Housekeeping, and a new toy

A few odds and sods today…

I’m endlessly curious about where some of you are coming from, and I saw this cool new toy on Tertia’s blog, so I thought I’d try it out.

(Mind you, when Tertia recently asked her readers to complete a survey about themselves, more people answered in one weekend than have been to my blog in total over the last four months, so her map is going to look a whole lot more crowded than mine, I think. If it gets really pathetic, I can always make people up and stick them in exotic locales. I did get hits from Dubai and Brazil the other day, thanks to Blogger’s “next blog” button. They didn’t seem to hang around for long. I guess I don’t have much international appeal. But I digress…)

The link is the Bravenet Guest Map button over in the sidebar, under “rainy day diversions.” Come on, give it a click or two, all your friends are doing it!

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Speaking of feedback, can you tell me if blog is appearing properly on your screen these days? On one computer it looks fine, but on our main computer downstairs the sidebar doesn’t start until the end of the main text. Any tech advice on how to repair this? I must have put something in the sidebar that was too big for the column but I don’t quite know how to fix it.

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And finally, please stop using me as your weight watchers blog buddy because I am a miserable failure. A recap for those who were daydreaming during the last few entries (how could you?):

Week one: Wow! This is a terrific program! I lost two pounds the first week. Woot!
Week two: Hmphf. Gained a pound. Oh well. Better luck next week.

Which brings us to:

Week three: Stupid weight watchers. Stupid scale. Stupid computer. Stupid two more pounds.

Yes, I am now up one net pound and have exceeded my starting weight. I am no longer dewey-eyed with enthusiasm. I am now thinking there were probably a lot of much more fun things I could have done with my $85.

Sigh, I’ll give it one more week. But I’d feel a stronger if I had lots of little pins in my guest map to keep my mind off doughnuts…

READ THIS BOOK: The Time Traveler’s Wife

I haven’t done any book reviews on blog yet. It’s not that I don’t read a lot of books, it’s just that I’ve always thought people who review books must have much bigger brains than me.

I think it’s because I read so quickly, I miss a lot of the deeper stuff in books. When someone points out the dramatic elements like symbolism, or foreshadowing, or dominant themes and motifs, I can certainly see what they’re talking about. But when I read, I don’t notice that stuff consciously. I can go back and pick it out after the fact, but I don’t usually absorb it as part of the book-devouring process.

Twice in my government career I’ve had my English language skills evaluated, and both times it echoed the comments I’ve received on almost every academic paper or thesis I’ve ever written: superior technical language skills, but the analysis needs a little work.

In other words, I’m all flash and no substance.

Which is why I’ve always been a little shy about even joining a book club, let alone standing up here all by myself to do a book review without a net (that net being someone else who can do all the talking so I can nod sagely and engagingly and look like what they are saying is just the bon mot I was about to utter.)

Also, if I’m going to do a book review, it would probably make sense to wait until I’ve actually finished the book. I’m only about ten per cent of the way in.

I’m going to throw all that to the wolves, however, because I am itching to talk to somebody about this book and at least blog sits still and listens patiently and doesn’t get that glazed look in its eye like it would rather be filing its taxes than listen to me drone on when I haven’t even half of an idea what I’m talking about. Right?

The book is The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. I can’t remember the last time I was so captivated by a book from the first page. I don’t want to give away anything about it, because I really think this book should be approached as I approached it, with absolutely no idea what everyone was going on about. Let me just quote this from the book jacket:

When Henry meets Clare, he is twenty-eight and she is twenty. He is a hip librarian; she is a beautiful art student. Henry has never met Clare before; Clare has known Henry since she was six…

It’s a love story, a mystery, just the tiniest bit sci-fi/fantasy but not in a hobbits and ogres sort of way. As I said, I’m only 50-odd pages in, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Normally, I read very quickly, and it’s 500+ pages long, so I have a lot to look forward to, yet I find myself already slowing down to savour this one – I think I’ll be sad when the last page is turned.

