Shit

I don't really want to write this. Here, or anywhere. While I feel like it will probably explain a lot, I also know it probably won't be much of a surprise to anyone.

I recently went through the worst depression of my life. Like, "How *did* Sylvia Plath's kids turn out anyway?" kind of depression. I don't know if it was because I just started birth control pills or a hormone shift from weaning, or if it was just time again. There were moments when I was too depressed to drive because the energy it took to turn on the blinker was more than I could handle.

And then, it went away. Miraculously, went away, or so I thought. The last week or so, I've felt great. I read three books, I got our budget in order, I organzied parts of the house that haven't been touched in months, I baked 6 dozen hamburger buns from scratch. And I stopped eating. I drank coffee and Mountain Dew and beer, but I wasn't really eating so much.

I was getting my life together, my brain told me. I would get every part of my life back on track and I'd do it in a week.

Yeah. So, I think we all see what's going on here, right? I never considered that I could be manic depressive, mostly because I always sleep. Sleep has never been a problem for me. But shit, as I stood in the mirror this morning and thought about it, I realized that I probably was going through a manic episode. And it's those manic episodes that have kept me from getting myself medicated all of these years, because I always considered them the "normal" me. All I have to do is get back to the "normal" me, and life would be great again.

Well, that and that I've made about 25 doctor's appointments, with the full intention of mentioning how terribly, desperately depressed I was, and then the perfectionist in my head wouldn't let me. Admit a problem? A weakness? I think not.

And so it goes. I suppose I'll get comments or e-mails about this, telling me to go to a doctor, but... But maybe I'll wait the mania out a little longer, because people: I have shit to do.

Half Baked

I've been baking lately. It seems such an unnecessary thing these days, but in reality we've just traded taste for convience. And we pay more for it. But it's brought to mind for me all the many generations of women before me who baked every day.

A few years ago, my sister (you know the one) planned a special trip to go visit our grandma. To learn all of her old and wonderful recipes for breads and rolls and desserts and cakes. My sister brought a brand new recipe box full of recipe cards, each labeled with what she guessed was the name of the item: "Dinner Rolls" "Angel Food Cake" And my sister sat down at my grandma's table and pulled out each card, one by one, and asked for my grandma's recipe. And my grandma said, "Shit, girl. These are all from the Betty Crocker cookbook. You can have mine if you want." I love my grandma.

The mother-in-law of another sister had a great story of being a young bride. Her husband went out to the field one morning and she decided to try to bake him some bread for the first time. So she mixed and waited and waited and waited, but the bread never raised (raised, really? It's not "rose"? Huh.). She was so embarrassed and didn't want her husband to find out about the failure, so she went out into the yard and buried the lump of dough in the dirt. A few hours later, her husband came home and called her out into the yard. "What is THIS?!" he asked, pointing at the big raised dirt bubble growing in his yard. Ha.

My own baking adventures have been largely uneventful. So far...

Helpful

At midnight, when E is up for the fourth time complaining that her foot hurts (WTF, no seriously.), it's good to remember that this happened earlier in the day:

E: Whose birthday is next, mama?
Me: Baby Q's is.
E: Oh! Are we gonna go to his house and sing him "Happy Birthday"?
Me: Actually, guess what? His birthday is going to be at the new pool.
E: The new one? The one with the yellow slide? With the big big big big slide?
Me: Yep. If they finish it in time anyway.
E: Oh. We should help them!
Me: How?
E: You go get the pool and bring it here and I will fill it up with our hose! Our hose that is on our house!
Me: Oh. That's a good idea, but I'm not sure it will work.
(We'll forget about the crying and fit throwing that happened next.)

BREAST!

I go to the library. That's what I do. I occasionally do other things, like go to the grocery store, but for some reason, the things that happen at the library are funnier.

Like today, as I was perusing the "stop spending more fucking money than you have, stupid bitch" section (332.ish by the way), I heard someone reading loudly and slowly something akin to:
Voice 1: "Mir-an-da le... leeee.... leaned to-ward James and un-did her cor... corrrrrr...corset!"
Voice 2: Good! Keep going!
Voice 1: James grab... grabbed her BREAST!

