Greetings from the abyss.

I don't want to know how long it's been since I've posted a blog. It's been a really long time, right? A really, really, really long time. I've run out of things that I think are worth saying. That's my excuse.

I've been thinking about places and the idea of home. I was born in Oregon but I moved to Montana when I was (I think) 6 years old. I have spent most of my life in Montana and most of my memories were grown here in Montana. However, there is still a part of me who thinks of Oregon as home. I used to always list "Baker, OR" as my hometown when I was younger but that eventually changed to "Butte, MT." I haven't been back to Baker, OR since I moved away all those years ago. I don't even know if I could recognize my home there if someone pointed it out to me. I have not spoken to any of the friends I made there in decades and I have never been back. Still, though, when I make the trip into Oregon I feel like pieces of me are sliding into place. The Columbia River Gorge is an artery that branches from my body and mind and I follow it to the places that feel like a bed that's been warmed for my return.

My husband and I moved to Vancouver, WA shortly after our first son was born. I have family there and it was familiar and friendly to me. Our second son was born there and I left behind wonderful friends, moments, and lessons. I left behind easy access to Portland, a relatively short trip to the coast, and a piece of myself that was left in the area long ago. I came back to Montana because it had become home when I wasn't looking.

My heart is in too many places. My heart is in my two children who run around and grow and push my limits. My heart is in my husband who works so hard and makes me want to be better. My heart is in Butte, MT with my parents and brother and my dear friends and the formative years of my adolescence. My heart is in Washington with the friends I made and the strength I gained from people who were face to face with the end. My heart is here in Montana and it's in Oregon, Washington, California, all the way in Japan and wherever anyone and anything I've chosen to love has gone or has stayed.

In the midst of all the scattering and the broad sweeps, I want to gather and hold. I want, in short, a hug.

This is current

Sometimes everything sucks and everything hurts until it doesn't. This isn't a phenomenon that only happens during  a certain part of your life. It will follow you until you (hopefully) die of old age. Life throws everything at you and sometimes it is all at once and you are not equipped to deal with it and maybe you will fuck up everything. It is terrifying and emotionally draining. It is still true.

I don't know how to handle these moments. I've been alive for thirty years (almost thirty-one) and I have no idea how to deal with it, except to drink a lot of wine. Incidentally, that's not the best way to deal with it...

I don't think that there's ever a point where life becomes less confusing. It just continues to confuse you but in different ways. Or it confuses you in an eerily similar way but you've grown enough to be able to see it from a different perspective. Nothing, I'm afraid, gives you a concrete answer. Nothing points a definite way forward. Nothing takes into account the variability of emotion or circumstance. All the time, at every point in your life, you are dealing with something you haven't dealt with before. Fun, right?

I wish I had some incredible insight to bestow. I wish I could say that all you have to do is sit by a fountain at dusk while gazing at poppies and the answer will come to you. That is complete bullshit. The universe doesn't give a shit. The flowers aren't aware of you. Water will fucking drown you and the stars are all dead in the sky and you're just seeing their echoes.

This is why I'm no fun at parties.

Friends have been telling me to update my blog and I'm afraid that this is all I have for you.

An atheist's reply to "A Catholic's Reply to 'How to Suck at Your Religion'"

This is going to make people mad, but whatever. Matthew Inman of TheOatmeal.com created a web comic titled "How To Suck At Your Religion." The comic has ruffled a lot of feathers and one religious (in this case, Catholic) blogger decided to refute the comic, panel by panel. However, he doesn't seem to realize that his arguments are all pretty asinine and rely heavily on the reader having the firm belief that Christianity isn't so much religion as fact. No. That doesn't work. I'm going to go point by point and show why his arguments don't work.

1. The first panel of the comic shows presumably a Catholic priest saying "Thou shalt not judge! Unless you don't belong to our church and then I judge that you're going straight to hell." The religious blogger says that this panel is erroneous because the Catholic church has never "declared anyone in Hell" in the way that it would canonize saints. This argument is hopelessly naive. For starters, Inman is hardly leveling this observation at Catholics alone. Yes, the character in the panel has a priest's collar but that has more to do with the familiarity of that image than a singular chastisement of one particular faith. More importantly, whether or not anyone has ever been "officially" declared to be hell-bound, anyone who has spent time on a college campus, walked through the busier parts of town, or even had the audacity to answer their doorbell has most likely been informed of just what awful sinners they are for not believing in religion X. My own grandmother told me I was going to hell for not believing in her religion.

2. Galileo. Oh, Galileo. The blogger's argument that Galileo's treatment by the Catholic church is misunderstood links us to an article on catholiceducation.org (which we can be assured is totally objective) in which Galileo is depicted as a megalomaniac who essentially bullied the Catholic Church into reluctantly persecuting him. The article even characterizes Galileo as "intent on ramming Copernicus down the throat of Christendom." This is kind of hilarious and hypocritical considering that Christendom was doing it's own ideological throat-ramming with its Inquisitions at the same time. The article is a, um, neat read.

3. The blogger actually equates stem cell research with Mengele's human experimentation in Nazi Germany. He actually draws this comparison. For real. He also makes the claim that there's a scientific consensus as to when life begins but there actually isn't! There isn't even a religious consensus! So, yeah, that there's a big, fat lie.

4. Inman argues against parents choosing their kids' religious views for them. This is pretty much the only area where I can see where the blogger is coming from. A great deal of parenting has to do with teaching your children how to be good people and to many, that means they have to be religious people. However, I do agree with Inman that children shouldn't be discouraged to question and find answers on their own. That's another big part of being a parent - getting your kids to the point where they can start making these big decisions for themselves.

5. The blogger really shoots himself in the foot here. He's making his way toward a legitimate argument and then lets it all fall apart when he conflates encouraging a child to come to their own conclusions about the afterlife to saying that the answer to "what's 3 x 3" is changeable according the child's fancies. No. Just...no. A mathematical formula is not akin to religious belief. Can you imagine if math was as ambiguous and changeable and mysterious as religion? Do you think we could build things if measurements were always subject to someone's personal convictions? Sorry, Catholic blogger guy, that was a dumbass argument.

6. The blogger really misses the point, here. Right now, at this very moment, citizens of the U.S. are being actively denied basic rights because of religion. People are being told that they are immoral, sick, wrong, and subhuman because of the way certain religious people view their sexuality. And since I'm picking apart a Catholic blog, what about the church's long history of sexual abuse of children by priests? Isn't that messed up? Couldn't that have something to do with the church's treatment of sex which, to paraphrase Stephen Frye, is akin to an anorexic or bulimic attitude toward food? It's disingenuous to deny that religion hasn't played a pretty big role in why people have anxieties about sex and sexuality.

7. This is just silly. I have personal experience with door-to-door proselytizing and it's annoying at best and infuriating and invasive at worst. In this day and age when information is literally at our fingertips thanks to modern technology, is it really necessary to darken someone's doorstep with your unsolicited beliefs and opinions? If someone is looking for Jesus or a reserved seat on the rocket to Kolob, they can find the resources they need. It's great that you're looking out for my spiritual well-being but could you please take a moment and look at it from my perspective? I won't knock on your door and try to convince you of my beliefs, please extend to me that same courtesy.