Thank you bunches to Nancy for recommending this one way back before Christmas. I had requested it from the library, and was three zillionth in the queue, and when it finally came in I forgot to go and pick it up so had to re-queue for it all over again.

Ironically, I’ve realized that if it keeps up being this good for the next 450 pages I will have to buy my very own copy. (See, even though I don’t always notice them in the text, I can use most dramatic elements correctly — unlike fellow Ottawan Alanis, who really does need a lesson on what is and is not ironic.)

So I guess this isn’t so much a critique as a recommendation. A very spirited, long-winded and circuitious recommendation. Have you read it? What did you think? (No spoilers, please.)

Categories:

The one where I beg shamelessly

I’ve noticed around the blogosphere that some bloggers are so popular and well-loved that they get gifts from their readers. (ahem) And some of them even set up wish lists through gift registries, and people actually buy stuff and send it to them. (meaningful pause) And some readers are so loyal and so intuitive that they can discern the blogger’s innermost desires and needs from their daily reading, and those loyal readers actually lavish the hard-working and deserving blogger with just that kind of gift.

I’m just sayin’.

Okay, I’m going to spell it out for you. Could y’all please take up a collection, because I really really really need to come up with $6900 Cnd to buy my very own MyRoom. According to the UK Times Online, it’s a soundproofed, self-contained box that functions as a separate room within a room:

Yamaha has come up with the Avitecs MyRoom, a 2.5sq m (27 sq ft) den that can stand in the corner of the average-sized lounge and perform — albeit on a cramped scale — the functions of a study, cinema and garden shed.

The noisiest of activities is inaudible to the outside world, and even if the inside is a tip, the mess is scarcely visible through the thin strip of frosted glass. It should come as a relief to the harried Japanese wife, who is in for a nightmare time as a huge number of men — the first wave of the postwar baby-boomer generation — are due to retire next year.

There’s a picture of what it would look like on this weblog. The article says the room was designed to give Japanese husbands a place to play on their computers, blast their TVs or work on their messy hobbies while not getting underfoot of their put-upon wives.

I think Yamaha missed its target audience on this one. I think they should be marketing it to North American mothers of preschoolers. I want one of those puppies so I can escape.

Imagine the possibilities: the phone is ringing, the dog is barking, the TV is blaring, the eldest is whining, the youngest is screeching… and you can crawl into your soundproofed little haven, lock the door and hide.

I wouldn’t need the high-tech surround-sound wiring mentioned in the article, because all I’d do in there is sleep. Ah, blissful uninterrupted sleep…

Or, now that I’m really starting to think about this, wouldn’t it be a better idea to put everyone else into the little soundproof booth, and have the rest of the house to yourself? And really, is there a need to have it taking up space in the living room, when it would function just as nicely outside in the yard?

So you can see, bloggy friends, why I really need to come up the paltry sum of $6900. I’m worth it, right?

I’ll start circulating the envelope and a card for you to sign…

I’ve been tagged!

I don’t usually post midday (lunchtime is for surfing blogs, not writing them) but I had this one on the back burner and completely forgot about it, so I thought I’d post it to catch up on my responsibilities as a blogger. Priorities, you know.

Shelley over at Generation Exhausted tagged me a while ago. Here’s how the game works. Below are a series of statements. I choose five and complete them, then “tag” three more people to do the same.

The statements are:

If I could be a scientist
If I could be a farmer
If I could be a psychologist
If I could be a librarian
If I could be an inn-keeper
If I could be a professor
If I could be a writer
If I could be a llama-rider
If I could be a bonnie pirate
If I could be an astronaut
If I could be a world famous blogger
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world
If I could be married to any current famous political figure

Here are my answers:

If I could be a scientist I’d dedicate my career to SETI. So it’s probably a good idea that I’m not.

If I could be a farmer I could wear dirty jeans and flannel shirts every day, and I’d be very happy with that. But I’m guessing that crops are harder to grow than grass.

