Flashback Friday

I despise Valentine's Day.

For adults, that it. As a manifestation of feeling between children, it is cute...until later in elementary school when all but the "unpopular" girls get bubble gum on their Valentines and all others merely get a Jolly Rancher, probably left over from Halloween. Watching the popular girls in high school and uni get roses, teddy bears and balloons as a visible, colorful demonstration of adolescent feelings while the rest of us sat back, wishing, dreaming that perhaps, one day, our Valentine's Day would be so decorated, just like a fairy tale...

It creates in us a rather unhealthy expectation, one that has yet, in 36 years of Valentine's Days, to be fulfilled for me.

I no longer live under that delusion, as I have come to see in my mid-20s that I am just not the kind of girl who would ever warrant that kind of attention. However, those I feel very badly for are the Japanese. And WE thought romance was dead! Again, we have nothing on the Japanese there. Valentine's Day in the Orient was quite an experience for this idealistic young person, and that is today's Flashback Friday post for you. Enjoy!

V-day in Japan

Valentine's Day is not celebrated quite in the same way in Japan as it is elsewhere. It is merely a day during which women shower men with gifts of food, chocolate, drink and superficial shows of appreciation, perhaps crushes and/or love.

Women do not receive anything on this day. Instead, a mere obligatorily "reciprocation" and acknowledgment of the given gift of chocolates is granted the woman on March 14, called "White Day".

She will instead receive gifts of soaps, shampoos and body scents.

Bah.

Does this mean to say the men think that we stink?

Why do they get the chocolate and we get body scents?

Yet another reason to boycott the whole day, in my humble opinion.

Oh, and pass the wine. And, um, don't you DARE forget the chocolate.
(Soy-free, of course.)

power-off, shut-down

That is what I think happened to me last night.

It was a night I needed a bitch session, and She-ra, as always, was willing and able. And I flaked.

Actually, what happened was I had a vertigo attack that lasted a good 15 minutes, that had me holding onto the handles of my refrigerator for dear life, until I could get to my bedroom and lay down. And then I fell asleep.

Power-off, shut-down.

Yesterday was the Passport Appointment day. The last time I had to do a passport from scratch, not a renewal, was actually done by my parents when I was 17. I remember going to the post office and getting the paperwork completed. I called and made the appointment, got all documentation prepared, photographs taken and checks written ("Bring two separate checks," I was told. Of course--two kids, two separate checks. Makes perfect sense.) and all organized, birth certificates attached with colored paperclips inside my manilla folders in which I seemingly organize my entire life.

Actually, I just do that to *appear* organized and professional, when we all really know better.

Anyhow...

Princesita and I walk down, while He and Young Prince drive. We get there and soon after they arrive. Right when we are to be called back, He says, "Young Prince had another major meltdown in school today."

Always known for his impeccable timing, I thought, as we were ushered back into the entrails of the postal facility.

I was then chastized, when we sat down, for not bringing blank checks and two separate checks each. Eternally on the defense, I pointed out that, on the phone she had only told me to bring two checks, and as I have two children...well, logic dictates what I will do. She did NOT say that two separate fees to two separate facilities, one being the Department of State and the other being the USPS, would need to be done in two separate payments.

Great. I retorted by suggesting, strongly, that she next time tells the client exactly what it is she wants us to bring rather than assuming we understand what "two separate checks" means. "Two separate blank checks per person" would have been correct. Then she asked if I had a debit card, which I do not. Then she asked about my husband. Of course he has no idea what is in his pocket, he just carries around whatever he always carries. Then, the question that has dictated the past 10 years of marriage: "So what do you want me to do?"

"Can you get the checkbook?" I snapped. I was admittedly snappy. When I prepare for an appointment then am told I prepared wrong, I get pissed off when not given the correct information in the first place.

"Which one"

"What do you mean, which one? THE Checkbook."

"Yours or ours?"

Um...pause here. Yours or mine? I just got my checkbook in December and have written two whole checks with it. It is not out in a public place; it is hidden in my room, in the same drawers as is hidden my purple bunny-eared joystick (with pearl action).

So, trembling with ire, I say, "The ONLY checkbook you need to concern yourself with."

"Where is it?"

Dude.

"On the table."

"The table?"

"Yes, the table."

"What table."

"THE table."

"WHAT table?"

"THE FUCKING DINING ROOM TABLE" is what I wanted to say, but I left out the explitive and I think he got the message. Ms. Post Office manager was silent.

When he returns in a few minutes, he spits at me, "So what, are you going to flee the country with the kids?" He obviously practiced that line all the way home and all the way back.

I spat back a "No" and let the stunned Ms. Post Office manager continue her duties. When she left, I turned around and He started, "This isn't about us, it's about them. It's about the kids. Even Young Prince in school..."

And I interrupted, "Excuse me, I didn't mean to be rude. I was told one thing and completed what I was told to do, and then get here and was told I did that wrong. You should know by now how impatient I get with those who can't tell me exactly what they want then throw it back in my face when I get it wrong. So I got snappy and I'm sorry," I whispered so the lady in the next cubicle couldn't hear.

I am fully aware of what I do wrong and I apologize when I am out of line.

*---*

This past week or so has really made manifest to me how much my life is on standby, and has always been, for Him. I can make a list of the history throughout the marriage of my compromise and my needs put on standby for Him, but I'll refrain. It is, now, to the point of having to be on standby for my morning shower...it all depends on when The Spirit moves Him to get his ass out of bed and into the shower, which is not the same time no two days of the week. I get a couple hours notice at best if he's taking the kids for dinner. Granted, Mondays are his nights with them, but as he somehow feels that he can schedule his counseling appointments for Monday afternoons and that I will be around to watch the kids, I usually just end up (planning and) feeding them anyway. My life is on standby due to this standby deployment...which there is 1/6 chance it will NOT happen, of course. I don't feel steps ahead can be realistically taken until this ends...when I can have a place for him all set up for when he returns, utilities on and in his name, dishes and furniture moved in--because Lord knows he will not do it himself. I would like to make my summer vacation plans to visit my family, and that is on standby until I know if and when he'll leave.

Maybe I should make my plans and tell him to plan his Hawaii trip with the kids around MY plans for a change. But I have a hard time doing that. Why? I'm not sure. I'm not thick-skinned enough to stand up for taking myself off standby.

With all this growing resentment, while knowing exactly what he went and told his counselor yesterday post-passport appointment, I think my shut-down button pressed itself and I went into power-off mode. I slept, awoke, then slept through the night until 4:30 a.m.

The vertigo is slight today and I am maintaining myself both hydrated and well-fed. I think I'm just stressed out, and even running four miles this morning hasn't taken that out of my system. If I could find time I would love to join a dance studio or do yoga again--but not as before as I prefer not to be hit-on again by a narcissist. That stresses me out, too.

I just want to be me, but I feel like that is on standby as well.

coffee therapy

There is nothing more therapeutic than a morning spent with a girlfriend.

Or two.

Such rich conversations, filled with giggles and sighs, over cups of hot cappuccino are sometimes just what any doctor would order for attempting to solve the world's problems. Whenever this opportunity presents itself, with any of my girlfriends, I find myself mellow, tranquil, calmed and yet with spirit so recharged I feel anything is possible.

I need to make a habit out of this! Let's see how the upgrade to a w(h)ine night next Monday works...

*---*

The problem with an in-house separation is that it can be easy to take for granted that one parent might be around, even when not his night to "have" the kids, so that the other can take part in another activity. This occurred last night when I, assuming there was nothing on the calendar for the evening--precisely because there ISN'T anything on the calendar for that night--made alternate plans. Turns out He had other plans so I ended up not being able to do anything.

