I am half way through cleaning out a certain someone’s bedroom.  I don’t know why I am choosing today, the last official week day before school starts, to purge my 8, almost 9, year old daughter’s bedroom.  It is a beautiful day outside – sunny, 82 degrees, low humidity – but I have been doing child centered activities all week and ridding her room of the debris will be extremely gratifying to yours truly.  Just walking by her room and glancing into it, raises my blood pressure, let alone having to enter her room to tuck her in at night.  I usually have to step around a pile of books and leap over a heap of dirty clothes just to negotiate the 5 feet from the door to her bedside.  I have a friend that requires a “safety zone” in the room so that people can walk around the room without sustaining an injury of some kind.  I also have a different friend who doesn’t go into her daughter’s room to read to her and tuck her in unless it is picked up.  That seems like a logical consequence.  Maybe I’ll use that in concert with my current plan, which is to take pretty much everything out of her room except clothing, a handful of books, her American girl doll and whatever she needs in the line of school supplies to complete her homework.   I figure maybe with 75% of the stuff in her room removed, she can be successful in keeping it picked up.  The teacher in me is creating an imaginary IEP with one achievable goal: Student will keep room tidy 80% of the time.  Am I being unrealistic?  Should I just let her have a messy room, avoid all the badgering I have to do to get her to clean it, get a valium prescription for myself and walk around singing “Que Sera, Sera?”  Will things play out like they do in a Mrs. Piggle Wiggle book and my daughter will eventually trap herself in her room and we’ll have to place a ladder to her window to give her food and water?
So far the most exciting thing I’ve discovered, besides the “Elf on a Shelf” book that I tore the house apart at Christmas time….twice, looking for (It was in one of two boxes I gift wrapped to be an aesthetically pleasing stand for the doll house.  The one box had children’s holiday books and the other had summer clothes that may have fit at the beginning of the summer but definitely do not fit now.  Why do I tell myself, “Oh, I’ll totally remember what’s in those boxes?” I’ve got to stop all the lying!) was the cover to a small tin box.  It had an interesting, greasy, almost opaque substance with a  vaseline like viscosity to it, spread all over the underside of the lid.  There was a Harry Potter lego character laying, like a victim of the “stupify” spell, in the unidentified paste.  I held it up to my daughter and asked what the stuff was. “Oh! That is a skating rink,” she responded with pride in her voice.
“What did you use to make the rink?,” I probed with fear of what the answer might be.
“Oh, sunscreen,” she answered nonchalantly.
Of course I have to give artistic props to the juxtaposition created in the use of a product synonymous with summer to facilitate a winter activity.
I also have to say, “gross.”
Alright, it’s back to the purging.  If I have any energy left when I’m done, I’ll post an “after” photo.  You can see the “before” shot in the background of the ice rink pic below.

Here is an analogy to help get your brain going, get in a proper frame of mind to read the rest of this post and prepare you for that SAT test you’ll be taking soon.

Beautiful outdoor wedding : Hurricane Gloria \  Mom working out: __________

A) Brownies
B) Children
C) Pinterest
D) Margarita

If you need a clue, ask yourself which of the choices is an unstoppable force of nature that can annihilate anything that comes in its path – including peace and joy.

The answer is A, brownies.  I kid – of course its B.

This begs the question then, why would my children want me to be flabby?  Why?
What possible benefit would they get from me being crowned the Muffin Top Queen at the state fair this year.

I must admit that apparently I’m a bit misguided in the notion that exercise equals healthy, amazing body.  I keep hearing from a myriad of sources that diet is 75% to 80% of a factor in the way you look and feel.  Exercise is only the other 20 to 30%.  Poo.  I like the old way when I thought I could exercise to compensate for my Ding Dong and cheese intake. Why did God make Randy’s Pizza taste so nummy? Sigh. Oh well.

So despite the fact that exercising may or may not give me the flat abs that I long for, it is most certainly a major source of stress relief for me.  A time to decompress and release some tension.  Being that my offspring are a major source of stress in my life, they are a primary reason for my need to exercise. Of course I love them dearly and they offer me much joy as well, but on a good day the joy, stress ratio is about 50/50.

