks for the strawberry, T! (to me) Oooh, I bet that’s what his girlfriend will call him… “T”! Because it’s a really good nickname?

Tanner: Well, she wouldn’t be my girlfriend for long.

Cat: Really? Why not, T? Huh, T? What’s the big deal, T? Huh, T? Huh? T?

Allison: I hope our drinks come soon. I’m quenched!

Hannah: Tanner with a girlfriend? Ha.

TGIM: Nobody? All right, maybe a different topic. How about the weather? We could discuss the weather. Or global warming?

Cat: Sweetie, I think you meant to say “parched.”

Allison: No, because I’m REALLY thirsty, Momma.

TGIM: Fact: There is currently snow in every state in the U.S.

Hannah: Tanner is my big, strong potato man!

(giggles from the girls)

Cat: Um, what?

Allison: It’s an inside joke. Ha ha! (off my look) Oh, don’t worry, Momma… it’s VERY funny to us!

TGIM: Except possibly Hawaii. Okay, every state in the continental U.S.

Tanner: Those stone faces on the wall are freaking me out. Are the faces on the wall freaking you out? Because they are freaking me out.

Cat: Hey! Stop drinking all my Diet Coke! Who’s drinking my Diet Coke?! Stop it right now!

Hannah: Wow! This cheesecake is GOOD! I feel happy! I love this place!

TGIM: (paying the bill) Well, guys, there goes our food budget for the week! Yep, it looks like we’ll be eating a lot of beans and rice for a while.

Allison: No, because it’s Friday night, and Sunday is the start of a new week, so… I think we’re good, right, Momma? I mean, we’ll just shop for good food on Sunday, right? So… you know what I’m saying?

TGIM: (standing to leave) I know, let’s talk about this new show I discovered called Mantracker…

Hannah: Is that the one with the guy with the rope?

Allison: Oh yeah! Mantracker! I was very disappointed that he didn’t rope that guy.

TGIM: Me, too.

Cat: I have no idea what you guys are talking about.

Tanner: The macaroni and cheese here is NOT good. I’m just saying.

Yep. A night out with the DWM family! Chock full of food, and fun, and non sequiturs. And quite often, just a little bit surreal.

SnOw MG! Snowmageddon in Metro DC.

Snowed in! Snowed in! STILL! It’s Snowverkill. Snowmageddon. The Snowpocalypse! (tm witty Capital Weather Gang)

Seriously. The Federal Government in DC is shut down– closed for bidness, y’all!– and you would think that I would be totally enjoying the fact that I am free– albeit stuck at home, but still, free– for who knows how long, but NO. Instead, I feel, I don’t know, well… guilty. I know, right?! About what, you may ask? I don’t even know, I might answer! It’s craziness! Sheer craziness! Honestly. What’s with all the guilt?! I mean, it isn’t MY fault the U.S. Office of Personnel Management opted to close down all Federal agencies in the Washington DC area. It’s not!

That’s it. I’m jumping aboard the happy, carefree, snow day(s) train, starting right now. Feeling good. Enjoying the blizzard. Choo-choo!

Freak. And there’s the guilt again.

In order to alleviate said guilt, I will now post something of value on DWM. A Flickr slideshow of Photos Past, if you will. Because that is PRODUCTIVE.

Anyway, photos from the past. Back when my kiddos were all cute and pre-preteen and babylike and whatnot.

And I mean this… aaaaaaw! (Thanks to TGIM for the scans. You = Awesome.)

Amazing Gertrude!

While on my way to watch Hannah perform as Gertrude in Seussical the Musical, I had some SERIOUS nervous energy going on. Nevertheless, we got there, and FRONT ROW!

5th Generation Ipod Nanos (with video capture capability) ROCK in a covert ops situation. Just so you know. They’re just so… unobtrusive! Honestly. No one even suspected a thing! At all! So, awesome covertly obtained video footage will follow. Oh, yes. It WILL follow. And they’re gooooood, yo? Because, well, Hannah simply ROCKED Gertrude!

Uh-oh, I feel the motherly pride kicking in again. Gosh… I promised myself I wouldn’t cry…

Stupid Encyclopedia of Immaturity

Hannah: “Momma, if you say ‘gullible’ reeeeaally slowly it sounds like ‘green beans’!”

Cat: “Guuuuull-iiiii… crap.”