Okay, my bad. It wasn't my night off. The problem with this arrangement is, however, that I don't get a night off during the week. His nights with the kids are M/T, mine W/Th, and F goes to whoever has them for the weekend. The issue lies in the fact that he isn't coming back to the house until about 1/2 hour before the kids' bedtime any night of the week. This means, essentially, that every single night of the week is my night "on" and I don't get to make any alternate plans for any night of the week without children. Monday is the only exception; He has Mondays off, so he's in charge of them during that day. He also takes advantage of my being "around" by scheduling medical/counseling appointments for during that afternoon when he should be taking care of the kids. Instead, I am expected to be there to watch them until whenever he chooses to return. I don't feel that is particularly fair, especially when I am the one to have to change my plans around to accomodate him; he never has to change a thing to accomodate me, except perhaps to take a day off once in a while, which he does anyway--so I'd rather not be around when he does.

Rambling. Sorry. This just means that we are not going to be able to maintain this much longer. I have ceased to prepare meals for him. I no longer do his laundry nor clean his floor of the house (except my office that is downstairs right now). Yet I know that, in the end, I will have to be the b*tch and give him the goal deadline: Out by (insert date). And I'll have to find him the place, or he won't do it.

And I need to treat this as if he simply were not here. No activities on weeknights, aside from Mondays, that don't involve the children, because I simply cannot depend on him to take them, even if his night to have them. Not necessarily very fair to me, if I wanted to join a class or something, but fair is apparently not a part of the equation right now.

Or perhaps it is my punishment for breaking this marriage apart in the first place.

The Spatula Wars

He went out and bought a set of new spatulas.

Not just any spatulas, Le Creuset spatulas. (read: very very expensive)

I have a full set, with two that are a trite battered by a blender's blade but still completely usable. That is like 8 or 9 spatulas in reach of my stove, that fit perfectly into a little white holder so that I can pull one out and all of the rest don't come out due to lack of spersonal spatula space.

(sorry 'bout that...feeling sassy)

So I unload the dishwasher the other day and there are ten new spatulas in there, just washed. I had never seen them before. I have already all those utensils, most of which (like the baster brush) I never, ever use. I have had these now for six years, it is no secret I have them unless Somebody is just unaware that these spatulas, pasta spoons, slatted spoons, etc. actually exist in my kitchen.

And I don't have a lot of excess spatula space in my kitchen. My drawers are pretty full.

So I took the spatulas and put them out on his table where I put his mail, magazines and other items. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, he's starting to plan for his move out by purchasing for his own kitchen... (not that he can cook or even know what to use most of those utentils for besides stirring the OJ in the morning)

Well, the next morning my spatula jar is so filled with spatulas that I can no longer pull one out without the entire mess of them falling out of the damn jar. So, sputtering spatula explitives I remove his, cursing the fact that my kitchen wa has been upset, and return them to his table.

I see the receipt he laid out for some reason on the kitchen counter. $100 worth of spatulas.

I about, um...split a spatula in half reading that!

Dude. I could do a heluva lot more with $100...OH--excuse me. They were 20% off! That explains it. He saw the magic four-letter word: SALE. And just HAD to buy. (he's just like that) No matter if there is need, just buy for the purpose of buying...

...which runs so utterly contrary to who I am and how I run my finances. For me, managing our finances was nightmarish as I had to deal with a complete lack of discipline.

Okay, so I took those $80 worth of spatulas and returned them, yet again, to his side of the table.

The next day, there were three little spatula subversives sitting in the spatula jar.

I took them and, sputtering, hid them. I don't want them, I don't need them and I don't want to see them.

Then I was getting Christmas cookie frosting ready. In little cups, I had a rainbow assortment of frostings ready for a little plastic knife that I traditionally use as the spreaders...nothing heavier will balance in those little teacups I use. He comes in and says, "Oh, and there are these..." and his voice trails off in confusion when he goes over to the spatula jar and sees that his special spatulitas have suddenly disappeared.

I snickered...to myself.

I have made it clear that I NEED a thermometer, I NEED heavy winter socks and I would LIKE to have my bike serviced and my violin bows rehaired. Never once have I said a thing about needing new spatulas. But yeah, I'm not heard. I feel strongly about using until unusable. I bought new pans this month, stoneware, because the tin ones I had had rusted and were thus rendered, well, unusable. So I upgraded. But I know what it is I will use and what I will not. He does not do any cooking, he does not spend any productive time in the kitchen (except eating), and he will not stop misplacing items that I have had in the same place for six years in some crazy miscellaneous space that leaves me cursing and losing time and literally holding a scavenger hunt for kitchen shears or measuring spoons when they are not where I expect them to be.

Dude, he is so totally breaking my stride.

Yes, I am well aware of the hilarity of the situation. These are petty, minor specks of spatula spittle that hopefully brought a smile to your face, as it did mine putting it into words!

And with that I wish you a happy Christmas Eve-Eve!

When Life gives you lemons...

...and it's on a constant basis, you'd think a person would figure it out and stop making the same mistake over and over again.

Some of us are not so smart, evidently. Others of us take those lemons and squeeze out of them an unending supply of lemonade--the fresh, tart stuff that, while being a positive end to a less-than-perfect situation, leaves behind the reminiscent mouth-puckering taste as a constant reminder of what could have or should have been done differently.

I have been through the emotional ringer this year on a level nobody really knows about and I think I am through with it. I just don't think I can do it anymore. Christmas is nice and picks up my spirit this year...how on Earth do I keep myself up in January? February? Those cold, dark months that frighten me so, with an inane holiday smack in the middle that I have so deeply despised since my youth for either its senseless obligation or its deep, utter loneliness. One year I gave myself a vacation in January. It served as the perfect distraction, but is far from the ideal time to go as cancellations can always occur: catching the 'flu, being snowed in, absolutely any variety of possibilities can create a stressful anticipation of such a needed mid-winter break.

I am also trying to learn to let my idealism of my 20s go. I cannot change the world; the world needs to want to change. I can be lauded as this positive influence but yet I am tired of feeling the failure when the willingness to adopt new, healthier ways is shrugged off or ignored for any variety of excuses. I need to stop trying to change the world and just focus on molding my own touchable reality.

And that is the end of my insomniac insights and rants this night. I hope the rest of you are sleeping tight!

December

The lights and tree went up this weekend, as I scurried about in my one and only chance to actually decorate for the Christmas holiday. It was this weekend or three days before Christmas, according to my calendar of events.

I have had some sort of upper-respiratory bug eating at me for a couple of weeks; Young Prince seems to be coming out of his but Princesita is just going into it, and I seem destined to have to somehow suffer through both.

*---*

This week had Him at the house more than I am accustomed to, which had me either out of the house more as a result or hidden back in my room/cave. As I managed to finish crocheting the Young Prince's new bedspread, all was not lost. However, my time just in earshot gave me some enlightening insights into my children's relationship with their father.

1. He has to have the radio up so loud in the kitchen that it drowns out the kids' voices. True, I like to have the radio on as well, but keep it down to background music, especially when the kids want to speak. If there are NPR stories I would like to hear, I leave the room to listen rather than tell the kids to shush so that I can prioritize a faceless digital box over my own children's developing self-expression.

2. He tells me that the kids disrespect him when they talk to him and accuses me of fostering that attitude. However, stepping back and listening to them banter in the morning, I hear them talking to him in the same way he speaks to them. My children do not talk to me the way they talk to their father, and I wouldn't allow it if they did. However, that is not my battle to be waged; it is his as long as he ceases to involve me through accusations.

