Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word

If you think reading my blog is a drag, try being my friend.

Wow this is hard. And a lot of fun.

As much as I'd like to continue to awe and inspire you with the contents of my troubled mind, Logan wants all that for himself. Oh he loves it. So do my girlfriends.

Like this conversation, "Let's talk about something funny, which triggers a thought about this ball of crap you're processing! Let's laugh until you look away about to cry!"

"Yes, let's and then my lip will quiver and I will cry and you'll be left wondering 'What the hell!'"

This is purely awesome.

Instead of doing that, let's talk about Chicago. I'm leaving for a long weekend in Chicago with my girlfriends on Friday. How about you tell me what we should do.

Then, you'll tell me something and I'll be like, "That sounds great...except it reminds me of this thing I'm dealing with......" (((Quiver))))

My loose list is as follows:
Drown my sorrows.
Drown my sorrows.
Keep drowning my sorrows.

No actually it's this: Millenium Park, cocktails at John Hancock, lots of photography, some time in Lincoln Park/Wrigleyville/etc. Meeting Erin and Brian for a potentially boozy lunch where I'll say, "Henry is just adorable....he reminds me of that thing I'm dealing with....." ((((Quiver)))))

Weeeee! Maybe I'll booze it a little less to help keep the quivering to a minimum.

We're going to want to stick around our hotel, (which is downtown near the Magnificently Overpriced Mile), but during the day I wouldn't mind being up in the other neighborhoods. Since Flea's sex shop closed, I'm just not sure where to do some shopping/browsing.

We're talking about having brunch at Ann Sather up near Belmont and Clark on Sunday before we leave town and then stopping into Uncle Fun and The Paper Boy. What other unique shopping should I hit while I'm there?

Throw out your downtown dinner ideas and neighborhood shopping ideas thank you please. I'll weed through them and when one reminds me of the thing I'm dealing with I'll quiver quietly to myself.

It's times like these I wish I wrote fiction people.

It's 3 o'clock and all is well.

Logan's home.

Now I can cry with a safety net.

Good enough.

When I was 15, I decided I was dropping out of school. For no real reason other than I hated being there and wasn't very good at concentrating long enough to do very well. As you can imagine, 15-year-olds are very wise and think through all their decisions very carefully. I did as well.

I woke up on a Tuesday, showered and dressed for school, and then decided I would never go back there again.

I was a little taken aback when my father, who'd been making mad passionate love to his beer bottle in a motel after the divorce, took notice and forced me back to school. He also forced me to see a counselor at the school who I was absolutely certain I would not like. But my father scared the living fuck out of me so I did as I was told.

I went to see this counselor and was mainly happy I got out of class to do so. Things started out fine, I explained my well thought out plans to drop out of high school and he listened intently. Then there were more things I wanted to talk about but my mouth wouldn't work.

For weeks I spent 45 minutes at a time sitting in that office not saying a word. I sat in a chair on my hands, feeling so stupid, wanting to open my mouth but not being entirely sure what I should say. Mr Rozema let me do this for weeks and weeks.

He would stare at me and wonder what the hell I was thinking. I would sit on my hands looking down at the ground with tunnel vision and my heart racing. Finally, I started to talk.

I talked there when my father killed himself the following year. I talked through my senior year when all I wanted to do was die. Sometimes, things were hard to say with words, so I started writing in journals for him to read. I'd drop them off on Friday and he'd read them, write notes back and bring them back to me on Monday. Over the summer, I'd mail him my journal entries and he'd send them back lovingly noted with the right words to keep me going.

They were a life line.

I clung to his words because he loved me and thought I would be okay and I wanted so badly to believe him. He patiently read through page after page of self hatred and loathing. He answered me with the truth as he saw it. He told me the ugly things I believed about myself were lies fed to me by people who couldn't love me enough. He told me I was a good writer, he liked reading what I had to say.

He told me I was good enough. I wanted to believe him and I held on. Barely, but I did the best I could to survive.

Logan's been gone and I've been fighting back a huge tear in my stomach. I don't understand what the tear is, but it's scaring me. I couldn't sleep on Tuesday night thinking about the tear and how I'm so much better than I was. That life is so much better than it was. Why am I still hurting like this?

In the middle of the night I went up into the attic and found those old journals I used to write. I wanted to read them because I thought it would make me feel better to see how far I've come. I started reading them and couldn't put them away. I read until I fell asleep with the lights on. I read the next day and the day after that.

Usually when you read your old journals or diaries, you Cringe with the humiliation of it all. The overblown drama of hormones and boys and that U2 concert your mom won't let you attend. Reading my journals and the notes my counselor wrote back to me, I didn't cringe. Not once.

I did punch a hole in the wall reading my 17 year old self saying earnestly, "It's just that if I eat what you're asking me to, I'll weigh at least 120 pounds and I can't live with that."

Uh....if I ever run into my 17-year-old self at a party, remind me not to let her see me stand on a scale.  She would be unhappy with the way things turned out with the 'normal eating' thing.

I didn't cringe at my words. I was awed at my emotional clarity back then, at my ability to understand my feelings. To understand why I was struggling, but struggling anyway.