Honestly. Damn that wild hair that compelled me to give my daughter the stupid Klutz Encyclopedia of Immaturity for Christmas. Damn it to hell!

Also, heh.

Booty Shaking and Hair Tossing

Hannah, whilst singing most enthusiastically along with Metro Station’s “Shake it” which was blaring from the car radio:

“‘Shake shake, shake shake, shake your BOOTAY! Shake shake…” (turned to Alli, who was also belting out the tune) “C’mon Alli, WORK those curls!”

Okay. She may have taken some liberties with with Metro Station’s lyrics– but honestly, “shake it” IS somewhat vague, truth– but you have to admire her energy!

Yep. That’s my girl. Shaking her booty and working those curls.

*proud*

Looking Ahead While Looking Back

When I wrote the title “Looking Ahead While Looking Back,” I could totally hear a deep newscaster’s voice in my head which was all “Good evening. Tonight we will be looking AHEAD… (wait for it… wait for it…) while looking BACK.”

Which, weird?

In any event, I made our annual 2010 calendar gift. It will be shipping soon to a store near you! Okay. Not really. That was just the newscaster in my head talking again.

Click here to view these pictures larger

Previously on DWM: “Momma, can I read to you?”

Originally posted February 7, 2008. (Hey, I’m feeling nostalgic. So sue me.)

Alli stood at my left shoulder, resting her chin on the back of my chair to peek at whatever it was on my computer screen that held my attention. I could feel her there, fidgety and anxious, waiting as patiently as she knew how until I finished typing. Her warm breath tickled my neck, and I smiled to myself. I turned away from the computer (these days it is always the computer) to give her a smile, and that is when it happened. That is when I saw her.

Really saw her.

Of course you saw her, dipstick, you think to yourself. You were looking right at her. And you’d be right, of course, except for the “dipstick” part, because that is just plain rude. I looked at her. Of course I looked at her. But it was what I saw that startled me.

I’m not going to spout any hackneyed verbiage about seeing her “with new eyes” or “for the first time.” Nor will I wax allegorical about seeing beyond the outward appearance of those around us. Nope. It was simpler than that. I wasn’t seeing her anew; I was just… seeing her. Her sea green eyes, one magnified by a coke bottle lens, but both shining up at me, full of depth and warmth. The freckle on her chin. The wisps of unruly hair that danced around her hairline, escaped from the confines of her ponytail. The sweet little nose. The determined tilt of her chin, seemingly at odds with the amiable set of her lips. The almost palpable energy radiating from her body as her excitement and vitality threatened to spill over, to overwhelm me with, just… her, all of her, even as she struggled for composure.

She was so beautiful in that moment. Ethereal, yet so very real. I literally ached with the beauty of her. All of her. In that moment, she wasn’t just a spunky little mini-me with glasses and a propensity for chattering simply for chattering’s sake. I don’t know how else to say it. She was just… herself.

And it was breathtaking.

Alli shook my shoulder. “Mom? Momma?” She peered into my eyes, and a shadow of concern crossed her face.
Just a moment had gone by–seconds, really–but I felt both physically and emotionally exhausted, absolutely spent, as if I’d been traveling for weeks in some far off place and I was finally returning home. Trying to get my bearings.

I blinked a few times, fast, winking away any tears that dared to escape. I showed my tear ducts who’s boss, so to speak. “Yes, sweetie?” I finally answered.

“I love you.”

Now, I know for a fact that she had been about to ask me, “Can I read to you?” Because that is what she always asks when her homework is finished and she needs to read for twenty minutes for her reading log. But she changed the program.

“I love you, too,” I replied, then pulled her into my arms for a hug.

“I know,” she said simply. Then, “Momma?” she asked as she gently disentangled herself from my arms, arms which may or may not have been holding her a teensy bit too tightly.

“Hmm…?”

“Can I read to you?”

After a momentary glitch, we were back to our regularly scheduled program. All was well in the world.
But now, as I think back to that moment, I can’t help but wonder if Alli veered off-script because at that moment, that exact moment when she looked into my eyes… she saw me, too.

I Just Know Things. In My Mind.

Favorite new television show quote:

“I just know things. In my mind.”
Kat Stratford

Stated quite seriously in response to Cameron, drunk on a teen cliche– in other words, because he was too stupid to know the watermelon was spiked– after he asks an intoxicated Kat how she KNOWS her sister probably wishes she were making out with him RIGHT NOW.