8. Blogger, do you realize that to a non-religious individual that this is how your religion sounds to many of us? In my mind, Scientology and Catholicism are equally bizarre. It's not just Scientology and Catholicism that are strange and ridiculous to me, it's every religion. There are good things sprinkled throughout a bunch of illogical rambling about hidden kingdoms for good people vs. horrible dungeons for bad people and invisible whatsits that tell you what to do and resurrections and strange laws about what to do if your neighbor's donkey falls into a pit that you dug.

9. People vote according to their religious beliefs all the time, which is why people will consistently vote for someone who doesn't have their best interests at heart but will really stick it to "teh gays." Also, stop bringing up the mythical scientific consensus about when life begins. THERE IS NO CONSENSUS.

10. This is where the blogger heavily implies that Muslims are all "violent, intolerant psychos" unlike fuzzy Christians who are never mean, ever. Do I have to get into why this is a shitty argument?

11. Killing for religion is an awful thing to do. Don't do it. Also, calling someone or something out on their bad behavior isn't the same as saying "I hate you because God tells me to."

12. What the hell is this "placebo religion?" Inman ends his comic strip with "just keep it to your fucking self." He isn't saying "don't have your beliefs." In fact, there's a whole section that the blogger ignores wherein Inman indicates the ways religion doesn't suck - "Does your religion inspire you to help people? Does it make you happier?" And does it help you with the metaphysical mindfuck of being human (I'm paraphrasing). Those are good things. But using religion as an excuse to hurt people, stifle discovery, and justify awful behavior is crap.

I have religious friends and family members who I love and respect. Their religion helps them make sense of the world and is a positive force in their lives. They don't use it to make people feel like they are less than human. They don't try to force others into believing as they do. They don't blame senseless tragedies on a lack of God. That's how they don't suck at their religion. I don't know why that's hard to understand.

I've been saying that turning 30 is better than the alternative. Today, I am painfully reminded of how true that statement is. Horrible, senseless, and tragic events happen all over the world but I believe their actual physical proximity to a person influences how much that person is affected. It's not a ground-breaking statement, I know. My brain isn't working too well right now. Someone shot a lot of people in Aurora, CO last night/early this morning during a midnight showing of the new Batman movie. He just walked into the theater and started firing indiscriminately, killing 12 people and injuring 50 others. I don't know why or even if "why" matters at this point. What difference does it make to the victims of violence if the perpetrator did it for a cause or just because he felt like it? Hurt is hurt. Dead is dead. Those 12 people will never celebrate another birthday, watch another movie, receive another hug, eat another meal, or laugh at another joke. The people who love them will always have that empty space.

I don't feel celebratory today but I do feel appreciative. I can still do things, like write a tiny and pointless blog entry. This evening, I'll go home and hug my kids.

I'm a nerd and I'm okay if you are, too.

I am a geek. I am a nerd. I have been a geek/nerd for as long as I can remember. I grew up watching Carl Sagan's "Cosmos" series with my family and enjoying it. One of my favorite films at a very young age was Kenneth Branagh's adaptation of Henry V and I memorized the St. Crispin's day speech from that play when I was 8 years old because I thought it was moving and awesome, because I wanted to impress my parents, and because I was showing off. I watched Star Trek, TNG religiously, wrote awful fan fiction about it, and spent hours drawing what my quarters would look like with my best friends at the time. I am forever grateful that I had enthusiastic collaborators in weirdness. I have always loved science fiction and fantasy novels and films and enjoy board games and video games.

Despite what so many films made during the late 80's and 90's sought to portray, I never wanted to be part of the "popular" crowd. I thought they were all jerks and befriending them would have been self-sabotage. Looking back, it almost seems as though I went out of my way to keep being an outcast. I didn't, though. I was just awkward. I was painfully shy, I wore my grandmothers' hand-me-downs, I developed a liking for button-down silk shirts and men's ties. I started wearing gloves in class because I hated the way my fingers felt when they were pressed together in order to hold a pencil. (Incidentally, the glove thing also brought about the first time I ever heard someone use "faggoty" as a descriptor. Can you blame me for not wanting to be friends with these schmucks?) I swear to you, I was afraid of Jupiter. That planet SCARED me. My brother had this awesome book about all the planets in our solar system (including Pluto, damnit) and I remember he showed me a picture of Jupiter and pointed to that perpetual storm - the Great Red Spot - and told me that it alone could swallow several Earths. I apparently interpreted that to mean that it wanted to swallow the Earth.

I credit my family for my geeky qualities. My parents are both nerds and I say that with great affection and admiration. My brother is probably the nerdiest of us all and even though I didn't appreciate that for many years, I love the living daylights out that fact (and him) now. I was taught to enjoy learning and exploration. I was shown that scientists and writers and scholars and mathematicians are the real freaking rock stars in life. To my continuing shame, I still freeze up in the face of math and end up spewing random numbers until someone intervenes out of embarrassment and sympathy. That being said, I have a lot of respect for people who can make numbers dance and sing.

I'm not writing this to be a douchebag and be all, "I was a nerd BEFORE it was cool!" I want to be clear about what nerdiness/geekiness means to me because I know that my definition of those terms is somewhat more generous than how other self-proclaimed nerds/geeks define them. Patton Oswalt (a person I respect and admire) wrote an article for Wired Magazine in 2010 where he laments the death of nerd culture because it's lost its elitism, its street cred. More and more people are calling themselves nerds, even if it's just because they played Skyrim for an hour that one time. While I do agree that many so-called "nerds" are not deserving of the title, I don't share Oswalt's despair. I don't think that nerd culture is being destroyed as it's being embraced. New artists continue to pop up. Thinkers and dreamers keep tumbling out of the womb. We're not running out of drive and inspiration. The more people in the world who are thirsty for knowledge and enjoy experimenting and creating and tripping and falling and getting back up to do it all over again, the better.

I get cranky when my nerdiness is called into question. Saying I'm not a nerd because I don't have a giant comic book collection or because I suck at math or because I can't recite Boba Fett's origin story is a bunch of crap. I don't have to have read every comic book to be able to appreciate comic books. I don't have to be able to do calculations in my sleep in order to feel sufficient awe and respect for mathematics. You know what? I think Boba Fett is overrated, even WITHOUT the crappy Star Wars prequels sullying his character. As Nicola Foti would say, "Sahrry." I'm not going to take away your nerd hat if you disagree with me. I think the spirit of being a nerd/geek is pursuing knowledge, creating, inventing, not being ashamed of your love for anime/Star Trek/board games/science fiction/D&D/calculus/Shakespeare, etc., and letting yourself get lost in excitement and squeal-filled glee when you participate in the things that get your mental gears turning.