If I could be an inn-keeper I’d want it to be a warm, inviting B&B kind of place, in a heritage house with period furnishings. Except I’d hire a cook, because nobody would pay to eat my cooking, even if the alternative was sleeping in a stable.

If I could be a world famous blogger I’d have to be a whole lot more careful about what drivel I pass off as a post. But being world-famous anything would be cool, dontcha think?

If I could be a justice on any one court in the world I would be a judge on Canadian Idol. Don’t tell me I’m the only one who thinks Sass Jordan needs a vacation.

And now for the really hard decision… I tag Marla, Jen and Troy.

Categories:

Technophobia comes of age

I’m so proud of myself. I’m so hip to yesterday’s technology that it’s scary.

I didn’t tell you, but for Mother’s Day, Beloved and the boys got me an MP3 player. I have no idea how to use it. Beloved loaded it up with some songs he had on the computer already, including a little U2, some Billie Holiday, and Kenny Loggin’s “Danny’s Song”, the song that makes me cry every time I hear it. (There’s a line that goes, “Pisces Virgo-rising is a very good sign, strong and kind, and the little boy is mine.” Tristan is a Pisces. Also strong and kind. Also mine. Sniff.)

Someday, I’ll have enough time to find one of those music sites, and figure out how to use it, and actually choose some music. Anybody got any recommendations? Preferably something like MusicFor30somethingsThatDoesn’tSuck-
AndIsRiduculouslyEasyToUse.com?

And now, I’m writing this on my fancy-ass new laptop. I’ve never had a laptop before. Although it’s taken me a bit to get used to manipulating the little mouseless finger-tracing thing-me (don’t be threatened by my technological jargon) I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to get out of the basement and have a computer I can port around the house. Coincidentally, I noticed today that Ann also has a new laptop. It’s a banner day for mobile blogging!

So now I have a blog, a laptop and an MP3 player. The Luddites are going to revoke my membership for sure.

Tim Hortons and the Amazing Race

I’ve been playing in the referral logs again. Endless hours of entertainment, I tell you. Seeing some of the things people google has me seeing humanity in a whole new light. One of those incredibly unfavourable office flourescent lights that makes everybody look callow and sickly.

Of all the things I’ve written about in the vast (four months can be vast) history of blog, the things I get the most google hits on are Uchenna and Joyce from the Amazing Race, Weight Watchers points for doughnuts, and Pamela Anderson’s boobs. This is my legacy.

Fine, if that’s what the Internet wants, that’s what the Internet gets.

Apparently, Uchenna and Joyce are coming to Ottawa, along with newlyweds Rob and Amber, to attend the wedding of Amazing Race co-contestants Lynn and Alex. The gay couple couldn’t be legally married in their home state of California, so an Ottawa radio station (the same classy outfit that bought Britney Spears’ used pregnancy test – ick -and then sold it for charity) has arranged for them to be married here, where same sex marriage is legal. I’m trying to be cynical, but I honestly think it’s pretty cool.

For those of you seeking information on Tim Horton’s fine line of doughnuts, I can only tell you that they’re wreaking havock with my WW plans. I’m up a pound this week over last week. Sigh.

And for those of you coming here looking for information on Pamela Anderson’s ample bosom, I regret to inform you that we will no longer be discussing that particular topic around here.

Ya gotta draw the line somewhere.

My lawn hates me

I remember the good old days, when grass was my friend. It was cool and tickly on my toes. If you found a nice fat piece, you could make a kazoo with your bare hands. The long pieces were as sweet as candy. The sun shone down, the grass was warm and humid, and the days lasted forever.

Now grass is my nemesis. It grows up between the interlocking bricks on my walkway, but for the last two years has stubbornly refused to grow in the big bald patch in the middle of my front yard. How hard can it be to grow grass? Grade school kids grow grass in styrofoam cups – are they in on some horticultural insider information that hasn’t yet been revealed to me?