Children and a Mom’s Body Image

 We grew them on the insides of our bodies.  Bodies that became stretched, squishy, torn and disproportionate.   So if that wasn’t enough, once they begin to talk they can become your own personal truth speaking discourager like the surly high school gym coaches of yore.  “Mommy, your tummy feels like a pillow.”  Mommy, why does your bottom jiggle?”  Mommy what are those lines on your thighs?”
About three days after I had given birth to my son, my daughter, who was 3 1/2 at the time, was going to accompany me to the grocery store.  As I was getting her into the car she patted my stomach and informed me that it was squishy.  She then looked at my stomach, looked up at my face, looked back at my stomach and asked me if I really wanted to go to the store with my squishy tummy.
Thanks, daughter.  That was a real confidence booster.  Because I wasn’t feeling self-concious at all about my body.  I will still go to the store despite my “squishy tummy,” but now I’m not so sure you should come because I’m nervous you might approach some random grocery store shopper and ask them if they left their spanx at home.

Children and Running

Unless your children are school age or you are able to afford a sitter or gym membership that offers childcare or you are able to get up before your husband leaves for work, you will need to push your children in a jogging stroller to get your run in.  This will involve the added benefits of increasing your strength and will hone your ability to bight your tongue and not swear when you’re attempting to push your double stroller up a 15% grade hill.

Then come the questions and the dialogue.  “What’s that dog’s name?” “How much longer?”  “What’s that noise?” “I’m hungry.”  “I’m thirsty.”  “What’s your opinion on the origins of the universe?”  And my favorite is, when going up a steep hill and I slow down because I’m sucking air and dripping sweat like a iced beverage on a 100 degree day.. “Why are we going slow?  Run faster mom.”

I’ve also had to be creative at times, like going to a park where I can run around them or back and forth in front of them. This would inevitably end up with them finding a patch of mud to smother themselves with, or fighting or boredom, all of which lead to interrupting me.  More on interruptions when I explore the at home work out.

I will say that sometimes it is nice to have a little companion with me on those days when it’s not too hot, the terrain is pretty flat and the humidity is low.  I do miss playing peek-a-boo through the little “sun roof” on the top of our stroller with the younger versions of my kids.

What have your children done to help your wellness?

The second and third installments of Downward Facing Mom will include: ‘Children and Yoga‘ and ‘Children and Working Out’

Did I fail to properly instruct my family on what I feel are basic and fundamental household tasks?  Am I that ineffective as a domestic executive?  I know I am a kick ass domestic worker.  That is not the question.  I can load a dishwasher like a pro.  Like a pro.

Here are four tasks that I would love to have my family, no, not just them, the entire world, fall in line with my ideal.  Talk about world peace.

Crap In Common Spaces

See picture above.  There is definitely a double standard going on here because I don’t give a flying flea about my piles of stuff.  In other words I don’t notice my stuff as much as I recognize other peoples stuff.  I believe this is because I know why my pile is there and that I will remove it sooner rather than later.  And, if I do happen to have a pile planting down roots it is because I know that it will take a while to truly put each item in that pile in it’s proper place and, to be honest, I’m procrastinating.  This piece of paper will be filed here.  This coupon goes there.  (That reminds me I have been meaning to write a post on coupons. I have very strong opinions about them.)  This marker goes with a set on the other side of the house.  This piece of paper requires 20 minutes follow up…..
That said I am always tempted to leave a pile like the one pictured above, alone, and see how long it takes to be removed.  I’m just not that brave.  Maybe relaxed would better describe the precise character trait I am lacking.
I don’t envision my children immediately picking up after themselves and never leaving a wake of destruction in their path, but someday it would be nice if it occurred to them that leaving their jacket, shoes and backpack on the floor, setting up a fun game of “Mommy Just Tripped And Barely Escaped Using Adult Language” could be avoided by using the hooks a mere 2.5 cm away from their pile.  One can dream.

I recently got a great tip from a very intelligent friend of mine.  She will place random pile items, such as a sock, in the refrigerator or on a light fixture.  When the offending family member asks about the unlikely location of the sock, she points out that if that it doesn’t belong on the floor either.  Brilliant!