Putting things more succinctly and eloquently than I can is John Green, YA author and 1/2 of the Vlogbrothers: "Saying, I notice you're a nerd is like saying Hey, I notice that you'd rather be intelligent than be stupid, that you'd rather be thoughtful than be vapid, that you believe that there are things that matter more than the arrest record of Lindsay Lohan. Why is that?"

(And how on Earth could it be bad if more people felt that way?)

Now put on a fez, roll a d6, and contemplate the vastness of the universe.

Shame

I was visiting my family a few weeks ago and my mom reminded me to take my medication one morning. I dug into my purse, explaining that I keep my pills in there so I don't find myself at work and suddenly realize, oh crap, I haven't taken my damn pills! I have learned the hard way that I will forget to take my pills in the morning before leaving for work and if I do that for 2-3 days straight, I am a complete mess. So I take my medication at work and I take them stealthily because they are antidepressants and I'm kind of, sort of ashamed to be taking them. I'm ashamed of my shame, too, which is great.

The medication I'm taking and have been taking for a while now is sertraline (generic Zoloft) and the (for me) unpronounceable bupropion (generic Wellbutrin). I've been taking sertraline since before my second child was born and the bupropion came into the mix maybe 2 years ago. As I have written about before, I went through postpartum depression after my oldest son was born. While the crushing sadness and feelings of helplessness and terror subsided after a few months, they never went away entirely. I was angrier, more worn out, and sadder than I had been prior to the whole ordeal. I was encountering more and more days during which I could barely bring myself to get out of bed because I felt so worthless and awful. I hit a particularly low point and scheduled an appointment with my doctor at the time who prescribed the sertraline. It made a very positive difference. However, all medications have side effects and the sertraline, while doing a great job of keeping me from feeling miserable, also sapped me of my energy. Another doctor's appointment (with a new doctor b/c we had moved back to Missoula by this time) resulted in me walking away with a new prescription for bupropion to take in tandem with the sertraline. With their powers combined, I would be functioning at a more reasonable capacity!

Now, I know that these medications have been working for me. I'm less moody, a little more energetic, and the hopeless feelings are fewer and further between. My brain wasn't functioning as it should, so I started taking medicine. What's shameful in that? Nothing! Except...depression is sort of treated like a weakness of character rather than an actual bonafide...thing. There's still this attitude of, "you're depressed? Well, boo-friggin'-hoo! Go for a jog and quit your bitching!" Other mental illnesses like schizophrenia and autism are treated more seriously but Hollywood has made sure that everyone still gets them wrong. Schizophrenics are all ticking time bombs and autistic kids are all super good at math and hold all the secrets of the universe if only Jack Bauer would come along and see the signs or whatever. The truth is, most of us really don't know what to do or think about mental illness because it isn't something that we can point to and say "there's the problem," so we either write it off as something frivolous or stereotype the crap out of it.

I take my meds as inconspicuously as possible because I don't want my coworkers to see the bottles and hear the word "antidepressants" and judge me as deficient. I also don't want their pity or to be treated with kid gloves as though I would totally jump out my window if only it would open. This problem that I have is a real thing but I'm handling it. Well, handling it except for the whole "DON'T JUDGE ME!!!!" part. That still needs work.

My bloody weekend

Last night, I was lamenting that the kids and I didn't do much over the weekend. However, it occurred to me that the weekend featured more blood than usual. Not in a way that would make passers-by stare in horror, fortunately. Still, though... Events were bloodier than normal.

Saturday night, after I put the kids to bed and informed them that wolves would eat them if they didn't go to sleep, I went downstairs to enjoy some quiet time. The peace was soon broken by the sound of Ethan screaming. Then, Ben called down to me "Mom! Ethan's got blood!" Damn it. I told those wolves to wait for my signal. Seriously, though, I ran upstairs and saw my little baby boy with blood covering the lower half of his face and both hands dripping with blood. It seems he was doing a little recreational furniture climbing and broke a fall with his face. This is not the first time it has happened. Last summer, Ethan gave himself a half dozen nose bleeds from similar activities. Just like those times before, once I cleaned him up and snuggled him, he calmed down and all was well. It's worth pointing out that he gave himself a bloody nose at daycare earlier in the week from running into a pole. He's going to end up looking like Owen Wilson if he keeps this up.

Sunday afternoon, I was outside with the boys when I decided that they both looked really shaggy and could stand to have their hair trimmed. I thought I'd give it a go, despite the fact that I have never, ever, ever given either of them a decent haircut. Ever. You know that Ben Franklin quote that goes, "the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?" That totally doesn't apply here. Shut up.

I got out my hair cutting scissors and a comb and decided that Ben would be the first sacrifice upon the altar of really bad ideas. It was going fairly well right up until I snipped off a tiny chunk of his ear. He sat screaming as I ran to get some tissues and blood dripped onto his shirt and got in his hair and... oh, the humanity. I am such an ass. He stopped screaming once a bandage was applied but there was no way in hell he was going to let me near him with scissors. He didn't even want to go and let a professional finish the job I had started. I couldn't just leave him with a quarter of a haircut, so I found my clippers. Unfortunately, they were missing the adjustable guard. "Oh, well," I thought. "I'll just eyeball it," I thought. "Can't be that hard," I thought. Actually, I didn't think any of those things. I was just batshit crazy. As you can probably guess, I made the kid look ridiculous. If I had smeared some dirt on his face he could have been "Urchin #4" in a production of Les Miserables. I decided to head out and buy some brand new clippers to at least try to even things out. I told my mom my plan and her response was, "you're letting him out in public like that?!" Look, he's lucky he still has both ears, mom. Sheesh.

After purchasing the fantabulous new clippers with their various adjustable attachments and "self-sharpening" blades (how??), I finished the job while lamenting how short his hair is now and muttering that "your daddy's gonna kill me." Ben was a champ. Then, I turned my lunacy on Ethan. Ethan, who had beheld the entire spectacle from the beginning, was not going to put up with my crap. He screamed like a beast. He thrashed, he clawed, he fought, he wiggled, and he spat angry defiance at me. I bribed him with cookies, though, and got him to hold still long enough to give him a slightly longer and much more even-looking version of his brother's haircut.

Both boys have since informed me that they like their haircuts and that they still love me. Ben even told me, "I don't want daddy to kill you." I can't say that I would be as gracious and forgiving in their shoes. A good friend of mine has assured me, though, that I have definitely scarred Ben and that he'll probably fear scissors for the rest of his life. Just one more way I have made a mark on his delicate psyche.

The point I want to drive home is, I had nothing to do with Ethan's bloody nose. That's all on him.

A Challenge

I just read an article on jezebel.com that pointed out how fat-shaming isn't going to make people thinner and really just creates a toxic environment. It doesn't do anyone any good, in other words. Then, I watched a snippet of the news on cnn.com about a girl who was driven to suicide from bullying. This is certainly an all too familiar issue, isn't it? Topping this cake of despair is the recent passing of Amendment 1 in North Carolina that prohibits same-sex marriage AND same-sex civil unions. True, President Obama freaking finally spoke out in support of marriage equality, but it's just not enough to turn my frown upside down.

I mean, what the fuck is wrong with people?