3. He no longer sleeps in his own bedroom but instead out in the t.v. room downstairs. This results in an echoing of his dreadful snoring throughout the house...another huge reason we could never, in the history of our marriage, sleep in the same room. I would merely close my door if I weren't in charge of taking care of the kids during the night (thus requiring open doors). Perhaps he's starting to realize his room stinks because he refuses to ever open a window for fresh air when it is nice outside. Or perhaps it's drafty because he hasn't put down his storm windows. He needs to learn how to complete these simple menial tasks. I am not going to be his mother anymore.

December is again upon us and I am disappointed in myself that I haven't made greater strides in this separation, which was something I resolved to do this year. I suppose I have made positive steps; just not as big as I had ideally imagined. As of this month I only have one more year of "probation" to wait out as well with CPS, so perhaps next year I will feel much less trapped by my own circumstances.

I hate December. I love Christmas in all that I can teach my children regarding the joys of giving and receiving and thanksgiving, but I despise December. I don't like January much, either, but December comes and I can feel my heart being ripped from my chest and wrung out like a wet towel every year.

So I must find the Joy. Somehow.

another brain cleansing

Okay, I just need to let a few things out. A part of me wants to disable comments, as I am not looking for advice--I just want to get things off my chest and know that I am being heard. That is all. So read with caution, realizing that this is a cathartic post.

La Princesita has had two hard lessons on how unfair Life is this week. First came with the last softball game of the season. I had worked hard on a lineup in which no girls repeated the same fielding position they had in the last game, to give them all practice. She was to play 3rd base in the bottom of the 3rd (3 innings in coach pitch), and the other coach switched her to short stop for some reason. I wasn't certain as to why; I was organizing the other girls. My princesita is a very agile player and can play most positions well just because she pays attention and doesn't spend the game drawing in the dirt with her toe. The coaches know that--but she had played short stop last game and really wanted to play a base during this last game. By about the 5th batter, she was in tears, and it took over two hours to calm her down.

Same general idea last night at her school's annual Sock Hop. She had practiced all year to be able to win the hula-hoop contest for the 1st grade. And she was one of two left--until someone who was walking off after her hoop had fallen knocked my princesita's hoop so that it fell. I was in the audience and yelled, "Hey, that wasn't fair, her hoop was hit by that other girl." Other parents saw and agreed...but what else could I really do? Crestfallen and proclaiming in tears how unfair this was, I dragged her and the Young Prince home...and she finally fell asleep in my bed, about an hour later, exhausted by her laments.

What ought I do? Teach her that yes, Life is unfair. So suck it up and move on.

No, that would be bad of me. I can teach that in a much gentler way. She is only seven years old, and much like her Mama Llama, an extremely sensitive soul. I pray for guidance to teach her strength in the ways of the world.

---

At the sock hop, I ran into some people I don't see on a daily, or even really on a monthly, basis. One of these women is nice enough, but is rather well-known as gossipy and a busy-body. I therefore tend to keep our conversations light and avoid any topics, like my personal life, that I don't care to have spread all over the elementary school community. The first thing she asks me last night? "So are things better with you and Him?"

Admittedly, I was blindsided. First, this was incredibly forward of someone who, as far as I knew, knows nothing for certain about my marital situation. So of course I jumped to the defensive. I demanded to know where she heard this from and why she was asking me. Uncertain as to how to deal with this, I lied and said that no, everything is fine. She said good, and I changed the subject immediately while watching the above mentioned hula hooping contest. Then, without looking at her, I said, "No, we've been separated now in-house for over two years. But I would like to know where you heard that, because I want to know if someone is spreading news about me around this school community." It was then that I learned that He had confided in her husband, who had been previously divorced.

He is not well-known for his, shall we say, discerning judgment regarding who he chooses to talk to. But then again, who am I do judge? I guess that, when I am the one affected by his mouth...

Anyhow, she had some strong opinions about how, no matter what, it is better that we be together, for the good of the kids. I told her that I disagree, that we are not giving a good image of what a healthy marriage is to the children and that my health and happiness need to be factored into the equation...and etc. etc. etc.

I was secretly thankful that Princesita had to leave due to tears...a perfect excuse to get out.

However, this encounter reestablished the fact that I am definitely being painted as the "bad guy" and he as the victim...and although I like to bitch about all the little things that now I let get to me that I used to let slide, I fully recognize that the failure of our marriage took two of us. Not just one.

*---*

My mother. Oh dear, what to say? For those who haven't followed, or known, the saga regarding our relationship, the least I can say is that I am always on pins and needles with her, and she regards me much in the same way. Somebody who wants to know why she can't be more of a part of my and my kids' lives while everything from my pregnancy to my miscarriage has been blamed on me, the news that I bought a home was greeted as if someone close had died, and that I cannot do anything that she expects me to do to make her life complete. I have taken steps back and have come to realize where this stems from in her life, but while she continues to express her great disappointment in who I have become and the fact that I put my children before her in my life, I have a very hard time in trying to maintain any semblance of even a superficially decent relationship.

What created this latest drama? The fact that she sent a Halloween card, some spare change for piggy banks and stickers for the kids and a Starbucks card for me, received at 4 p.m. Halloween afternoon (right before trick-or-treat time) and did not hear, by the next Wednesday, any verification of receipt of this collection of cards means that I am doing nothing to help her be a part of my children's lives and that she doesn't know if she ought to send Princesita's birthday gift if we had not received what she had sent for Halloween. We had been in contact various times on email over the election, and I had a terribly busy four day weekend with the kids...but she never once mentioned, "Oh, by the way, did you get something special in the mail?" No, I am the Bad Daughter for neglecting to mention what she is hoping to, evidently, trap me into not mentioning by not mentioning it first. No, she won't send it certified because it really has nothing to do with whether or not we received what she sent; it all all to do with a test of whether I will remember to mention and appropriately give thanks in recognition of her efforts.

I think she believes I sit around on my ass all day every day wondering what to do next.

How I would KILL for a day like that. Just one day.

She said in the email (no, not a phone call because she will not telephone me; I have to always call her and am the Bad Daughter if I don't comply in a timely manner) that she is open to suggestions. I suggested a few years ago that she buy herself a webcam that just plugs into a USB port. If she doesn't understand how with following the directions, her handyman up the street can help her. Then I can walk her through the installation of Skype and she can chat and see the kids in what is practically real time whenever she wants.

But that suggestion was rejected. The only suggestion she wants is that I move back west. I am expected to alter my life and go back to her, because all her life she has been abandonded or forced to abandon when she was a child. She doesn't see why people in her life (her mother, her daughters) have always moved on to follow our own lives instead of molding ours around her needs.

If I would be going back to that, there is no way in hell I'm going back. I've never been good enough for her; nothing I have ever done has been good enough. Why put myself through any more? It is easy to say "Well, then don't. Don't let yourself be that in your mother's life." But that is it...she is my mother, and besides my sister is the only family I have left. The three of us. That's it.

So forgetting it is much easier said than done. So, to call or not to call? Damned if I do, damned if I don't. We've been down the same path before, and I have told her in no uncertain terms that she can feel free to call here as well, and that I should not be the only one trying to make her a participant in my children's lives. If she doesn't feel she is, then she needs to do more. I can do better with the thank-you notes. I know she appreciates that, but I do those for major things (birthdays, Christmas gifts). Are Halloween cards now included on that list?

*---*

I'm okay, I'm just feeling a little defeated, yet again, and it will pass. The holidays are coming, which always stress me out, and is a prime Disagreement Season between my mother and I. I feel it coming, deep in my soul, and it fills me with dread.

a complete idiot

Or just a really big furry camelloid wimp.

That's me.

We talked tonight...actually, I talked and he didn't--which is nothing new--and in the silence as I awaited for him to just say something, I wondered why my mouth always betrays me.