I come from people who are fixated on their lawn. I remember my granda out fussing over the lawn in the summertime, and I have pictures of me at maybe four years old, queen of a mountain of topsoil that had just been deposited on their driveway for lawn maintenance.

My mother inherited her gardening capability from her father. The lawns of my childhood were inviting green welcome mats of lush grass. No dandylion ever dared rear its yellow head on my mother’s watch.

This is the first house we’ve owned that tested my own lawn care skills. Our previous garden home had no backyard and the tiny front yard was maintained by the condo corporation’s landscapers. When we moved in to this house two years ago, I could hardly wait to face off against weeds, poop-dogs and lawn pests to showcase my horticultural prowess.

The back yard is beautiful, I have to admit it. The grass is thick and healthy, and the inevitable burns from doggie deposits are quickly repaired with little intervention on my part. The lawn was doing so well, in fact, that last summer we decided to reward it by uprooting a twelve foot circle of perfect, healthy happy grass to put up an oversized kiddy pool.

For a while, I considered putting the pool in the front yard. At least we already had the big bare patch of dirt. I’m guessing our problem is grubs. By the end of the first summer, the grass had dried up and died on a wide swath that wiped out more than half the yard. In September, I made a half-hearted effort at reseeding the lawn, but at six months pregnant I was getting toward too fat to see, let alone care about, the ground at my feet.

The seed never took, so I tried again the following spring. Once again, the seed never took, but I did grow a lovely crop of weeds that filled in the dirt patch admirably and with no sleep and two kids under three I was content enough to let the lawn go native for the summer. Next year, I promised myself.

This spring, I have focused my attention and vowed to resuscitate the front yard. I raked, I dethatched, I fertilized. I pulled weeds. I put down organic compost and bought the expensive grass seed, not the dollar store stuff. I watered it every day. I kept the boys and the dog off of it, which was the most challenging task by far. I got a bumper crop of very happy, very healthy… weeds.

But no grass.

Oh well. At least weeds are green. That’s a start, right?

I’ll give you a dollar for the lot

Garage saling has become a verb. It is now the thing to do on a Saturday morning in my end of suburbia. You don’t go to garage sales, you go garage saling.

Garage sales fascinate me. I love to look at what people are selling, and especially what people are buying.

I’m particular about what I’ll buy – it truly grosses me out that people buy other people’s sheets and flatware for example. But the combination of the thrill of acquisition and the even bigger thrill of a good deal is too much for me to resist.

It’s a ritualistic behaviour. Load the kids into the car early on Saturday morning (and it has to be early, much to Beloved’s chagrin. It’s the only thing that can lure him out of the house before noon on the weekend.) Fortify everyone with drive-thru coffee and timbits, and you’re off on the chase. It’s like following a modern-day treasure map.

You spot a sign, and you turn down an unfamiliar street. You peer ahead, looking for the next marker, and you make another turn. Up ahead, you see the cluster of cars parked haphazzardly in the street. You slow to a crawl, rubbernecking the goods while trying not to run over the lady crossing the street with the birdcage in one hand and the bread maker in the other hand, cord trailing behind her like a puppy.

You never know what you’ll find. Sometimes big fancy signs lead to paltry little sales with a few broken teacups and some 8 track cassettes. Sometimes a puny, don’t-blink-or-you’ll-miss-it sign leads to a multi-family extravaganza.

We’re usually on the lookout for kids’ stuff, especially outdoor toys. This past weekend, we scored a Little Tykes dumptruck perfect for the park, a ride-on Megablocks train, plus a deacon’s bench in need of paint but otherwise in good shape, and carpet steam cleaner — all for $20.

When we got home, I put the deacon’s bench in the garage until we decide on a more permanent home for it. I had to move the oak spice rack I bought at a garage sale last summer but never got around to hanging, and shift the old-fashioned school desk that was totally free and only needs a little bit of work to clean it up back into the corner.

