I'm tormented

each time I read River Bend, yet I want to know. I need to hear the truth, god knows we don't get it on basic cable. Everybody's got a hand in somebody's pocket. Her latest entry has profoundly affected me. I feel so helpless.

And to think, there are some who still don't see the hideous deception.

February Vacation Log: Day 6

The hostages children have broken free from their confines bedrooms and have gained control of the command center. Their demands are seemingly incessant and merciless. I think the smallest member of their unit is the commander, seeing how he makes the most noise, but the larger female shows great dominance. They’ve definitely got me outnumbered in physical strength, but I’m fairly certain I may be able to manipulate them back into captivity before nightfall. I’m not sure my desperate smoke signals were detected by any passing rescue squad, but I will not lose hope. They watch me with small, shrewd eyes, waiting for me to weaken. I’m almost convinced I’ll be able to outlast them tonight, but I worry their energy reserves may prevail over mine. If only I could slip past the tall male and sneak a vitamin….

They’ve devoured all the peanut butter and are demanding access to my personal chocolate supply. They’re threatening to chant shoo bop shoo wadda wadda yipitty boom de boom continually while pounding my kneecaps with plastic spatulas and toothbrushes if I don't comply. Oh god they’re slicing through my calf with a library card….the pain is intolerable.

They have three more days to break me; please send help. Or stronger rope.

Can u keep a secret?

What skeletons have I got buried in my closet? Not many I haven’t either shared or experienced with my sister or intimate circle of best girlfriends. I like to think I led a life of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll during my early and mid 20’s, but it was more like a journey towards realization and progress. Ten years ago I had no idea who I was, what I stood for, where my boundaries were drawn and what it really meant to be unselfish. Although my first-born child made whopping contributions to my evolution, my safety net was far too vast. If ever I fell, somebody was always right below to catch my daughter and help me find my feet again. I never had to be entirely responsible for my own actions and hence the somewhat sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll part. Even as a mother. Indecency and bad behavior that now make my stomach turn with anxious regret. Even as a mother. Careless decisions when surrounded with self-interested people. Even as a mother. I reminisce to her tiny days and wish I had known better. Wish I hadn’t been so reluctant and ill-equipped. Wish I could have been the mother I am now. Wish I didn’t have dirty little secrets shrieking to be unchained.

Actually blogging has been highly therapeutic, especially the part about admitting my limitations and fears as I guide three small people towards a healthy adulthood. Telling the world I’m not the perfect parent is like emancipating myself in plain view and not caring who passes silent judgment from behind their nameless monitors. Because we all fall short in similar ways, but don’t talk about them because we’re too busy trying to outdo one another. Too busy trying to out name-brand each other. Too busy troubling ourselves with the opinions of others. Too busy presenting a façade of perfection, composure and financial security. We grasp the tiny nuggets of sandstone as we struggle to scale the rock wall, sweating, aggressive and losing our grasp. Instead of arriving first, why not stroll the trodden paths of wild flowers? Why not reach the destination later, but happily and without regrets? I grapple with this and I’m not uncomfortable saying so.

There seems to be this new wave of revelation and disclosure within my blogging circle and whilst I find this trend highly fascinating, I simply cannot do that here. Only under a cloak of anonymity can I admit freely. Why? Because I’m a big fat chicken -bok- who can’t host Thanksgiving dinner after my husband’s family reads about my naked exploitations and manic escapades. They’d never look at cranberry sauce the same again. Or the baby carrots swimming in cream for that matter.

I hereby decree this blog a mother’s liberation. If I fuck up, you’ll be the first to know. Having said that, I’ve decided to start another blog. A dirty little secret blog. Just for me and a couple other crazies who’ll never forget WORDO or “Ain’t No Such Thing As A Bogle.” I’ll try to make my current blog a priority for my mundane mama memoirs, but for the immediate here-and-now I may be slightly negligent as I toy with my naughty blog. Hee..I said naughty blog.

Gah! I missed my blogiversary.

I had intended to host a virtual fête in honor of my blog’s first birthday, you know, just a frivolous commemoration of all the mental purging I’ve been subjecting you to since February 04, 2006. There was going to be party hats and those little weenies floating in a grape jelly/ketchup sauce too. But I flaked. Rather I’ve been caught up in a domestic cyclone of keeping the oil tank gauge above the ¼ mark, blowing kisses to my family as I dash out the door to night classes, vacuuming up residual plaster dust that seemingly reappears in places I swore I just cleaned and did I mention the vomit? No? Well there was loads of that. Loads and loads of double rinsing and double scoops of tide. And because the snot immediately freezes our noses shut the instant we walk outside, I haven’t let my kids play in the snow for weeks. Which means I’ve been their exclusive source for entertainment and amusement inside the warm house. Turns out I totally kick ass in Nickelodeon Trivial Pursuit. Go on - ask me anything about Jimmy Neutron or the Rugrats. Things may be slowing down however or at least nearing the apex of lunacy, and as nature alleges, calmer days should soon follow.

So let’s have us a party! I’ve been blogging for one year! Have a party favor and a shot of grape juicy juice! And just because I’m a wild and crazy guy, I’ll let you have the first whack at the Jerry Falwell piñata if you can hold the shot glass between your cleavage while reciting Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tale in the proper vernacular. Come on y’all, make Dudley proud. Disclaimer – only two of my readers are actually going to appreciate what the hell I’m blabbering on about.

I’m deliriously tired, so I’m off to crawl into bed with the love of my life and watch Star Trek. Don’t even try to stop me because I’m crazy like that.

Where to begin...

I’ve finally been able to come up for air. Sweet sweet air that doesn’t char my nose hairs with the stench of vomit and diarrhea. Among the many infirmities that afflict us during the sub-zero cooped-up months of January and February, norovirus has got to rank as Number One Intestinal Virus I Never Want To Suffer Through Again. Ever. Aside from your standard projectile vomiting, continual fecal expulsion and agonizing gut throb, there’s the critical job of protecting a 25 pound toddler from dehydration. Petrifying. If there was ever one reason for breastfeeding my sweet Papoose extendedly, this was it. He regressed to his six month old appetite and nursed exclusively for seven days, all day. I held him close as his pale body nursed to survive, only to hold him close as his shivering body rejected my milk back on to my shirt. I went to him throughout the night, changing his soiled footie pajamas and crib sheets, soothing him, cradling him, wishing I could make it all just disappear. I held my Girl’s hair behind her head as she wretched and sobbed, begging me for medicine. These are the moments of motherhood that rip your heart from your chest and twist it into unimaginable knots of panic and helplessness. Children, the small children who lay their heads on your chest and believe you when you tell them you’ll take care of them and make it all better, are the reason. The reason I’m not the selfish person I once was. I would gladly take nursing my children back to health for days over self-indulgence and reckless abandon. This job is some worthwhile shit.

Looking ahead to my weekend…..

One curled hair-do and frilly party dress for the Father/Daughter Valentine’s Dance, one Family Sports Day at a local university, one birthday party at the bowling alley, one birthday party at the ice-skating rink and one sleepover. The one take-home test pertaining to human physiology and ergonomics and the four assigned poems in need of analyzing may have to hang around until Sunday afternoon. The three loads of laundry beckoning to be in a folded state may just have to sit tight until Monday. Oh, the kitchen cabinets I’ve been meaning to introduce to Mr. Clean? Not gonna happen.

March? Where art thou? Release me from the frigid confinement of winter and giggle in my ear as I glide down the hill on my toboggan. We will wait patiently, noses anxiously pressed against the living room window, waiting…..waiting for the thermometer to rise above -3°.