…logic flies

To me:
Contrary to my parenting manual, logic is not what keeps the children from being pills, but rather, it is the bitter pill you have to swallow for having birthed them to begin with. T.

I’m stumbling along the road less taken down the winding parenting path—the one I thought would allow me to loiter with the child. I expected a meandering pathway to greater understanding, with hills and valleys in plain view and plenty of time to reconnoiter.

Unfortunately, the freeway I ended up on is perfectly suited to me—skidding past stop signs at a ducking, dodging, feverish pace, with detours for peanut butter, and freeze pops. An average day is enlivened with explorations and experiments and only interrupted by scatological[1] moments and the ongoing excitement of each new discovery.

The rudimentary nature of the journey can become so boring as to be physically exhausting and mentally draining, so I shake it up sometimes. I drive a different route to school, whip up a flavorfully new smoothie for breakfast and then … baby look out ‘cause that is when I live a little!

To me,
If I’m not careful, I find that the soothing sameness of television becomes overwhelming and I discover that it can be watched just as successfully from inside the bed. Locking the door with both of us inside, takes care of the supervision situation. Save me from myself, T

Every day I try to rededicate myself to the importance of the mission, by reminding myself of the long-term benefits and the ultimate goal.

Reality Bite: …which is to keep from foisting an alien onto an unsuspecting society. We’ll see.

[1] Potty, sorry, I couldn’t resist another moment of big people talk.

...delusion

I find it interesting that the more I give voice and expression to my strange and aberrant life, the more often I hear the echo of people around me shouting, “Me too!” This shared commonality is an added incentive for me to mold our shared delusion into a lovely reality.

Reality Bite: It’s another way to face a day in the voluntary internment called motherhood.

I thought my writing would be different from those writers who just can’t resist the opportunity to wail and rant about their tumultuous life to the world.

My writing would not be a desperate attempt at validation, but would act as more of a pressure vent—a diffuser of the silent scream, that threatens to break loose from the quiet corners of my simmering sanity.

I try to resist the temptation to act like a desperate child seeking attention (of any kind), but I'm afraid it's worse than that. I worry that I resemble a Hollywood publicity agent in search of fame and notoriety. I try to remind myself that bad publicity--of any kind--is just bad.

I envisioned my trials acting as a signpost on the road to self-discovery, but instead of a mere warning, my mistakes are broadcast the size of a billboard. My exploits have a good chance at ending up on the front cover of the weekly tabloid along with the three-headed snake and its pet alien. In this era of electronic media, I risk my craziness being lubed and Utubed to internet sites so millions have a permanent public record of my inanities.

I am convinced that if I write my stories with taste and tact, I should be able to turn the spotlight off me and toward a beacon of hope to the future. Let’s just say I’m busy living the title of this chapter.

And the final slap, most public figures still have to do their own laundry.

To me:
Midnight is the time to do laundry. It’s a time that best supports the delusion that I might actually catch up while no one is awake and doing their best to create more dirty laundry … unless someone wets the bed.
On and on, never ending, forever, T.

…rambling

I blame the holiday letters and the rush I get from writing lies, for my current obsession. I can’t constrain myself to the joy of deluding myself with the holiday written only once a year, so I am continuing the therapy by putting a happy spin on everyday reality.

Journal,
At the doctor’s office yesterday, the receptionist flippantly said, “Oh yeah, we’ll take any kind of payment, even your first born.” I replied with interest, “Really? Mine is 16.” Here’s hoping, T.

I’ve praised the benefits of journal-keeping for many diverse reasons, and the one that tempts me most is the teaser that someday my progeny will value my note taking. If they can glean hints and clues from what I write, I’m all for passing on my notes (in spite of the fact that I have a niggling suspicion that it’s cheating.)

I think that my children might appreciate this effort, even if it is only the vague promise of a piteous, passing thanks in the far distant future. That’s good enough! I’m writing!

The strongest motivation for me is the warning that history, unrecorded repeats itself and I can’t even imagine doing this again! Selfish motivation works! It’s all about me; I’m writing.