How hard is it to be nice? How difficult can it possibly be to not bully someone to the point where they feel like death is their only option? How laborious is it to bite your tongue instead of calling someone a "fatty" or any other of the far-too numerous synonymous insults? And why the HELL is there even a debate going on as to whether or not consenting adults should be able to get married? What is this crap about the "sanctity" of marriage? You know what? Only my husband and I have any effect on our marriage. Kim Kardashian's 72-day circus of a marriage didn't undermine ours. Newt Gingrich's numerous affairs didn't hurt us. So how on earth will allowing loving same-sex couples the same damn right enjoyed by hetero folks cause marriage to suddenly become sullied? Answer: IT WON'T.

Just be nice! I don't care if your religion dictates that you can't support gay marriage. Not supporting something isn't the same as acting like a dick. Suck it up, go to church, and freaking move on. I don't care if you don't like fat people. Truth is, they probably hate you, too, or they would if they knew how hard it is for you to not be such an asshole. Fat people are out there, ladies and gents. Pointing and screaming isn't going to do a damn thing. I don't care if that kid who sits across from you in English class is socially awkward and you think his glasses look funny. If you derive pleasure from another person's suffering, you are the real freak. It's not him.

I'm throwing down this gauntlet, people of the world. Stop being mean. Try to go just one day without throwing out a racial slur or a fat joke or calling someone a "fag." For once, don't taunt that kid from your English class (or wherever). Refrain from polluting the atmosphere with hateful words/signs/slogans and then be amazed at the end of the day when you find that you didn't implode and your god didn't smite you. Check your blood pressure - I bet it's lower. And if you're up for it, take up the challenge the next day and the next. Take it up for a week, a month, a year, the rest of your life. There's this part in "The Brothers Bloom" when the character Penelope tells one of the Bloom brothers that his soul is constipated and full of grumpy, petrified poop. That's you, mean people of the world. It's time to unclench and let all that awful, spiteful poop go. You'll feel better and you'll no longer be full of shit. (ba-dum bum)

Seriously.

Bits and bobs...and cookies.

I go through an awful lot of dry spells when it comes to this here blog. I'm in a dry spell right now, matter of fact. It's not necessarily because nothing is happening in my life that is noteworthy; it's mostly because I have no idea what to say about the things that are happening or even if I should say anything at all. The month of April has been pretty nasty, to tell you the truth. There have been bright spots, however. My oldest son turned six this month and had a pretty darn nice birthday. I went to see a play for the first time in years (unless you count MCT's production of "Winnie the Pooh," which I don't).  I'm also still employed at a job that I enjoy with people I enjoy seeing on a daily basis. All of these things provide some warm fuzzies. Beyond listing these bits and pieces of the Sarahverse, I don't know what to write. *looooooooong sigh*

I turn to you, my few and valiant readers. What would you like me to write about? Shall I try a story? A poem? Do you want to know my opinion on condensed vs. home-made soup? What shall I do? Leave a comment and then eat a cookie. I have no cookies to give you but I think everyone has cookie rights and if you don't have cookies in your house then you have my full permission and support to go get some.

Merrily we roll along

I've shamed myself into writing today. Two very good friends of mine have both been productive with their own blogs and it reminded me that my own has been sorely neglected. It basically just sits in a corner of my brain, forlornly nudging it's favorite chew toy and looking at me with big, soulful eyes. I submit. Plus, stuff has happened and this blog is about stuff that happens to me so I should write about that stuff.

What's the stuff? Well, I am a working mom again. Now, I will be the first person to jump down the throat of anyone who accuses stay-at-home moms (or dads) of not "working" but I must make it clear that I am not defending myself and my own experience when I go into attack mode. I am a crappy stay-at-home mom. I am terrible at it. I have no idea what the hell to do with myself and my kids and usually end up doing next to nothing and then wrapping myself up in guilt along with my blankets when I go to bed at night. My righteous indignation bubbles up out of a deep respect for the SAHMs and SAHDs I know who are actually good and enthusiastic about what they do - my idols to whom I beg forgiveness after disappointing my kids yet again. So when I say that I'm working again, you are free to assume that I wasn't doing anything before besides occupying space.

I'm extremely excited to be working at the University of Montana again. My confidence in my abilities to be a productive employee was dealt a very hard blow with my last experience so I entered the workplace with some trepidation. I am now ending my third week and the difference between this time around and the 4-month horror show at the sleep clinic is night and day. The sense of belonging that I had when I last worked for the U has returned even though I'm working for a different department. The people here are warm, friendly, helpful, fun, and blessedly free of psychotic, micromanaging battleaxes. Joy! I am being reminded of what my last job caused me to doubt - that I am a good employee. It's silly that I let that ONE experience overshadow all my other years of employment but I tend to focus squarely on the bad while ignoring the good. And now I will tell myself, for the millionth time, to stop doing that.

Of course, this has been a huge change for our family. I stressed myself out trying to figure out the logistics of daycare, after school care, and (the part that caused me the most stress) how Ben was going to get to school each day if I couldn't take him. I despaired that the Y doesn't offer before school care and fretted over whether or not I could get away with coming in to work later and halving my lunch break. I eventually called upon my awesome neighbors who stepped up to the plate and agreed to walk Ben to school. Through all my scrambling and worrying, it never occurred to me to just get another car seat for my husband's car so that he could take Ben to school. Thankfully, this idea DID occur to my husband and that big, scary Issue is no more and I just feel silly.

So now Ben gets picked up by a bus and taken to his after-school care on days when Clyde is working. Ethan, meanwhile, goes to a full-time daycare in a different building. Ben has had some behavioral issues pop up since I changed our daily routines but he's handling everything much better than I thought he would. Ethan has been a different story altogether. He tends to cry every morning when I get him dressed and we've had two mornings so far in which he seemed to be vying for the coveted "Loudest and Most Violent Hissy-Fit Award.". I'm positive that if such a thing existed, he would have won. My neighbors would probably agree, too, considering how they were all treated to his banshee wails of outrage when I carried him to the car during the first fit. You're welcome, neighbors. Although the second fit was as recent as yesterday, I am confident that things will get better. He's always smiling and playing when I pick him up and the people who work at the daycare seem to really care about him and enjoy having him.

I am keeping my fingers crossed that my job continues to go well and that the kids settle into the newness of it all. They've done it before and I'm sure they can do it again. However, I don't want to keep putting them through so many drastic changes. Hopefully, this go around as a paid worker will stick and what's new will become normal. I have many different items on my self-improvement list and a long road ahead of me but I feel like I'm on pretty steady footing. I'll take a lesson from the British and keep calm and carry on.