Food Particles on Plates

We don’t have a garbage disposal.  This means that if you put a plate in the sink (Not one to let the positive go unnoticed, if a plate is being put in the sink by someone other than myself, that is super great!) with food on it, it will wind up partially or fully saturated with water, transformed into a slimy and/or bloated mass and then finally laid to rest in the comfort of the sink strainer drain plug.  Guess who gets to fish that out with her finger?  More stomach turning than that is having to sometimes vainly pluck something out of the mouth of the actual drain, like a piece of fried egg too big to slip down into the recesses of our septic tank.  I think I’ve said enough.  Anything more and it would just get too graphic.  Maybe if I used my middle finger to clear aforementioned gunk out, I could give myself an outlet for my disgust.

Used Tissue Mount Everest

As you may have wisely deduced, my daughter had a runny nose a couple of weeks ago.
She has learned about germs.  She knows where the garbage can is.  How can two and two not be put together here?
Part of the problem is that, even though I have given her some reteaching on the blow and fold technique, she doesn’t always use that method.  She belongs to the blow once, grab another tissue school of thought.  God bless her.  I guess I would rather have this situation to deal with rather than someone who won’t blow their nose and snarks all their mucus up into their brain.

Toothpaste Chunks In The Sink

How can someone who isn’t color blind not realize that something is just not right here?  Gross.
I am thankful for the clean teeth, but come on, people.  The water is right there.  Just rinse the blue glittery goodness away.
Photo curtesy of DW and her two boys.

Maybe it’s not me.  Maybe my family is lovingly, intentionally giving me job security.  It does help me not care as much if I ask myself, “Do I really want to raise children who are as neat freakish as me?”  The answer is no.  I can hold myself back from the constant reminding knowing that I might be sparing them from a life of incessantly noticing that which ins’t “perfect.”  I’m getting there.  If that’s the case then I could maybe give myself props when they don’t throw away their stack of 3,000 used tissues.  “What a free spirit my daughter is!  I’m raising a child who will be comfortable and well prepared to serve in the ghettos of any given third world country. Yay me!”

If you can totally relate to the madness I just depicted, then I hate to break it to you, but you are officially anal.  Welcome to the club.  There are complimentary valium infused martinis in the membership lounge.  We may be an uptight lot at times, but at least no one has to remind us to scrape the cheesy nacho remnants off of our plates.

…and her brother.


The car is an interesting setting for parenting.  By interesting, I mean I wish that I was deaf in both of my ears and not just the one.  The car, and often times very near the car, have been the scene for many a volcanic eruption of family drama and disfunction.  Picture a volvo station wagon gliding down a stream of lava from the top of Mount Vesuvius.  I have found that the vasectomy inducing scenarios play out in three primary forms.


Agenda Differences


My agenda is usually to get in and out of the car quickly and efficiently, so I can, for example, get into Target and grab my mood stabilizing prescriptions spit spot.  Or, if we are at home, to hoof it into the house where, as you can imagine, I am super pumped to discover all the inspirational household duties that await.  Most days, recently, it seems like waste management has been taking top billing – always fun. Which of the toilets have my children neglected to flush?  Awesome.  All of them.  I love aged potty water. 


My son’s agenda is to do his best possible impersonation of what molasses in January would look like were it oozing out of my car.  When we are at home in the garage, if I don’t stay there with him by his side the entire 45 minutes it take him to exit the vehicle and make it to the front door, I am accused of being “mean” and “hurting his feelings.”


My daughter’s agenda in the car, as in all areas of her life, is to leave an F5 tornado level of destruction in her wake.  So when I ask her to fetch whatever wrapper, torn to shred piece of paper, little pieces of toys, art supplies, homework, mittens, hat, hair clips, etc that she has left behind, I get the drama treatment.  ‘Maaaahhhm. Do I haaaaave to?  I don’t waaaant to.”