I like to think I am so strong and yet I am not. I can gently tell him, remind him of what is wrong between us and he retorts that yes, I am always right. I tell him that I like to think that I am but I need to have someone to challenge me to see things in other ways--a challenge he never poses. I think he's intimidated by me.

I told him that I don't know. I vary. One day I have no issue with throwing this all away and washing my hands. I told him I'm in my prime and I am just watching it go by, wasting my life away. Then the next day I vacillate; I think that maybe, just maybe I can make this work but with heavy sacrifices--no sex, for example--and put on the happy face so that the children who cry when they think that they're going to have to leave this home will be calmed into a sense of complacency.

Reality is that I do know. I do tell him I don't love him, but that I respect him as the father of these kids...and he spits back that no, I do not respect him. Okay, so I need to do a better job of respecting. Being more civil. It is hard, I say, in this living situation. I therefore maintain the need to separate living situations so that we can see if this is going to work going forward or not (although, in all honestly, I don't see how I would go back. I can't have a marriage without sex. I cannot...although there are those who can, I can't. I will not go back to crying in shame and disappointment after each time and feeling as filthy as he always made me feel. I do not miss that. And I did let him know that.)

Why am I a complete idiot? Because I ended this conversation tonight saying, basically, "day by day, one step at a time." If that isn't a hope-filling prophecy, what is? Damn me. I cannot destroy somebody to his face. I don't have the guts.

I admitted a lot of wrongs of mine. Included, I admitted that I need to not expect him to engage the children in the same ways that I do. That is unfair. I did tell him, however, that I want him to enjoy the kids now, as much as I am. While they are kids. I want that for him, for them. He asked, "In only my days with them?" To which I respond, "Of course. Just like I have to find the time during my days with them. Our weekdays aren't all fun and games and playing...I need downtime, playtime with them, too. That's why I insisted on you not getting them every single weekend. If that were the case, I wouldn't get my downtime with them. It would not be fair."

Our ages, our interests, our styles, our speeds, our hours, our motivations and our expectations round out the main incompatibility issues we feel...all discussed tonight. Again. Rather--that I feel, as I have always felt the only one to have the energy, the variety, the get-up-and-go, the push, the drive, and the independence and motivation to *do* rather than to sit back and wait to be told what to be done.

I'm tired. I've been tired for a long time. It stemmed long before grapefruits being thrown through the kitchen window in a midnight rage of his. It is tiring being the sole energy in a relationship, with he being the one ending up gratified, with all he wants. Even now, he's ended up with a brother in the area. Won again. I have nobody. My family is all at least a 5 hour plane trip away. At least. And I'm stuck.

Sometimes I feel I'm pulling at straws. That this is all a bunch of little things masking bigger reasons. Reasons he and I cannot speak of again. I wonder if he has forgotten...

He feels I don't respect him. I haven't felt respected in years. We have so much to hash out if we were to try to actually go back to the table, that I could not do it. I have never forgiven him for abandoning me when I most needed a husband--when he showed me he didn't have the balls for the job. I have high standards but I am also needy. I am an extremely emotional person who needs a partner who can be strong enough for me to lean on when I need to lean, and to lead me when I am blind.

With him, I have never once felt we had reached that level of compenetration and trust. I wanted an equal. Instead it has been orderer-doer; motivator-follower....much, as I see it, a military establishment (which is all he knows in his professional life).

He told me to go back to counseling, find someone else since I ended up "firing" my first and only counselor I had ever had. She was the one to cancel on me and never call me back when she said she would--she had started trying (what I felt) to micromanage my time and question my priorities ("mental health isn't a priority if you have to even think about whether you should use your only gym time during the week to meet with me," for example...it was getting ridiculous and mothery). To be honest I wasn't getting much out of counseling. I dreaded it, trying to think of what on earth I was going to talk about that next week...we were down to once a month after being twice-weekly post-breakdown. I got out all I needed to say and went on with Life, discovering what I needed to do to make myself better--and talking to her about it without getting any solid suggestions from her wasn't getting me far. I get better help and solid direction from those who know rather than one speaking from theory's standpoint, from blogging.

So, in a nutshell is tonight's drama. I'm tired and would like to try to get some sleep now. I crave resolution--but sense that this ideal is far out of my reach yet. That scares and intimidates me. A sad fact is that, with more money, we would be able to move forward and get on with our lives. Perhaps our situation isn't permitting this for a reason. I'm not sure why...but right now it appears the only reason is to put me through hell.

a whole truckload of crap

That about says it all, ¿no?

I am actually smiling as I write this. I am trying to learn to find HUMOR in the power struggle, in the immature passive-aggressive nature of my broken-down marital relationship and in the fact that my 48 year old housemate doesn't seem to yet get how to live communally...or just does what he does to try to piss me off.

There is a problem with the freezer. For some reason unknown to me, the shelves barely are wide enough to stay on their supports. I don't know if their molecular speed has slowed so much that they have actually shrunk in size or what, but all I can say is that, once in a while, the shelves will fall, all contents out onto the floor, at barely a touch.

When this occurs with me, of course, met with a "Damn it" here or some other exasperated sigh-cursing combo. And I bend my lazy ass over and pick everything back up. Put it away. Fix it. Key operative idea: Clean up after myself.

In the past two weeks, this has occured three different times in the late evening hours (between 10 and midnight sometime) as He has gone to the freezer to raid his cookie supply. The past two instances, I have gone to the freezer the next morning for some frozen waffle reason only to find everything thrown back in atop a shelf that equally has been just tossed in on top of the shelf and its contents below. Great. So I take it all out and put it all back.

This morning, when opening the freezer, the entire contents of that top offending shelf came tumbling out at me, and the contents of the cookie stash opened and greased my entire floor. Angry? Yes, to say the very least. I would have left them there had I not had students in my house this morning. Plus, I have two little monkeys and a cat who LIVE for the two-day rule (sad, but only slightly exaggerated truth). So what did I do? Nothing I am particularly proud of in my gifted 20-20 hindsight, but I put the little oatmeal morsels back into the canister, then took my fist and crushed them all, each and every single one, to smithereens.

And this was all before 7:00 a.m.!

I am tired of fixing what He does wrong. I am tired of him being the Officer on this ship while I am the subordinate who has to clean up after him. So this time I didn't. I am hoping that, tonight, he will come up and go for the cookies again. And have them fall out all over his feet as they did mine this morning. Of course, that will not happen. They will all fall out again tomorrow as I go into the freezer for something, and I will be stuck with the mess, commencing my day with a lovely string of obscenities.

Fast forward to Sunday. I plan to take my children to a corn maze on my one day with the kids this three-day weekend. Out of pure, utterly stupid kindness I invited him to come with. I received an email from him yesterday asking if his brother and his girlfriend can come along with.

I said no, I am sorry, but that this was my activity with the children and that he was invited along as a kindness. That did not mean that he could, in turn, invite whomever he wanted. I countered that they could, instead, do something together either Saturday after softball committments or Monday when both children are out of school for the day.

What did I get back? A response saying that his brother has never done anything to me, that I should pay him the kindness that He pays my family.

Need I remind him of how he angrily fought with my mother and my sister in the middle of the street in Copenhagen, turning heads, putting me into cramps (I was four months pregnant) and sending me fleeing back to the train to Malmo, where he later threw a table at me and I had my passport in hand, ready to leave... (just one single instance of various I can list in which my husband and my family could not be civil)

Why didn't I go then?

Respect, indeed. My mother told me then that he has no respect for any of us...but I defended him to the end. Boy, was I blind?

So I am this time sticking to my guns. It is my day and my rules. I realize that his brother is family; he is just not MY family. If I invite a friend to go somewhere, is it right for her to turn around and invite a bunch of other people, then ask if it's okay if they come with? I wouldn't do that to someone else's invitation, personally, unless directly told to "bring a friend." He can make the rules for his days with the kids, during which I will try my hardest to figure out some good ME things to do this weekend while he has the kids and not sit and try to work my weekend away.