In my twenty year attempt to stay sane, friends and family have been subjected to cockeyed updates on life, altered to fit my fantasy de-jour and now I am compiling all of those letters, inter-notes and emails into an episodic odyssey all my own.

I promised myself I would quit after the first book, but I finished it and then I didn’t die. And there was ever so much more certifiable spam than I expected—a whole library’s worth, so here I go again.

Journal,
i've joined the new craze, the guilt party. You are shamed into taking photographs of every aspect of your child’s life and keeping them in these glossy, incredibly safe, unbelievably expensive albums accented, designed and decorated.

I imagine my daughter-in-law’s face when I present her with twenty-six albums, one for each year of my son’s life. If she doesn’t flip out completely, imagine the mother-in-law curse she’ll place on me when I inform her that it’s her job to continue the tradition for the rest of her life!

Surfing by again soon, Love T.

…seepage

It’s apparent that some of my previous writings have fallen into the category of satire. I was hoping my topics would be uplifting and be something magnificently beautiful, but it seems that a person’s true personality leaks through the logic banks of the keyboard and somehow seeps and drips onto a person’s finished work.

Journal,
Supervising piano practice is like pulling teeth; listening to each sour note is as jarring as the dental drill aimed with precision at the raw nerve of the patient perched on the stool next to the instrument.
I’m considering nitrous oxide—a spare tank and hose vented into the practice room. The gas would take the edge off… of everything.
Melodious, me

I’m accustomed to seepage, drool, and being damp in many ways, but oozing from my writing? What is even more tragic is that my writing voice is a reflection of how I look at life, and that translates as jaded and suspicious with a sarcastic slant—pathologically egocentric may be the clinical term.

My new goal is that my latest writings will evolve and become less vituperative. Unfortunately, because I write about reality, my plans for greater peace and civility in my writing may require some major changes in my everyday life, which could be a good thing in the long run, as I’ve been warned more than once that I should, “Be careful what you pretend to be or your spouse may figure out that you aren’t pretending.”

In painting the big picture of my quest for greater peace, I’ve sketched out a plan for my fitful bursts of temper. I’m dabbling in increased pondering and meditation, and today’s most promising peace is the website for soup poetry. I’ll see how it goes.

Journal,
I’ve been advised that I should attempt to write with a little less volatility. Just in case my writing is ever used as evidence in any future judicial proceeding, Thanks for the heads up! T.

Yes, a bowl of soup, poetry and quotes have made the most impact on my plans for greater serenity today. I knew it would all come down to a nice hot bowl of something.

Reality Bite: Steaming from without calms the steaming within.

…battle of wills

When I’m gone, the battle over my journals may be which of my children will get the honor of burning them, but if this weren’t my legacy, just imagine what I could be spending my time creating? The hand-me-down curse could be boxes of knitted purple potholders.

Journal,
My photos are back and what Kodak wants me to “say with pictures,” is that I am an idiot who can’t figure out a flash, doesn’t know beans about composition and has a very photogenic thumb.
I can’t complicate things by gong digital. So I’m stuck writing all the nasty details. I like to think that it will take less space and I’ll still get a sort of maniacal spin off it.
…From the psycho in me and the guy at the one hour photo…T.

Like laundry, life’s absurdities pile up and I struggle to sort them out. My goal is to separate life’s rare moments of lucidity from the inane. Sharing my hard-learned discoveries with others does seem to provide some center of peace in my tumultuous spin cycle. When I hang these absurdities out for public view, somehow I find they have become magically cloaked in optimism and my delusions can placidly continue.

Journal,
As I write, television is sucking the life force from my children and I will pay dearly for these moments of peace.
Later, after an afternoon of television, I will be forced to listen to an enthusiastic overview of the miracle knife from my infomercial expert, while I put the kibosh on her sibling who is committing violent acts on the refrigerator.
It was nice when I could just ignore the older children as I do the youngest who is dancing around chanting, “Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now, gotta go, gotta go, gotta go.
Something or someone is burning, so reality intrudes again and I’ve really gotta go. T.