Small Sociopath Causes Mom to Consider Becoming a Hermit

It's been a while since my last blog. I would love to say that I haven't written anything because I've been tremendously busy and productive but it would be a filthy, shameful lie. I've been browsing the web for jobs, spending WAY TOO MUCH TIME on Facebook, rereading my Terry Pratchett books, and blundering through the whole parenting thing (as per usual). We had a nice Christmas with my family, I spent some time with good friends, Clyde and I even attempted a date night which lasted less than two hours because we're old and have no idea what to do with ourselves. We need to work on that, I suspect. We actually decided that the next time we have an opportunity to go "out" without the kids, we need at least one other couple with us to sort of guide us on how to have a Fun Evening. We know how sad that is. But that isn't what prompted me to write. The reason I have decided to write this evening is because I have made a startling discovery. It's a discovery that I'm not sure I should have made, to be honest. However, I feel compelled to share it. I have discovered that my youngest son, my darling boy, my precious little one is a total jerk face. Yep. I said it.

Please understand that I love him tremendously. I think he's adorable and I love to dance with him and cuddle him and I find his chubby cheeks to be irresistibly smoochable. But he's a jerk. I think it's because he recently turned 3 and despite what we've all heard about "the terrible twos" it is actually the "apocalyptic threes" that parents need to worry about. Ethan has always been stubborn and willful but these traits have come to utterly dominate his personality. He has brought me to tears. The stress from dealing with the little goblin can be plainly seen on my face that has broken out worse than it ever did when I was a teenager. He has stopped me in my tracks and sent me searching my pockets for a white flag to wave.

I am sure that I have mentioned that Ethan's scream could make a banshee go into early retirement from shame. The scream, actually no... the Scream - because it deserves the capital S and could make your vision blur and distort like the Edvard Munch painting of the same name - the Scream is being used much more frequently and pretty indiscriminately. Basically, any time I tell Ethan to do something, he busts out the Scream. The other day, I ended up slinging him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carrying him home because he unleashed the Scream when we picked Ben up from school. I told him to hold my hand. That was it. That earned the Scream. Later that same evening, I had to take the boys shopping and Ethan didn't want to sit in the seat in the shopping cart. Patrons of the Safeway on Reserve were introduced to the Scream. I was horrified and embarrassed and at a complete loss. Eventually I went through those feelings and out the other side to hysteria. Some poor woman turned the corner into our aisle and was treated to the Scream with Manic Laughter as accompaniment. Poor Benjamin was terribly confused.

It's not just the screaming that makes Ethan a jerk. He's also violent. Today, we went on a play date with a friend and her son to the train at the mall. Ethan became very possessive of the train and had no problem exerting his dominance over any hapless child silly enough to think that the play area was for everyone. Ethan made a baby cry! This adorable baby girl was just sitting on the train, minding her own business and Ethan clobbered her! A baby! This was after he sent another poor toddler crying to his mother because Ethan yelled at him, "MY TRAIN!" and shoved him. It's heartbreaking that MY kid is that kid. He takes swings at anyone who makes him mad. There have been many times when I've been in the kitchen and suddenly heard the "thud thud thud" of Ethan's running feet followed by a clumsily delivered swat to whatever part of my anatomy that he can reach. Why does he do this? Pick a reason! He's mad that his food isn't ready right now or he's furious that he can't eat nothing but marshmallows all day. Maybe he's mad because I told him we're out of something. Maybe it's a full moon. You know what? Maybe he doesn't need a reason because HE'S A JERK.

I am holding tightly to the belief that this is a phase. Ben was pretty rotten when he was 3 and now he's very sweet and gentle. However, until this phase is over with I kind of don't want to take him with me out in public anymore. He's the honey badger of toddlers lately and the public must be protected. But who is going to protect me? I can't help but ponder the expense of building a padded cell as an addition to our home. I'll let him out when he's 4.

Drama and the Suburban Housewife

Today was weird. There's no more eloquent way to put it. It had started off as a normal if incredibly lazy day. The kids and I were still in our pajamas past noon (don't judge me!!!) until we were summoned outside by one of Ben's friends who lives directly across from us. For anonymity's sake, we shall call this friend "P" because he was dressed as a Pirate. I'm clever. Ben donned his own pirate costume and I attempted to outfit Ethan in his but it turns out that a Halloween costume that says it fits 3- to 4-year old children just cannot contend with the Mighty Ethan. However, we all got outfitted and stepped into the lovely Fall day.

As the boys were running about, we saw that we had new neighbors moving in. There was a parade of family members hauling boxes and at one point, a little boy crept out of the condo and became transfixed at the spectacle of my neighbor's and my hooligans playing about like monkeys. His Grandma followed him out in an attempt to urge him back inside but it was a hopeless case. Once my kids and my neighbor's kids took off in their scooters, the new kid was swept up in their wake. Poor Grandma was pretty frazzled and kept trying and trying to get her grandson to go back home with her. I could sympathize because moving is stressful enough but moving AND watching a small child is madness. Grandma, P's mom and I ended up trailing behind the parade of neighborhood boys and chatting when P's mom had to break away to check on her middle child. Shortly after she left, P and Ben found...the thing.

I should mention that I had consumed nothing the entire day up to that point except for coffee. My blood sugar was crashing and I was wired from the caffeine. I was keeping it together for the most part but the thing was sort of the tipping point. P and Ben were about 20 feet ahead of us, intently studying something on the ground and as we got closer I could hear P saying over and over "It's real! Oh my goodness, it's real!" Ben made some noises along the line of "blech" and pointed at the ground excitedly when he saw me. It was at that point that P said that they had found a hand. A hand. I looked where my son was pointing and my already frazzled brain tried to put together the information being sent to it by my optic nerve. It looked like a hand. A skinned, somewhat mutilated, and very definitely severed hand. My first thought was that it was some kind of amazing Halloween prop. I told the boys as much and to illustrate my certainty, I poked it. I really wish I hadn't poked it. I was expecting hard plastic but instead felt something altogether more yielding and a tad slimy. I tried to confer with Grandma but she must have met her tipping point, too. Beyond offering up her son-in-law's medical expertise ("He's medical," she says to me) she couldn't offer anything else and instead told the boys that I was going to get some paper towels and dispose of it.

I should have resisted more to being volunteered to handle the thing but I wasn't entirely in my right mind. I passed P's mom as I headed back to my home and gave her a very brief and terribly vague overview of what was going on. I retrieved the towels and went back to the thing, wrapped it up, and headed to the dumpster. On my way there, I decided to stop by the new neighbor's garage to see if the Medical Son-in-Law could offer any insight. This is the part where I introduced myself to my new neighbors, flushed and shaky and clutching a skinned body part.

"Hi! I'm Sarah. Does this look like a HUMAN HAND to you?"

It turns out that Medical Son-in-Law is not, in fact, medical. However, he and his wife looked at the thing, agreed with me that it was real and definitely not a prop, and urged me to call the police. I probably should have done that before handling the damn thing but better late than never. I left them standing dumbfounded in their garage and made my way back to the spot while on the phone with a 911 dispatcher. I explained what had happened and ensured them that I was putting it back where it was found and I would leave it the hell alone. When I got back to the spot, another of my neighbor friends had joined the party and she took a look at the thing once I put it back on the ground. She's super smart and way more savvy about biology than I am and she thought it looked like it could possibly be a bear paw. Her equally smart and savvy husband came out to join us and seemed to draw the same conclusion. By and by, a police officer showed up. He donned some blue gloves and studied the thing but I didn't get to hang around for the final verdict because the kids scattered once again. I was also really close to collapsing on the sidewalk from hypoglycemia so once I decided that I wasn't going to be interrogated or chastised for being so stupid, I gathered my kids and went home. I met my new neighbors on the way back and told them it was probably a bear paw and might have mumbled something in an attempt to reassure them that finding stray body parts on the lawn isn't the norm for our neighborhood. I'm pretty sure they'll be steering clear of me in the future.

