Burning The Candle

To answer some questions.

No - I didn't keep my promise to blog.

Yes - I am completely, 100% WORN OUT, as I knew I would be, trying to keep up with my job, my family, and my class.

Yes - I am burning the candle at both ends.

Yes - I love it. I am loving school. I got an A on my first mid-term in 5 years. Do you KNOW how good that makes me feel? I want to be in school forever.

Yes - My Husband nearly burned down our new house. (Didn't see THAT coming, did you?)

For as long as we've been together I've had an aversion to candles. Not because I don't like them, because I am terrified my sometimes space cadet of a Husband (love you, Nate), will leave them burning.

I have a habit of blowing out the candles he's lit before going to bed. This behavior is always met with an eye roll, but I don't care because I KNOW he will forget.

Tuesday night he lit a candle on the computer desk.

Wednesday evening, he beat me home by not very much. On my way there, I called him and had a conversation that went like this:

Me: Hi. You know, I'm thinking, I don't really want to cook tonight. Maybe we could go out to eat?

Him: (distracted) Yeah, um, that sounds really great.

Me: OK, could you get the diaper bag ready so we can just leave right after I get home.

Him: Yep. (pause) OK, now I have to tell you something, but don't be mad.

Let me just pause right there and tell you that if you're significant other begins a sentence like that, it is time to immediately GET MAD.

You don't have to be a genius to figure out that the candle never got blown out. We are fortunate because it was sitting on a ceramic candle tray-like thing and there was nothing flammable in the immediate area.

The candle did have a little twine tie that went around the middle, so when my Husband got home that piece of twine was on fire and the smoke detectors were going off. It couldn't have actually been on fire for very long, the house was not completely filled with smoke, and from what I understand that piece of twine had not completely burned (I never got to see the evidence--SOMEONE disposed of it before I got the chance).

So. Yeah. My new house almost burned down this week.

And my Husband? Now completely banned from burning candles.

I guess you could say I'm burning the candle at both ends--figuratively and literally.

My Day, The Rundown

I really enjoy it when people tell me just exactly how their day goes. I think probably because I'm nosy, but also because it's just fun to consider someone else's day. Something different from my own.

I think I enjoy it just like I enjoy it when people leave their curtains open at night, and I'm out for a walk, and I can peer in and see how my neighbors decorated and what they're watching on TV. Am I the only creepy person who enjoys that? Yes? Okay, moving on.

My day is always different. It depends on whether or not I actually get up with my alarm, or hit the snooze five hundred times. It depends on whether or not daycare comes to me, or I take the kids to daycare. It depends on whether or not I am feeling ambitious about my morning routine, or really if I'd just rather skip it all together. BUT, okay, in general my day goes like this:

5:00 AM: My alarm goes off. This does NOT mean I get up at this time. Typically it means that I use my super find-the-snooze-button-in-the-dark-and-half-asleep skills. You have those skills too, right?

5:00 AM - 5:30 AM: Depending on how many times I found that snooze button, this is when I drag myself out of bed. The next 30-45 minutes is 'me' time. Or, the only time I have to make myself look somewhat presentable.

6:00 AM - This is when I'm supposed to be heading out the door with the kids, but typically it's when I'm doing my darnedest to drag Liam out of bed and get him to go potty for dang sake.

6:20 AM - I'm fortunate enough to be able to simply get the kids out of bed, find clothing and shoes, add a jacket and put them in the car. (Ha, as if that was simple!) This is typically the time we are actually pulling away from the house, a good 20 minutes late.

7:15 AM - Usually, this is when I make it to work. Something like 15 minutes late. Most people seem to just understand that when I say my start time is 7:00, what I mean is my start time is 7:15. (Note to self: I should maybe start setting my alarm for 4:30 AM).

3:15 PM - I don't take a lunch so that I can maximize my time at home with the kids. And since I showed up late, it seems only fair I should hang around that extra 15 minutes. This is when I'm doing all I can to escape the office. Sometimes I make it, sometimes I don't, because of course, it's in that 15 minutes that my phone will ring or I'll get called into an inpromptu meeting.

4:15 - 5:00 PM - Time for the kids to play while I make dinner. Or, while I call Domino's, or while Nate makes dinner. You know, one of those things. We do try to eat at 5:00 PM though, and amazingly enough, we usually make that mark.