I obsessively read my words and that tear in my stomach went to my eyes and hasn't stopped coming out since then.

Which is great because Logan's gone.

I decided to look up Mr Rozema and send him an email.

"I've been reading these old notes we used to send back and forth and I don't think I knew it at the time but you saved my life. You made me feel loved and you made me understand how nearly all of the things I believed about myself were lies fed to me by people who didn't love me at all or enough.

I think I chose Logan as my husband because I knew you, so one day my children will have you to thank too."

And I sent off the email and told him everything I've done with my life since the last time we talked. My heart swelled with pride when I told him about the writing I'm doing. When I showed him pictures of my babies and my husband and of us together like the family he told me I would one day have but I never believed him, I started to cry.

Because I thought all I've done would make me whole. That if I did enough and was enough I would fill this black hole in my soul with so much stuff, that it wouldn't matter so much.

I thought having a good husband who loves me and amazing children who can quote spongebob and love me in spite of my imperfections and friends who give me so much of what I need and a career I couldn't have imagined as a teenager, I thought it would all make me okay.

He told me back then, most of my life was very bad and as I grew, I would add more layers of good experiences. Like a large cliched onion, as I grew up and had more experiences, this black part of myself would still be there but it would be so small in comparison to the rest of the things I've done and love I've been given, it wouldn't matter so much.

But still, there's that tear in my stomach that plagues me. I can't make it go away.

Reading these journals scares me. It scares me for the same reason I teetered on the edge of suicide back then. What if this is the best I can do? What if, considering everything I had to fight to overcome, this is as good as it can ever be?

And maybe that's not enough.

Graduating from 'The Clause'

Explain to me why sitting in a conference room with Andrew Shue and a bunch of bloggers makes me sob like a baby but I can sit through my son's preschool graduation and barely tear up? Even if I didn't cry about the enormity of my youngest son leaving preschool and moving on to the 'real thing' of kindergarten you'd think I'd at least cry because of the summer looming before us. My heart is dead.

Even this didn't make me cry. I'm dead inside.

The ceremony was nice and the songs were throw-up-a-little-in-your-mouth sweet. Max got a 'perfect attendance award' which on the one hand surprised me but on the other hand shouldn't have surprised me since I've been dreading summer vacation since last September when we started school. Plus there was 'The Severed Limb' rule. We didn't have any severed limbs so we didn't miss school. He also held up the letter D like you've never seen a letter D held before. (Which would be backwards, you've never seen it like that. He's got flair.)

There were a couple of things that could have made graduation better. Things like my husband being able to attend the god damn thing instead of racing to finish a photo shoot before quitting his job to go to a new place.

A-hem.

Or taking a picture of the little boy who's mother caused the 'Suburban Bliss Clause' getting his diploma, blotting out his face but making him look as if he was saying, "Thanks for the fucking diploma!"

It took every ounce of my willpower to keep myself from madly snapping pictures when he got his diploma, mainly to see his parents totally freak out in the back row. Instead I took a picture of Max and his friend Julia, since her mother doesn't care if I publish a picture of her daughter with my son on the internet.

Two of my friends got an award for making play dough. Which struck me as the absolute funniest award and I spent at least 15 minutes kicking myself for not making play dough so I could have gotten an award and made a long acceptance speech.

"Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to make your yellow play dough this year. I want to thank the Salt, Flour and that small but really important teaspoon of Cream of Tarter. Seriously, I could not have done it without you Cream of Tarter."

[Wild clapping for underappreciated Cream of Tarter]

"And thank you, teachers, for the recipe. I could not have made the play dough without it."

[Wild clapping for the recipe!]

"This award will go proudly on my wall to remind me of that time I mixed Salt, Flour and Cream Of Tarter and gave you all yellow play dough. Oh, God. I told myself I wasn't going to cry! I'm sorry I'm just overwhelmed with the enormity of this moment. Thank you.....thank you so much."

That would have made graduation better.

Also, if kindergarten started tomorrow...that would have been better.

In celebration of my release from the ludicrous Suburban Bliss clause, I published photos from the year at Flickr. Don't worry though, I blocked out the other kids so no one would molest them. Feel free to look upon my son's face though and target him if you're a child molester.

Because God knows most child molesters find their victims on the internet and God knows my children are unattended all the time. Also, everyone knows children are always molested by some stranger who targets them on their mother's blog and hardly ever by someone they know, love and trust. Oh no, no, that never happens.

Oops. Sorry I thought I'd already got that out of my system.

Don't try to stop me. I'm getting something wispy.

Before we go further, something is happening with this front piece of my hair because: GAH! No, I will not deal with it.

I mentioned Friday we went to a Cuban place and as I browsed through reads yesterday, I saw that this nice couple also went to the same Cuban place on Friday night. At the end of the post the husband part of this coupling mentioned they ran into a couple at the restaurant. I was so excited we'd been at the same restaurant on a date I chimed in with a comment (and comments are something I rarely leave because I never have anything good to say other than, "OMG! Funny!" or "OMG! Sad!").

Then later that night Lauren emailed me to say, 'You were the couple we saw at the restaurant.'