And I still don't know what the hell it was.

Suddenly, Kindergarten!

It's been a while so I thought I should attempt to update this thing, especially considering the new and exciting chapter our family has entered into - Kindergarten! No, not all of us although I do get those anxiety dreams every now and then in which I'm forced to redo some year of school due to a technicality. My oldest child, my little man, my Benjamin has started kindergarten. He has already completed his first week. As you might guess, this milestone has me feeling a whole mess of emotions. I can't help but get a little misty-eyed when I see Ben in his too-big backpack, standing in his class line as they prepare to enter his classroom. He blows me kisses and waves when they start marching in. On the first day, he almost didn't make it into the building with the rest of the kids because he broke away from the line to give Ethan and I another kiss and hug goodbye. How does one NOT tear up in the face of such sweetness?

Ben and I are also feeling some anxiety. For Ben, he's learning that he needs to complete things in a set amount of time; something that is causing him some frustration according to his teacher. He's always been a slow eater and he hates leaving a project before he's decided he's finished. As of Friday, however, he's shown a lot of improvement in this area. He's also feeling anxious regarding the social aspect of school which also happens to be the part that's causing ME the most anxiety as well. Ben is a very sweet kid. He's very affectionate and he loves to play with other kids. He also tends not to realize when he's being picked on. I've witnessed this on several occasions, the most recent of which happened at the play area at McDonald's. A rather large family came in and the kids in that family immediately started picking on Benjamin. The youngest of the brood (a little girl about Ben's age) even took to hitting and slapping him. Ben was upset but he still wanted to play with them. It was heart-breaking and I ended up "rescuing" Ben and going home. I worry how he'll be treated at school. I worry because I remember vividly how much I hated those first school years because of the maliciousness of my classmates and I hope with all my heart that Ben has a better time of it. I also worry just as much and possibly more that Ben's sweetness will dissipate and he'll become one of the mean kids. Actually, that definitely worries me more. I can't stand the thought of either of my kids as bullies. There's a strength to be gained from overcoming the taunts of others but I have no idea what, if anything, a bully gains in life.

Because Ben is in school now, it means that Ethan and I get one on one time. It didn't occur to me until the first day I dropped Ben off that Ethan and I never had that kind of time since he's the second child and all. As much as I miss having Ben around, I'm looking forward to this time with Ethan. As long as I'm still unemployed (boooooo!) we'll get to pal around just the two of us (yay!).

I've already experienced the profound miracle that is shopping with only one child in tow. The difference was amazing. I felt like I was cheating the system or something, it was so easy. It'll be great to go to a park without feeling like I need iguana eyes to keep track of two kids who never seem to want to go in the same direction.

This should be a pretty exciting time and even though I occasionally have episodes of "oh my god my baby is in school"-induced madness, I'm looking forward to what comes.

Ideas requested in a manner that may resemble begging.

I have a camera now and I want to vlog and create funny/interesting videos with it. What I want to know is what YOU would find interesting. Please keep in mind that I'm a noob and I have no editing skills so it's all going to be baby steps. Also, volunteers are more than welcome to assist in any way. Please help me! I'm lost and confused and adrift in a sea of...confusion!

Life lessons suck most of the time.

Remember that time I was a stay at home mom but it just wasn't working out so I got a job? Well, that time is really closely related to this other time when I spent 40 hours a week in a soul-crushing environment with awful people who treated me like an idiot all the time. And THAT time is really really closely linked to the time when I met my breaking point and quit and walked the hell out. That last time I'm talking about was this morning. It marks the second time in my life that I have quit a job on the spot, never to return. Although, I guess I do have to walk back in there to get my last paycheck. I bet that'll be neat!

This experience has taught me some things;

- I don't like being patronized. I know, right? Who'da thunk...

- It's super difficult for me to complete a task when I'm getting conflicting information as to how to complete it.

- Sometimes when your supervisor says she's got your back, she means that she's preparing to stab a knife into it repeatedly.

- When a future employer tells you "we're like a family here", get him/her to elaborate on whether or not that family is a dysfunctional, reality-show kind of family. That's important.

- If I throw up at work and have to seriously wonder if it's because I'm sick or if I just hate the place that much, that's a clear indication that it's time to move on.

- It might be appropriate to inquire at job interviews if any of the employees are bat shit crazy people who should have retired years ago.

Okay, I won't actually ask at interviews if I'd be working with crazy people. Still, though, these last few months have been nearly ulcer-inducing. I kind of felt like I was getting slowly squeezed like a tube of toothpaste and my soul was the paste and my nutjob coworkers were brushing their teeth with my soul. Or something. It was bad. Now that I've gotten through the residual feelings of rage and frustration, I'm feeling liberated. My friend Meagan said that sometimes the best way to stand up for yourself is to leave and I agree with her. I tried talking about it, I tried sticking it out, I tried everything I could think of but it came down to either leaving or punching someone right in the face. Neither of the potential recipients for that punch to the face would be worth the assault charge, though. I should have left a long time ago but there was a stubborn part of me that refused to admit defeat. Thankfully, it occurred to me that I was already being defeated on a daily basis and getting the eff out of there could only be a victory. Yay!

SO....anyone hiring?

Romance

I watched "Blue Valentine" the other night and it got the ol' cogs turning in my head. If you haven't watched it, I do recommend it. However, I recommend it with the caveat that you will probably be at least a little depressed by it. Oddly, it was refreshing for that very reason. The film industry (for the most part) has an annoying habit of taking the realness out of reality. The questions tend to not be difficult, the answers are absolute, and everyone walks away satisfied. "Blue Valentine" is definitely not that kind of movie. It's a movie about a relationship minus the fairy-tale romance aspect. It's honest and it's intimate and it really doesn't give a damn if anyone's terribly satisfied at the end. Watching the movie just brought up an age-old conversation I have with myself over the nature of romance. Yes, I have conversations with myself. Moving on...

I find that I am much more pragmatic than I was during my teenage years. This is by no means abnormal. At least, I hope it isn't. When I was a teenager, I believed in the idea of soul mates while simultaneously scoffing at the idea in public. My concept of love was intense, passionate, tragic, and certainly never anything short of dramatic. However, if that was truly the case in romantic relationships, we'd all be crying lines of eyeliner down our cheeks and writing terrible poetry 24/7. Reality has to creep in somewhere. And when it does creep in, that's when I think the true romance happens. It's easy to fall for an ideal. Ideals are shiny and beautiful and new all the time. They are what they are because you haven't obtained them, yet. The real work and the real love begins once you've obtained what you've idealized. For the purposes of this post, that ideal is your husband/wife/lover/partner.