5:30 - 7:00 PM - The best part of my day. My time with the kids. We play, or maybe go to the park, or maybe it's bath night, or maybe we're having complete melt downs, but whatever is going on, this is the fleeting time a working mother like myself gets to have with my kids during the week. This hour-and-a-half is the reason I try so hard to get to work early, and skip lunch, and do my best to leave on time, because otherwise I wouldn't have this time at all.

7:00 PM - There was a time that the kids stayed up until more like 8:00 PM, but then we figured out they weren't getting enough of this little thing called sleep, so we pushed bedtimes back. This is the time we are wrangling the kids into bed. I should say wrangling Liam to bed...Quin has always been, and continues to be, a superstar sleeper. (Note to Quin: Keep that up, please.)

8:00 PM - 9:30 or 10:00 PM - Time to catch up on a book, or my favorite show, or lately, homework. Yes, this is the bit of time I've reserved each day to complete my MBA.

And that's my day. Evangelical stay-at-home mothers everywhere have just said a silent prayer for me and my misguided ways, but you know what, I wouldn't change a thing. (Well, maybe that thing about the snooze button.)

Team Spirit

I don't know if it's the human condition, or just an American thing, but have you ever noticed how everyone seems to have this irrational need to pick a team? I'm not just talking sports here people, I'm talking every little thing in our lives seems to be oriented around "us" and "them." In sports, in politics, in social settings, in lifestyle choices, in just about every way imaginable we choose sides. And when a side isn't chosen, that goes against the grain and is just not right.

I do this, too. Even though I am well aware I am exhibiting behavior I've come to loathe, it is like a strange compulsion to be on one side of the fence or the other BUT NOT BOTH. And as such, it is also my obligation to sneer at the other side with rueful spite, or so I'm told.

I wonder sometimes if the reason this country is so seemingly evenly split politically is because we are too afraid to let go of our team. It's like, no matter what our politicians do, right or wrong, we stick by them because they're on our team. I'm not innocent in this, I celebrate MY democrats and sneer at THOSE republicans. Why? It makes no logical sense (the team part, not the sneering at republicans part, that makes perfect sense).

As for me, I am on the Broncos team, but no matter how hard I tried to resist it, I am also on the Vikings team (go Favre!). To clarify, if the Vikings were pitted against the Broncos, I would root for the Broncos without question. I am NOT like that silly woman I saw on Monday Night Football last night wearing the cheese head with Vikings braids and a half-green, half-purple #4 jersey. Because that's just absurd.

There are other teams for whom I'll proudly wear the home colors. I'm part of the mommy team, and the working mommy team. I am on team Edward, swoon. I am PROUDLY part of team getyourkidsvaccinatedforgodssake. I am a card carrying member of team Colorado, well, at least I used to be until they made me change my card to Minnesota, but I'm still on the other team in spirit. I support team gay rights, and team right to choose (and frankly, I don't really care what you think about that).

I am also a full fledged member of team respect. As in, no matter which team I root for I make it a point to respect and try to understand the other point of view. Well, unless you're a Raiders fan, then I can't really help you.

And really, shouldn't we all be part of team respect? Which teams do you root for?

Full

I think it should almost be my mantra that I tend to bite off more than I can chew. For the brief moments in my history when I have the "right amount" of things going on, I tend to feel really shifty and ready for my next big thing. Ready to get married, ready to buy a house, ready to have a baby, ready to change jobs, ready to move states, ready to have another baby. And so on AND SO FORTH.

I don't know why I have always been so restless, but it's just a fact of nature. So it should come as no surprise that in addition to working full time at my Advertising job, and raising my two beautiful boys I've decided to add in the start of graduate school and a big move to a new house within only a week of each other.

There was this article in the local newspaper this morning about this woman who is a Minnesota Vikings cheerleader, and though I didn't manage to read the entire article, the basic gist was something like: feel sorry for this poor, tired, overworked Target executive who somehow manages to also be a cheerleader and a wife. And all I can think is BIG WHOOP lady!

There are times when people ask me how I manage all that I do. My response to that is, I don't really know how I'd manage to not do all that I do. I'm compelled to do them. It makes me happy to be constantly striving for something more, it give me something to reach for. I like that.