Reality Bite: They will spend the rest of today yelling, “Can You Hear Me Now?”

...afterbirth

From the beginning, most couples set out with an advance plan for the size of their family. It is a novel idea, but in our house I show up pregnant and the husband feigns shock and swears he had nothing to do with it. The birds and the bees fly in the face of bio-logic to him, which is good or we would be childless and wouldn’t that be tragic? How could we bear to miss out on all this?

Journal,
Yes, we’re expecting again. As I hand him the pregnancy test, I ask him to say something nice that I could put in a baby book. He doesn’t. Love, Baby and me

But, that all changes when the child arrives. The babies shoot out and the husband catches them in an underhand sweep and attaches them by carabineer to his backpack. From birth onward, he is the do-it-all-dad. The quicker the baby hikes, bikes and runs, the happier campers the two of them make.[1]

Journal,
It doesn’t matter that the first is a girl. She’s outside mowing the lawn in the baby backpack by three months. So much for the delicate little princess, she spent yesterday helping dig the front water main break. She’s a six-month-old mole in the hole with him, grinning and chewing through the dirt pile, as usual. Sigh, T.

Reality Bite: Dirt and motor oil are teenage boy bait. I could use that threat with the Father to get the daughter back.

[1]The grammar guru gave this get-up a go.

…change

He likes them once they’re here, so why is it that when the initial announcement is made, all he can do is sit akimbo on the back patio staring, mouth agape and repeating a disbelieving dirge, “No! No? No!”

It may be that he is better than I am at visualizing the big picture—the commitment, the dedication and the expense of introducing another human being to the food chain, and like most of my project ideas that I promise will bring added improvement to our lives, i.e., remodeling, landscaping, and vacations, he seems to understand better than I, that even a tiny, cute, little bitty change, can result in a great big chunk of change.

Journal,
As the little one gets stitches again, the next eldest brings home demerits for reading above his level during play time at school again and every indication is that he will require a more specialized educational chunk of change.

The eldest is looking for monetary handouts for her myriad of activities, and I break it to him gently that it’s time for more change.
Tee hee, T.

The husband is the same person that plans in meticulous detail each day of a vacation and evaluates consumer recommendations for appliances before purchasing. He is one of those people that advertisers hate because he listens, watches and takes the time to debunk the hype of car commercials. He’s the one individual in the whole entire nation who really compares insurance … quarterly.

I am the opposite. The only time I spent longer than forty minutes evaluating something, I married it. Advertisers love me because the nostalgia of the music draws me in and I’m easily convinced that heavy metal is directly related to fiber. I am ever so much more likely to buy anything if they promise it will make me feel better in the morning.

Journal,
People have children for a myriad of reasons, sometimes even for a specific humanitarian purpose—like bone marrow donors.
I’m doing that. I’m giving birth to children for a purpose… to have them act in my stead in wrestling matches, camping trips, ski trips …
And I’m going to keep on having them until it works. Until they have worn him out. T.

In spite of the husband’s cautious attitude on change, I consider the challenges that come with children as an opportunity to raise my risk ratio—to increase my tolerance levels and my sanity threshold.

I'll ride this wave of childrearing, never stopping long enough to worry about the weather conditions or potential wipe outs. As any surfer knows, the bigger the wave, the more exciting the ride, and for the job of parenting, a mild degree of universal craziness is just an added bonus.

Reality Bite: Yeah, ‘cause you know, if it’s not totally fun, and like … totally exciting, then I need to quit and like if I’m going to quit, I might as well have fun. It makes perfect sense and all the sudden, I’m just like … having total fun. (This is a direct quote from a surfer magazine, dude.)

…cramp

Journal,
He tells me, “Honey, three is it! That’s all. There will be no more children for us. You cannot afford to lose any more brain cells.” T

The loss of brain cells really begins long before the actual birth. The marked decline begins at conception. It’s easy to imagine that it’s primarily due to the concentration of bodily functions that must align and cooperate to arrange all those little cells in the pattern of a tiny human body, and as a person who rightly should have been named Hap Hazard, I think we’re in trouble.