First of all, spiked watermelon?! Who DOES that?! Tampering with the melon and whatnot?! I am so out of the loop.

And B, shut it! My kiddos MAKE me watch “10 Things I Hate About You”! Based on the movie of the same name! Which I may or may not have loved way back when! Because of Julia Stiles and her pouty expressions and slouchy overalls! And Heath Ledger and his singing in the bleachers! And their cuteness! And Larry Miller! Because he’s funny! Whatever! It’s a FAMILY thing! I watch the show with the FAMILY!

Also, the actress’s delivery was HI-larious. And Gregory Peck’s grandson, who plays the Heath Ledger role, looks and sounds eerily like his grandaddy, who’s old-timey babe-a-licious!

Wait. That probably isn’t the cool thing to say anymore. Freak! I am so out of the loop.

“Play.”

The other day my 10-year-old daughter kept calling me at work, for one reason or another– her sister called her “jerkface,” her brother kept stealing her beanbag when she would go for a snack, the mail hadn’t come yet, and she had this funny curl that kept falling in her face and she was SUPER hungry and WHEN was her new American Girl doll coming again, anyway?!– until I was finally like, “OH MY GOSH! You need to find something to do that does not involve calling me, okay?”

She paused for a moment, then, “Well, what should I DO?”

Seriously. I can barely manage my own schedule and she wants me to plan hers? What am I? Her mother?!

Stupid question. Scratch that.

“It’s summer vacation,” I said. “Play.”

“Oh,” she answered in a Wow, Really? voice. “Okay.”

As I ended the call it struck me– right in the gut, POW– that I couldn’t remember the last time I heard someone say to me, “Just… play.” Or the last time I had nothing but time in front me. Or the last time I could make plans to do something, just because I COULD, not because I HAD to do it.

I looked around at the seemingly never-ending piles of work still ahead of me, and an achy, wistful feeling stole over me, just for a moment, before another thought struck me.

“Aw, FREAK! I should have said, ‘Clean my bathroom’.”

Literally Speaking

You know that curse? That one the mother often calls down upon her recalcitrant daughter? You know, the one that goes, “Someday you will have a child just like you and then you will be SO SORRY, so help you God!”? You know? That one?

First of all, RUDE. I was a joy as a child. My teachers all said so. I’ll bet. I’m pretty sure. Probably. I mean, I was friendly, yo? With all the conversation-making and storytelling? And super helpful, too, especially when we had substitutes. They didn’t even need their lesson plans with me around, I tell you what. I mean, I was more than happy to point out all the class rules and procedures and not a bit shy to correct any divergance from The Way Things Should Be. I was just THAT helpful. The subs all thought so. I’ll bet. Probably.

Second of all, I momentarily forgot what I was talking about.

So… the curse. Right. Rewind to Sunday night when my kiddos insisted I watch (i.e., forced me to sit through) some random show about these real-life kid ghost hunters– whose legitimacy I totally call into question, by the way. I mean, what parent is all, “Sure, honey! You can stay out ALL NIGHT at that reportedly haunted hotel with a few of your friends and some super expensive night vision equipment, web cams, EMF devices, flux capacitors… Go on! Scoot!” Hey, I’m just saying the premise is flawed, is all.

Anyway, toward the end of the show, the token scaredy-cat girl was all, “Oh my gosh! I was literally scared to death!” and I grinned to myself because I AM just that much of an English geek.

Turns out I wasn’t the only one enjoying a bit of a laugh at the expense of the silly, scaredy-cat girl, who, quite frankly, should rethink her career choice because ghosts and haunted places? They’re SCARY, okay? That’s kind of the point. THINK about it. I’m only saying.

But I digress.

Before I could use this moment as a Teaching Opportunity (I think we’ve established my inherent geekiness, so shut it), I heard giggles. A smothered chuckle. Then, “Well, not literally,” my 13-year-old son drawled.

“I know, right?!” agreed my 11-year-old daughter in her I Scoff At Your Supreme Ignorance voice.

My 10-year-old daughter, perhaps for my benefit, added scornfully, “Because she’s still ALIVE?!” She turned toward me. “Right, Momma?”

Struck as I was by the astonishing degree to which my English Geekiness has rubbed off on my kiddos, I could only nod. She, apparently assured by my arrested expression that she had indeed got the joke, turned back toward the TV.