The beginning of a relationship almost always has that butterflies-in-yer-stomach, gosh-everything's-magical aspect to it. You and the Object of Your Affection (OYA... like "oh yeahhhh"... heh) are still putting your best foot forward. You don't want your OYA to know that you snore or that you eat with your mouth open or that you save your toenails after you clip them or WHATEVER. You try to stifle the faults you're aware of and therefore present an ideal, and terribly untrue, version of yourself. However, the charade is awfully hard to keep up. Sooner of later, your OYA is going to see you picking your teeth or you're going to fart in his/her presence and the smoke and mirrors will vanish. When that happens, the real trial begins. This is when you find out what you're made of and you'd better hope there's a good foundation or you're toast.

To me, it is far more romantic to be able to look at your OYA when he/she has bed head and hasn't brushed his/her teeth and is wearing ratty old pajamas and you STILL think, "I really love this person." And the intense happiness that comes with knowing that your OYA feels the same way about you when you've spent the whole night snoring the house down and drooling all over your pillow is better than any Hollywood construct. The truth is, you will not be at your best all the time. Hell, I'm lucky if I'm at my best once a month. Scratch that and edit it to once a year. My husband is confronted with the worst of me often. He sees me when I'm hating myself and I just can't give a damn and he's still there, loving and accepting me. Screw Cinderella and Prince Charming and all of that other garbage. That love and that acceptance is what's going to see you through to your old age.

There will be drama and there will probably be tragedy in your lives but that's going to happen in between long stretches of the mundane and the routine. You will need something to sustain you through those long stretches. You will need to be able to laugh at yourselves, to recognize your faults, to be able to have arguments without falling apart, to be able to communicate and work together. You will need to be really damn good friends and have each other's backs. You will need to be able to look at your OYA at the end of a very difficult day and think to yourself that all that other bullshit isn't going to tear you apart because you have this person who will see you through it.

All of this is a far cry from my teenage perceptions of romance but it isn't unromantic, not to me. I think part of growing up is learning how to redefine things rather than abandoning them. I will never be a fairy princess or own a unicorn but I do have love in my life.

Did you know I like to whine?

I thought I would solve things. You see a problem, you search for solutions, apply them to the situation, and you fix it. If not A, then B. If not B, then C. Etcetera. It's not anything new to figure out that life is more complicated than that. However, some revelations have to be had over and over and over again. Even then they might not stick. It's not stupidity or naivete that makes the lesson hard (or impossible) to learn. I know that in my case, it's just a continued hope that keeps me making the same mistakes. I keep hoping that it'll be simpler this time and that the formula will work. Isn't there an exception to every rule, after all? I'm in the middle of the same of revelation for the umpteenth time and I know I'll find myself in the middle of it again.

What do you do when the problem is you? My problem isn't having a crappy job or having no job or having the wrong job. My problem is pretty fundamental - I am screwing up my life. It's me. Granted, I'm not doing drugs or drinking myself into oblivion. I'm not prostituting myself or robbing from people or killing people. I don't even pull the wings off of flies. There are far less dramatic yet equally damaging ways to screw up your own life. To paraphrase from a Mumford and Sons song, I haven't found an enemy bigger than my apathy. Or maybe it's fear. I suppose it's equal parts fear and apathy. I've never been ambitious out loud because I'm afraid of what I can't do. There's something about having potential that can ruin a person. As long as I never try to tap into my potential, I'll never have to find out that it's all just bullshit and I'm really not good enough. And at any given time when I could choose between making an effort or playing video games, I'll opt for the video games. That, more than anything, explains why I am splattering self-pity on the internet instead of... I don't know. Following my dreams? Pursuing my goals? Grabbing life by the balls?

I got a job because I'm a terrible stay at home mom. I wanted to be around other adults and feel like I was part of something and being productive. My job, though, has left me feeling either incompetent or enraged. I have always been a good employee. I've been able to get along with and befriend my coworkers. Here, though, I can't decide if I'm just out of my groove or if I'm working with crazy people. Am I really that awful? Are they really that awful? What the hell is going on here? My therapist told me I should quit and part of me agrees 100%, part of me is stubborn and feels like quitting would mean "they" had won, and part of me is oddly comfortable. Did you know that comfort isn't always a good thing? Now you do. Comfort keeps me in dead-end jobs. Comfort keeps me playing video games.

It's Thursday evening. I've worked 4 ten-hour days and I'm feeling a little drained. My kids are in their room, asleep. I have a glass of wine and I'm listening to music. Ironically, the song I'm listening to is "The Edge of Glory." That's funny, right? So I'm going to finish typing, finish my wine, maybe read a little or watch a little TV. Then, I'll go to bed and let myself think of who I wish I was until I fall asleep. Tomorrow, I'll start over again and hope that I can muster some enthusiasm. Yeah. I'm rolling my eyes, too.

Worst mom, ever.

Were you at the Big Dipper this afternoon at around 1? If so, you might have seen me. I was the lady who left her kids in the car while purchasing some ice cream. You sure gave me some nasty looks, I must say. You know what, though? You'd have been giving me nasty looks had I let them stand in line with me. Let me explain...

We awoke today to some gorgeous Spring weather. Sunshine! There's sunshine out there, for the love of all that's good and pure! Since you live in Missoula, too, you understand why that's such a big deal. We haven't seen the sun in weeks. At least, it certainly feels that way. Anyway, since there's an abundance of what we have been previously lacking, I knew it'd be damn near criminal not to take advantage. After breakfast, I grabbed some water bottles and readied the munchkins for a stroll along the river. As we headed out the door, Ethan noticed his pushable Thomas train and I thought "Why not? Let's take it along and Ethan can push his Thomas train to his heart's content! It'll be fun!" This is not the first time I've been horribly wrong about something similar. I should know by now. To be fair, though, the stroll started out well. The kids were smiling, Ethan was happily pushing the train along, Ben was skipping and dancing, birds were chirping, etc. How lovely!

When we got halfway to my target destination, things started turning sour. Ethan began to refuse to push the train any further but he didn't want anyone else to touch it, either. Neither did he want to leave it behind. I'm not sure exactly what he wanted to have happen but it was clearly something beyond my control or capabilities. Benjamin actually diffused the situation by inviting Ethan to sit and rest with him on a bench, where I took some pictures and stupidly thought that everything was going to be ok after all. That was when Ethan hopped off the bench and made a run for it. At first, I didn't see the harm since he was headed for an open and empty field that certainly posed no danger. As if he knew what I was thinking, he stopped his mad dash and started trying to eat rocks.