On average, I’d say about a third of the stuff we’ve bought at garage sales has been something truly useful and really a great deal, like the weed whacker we got for $5. (Digression: our lawn mower was an even better deal. It was sitting at the end of someone’s driveway with a “FREE” sign on it, so I snagged it. Unfortunately, at the time I was pushing Tristan and Simon in the double stroller and walking the dog. We were a motley parade, with me pushing 60 pounds of babies in the double and holding the leash with one hand and dragging the lawn mower behind us with the other. We got a lot of funny looks, but free is free and two years later that lawn mower still does a fine job.)

Granted, not all our acquisitions have been gems. There was the lego set that did not lose its eau de cat piss even after an overnight soaking in bleach, and the fireplace poker set that was a really great deal at $6, even though it has been sitting in our garage ever since because it didn’t occur to me at the time that a house with two young boys has use for neither fire nor iron hand tools in the living room. But maybe some day I’ll use them.

Feeling better, so much better

I don’t usually blog on the weekends, but I’ve been so touched and overwhelmed by your kind comments that I had to write something. Plus, I’m feeling a little bad about leaving such a negative post hanging out there, begging for sympathy, when I really am feeling so much better. It’s quite like SnackMommy said, by the time you can figure out what’s bugging you enough to write it down, you’ve often got the problem more than half solved. And sometimes just transferring it from inside to outside is enough to convince you to let go of it, whatever it may be.

It continues to amaze me the kinship one finds on the Internet. Many of you who responded with reassurance and camradarie are friends from other times and places, but many of you are new to my life since blog. I am truly blessed. Thank you. I wish you the same feelings of comfort and friendship in your next darkened day.

My mother and I had a long, tearful (on my part, not hers) chat about this, and we narrowed the bulk of my problems right now down to the omnipresent Mommy Guilt. I feel guilty for not being more than I am, for being able to give more than I have. She asked me if I am doing my very best, and I said yes, I really am.

Then why feel guilt, she asked me. Why should you feel guilty for doing your very best?

Why indeed?

If you are honestly doing everything you can to be a good mother, a good wife, a good friend, a good employee, a good daughter, a good person, how can you go wrong? I mean, nobody’s perfect, not me and certainly not my kids (whoops, should have probably worded that the other way around) but what fun would it be if we were? What would I have to blog about in a perfect world?

This guilt is so deeply ingrained right now that I’m really going to have to work at ignoring it’s demanding cry. I’m going to ignore that guilt until it stops throwing fist-pounding tantrums in my psyche, stops tugging on my emotional pant leg and stops whimpering passive-agressively in the background.

Heck, if I can ignore the dust and the unmade beds and the weed-choked garden, I should be able to ignore mommy guilt.

Once again, I wish this was a little more eloquent, but as usual, I am stealing time from something else to write this. With another hour or two to spare, I could edit, revise and polish — or at least make sure I am coherent today.

But you know what? I’m okay with that. I’m okay with stealing a little bit of time for me, I’m okay with the fact that the lawn probably won’t get cut today (it’s raining anyway – who said it could rain on my long weekend?) and I’m okay with the fact that this isn’t perfectly written and edited.

Because I’m doing my best. And that’s all I can do.

(Could someone please remind me to read this about once a week for the next 20 or 30 years?)

And once again, let me say thank you to all of you who offered your support and shared experience yesterday and today. Even someone as verbose as me has trouble coming up with the right words to tell you how your comments and insight made me feel better about myself.

You’ve done a lovely thing and you should be proud.

Is this my life?

Warning: you are now exiting the whine-free zone. Serious self-pitying ahead.

Is this it?

Do I spend the rest of my life on this out-of-control treadmill, trying to please everybody and succeeding to please no-one?

I’m feeling a little overwhelmed.

Revision: I’m feeling completely overwhelmed.

There is simply not enough of me to go around these days, and I feel like all the most important relationships in my life are suffering because of it. I don’t like the person I’m becoming because of it.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep working eight hours a day, plus commuting almost an hour each way, and still find enough time at home to be the mother I want to be to my boys. (As I typed that sentence, tears began to cascade down my cheeks. Shit.)