I feel that he is trying to work his way back in. Maybe he senses my invitation as a weakness. I merely extended the invitation (that I am about at the point of rescinding) as a kindness, as I told him I would try to make an effort to, once in a looooong while, do something all together.

Maybe, for me, that's too much too soon.

rights and responsibilities

The few places He has looked to move into have been co-op living arrangements, in which you have your own space (being your bedroom) and everything else is shared, which means that responsibilities for cleaning, cooking, shopping, laundry, grounds maintenance, trash, etc. is shared.

So--as He is still in this house, is he somehow exempt from the responsibilities of running and maintaining the house? I find it excrutiatingly interesting that, on my weekends without children I have to vacuum, do the shopping, pay the bills, mow the lawn, and even cook for the children if they're in the house. On top of, of course, getting my professional work done as that is my only no-children worktime when I don't have students scheduled (a big downside of working from home).

However, he gets a weekend out of the office and gets to sit on his ass and pick at his head and watch TV and do nothing. Trash? Forget it, I have to do it. Grass? Forget it, I have to do it. Vacuum? Fortunately, did it while he took the kids to church yesterday. I even brought my work to She-ra's house yesterday and got two good hours of organizing and binding in because all he did was sit there looking like he was waiting for us to go.

I had to be firm with him this weekend because his brother calls (how he ends up getting a sibling out here while I am still completely family-less is beyond me. Wins again.) and wants him to bring the kids out for time together yesterday. I said that he had them last weekend and this is my weekend, aside from the fact that I had already made plans for us. I agreed I would be flexible, but I ought not be the only one who is required to be flexible; I need down time with the kids that does not involve trying to get them from one place to another, getting homework done, and working while they play together. I should not have to make my down time with the kids the errand time, the shopping time, the cutting grass time each and every week. Sometimes that is necessary; when I can roll it all into the weekly routine, that works fine but it does not always work out that way.

So he was surprised that I stood my ground, I think, and felt a bit lost...most likely akin to how I felt last weekend when they left. And just because I had other plans did not mean that I had to leave the house at a given hour and go. It just meant that he could not take them, but that they were completely fine entertaining themselves for a while as I finished up a few things.

Yes, I would love to be able to get to the gym this morning or do something all alone since a student cancelled. But instead I will have to fill that time with grocery shopping just to have something to eat in the house, since he sat on his ass all day yesterday, only ate granola cereal and chips so that he would not have to get any groceries, and use what is normally a work day to further fulfill household responsibilities that should have been completed this weekend.

I understand fully that this is how it will be when he is not around. However, there will also be one less person (big person) to have to clean up after, and the separation issue with the children will be much more defined than it is now. So do I have right to complain? A part of me is afraid to open my mouth--out of fear of appearing that I just can't do it alone. And I can do it...I just don't feel it's right for one to have a "free ride".

Or am I missing something completely? Is he somehow exempted as he earns the Big Paycheck? Does that give all rights to being able to take a full weekend ass-sitting break?

the great void

Oh Great Ones Who Know, please tell me:

How do you get over the immense void you feel when your children are with the other parent?

Such a part of me wants to be with them--such the joy and vibrance and life and love they bring to me and bring out in me. Yet at what cost? I am not happy when with them and with him at the same time. I cannot smile, I cannot have fun because I am too busy resenting the presence of the other--but I can still be with them and they can have both of us without feeling like they have to choose...

I don't mind being alone, except for the fact that, when I am alone I immerse myself in so much work that I forget to, oh, say, eat. Their presence keeps me on a schedule, keeps me healthy, keeps me in check.

During my God time this morning in my garden, we (God and I) had a little chat. We have lots of those little chats. I apologized for my rant during my God-garden time yesterday, during which I mowed the lawn in heavy humidity and warmth, cursing the fact that, on his days with the kids--or even without--he can sit on his ass and do nothing at all, all day long. I feel that, if we still have to share the house, I should not have to do all the upkeep of the house and grounds. I don't touch his room or his bathroom. He doesn't believe that he should ever have to use any elbow grease at all, and that machines will do what they were made to do, and in the end ruins clothing, doors, appliances, woodwork...you name it. I am not sure where he learned this mentality. And I am sick to death of using MY time to undo what he has done wrong--the story of our relationship, always trying to fix things, always trying to make things right.

That was my rant. I feel better today. It promises to be an even warmer day, but I had a restful sleep and got my hands in the Earth early this morning before it became too warm to bear. I need some new clothes for work for Fall, so I will consult now with the shopping gods and hopefully heed what they have to say...may the Sale Gods be with me as well.

misreadings

Tonight, while driving home from She-Ra's house, I saw an interesting license plate, here in the Land of the Personalized Pl8s:

GR8 COCH

I started giggling uncontrollably: of course I read it as pronounced in Johnny Cochran's name...and thought about how some people really, really need to have their great license pl8 idea read by a few people B4 putting it on metal for all the world 2 C.

Then I decided my reading of that license plate was a result of the goggles I must currently be wearing.

The Exception today posted an intriguing reading regarding "goggles", those lenses through which we see and interpret Life, and how such goggles can be colored depending on a variety of factors; hormones, alcohol, horniness...

So...to write on how very de-genderfied I feel as of late, resulting from what has been my decision to resume an extremely light dose of hormone therapy. Although I have still been walking into walls and hitting my head on cabinets (depth perception issues) and have felt 'off' and slightly on-edge this week (removal of the ring tonight after three weeks of wear), the relative PMS I deal with now is nothing when compared to how much I wanted to kill somebody every single third week--and it was only getting worse.

The thing is, I had such a libido. Almost a hormone with legs. My marvelous vibrator was getting incredible use because I had such a hunger--one that was clearly never satisfied, of course, as a rabbit-no matter the color-wasn't going to give the emotional warmth that a skin-on-skin, hands-and-toes intertwined, sweaty, passionate, kiss-filled encounter would give.

Three months into the Ring, and I have no libido. Give it time.
(sigh)
This month makes 10 months.
Verdict?
All gone.
Zilcho.
Nada.
My response is fine--but I have absolutely no desire to even try to stimulte myself. I've let the bunny's batteries die dead away...and I don't care.
And I have noticed that this has affected the way I look at myself and at others, especially other men.

I don't get that immediate jolt of excitement and heat-driven energy when I see a hot package anymore. If I close my eyes and make myself think--think, think, think, conjure up images and memories and think--then maybe, just maybe those familiar waves of warmth will start to wash over me.

I feel sex(gender)less as a result. I like to desire and to feel desired. I feel great need for male physical contact in my life and yet, not having any now, I don't feel like I miss it...but at the same time I just feel like I am merely existing,
no longer feeling,
no longer--me.

But maybe that's a good thing...for now. Maybe that's where I'm supposed to be, so I can look at everything else going on in my personal life without hormonal "goggles" to rose-color that which is, in reality, so gray.

My extreme moods are now in check, I am no longer homicidal (I say that half-jokingly, of course...) and I don't seem to experience *any* me-feelings anymore.

It's all lack-of-hormonal me. Those are my current goggles, and I'm not so sure I like them.

false hopes

Because I usually read situations and people fairly well, and my sixth sense is rather well-developed, I knew this was going to happen.

As my job continues to be managing financial matters in this house (or somebody would be completely screwed), I had to enter his private lair to grab the personal property tax bill on his truck. Due to last year's accident, I implored him to appeal the $14,500 value placed on this car; the total damage bill came to $12,000 and some change. Therefore he had the bill in his possession. Regardless of appeal, the bill needs to be paid in full, then next years' will be prorated appropriately.