The details of everything that followed are fuzzy - just glimpses through a reddish haze and peppered with feelings of futility, humiliation, confusion, and desperation. The boys hit each other a lot, Ethan planted himself face down on the ground several times, Thomas was brutally thrown fairly often, and passing dogs were terrorized. I eventually ended up carrying Ethan - as he pinched, bit, scratched, slapped, and kicked me - while Ben dutifully pushed Thomas along side of me. Trust me, people at Big Dipper, yours were not the only pointed looks I endured this day. I walked through a gauntlet of judgment, avoiding eye contact, all the way back to my car where I strapped a still-shrieking Ethan into his car seat and thanked Ben for helping me with the stupid train. I told him he could have an ice cream for his troubles, which is how we came to be at Big Dipper this afternoon.

You see, Ethan was not going to get ice cream. There was no way I was going to reward his horrifying behavior by giving him a delicious treat. Also, whether or not the kid was going to get ice cream, I knew that standing in line with him would be an utter disaster. Have you experienced flailing toddler rage? It's nearly impossible to deal with when the parent to child ratio is 1 to 1, when the parent is outnumbered it's game over. No matter how dutiful and well-behaved the non-flailing child has been to that point, he or she will only register that Other Child is getting an awful lot of attention and will follow suit. No, thank you. So I parked the car in the shade. I rolled the windows down a bit and told them that I would be right back. I walked the 20 feet to the line and barely took my eyes off the munchkins. I saw you staring worriedly at my kids and I noted your disdainful glares as well as the shaking of your heads. I also noted how there were 5 of you to the two small children present in your group.

You got up from your table and dispersed, leaving behind one member of your party who happened to be the mother of the little girl present. And you, mother of little girl, took it upon yourself to "guard" my children until I closed the 20 feet between us and got back in my car. You thought you were noble, I'm sure, and you will tell the tale of the Evil Woman at Big Dipper to all your friends to caution them against such gross child neglect. Someday, mother of little girl, your daughter will throw an unholy tantrum in public and drive you to your wits' end. She will shatter every single illusion of parenthood that you ever had. If I'm standing there when it happens, I won't shake my head at you. I just want you to know that.

Around and around I go

Have I mentioned that I've gone back to work?

So, yes. That happened. I'm employed again. I tried being a stay at home mom, or SAHM as they are known in the blogging community, and it didn't turn out the way it was supposed to. Basically, I completely sucked at it. There were a few weeks when I think I was mostly on the right track; I took the kids places and kept us all active and away from our home. However, I ran out of ideas very quickly. I thought I was a creative person, and maybe I am, but my creativity doesn't translate well into actual day-to-day functioning. (I'm still not sure if anything I do translates well into day-to-day functioning.) Basically, I had no freaking idea what to do with these two little people 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Yes, sleeping factors in there somewhere but I was having really messed up dreams about Graboids eating my kids and reclusive old people kidnapping and murdering me so I have decided that my sleeping hours don't count. Something was stressing me out all the time.

So how is going back to work less stressful? Well, I get to talk to grownups again on a regular basis. As it turns out, that is really important for me. I started feeling both sorry for and resentful of Clyde when he came home at night because I would start babbling at him from the moment he walked in the door and I just couldn't understand why he wouldn't want to hear my stories about how many times Ethan pooped or the ferocious battle of wills that occurred between Ben and I at every mealtime. There was a small part of me that realized Clyde had just finished up a 12-16 hour day and the man needs at least a moment to unwind. But there was a larger part of me that just thought "OMG an adult! Must talk! BLAH BLAH BLAH CONVERSE WITH ME DAMNIT!!!!"

I also genuinely feel that my kids are better off at daycare. When they are there, they are interacting with other children, creating pictures, listening to stories, and just learning things that I lack the capacity and patience to teach. I tried to teach Ben how to write letters and numbers and just could not wrap my head around why he couldn't trace the dotted lines to make a letter "H" or number "9". After all, it's so easy for me to do it. Never mind that I'm 28 years old, have been through 17 years of school, and don't even have to think of how to hold a pencil correctly. My poor 4-year old son was frantically trying to live up to my insane expectations and we were both suffering for it. This is a HUGE failing on my part, I fully admit. Now, Ben is being taught by people who aren't crazy know how to guide a small child and he's doing wonderfully.

I was raised by a SAHM and until I myself became a parent, it never occurred to me that my own mother could have ever envisioned another direction for her life. What she did for me, I could never possibly repay. I don't fully know what sacrifices and compromises she made, but I'm grateful to her. She did something that I now know I can't do. This doesn't mean that I don't enjoy being with my children. I swear to you that the best part of my day is having them run to me and hug me when I pick them up. I just acknowledge that there are people in the world who can be amazing stay at home parents but I'm not one of them.

So I'm back to earning a wage and I feel better for it. The boys are also doing great. Ethan is getting better at playing with other kids rather than just near them and Ben always has something to show me, something that he's very proud of. I think that if I've learned anything through my experience thus far as a mom it's that parenting is even more complicated than anyone or anything makes it seem. Every parent has to figure out what works and that process involves going through a lot of things that simply don't.

My hat goes off to SAHMs (or SAHDs), but I've got a nod and knowing look for those of us in the (paid) work place.

The stumbling continues.

Dear Friend,

I had an interesting afternoon looking for you. In my pocket, I had a note with "Lot 35, block 42" written on it and I'll be damned if that note was even a little helpful. For some reason, I had the idea in my head that I'd get to the cemetery and just immediately know where to find your grave. This was a silly thought because I did not attend your funeral back in 2006 and had never before visited your grave site. Useless note in hand (or pocket), I hopped in my car and headed out to the Holy Cross Cemetery with every intention of finding closure. After a stop at Safeway to buy a dozen long stemmed red roses (of a quality that only Safeway could provide), I drove through the cemetery gates and instantly realized that this was going to be harder than I thought.

Several years ago, I went for a walk with my husband in one of the cemeteries in Sonora, CA. I took note of the fact that the cemetery had something like street signs for the crisscrossing paths. At the time, I probably thought it was quaint. This afternoon, however, I realized that those signs were terribly useful. There were no such signs to help me navigate Holy Cross Cemetery. There were no helpful markers, no directory to say "you are here" and give me an idea of where I might find you. There was just an expanse of very similar-looking graves, stretching off in front of me and to the left and right of me. I did not innately know where to find you and so I wandered.

As I was trudging through the crusty snow and the sucking mud, clutching the bouquet of mediocre roses and continuously going in circles, I cheered myself with the thought that you were watching me somehow and getting a laugh. I talked to you in my head and then began talking to you out loud, hoping that you would give me a sign of where to find you. I would have followed a squirrel at that point if I thought it looked like it knew where it was going. Alas, there were no squirrels or whispers from the afterlife. I did find the grave of a young boy who had been accidentally shot and killed when I was in elementary school. I left him a rose. As for the others, immediately before I gave up my search I came upon the grave of a baby boy who had only lived for less than a month. He has your roses. I knew you'd understand.

My dear friend, although it had been years since we last saw each other when I heard of your death, I hope that you somehow always knew that you touched my life. When we moved from Baker, OR to Butte, MT, the transition was frightening and difficult. Everything was different and unfamiliar but your friendship helped me to think of my new town as home. You will forever occupy places in my head and my heart. I can find you there, at least.