Arguing


Arguing with each other.  Arguing with me.  Either way, I just want to punch a wall.  Since walls are not readily available in the car, I resort to hitting the steering wheel, a fit of yelling and demanding them to look out their respective windows and cease all talking or, occasionally, by calmly asking them to stop and then outlining a natural consequence that will occur if they choose to continue their offending behavior.
The type of response I have to their arguing is most often directly proportional to the topic of their bickering. The more contrived, the stronger my reaction.  For example, as was the case yesterday, they were arguing because each of their teachers apparently gave opposing reports of whether the groundhog saw his shadow or not.  My daughter said her teacher was older, so she has to be right.  Then my son was flown into a tizzy because “Why are all of your teachers older than my teachers?”  Back and forth it went for like 5 minutes. My son got himself on the verge of tears, until I, through clenched teeth and one of those slow and quite rages, told them that we would look it up on the internet when we got home and to STOP TALKING!
My other favorite recurring argument they have in the car is over the pronunciation of the spanish word for orange- “anaranjado.”  They can go at it for what seems like decades, with this one.  My daughter takes her confident and methodical approach of making my son feel like he is losing the argument and he, in turn, becomes very angry and emotional.  I am going to remind you that this is over the way a word is pronounced. This debate rears its ugly head about once every couple of weeks.


Volume/Maturity Issues


I have to say with great confidence that I will not miss having a noisy car when my children are no longer children.  Don’t get me wrong, I will miss having them with me and being able to talk with them, but lest I forget, this post will remind me that 93.6% (there may be a 0 to 40 point deviation) of the time we are in the car together they are making it quite difficult for me to make any kind of progress towards my personal growth goals.  I do feel guilty that even when they aren’t arguing or fighting and they’re actually being playful and sweet to one another, their loud and non-sensicle conversations push me over the edge.  
Things they find awesome and I don’t: chanting, made up words, endless rhyming of made up words, made up lyrics, endless singing of made up lyrics, baby talk, weird voices and potty talk.  Besides the potty talk, which we by house rules, don’t allow in excess, there is nothing morally wrong about all of the other activities listed.  Which, again, makes me feel guilty for not having a higher “kids being kids” threshold.  Thankfully for them I can tune some of that out, but a lot of times I just can’t deal. 


A sampling of some of their vernacular splendor:

On and on this goes, louder and louder. The uncontrollable laughter competes with the volume level for which of them is more intense, until I finally say with controlled vehemence, “I love you guys very much and there is nothing wrong with what you are saying right now, but I just can’t handle it.  You can say all those things how ever much you want when we get home, but for right now, I need you guys to talk “normally.” 


I’d like to think that I am not that abnormal in my levels of tolerance for my children’s car riding behaviors.  Maybe I am.  Maybe I’m nailin’ it on the head for some mom’s right now.  Maybe a lot of you are ‘amen’ing it all over the place.  Maybe I’m getting a lot of judgment sent my way and making a lot of mom’s think they’re better than me.  Either way, I guess I can take solace in the fact that it’s kind of like I’m doing an act of community service.  Helping mom’s by boosting their confidence or making them feel like they’re not alone in their psychoses.  Whatever floats your boat, or in this case, whatever drives your juice stained, snack crumb laden, small plastic toy cluttered mini-van.

Dear Grandpa,

You were born in 1923.  The fourth child of Norwegian immigrants.  You grew up in such a different world than what we know now.  The Great Depression, WWII, The Fifties.  You were in the same ilk as Don Draper, minus the heavy drinking, smoking and infidelity.  🙂 You married an amazing women who kept house and raised your three kids.  This wife loved you, understood you, traveled around the world with you and shared your love of God and His church.  You both had a vibrant social circle -friends and family were always around basking in the glow of your love of life, fun and food.
You grew old together, travelled the world together and watched your children and grandchildren become productive and responsible members of society.
Then one day in July, ten years ago, you found yourself without your companion.  Almost 60 years with her and life was suddenly different.
You were one, not two.  You were lonely.
You choose to focus on your blessings and praise your God.  At her funeral you raised your hand in worship while singing “How Great Thou Art.”
Gradually, you grew older and less capable of  maintaining your once active lifestyle.  You moved into a Senior Living Center and slowly began losing small pieces of yourself going from cane to canes-plural, to walker to wheelchair.  Losing your ability to drive and the choices that each day could bring you.  Still you kept an attitude of thankfulness. You choose to focus on what mattered to you most – what you still had, the love your God and the love of your family.
Now you can’t even breath on your own and yet you can look towards heaven with such longing, but still be present on earth with such hope.