Entering his room, I saw a collection of photos that are now looking over his bed. Nice, happy family pictures, our wedding picture...as if he is creating some little idyllic existence in which he somehow believes, deep down, that everything is going to be just fine. Then the little details in his speech, the "if" as opposed to the certain "when" that he substitutes as if trying to brainwash me.

My head started to hurt. I left and went for a long walk.

I realize that, in all that he is not good for me, I am everything good for him. No wonder he doesn't want to let this go. He has won the gold. He has scored big-time. It doesn't matter to him how I feel; as long as he benefits from my presence, he is going to do everything to keep this going.

There. Now my head doesn't hurt quite so much anymore. I feel like I knew this was going to occur since I started being "courteous" and "businesslike", in that it has been a step-up from the silence I have maintained--maintained precisely for the purpose of not raising false hopes.

No matter how much I try, and with steps forward that I feel like I take, I then end up feeling more trapped. But, evidently, it is not all about me and how I feel--it never has been, and I'm not certain that I can do what will keep me healthy and still be in the best interest of my children, allowing them to have time with their father.

other people's children

It is inevitable that, as children get older, their friends will come over to play.

I welcome their presence in this house. I love to hear my little monkeys at cooperative play, solving problems on their own without requiring a helicopter parent (which I consider myself very much not) monitoring and refereeing each moment of interaction. And I like to provide children with a "safe" and trustworthy place to hang, especially as the kids get older.

My poor old house has lately taken the brunt of playtime with friends, however. Now, I like to think that I do not maintain things at breaking point; if I see something in the home that needs to be fixed, I do try to repair, if I know how to, instead of leaving it to further degrade only to have to buy something new soon...

The kids' father is like that; don't lift a finger for upkeep, then spend tons to buy new. That is why I feel like this house will rot out from under me with him here, living in the basement. But that's another story.

In the past few playdates at my house, the venetian blinds in La Princesita's bedroom were pulled off the wall and the wand broken; the pull-chain on her ceiling fan light was pulled off; I saw children on the bed of the Young Prince's room ready to, as was described to me, "jump" to the ceiling fan pullchain to turn it on (and rip it out of the ceiling in the process??); the screen on the door that I installed on the back door pushed through, which is almost impossible to put back in. La Princesita and I had completed about 1/4 of a 500 piece puzzle on a table set up from the floor, out of the main traffic thoroughfare and our work was completely destroyed by a four-year old that I guess I assumed would, by that age, know better. A child's chair has been broken and my front step thrown up on (I hope my kids don't catch that).

I can't say my monitos are perfect. Heavens knows they are not. But I suppose I am trying to raise them with an idea of how to treat things--everything, not just living things--with respect, and most especially things that are not theirs and that are in someone else's home. Doors need not be slammed to be closed. Help may be requested instead of pulling something off the wall and breaking it. I realize also that accidents do happen. I feel, however, that I have far exceeded my quota this year just in the past month.

And if my child feels sick, playdates are cancelled.

To the benefit of almost all these children, they have been completely honest in coming up to me and telling me exactly what happened. They are being raised learning the integrity of honesty and are ready to face consequences--which would not happen in my home, unless a window was broken perhaps, or a ceiling fan actually pulled OUT of the ceiling. And in such cases, obviously, the consequence would be the danger posed to the child.

I have heard stories of older children going onto the computers of my friends without asking prior permission. There is, in a general terms, a certain lack of common sense manners being taught at home. I, as an adult, would never even dream of going onto even my closest friends' computers without prior permission. That is a violation of personal space, and my children will not even turn on a television in someone else's home unless given permission, as in my home, to do so. And I have explained to them why the computers in the library are public and those in private homes are personal. I have had to turn off the television that playmates have felt at liberty to turn on, explaining that they are here to play and not watch the boob tube. True, I may be stricter regarding television-watching or computer-using rules than many other parents, but I also have two children who can figure out how to entertain themselves without pacing the house saying how "boring" it is here and how much s/he wants to go home.

Then go. Please. May I call your mom to have her come get you?

I am starting to wonder if I must have either completely different standards regarding the activity levels and the things I require my children to do to be gentle to this old house, or if my house is otherwise in a state of disrepair such that the same level of activity in their own homes does not result in creating the havoc that is wrecked in my home. Do I have so few activities to offer children to do that it is "boring" here? New friends seem to feel that way; old friends who know my home never seem to have problems finding things to do.

I remember rarely having people during my childhood inside my home to play with. I would play inside other people's houses, but I never played host. Now that the weather is cooler and the bug population will start to decline, the children can play outside safely, but in dry Southern Oregon we played outside all summer without worries of being bug-sprayed, ticks, West Nile and the myriad of other worries we have to face in this humid summer environment. When reflecting, however, I can't help believing that my mother did not want the same things happening to her home that I have had to deal with this summer, just for wanting to do things differently than she ever did.

Does this mean that I will change my ways? No, it is my house and the responsibility of those visiting my house to respect my way of doing things. Cleaning up is nice but not a huge deal. I just won't want my home more broken than it already is. I suppose I just need to better anticipate needs/wants/desires and make it crystal clear what is and is not permitted, at risk of sounding strict.

Although I am certain that there will be something else broken that I had never foreseen, much like the venetian blind fiasco, just to keep me on my toes.

Unpredictability is a good thing, right?

Oh...p.s....I feel in a bad mood today for no particular reason, thus my rants seem to flow much more freely. Perhaps with a bit of coffee, maybe some chocolate, my outlook on the day will brighten.

totally against my better judgment...

Yeah, I did it again.

We all went to the pool.

Against Better Judgment Ruling #1: Out of kindness of my heart and unwillingness to be just plain cruel, I invited Him with.

Against Better Judgment Ruling #2: When La Princesita had to go potty after about an hour and a half, I did not insist that we all leave then and there. On an "excessive heat advisory" day, an hour and a half, biking to and from the pool, is more than enought.

Against Better Judgment Ruling #3: I left The Young Prince with his father at the pool. We arrived at the pool at 2:30. They LEFT the pool at 6 p.m.

He is almost 4. Not an adult, almost 4.

"But he was cool; he was swimming at the pool."

"That's not the point. The point is that you, as the adult, need to exercise the common sense to figure out when enough is enough and say when it is time to go."

"But he was cool. And then he didn't want to ride his bike home."

(stifling a big DUH here) "Um, yeah. You, as the adult, need to factor into the equation that he'll still need to get himself home on his bike. You need to factor in exhaustion."

"But..."

"But nothing."

We got inside and He said to The Young Prince, "Now go to your room."

"What???!!! Whatever he did, you as the adult need to realize that he is four years old, hot, exhausted and probably really, really hungry. Whatever he did was probably a result of your not taking all this into consideration when you decided to stay at the pool for four hours with him, so he should not go to his room for your transgression."

Silence.

I was calm. I didn't fly off the handle. He apologized to His son and they are now eating their dinners. I will shower The Young Prince tonight, brush and floss his teeth, and hold him until he falls asleep.

...which is NEVER against my better judgment.

completely vexed

Warning: big rant ahead.

I taught tonight. I had gotten on the Mr.'s case about not getting nighttime routines going or finished on the nights that I teach, so tonight and last night he stepped up and got the kids going. The Young Prince did NOT, tonight, want his father brushing his teeth. Absolutely not. However, as I had just finished teaching and had proceeded to work on cleaning the kitchen, I decided not to intervene and undermine any authority on his part and just let the screaming continue. La princesita came up to me several times to tell me what was happening, obviously disturbed that her brother could be so adamantly against his father's brushing.