So. I love that they have an adult literacy campaign at the public library. Additionally I love that they are inspiring people to read with, um, passion. And mostly? I'm really glad I never finished my degree in secondary education, English emphasis.

Corporeal

Later, He'll Eat Some Sand

He went to bed and when he woke up the door was open. And he hated it when the door was open. And then he dropped Elephhhh out of his crib and couldn't reach it and it was hot in his room. D thought that, probably, this was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

His mom gave him a banana for breakfast, instead of a bottle. D bet that in Australia, babies get to have morning bottles. Then she left for work. This was turning into a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Dad told him not to climb on the dining room table. But he kind of forgot. And he kind of spilled the cereal on the floor and then he had to wait in the living room until Dad had finished cleaning it up.

It was only 8:30 a.m., and D could already tell, this was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad fucking day.

Wow

During the time it took me to put away one (1) basket of clean laundry, my son:

• Pushed a stool over to the bathtub and fell in head first (at least it wasn't the toilet)
• Got himself stuck between his crib and the wall (at least he came out easily)
• Pushed everything off my husband's nightstand (at least there wasn't a water glass up there)
• Smeared an entire jar of Vaseline on his arms, tummy, and legs and then stuck his hands into dusty places (at least it wasn't poop?)

He's an animal and should be leashed, I think.

No seriously. Explain it to me.

I don't understand decorative pillows. Making a bed isn't enough of a pain in the ass already that you (and by "you," I mean, clearly, everyone but me) have to make it more work? Not getting it. Also, what's with towels that you can't use? Huh? Additionally, vanity license plates? I'm all about putting funny/snarky words on your car, but why pay the government for it? Not. Understanding.

Sometimes I feel like a stranger in a very strange land.

And Now Be Thankful You Aren't Married to Me

Neno: Oh my god! Listen to that! (Classic GNR plays on car stereo.)
Husband: What?
Neno: Someone was in my car. Did you drive my car?
Husband: Yes.
Neno: Did you change my CD? Because I totally had NIN playing in the CD player and now it's GNR. WT... (Other than "CD," not actually speaking in acronymns. For the record.)
Husband: I didn't change your CD. I turned the stereo off, but I didn't change the CD.
Neno: Then someone else was in my car! Who was in my car changing my CDs? Where did my CD go!?!
Husband: ??? I don't know.
Neno: Um... oh. It's the radio. Ha. Ha, ha.
Husband: . . . Sometimes I wish *I* had a blog. Because, damn.

Evil, The Second Generation

E, singing, this morning:

The more we get in trouble, in trouble, in trouble
The more we get in trouble, the happier we'll be.
They're your friends, not my friends,
Not my friends they're your friends,
The more we get in trouble, the happier we'll be.

Perhaps an Inappropriate Response?

E-MAIL
From: _______ State University
Sent: Thursday, June 14, 2007 11:15 AM
To: Neno
Subject: _________ State University Alumni Update - Last Chance
LAST CHANCE


Dear Neno '01, (Your Personal ID#: ___-__-___)

We need your help immediately! We are currently in the final stages of preparing ________ State University Alumni: Today, but we need your help! A brief telephone call will ensure this book is completely accurate and up-to-date.

Thank you for your cooperation in making this publication a success.


REPLY
From: Neno
Sent: Thursday, June 14th, 11:30 a.m.
To: __________ State University
Subject: _________ State University Alumni Update - Last Chance

Fuck you.

Dear Husband

Remember the night of your bachelor party when you called me from the bar at two in the morning to come get you because you and your designated driver were both drunk? And I was like SO pissed that I had to get out of bed and drive the shitty car to the bar to pick you up? And I wouldn't even look at you as you guys sat in the car and drunk-giggled about having stolen a peanut basket from the bar because I was so fucking furious?

Because... I had to wake up? Once? One time?

What the fuck? Because last night I was up four times with children. And they weren't even drunk.

For this and many other things, I am sorry.