Thank you so much.  Thank you for being so strong in your heart when you body is so very weak.

Thank you for little things that are really so big, like taking the time to play Monopoly with me, when no other adults could spare the time.  Thank you for letting me style your hair, eat your junk food, join you at fancy restaurants, for being at all of my recitals, for my first car, for letting me cut your grass even though I almost sucked your dog into the mower…… and a million other memories.

Thank you most of all for being the kind of man who can look back on his life with no regrets.  I may be off on this one, but I don’t think it is common for someone to rest so peacefully in the knowledge that a beautiful legacy has indeed been passed down to his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren.

I want you here, but I know you want to be with Granny and with Jesus, who you both love so much.

With all my love,

Your first grandchild -the one you called a tennis ball with eyes and the one who you helped to become the woman I am today.  I would be a different person if you had not been in my life.

Just like an Aesop’s Fables you will have to wait until the end to read the moral.  It will be so worth it, though, and I think your life may even take a new trajectory as a result.

It was the fall of 2005.  I had just started back to teaching after two years of being a full time mom.  Along with the start of work came some really “super fun” family drama, which became the catalyst for some retail therapy, which ultimately resulted in the purchase of “the blouse.”  I can tell you all of the other things I purchased as well because I have a super power named “clothing memory.”  I can remember what I was wearing or most other people were wearing at major and minor events throughout history.  Some people have clothing memory thrust upon them, I was born with it.  I view it mainly as a curse because I would much, much rather have my brain space be used with more productive information like,  when I ‘m in the shower, “Did I just wash my hair or shave my under arms, because I can’t remember, so I guess I’ll just do them again…..or for the first time.  I don’t know.”  I’m serious.  What a waste of time.  Or, even more costly, remembering when my library books are due.   It just feels awkward when the library staff thanks me personally for their pay increase.
How is the fact that Heather was wearing a navy blue t-shirt and khaki bermudas the first time I met her going to enhance my life?

“The blouse” was an Old Navy purchase.  It was  a sheer black number with off white polka dots.  Short sleeved, button down with a v neck and a tie in the front to give it the illusion of a higher neck line when you tied it into a draping bow tie.  I bought a black camisole to go with it or maybe I had one in the first place. Whatever.
On this particular morning, as fate would have it, one of the light bulbs in our closet had gone kaput, so there was a visibility issue.  I put “the blouse” on over just a black bra instead of the bra and a camisole.  I remember debating whether this was too risque or not, but then concluded that I had seen other people wear the look and it seemed normal.  I asked my husband if it looked okay, and because of the afore mentioned lighting issue, he said it looked fine, and trust me, my husband is very conservative, so he would have 86ed the outfit if he been give a clear visual of it.

My fist clue that this outfit selection might be problematic was my colleague, Rachael, glancing at my shirt and then quickly darting her eyes upward.  It was very evident that she was forcing herself not to look at my slutty attire.  Like someone with a huge zit or mole or something so prominent that is rude to stare at, but you just can’t help it.  I immediately became extremely self-conscious about “the blouse” and my camisole deficit and crossed my arms in front of me trying to cover up as much of myself as possible.

A few moments later the students were arriving and I was in the hallway greeting them like the two-bit teacher hooker that I was, working her corner.

Then the whole scene went into slow motion when a mom, who wasn’t quite sure I was the best fit for her child in the first place, starting walking down the hallway. I could spot the judgement and concern in her eyes from 10 yards away.  I smiled, bid her a good morning and didn’t wave, as not to remove my arms from my covering my shirt.

Long story short, she wanted her child removed from my class because of the blouse (the straw that broke the camel’s back, apparently) and, because I was teaching drinking games in class and that I was selecting reading material for the kids that supported domestic abuse.  First of all, the “drinking game” was a cup tapping, rhythm, coordination game I learned at bible camp – absolutely no alcohol involved, in fact no alcohol can come within 1 mile of that game, and secondly, just read Wayside School books.

