My sweet boy is a little sour right now

Yowza! Let's talk about sassy kids over-sassing their mothers. By over-sassing I mean disrespecting. And by kids I mean Gil. The mother? Me.

The consequence I came up with for Gil's recent behavior is a 7 o'clock bedtime. Did I mention he does not like that? At all? At first I wasn't going to let him read in bed, but it's pretty hard to declare LIGHTS OUT! when, well, it's still light out.

My son does not like the idea of going to bed at 7:00, when it's still light out, before his younger brother, and when he knows the rest of us are snuggled on the couch watching American Idol or playing Sorry or some neverending card game.

Dude's gotta be punished, though. And I figure the consequence that angers him the most should probably be the one he receives, right?

I am not dismissing the fact that Gil may very likely be reacting to the unrest between his dad and me. What's tough is trying to decipher between that, a manipulative kid, and age-appropriate boundary testing. At this point my guess is it's a little bit of everything.

Sigh

When I hear the next I HATE YOU!, I will continue to reply as I always do: "That's fine. You can hate me all you want. I will always love you, Gil. I'm not going anywhere."

Our goings on

I do believe NaBloPoMo 2010 was the greatest successful flop I've ever achieved. What's with that, anyway? I mean, during my morning showers is when I come up with most of my content and by the time I actually sit down to put it all together... well... I just don't.

In other news, raising 'tweens has sucked the majority of my creativity clean dry. Yes, I will toss Gil into the Tween category because even though he's 9? He plays 12 really REALLY well.

Gil pointing and shouting tearfull at Allie: YOU, ALRIGHT?! I LEARNED IT BY WATCHING YOU!

Do you guys remember that awesome drug commercial from our youth? The boy air drumming or whatever in his poster laden room, interrupted by his dad who disapprovingly shoves his kid's stash in his face. The boy lowers his headphones, or whatever, and shouts, YOU, ALRIGHT?! I LEARNED IT BY WATCHING YOU!

My dad and I still say that to each other. You may recall his comment on my post about pet peeves.

Back to my kids. After a long, and I mean LONG, Thanksgiving break, I decided to declare authority once again and forbid tv watching. [insert evil witch cackle here] That's right. I FORBODE it. I think that's the first time I've ever used that word. My kids were certifiably awful. I lost all touch with my them. And yes, I blame those stupid Disney twins, Hannah Montana, and Allie sneaking E! and way too much TLC. And by TLC I mean Sarah Palin, Kate Goselin, and those little people. And the family with a million kids.

On shifting

It's been bugging me lately that I have this yearning to create a blog entry, but when I go to write one, I CAN'T. I get this great idea for a topic and then POOF! just like that it's gone.

Today it dawned on me: The masthead. It's all wrong. Just like me struggling to go about my daily routine with Jon still in it, this blog still has him in the masthead. See? Up there?

Not only that, you guys, but we no longer have the Sprinter, bless it's heart. Probably went to some electrician, or general contractor, or painter, or courier, or moving company. SOMEWHERE IT BELONGS.

Just like the decision to ditch the Sprinter and finally get a normal family vehicle, I opted to ditch Jon as my husband. Wait. I'm still keeping him on as The Father of My Kids. He's really good at that part. Amazing, even. Not so much in the Emily's Husband role, though.

I'm shedding things over here, you guys. People warned me this happens with divorce. And I'm really thinking I'm starting to believe it. The contract is the first to go. You know, the one that declares this person as your HUSBAND or WIFE? Just a formality? Really? Enjoy it when you get sick of that person you spent however-many years with and want out. And that whole 50% thing? Might be worth paying attention to.

Friends shed like your dog's winter coat. Or that snake skin you find on the vine whilst vintnering (shout out to Molly!). It's amazing how people choose to align with one person or the other, rarely maintaining a balance with both exes. Everyone plays a hearty role in creating this shift in friendships. I've found trusting people I once thought I could to be difficult. If you're friends with Jon, supporting Jon, how can you also, equally, support and help me? And vice versa. You may think you can, say you can even. But I don't buy it. I successfully shoved a pretty good friend away by, well, I'll keep all those dainty details to myself. But see, I clearly needed to shift myself in a different direction than the one I was going. I have found a minute select few who are capable of being friends with both Jon and me. And that group can be shaved down into two more groups: Real and Not So Real. Surface bullshit is no longer a part of any friendship I desire. Being blunt and honest? That's a very strong part of my character. Those who can't handle it, POOF! gone.