I couldn’t contain a small snort of laughter and a rueful shake of the head as it struck me that, by golly, my mother’s curse? Totally upon me. And you know what?

I’m not even a little sorry.

Taking Back the Blog

So, taking back the blog is actually much more involved than I initially thought. Turns out there’s, like, planning and time management and whatnot! Apparently blogging is NOT just like riding a bike. Blogging muscles atrophy if neglected, did you know? Well, DID you? Because if so, it would have been nice if someone had MENTIONED this to me! Good LORD, people! I’m stymied here! At a loss for words! No coherent thoughts! And I’ve MISSED blogging opportunities! Just missed ‘em! Opportunities involving my CHILDREN! So, basically, I suck, as a writer AND a parent, and it is totally not my fault. Oh, ho ho, that’s right! My suckage is on the heads of all y’all who neglected to mention to me that blogging is HARD and must be constantly worked at for maximum awesomeness! Right?! Right?!

Honestly. What were you thinking?

And look at that! My grammar is all over the place! All! Over! The! Place! Didn’t I just misplace a modifier or dangle a preposition or something absolutely ungrammatical like that?! WHY, GOD?! WHHHYYY?!

No, no, it’s cool. I’m good. No problem here. *breathe*

It’s just, well, DWM was like my journal. My not-so-secret cache of memories and moments all in one place, all here, one-stop nostalgia… and I’ve missed so much!

Silly moments with the kiddos, wherein we learn just how much I’ve rubbed off on them and how very funny and sad and scary and sobering that can be;

Stolen moments with TGIM watching television or riding birthday bikes or hiding away in our room eating Nielsons chicken strips and fries– with fry sauce!– while our kiddos are downstairs making frozen tortellini;

How I’m missing my BFF Paige while she travels all over the place, and totally missing the opportunity to talk about taking care of her cute little buns while she’s on vacation, because honestly, how could I pass up the opportunity to talk about Paige’s cute little buns?!;

Not to mention all the television, movies, books, and, gosh, even WORK, that I have discovered, rediscovered, enjoyed (or not) over the past year and didn’t taken the time to make a memory, to show that, yes, I was HERE, a part of it all, with my finger firmly pressed against the pulse of pop CULTURE!

I’ve missed the moments, people! The MOMENTS! And try as I might to recall them– maybe just a few, right?– to set them away for the future, it’s not the same, I can’t bring them back like that, the moments, because I’m seeing everything with different eyes now. Distant glimpses. The rearview.

And that sucks. Big-time suckage, that.

So… I’ll be taking back the blog now, thank you very much. That’s right! Planning and time-management be damned.

Just so you know.

Summer Cuts and Other Stuff

Tanner lost the curls (no fear, they’ll be back with a vengeance in a month or so…).

Hannah lost about 6 inches of what was fast becoming the HEAVIEST head of hair EVER.

Oh, Alli didn’t get a summer haircut. I chose this picture because– while you can barely see her– she’s totally perched in this awesome climbing tree in OUR FRONT YARD. Of OUR HOUSE. In which WE LIVE. Our family. And our two parakeets. All in our house. Just living and whatnot. It’s a whole Living In Our House That Is Ours thing. YOU know.

I’ll have you know it took every ounce of willpower I have to refrain from breaking into… the Talking Heads song. YOU know the one. I will not mention it lest I lose my already tenuous grip on my impulses. I hope you admire my restraint.

How to make a Momma choke on her hot fudge sundae. And hee!

While riding in the backseat of the car with your momma and daddy and sister, on the way to the BIG bookstore at the mall– you know, the one with the escalator and the cool cushy seats that are Just Right and NOT just those uncomfortable wooden rocking ones that make your bum numb?– to find a book for the school Read-In that you will pay for with your very own money, by setting aside the hot fudge sundae you have been messily enjoying to respond to some loud-mouth on the radio who is yelling about dumb political issues– “…and they’re only concerned about genitalia! It’s all about sex and race! SEX AND RACE!”– which, by the way, is SO not the driving tunes you requested, and piping up from the back seat in your best disgusted, nine-year-old woman-of-the-world, drama queen voice, “DAD! Can you turn that OFF?! We’re trying to EAT here!”

“Spin With It” or “The Stupid Wasp”

I’ve been feeling anxious lately. Unsettled. Discombobulated, even. And if you’ve ever been combobulated, you know how unsettling the opposite of THAT can be. I’m only saying.