I think that what I'm trying to say is that I can sense a change in where I'm heading with this blog. Because if a 30-something cheerleader who also has a job (GASP!) and a Husband (you mean, she manages to be a cheerleader and isn't single?!) is somehow a big feature article, then surly you, my loyal 5 blog readers, will find entertainment in me: the 20-something career woman, wife, mother-of-two, graduate student. Right?

Would you enjoy the latest details about what a nightmare it is to pack for the big move? And on that note, for some godforsaken reason we have kept every single bill we have received in, like, TWO YEARS. Do you know what a chore it was to go through each and every one to be sure that there isn't anything IMPORTANT in that pile? And also, do you know that U-Haul has the gall to charge nearly $400! for a set of boxes and markers needed for a move? No, I didn't pay $400! for boxes and markers, but for the love of all that's holy ARE YOU SERIOUS?

Would it interest you to know just how excited I am to go back to school? No, really. Like so freaking out kind of excited that I actually read the descriptions AND CUSTOMER REVIEWS attached to the textbooks I ordered from Amazon. Yeah, that excited. And I may be changing my tune when I'm up to my eyeballs in school work and can't even catch a glimpse of Grey's Anatomy because there is too much to be done, but, would you be interested to know about that when it happens, too?

Do you care to know that I sometimes lie awake at night wondering what I'm going to do with myself when my kids are grown up? This is because I am a young mom and I'll only be in my early to mid-forties when that happens and above every other thing I have going in my life, raising my kids is 100% number 1, and when that job is gone, then what?

I don't update this blog as often as I should, mostly because I often convince myself I don't have anything interesting to say. But you know what, this blog is as much about preserving this time in my life as it is trying to entertain other people, and in that respect I have A LOT to say. So say away I'm going to do. You know, until I am completely overwhelmed with my job as mother, wife, employee and graduate student.

Jedi Quinlan

There is a secret my Husband kept from me until after our nuptials. He is completely and unequivocally a geek. G.E.E.K. He's probably read every Star Wars novel out there, he asked for (and got) a Luke Skywalker Lightsaber for Christmas and was totally serious about wanting it. He knows all manner of Star Trek trivia, and his latest foray into Geekdom would be an OBSESSION with World of Warcraft (oh yes, he is).

I didn't know is was so bad, or maybe I ignored the fact, until long after he'd captured me for good, so by then I was just stuck having to understand his quark and GET OVER IT.

This got harder when he started secretly inserting his Star Wars madness into our daily life, by oh so subtly making sure everything living creature in our home was somehow Star Wars themed. This is how he agreed to name our first dog together Maggie, because (wink, wink) there is a character named Maggie in one of the novels.

When he suggested the name Luke for our second dog, it DIDN'T EVEN OCCUR TO ME why he did, but I liked it so I agreed. That guffaw goes directly to me. How obvious.

He told me months after our first child was born that he liked the name we'd picked out together so much because, you guessed it, Liam Neeson played Qui-Gon Jinn in Phantom Menace, so it MUST be a good name.

Oh, and here's a picture of Daddy and Liam on Halloween one year:

Sigh.

I'll grant you that the Star Wars enterprise is so vast that it would almost be hard not to find a link, but this next one, oh it's a doozie. When naming our second son, we'd both decided that we liked 'Quinn,' but I wasn't sure that a one syllable name was sufficient enough. I'd come across the name 'Quinlan' in one of my baby name books and had determined that we'd name him Quinlan, though more often than not we would call him Quin. (Note: ONE 'N' because his name is NOT spelled Quinnlan.)

I really thought I'd won this time. Quinlan is such a unique name that there was NO WAY it could be Star Wars related. But I guess I'd never Googled the name, because I was wrong.

So wrong.

My friends, I give you Jedi Quinlan. Quite possibly the MOST Star Warsish name yet. And may I add that there are maybe three people out there who show up in Google with the first name Quinlan? ONE of them HAPPENS TO BE A FREAKIN' JEDI. In fact, I'll bet that a certain portion of the population, when hearing the name Quinlan, thinks to themselves, "Oh yeah, like the Jedi."

Nate denies any knowledge until this day of such a fantastic discovery, but I'm crying fowl. It's a conspiracy! Just when I think I've topped his game, he pulls me back in.