Journal,
With this pregnancy, I am unable to learn or to remember most things. I’m shockingly absent minded and lackadaisical. This is not like me. I am usually so ordered, meticulous…
Okay, so there was really not that much of a change, but enough for him to notice anyway. So…? T.

Hobbyists that build trains or ittybitty mansions in minute, exacting detail know how difficult it is to work on a 1/8th scale. Creating such a tiny being with such precision is a real study in concentration. That explains my lack of functionality during those nine months in every other aspect of life.

Journal,
I could sleep 20/7. The remaining four hours could then be dedicated to nonstop eating. That’s the sum total of all I’m good for.
Munch, munch, snore, T.

Fortunately, a functioning brain is unnecessary for the first few months after birth, as one is just a nocturnal cow in a cave, doing nothing more than feeding and sleeping. By the time a modicum of grey matter is required, (to decide which outfit matches baby food best,) the cells remarkably regenerate and I can function again.

Along with the loss of brain function, the husband is averse to altering the familial equation for another reason. He’s run the numbers and evaluated the percentage for error that comes with parenting and he knows the odds are against us.

Journal,
My friend’s son is a basketball player and she has learned that with one child you can double-team your defense, and when the second arrives, that puts you one-on-one. But with the third, suddenly the tables turn and you have to work with a zone defense and seasoned players know that this defense is never successful long term.

On the bright side, my friend did calculate that a two to three parent/child ratio, guarantees that at any one moment, one child is guaranteed to feel the outcast and be disgruntled and that can make up for a lot. T.

...reboot

Unlike computers, children don’t degrade with each and every use, instead they thrive on attention. In fact, a built-in attention-getter feature called an I.P.G. (ingrained programming glitch) comes standard on each of these little human mechanisms.

Journal,
I’m convinced that computer programs are designed to automatically upgrade themselves until they fulfill the Peter Principle. They progress until they crash. Those computers that lie dormant really have a longer period of workability than one that is ever turned on … There is no control, alt, delete to reboot children. All it takes is one big unplanned crash of any type where the hard drive gets scrambled and then there is no data retrieval. When the messages become garbled and mixed, there is no downloading the upgraded version. …if there were a sliding scale that estimated the number of days a computer could safely be used before it crashes, we would know upfront what we were getting into.
Ah, ha… Suddenly I’m get it. Duh, Terina.

But, unlike computers which reach maturity and are abandoned, the end product of good childrearing has infinite potential. That’s what I’m in it for, the payoff at the end. I want to be in on the cutting edge of innovation, not just the new and improved version, but something mind-blowingly inventive that’s never been seen before--an extra-ordinary individual. When the husband signed on knowing the level of difficulty, he could have warned me.

Reality Bite: Filibustering or stunned silence—either can prove to be an effective debate tool.

...pay to play

I remember the heart-wrenching moment as a new mom sends the first-born child off to the first day of school. The bus stops to collect him with his new backpack, filled with a one change of clothes, an unsharpened #2 pencil, and a bright purple folder.

And so, when the third child ventures forth, I find myself clinging to the poor child with frantic fervor—a parent desperate with the memory of the two who have gone before—a parent who knows that the time will come, all too quickly, when the little one will trip off unburdened by life, and return home needing eight folders in a rainbow of colors, four three-ring binders, two notepads, a dozen pencils, two reams of assorted paper, a calculator, six boxes of tissue, five red pens, and seven hundred pink erasers.[1]

A brand new, first-time kindergarten parent is naively ignorant of the warning that, “This is just the beginning.” The first-grader’s list of supplies reads like a back-to-school sale from Walleyworld and it escalates from there.

By the time they are teens, these children work out all summer long, growing buff and lean, not just to impress the opposite sex, but to face those first days of school when they must strap on the burdensome pile of required school supplies.

Reality Bite: By the last round, I’ve learned how to dodge the blows.

[1] Is there an eraser heaven? Have you ever seen any used erasers? Do they disappear into never-never eraser land?