Perhaps it is the heat. Here I am hard at work inside, while the sun is shining away outside, all, “Come out and PLAY, cave dweller!” And I’m like, “Don’t interrupt! RUDE.”

Perhaps it is the sounds of imminent summer pressing against my bedroom window. The first wave of summer bugs and their veritable cacophony of buzzing, chirping, whirring, zitzing. Distant mowers and leaf blowers whining and buzzing intermittently. A wasp, trapped between the window and screen, thumping fitfully against the pane. I am painstakingly ignoring the wasp’s plight; hornets make me cranky. I am aware of the inherent pun.

Even still, my house seems unnaturally still, somber… withdrawn from the restless, almost-but-not-quite-summer day brewing outside, and I wish I could withdraw and still the restless anxiety softly brewing inside.

Of me, not my house. Pay attention.

It is as if I am waiting, holding my breath, but I don’t understand why or for what. You know how there are times when you gaze out the window of a moving train or vehicle or airplane, and find yourself mesmerized by the scenery flying by… but not while you are the one in actual physical control of the vehicle or plane because that would be super dangerous? And although the scenery is moving by in lightning-quick flashes of lakes and trees and earth and sky, you struggle to capture it, to put it in your pocket, all of it—the meadowy greens and azure blues, the earthy browns and oranges and purples, even the strips of barren desert or occasional muck along the way—because it is just… so… breathtaking… it is!… and all that beauty is yours at that very moment, and you have no doubt in your mind that if you could just grab it and hold it all in your hands for even a teensy second then it would be the most wonderful, most perfect second of your life?!

But you can’t touch it because you can’t slow down, you can’t just stop, you’re not where you’re supposed to be yet? And your chest tightens and you can barely take a breath? Because as the scenery continues to pass by, to elude you, it changes, it always changes, and though it is still oh-so beautiful and utterly mesmerizing and you know that there is more to see, so much more, you also know in your heart that the you can never get it back, and you will never see it exactly the same way again? And even though you never had it, not to keep, not really, because it was never yours to take… still, you feel the loss?

Yup. The anxiety I’m feeling is a lot like that.

Like my life is speeding by in a whirl of restlessness and obligations and TGIM and my kiddos are only a mesmerizing blur along the way—lightning quick flashes of growing and changing and learning and becoming—so beautiful, yet so fleeting… and I can’t make it stop! I can’t snatch my children out of time and hold them close to me just as they are, so lovely and young, so full of innocence and love and trust, because there are miles to go and places to be and that’s just the way it goes, this life. And before I know it my son is a teenager with braces and hormones and opinions, and my daughters are not quite as grossed out as they used to be when they see people kissing and they will soon be too cool to cuddle up with me and ask me to read them bedtime stories.

So I’ve been feeling anxious lately. Unsettled. Discombobulated.

The wasp is still trapped. I hear it thumping futilely against the pane, and it strikes me that its only thought right now is probably to get out, get out, get OUT of the place in which it is stuck. And if the stupid thing would only slow down for a moment, take a breath—although insects technically breathe passively, but work with me here—maybe it would realize that, hey, it got itself IN there—it crawled right in, uninvited and whatnot—so it can certainly get itself the hell out. There is ALWAYS a way out! A way to move onward, to be free from the frenzied, futile thumping, because what you are doing is not WORKING.

Except for when I open the window and swat it dead, of course.

Hey, I TOLD you. Hornets make me cranky.

But, I’m thinking. Just like the poor deceased wasp, maybe what I ought to do to dispel the unnamed restlessness is to slow down for a moment, breathe, look around. Take notes. Enjoy the view. I mean, I have traveled this far, and I know the ultimate ending, but if I am always waiting, holding my breath, always searching for something more, or looking for a way to get… oh, somewhere else, I am missing what is plain, what is right in front of me. The mesmerizing blur, so to speak. And I can’t get that back! Like it says in “World Spins Madly On” by the Weepies:

Everything that I said I’d do
Like make the world brand new
And take the time for you
I just got lost and slept right through the dawn
And the world spins madly on

So, pay attention, me!

Also? Occasionally I am melodramatic and strange.

Wii Blackmail Bargain, 4-Year-Old Style

HA!

I just tried to call my BFF Paige, but her 4-year-old answered and told me, “When she lets me play Wii, I’ll let you talk to her.”