And then I read her post today and I realized, my therapist must be shaking his head and looking at my charts and saying, 'I hope her insurance runs out because we can't exactly fix this. Gah. Why don't we just worry about that bang/no bangs issue instead?'

We all judge ourselves so harshly and if Lauren had come up to me I would have walked away saying to Logan, 'Great. Of all days to run into someone...look at me?' (Like the time someone spotted me at the grocery store before Christmas Eve when I'd worked out and cleaned the house all day and not taken a shower in over 24 hours? Perfect timing!)

I would have said that because I would have looked at Lauren and thought, "I wish I looked that good."

The only bright side to this story is that Lauren hates her new haircut and it looks (according to her) like a mushroom. She attempted to go to a salon downtown to have it fixed on that same Friday night. Does everyone remember the Hair Trauma of 2004? When I had a mushroom, a horrifying mushroom and in an attempt to fix it I created a horrifying hairstyle which defied explanation?

Thank God that salon didn't have room for Lauren on Friday night because not only did I chop my hair off to fix the mushroom and create an inexplicable mess, it also stopped growing for like six months because of the trauma. Heed My Warning The Insecure Amongst You!

And the salon she wanted to go to once destroyed my friend's hair and refused to fix it or refund her money and on another occasion butchered my eyebrows. Actually, they only butchered one of my eyebrows and, since only one of the eyebrows was ridiculous they offered to give me half my money back. Clearly they are not customer service oriented.

Here's to hoping therapy works. Quickly, since my insurance runs out on Tuesday.

New tagline.

Over the weekend I got a very nice email from Brian of Byrneunit, and I'd like to ask the universe why Dr Phil has a tv show and Brian does not, because his email made me feel about one hundred times better than Dr Phil ever has. (Apparently while on deadline, Brian takes smoke breaks, vanilla coke breaks, pee breaks, nap breaks and entertain internet people with email breaks.)

He understood my self-doubt and loathing quandry and instead of telling me to 'play' he talked about the kind of therapy I can really get behind, "I know of some amusing alcohol-based treatments, but no solution."

And all of that was fine and very nice and made me feel a little better really. But what made me happiest were his parting words. They are my new tagline and also what I say to myself in the mirror as I try to accept the limitations of my hair and my ability to communicate my desires for my hair to my hair dresser.

I cut my hair off on Saturday and have been mired in a debate with myself ever since. I like the sides and the back of my hair cut but the front is torturous. I can't stand it. Do I go back and have her turn that front section thingie that keeps hanging lifelessly over my right eye into a wispy bang-like thing? Keeping in mind that previous attempts to have bangs have resulted in frustration and tears.

Additionally, Logan gives this idea a thorough thumbs way way down saying, "No good will ever come from bangs!"

I am definitely a hairdresser's dream: An insecure, psychotically self-loathing freak who hates the way her face looks. Hairdressers must love clients like me, love me like they love a punch in the face.

*I've republished my site (four times), cleared the cache and still my banner won't update. Here it is.

"She's just a work friend."

Last night, as I was pouting about this stupid fucking trip Logan's taking. You know the trip he's taking which will take 7 days even though he's quitting and his last day was supposed to be Friday.

What? Oh yes, this means he's working 2 days without pay and also that he has to go in on a holiday to pack his crap up and prepare the files for the people who will supposedly take over his job....although I'm starting to wonder if his company thinks he's going to just do both jobs.

Because that's what it's starting to look like from here, where I've been on solo parenting duty for the last 6 days and I'm looking at 7 more solo days.

I am bitter but I did have another point here. Because I plan on talking about my bitterness and my anxiety about this trip and all of that.

But! Last night Logan walked into the bedroom and said, as I pouted on the bed, "I'm going to miss you baby."

I said, "I'll miss you too."

He said, "Uh...I was talking to the iMac, but I'll miss you too."

God I fucking hate business trips. HATE THEM.

Not at all worthy.

Last night Logan crawled into bed after fondling the new machine for 4 hours. He sleepily grabbed my waist and pulled me to him and whispered in my ear...."Tomorrow night we can put the new memory in it."

As if this was something we would do 'together'. As if this was something which made my Friday.

He may have overestimated my appreciation for all things geek because spending my Friday night installing RAM isn't all that exciting.

It's a good thing Maddie was invited for a sleepover at Zoe's house and Max got to tag along for a few hours so we snuck away for dinner at a lovely cuban place.

Logan is working all weekend on his last photo shoot for his current company. He has one week left before he starts work at his new place. He's working 9 of those days (7 of those out of town) and this infuriates me but that's the kind of worker he is. So Universe, thank you for rewarding us for his incredible and often unrecognized work ethic.

PROOF LOGAN DOES NOT DESERVE HIS MACHINE:

We just got home from a friend's house and both fired up our computers and I thought, "This is what I always dreamed of."

Only Logan briefly checked his iTunes to be sure everything had loaded properly and then he did something I can never forgive him for.

He Shut His Computer Down.

Even though there were Ebay auctions to browse and interesting sites to look at and, and, and.....can you ever do just one thing on your computer? Not check email even?

And then I realized Logan does not deserve this computer because ALL HE USES COMPUTERS FOR IS WORK.