Oh, and P.S., Jedi Quinlan Vos carries a green lightsaber. Let me just tell you how tickled-pink my Husband is to discover such a glorious thing, because of course, so does Luke Skywalker.

And this is the point at which I say: Oh my dear lord, I live with three boys. And if genetics has anything to do with SciFi geekiness, I AM IN SO MUCH TROUBLE.

Down With Poo!

There is a revolution happening, and I'm jumping on board.

It began with an article I read a few weeks ago. It described, in detail, why so many people are no longer pooing. It's the No Poo movement.

I was pretty skeptical at first. It sounds so gross. I was sure it would only make me feel, well, icky. Like so many other people, I'm quite used to pooing at least everyday. Sometimes more.

The article went on to describe how pooing is a relatively new and modern concept, which I really didn't know. It also talked about how not pooing may even be healthier, and included many testimonials from self-described non-pooers who proclaimed how much better it is not to poo. They were very persuasive. They even had pictures.

But there is a downside. There is a period of up to six weeks where your body has to adjust. I have a job to go to everyday, and I wasn't sure if I could just quit pooing cold turkey and still show my face at work everyday. I mean, what would people think?

So I stewed on the idea for a week or so. I'd decided that this No Poo thing just wasn't for me. I couldn't just give it up, I was far too used to my daily regime. But, it lingered and lingered until finally I decided to jump on board.

Rather than just giving it up completely, I decided to ween myself off poo. Last week I thought I'd just poo every other day. Just to see how it goes. And, although it made me quite uncomfortable, it was tolerable.

This week I'm moving to pooing every two days. Today is my first "day two" of no poo, and although I'm a little embarrassed, it's still fairly tolerable. I know it will get better with time.

I'm hoping it won't take too long for my hair to adjust to no more shampoo. I plan on washing with some baking soda and apple cider vinegar. I'm convinced that this is the solution to my frizz problem. Shampooing only strips oil out of hair, and then the scalp adjusts to compensate, and it's a vicious cycle. But once the oil level in my hair evens out, it will be SO worth the effort, I am sure.

Wait. What kind of poo did you think I was talking about?

If you're interested in the article, you can find it here.

Confession Session Wednesday

Aside from the radio contest for the best “I Spied” kind of story, I’ve never considered talking about it. And, I never called the radio station either. It was just too much. But my story is a cautionary tale, and I’m ready to spill the beans.

Nathan and I had been together for about a year and had decided that though we were young, we wanted to get married. He came to bed one night as asked me questions like, “If you got a ring, what would you want it to look like?” I tried to set up a “wish list” online, you know the kind where you can design your dream ring and share the design with that certain someone? He would have none of that.

That’s when I did the unthinkable. With my knowledge that he’d most likely been looking at rings on the computer, I accessed the internet files folder. Yes, the folder that, with a little finesse, will allow a person to track the browsing history on that computer. Shame, shame.

Turns out, he had most definitely been looking at rings. One ring in particular.

And, I didn’t like it.

I mulled my dilemma for several days. I tried to do this ring thing together, but he wanted to do it on his own. How could I blame him for that? On the other hand, if I caught him early enough, wouldn’t he rather get a ring he knew I loved? I talked to a few people; I can’t recall what their advice was. In the end, I decided that we were honest with each other about everything else, this should be no different.

I waited until he came home from work one night. And then, I tried to bring it up gently. Yes, I’d been spying. Yes, I’m a horrible person. But, maybe we should look together, I’m not sure I’m in love with the ring you picked.

I, however, was much too late. He’d bought the ring that very afternoon; it was sitting in the (locked!) console of his car.

I was more ashamed than I have ever been in my life. I tried to smooth it over, but it was just too late. Not only had I just told my future fiancé that I didn’t like the ring he bought (before he even had a chance to give it to me!), I’d also just ruined the surprise. I felt horrible. And more than six years later, I still feel horrible.

He proposed a couple of weeks later, and I obviously wasn’t surprised, but I was thrilled just the same. Elated, to be sure. The best part of the proposal was when he opened the ring box, and displayed a beautiful 3-stone diamond ring. It was more brilliant than any piece of jewelry I’d ever seen, and it was just for me. I instantly fell in love with the ring. Not just because it was beautiful (much more beautiful than displayed on a computer screen), but also because it came directly from his heart. That is really all that mattered.