What can I say? Props to the boy for his mad bargaining skillz.

Watch Out, Britney and Justin!

Conversation in the car, minutes before Alli’s next-to-last basketball game:

“Momma, I hope we win this game! Then we get to play in the… the…”

“…the playoffs,” TGIM supplied.

“Yeah, playoffs,” Alli agreed, bouncing excitedly in her seat. “It’s like a dance-off… but for basketball!”

Watch out, opposing team. Alli’s in the hizzouse!

Bonus Points for Effort

On Saturday night TGIM and I went on a double date with Paige and TGSheM. Naturally, we left TD home with his sisters, plus two of Paige’s girls (one TD’s age, the other a few years younger than Alli) with the somewhat optimistic idea that extra bodies in the house would help prevent any kind of sibling squabbles or blood feuds in our absence.

Hey. It could work. You don’t know.

Toward the end of the evening, however, TGIM received a phone call from home. We knew it was The Call. You know. The one where the kid calls and is all, “So… I just thought you might want to know that Hannah is sitting on Alli’s head and I think the toilet is broken, but the towels got most of it, and the smoke detector in the kitchen WORKS, if you were wondering, and no one is even listening to me”– interrupted by background screams of “Tanner’s a LIAR! Don’t LISTEN TO HIM! LIAR! LIAR! Pants on FIIIIRE!” and “Get OFF me! GET OFF! Mooooooommmmmmaaaa!”– and always ending with, “um… so when are you coming home?”

I watched TGIM take the call, trepidation creepy crawling down my back, and waited for The Response. You know. The one where the parent is like, “Is anyone bleeding? Is? Anyone? BLEEDING?!” and then, “Then WHY are you CALLING?! We’ve talked about this! Rule number one: Don’t call unless there is blood or broken body parts! Now tell Hannah to get off her sister, stay out of the bathroom, don’t go NEAR the kitchen, and we’ll be home in a bit!”

But the only response from TGIM was a grin.

“Well,” I hissed sotto voce, “what’s he saying?”

TGIM covered the phone, held it away from his mouth, and answered loudly enough for all of us to hear, “He said, ‘When are you coming home? It’s pandeminium over here!’”

He uncovered the phone and replied, “Pandeminium, eh?”–I covered my mouth to stifle a giggle–”Well, we’ll be home soon, so hang in there.”

Afterward, we all agreed. Developing a larger-than-average vocabulary mostly through reading?

As it turns out, not always optimal.

Go gentle into that good night. Go on!

Sometimes? I get this naggy, achy feeling, deep down, deep in my heart, and I am struck by an almost overwhelming desire to walk away from it all. And by “it all” I mean the world wide web. Just to be clear. I’m not referring to my job, or my television shows, or TGIM and the kiddos. I mean, I don’t want all y’all thinking I’m going to pull a Marie Osmond and leave the nanny with credits cards and blank checks, all like, “I’m OUT of here!” For one, I don’t have a nanny. So, you know, there’s that. Also, Chuck and Heroes and Ugly Betty are back, so I can’t just pick up and GO, right? Madness, that’s what it would be. Sheer, unadulterated madness! Chuck is in 3D this week! I know, right? 3D! AND Joss Whedon’s new show, Dollhouse, is set to air in a week or so. Like I would miss that! Hello? It shall be awesometastic. Oh, yes it shall.

So… when I say walk away from it all, I mean the web. The Blogosphere. To simply drift away from the Twitter and the Facebook. To walk away from the vidcast and the blog. It’s been a good run! Who knew back in 2004 that I would still be here, here in the Blogosphere, writing and filming and friending and tweeting? Who knew? Certainly not I. I honestly had no idea what I was getting myself into, what I would learn and become, and sometimes… well, it feels like too much. See, I’ve gone and developed Expectations. And with Expectations comes Self Doubt. Envy. That big meanie, Judgy McJudgerpants. And I start to wonder stuff. Like, “Oh NO. What if I run fresh out of pithy thoughts? What if suddenly I’m pithyless? What then?” That is exactly the moment when I get the naggy, achy feeling, and there’s a part of me that wants to slip away. To go gentle into that good night.

And by “go gentle into that good night” I mean walk away. You know, from the web. Just to be clear. When I quote Dylan Thomas, I am speaking metaphorically. There is no need for intervention. ARE WE CLEAR?