There's this thing we call Self Medicating. Are you familiar? Thought so. Being able to shed the need to escape into a bottle of High Life or even Torpedo or Two Hearted and replace it with going to bed when my kids do is a fantastic change. Plus I like to enjoy my beers and not just not just regret having them when I get up in the morning. Ouch.

Part of being married to someone I didn't want to be married to created a lot of conflict within myself. Following the divorce, I continued to maintain a positive relationship "for the kids." Just like that guy Doug from the 80s would say, It's an illusion! I'm all, Wait. Didn't I divorce you? For those reasons? Why are you still here? What am I doing? It's like Sleeping Beauty who was awoken after 100 years of slumber by a simple kiss from her prince. Only I'm waking after 10 years of constantly comparing myself to other wives and mothers, knowing the whole time it didn't feel right. And nobody's kissing me. It's Egan shouting, MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM, CAN YOU WIPE ME?!

It's extremely liberating to focus my energies on my kids, my career, my interests, and me; instead of trying to be someone I'm not with all that pretend stuff in the way.

Now about that masthead...

That's not appropriate

While schlepping kids here and there yesterday, I overheard a conversation between Gil and Egan from the backseat.

Egan: [referring to his new Valentine's Barbie he pleaded for at the grocery store the other night] She's hot.

Gil: Egan you can't say Barbie is hot. That's not appropriate.

Gender bender

A recent concern around our house...well, a recently addressed concern. Egan has been cross dressing and accessorizing since he could hold a spoon.

This recent piece of familial history comes from Egan's love of his purple sparkly hand-me-down dance recital tutu, affinity for accessorizing, admiration of his aunt's redder than red lipstick, his longing for dancin' shoes like mine, and currently his Valentine Barbie. Egan's biggest critic right now is his brother Gil.

Evidently Gil's masculinity is somehow challenged by his four-year-old brother. Gil is quite assertively educating his brother on Right and Wrong, Good and Bad, Male and Female: "Egan, boys don't wear dresses!" and saying things like, "He can't play with THAT! He's a BOY!!"

To that, Egan says, "Yes. I am a boy."

Lucky for Egan, his mother is one to encourage exploration of different nailpolish colors and textures of taffeta regardless of whether you have a penis or a vagina. What's the big deal if Egan races for his various princess attire, leaving his boy clothes in a heap on his bedroom floor? What if I told you I'd rather have a well-adjusted confident kid than a resentful and repressed mess of insecurties? What if he simultaneously carried a semi-automatic sawed-off shotgun?

Rest assured, he has been known to beg for his purple sparkly dress before plopping down for hours of Power Ranger entertainment while clutching as many Matchbox cars as possible. Does that make you feel better?

I said, DOES THAT MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER. Because this is about you, you know. You and your various hang-ups about what is and what should be. About calling a four-year-old a deviant for feeling good, having fun, and being himself.

According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Egan's supposed "confusion" comes from his "gender identity disorder." There is a diagnosis, you guys, a diagnosis! for CHILDREN!! who choose to do the very activities Egan longs for on a daily basis. This is considered a disorder in our culture. HE'S FOUR!

Who made this shit up anyway? We are swayed, people, programmed by societal norms. Stuffy fucking WASPy norms created by narrow minded homophobes and heterosexists fearful of anything other than themselves. We oughtta be ashamed.

There are many innate gender expectations that just happen. Boys do more often than not go to cars and trucks and guns while girls have an interest in dolls and role playing a family. When a boy wants to dress up in sparkly dresses and paint his nails, or a young girl decides tubesocks with baggy basketball shorts and tennies is what makes her comfortable, who are we to have an opinion one way or the other?

I encourage my boys, and Allie, to express themselves. Label their emotions. Cry if you have to. And if wearing a crown, clip on earrings, a princess dress, and dancin' shoes helps? Go for it.

I'm gonna share some gratitude and shit

I actually feel inspired right now to bring this writing interface back into my life. At least right now. Maybe it's because things are going pretty well for me and mine. Maybe it's because my New Found Freedom has me all into myself enough to think someone, anyone, will ever read this stuff. Maybe, just maybe, I really want to express how grateful I am for everything in my life.

Encouraged by my dearest Staub, I have been introduced to gratitude lists. I mean, I've heard about all this before. Gratitude and expressing it isn't anything new. It's really amazing when you stop and think, specifically, about what you're grateful for. Because I for one have a shitload to be thankful for. Another word, according to my Guru Staub, is Love. Love defined is gratitude merely simplified. Or rather, gratitude and thanks all bundled cozily in a plush, quilted, fleece lined bunting, tied with a soft cozy bow. In a four letter word.