(insert note: Their father has an incredibly rough touch. Perhaps this is one reason I have never, ever, ever felt any pleasure from his touch in the history of when we actually touched in our marriage. I have told him that he brushes the teeth too hard; when the kids cry because it hurts, it is too hard. The kids have complained to me that they prefer me to brush because he does it too hard. I have told him that their mouths are more sensitive, they're children, maybe he should ease up a bit. He maintains that you have to brush hard to get stuff off your teeth. However, even dentists maintain that is absolutely untrue and that, if one brushes too hard one could contribute to gum recession. His father is the dentist; he *should* know that.)

Okay. So the screaming behind the closed door of the bathroom continued, I had finished washing the dishes and closed the kitchen for the night. La princesita came up to me and reported that "Daddy just put The Young Prince in the shower."

"Why?"

"Because he wouldn't rinse and spit."

What?!

So I get myself down there as quickly as possible, knock on the door and open it, and there they are, he had thrown The Young Prince (not 4 years old) into the shower with all of his jammies on and soaked him, since that is what he had threatened him with if he did not rinse and spit his toothpaste.

What?!

So I tell him to get my son out of the shower at this minute, what in the hell do you think you are doing? You give him a time-out, you don't throw him in the shower. That is not an appropriate consequence to his dissent. That makes no sense.

Yes, it does. He doesn't think he has done anything wrong. Then continues to ask if he should yell and scream and hit the children like I do.

WHAT?!

I countered that I have spanked The Young Prince once and only once in his entire life. Once. And that was, what, a year and a half ago? And I am categorized now for life as a "hitter" of my children??? And I have already written about the raising of the voice issue not long ago.

I calmly said that I don't know what has happened, that we used to be on the same page about disciplining our children, and we had agreed on time-outs. Not throwing him in the shower. And he said, "But he didn't rinse out his mouth."

"Well," I said, "if it is that important, put him in his room for time-out and he'll either swallow it or he, being the kind of kid he is, will still end up running to the bathroom and taking care of it himself...he IS capable of doing it himself...since he doesn't like the feel nor the taste for long."

"What, and go back on my word? Should I have yelled and screamed and hit like you do? You know, they get older and they won't respond to yelling anymore. They'll just yell back."

What is this counselor of his feeding him? And what kind of a picture of me has he fed her?

"I don't yell. You come home after I have been Ms. Nice Guy all day. I give them a warning: Third time I don't ask so nicely. You aren't around to see the first nice times. If the classroom is not cleaned up by 6:55 and I have asked them since 3:00 to clean up the classroom, I am going to raise my voice. But I get results. I don't have to do that as much anymore, but you are never around enough to see that." I wanted to tell him: You need to stop making judgments about what used to be and see how far things come. You need to start living in the world the rest of us live in. But I didn't. But I did say, "Your word was wrong. That was an inappropriate consequence for the crime committed."

No, it wasn't. Not in his eyes. All of a sudden I thought I was at a military boot-camp. You don't throw a fully-clothed three-year old in the shower because he's throwing a tantrum because he doesn't want you to brush his teeth. You just don't. But he somehow turned it all around to make me the bad guy because I actually get my children to follow my orders and fall into line and continue with routine. I wanted to say that, perhaps I am gentler and not rougher as you purport. Perhaps they know that I will always follow through. You just started to follow through on discipline, so the Young Prince has somehow learned that, if he throws enough of a tantrum he can get out of things he does not want with you. You can't start off easy and get stricter. Those are Basics 101 of classroom management. He doesn't take you seriously.

But that doesn't merit a fully-clothed dunk in the shower.

I asked him if his father did that to them when he used his belt on them. He glared at me.

This "arrangement" is just not working, it is turning into a power struggle and he doesn't like that I have the power. Yet he won't step up when he has a chance to start to get to know his children. He could spend time on the weekend with them but instead chooses to work on his computer. I almost don't want to separate homes because I fear the children will just be stuck in front of the television when he has custody so that he can continue on in his little world...or that things like what happened tonight will occur when I am not around and there will be no mediating force to calm him.

I had to force a separation between father and son tonight. What is going to happen in 10 years? And how dare he say that I am going to be the cause of teenage strife, when I am the one my children come to when they need to talk or feel listened to, or to be comforted? He deserves to be more a part of their lives, but he needs to take some responsibility, grow up, and put himself there because, if he sits around waiting for them to come around to him, baby, it ain't going to be happening.

don't you dare

Don't you dare attack, however indirectly, my parenting. I am around my children 24 hours every single day of the week and have adopted effective disciplining of my children which will involve yelling when someone is in danger or raising my voice when I am on the aforewarned third time saying something (which I preface with a "I will tell you nicely twice. The third time will not be so nice.").

Don't you dare even insinuate that the children seem to cower to you when you raise your voice to them as a result of my somehow abusive nature toward them. Be a fly on the wall one day. I think you would be damn impressed in my management of the children and, consequently, the mutual respect and confidence we enjoy and continue to develop.

Perhaps it is because you never raise your voice to them (and they walk all over you), that they cower to your voice on the rare occasions it becomes authoritarian. You do not separate them nicely and peacefully when they are bugging each other; neither do you let them work it out for themselves. You get involved and raise your voice...then have the gall to accuse me of improperly raising my voice withe the children. I usually tell them, more in an exasperated tone rather than out of anger, to go have some alone time for fifteen minutes. That solves the issue with no voices raised, no time-outs, no fears and no tears.

Don't you dare corner me while I am in MY bathroom and accuse me of maltreating my children. You have no right, especially when I actually take the time to be with them, learn how to work with them in order to effectively discipline (both positively and negatively) and don't just stick them in front of the TV or let them onto the computer whenever we have time together. I do not hit my children with wooden spoons...and yes, I know people who do. I have spanked my son once and only once--ever. I have never spanked my daughter. Maybe you should hang out with other parents and children and see, if you can get out of your own little ideal world in which everything is always hunky-dory, how The Real World is...maybe then you would come to understand that my children are the respectful, well-balanced, active, healthy, happy and well-adjusted children they are because of ME, my attentions and my parenting.

And don't you dare forget that.

randomness

Here it comes:

1. The poem, done in brush on gold washi with long strands. Final product came to 24" x 18" approx.

The framing placement should help offset the apparent lack of centering of the poem on the actual sheet--I am usually a firm believer in , but... (sigh). It is also written straight (yes, I drew lines like a good girl, although I resisted, trust me!), just photographed slightly off (did I mention I am just slightly off-kilter?...yes, that is a joke--JA!). Greatest challenge in doing this project? Definitely the blending of culture--Western concept of beauty is extremely different than Eastern (Oriental) concepts of beauty. The simplicity of the strokes--writing horizontally with a brush that is meant for writing vertically was tough. So I instead tried to incorporate the techniques for character formation (of Chinese characters) into the formation of the English and hence the result. I like it. It is very, very different than my "usual" calligraphy style.

2. Two new McMansions just went up across the street from my humble 45 year old brick abode during the winter. The one really LOVELY thing about my humble abode is my garden and my fence...oh, I guess those are TWO things, not one. Anyhow... *both* McMansions had exactly the s.a.m.e. fence as I have had for, what, three years or so now put around their properties. I did mine to be different from everyone else. Not anymore. I say I have rights to a sign that says "Mine was First." Or I should get a cut from this fencing company's revenue they have made on our street since we got ours--another property, to which one of the McMansions is adjacent, also did the same fence about a year after ours was done. It is a bit further down the street. However, now that makes three properties, all in a little row, across the street from mine all with the same fence.

3. What fence, you may ask, could be so rockin' stylin' that everyone wants a piece of it? Well, here you go-sie...last week's coveted Garden Pictures (all garden work, by the way, courtesy of blood-sweat-tears of Mama Llama, thank you VERY much):

So at least my garden is not mass-produced. Have I yet mentioned I LOVE SPRING?!