I do understand that walking away from it all would be bittersweet. Bitter because I slightly neglected several well-loved hobbies to delve into the new ones, and where would that leave me if I turned away? But sweet, because I’ve made so many friends through all of it. See, this is why I am all about the milk chocolate. Bittersweet chocolate blows. Michael Scott had it right. “Why not just sweet? I mean, who are you helping?” And that’s what I keep asking myself. Who am I helping? Me? Who? And does it matter? Does it? With the gajillion bloggers out there, will anyone even notice if I fade away? I don’t know! But truthfully, I can’t help but think it hugely presumptuous of me to think anyone will. Notice, that is. Because, bold much? Honestly.

If I’m going to power through the Self Doubt and the Envy, and push aside the antics of one Mr. Judgy McJudgerpants, if I plan to rage, rage against the dying of the light, I guess I feel as if it should be worth it. I don’t want to be taken in again, as with American Idol, who strung me along for years and years before finally revealing itself as a sham and a liar and a time-suck of epic proportions! I should have learned after the Ruben-Clay fiasco of ‘03, but no. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into that relationship and where did it get me?! Huh?! Nowhere, bucko, that’s where! And I can’t get all those late-night hours spent dialing and voting and recapping BACK, no sir! That’s all I’m saying. I don’t want to look back and be all, “Dude. Why did I hang on to that relationship with the web for so long? Good LORD. What was I THINKING?”

You see?

It’s a conundrum, I tell you what. And by “conundrum” I mean… conundrum. Just so we’re clear.

In other news, I am occasionally melodramatic and strange.

Sometimes I Can Be a Super Duper Buttinsky

(DISCLAIMER: This is in response to a situation that has nothing whatsoever to do with me; however, thoughts regarding this sitch will continue to nag at at me until I speak my mind. So there. Read it. Or don’t. Whatever. I do understand that my blog is a public forum and that this may cause negative or hard feelings to be directed my way. But whatever. I feel strongly about what is being said. That is all.)

Dear Lady of Questionable Humor Who was Recently Burned by Twitter Tweets:

I’m sorry that because of something you wrote in your Twitter stream you had to suffer the indignity of having the police come and check on you and your children. I worry all the time that one of my neighbors will call the police or child protective services because I have a daughter that has the most HORRIFYING, piercing yell—I kid you not—and she has absolutely no qualms about shrieking at the top of her lungs for longer than one would believe is humanly possible if her older brother so much as looks at her wrong. Which he does. A LOT. To have the cops come because someone heard her screaming and thought someone was hurting her would be embarrassing and horrible and scary and did I mention TOTALLY EMBARRASSING?! I’ve tried to explain to her that there are “Good Samaritans” out there who could potentially call the police because they can hear her screaming, but she’s a child… and when it comes right down to it, it’s an impulse control issue and all we can do is work on it. That said, I’d be pissed if someone DID call the authorities, especially without talking to me first, but I would totally understand why. While I’d rather be approached first, I really wouldn’t expect a neighbor to come to my door and ask, “Excuse me, are you abusing your child in there?” Nah. Not many people would be brave enough to take that risk. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m just saying.

That said…

I’m American. I don’t watch Fox news (I don’t watch any network news, actually). I do watch “Bones” and “House,” though, and they are on Fox so sometimes I see news commercials during the breaks, but I don’t think that should count because I am usually getting snacks and such, or spending quality time with my husband and children. And I live in the DC Metro area, which is technically “The South” if you go by the Mason-Dixon line, which I totally don’t because that line of demarcation is ancient HISTORY. But dude. Honestly. If you use Twitter, you have no expectation of privacy, unless you protect your updates. And frankly, I don’t know you from Adam, but after reading back through several of your Tweets, I know more about your battles with bipolar disorder, your strained relationship with your husband, and your discontent with your co-workers (and boss) than I think is entirely necessary. WAY more. Good LORD with the TMI, woman! But I have the ability to, you know, NOT follow you. Or read your blog. Which is cool. If I don’t appreciate your brand of humor, so what, right? In the big scheme of things, it don’t mattah. We don’t know each other. We’ll likely never meet, even if I do ever travel to Canada. It’s a big place. Whatever. My good opinion is nothing to you.