As the story goes, we were able to solve the shirt problem by way of my friend’s daughter’s black, fringed, macrame poncho, which I wore under the shirt.  It proved to add some very interesting flare to the ensemble and I think I got more compliments the rest of the day on that, than any other outfit I’ve ever worn.  I guess if I wanted similar compliment volume without a wardrobe change I could have simply switched venues and headed to the nearest Hooters.

All in all, at least I left some kind of legacy for myself.  Would have been nice if it was because of my stellar teaching skills, but, like most strung out ladies of the evening, I’ll take what I can get.

For those of you that don’t have children, especially the four year old boy variety, the announcement of bath time goes like this….

Me: “Okay, there, bud!  It’s time to get clean!”
Son: (Melting into a heap and slipping quickly into whining and crying) “I don’t want to take a bath!”  “Why do I always have to take a bath?” Lather, rinse, repeat.

At this point I usually revert to my power through MO.  For some reason it is much easier for me to deal with the effort it takes to ignore (ie: not engage in conversation) and quickly bathe a very strung out, irrational, crying and slightly writhing child than it does to opt for the distract and accommodate method.

So, this means I simply do everything for him without asking for him to try to comply with anything.  Understandably,  he does this as not want to enter into a breech of contract situation with satan.  His contract clearly states that he must categorically disagree and/or complain about every single thing I say or do.  If I request that he take off his clothes, he whines or makes up something like, “my zipper is too stuck, my pants are too tight, my arms won’t get out of my shirt, etc., etc.”  Pants that were too loose just that morning, have been magically transformed and shrunk over the course of the day.

If I give him a choice of whether he wants to turn the bath water on or if I should, both are unacceptable options.  Then, the water is 2.7 degrees too cold or too hot, the washcloth is too scratchy, the soap is too soapy, his 98% healed owie all of sudden because too sensitive to come in contact with water.

Well, somehow, we rapidly make it through bath time, the water is draining and his mood is taking a turn for the better, like the calm after a violent tropical hurricane.  Smiling, I tell him, “See?  That wasn’t so bad.  That was so quick!  You’re Captain Quick Bath!”

His towel is hanging up on the back of his bedroom door so I sprint into the other room to grab it while I hear a conversation, or more specifically, a super hero name slam beginning between my son and his older sister, who is brushing her teeth.  “I’m Captain Silly Head.”
“You’re Captain Foofoo Head.” (Foo foo is their favorite word.  I don’t know why.  But is repeated in many different variations precisely 384 time a day.)
“You’re Captain Toothpaste.”  
 As I come back into the bathroom I notice that my son, who has been getting chilled waiting for his towel,  has apparently enacted a survival technique that any male would do in this situation, protect admiral winky.
And then I hear him say, inspired by the current placement of his hands,…. (are you ready for this?)…. “I’m Captain Squished Penis.”

His father and I are so happy to have a super hero for a son.  Keeping the world a safer place one  unsquished dingle dong at a time.

You know how there are those books out there that parallel the game of golf to the “game” of life? Yeah, well, this post is not about that, because I don’t play golf. I have attempted golf in the past and because I was nowhere near being good at it, I believe there was an incident involving a ball being repeatedly and violently struck on the putting green and a possible high speed club, tee off grass, collision. On second thought, maybe the game of golf does parallel my life…… disprapotionate responses and a failure to meet my own unrealistic expectations. Sounds about spot on.
Back to the point I’m really trying to make. The creation of this blog as a parallel of my life.
It all begins with the very angst ridden decision to actually begin a blog in the first place. You should know that angst will probably come up a lot in the future, so if you are at all into making hash marks when, for example, on any given Sunday you key in on a phrase that your pastor keeps repeating in a message or you are one of my libation/reality television friendly readers who takes a sip every time you hear the word “connection” on The Bachelor, you should totally do it with the word angst in my posts.
To be fair, I didn’t have to wrestle too much with the decision to begin a blog, it was more about the period of time between deciding and actually getting the first post in indelible pixilation on the internet.  Imagine the length of the NBA playoff schedule and you’ll have it about right.