There is a perfectly beautiful machine sitting over there being neglected because, as Logan says, "All day I use a G5, I just don't want to sit at a computer at night."

Wa? Wah! Whaaa????

That's just crazy talk and someone who talks like that, who considers a computer a function of 'work', should have their home computing privileges suspended.

Sometimes, though, you've just got to sit down.

Max has been a bit reluctant to be a "stander-upper" in the bathroom sense of the term. He prefers the "sitter-downer" method and has been saying since he started preschool and saw that most of the other boys are "stander-uppers" he'd be a "stander-upper" when he turns five.

Well March has come and gone and preschool's almost over. All those months of avoiding the "stander upper" spot (the urinal) in the boy's bathroom at school started to get to him.

This week his preschool teacher came out after class and told me Max had big news. He'd used the "stander-upper" that day.

He liked it. A lot.

He said, and I quote: "I'll never sit down again!"

Hamster Liberation Day

When I show you our 'office' and the mammoth computer and even larger monitor which have consumed an entire corner of our bedroom, I think you'll understand why today is a banner day in Summers Family History. Also for hamsters because hamsters on tiny wheels inside Logan's massive box of a computer have been running it for all these years.

Oh that old computer and I have some memories between us. Today, as I gleefully threw it out the window I said, 'Remember how I'd be writing and right in the middle you'd shut off and go black?"

"Remember how I could sometimes get you to turn back on if I hit you really hard like Fonzie?"

"Remember how I used to cry and swear at you?"

Sigh....gosh those were awesome times.

But not really.

This machine is so lean and beautiful and perfect I don't care if it wants the whole bedroom to itself. We'll sleep on the sofa if that's what it wants. But you see, this computer isn't imposing, it's the kind of household companion who says, "Oh no no no...I don't want to be a bother. I'll just sit over here and do my job. Don't make a fuss over me."

In fact it's so thin and unassuming it will fit into my armoire and we can shut the door and pretend for a little while longer that we aren't crammed into this tiny house and that we're grown ups who don't have to run a thriving freelance company out of a corner in our bedroom.

Rather we'll run a thriving freelance company out of a cabinet in our bedroom.

And that is grown up.

I haven't turned the computer on because it's Logan's technically and he wants to set it up himself and I can respect that. I cried when I got the iBook. I didn't cry actually but I did a little dance and made an odd sound in my throat I've been unable to make before or since that time. So I understand why he wants to be the first to power up the machine.

But this is delicious torture. I keep going into the bedroom, just to, you know, check in and make sure he's comfortable. Thankfully Logan said nothing about licking.

Session #2

Therapist: "I think you've lost your spontanaeity. You need to play more. Maybe when your friend's little girl was upset you could have nudged her mom and said, 'Let's go play dress up with her.' "

Me, developing panic-y tunnel vision and numbness in my arms: "I don't like to play. Logan plays in this family."

Therapist: "Well, you do play, you just choose not to."

Me: "My attempts to 'play' have not gone well."

Then I started to feel suicidally desperate because if it's going to take 'playing'? Dress up? And other things? With kids? To make me better? Then guess who's not getting better?

I'll give you a hint. It's the girl who plays Barbie by saying, "Hello, how are you?" over and over and over until her daughter begs her to stop playing with her anymore.

Therapy

The therapist was much better than the last one (and those others I mentioned from my long therapy past). Keep in mind I never mentioned all the very very good ones I had so if you're thinking about trying out therapy, you should know that I'm running on 3 bad ones to 5 (or is it 6)(yes, 6) very helpful if not excellent therapists.

All of the ones I consider 'excellent' were excellent at helping me, but there was this one who had a little case of giving her clients too much information.

Like how she told me about the time she marched into the restaurant where her husband was seeing the woman who threatened to break up their marriage and told her what exactly she thought of that situation. Which was in the first place, totally unprofessional and completely unrelated to the reason I was in therapy at all as a 19 year old. She had an uncanny way of doing that: making my therapy about her and her relationship with her husband and her son who seemed, according to her stories, desperate to draw appropriate boundaries with her.

Which, hey! Was exactly what I wanted to do with her.

Okay so let's say I've had 4 bad ones and 5 good ones. Not great odds, but when you think about who I would be if I hadn't had those 5 good therapists, let's just say, they're awesome odds.

With the new therapist we spoke briefly about Logan's marathon running and how sometimes I've been known to resent his training. A lot. The doctor then said, "Sometimes I question the health of running marathons repeatedly."

I said, "You're so right. Logan's the crazy one right? I don't even need to be here."

Which was a stretch obviously.

I have a very bad feeling this round of therapy is going to be very difficult and I'm not feeling particularly good about it. In fact I think thinking about it has given me a massive head cold.

I am afraid to say Dr. Phil may have taken up a spot in my brain. A spot I may have used for other things, like more Oprah. Or something.

I do this thing, and I've been doing this thing for so long I barely even noticed I was doing it until recently. I decided I wanted to stop doing this thing but it's so deeply a part of who I am I can't seem to stop.

And so, Dr. Phil would say, "What are you getting out of this behavior?"