4. A nice compliment. My student tonight told me how much she really enjoys learning from my book and wants to see it on shelves one day. I don't honestly think I will ever produce this text for commercial selling, but it is incredibly rewarding to be able to use the textbook that I have put so much work into authoring and editing (and publishing on my own little printer!) in my own classes, and the feedback is so valuable to me. Unfortunately I have a few more chapters to finish until I will be satisfied that I have what is about the equivalent of 3 semesters of a college-level course, but for adult learners and highly conversation-based (although I refuse to let areas of grammar, reading/literature, culture, vocab development and the like go by the wayside--my job is to teach my students to communicate correctly but not ignore the colloquialisms and the cultural variants that create the richness of language).

5. I can make an arrangement with this place and get a three-months no-interest on the piko-ring of my choice. I am happy about that. Fortunately, I can't (read: ought not--those of you who really know Mama Llama know just how impaciente Mama Llama can be...and like a true Taurean llama, incredibly stubborn to boot) even change mine yet so there's no huge rush now, is there?

6. Bikini bought. Tried on. Fits. Imagine this furry creature in a bikini. Gonna scare everyone away.

7. We had just over 3 1/2 inches of rain here on Sunday. Dude...imagine had it been even a month or so before, that could have easily translated to almost 4 feet of snow. It was wet. Have to cut my grass again--can barely see my tulips over the long weeds. But the tulips survived, as did the phlox, which I cannot believe. Only one tulip broke, and La Princesita rescued it and we placed it in a tiny vase.

When I fell asleep there was something on my mind I had wanted to blog about. Now that the midnight hour is upon me and I am in my insomnia cycle for the night, I can no longer remember what on Earth that deep thought was. Someone recently told me she preferred to think her lack of memory was due to the fact that she was blonde over the fact that she was getting old. I think I prefer the geriatric approach. I see wisdom in those who have lived longer--and with all that wisdom crammed into We Wise Women's brains, where IS the room to remember every single detail?

(added Friday morning)...A-ha! I remembered! Am-A-zing what sleep will do for you!

8. Change. I figured that out to be the root of my problem. This year was especially difficult in that La Princesita started a new school, I knew nobody there and my security blanket was therefore swept out from under me. I came to terms with a shyness that I seemed to have somehow developed in my adult life. I realized I had to become active in her school in order to start meeting people and let that shyness melt away. And I was thinking, last night before falling into dreamland, why someone like me, who has lived all over the world, moved so many times in my adult life (I never left 'home' until I was 18. The house where I was born is still where my mother resides in Oregon.), who taught for a living, could feel so strongly like this...a strange and very potent form of introversion. Then it came to me: this is the first time in my life that change is being imposed upon my by others. All along I have made the decisions to go, to change my scenery, and along with that decision-making came mental and emotional preparation. I am not accustomed to having others (even those being my own children) creating this change of environment in my life and, for me this signifies a great loss of control. I realize that over the course of this school year I have made great strides to regain this lost sense of control and last night I reflected a bit on how much better I feel now, that I have settled into this new environment and hopefully can be a complimentary figure to my daughter's elementary school career--not an overpowering one, not a controlling one, but one that will give her the confidence to grow and learn and, likewise, learn to accept and integrate change.

And so there you have it.

Happy Friday to all!

How to Pee Standing Up 101

Mama Llama here is about at her Wit's End.

Yes, of course, most Llamas stand and pee, regardless if they are male or female. I am just, apparently, a very special llama who uses great squatting discretion...

We'll just let that be that for now.

The problem is trying to teach the three year-old Young Prince, Heir to the Throne, how to pee standing up.

This has become quite problematic, especially today when, on three separate occasions we had to drop trou so that he could pee in bushes---and on all three separate occasions, guess who ended up getting all wet?

You got it. Mama Llama.

He doesn't know how to hold himself or to position himself so that he pees out, not down. Of course, as a Mama Llama (please note subtle emphasis on gender), I have absolutely No Clue Whatsoever as to how to teach him. And his father just won't do it. Although, since Mama Llama has done all the dirty work in spit up-throw up-potty training-urinating all over the house joys that raising children implies, and got both La Princesita and the Young Prince out of diapers well before they were both three years old, one would think that, for this small task, he of all people should step up to the....

...a-hem...

Throne.

Perhaps, as he is not in line to reign as merely being married into the line, he feels not worthy of approaching the...a-hem...Throne, no matter how low, white and porcelain It may be.

bandages vs. resolutions

This morning La Princesita started to cry as she realized that school was cancelled today for an ice storm (that never really fully developed...but that is another story). She was so sad, she sobbed to me, as she really was going to miss school.

I was in the process of explaining to her that everybody, even her teacher, was going to have a vacation day today and that this is Mother Nature's little way of giving us all (except for the parents, of course...2nd 3-day weekend in a row...ay!) a little mid-winter break...when her father came down the hall and peeked his head into the room and offered to turn on the cartoons on TV.

I turned to glare at him, 1. for violating my border space, and 2. for even suggesting that the cartoons be turned on at 7:00 a.m. on a Friday morning. I have rather strict television-watching rules in the house; the monitos can watch a little PBS Kids a couple of times a week, and are allowed to watch Saturday Morning Cartoons (that's just a tradition).

"Since she's sad, I thought that would cheer her up," he said.

I turned away, muttering something about not normally watching TV in the mornings in this house, and continued to tend to my princesita. Inside I was burning with rage.

This situation illustrates what so many of my husband and my greatest conflicts over the past ten years have involved; namely, the fact that I do not feel listened to, especially when I most need to feel comprehended and heard. Instead, “bandages” would simply be placed over everything that was wrong, in the hopes that covering up that which was wrong would simply either go away or “heal” themselves. In this case, he was offering to La Princesita a bandage, something to cover up what was bothering her rather than taking her, holding her, leaving his comfy little circle/bubble/world in which he lives and permitting his daughter to emote…something she needs to have available as she is an extremely sensitive soul.

I want my children to have a healthy relationship with their father and, in any way I can that no longer involves sacrificing who I am, my happiness and what I need to be in my life, I want to facilitate that relationship. Moments like the above described break my heart. I have tried to teach him what I need him to do for me for the past ten years and that has never come to pass. I honestly wonder if there is hope for his relationship with his children.

He is a man who enjoys learning the way of doing things by the book…and doing anything that deviates from the way The Book (any book…whatever he believes The Rules to be) is simply not aceptable. Just last night he attended a presentation on healthy relationships between fathers and daughters. An applaudable effort. He studies, he learns, he is not a stupid man. However, learning the theory and applying the ideas to real life situations are two separate issues, and he cannot seem to cross that line from the books to the practice.

A part of me wanted to scream at him this morning, to tell him that he can learn and listen and read all he wants over how to create a good, strong, healthy relationship with his children but if all he does is turn on the television and try to placate their tears instead of talking them out simply because it makes him ‘uncomfortable’ or requires him to step out of his little world and actually enter the worlds of his children, that relationship will not grow. They will learn that they cannot talk to him because he will not make the necessary reciprocal effort of comprehending them.

…and I am trying to raise two children who are communicators, so that they can avoid the types of explosive behavior that has plagued our marital relationship (back when we even spoke…we don’t even fight anymore). This example will not help.

It will therefore be my responsibility, as it always is, to try to point out, without being accusing, how he can do a better job of handling situations such as that which I was able to, after 15 minutes of communicating, iron out and make better. Without a bandage.

Whether or not I will be heard, however, is another issue. I sincerely hope that, for the sake of the children, he can learn to leave his own little world behind from time to time…or I fear his relationship with his children will end up much like our marriage.