The boys wake me up about a half an hour before the alarm goes off most days, and although I’d really like the extra 30 minutes of sleep, at least it’s a little more time we can spend together. Then I have to ditch them on their father as I get ready for work and rush out the door, missing my bus about 1 day in 3.

I spend my day at work trying to cram in more work than I can possibly accomplish and leave almost every day feeling like I’ve worked my ass off but accomplished very little. Lately I haven’t been able to keep up at all.

By the time I get home, it’s time to start dinner. Dinner itself is a nightmare of stress lately. Tristan eats almost nothing, so I have to choose between letting him starve (tried it- doesn’t work), bribing him with treats (only works half the time) or just giving in and making him something he will eat. Then it’s a challenge to get him to sit at the table throughout the meal. Three times a day, each meal is a power struggle, and I just feel that if I had more time, more energy, I could approach this from an angle that would allow me to solve the problem rather than just riding it like a wave every single day.

Even if I manage to keep myself together through the day and evening long enough to have some fun with the boys, by the time we put them to bed I have absolutely nothing left over for Beloved. Nothing. We sit together and watch TV and chat for an hour or two and then I go to bed. He’s told me he is frustrated by my constant exhaustion. I don’t blame him.

Weekends don’t really provide any respite. There are so many things that need to get done around the house I could make a to-do list as long as my arm, so I have to balance spending time doing something as a family, whatever that might entail, or catching up on endless domestic tasks.

I can’t imagine how we’re ever going to get beyond the things that are desperate for attention (the 6-inch high lawn covered in weeds, the dirt scooped out of my plants last week and still waiting to be vacuumed off the bedroom rug, the endless loads of laundry) to get to things like painting, fixing the chips in the drywall, cleaning out the garage, replacing the broken banister spindle and all those other little routine maintenance tasks which really aren’t such a big deal, if you can find an uninterrupted hour or five and get around to them.

Is this it? Am I always going to feel this out of control?

I just don’t see how it can get any better. It’s been four months since I’ve been back to work, so it’s no longer just a matter of readjusting to a routine. Simon is finally sleeping through for the most part, so I get around seven hours of sleep a night and although I’d prefer nine, I should be able to function on what I’m getting.

I am constantly sacraficing one thing for another. As the old cliché goes, every day I rob Peter to pay Paul, except my currency is time. Revision: my currency is pieces of me, of my attention. I don’t know how to make “me” a bigger pie, so there is enough for everyone.

And that’s to say nothing about having anything left over for myself. Frankly, I’m the least of my worries. The biggest thing I do for me and me alone is what you’re reading right now, and for now that’s enough. But I have to steal time for that too. Usually from Beloved, occasionally from work. So I do it, but I feel bad about it. But I’d feel worse if I didn’t.

I am perpetually behind, perpetually running, perpetually forgetting things, remembering things I should have done yesterday, last week, last month.

I am not convinced I am doing right by my beautiful boys. I am short on patience, short on energy, short on creativity. Short on time. Short on quality. They deserve better than a frazzled, frustrated, tired mommy struggling with guilt and inadequacy.

Because we spend less time together, I want our time together to matter more. I have less time to mother them, so I must reach a higher level of mothering in the time I have.

It seems like every day is a struggle. I talked to my mom on the weekend, and she tried to tell me that this is just life with babies in the house, but I’m not mollified. Is it this hard for everyone? It sure doesn’t seem like it.

I want to do more, be more as a mother. I feel awful about the very dear friend who has called me about five times in the past month, whose calls I am now actively avoiding, just because I don’t have anything else to give to anyone right now. I feel awful because I should have more to give to my husband. We need to do more to strengthen our friendship, our marriage.

If I just knew that by holding on for X amount of time, things would improve, I think I’d be okay. But I’ve been on that verse for over a year now, and my CD keeps skipping.

Sorry, no big conclusion here, no epiphany, no relief. Just me sitting here with my mouse hovering over the delete button, wondering whether to even bother posting this.