And I keep asking myself the same thing and the answer is nothing and it's driving me absolutely insane because even though I'm getting nothing out of it, I can't stop.

I tend to believe certain things about myself and I can't seem to make myself believe otherwise. No matter what I do or what happens to me I struggle with a deep and crippling self-doubt which runs over to self-loathing.

I wrote about it after I went to California and it's taken me until now to start looking at it because I'm afraid I'll never be able to fix it.

"I walked away from my trip wishing that how I saw myself matched how other people saw me. This massive insecurity and self loathing is really limiting me. But I don't know what to do about it. Last night Logan said, in response to this latest emotional come-apart: "<big sigh> Okay, well I see what the problem is. You just have to stop thinking about yourself like that." Hey! Great!"

The therapist asked me when I first remember thinking about myself this way (in unkind and unpleasant terms) and I can't remember. It's always been this way. Lately I've noticed it in glaring focus because while I think being modest is a nice thing to be to a certain degree, I can't stand concieted people at all, after a while it's not just a way of being, it's a way of feeling all the time.

After a while your self-effacing ways make business people in your life treat you like you're the unibomber or Howard Hughes or even worse Irish-Catholic and you realize at that point your self-effacement has ventured into 'psychotic' territory and maybe, as that annoying Dr Phil in my head would say, that's not working out so well anymore.

Only you don't know how else to be because this is just who you are. You don't want to be. You want to be the type of person who puts other people at ease and who is at ease herself.

As you're talking to the therapist he notes you're looking incredibly uncomfortable sitting there and you flash to all the times you feel self concious and uptight (all the time) and the therapist also notes that in the first 10 minutes of your visit you've apologized or prefaced what you're about to say with, "I know how stupid this is..." or "I feel ridiculous saying this..." or a million other (I'm about to do it again) stupid ways (<-----I just called myself stupid) you say things with a shield up around you.

You don't know why you do it but you really don't want to anymore.

You leave the therapist's office with Dr Phil ringing in your ears, "How is that working for you?" and you curse yourself for ever watching that show and also you fight back waves of anxiety because you think you know why you harbor all this self-doubt and loathing but you're not sure you will ever be able to fix it.

You fight the anxiety until Sunday when you catch a cold and sleep for 14 hours and still feel like crap because the rain won't let up and preschool ends next week and wow, therapy can only get better right?

A veritable smorgasbord, just like you like it

Things are so weird right now. I almost don't know what to write about if I'm not complaining about something. But! Good News! Summer vacation starts on June 15! Plenty to complain about.

My friend is a traitor and says she's looking forward to summer vacation. She mentions things like 'free time' and 'no more early bedtimes'.

My kids have all the free time they can stand and no early bedtimes? I'm not even justifying that with an answer. It's obvious my parenting is not growing with my children. My friend's daughter does dance classes, after school playdates and brownies. Maddie does....uh.....

So yes, school sort of fills our time. I'm not certain what we'll do with all that time once school is gone. All those hours of time. Those miles and miles of time. Fields of time waiting to be harvested, only I don't have anything planned to harvest that time.

I started responding to ads for babysitters this week because summer is looming over me and I have to tell you something. Hiring a sitter gives me an anxiety attack. $10-$12 an hour? Potentially abusive lunatic with free access to my children? Sure, she says she's a child psychology major from the University of Michigan home for the summer but probably she likes to eat children. Especially the ones with freckles. Irresistible freckles.

Yes. I know. This is unbecoming for a mother with a 7.5 year old and a 5 year old. How is it we've avoided the sitter situation for this many years? A: Family with an uncanny inability to say no.

====================================

This is something which made Logan look at me and say, "You've been brainwashed haven't you?"

Months (maybe a year?) ago Logan's computer, which was running Mac OS8 (stop laughing), gave it up for good. Thankfully he's had a boss who was incredibly kind about Logan arriving early or going into the office after hours to do his 'on the side' work.

Now though he isn't going to have the same boss.

Because he's got a new job.

I'm really happy about this.

Not just the job, but the fact that we're purchasing a new computer this weekend. That's what I'm trying to tell you, we're adopting a new member of the family. One which doesn't call me to wipe it's butt or ask me for a glass of juice 300 times a day.

This new member of the family only wants to co-sleep with me.

==============================

The other night we had an extended playdate at Andrea's. It was so warm out on the deck and the kids were playing so nicely and the mojitos (I remembered the limes, thank you.) were lovely. So Andrea's husband brought home food to grill and a neighbor came over and we all sat outside and enjoyed ourselves.

When I drove home I cried because: I want to love my house and my neighborhood. I really do, I can't tell you how much easier it would make my life if we could just stay here and be happy. On Andrea's street there are other families and people who have all their teeth (yes, they get both those things: families and teeth), on my street there are not those people.

The problem with Andrea's street is: we can't afford it and it's depressing because I can see what we want and what we need and yet it's out of our reach.

Uplifting.

Let's keep with that theme!

===================================

Tomorrow I'm meeting with a new therapist. This is amusing for two important reasons.

One is, my very last hate mail suggested I: a) go fuck myself and b) get some therapy.