Today, I’m just as in love with my ring as I was that day. And, my love for my husband has only grown since the day we met. I love him for everything about him, and he loves me for me, stalker tendencies and all.

***

I invite my blogger buddies to start their own Confession Sessions. I won't give out prizes for the best one, but I will have an awful lot of fun reading them!

Confession Session: The Day I Killed a Fish

I'm going to start a new feature: Confession Session Wednesday. It's time to stop giving this blog lip service, and actually demonstrate all my, um, imperfectness. And trust me, there's a lot of it. So, for better or for worse, I'm going to lay it all out there. (Well, okay, maybe not all of it!)

***

I don't remember exactly when it happened. I do know I was in college, and Nate and I were together, so I'm going to guess 2003. I also don't remember why we stopped at the local PetSmart that night, perhaps it was just boredom.

While Nate was off looking for something of importance, I was mesmerized with the fish. Not so much because of their brilliant color or shapes, no I was enamored with the tanks full of minnows who were surly destined to be some other creature's lunch.

Enamored because I discovered that these gaggles of fish were skittish, and I could flick my hands and them and they'd all swim away together. Except they couldn't swim anywhere and that made it all the funnier, because they'd just all squeeze momentarily against the back of the tank. Hundreds of them in unison.

But finally, I flicked my hands and they all tried to swim away, away to no where, and instead they flew toward the top and out popped a fish! Right at my head!

And, I didn't know what to do. I squealed. And I backed away. And I was too afraid to touch it. And I called for Nate. He did his best to scoop it up, but by that time it was too late. The poor little minnow was gone.

And that's how I killed murdered a fish at PetSmart.

But, before you go railing on me, know that I was sincerely sorry, and I've rarely shared this story since because I was so ashamed. And, most importantly of all, I've never flicked my hands at a gaggle of fish confined in a tank since. So there.

***

Stay tuned for next week's Confession Session Wednesday; I'm going to share a story that almost no one knows, because I've been too embarassed to tell.

Also, I invite all of my blogging buddies to join in Confession Session Wednesday, I can't possibly be the only one out there with stories to tell!

Mommy Wars

There is this girl. I met her on craigstlist, after hastily deciding not to send my first born to the daycare I'd been planning on for months. She and I had many similarities. We lived in the same town, we got married and had kids at close to the same age, we both had one son. But that's exactly where the similarities ended, because everything else amplified my personal, daily conflict. The one where I chose to work.

I knew, almost instantly, that she would be the perfect person to watch after my newborn three days a week. He would get personal attention there. She was skilled at looking after young children, and she seemed to genuinely care not just for, but about him. I really couldn't ask for more. And he did do very well in her care.

I still consider her to be my friend, but I doubt she realizes just how much knowing her has put my own life's trajectory in question. Of two differences I don't question. She is devoutly religious, while I am anything but. I believe in God, but I'm just not sure what kind of God, and I'm pretty sure I'll never know. That's just fine by me. She is also very conservative, and I am quite liberal. This, too, is just fine by me.

But it's the final difference that I grapple with everyday. She is a stay at home Mom (SAHM). She is there for her kids every single day. No matter what the day holds, rain, shine, happy kids, sad kids, trips to the library, or snuggles on the couch, she is just simply there. Soaking in every detail of their upbringing, not missing a second. To be clear, she is not the bane of my existence. She is more the metaphor for the struggle that so many Moms like me have. The struggle that has inspired a fervor of emotion on both sides of the debate. But, I'm here to tell you that my emotion is as much directed at those who resent my decision to work as it is at those who applaud it.

I've reminded myself a hundred times over, being a working mother is as much for my benefit as it is for my family's. I've told myself that I'm not cut out to be a SAHM. Staying at home during two different layoffs had all but driven me to the brink. I considered my career ambitions to be a strong part of my identity. And I've always firmly believed that I really can "have it all."

But I also backpedal on my convictions, almost daily. How on earth do I manage convince myself that I'm not cut out to stay at home with my kids? I maintain a warm, loving, and mostly even demeanor when my preschooler is begging me not to leave in the morning. Only to climb into my car and let the tears fall freely on the way to work. I study my infant's sleeping face when I lay him in his crib at night, knowing that he'll still be sleeping when I leave in the morning and I won't get to see him until the following evening.