Lucky you! You get to read what I've been thinking since January 1st, 2010.

1. I love my children.
2. I love the new found relationship Jon and I have discovered.
3. I love having a job.
4. I love feeling free.
5. I love spending time with my friends.
6. I love long road trips filled with music, laughter, and good scenery.
7. I love my new car.
8. I love having a warm home.
9. I love cupboards full of food.
10. I love evolving with my daughter.

1. I am grateful for my close relationship with my daughter.
2. I am grateful for having a healthy family.
3. I am grateful for health insurance.
4. I am grateful for drinking water from the tap.
5. I am grateful for my relationships with strong women.
6. I am grateful for my relationships with real men.
7. I am grateful for Jon's unconditional love and support.
8. I am grateful for my sister and her unconditional love and support.
9. I am grateful for my camera.
10. I am grateful that I can go home to love.

Liberation

I told you I'd be back, right? Well here I am. Now I vow not to announce myself like this anymore as I find it far more irritating than you do.

Today I sit with a somewhat-sick 4 year old laid out on the couch with the tones of Big Bird, Elmo, and Maria and Bob filling the air. I still have a hard time accepting that everyone, EVERYONE, can see Snuffy. Poor Egan may have contracted his cousin's illness of last week. The first Stay Home Sick Day, replete with the obligatory call in to the teacher who also, obligatorily, sighs and hopes for the best. After describing Egan's whiney begging to go to bed, glassy eyed, last night, "Well, that's not like him AT ALL!" No shit. Thanks.

After getting the kids off to school, my routine is to fill the biggest coffee cup possible with my freshly brewed joe, and set up shop at my desk to tend to computer and administrative responsibilities. Even if it is just facebooking, I'm still entitled to that time, right? But today I'm going through my bank account and student loan websites. My own. Cutting a check from my checkbook, from my checking account, for Egan's September tuition was quite liberating this morning. Adding various events into my upcoming calendar months, deciding whether I want to do this or that. It's up to me, you guys. And I really like that feeling right now.

For Daisy, wherever I may find her...

...having scattered cat litter on the runner in the hallway, on the rug in my bedroom, or sprinkled atop the hardwoods in any other given room in the house.

What's with dogs and eating litter-covered cat poop straight out of the litter box? Better yet, hastily searching for the any remaining moresels, having been dutifully scooped by a 10-year-old fulfilling her daily chore, in the garbage can. The latter, however, resembles more of a CAT SHIT EXTRAVAGANZA! As if Daisy discovered the scooped poop and, in her drunken excitement, ran to call her friends to share the good news, leaving several other unmentionables strewn about the bathroom floor.

A friend of mine referred to such delectable organic dog treats as Snow Caps. Like the movie theater white sprinkle covered chocolate candies? I prefer to think of Daisy and her cat shit eating habits as just plain disgusting. Especially when she actually has the nerve to approach me, mouth open, tongue wagging, ready to coat me with her slobbery affection.

Things are getting personal

After admitting to my therapist and doctor that I imagine great relief from various levels of anxiety and maybe a little depression at the mere thought of allowing myself to be a little stoned all day, among other symptoms YOU GUYS, I am now the proud owner of a so far unfilled Zoloft prescription. Even though the reason for my appointment may not be earth shattering to you, Internet, it is to me.

I sort of take this as a journey I'm leaving in the hands of my kick ass doctor and the pharmeceutical industry. Playing with little pills that change your brain chemistry? Make your pupils dilate? Cause dizziness? Maybe I need to do a little more research but YIKES! Those unknowns are awfully scary to me, you know, after you read all the potential side effects like weight gain, dry mouth, teeth grinding and night sweats.

At this point, though, I figure I'll take those potential side effects while squashing the inner yick any day. That and Ween sings a song about it so it must be good.

What happens when a mother takes a nap

Due to lack of sleep last night after a raucous night out with wonderfully fun friends, I found myself nestled cozily with Egan napping for two hours at Grandma's house this afternoon. Luckily Molly was available to field Allie and Gil's needs.

Allie & Gil ask, "Molly? Can you help us with something?" leading her toward the kitchen.

From the "adult fridge" in the basement they had pulled two bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade, asking Molly ever so sweetly to help open the bottle caps.