The fucking of myself we'll just leave between me and myself. But the therapy was not a bad suggestion and one I'd been putting off for many, many months.

The second reason this is amusing is the fact that Logan got a new job, which means my emotional problems must be solved in the next 14 days before our old insurance runs out.

I met a therapist last weekend and before I say this, let me explain the bad therapists I've had in the past.

There was the one who said, "I'm glad you stopped breastfeeding. I've always thought breastfeeding was a selfish choice." [Since the husband can't feed the baby.]

There was another who said, "What do you do?"
"I stay at home with my kids."
"How long have you been unemployed?"
"I've been at home with my kids for the last 4 years."
"Okay, so you've been unemployed for 4 years."
...

wait...

.....

"Uh....I guess so......?"

This therapist from last weekend was almost as bad as those ones. She didn't say unsupportive things about breastfeeding and she didn't consider being a stay at home mother 'Glorified Unemployment'. However, she did answer the phone three times and then answered a knock at the door.

It went like this:
Me: "Sob sob sob...I'm pouring out what I think the problem is.....Sob sob sob...."

Phone: "Ring Ring Ring"

Her: "Gee. I'm so sorry...I have to get this."

Me: "..."

Repeat two more times, plus a door knock.

Hopefully tomorrow will be better. And if not better, at least funnier.

============================

I almost forgot: what do I make for Mother's Day brunch with my vegetarian and celiac (no wheat) sister (hot pictures of sister at that link). Would you like to see my sister in a video? Why don't you go here. (Warning: creepy clown thingie.)

I have drinks settled: mojito and/or mimosa. But to eat we need something with eggs and goat cheese.

Any ideas?

[Warning: spoilers! If you live under a rock!]

Sunday night I did something crazy. I sat on the sofa and watched a movie and only watched a movie. I did just one thing, my laptop wasn't open. I wasn't searching for stories. I wasn't writing entries. I wasn't folding laundry or knitting or browsing a magazine.

I just watched a movie and Logan, even though he knew I was watching the movie, had to stop himself from telling me what just happened immediately after it happened. Because that's what he's used to doing while we <fingers>watch</fingers> a movie <fingers>together</fingers>.

Sunday night we happened to watch Brokeback Mountain, so Logan attempting to narrate the film to me was amusing.

Did you know? These two seemingly heterosexuals, loved each other and had sex and Heath Ledger had a clenched jaw because he was closed up emotionally. Logan made sure I knew it even though I was actually watching the movie this time. "See, they love each other....they're about to make love. Oh man....the rancher knows.....oh GOD! His wife saw them kissing."

You can't blame him, normally I'd catch the cowboys kissing out of the corner of my eye, "HEY HEY HEY! What the hell!? Wah?"

But now life is different. I can actually watch movies about men in love but still conflicted, like a normal person without thinking to myself: "Gee...I wonder if any celebrities have had babies in the last five minutes."

Instead I watch a movie alternately questioning my feelings about homosexuality and giggling like a school girl as naked men jump off cliffs together.

I don't know when I decided being gay was not a big deal. I grew up with incredibly homophobic parents and no one told me being gay was okay. But somehow by the time I'd reached 18 I didn't think that much about homosexuality. I think I watched that movie An Early Frost in the mid-80's with Aidan Quinn, who'd won me over in Desperately Seeking Susan. That was really my only experience with a gay man. Except for 'Miles' in middle and high school who was not gay in middle or high school but I would bet my house is actually gay today.

I didn't think being gay was all that different from being straight but I was still jarred when seeing men or women holding hands or kissing in public. I never thought, "That's a SIN." Thank you catholic schooling which left my father completely disillusioned with organized religion. I had a similar reaction when seeing a mother breastfeeding a child many years ago. I was more surprised to see these things, I never thought they were wrong. Much like I reacted to this hat. God, what a provincial asshole I can be.

However, I always knew it was my issue to deal with. I always knew I was shocked or uncomfortable with homosexual PDAs and that was just one step further than I was willing to go at the time. Brokeback Mountain pushed a few buttons of mine, but overall it told the story it set out to tell and it came at a time I was open to questioning my views on homosexuality a little deeper.

It's a love story. A story of people in love who choose to remain apart because of other obligations. Logan pointed out last night, "It's like The Bridges of Madison County...only with two guys."

Yes, yes we watched The Bridges of Madison County 10 years ago and I'd be lying if I didn't tell you we both cried like little babies afterwards. We felt depressed after watching it and not just because we'd watched the sappiest movie ever filmed. The kind of movie my mother would declare 'Phenomenal'. Hold on there Mr Eastwood, my mother saw John Tesh Live and declared it 'Phenomenal' so put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Though that's all depressing on it's own, no, we felt depressed because people who loved each other were not able to be together.

After watching Brokeback Mountain...we have two kids, careers and life to worry about so we aren't going to feel depressed for days like we did after watching Clint Eastwood look forlorn in his shabby but chic classic pickup truck. However, we did think about the movie all day.

I believe people love regardless of what makes other people comfortable. Other people's love is as worthwhile as mine. In fact, the love Logan and I share makes certain people uncomfortable and we very rarely engage in anal sex. So it just goes to show you: we're not all that different than homosexuals. Who we choose to love can make other people cringe and can make other people question God and All That Is Holy.