It's gut wrenching, this struggle. The hard facts are that, at the moment, I couldn't afford to stay at home if I wanted to. But, I'm not so sure that I would if I could, and does that make me a ground breaking American woman, or does it make me a bad mother? I'd be proud to raise boys who understand that the woman's place is not necessarily in the home, but I have to constantly convince myself that I'm not doing long term damage in the process.

I realize now that this term 'Mommy Wars' is not so much about two groups of women tongue lashing each other for their personal decisions, most of us are far too civilized for such banter. Rather, it's about a personal war that so many mommy's have. I know I'm not alone when I say that.

Walking around any office, it's easy to see which co-workers have kids at home. They're the ones whispering into the phone to the caregiver, grasping for minute details of the day that would otherwise be lost. They're the ones spending too much time uploading and arranging pictures for their computer screensaver. They're the ones found occasionally gazing into space, yearning to be home. They're the ones with that look of guilt that just can't be cleanly wiped away. And, occasionally, they're the ones sneaking off to their car just to cry a little bit.

I don't need a working mother to tell me I'm doing the right thing, nor do I need a SAHM to tell me I should be home with my kids. Because this war? It's far more nasty when it's fought with yourself.

I Spy

I'm a stalker, by trade. As evidenced here.

So, naturally, I have a tendency to check my stats every so often. See how many people really care what I have to say. What part of the country they're coming from. You know the drill.

This morning, I was a little surprised to notice a disproportionate amount of hits coming from a babycenter.com group. And, when I click on the link I see that it is a group specifically for mommy's of twins born in October 2007 (clearly, I don't belong to this group, haha!). It's a closed group, so I have no idea what led these obviously wonderful ladies to by blog.

BUT, I did want to say "HI!" to this very specific community. And ask, you're not spilling obscenities about me, are you?

Happy Monday!

Confessions

It is time, I must profess. Time to set aside my embarrassment, and come clean with the truth. Because the truth shall set me free. Or so I've heard.

I have a confession to make. Revealing a truth obvious to many, but potentially hidden to others. I have an addiction. One known to bind my attention, and strip away my priorities. I have, at times, become a prisoner to my obsession. Spending countless hours toiling away at, and harping over the source of my grievance.

I'm speaking, of course, about Facebook.

It started innocent enough. I was even a late bloomer to Facebook because it didn't become popular until after I'd graduated college, long after my college e-mail address had expired. Meaning I was not allowed access. Then, one day, someone informed me that Facebook had changed all the rules, and now anyone could join.

Even then, I didn't care much for the application. Sure, I could keep in touch with friends, see what they were up to. Big deal.

Then, Facebook changed the rules again. They made these things called status updates front and center. And, suddenly, I was hooked. Because for some reason, the mundane things people confess to be doing from moment to moment are outrageously entertaining.

Suddenly I have found myself constantly thinking about what my next status update will be. Would people rather know that I overslept, or that I hate driving to work? Should I brag about my children, or rant about the weather? I find myself thinking in the third person, "Amanda would really like to throttle that obnoxious person over the cube wall." Inner thoughts, of course.

I even had a dream that the President was the grandfather of my children (it was unclear who's father he was) and we all got to spend the weekend at the White House. My biggest concern? How best to describe my good fortune on my Facebook status.

I take pictures in the context of how they will look on my Facebook page. And the last couple of parties I have been to featured Facebook as a major topic of conversation. A la, "Don't worry, I'm going to tag you in this picture!" And, "Hey, did you see what so-and-so said on their status?"

Even as I confess to my addition, I can be found continuously clicking back to the source. Checking and rechecking for new status updates or photos. Needing to know if someone has big news, or if they ate a bagel for breakfast.

I must be honest however, the Facebook addition isn't so bad. It allows me to keep my family updated on the insignificant details of my children's growth. I've rekindled friendships I might not otherwise have. Found old friends. Discovered new and interesting things about people, the context of which may never have come up (re: 25 things). For those things, I find it to be a worthwhile, if not always productive, use of my time. So I'll keep toiling away, and probably obsessing. It's the Facebook way.

Amanda is thinking that Facebook is freakin' awesome. There, I said it.