The first step was determining content.  I’ve seen a lot of different blogs out there and I was thinking I might need to have it focused on a central topic, for example, stories from teaching elementary school (like the time I was accused of teaching 2nd graders drinking games) or my kids (like all the times I locked myself in the closet) or theology (like the time an old church friend couldn’t wear certain feminine products because her mom thought it would feel too much like sex).  But in the end I couldn’t limit myself to one topic.  I’ve heard several people suggest writing about what you know (beginning, of course, with Gilbert Blythe advising Anne to forgo her high-falutin’ mumbo jumbo and write about Avonlea) and to write about what you are passionate about.  So naturally this blog will be about laundry.

Thanks, in large part, to a friend who reads a lot more non-fiction than myself and recommended Sloane Crosley, I was exposed to, what I feel, might just be my writing niche – sarcastic/humorous essays.  As much as I would love to exude a more deep, contemplative and intellectual veneer,  I will try to stick to the former.  I can’t promise anything, though, since I’ve developed adult onset A.D.D..

Well, the next consideration was the name of the blog.  Oh my gosh. Who would have thought that would have been such an ordeal.  My first idea, which was invented rather expeditiously, was “Spilled Milk – and other things I cry about,” but that name, (the spilled milk part) apparently,  has been used like a zippo in an episode of Mad Men. Okaaaaaay.  I had another great one, “I’m Not Even Kidding.”  That was taken.  “The Cliffs of Insanity.”  Also taken. “China in a Bull Shop.” Again, snatched.   Another one I can’t remember, but it was taken as well.  The very, very annoying part about this selection process, aside from having the idea that I possess no original thoughts reinforced repeatedly, was that those blogs haven’t been touched for years. I’m talking early 00’s and nary a post since then.  Bastard people.  Slacker bloggers who had such lofty goals of processing and sharing their life’s adventures on the internet for all to see, only to stop after the third post.  Or, worse yet, people who make up names and create them so they can sell the name?  I don’t know?  Why else would you do that, orseay?  Discouraged, but not down for the count, I googled a bunch of websites containing idoms and adages hoping to twist one of them around, spice it up.  Eventually, the final name came about while reading “The Help,” this summer.  I was lounging in our living room reading, a rare occurrence, I assure you, and either Minny or Aibileen uttered the phrase “talking behind her own back.” So, thank you, Katheryn Stockett, for helping me come up with the name and also perpetuating the self-esteem crushing notion that there are no original ideas.

That settled, at long last, we move onto the design phase.  This is where we really see my hyper-perfectionism rear its ugly head.  I want it it be unique.  I want to create my very own background with photo shop, where I select the specific shade of retro, avocado green to be the color of the text of the comments and where I peruse circuitously, the catalog of fonts.  Will this font suggest that I am bookish or the more happy-go-lucky/creative/REI shopper type?  This is the problem with choices.  It allows you to customize to suit your own tastes and preferences, but it the cause for a lot of wasted time, at least on my part, when designing a blog or choosing a type of yogurt or of toothpaste.  Do we really need 1.25% Greek, fruit on the bottom, granola topper yogurt?  Do we need whitening, gum disease preventing, chlamydia fighting toothpaste?  After intense and a totally, totally unnecessary amount of manipulating of all possibilities of layouts, fonts, backgrounds, text colors, transparency levels and settings, I finally tell myself to back away.  Like a would be criminal about to pull the trigger, lost in a moment of passion and thankfully is able to grasp reality long enough to refrain from the incriminating act, I talk myself down from the wall, pick a pre-made background and the first font I liked and move along.

Why do I feel I must have everything perfect?  That is the question.  Well, that and what shoes should I wear.  Please join me as I search for the answers to these and other life altering questions.  Up next, How did my son come to name himself “Captain Squished Penis?”  I’m not even kidding.
Special thanks to Trader Joe’s Petite Sirah and the approximately 12 interruptions from my children that made this post have its hazy, choppy feel.