And still we love each other in spite of all that, no matter how uncomfortable it makes other people.

*Hey, can you remind me to bring limes to playgroup tomorrow? Thanks.

Clothes.

In 3.5 weeks I'm going to Chicago with my girlfriends. We planned this trip so long ago, we didn't think it would ever come around.

But now it's May and it's almost time time. And I weigh as much as I did when I said, "I'm not going to Chicago looking like this." And I just emptied my closet of everything that doesn't fit and I have no clothes. So I'm going to Chicago naked.

(As an aside, I was measured at the gym and I lost an average of 2 inches from every part of my body. However I gained a half a pound and before you say, 'But muscle weighs more than fat.' I gained body fat too, 3% overall. I've asked no less than 14 people how this is possible physiologically speaking, and now I'm asking you. What the ever loving fuck?)

Instead of going to Chicago naked, I'm going to have to buy some clothes.

I've told Logan and the kids all I want for Mother's Day, is clothes. Clothes from Boden preferably. Never mind we don't usually do 'gifts' for these types of holidays, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

I really want this dress, but it's out of stock in the pattern I want for seven weeks. I also like this top and this skirt (in stone). The list just keeps growing.

Not Boden, but promising, does anyone have this skirt? It looks flattering but I worry about the tie thing. I had a horrifying experience with a sarong, a crying baby and a tantruming 3-year-old a few years ago and I've steered clear of things which have the potential for incorrect tying or being caught in the wheels of a stroller.

A-hem.

Note there are no pants on my list. I hate buying pants as much as I hate obsessing about every item of food and drink I put in my mouth. They're both related.

Not Chicago.

Logan was supposed to be shooting a car catalog this weekend. He's gone to fabulous places to do this in the past. Places like Utah and Lake Tahoe. He's also gone to places which aren't so much fabulous as they are warm when it's terribly cold here like Arizona.

I don't complain as much about his trips anymore because whenever I do I get this answer. Plus, in the past when I complained about his trips, like the New York City trip where he ended up front row at The Producers, I was mostly just jealous because I never got to go anywhere. At this point our frequent flier accounts are growing at a pretty similar pace so I just don't have as much to complain about.

Logan's trip to Chicago for the photo shoot was canceled and this happened because on Tuesday I told the kids we'd be meeting dad in Chicago so we could go to the aquarium and a few museums with the plus of a free hotel room to crash in.

The trip was canceled promptly on Wednesday which means I spent the rest of the week explaining to Max that I was wrong and we're not going to Chicago this weekend. Which meant no dinosaur bones or dolphins. This is the equivalent of telling a teenaged child there will be no phone privileges for the next 3 months. Devastating blow.

On the bright side, since we weren't traveling to Chicago we invited friends over for a little Cinco De Mayo celebration which involved Logan fiddling with tequila cocktails. If you're ever invited to a party at my house I suggest you pace yourself with the drinks and also stockpile vats of Gatorade to consume before you go to sleep.

I've begun capping off all our gatherings with vats of Gatorade and no hangover, just a painfully full bladder off and on throughout the night.

Coming soon, but not right now because my turn out of the house is nearly over: Another chance at Chicago! Also let's shop together because of Chicago and also Blogher! I have a head start but let's talk more tomorrow.

Banana Seat Freedom

I've gotten better about breathing through parenting over the last several years. When Maddie was a baby each new phase made me hyperventilate thinking, and also saying, "This will never end!"

So that if she wouldn't go down for a nap one day, I would begin thinking how my life was over and my 3 month old baby would never sleep again.

Madison wouldn't go into school without crying for the first 3.5 years she attended classes which did not involve me hanging out with her. By the time April rolled around at Kindergarten I didn't think she would ever truly believe that although we would be apart for a few hours, I was not running away to Mexico and would instead be back to get her before lunch. Somehow that phase passed as well and now she lets me drop her off at The Circle Drive.

I never believed I would be one of the lucky parents who drop their kids off at The Circle Drive. Instead I had to stand at the door waiting for the teacher to come let the kids into the school and while standing there I tried to feel out the other mothers for some awkward conversation.

When I drop Maddie off in the morning I'm usually heading to the gym afterwards, so I don't shower and dress for drop off. And this is key to understanding why I love The Circle Drive.

There's one mom who at pick up one day when Max was wearing his dinosaur costume everyday said, "You're so laid back! I can't imagine letting my little boy walk around in a costume all day in public."

So I said, "Well the dinosaur costume is okay but I put my foot down when he wanted to wear the Bondage Costume. That's inappropriate you know."

Ha ha. No laughing. Ha.      ha.  .....circle drive......

One day we're standing around waiting for the door to open and I'm looking longingly at The Circle Drive and the anti-kids-in-costume mom comes up to me and says, "I really admire you...I mean I could never leave the house without make up but you've got the pluck to come like this!"

Who says pluck?

Also, what? She compliments and then dives in for the insult. I admire it in a way, she should have a blog.

So yes, The Circle Drive was an impossible dream. But now, it's my reality.