"Let's talk about this" Molly replied, saving their lives yet one more time.

After her discussion on confusing marketing and alcoholic beverages (one I likened to Joe Camel and his illustrated penis nose), Gil announced, "I don't want to be drunk at this age!"

I was left pondering the possibilities had they figured out the bottle opener.

Don't Ease Me In

The Grateful Dead sang that and I have no idea what it's about. This is the line I've been saying to myself for the past few weeks as I myself have indeed eased in.

My decision to go back to work full time has been met by such comments as "I don't know how you working moms do it!" "Are you sad?" "Don't you miss your kids?" "Are the kids ok?" Followed by martyrous statements from women twice my age like, "I stayed home 15 years after having my kids. There's no way I could have gone back to work." And the rare, "Good for you!"

It's not about what these women think, are projecting onto me, or how I react to these statements. Exercising my right to utilize my degrees is the best choice for my entire family. Being able to say, out loud, I AM NOT A STAY AT HOME MOM has been my greatest admission over the last 7 years.

I often challenge the societal expectation that when women choose to have children they must then have no choice and stay home. Talk about going to work full time! As one of my dearest friends once said as her husband urged her to get up one morning, "as soon as my feet hit the floor my day doesn't stop."

Unless you've done it, you can keep your mouth shut. Not all of us are cut out for all that is required of us. Some of us choose to medicate, self medicate, or go through the motions, unhappy in the role society has chosen for us.

Moms like me are left feeling inadequate. I didn't have the desire to create crafts or take the kids to this story hour or that play gym or breastfeed them til they're 9. Instead, I was left feeling resentful and irritated by their mere breathing. MY KIDS! Have you met them? They're hardly the types to drive you to drink in the afternoon or lock yourself in your room and cry; one I started getting way too good at and one I truly started contemplating.

Please throw me in.

The other night

As a commercial for teeth whitener interrupted our Charlie Brown Christmas, Egan turns to his brother and gently asks in almost a whisper: Gil? Are your teeth white?

TEN!

Despite the thunder and rain, it is a glorious day

This morning as my snooze was slapped for the umpteenth time, having stayed up way too late, watching The Speech, wiping tears from my eyes, and weathering several rounds of very bumpy goosebumps, Egan crawls up into bed with me as Don Ganye and Michelle Kellerman announce yet again the President Elect.

Egan: They said BARACK OBAMA!

Me: Yep, he's going to be our new president...

Egan: He IS?!

Gil enters the room

Egan: GIL! BARACK OBAMA IS OUR NEW PRESIDENT!!

Gil [turning out of the room and running down the hall to announce the news to Allie]: AL! AL! BARACK OBAMA WON!!

Egan proudly announces, eyes wide: I can be the president of the United States...

In light of previous discussions with Egan on Barack Obama, I can proudly say he now knows exactly who Barack Obama is.

Happy birthday, love

Happy birthday, Grandma Kelly!

80 ain't got nuthin on this gal

Happy birthday, Z!

The youngest, handsomest Grandpa-in-law this gal has ever known.

On settling in as a SAHM

Last year at this time I was donning a life jacket as I prepared to plunge, head first, into full-time graduate school. Which is pretty hard to do with a life jacket on. Halfway through the first two weeks I took it off and said sink or swim. Many people sang my praises as they could only imagine undertaking graduate school as a single parent of three kids. Sure its difficult. But truth be told, you can do it too with the proper adjustment period.

This year at this time I am settling into my role as a SAHM. I seriously think it took until this week, maybe last week, for my daily responsibilities and little projects to be caught up before I've been able sit here saying to myself, out loud, because you do that when you're home by yourself all day, "I am a stay at home Mom."

I dusted off my handbook on How to Say No because as a SAHM you're automatically assumed to be available to volunteer for virtually everything. And I, for one, have absolutely no problem saying no. Except to online purchases. And iPods.

I have also begun putting my resume out there because these walls here? They're closing in and really hard to climb.

What does your 9-year-old say to you first thing in the morning?

"I had this dream last night...we lived in a trailer park and we had a grill inside and, um, Dad was grilling steaks and it was Halloween and there were these three cousins who were lightbulbs and one lightbulb fell and caught on fire and then caught our house on fire and we couldn't leave for 7 minutes because Dad had to finish his steaks.

There was something like a platform with stairs going down on two sides and one of the cousins was from my orchestra class. And we were talking and talking and then I woke up."

Speaking of parenting

I look forward to a longitudinal study being done on these girls.