So please don’t misunderstand me. I’m all for emotional honesty. I’m all for snark. I’m all for cutting jokes and whatnot. And I get that you want to Keep It Real. Awesome. Go on and get down with your bad self. You have that right. You have the right to ask all of Twitter if it would be okay to smother your screaming child. Even if you are TOTALLY kidding! Ha ha! I get it. You’re like Michael Scott. You hope to someday live in a world where a person could tell a hilarious Child Abuse joke. I hear you. But sadly, that is not our world. Yet. (Fingers crossed!)

So all the Twitter Tweeters who read your “questionable” Tweet (and the others before it) have the right-—and some “Good Samaritans” would say the responsibility-—to think—perhaps!—that someone ought to make sure that you are not REALLY going to smother your child to get her to be quiet and go to sleep. Because mothers ACTUALLY DO THAT. A commenter confessed that she Tweeted that she wanted to flush her child down the toilet, and asked if that Tweet should have sent alarm bells going in the Twitterdom, too. Well, no, actually, it shouldn’t. Why should it? Because mothers CAN’T ACTUALLY DO THAT. Unless there is some super secret child-flushable toilet out there that only she knows of, but even I cannot willingly suspend disbelief on that one, and I watched ALL SEVEN seasons of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” (I know, right?) Nor can you sell your child on eBay. Believe me. I’ve tried.

Wait! That was a joke.

You know, the image of the young mother Rowena smothering her three-year-old daughter in “Mary Jane Harper Cried Last Night” is STILL burned into my memory, and that came out in the 70s. THE 70s! I had nightmares! Didn’t want to sleep with a pillow anymore! Even though my momma was always super nice to me! But still! Hate Susan Dey to this… er, day! So there you go. You have willingly put yourself out there as a parent struggling through mental illness and the challenges of raising a family. So when you say something extreme, like “I want to kill my children,” this will lead to extreme reactions and/or responses. It will. You must have known that when you wrote it. Weren’t you trying to be shocking? Otherwise, a simple “My daughter won’t go to bed and she is driving me CRAAAZY…” would have sufficed. Extreme comments like yours set off alarm bells. They just do. And you can’t control the reaction you’ll get from readers who may not know you very well. Or, you know, at all. If you can’t understand that then maybe you shouldn’t be blogging. Or Twittering. At all. At least not in such a public forum.

Because sure, you have the right to Keep It Real and eschew “bullshit and fake honesty” in your own way. But if your exercise of that right in the public forum—where, again, people who see it may not (and most likely do not) know you personally—results in unintended negative consequences, then it is as Mark Twain wrote– that free speech “ranks with the privilege of committing murder: we may exercise it if we are willing to take the consequences.”

Perhaps instead of complaining that concerned readers should take the time to read back over your past posts and Tweets and figure out for themselves that you were just making a twisted sort of emotionally honest joke, perhaps you could ask yourself to take a few moments before you post something that you know is shocking or questionable and ask yourself if it may be taken in the wrong spirit by other parents or people who just don’t get your brand of humor. Like, “Hey, if I announced to a random crowd at the mall that I wanted to kill my children or asked passerbyers at the grocery store if it would be okay to smother my screaming child, would that raise alarm bells?” If the answer is yes, then there you go. Instant filter. Problem solved. I’m just suggesting that self-censorship is necessary if you aren’t keen on serious backlash for hasty or controversial content you put out there for anyone to read. Unless you WANT a reaction, of course, in which case, just keep on keeping on.

It’s like I tell my children who have inherited my control freak gene:  “You can’t control anyone but yourself.” To me, that principle extends to how we present ourselves and who we let into our little space in the blog world. You may not be able to control what other people take away from your writing, but you can control how you present your thoughts and feelings. Raw honesty does not have to be shocking or vulgar. It just has to be real.

Again, I am so sorry you had to suffer the indignity of cops coming by to check on you and your family. I mean that sincerely. That must have sucked SO MUCH.

That’s all I have to say about that. I will now carry on living my life.

Too Much Time on My Hands

When you’re stuck in bed– a hoarse, sniffly shell of what used to be a loud, exuberant human being– you find the time to do things that don’t really need to be done. Nevertheless, you do them. Because you CAN.

Thus… BEHOLD. My new DWM header.

Fancy, eh?

The Lambson Family Newsletter- Holiday Edition 2008

Click on the image below for this year’s Lambson Family Newsletter: Holiday Edition 2008. (Or download the PDF. Whichev.) Because I want to save a tree, that’s why! Also, I am disorganized and often quite lazy.

Happy freaking HOLIDAYS!

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