You would think with all my experiences telling me the one good piece of advice my mother-in-law ever gave me, "Nothing lasts forever" was true, I would have picked this up by now. Nothing lasts forever, each phase of parenting ends one way or another.

We bought Max a bike with training wheels last year because he was four and it seemed like a good time for a bike. He refused to ride it, he'd get on it and promptly hop off because he couldn't make it go. How hard is pedaling?

He refused to even try to ride the bike all last year and this spring we pulled out the bike and it was the same thing, he made a half assed, and I might even say lame, attempt to ride the bike and promptly gave up and vowed to never ride this bike again. "I'll get a motor bike."

Because a hurling yourself through space on two wheels with a powerful motor is way easier than slowly pedaling a bike with training wheels.

The other day Max went out in the yard and figured out how to ride his bike. He didn't want me to watch, but of course I did from the kitchen window where he couldn't see me. He got frustrated several times and muttered to himself and got off the bike and then got back on and then sat for a while perhaps pondering the worthwhile nature of the bicycle in general.

"Why do I need to ride a bike anyway? She takes me everywhere. Maybe I just need to tell my mom this isn't 1981 with it's banana seat freedom. This is 2006 where predators are just waiting to snatch you up. This bike is an invitation to trouble. She's probably posting a picture of me on the internet right now, she's always endangering me."

But the next thing I knew he was riding the bike and he's been riding it since 9:30 this morning, up and down the sidewalk. So far the predators haven't snatched him up, but they probably will the minute I turn my back or post a picture of him on the internet.

Oops! Sorry Max!

Max riding his bike in his own time and Madison letting me drop her at The Circle Drive are just two examples of times when I've felt unsure how to proceed. When to push and when to just let them figure things out on their own.

When am I not helping them by not pushing them harder, when am I hurting them by pushing too hard?

It's hard for me to push them too hard when I've seen so many times my kids do things in their own time. I catered to Madison's poor eating habits for a long time and I worried I'd never see a day where a piece of (un-fried) chicken would pass her lips. But now she eats chicken in all sorts of forms and even steak and will try at least a bite of everything.

I coddled Max for 18 months when he refused to sleep through the night. Finally he did (with a little crying) and now he's a better sleeper than his sister who slept through the night at six weeks.

And with each of these instances, you would think my collective knowledge would let me breathe through each of these phases. But with every new phase or hurdle in front of them and in front of us, i always think, "That's it....he'll never ride his bike."

Or, "Oh God! I've ruined her for food!"

Or, "I'll have to room with her in college!"

Still things always seem to work out in some way that's okay with me in the end.

It's my goal in life to never use the phone again.

Pro Flowers bought an ad from me last week and as part of their ad campaign they wanted to send flowers to their advertisers. Not only that they also offered to send flowers to a friend of mine.

You have no idea what kind of tailspin that offer sent me into.

If you think about how the last three months have gone, I can think of at least 13 people off the top of my head who deserve flowers from me. You're probably one of those people who deserves flowers from me. Yes, you. I've been having a hard time managing things.

Like, say, my life.

Because the list of people I've snapped at in the last few months was so huge I decided to send the extra flowers to my sister. I don't think to do enough nice things for my sister, since I'm always wrapped up in my own dramas.

Thank you ProFlowers for making me feel like a nicer person!

No but really there are two things I have to say about ProFlowers: the flowers were lovely, a set of multi colored gerber daisies and my sister got snap dragons and a lily-ish flower. I forgot to take a picture and I tried to take a picture of the flowers tonight but I waited too long. They're still beautiful to me but maybe a little past their prime as I discovered as I tried to photograph them for this post.

But the really nice thing about ProFlowers flowers: you can order them without ever talking on the phone.

That's all you need to know. I'm surprised they don't highlight this aspect of their service to more people: "ProFlowers: When You Fear The Phone."

This entire post is making me feel slightly dirty but if they weren't nice flowers I would have told you and if you had to use the phone to order them. Believe me I would have told you.

Playgroup.

I keep wanting to write something funny, but it's just not coming to me and I thought this afternoon would be a good time to write something funny, except that this evening I'm recovering from having ten kids in my house for playgroup this afternoon.

I've made a decision not to have a drink at playgroup until the summer, this is an attempt to make summer seem more palatable. Also it's because if you have a mid-day cocktail you get a little tired and it's hard to keep going for the rest of the day. Which, during the summer is fine, you just invite all the dads over for pizza and call it a wash. But during the school year you've got things to do and a lazy day just isn't in the cards.

Instead, if you're having a playgroup with 10 kids in a 1200 square foot house on a rainy day which does not involve the consumption of alcohol, I suggest you serve this recipe for lunch (maybe with black beans instead of pinto beans). Because it will take your mind off the fact that the children are screaming and jumping on your bed and telling you someone got hurt every other second.

But you know, on Tuesday between noon and four I can't imagine doing anything else.

Things on my mind: oh Jesus, a lot of things.

Things which are thankfully not on my mind:
Brad and Angelina's baby.
Anything in the google news alerts.
Nothing in any news feed at Bloglines.

The small things are so huge.